A Big Bend County sheriff’s cruiser had parked at the curb in front of our restaurant, and down the block, I observed the deputy with the raven hair strolling into Elaine’s Pies. I had a few precious minutes to grab some breakfast and coffee before he realized we’d arrived. Could it be a coincidence? Could he merely be hungry for a savory breakfast pie? Not today.
In all my years of living in Broken Boot, I’d never heard of anyone else being found dead in the street, or the alley for that matter. The sheriff’s department would be all over Dixie’s death like white on rice. I had no doubt Deputy Lightfoot was preparing to tie up the loose ends by putting me through the wringer, and I had the sinking feeling he wouldn’t question me in the same fatherly way as Sheriff Wallace.
As Aunt Linda drove behind the restaurant to park, our jaws fell. Yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed Milagro’s back door. Half the alley, including the area around the Dumpster and Dixie’s van, was blocked off with traffic cones and the same yellow tape that warned SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT DO NOT CROSS.
“What did I tell you?” Senora Mari whispered.
I wasn’t convinced. Wouldn’t they mark off the scene if they were still investigating?
“People aren’t murdered in this town,” I chided. “You watch too many crime shows.” There wasn’t a CSI Broken Boot for a good reason. Who would want to watch a snooze-fest of an occasional criminal armed with a spray can?
“No, no, no! We can’t close today!” My aunt slammed the car into park just as her cell rang.
We gathered our things and headed for the entrance. “Are the coolers working or not?” she almost shouted into her phone.
From the sound of things, Two Boots was having its own difficulties. I tried not to focus on the obvious, but as Uncle Eddie always said, A dance hall without beer is like a bull without horns: there’s no point. It was a terrible joke, but we did need both locations open to ensure we had the necessary funds for the constant repairs, like the AC at Milagro and the drink coolers at our dance hall.
I caught Senora Mari ducking under the crime scene tape to eye the gravel and weeds. “There’s nothing here for them to see,” she murmured. “No blood, guts, nothing.”
OMG. “Come out of there, you’ll get us in trouble,” I warned, even as every fiber of my being longed to duck behind the Dumpster to revisit the site where Dixie died. Despite my yearning, I set aside my own curiosity. Wallace and his deputies needed our support.
With a disdainful glance, Senora Mari pointed a bony finger toward the door. “I’m not the one who’s going to get thrown in the pokey.”
Aunt Linda had the phone pinched between her shoulder and her ear while she wriggled her arm through the gap in the tape and inserted her key. “Eddie, I don’t care if you call the man in the moon. Johnson’s not available.”
The door swung open.
“That deputy is going to be here any minute. What do you think you’re doing?” Was I the only sane woman in our family?
From the corner of my eye, I observed Senora Mari kneeling down next to the Dumpster. I turned to scold her and caught myself just in time. She closed her eyes, crossed herself, and prayed. Her lips moved, though no sound touched my ears.
Turning back to my aunt, I found her twisted like a salted pretzel. She’d managed to slide one leg and two arms inside the tape without breaking it, but her shoulders and hips were having trouble.
“Call me back when you get a quote.” She kept the phone in her hand as she pulled a Houdini, contorting the rest of body through the opening without disturbing a single yellow strip.
“I’d appreciate it if you ladies would kindly back out of the crime scene without disturbing anything.”
Aunt Linda turned, Senora Mari jumped to her feet with the vigor of a teenager, and I screamed like a little girl . . . again.
Lightfoot’s jaw clenched and unclenched as his hands fisted and then relaxed.
“We didn’t mean any harm,” I said, hoping to appeal to the brief acquaintance we’d formed the night before. “This is my aunt, Linda Martinez.” I turned to her with a hint of formality. “Aunt Linda, meet Deputy Lightfoot. He and the sheriff questioned me last night.”
By this time, Senora Mari had marched over to stand at his elbow. “Are you trying to arrest us?” She tilted back her head at a forty-five degree angle in a noble attempt to stare him down.
He stepped back, and she followed. He raised his hand, palm out, to prevent her from invading his space any further. “Crime scene tape is to keep you out. It’s not an invitation to trespass.”
“What do you mean trespass? This is our restaurant, and we’re opening in two hours!” Aunt Linda screeched. Just as suddenly, her eyes flew open to the size of dinner plates and her hand flew over her mouth in embarrassment.
With a loud growl, a black and silver Harley pulled into the parking lot and came to a halt next to Dixie’s van. The black T-shirted rider in the back unfastened his helmet, slung a leg over the leather seat, and leaned in to give the driver an embarrassingly thorough kiss.
“Bye, lover,” his companion said, her raspy voice projecting innuendo, alcohol, and cigarettes to where the four of us stood dumbstruck. Before we could react, she secured the extra helmet, accelerated back into the street, and vroomed out of sight.
Her passenger, Ty Honeycutt, gifted us with a wide grin and a nod before removing a key from his pocket and proceeding to unlock his Aunt Dixie’s van.
As he slid into the driver’s seat, Lightfoot grabbed a hold of the door. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I think I’m headed to find that repo man and retrieve my Mustang.” He might have been in his late twenties, but it was hard to determine. What was apparent from the slurring of his words was that he was way too relaxed for eleven o’clock in the morning.
The deputy placed a hand briefly on his holster. “Step away from the vehicle and keep your hands in sight at all times.”
Tugging Senora Mari along with us, Aunt Linda and I scurried backwards until we hit the wall. We looked at each other in astonishment. I couldn’t recall ever seeing an officer in Broken Boot actually draw their weapon. What had Lightfoot so excited? Was this guy’s face on the newest batch of wanted posters hanging on the sheriff department’s wall of shame?
The young man’s hands flew up. “Hey, dude, it’s cool. Chill.”
“Wait!” I shouted.
Without looking back, Lightfoot barked. “What?”
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” I asked the young man.
“Abso-freaking-lutely, if you say so.” He flung me a look of desperation. “Tell Tonto to back off.”
After that racist comment, I wasn’t about to say a word.
“Step away from the vehicle,” Lightfoot’s order rang loud and clear.
As the would-be driver stepped clear of Dixie’s van, the deputy clamped his right hand to his holster.
“Whoa, man, you’ve got the wrong idea.”
“What idea would that be?”
“Maybe you think I’m stealing this van,” the young man threw his arms out wide, “but I ain’t.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them.” Lightfoot drew his pistol.
Two hands flew up to either side of the young man’s ears and froze.
“You’re telling me you’re the owner of this van?”
No longer grinning, the young man licked his lips and swallowed two or three times. “Okay, I ain’t exactly the owner. It’s my aunt’s.”
Lightfoot didn’t give any quarter. “Show me your license.”
Ty started for his back pocket.
“Easy,” Lightfoot said. “Take it nice and slow.”
After a thorough inspection of the proffered driver’s license, the deputy holstered his sidearm. “Where were you last night?”
A shadow fell ov
er Ty Honeycutt’s face. “I was playing cards.”
Driven by a surge of righteous anger, I rushed toward him. “Why didn’t you pick Dixie up last night, like you promised?”
Aunt Linda called my name.
“She’d be alive today if you hadn’t forgotten she existed.”
Lightfoot stepped between us and gave me a hard look. “That’s a bit harsh.”
With a jerk, Ty turned his head away. “You’re right,” he said, his voice full of unshed tears. “I killed her. I ain’t ever gonna forgive myself.”
In a voice devoid of emotion or inflection, Lightfoot murmured, “What do you mean you killed her?” He could have been asking what time the El Paso train arrived at the Broken Boot station.
Ty rubbed his wet eyes with his knuckles.
“She might’ve lived if I’d been with her. Instead she died alone in that alley like a hobo.”
In spite of my self-righteous anger, I was feeling guilty myself. We’d all heard her comment that her arm was aching during the tamalada, but none of us had taken her complaint seriously.
I paused to form my words carefully, trying hard not to cast the first stone. “You told me you were coming to get her. What happened?”
Ty’s tearful gaze begged me to understand. “They repossessed my Mustang last night around six o’clock.”
“Then why did you promise to pick Dixie up?” Aunt Linda asked, placing an arm around me, reading me and my guilt as easy as the Sunday paper.
“I was winning.” Ty leaned back against the side of the dented van. “Almost had enough to find that repo man and pay him off on the spot.”
“Let me guess,” I muttered. “You lost it all.” This guy had lost all his money while Dixie lay dying, waiting on him to arrive.
Straightening his shoulders, he lifted his chin. “I did come to get her, afterwards. Ask Yancey Burrows. I borrowed his El Camino.”
From my other side, Senora Mari spoke up. “You lie.” She shook her finger and advanced on him.
Ty turned to Lightfoot, desperation furrowing his brow. “I swear I stopped by here, but she wasn’t waiting outside on the bench like you said.”
With a warning whoop, whoop of their sirens, two more sheriff cruisers pulled into our parking lot.
Ty shot a glance at the alley as if calculating the distance and his ability to outrun the law.
“Right this way.” In two steps, Lightfoot successfully planted himself between Dixie’s nephew, his intended escape route, and an arrest for obstruction of justice.
Three car doors slammed and three pairs of pressed khaki’s marched over. One pair belonged to Sheriff Wallace and the other two belonged to an older deputy I didn’t know and a linebacker of a female officer named Pleasant, who enjoyed her margaritas with Cuervo Gold and a side of spinach quesadillas.
“Ty Honeycutt?” Wallace demanded.
Dixie’s nephew swallowed hard. “Nice to meet you, sheriff,” he said, and bravely stuck out his hand.
With a hard stare designed to make a guilty man wet his pants, Wallace nodded. “I was sorry to hear about Dixie.”
He and his deputies had yet to crack a smile. In fact, they were as tense as a coiled rattlesnake about to strike.
“When can I see her?” Ty knuckled a tear from his cheek.
Like the desert before a summer storm, the air crackled with electricity. Each of the deputies rested their hands on their gun holsters.
“I thought you would’ve already made it down to the morgue, seeing as how an officer called you this morning with the news.”
“I’m trying,” Ty made a wild gesture, “but your boy here thought I was trying to steal her van. I only wanted to use it to drive over there to see her.”
Wallace looked a question at Lightfoot, who merely shrugged.
“For pity’s sake,” I began. All this Law and Order stuff was making me crazy. Ty Honeycutt wasn’t my idea of a doting nephew, but he obviously had cared for Dixie. They needed to let him see her and do his duty. He would have to step up to get her funeral arrangements underway. “You won’t have any trouble finding him in that thing.” Dixie’s van was bright orange with a white top, circa 1963. Who knew where she found the parts?
Senora Mari tilted her chin at the sheriff, doing her best to intimidate the much taller man. “We need to get busy.” She tilted her head toward Milagro.
“She’s right, Mack,” my aunt said. “We have a lot to do before we open the doors for lunch.”
Furrowing his brow, Wallace exchanged a glance with Lightfoot. The dark-eyed officer shook his head in response.
“I’m afraid, Linda, y’all won’t be opening for lunch today.” Wallace looked at each of us in turn, his glance landing on Ty. “Your aunt didn’t die of natural causes.”
With a grunt, Ty threw back his shoulders. “What do you mean? Anyone could see she was a walking deathtrap.”
“No, son,” Wallace said in the fatherly voice I remembered so well. “Dixie was murdered.”
Chapter 5
Sheriff Wallace interviewed Ty Honeycutt right off the bat. Though I couldn’t quite make out what he asked the young man, I could see from Ty’s drooped shoulders and hangdog expression he was feeling lower than dirt over Dixie’s death. I didn’t have any reason to doubt his story about not finding her waiting, but I couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t come inside to look for her.
All of Milagro’s employees, including my family, were scattered about the restaurant in different booths, waiting to be interviewed, except for Senora Mari. After declaring she had to be questioned next, she stood making small talk with Deputy Pleasant until Ty walked despondently out the side door.
As I offered coffee and tea to everyone along with tortilla chips and salsa, I heard Senora Mari fill Wallace’s ear with the details of her dream. To his credit, the sheriff hadn’t cracked a smile or slowed his pencil during her recitation.
“Don’t worry,” Senora Mari called to the far corners of our restaurant as she rose to her feet. “I will see to it you don’t starve.” She started toward Carlos, our lunch cook.
With a shake of her head, Deputy Pleasant blocked the elderly woman’s path. “Not until he’s interviewed, senora.” She softened her words with a smile. “But I sure could use some quesadillas and sweet tea.”
“Don’t worry,” Aunt Linda said, walking over to join the sheriff at his makeshift desk. “We’ll rustle you up something tasty as soon as I’m finished.” The determined optimism in her voice made me cringe. I didn’t envy Sheriff Wallace. He was going to have to tell this zealous businesswoman there would be no lunch service today.
The cowbell on the front door jangled and Lightfoot entered, holding a batch of papers. After a quick glance around the room, the solemn deputy whispered in Wallace’s ear. A resigned look fell over the sheriff’s weathered countenance, and he spoke to Aunt Linda in a low voice.
“What do you mean we have to close for the day?” My aunt jumped to her feet.
I hurried over.
“Judge Hoskins gave us the okay to search the place.” Wallace gestured to the papers in Lightfoot’s hand.
“Fine,” she nearly yelled. “Search away. We don’t have anything to hide.” Throwing up her hands, she tried to laugh. “How long could it take?”
“Several hours,” Lightfoot offered.
Wallace thrust his thumbs into his belt and puffed out his chest. “I need to finish interviewing the staff while the fellas take a look around and dust for prints.”
With a glance at my aunt’s tortured face, I spoke up. “Is that absolutely necessary? Didn’t she die outside?”
“We’re searching the entire property.” The older officer exchanged a long look with his stoic sidekick. “The killer left something behind, and we’re going to find it.”
I was the next subject to be inter
rogated. Wallace asked me the same questions, but I had nothing new to add. Afterwards, I tried to stay out of the way while surreptitiously watching the deputies dust for prints. Black dusting powder sullied the dark and light surfaces everywhere I turned: the industrial appliances, the colorful ladder-back chairs, everything from the washing machine to the jar of mints at the cash register. What a mess. How many hours would we spend wiping everything down before we could reopen? And what was happening upstairs? Were they dusting my furniture as well as my clothing? And would it wash out?
We couldn’t get to the kitchen to make the requested quesadillas, so we decided to order Bubba’s BBQ instead. As the staff huddled around the center tables, eating our brisket sandwiches and pickles, Lightfoot sauntered over.
“Is this everyone who works here?” he asked.
“Yes, and most of them weren’t even here last night. Why did they all have to stay for questioning?”
He lifted an eyebrow as if responding to a precocious child. “Procedure.”
With a bang of the swinging doors, Anthony rushed through the kitchen door. “Miss Josie, I just heard about that woman being found outside behind the trash can. Is everyone okay?” In the craziness of the last few hours, I’d forgotten all about him.
“Who are you?” Lightfoot demanded.
I gave our newest busboy and dishwasher a reassuring smile. “This is Anthony Ramirez.”
Clenching his jaw, the dark-haired deputy opened his mouth to speak.
“He’s an excellent employee who supports his family while he finishes his GED at West Texas.”
“If he’s so great, why’d you forget to mention him?”
Before I could respond, the older deputy walked in from the rear entrance. He carried a clear evidence bag in his gloved hand. Inside I could see something red, shiny, and vaguely familiar.
“Where’d you find that?” Sheriff Wallace wiped his mouth and shoved to his feet.
“Dumpster.” The deputy held the bag up to the light.
Here Today, Gone Tamale Page 6
