“He was headed toward the BBQ booth about ten minutes ago,” Felicia said in my ear.
“Go find him!” As she slipped away, I started praying.
Elaine was bluer than before. I tilted back her chin and checked her mouth for obstructions, and my fingers brushed against something that was definitely not supposed to be there.
Aunt Linda was at my shoulder, nearly jumping up and down. “Have you lost your ever-loving mind?” Then I realized it wasn’t her, but the mayor who was talking. “Remember our reputation. Stop talking about someone choking to death through the sound system.”
The sound system cut out with a loud squeal, nearly blowing out my left eardrum. Though my nose wrinkled in disgust, I had to get that thing out of her throat. I got a tighter grip on whatever it was and slowly pulled it out. I was scared to death it would fall from my fingers, straight down her windpipe, and choke her for sure. But no such calamity ensued. Once the object hit my hand, I knew what it was. One of the horses from Dixie’s necklace was determined to choke Elaine as well.
In spite of Uncle Eddie, Aunt Linda, and Senora Mari all side coaching me on CPR techniques, it took merely two rounds of puffing air into Elaine’s mouth and pumping her chest the correct amount of times for her to cough the life back into her well-preserved body.
As she struggled to sit up, Suellen nudged me out of the way. “Momma, what happened?”
At first Elaine tried to push Suellen away, but the older woman was too weak to sit up on her own. Instead she dropped her head to her oldest daughter’s shoulder.
With a cry of relief, Uncle Eddie and Aunt Linda threw their arms around me.
“Such a smart girl,” Senora Mari crooned, and patted my head.
“Are you okay?” Suellen asked her mother.
Elaine coughed, closing her eyes as if in pain. “I will be . . . no thanks to them.” She opened her eyes and glared at us.
Through the crowd, a beacon of steady self-assurance made his way toward us, and I sighed in relief.
Lightfoot knelt next to Elaine, where she rested weak as a child in the arms of her own offspring. “I’ve called the ambulance, Mrs. Burnett. They’ll be here any minute.”
Weakly she moved her head back and forth. “I . . . don’t need an ambulance.” Again, the committee chairwoman was wracked with a fit of coughing.
I hurried to the cooler and grabbed a water bottle.
“Get her some water, somebody,” Lightfoot commanded, even as I unscrewed the lid and placed the bottle in Elaine’s hands.
The corners of the stoic deputy’s mouth lifted in an almost smile as he nodded his approval.
Slowly Elaine lifted the bottle to her lips.
“Let me help you, Momma.”
“I can do it myself,” Elaine argued. “And I don’t need any ambulance.”
As his phone buzzed, Lightfoot rose to his feet. “They’re only a block away. The crowd’s slowing them down.”
“Where’s the real sheriff?” Senora Mari demanded, by way of greeting.
The deputy responded with a smile. “Sheriff Wallace is taking care of a dispute over at the Feed and Supply.”
“Is Patti okay?” My independent-minded friend ran the place on her own for long stretches at a time.
“She’s fine.” He turned to Mayor Cogburn and P.J. as if Patti was of no consequence. “What’s all this about someone finding the murder weapon?” His tone was casual, but I noticed how his hawk-eyed gaze searched the crowd, taking in strangers and townsfolk alike.
“Elaine was nearly killed by the necklace that strangled Dixie.” Felicia Cogburn twisted her own expensive charm necklace first one way and then the other.
“Who says she was murdered by a necklace?” P.J. Pratt demanded, bowing out his chest like a rooster in a hen house. “The sheriff’s department hasn’t released any details.”
Felicia looked helplessly at her husband. “Uh, I don’t rightly know.”
“There it is.” I pointed to the greasy necklace where it rested on the table below the warming pan of tamales.
“No one touch it.” Lightfoot pulled a piece of foil from a nearby box and carefully wrapped the necklace into a neat package and placed it in his breast pocket.
“And here’s the horse she choked on.” I said, handing him the offending stone wrapped in a napkin.
“I’m going to be sick to my stomach,” Elaine whispered. “Please let me go inside for a few minutes.”
Aunt Linda and Senora Mari each took one of Elaine’s hands and gently lifted her to her feet. “We’ll get you out of this heat.” Aunt Linda nodded at Suellen. “Let’s take it slow.”
Lightfoot started to ask a question, but my aunt stopped him with a glare that had made stronger men pause.
One of the bystanders who remained called out, “Who won the contest?”
P.J. shoved in his chair. “Forget about it.”
“Aw,” said some of the tourists, expressing their disappointment. The crowd began to murmur.
Uncle Eddie waved his hands to gain everyone’s attention. “We can still sort all this out and declare a winner.” He began to count the tamales that remained on each participant’s plate.
“That ain’t fair.” P.J. had meat sauce down the front of his plaid shirt. “How do we know that no one kept eating while she distracted the judges?”
Give me a break. Who really cared at this point?
Ryan stepped forward, forcing a laugh. “We can trust Eddie not to cheat, right?”
The crowd grew quiet, watching the show.
“Ryan’s right,” Hillary said as she took her coach’s arm. “Mr. Martinez wouldn’t cheat a fly.”
In a fit of pique, P.J. slapped his Stetson on the side of his jeans. “Don’t matter none ’cause I won.”
“Look again, boys,” Ty Honeycutt called out, gesturing to his own plate.
Unbelievably, Ryan straightened his shoulders as if readying himself for a round of fisticuffs. “Eddie, come right over here and count mine if you want to see who won.”
At that moment, the beauty queen winked at me. She spun toward the crowd. “Who thinks this handsome man won?” she asked, pointing to Ryan.
A few souls clapped in response. A couple of college girls in West Texas blue-and-orange jerseys called out, “Go, coach!”
With a frown at Hillary, my uncle proceeded to count all twelve contestants’ remaining tamales. He counted P.J.’s last. “Congratulations,” he said, wheeling toward the irate rancher. “You won.” Uncle Eddie walked over to the makeshift podium and returned with an envelope. “Here’s your prize.” He waved it back and forth over his head with a flourish. “You’ve won a dozen tamales every day for the next month, courtesy of Milagro.”
The crowd applauded, but their hearts weren’t in it.
“Hold on a minute.” Lightfoot stepped in front of the crowd. “We need everyone to stay right where you are until I take your statements.”
“Deputy, what’s going on here?” Sheriff Wallace appeared at the back of the crowd and started pushing his way through. “Excuse me, folks.”
I tried to maneuver close to him to ask him about the dispute at the Feed and Supply, but it was impossible. He and his deputies disappeared inside for a brief face-to-face and then started interviewing witnesses. I tried to overhear their sessions, but whenever Wallace saw me sidling closer he sent for another round of Dr Peppers, sweet tea, and black coffee.
With an ear-popping squeal from the sound system, Mayor Cogburn announced, “Come one, come all. It’s your turn to fall. The three-legged race for kids of all ages will be starting in the field across from the depot in three minutes. Don’t miss it.” Some of the spectators who had waited to share their side of the choking tale wandered off.
“But Mayor Cogburn, the deputy told them to stay put.” I wanted law e
nforcement to have the opportunity to do their job.
“Um, well.” The mayor grabbed the microphone again. “Wait now. If you or anyone with you was just at the tamale-eating contest, please return immediately.” He turned off the microphone and gave us a smile. Suddenly, he panicked and turned the microphone back on. “Uh, it’s, uh, no emergency, but a friendly request from the Big Bend County Sheriff’s Department.”
Aunt Linda and I exchanged looks. “Oh, that’ll set everyone’s mind at ease,” she said.
Grabbing his wife’s hand, Cogburn turned to go. “We’ve got to go preside over the three-legged race. Y’all let us know what the sheriff finds out, won’t you?”
Before I could argue with his priorities, they’d hurried out into the crowd.
“He’s trying to throw a wide loop with a short rope,” Aunt Linda murmured.
It was past time to start clearing everything away. “Good Lord, what a mess,” I said, collecting the burners and utensils.
“Don’t touch anything. It’s all evidence.” Lightfoot stood in the open doorway, pointing to the warming pans full of spoiling food.
“What about the trash? It’s starting to stink in this heat.” My aunt bristled like a porcupine. She ran a clean, tight operation. “This smell will ruin our reputation.” I hated to point out that the choking incident and the murder had already tainted our name in at least three counties.
Two deputies I didn’t know by name appeared. They checked in with the sheriff and came back outside. “Don’t touch anything, ladies. Me and Deputy Kincaid here are going to have to go through all this . . .” He wrinkled his nose in disgust, “stuff before you throw it away.” They disappeared long enough to retrieve their thin rubber gloves from their cruiser.
“Can we take everything away that’s not food?” My aunt, bless her heart, was trying.
“No, ma’am. Sheriff Wallace wants us to dust these items for prints.” The officer waved his gloved hand over the assorted warming pans, utensils, and scraps of aluminum foil. “It’s just his way.”
Lightfoot and the sheriff interviewed those who had returned to complete their civic duty, which, surprisingly, was a lot of folks. No one seemed to mind waiting their turn as long as they got to tell their all-important side of the story. Guess they couldn’t resist helping solve a crime.
Suddenly, Sheriff Wallace appeared in the doorway. Behind him, I could just make out Lightfoot with his arms stretched wide, fighting to keep Aunt Linda and Senora Mari inside Milagro.
“What’s going on?”
Wallace eyed the sidewalk and the crowd as if wishing he were fishing on the Guadalupe. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, turning away from the crowd. “She’s claiming that she did it.”
I grabbed his arm. “That’s absurd. Aunt Linda wouldn’t slap a mosquito unless it bit her.”
“Keep your voice down.” He pulled me farther away from the curious bystanders on the other side of the tables, eyeing me with a compassion I didn’t understand.
My aunt called out from inside the restaurant. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve called Eddie.”
Wallace shook his head. “She’s going on about being a jailbird.”
“But Aunt Linda’s never done anything wrong.”
“Not her,” Wallace said under his breath.
“Sheriff, what’s the meaning of this?” Ryan walked over with Hillary close behind. “Linda Martinez doesn’t have a record.”
“No, but she does.” The beauty queen pointed at Senora Mari as if the petite tamale maven were the reincarnation of Lizzie Borden.
The remaining crowd began to whisper.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded. If Hillary said one wrong word about Senora Mari, I would smack her upside her pointed head.
The beauty queen took a step back. “She told me herself the night of the tamale party.”
My petite abuela stuck her head out from beneath Deputy Lightfoot’s arm. “It was twenty years ago, and it was only some smelly goats.”
Wallace looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Senora Mari had lost one of her marbles.
With a toss of her hair, Hillary upstaged us all. “Everyone knows that nothing goes into her tamales without Senora Marisol Martinez’s knowledge.”
“That’s enough,” Ryan said, dropping her hand like a hot iron. “She didn’t do this, Hillary. Why would she compromise the taste and reputation of her tamales by contaminating them with jewelry or anything else?”
“I was only trying to pay her a compliment.” Hillary extended her hand to Ryan, but he stepped out of reach. Assuming an air of confused regret, she continued. “I love Senora Martinez’s tamales.” I could see in the beauty queen’s eyes she regretted what she’d done. Too bad her attempt to save face had fallen flatter than a cold tortilla.
Sheriff Wallace pulled me aside. “She’s admitted to the crime.” He thrust his hands on his hips. “But I can’t figure out why.”
Senora Mari wriggled around Lightfoot and shot to Wallace’s side. “Take me to jail. I am guilty . . . this is true.”
I’d never caught her in such an outrageous lie.
Aunt Linda pushed out the door right behind her. “Tell him you’re kidding.”
Uncle Eddie came running around the corner from the parking lot. “Mamá, what are you up to?” He grabbed his mother by the shoulders and bent down to stare her in the face. “Tell me.” He lowered his voice. “What are you thinking?”
Met with her son’s outrage, she rolled her eyes. “Humph. Anthony should not be in jail.” She turned to the sheriff and raised her fist. “Let me go, what do I care if I only eat stale bread and drink cold water? I am old and constipated anyway.”
Through gritted teeth, Uncle Eddie murmured. “Standing around arguing about this in front of strangers is only making things worse.” He removed my hand from his sleeve. “We’ll help Anthony, don’t worry.”
Senora Mari glared at Wallace and Lightfoot. “How do I know he’s safe and unharmed?”
A wailing siren grew closer as an ambulance crept through the crowd. When it reached our parking lot, it turned in and headed for the rear entrance.
As the siren died, Sheriff Wallace threw back his shoulders and turned to the crowd. He gestured wide to capture their attention. “Nothing to see here, folks. Why don’t you go on and enjoy the three-legged race? Show’s over.”
The dozen or so folks who’d stayed to watch the craziness that was Senora Mari wandered away.
I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Sheriff, would it be okay if we went to see Anthony? We’re worried about him.”
After a brief glance at his watch, Wallace nodded. “He can have visitors today from one to three this afternoon.” He gave Senora Mari a smile. “Take a few minutes, eat something, and relax. You can see him very soon.”
The older woman lifted her chin. “Gracias, senor,” she said, and marched back into the restaurant.
As Wallace stepped inside, Lightfoot drew closer. “The stone Elaine choked on was turquoise. Some people believe it wards off the evil eye.” Deliberately, he turned his obsidian gaze on me. “Others believe it warns us of our approaching death.”
I refused to let him scare the bejesus out of me. “What do you think?”
“I think that was a smart idea, suggesting Senora Mari go with you to visit Anthony.”
“Thanks.”
He tipped his hat back with his thumb and studied me for a moment, a glint in his eye. “You know I think she’s right . . . you would give a man a run for his money.”
Chapter 9
There was a bit of an argument about whether or not Senora Mari and I should stay to help clean up after the contest, but I insisted we arrive at the jail by one o’clock. If I were in Anthony’s shoes, I’d be stark raving mad, wondering when and if I would ever be free to see my family.
&n
bsp; After I pointed out that we didn’t have the usual cleanup after lunch since the sheriff had closed our doors until five o’clock, Aunt Linda agreed to stay behind and oversee preparations for dinner. She even went so far as to give me the keys to her beloved F150. We made our way slowly toward the highway, bogged down by festival traffic. For some reason, Senora Mari saluted any neighbors and friends we passed with a royal wave, like a high school queen in the annual homecoming parade.
At the county jail, a gaunt Anthony hugged Senora Mari and tears flowed between them. When they finally separated, I realized why he appeared so changed. His once ready smile had evaporated. In its place was now a haunted stare.
He had lost weight in the few days he’d been incarcerated, his orange coveralls dwarfing his frame. “Gracias. Thank you for coming.” Wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his orange coveralls, he murmured, “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t get bail,” Senora Mari said, jabbing me with her elbow.
“But we’re taking up a collection,” I said. “We’re going to get you the best defense money can buy.” I frowned at my gross exaggeration.
A deep furrow appeared in his forehead. “I met with the lawyer.”
I gave him a smile of encouragement. “What did he say?”
Rubbing his temples with his fingers, he gathered his thoughts. “He, um, thinks that it’s mostly, uh, circumstances . . .”
“Circumstantial?”
“Yes, that’s it.” He lunged forward. “How could it be anything else? I didn’t kill her,” he cried.
The guard spun toward our table.
With his palms out, Anthony slowly raised his hands to appease the guard. In a quiet voice, he continued, “There’s no proof that I murdered her,” He grabbed the table between us with both hands, “but that doesn’t matter. They want to close this case, and I’m their only suspect.” His eyes, once so warm, blazed with helpless fury. “They say there’s no proof that I didn’t do it.”
That didn’t sound right. “Who said such a thing?”
Here Today, Gone Tamale Page 11
