Here Today, Gone Tamale

by Rebecca Adler

  “Like me?”

  He continued, “Educated, cool,” and chuckled, “you know, Austin weird.”

  I grinned with pride. “Maybe just a touch.”

  “Austin weird, that’s a term my niece uses. She’s artistic . . . like Dixie.” He frowned as if remembering the cantankerous artist was dead. “I apologize for shutting down Milagro, but I couldn’t see my way around it.” He and Lightfoot exchanged pointed glances. “But I do have a few more questions.”

  I sensed, rather than saw, Lightfoot tense at my side. “Sure thing.” If I cooperated with the sheriff, he might release Anthony sooner. “Let’s get started.”

  “Have a seat.” He gestured toward a wingback chair in front of his desk. As he lowered himself to his own massive leather armchair, he gestured for Lightfoot to stand near the door.

  “How long has Anthony Ramirez been employed at Milagro?” Wallace picked up a napkin with a coffee ring on it, wadded it up, and threw it in the trash.

  I tapped my fingers on the arm of the chair. “Three months or so.”

  “Why’d you hire him?” Wallace picked up a file from the corner of his desk and flipped it open.

  “Business started picking up, and we needed the extra hands.”

  Before I could test my ability to read upside down, the sheriff closed the file. “Why him?”

  “You’ve met him. He’s cute and personable, and he works hard. Our customers love him.”

  He leaned his head back. “And your family, they love him?”

  “Sure, he’s sweet.” I realized what I was saying when Wallace leaned forward. “No, I don’t love him love him. Come on, he’s a kid.”

  “Any problems with him?”

  “None. Seriously, it’s like I said yesterday. He provides for his brothers and sisters. He’s taking classes at West Texas, working two jobs. He can’t afford to get into trouble.”

  Wallace taped his pencil on the table. “He was arrested last year for a felony. Did you know that?”

  I swallowed a huge lump in my throat. “No,” I said in a small voice.

  “Afraid so.”

  I swiveled in my chair to look at Lightfoot. He gave a slow nod.

  “But why would he kill Dixie? He doesn’t even know her.”

  Removing a pack of mint gum from his pocket, Wallace asked, “Was he there last night?”

  I could tell that he already knew the answer. “Yes, but only for a few minutes. He stopped by to pick up his paycheck.”

  As Wallace opened his gum, he tossed another question my way. “He didn’t help out in the kitchen?”

  “No.” My gut was telling me the sheriff’s questions weren’t as casual as he wanted me to believe.

  “Didn’t take out the trash? Sit outside? Smoke a cigarette?”

  I racked my brain. “No. He wanted more hours, and Aunt Linda told him not yet.”

  “He was angry about that?”

  Talk about a fishing expedition. “No. He was frustrated because he’s working two jobs and still not making ends meet, but he wasn’t angry.”

  Wallace rolled the wrapper into a tiny ball and aimed it at the trash can as if shooting a three-pointer. “So he didn’t come back later to help clean up?”

  “No, sir.” Whatever the sheriff thought he had on Anthony was wrong. I knew that boy, and he would never have hurt Dixie . . . or anyone else for that matter.

  I leaned forward, grabbing the desk. “He wouldn’t do this, sheriff. If you don’t have any evidence, you know you need to charge him or release him.” I had watched my share of crime dramas, and that’s what the lawyers always said.

  “That’s the thing. We do have evidence, and we charged him this morning.”

  Outrage hit me hard upside the head. “You charged that nineteen-year-old kid with murder?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “On what evidence?” What had they found that incriminated one of the best teenagers in the whole county?

  The sheriff’s face had closed down tighter than our to-go window on a Sunday night. “Now, Josie, you’re not family or his lawyer,” he said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet.

  I sprang out of my chair. “Does he have one?”

  “The public defender is no slouch. You don’t need to worry yourself over it.”

  After a quick glance at Lightfoot, I threw back my shoulders and locked eyes with Wallace. “I’m going to prove you wrong.”

  The sheriff came around his walnut desk and herded me to the door. “I apologize, Josie. I do have to make some calls before the day gets too far along.”

  “What if I find evidence indicating that someone else murdered Dixie?” With the sheriff’s department out of the way, I would find what they had missed. If I, a former reporter with the Austin Gazette, couldn’t do it, then who could?

  Popping the cuffs of his white dress shirt, Wallace ushered me into the hall. “If you find anything we missed, pass it along to Lightfoot,” he said, gesturing to his deputy. “He’ll share it with me, and we’ll figure out the best way to proceed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lightfoot chimed in.

  They exchanged a quick glance, and I could tell that there was something they weren’t telling me.

  With a quick glance at the Texas-shaped red, white, and blue clock on the wall, the sheriff cleared his throat. “Don’t go getting folks all riled up.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Wallace blew out a breath. “Eddie told me all about that alleged robbery you called in while at the Gazette.”

  My cheeks flushed with heat. “That was years ago, sheriff. It was an honest mistake.” All I could remember about that embarrassing night was that I’d clearly overheard two men whispering the words, robbery, steal, heist, and diamonds. My desperate yearning to find an exciting crime story had filled in the blanks I needed to hear.

  “You’ve got to trust us,” he nodded to his deputy. “We can handle the investigation.”

  “Alright.”

  “I’m guessing you want to see him?”

  “Yes, I want to see him.” I said, raising my chin. “We all want to see him.”

  “Let me make a call to the jail. Lightfoot will take you out to the visiting area while I find out what’s what.” Wallace tipped his hat. “Good day, Josie.”

  “Thanks, sheriff.”

  I snuck a glance at Lightfoot. Maybe the deputy would give me some information away from the watchful eyes of his boss.

  The deputy’s eyes met mine. “Don’t ask.”

  So much for inside information.

  Chapter 6

  Back in the waiting room, I found my uncle and aunt in a tight embrace.

  “They arrested Anthony,” I said.

  “What?” my aunt cried.

  I felt sick to my stomach, but I uttered the truth. “They think he murdered Dixie.”

  “That’s loco,” Senora Mari muttered. “That boy wouldn’t kill her. He’s too sweet, like sugar.”

  “Don’t worry, honey.” Uncle Eddie released Aunt Linda with a peck on her cheek. “I’ll talk to the sheriff and find out what’s going on.” One look at my face, and he grabbed me in a bear hug as well.

  I guess I was still shaky from the night before—Uncle Eddie’s warm affection made me want to weep.

  “It’s going to be okay, Jo Jo.” His pet name for me did the trick and I laughed.

  “Eddie, you talk to the sheriff, but we have to go back to Milagro.” Senora Mari rocked forward onto her white Keds and pushed to her feet. “We must open on time.”

  “Mamá, the staff can handle it. You trained them, remember?” Uncle Eddie placed an arm around her slight shoulders.

  “She’s right. We need to be there.” Aunt Linda grabbed her purse from her chair. “Our customers need to know we’re okay, that nothi
ng’s changed.”

  “Why don’t you and Senora Mari go on?” The two experienced women would have things well in hand at Milagro. “Uncle Eddie can bring me home after we find out what’s going on with Anthony.”

  My aunt threw her bag over her shoulder. “Mitzi’s been calling every five minutes, Eddie. You’ve got to get back to the repairman before he’ll agree to do the job.”

  After a bit more convincing, Aunt Linda and Senora Mari headed out, debating the best choice for the day’s lunch special. My aunt wanted the ever popular tilapia tacos while Senora Mari remained adamant that chile rellenos would prove the staff was undaunted by the murder.

  Uncle Eddie moseyed over to prop against the counter that separated the sheriff’s secretary from the rest of the waiting room. “How’s it going? Is your daughter enjoying running Monday night bingo?”

  “She sure is, Mr. Martinez,” the secretary answered with a smile that brightened her somber countenance, “and I can’t thank you enough. I guess you know it’s her first job.”

  “I would’ve never known.” He leaned closer. “I need to speak to Mack a minute.”

  After a cursory glance at her computer screen, she shook her head. “I’m afraid his schedule is full this morning.”

  “He and I go way back.” Uncle Eddie tipped his hat. “Played football together, back in the day.”

  The sheriff’s secretary turned pink beneath her pale foundation. “Oh, I can still picture you two in your uniforms, like it was yesterday.” She called Wallace on the intercom, nodded quickly three or four times, and hung up. “He says that’s fine.” She bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Mr. Martinez. That’s how he prefers me to handle his visitors.”

  “No harm, no foul,” my uncle said and loped off in search of his former tackle.

  The phone rang. As the secretary answered it, two deputies walked down the hall talking in low voices.

  I tried to appear nonchalant as I turned on my heel and hurried after them. As a journalist I’d developed the habit of listening to other people’s conversations, especially if those people were in law enforcement. And in this case, there was every chance they were discussing Dixie’s untimely death.

  They stopped in the vending machine area. “He’s going to inherit her money, every cent,” said a short deputy who sported long sideburns, a full red mustache, and a shiny bald head.

  Bingo. Didn’t Ty stand to inherit all of Dixie’s money? If she had any other relatives, none of us had ever heard her mention them.

  In a high voice at odds with his height, the other law officer said, “He owes everyone and their mother money. You’d have to be half stupid and the other half crazy to play cards with him.”

  “Stupid hick needs to stick to guitar playing.”

  “Not too good at that either,” the bald guy said as his candy slammed to the bottom of the machine. When he picked up his chocolate, he noticed me and froze.

  Assuming a frustrated expression, I thrust my hand into the pocket of my jeans. “Dang it,” I said, snapping my fingers for good measure, “I must have left my money in my purse.” The bald one’s eyes narrowed as if trying to decipher what I’d heard. Before he could question me, I shrugged and headed back the way I had come, a ditzy smile plastered to my face.

  Back in the waiting area, I wandered over to the secretary’s desk. “Is the sheriff keeping you busy?”

  She shook her head in disgust. “No, but ever since that woman was found dead, it’s picked up a bit.”

  I smiled to commiserate. “Is the phone ringing off the hook?”

  “Not exactly, but the JP’s called a couple of times this morning.”

  Ellis. Last night, Wallace had said his name was Ellis. In Texas, a justice of the peace could issue warrants, conduct preliminary hearings, administer oaths, conduct inquests, and perform the usual weddings. He could also serve as medical examiner in counties without a coroner. Now that Wallace believed that Dixie had been murdered, he and Ellis would be sending the body to El Paso for an autopsy. That could take weeks, even in a case of murder.

  “I bet he’s in a panic, huh?” I was shooting from the hip. Most JPs or MEs would never be in a panic unless their office caught fire. When I’d worked at the Gazette, I’d heard reporters complain that the MEs were so backlogged they refused to rush anything.

  Amidst a chorus of guffaws, Lightfoot and Uncle Eddie walked out of the sheriff’s office.

  “Hello, again.” The middle-aged secretary’s face lit up like a birthday cake.

  Not realizing her smile was for the former football star, Lightfoot gifted her with a dazzling smile and me with a short wave of his right hand. Perhaps he’d worked as a traffic cop prior to driving a cruiser to murder scenes. They probably put him in the road because he stopped traffic with that whole chiseled profile thing he had going on.

  But I refused to be treated as a pedestrian. “Are you waving at me?”

  “Who else? Come on.” Before I could come up with something witty, he left me to follow him on my own.

  “Such a sense of humor,” I muttered to no one in particular.

  * * *

  “What’d you find out?” I asked as Uncle Eddie and I made our way back to the lobby.

  “First off, Lightfoot says we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see Anthony because he’s meeting with his lawyer.”

  “Do you know her?” I didn’t actually think the Broken Boot public defender was a woman, but I tossed the idea out there to keep my uncle from getting too comfortable in his cave.

  He gave me a sharp look. “No, but Mack says he’s a fine lawyer, played tight end for UT back in the eighties.”

  “Since when does that matter?”

  Uncle Eddie stopped in his tracks. “Of course it matters. He played football for a Big 12 team and passed the bar. That man has drive and determination.”

  “What about Anthony’s bail?”

  “I don’t know,” he screwed up his mouth in thought. “Why don’t you call when you get back to Milagro?”

  I opened my mouth to argue. “He needs—”

  “I’ve got to get back to Two Boots or we won’t be able to open tonight.” His ready smile died.

  If our dance hall didn’t open, we’d miss payroll at both of our businesses. It had never happened, and my uncle swore on his father’s grave that it never would.

  As we crossed the lobby at a fast clip, I noticed Lightfoot conversing with the young, female volunteer at the information booth. I was so intent on ignoring the way she smiled at him that I almost ran over Patti Perez, who was leaving the building right in front of me.

  Three months had passed since I’d crawled home. I’d hidden the first six weeks from everyone but the customers at Milagro, spending my days and nights waiting tables, hosting, or being a couch potato upstairs in my loft apartment. Gradually, I’d added trips to Casa Martinez on Monday nights. I’d reached out to Patti only a couple of weeks ago, and she’d greeted me as if we were still summertime friends of twelve.

  My unemotional Goth friend surprised me by squeezing both of my hands. “I heard you found Dixie’s body. Are you okay?”

  “Shaken, but not stirred.”

  She didn’t crack a smile.

  “I’m okay . . . or at least I will be.”

  Uncle Eddie cleared his throat. “Uh, Patti, would you mind taking Josie to the restaurant? I need to run over to Two Boots to avert a crisis.”

  “No problemo,” she said, giving him a slow, emphatic nod.

  After a brief word of thanks for her and a back-cracking hug for me, my uncle broke into a trot toward the parking lot.

  “Get a load of that,” Patti murmured.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see what had my blasé friend so in awe. Lightfoot was heading down the sidewalk, wearing dark aviator shades and his usual somber expression
.

  “What you see is all you get,” I whispered.

  “That’s enough.”

  As he passed us, he tipped his hat. “Ladies.”

  “Uh, hello, again.” I didn’t dare look at Patti.

  “You know him, don’t you?”

  “Not really.”

  She elbowed me in the side. “Introduce us.”

  “No.”

  “Hey, officer,” Patti called.

  Lightfoot swung around.

  Without hesitation, she walked closer. “Do you think it’s okay for Josie to stay at Milagro on her own tonight?”

  His head turned in my direction and he frowned. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”

  Had I given him the impression I was frail? Or was he asking because I was a mere female? “Definitely.” Either way, I had to set him straight.

  Patti piped up. “She has a watchdog.”

  His frown deepened. “That’s not a dog. That’s a shrimp cocktail.”

  “Hey!” Lightfoot had better watch it or he would get a bite from Lenny’s bad side.

  He shook his head and removed a small notepad and pen from his pocket. “Is your plan to stay there alone?”

  You couldn’t pay me to sleep there, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to tell me what I could and couldn’t do. “I don’t know yet.”

  The strong, silent deputy jotted a few lines.

  “Why?” Patti smiled. “Does that sound suspicious?” She pointed a tattooed finger at what he’d written.

  In the silence that followed, Lightfoot and Patti made serious eye contact. Or at least Patti tried to get something going. Nothing on the deputy’s face changed, but he lifted one eyebrow.

  My longtime friend shot me an exasperated look.

  With a sigh of resignation, I gave in to her romantic aspirations, no matter how useless love had proven to be to me. “Uh,” I began, “this is my good friend Patti Perez.”

  “Dude,” Patti said.

  At least she hadn’t giggled. I turned to the silent and watchful deputy. “Lightfoot . . . what’s your first name?”

  “Quint.”