Here Today, Gone Tamale

by Rebecca Adler

  “One of the deputies.” Anthony dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t know his name.”

  “Estúpido,” Senora Mari muttered under her breath. “Ignore him. You had nothing to do with that dead woman. You weren’t even at the restaurant when she arrived.”

  After a quick glance at the guard, Anthony turned his sorrowful gaze on me.

  My heart sank at what I saw there. “You came back that night, didn’t you?” I whispered.

  He lowered his eyes to study the tabletop and slowly nodded.

  With alarm, I shot a glance at the guard. He was staring straight ahead, appearing to ignore us. Would he report everything we said? Maybe we were even being recorded.

  “I will be right back.” Senora Mari pushed back her chair.

  “Where are you going?” I hissed.

  “You talk while I keep him busy.” She winked and slowly walked toward the door as if she’d suddenly aged twenty years in the last thirty seconds.

  Whatever plan she’d hatched might blow up in our faces at any second. “Why did you come back to Milagro that night?”

  He leaned forward. “I needed a cash advance.”

  “Why didn’t you ask for it earlier in the evening in Aunt Linda’s office?”

  Rolling his eyes, he muttered, “I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to know.”

  “I remember that night. You were angry, but you didn’t tell us you were desperate.”

  “Why should I tell you? I am the man of my family.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Did you see Dixie?”

  He nodded. “Outside. She was sitting on a bench smoking one of those,” he held his fingers about eight inches apart, “those smoking tubes.”

  “Electronic cigarettes.”

  He swallowed. “She was slurring her words and saying ugly things.” Searching my eyes for my reaction, he continued, “When she called me over, I thought she needed help.”

  Across the room, Senora Mari was talking quietly to the guard.

  “What happened?” I held my breath.

  His breathing accelerated, his chest rising and falling. “She said she needed help. I thought she meant to stand.” Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “When I moved closer to help her, she tried to . . .” His face flamed.

  “What, Anthony? What did she do?”

  “She tried to kiss me.”

  Not what I expected. “Uh, was that all?”

  Anthony’s shoulders flew back. “That was too much. When I stepped back, she fell forward.”

  I was trying to picture the scene as he described it. “And then?”

  “She grabbed my bow tie. When I pulled away, it ripped in two.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I was embarrassed and angry. She should have treated me with more respect. I threw the tie away, and I left her sitting on the bench.”

  “Didn’t you tell them all this?”

  “Yes, but they don’t believe she tried to touch me. They think I’m a stupid kid and I’m making it up. But I’m not. Why would I say she did that if she didn’t? I hated her trying to kiss me, but I wouldn’t kill her.”

  “That can’t be all they have.”

  Senora Mari came back to the table, picked up her bag, and returned to the guard. From the corner of my eye, I saw her take out a few small foil packets and give one to the guard.

  After opening each packet, the guard, satisfied that they contained nothing that could break Anthony out of his cell, began to eat each of the tamale offerings Senora Mari had prepared.

  While he ate, she brought out more, and after a cursory inspection, the guard granted a nod of approval. She walked over at her normal vigorous pace and presented both of us with savory and aromatic treats. “Eat up,” she said to Anthony with a smile.

  I wasn’t one to look a tamale in the mouth. We ate for a minute or two, resisting the urge to talk, sharing a small container of sauce. After we finished our meal, Anthony’s cheeks had more color and his eyes held a spark of hope.

  He licked his lips and the ends of his fingers. “Gracias, Senora Martinez.”

  With a kiss to the top of his head, she gathered the trash and threw it in the can in the corner.

  “They must have something else on you,” I said, wiping my mouth. “Do you know what it is?”

  “A shoeprint near the Dumpster.”

  My heart dropped. “A boot print?”

  “No, ma’am. It was an athletic shoe.”

  To say I was relieved would be putting it mildly. “Did you explain about your bow tie?”

  He nodded. “Sure, but they ignored me. They say the print was found near the body.”

  “Was it your shoe?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  By readily admitting what Dixie had done, Anthony must have turned the sheriff against him. I tried to lighten his load. “I met your sisters and little brother. I’ll give Lily your job while you’re in here.”

  He blinked rapidly and grabbed my hands.

  “I hope that helps,” I said, embarrassed by the tears that sprang to his eyes.

  “You are too kind.”

  I chuckled. “You have me confused with someone else.”

  He blinked in confusion. “No, I don’t, Miss Josie.”

  “Are you happy with your lawyer?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  “He is a smart man,” he responded with a smile. “His name is Trout, Mr. Thomas Trout.”

  “Odd name.”

  He looked away and back again. “Yes, but he is a good man. He will help me, and he will treat me with respect.”

  The guard checked his watch and held up two fingers.

  “Do you want me to bring Lily to see you?”

  Anthony shook his head. “She’s not allowed. She’s too young to come without a parent.”

  Placing my hand on his, I stared hard into his eyes, trying to give him all the encouragement I could muster. “Then we’ll just have to prove that you’re innocent and get you out of here.”

  Shoving to his feet, he said, “If you could do that—”

  “Visitation is over,” the guard called out.

  “Bebé, she can do anything.”

  Anthony laughed at Senora Mari as we headed for the door. Before we departed, she gave the guard another packet of tamales and a wink.

  * * *

  When we arrived at Milagro, I made a beeline for the office. Aunt Linda was no slouch in the commonsense department, and I needed to process what Anthony had told me.

  “Hey, honey,” my aunt said as I dropped into a chair. “How’s the poor kid doing?”

  “He was here that night, talking to Dixie.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” I said, meeting her wide-eyed stare. “He says he needed a cash advance, but didn’t want me to know.” I wasn’t in the mood to tell her the unsavory details.

  My aunt pulled off her reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “That’s very likely.”

  “Then he’s done that before?”

  With a sigh, she slowly lowered her glasses to the desktop. “Once or twice.”

  A metal pan crashed to the floor in the kitchen, making me wince. “Have you heard of an attorney named Trout?”

  “You’re kidding,” she said, her eyes widening.

  “I wish.”

  “I’ll ask Eddie if he’s heard of . . .”

  “Thomas Trout.” I grimaced. Hopefully the guy’s legal skills matched his parents’ love of alliteration.

  “Have any donations come in to pay a private defense attorney?” I burrowed beneath the invoices on the corner of her desk until I found her armadillo-shaped candy dish. An old, soft butterscotch was all I found.

  “I put a hundred in the jar at the
register, and Eddie said he’d do the same at Two Boots.”

  Using my thumbnails, I slowly pried off the plastic wrapper. “Did it work?”

  With a shrug, she replaced her glasses. “We’ve raised another hundred so far.”

  Hopefully, this Tommy Trout was a real badass defense attorney. And maybe pigs were canoeing down the Pecos River.

  “Josie,” she said, turning her attention back to the spreadsheet on her computer screen. “I know you just got here, but Eddie’s in a tizzy, says he needs some walnuts.”

  I chuckled. “So he’s going nontraditional this year?”

  “Oh yeah, he’s convinced that new recipe of his is the best thing since God created jalapeño poppers. He swears by it.” After losing soundly to Bubba and two sisters from Moss Creek in the Texas chili category last year, Uncle Eddie was hoping to win the big prize this year in the nontraditional category. His newest creation was a venison chili replete with heaps of beans and peppers and lots of toppings, including coconut and walnuts.

  I blamed it on the cooking shows. He just didn’t have it in him to go simple anymore.

  “This is his year,” I said, mimicking what my uncle repeated like a mantra at this time each year.

  “Humph.”

  “Are you sure all he needs is walnuts?”

  “So he says.” She rolled her eyes. “He wants you to meet him at Bubba’s. The cook-off’s supposed to start in twenty minutes.”

  I drove to Van Zandt’s Thriftway and found walnuts, already chopped. Only one checkout lane was open. If I’d had my druthers I’d have walked the aisles for exercise rather than stand behind the customer chatting with the lone cashier.

  Stepping up as quiet as a mouse, I tried to stay in her blind spot.

  “Josie,” Hillary cried at full volume. “What are you doing back there?”

  I shook the bag of walnuts at her. “Uncle Eddie’s in the chili cook-off.”

  She glanced at the walnuts and laughed. “Are you sure he’s not in the bake-off instead?”

  I lifted the corners of my mouth in response, which appeared to satisfy her.

  The cashier handed Hillary a small item, which she dropped into her recycled grocery bag.

  I cocked my head to one side, evaluating what I’d seen. I didn’t know Van Zandt’s sold what Hillary was buying.

  Her eyes widened in feigned innocence. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. “I didn’t know you were a smoker.” If Ryan Prentice knew that Hillary smoked e-cigarettes, then I was a monkey’s uncle.

  With an exaggerated glance at her bag, she sighed. “Oh, that. Those cartridges aren’t for me.” She made an expansive gesture to the female cashier, who was all of sixteen. “I don’t smoke. Smoking gives you wrinkles.”

  “I would think most people worry that smoking gives you cancer.”

  “I don’t care if it gives you a handlebar mustache. It’s not mine.”

  A little demon on my shoulder pricked me in the ear, and I couldn’t resist. “Have you talked Elaine into replacing me as a judge for the talent show?”

  With a shake of her wrist, Hillary rattled her gold bracelets. “No. She said it was too late to make more changes. I was going to have to man up.” She clicked her teeth. “As if.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as I imagined Hillary with a buzz cut and no makeup.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, giving me the once-over. “I’m a pro.” And with that, she spun on her turquoise boots and sashayed out the door.

  The cashier with the pink braces gave me a knowing look. “She is too.”

  “Believe me, I have no doubt.”

  Before I left the parking lot of the grocery store, I called to double-check that my uncle hadn’t thought of something else.

  “No, that’s it. Get over here, Jo Jo. I have to be set up in twelve minutes.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Bring a dish for the walnuts. They’re already chopped.”

  “Great idea. Vamos, chica.”

  Wishing I had one more tamale in my belly, I drove to the old historic train depot that Bubba had bought and converted into a lip-smacking BBQ joint. The high ceilings were made of tin and painted gold, a color that transformed the interior into a light, airy place to enjoy succulent meats with finger-licking sauces.

  Parking was at a minimum due to the influx of tourists, but as I drove up Bubba appeared at the back door and waved. “Pull in,” he said, gesturing to the no parking zone. “No deliveries today.”

  Bubba was tall, and to describe him as brown would be missing the mark. He was dark as fresh asphalt. He hailed from Chad and had come to Broken Boot by way of a local pastor and his wife.

  Though born in Africa, his speech was Texas twang. “Can I hep ya?”

  “No, thanks, but you’re going to be amazed. Uncle Eddie’s outdone himself this year.”

  As one of the cook-off judges, Bubba wasn’t supposed to have any inside information. He covered his ears. “Don’t tell me, but he’d better hurry, we’re fixin’ to start. Everyone else is already here.”

  “How many entries this year?”

  “Fifty.”

  “Is that a record?”

  “Yep. And once we become sanctioned by the International Chili Society, that number will bump up even more. I swear.” He placed one hand over his heart. “Eight entries are from tourists out of state.”

  I cruised inside to find the restaurant had taken on the appearance of a ride at Fiesta Texas. They’d set up rope lines to control the traffic flow so that it would wind through the door, past the competing chili samples, regular BBQ menu items, drinks, and desserts, and back out the side entrance. My mouth started to water from the heat of chile peppers in the air.

  Good thing I didn’t have that extra tamale. Chili was my second favorite food in the world. Sweets had their place, but savory was my go-to food group.

  “I didn’t know committee members were allowed to participate.” Ryan smiled as he wandered over from the jukebox.

  “No one ever said. And it is a blind contest, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  I glanced around. “Where’s your other half?” I didn’t say better half ’cause I try not to lie.

  “She’s around somewhere. I think she had some errands to run. Dry cleaning, tailoring, something like that.” His eyes glazed over.

  We laughed together. Ryan was such a dude. Again, I wondered if he knew that Hillary smoked e-cigarettes. How would he react when he found out? Ryan, the ultimate health nut, would not approve.

  “So where’s your chili?” he asked.

  “Uh-uh,” I said, wagging a finger. “It’s blind judging, or did you forget already?” I hadn’t entered, but I didn’t want him to figure out which chili recipe belonged to my uncle.

  He smacked his lips. “I only wanted to taste the miracle.”

  I didn’t cook much. Senora Mari had that right. But I did cook a mean chili I liked to call Austin chili. I made my own delicious concoction with organically grown peppers and onions, free-range turkey, and pine nuts. A recipe I created myself, it caught people by surprise, or so they said, which probably meant they didn’t like it. Ryan loved it, and it had kept us together as a couple far longer than was healthy for either of us.

  “What chili is Hillary famous for?” Sometimes I’m a bit passive-aggressive.

  He frowned. “I have to go to the judges’ meeting.”

  “Aren’t you and Bubba the judges?”

  “Yeah, but we have to disappear while the candidates put out their entries so we don’t see who’s who.”

  “Who are the guest judges?”

  “Uh-uh. It’s a blind tasting,” he said with a grin and walked away.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Uncle Eddi
e even as he scurried in the back door. My phone was smart, but unreliable. Like some men I’d known.

  “’Bout time.”

  “Quit your yammering and help me set up.”

  My uncle had brought three large crockpots of chili with heaping dishes of lettuce, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, red onions, salsa, and sour cream, plus the shredded coconut and walnuts.

  I grabbed a bowl.

  “Nope. Don’t you do it.” He handed me a small paper sample cup. “Got to keep the crockery for the paying customers, gal.”

  “Okay, fine.” After the first bite, I died and finished the rest in chili heaven.

  I tried to stick around to give him some support.

  “Jo Jo, don’t sit so close, folks will figure out which one is mine.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “I’m not sure, what with the murder and Anthony being arrested. Folks might be prejudiced against us.”

  “Or they might be rooting for us.”

  “True.” He frowned. “Lord, I hope that’s the case.”

  “Smile.” I took several pictures with my phone of Uncle Eddie and his chili, one with his entry number in the foreground and one of him standing in front of the blue ribbon. Then we both skedaddled and found a seat outside.

  “Howdy,” my uncle said to Fred Mueller, the owner of Fredericksburg Antiques, who sat at a nearby table drinking a cup of hot tea. If I’d seen anyone else besides Mueller drinking a steaming beverage on a blazingly hot day, I’d have sworn they were one card shy of a full deck. In fact, I had no idea Bubba’s sold anything other than iced tea so sweet you could stand a fork in it.

  As we found a seat, Mueller stood. “Good luck,” he said and gave Uncle Eddie a formal handshake before hurrying on his way. Had he hired someone to help him run his store while he enjoyed a festive lunch? Or had he closed his doors in order to deliver his own chili entry? Mueller might be German Texan, but the man could cook. His chili was usually found in the burn-your-taste-buds-off category.

  He could keep it. I didn’t want my meals to bite me in the butt.

  While my uncle chatted with some of the other entrants from out of state, I thumbed through the pictures I’d taken and shared the best ones with Aunt Linda and Patti. My phone gallery was almost full, so I began to delete several pictures of Lenny.