The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole

by Rebecca Adler

  I laughed, almost spitting a bit of pickle across the room. “Why? Were you interrupting his Texas Hold ’Em?”

  He took a swig from his coffee cup. “Could be you’re right on that score.”

  I finished off the pickle and rinsed my hands. “I’m going to go find those guys. Who’s in charge?”

  “Some guy named Travis Mitchell, road manager.”

  “Wish me luck.”

  He laughed. “I’ll wish them luck. Go easy on ’em, Jo Jo.”

  I straightened my braid and drew it over one shoulder. With my sunglasses firmly in place, I shuffled through the parking lot and cursed the 97-degree heat.

  Though I couldn’t see anything inside the bus—only my own reflection in the windows and an empty driver’s seat—I knocked on the door with the flat of my hand. “Helloo.” My knock was as pathetic as a gnat knocking on a stainless-steel refrigerator. I saw nothing, but sensed that the bus and its occupants were laughing at me. The next time, I beat the door with the side of my fist with all my might, ignoring the pain in my hand. “Hey, in there.” Nothing. “I need just a minute of your time.”

  My hand throbbing, I glanced around the parking lot and down the road to make sure no one else was bearing witness to my tomfoolery. I raised my fist again, and the door opened with a groan.

  “Darlin’, watch yourself. You’re going to do yourself an injury.” The afternoon sun was in my eyes and the inside of the bus was dark, but as best I could tell, the gravelly alto belonged to a woman.

  “Howdy,” I said, going for friendly. “My family owns this place.” I gestured toward our dance hall with a thumb over my shoulder. “And I’m a reporter for the local paper.”

  A bank of clouds blocked the sun, revealing a middle-aged woman with straight, iron gray hair. Over her shoulder, a young, pretty face peered.

  “Listen, may I come in? It’s hot as Hades in winter out here.” My shirt was already sticking to my back like a second skin.

  She turned to the girl standing behind her. After a few seconds of fervent whispering on the part of the young one, she waved me inside. “Sure, come on.”

  I stepped into the bus and sighed as the frigid air melted my irritation like a Double Lemon Chill on the Fourth of July. The AC was running full blast and country music—Jeff Clark, by the sound of it—played faintly from hidden speakers. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I noticed the plaid curtains at the windows were tied back like in someone’s country kitchen. I glanced around, taking it all in—the fridge, cooktop, stereo system, large flat-screen, and all kinds of electronics.

  I spotted a guitar on a seat near the back and a pile of girly magazines underneath the seat closest to me.

  “Who’d you say you were?” asked a soft feminine voice. I turned and found an ethereal young woman of sixteen or thirty. It was hard to tell from her straight, shoulder-length pale hair, unisex jeans, and band T-shirt.

  “Josie Callahan.” Again, I gestured toward Two Boots. “I’m Eddie Martinez’s niece, and I’m writing a piece for the Broken Boot Bugle about Mr. Clark’s death.”

  The freckles on the girl’s face stood out in stark relief. “What do you know about Jeff? You trying to make a buck off his death, you money-grubbing—”

  “Heather. That’s enough.” The older woman placed a brown leathery hand on the girl’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “Let her talk.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” I swallowed my nerves. “I met Jeff last night backstage before the show. He is—was—an old friend of my friend Patti Perez. She owns the Feed and Supply.”

  The two females exchanged glances. “Was she the black-haired witch that joined him onstage?” Heather’s freckles threatened to jump off her nose and punch me in the face.

  “Ha.” Definitely not the way to start off with these two. “She’s real nice once you get to know her.”

  “Did they go out after the show?” I’d made a mistake. Heather’s shoulders tensed and her fingers curved like a female wrestler about to rip my hair out by the roots. “What was that girl’s name again? I want to pay her a visit.”

  “Sweetie, you’ll do no such thing. Mind your manners.” The older woman chuckled without concern.

  “Uh, she didn’t hurt him—promise.” I smiled. “She’s cool.” I looked to the older woman for support. “They dated several years back.”

  Heather’s eyes narrowed. Any minute she would bare her teeth.

  “They were only reminiscing, not starting back up, if you know what I mean.” I tried a laugh, which fell as flat as my hair on a humid day.

  With a glance at my notebook, the older woman smiled, proudly displaying the wide space between her two front teeth. “I’m Wilhelmina. And this here’s my daughter, Heather.”

  “Nice to meet you. Are you in the band?” Now, I hadn’t seen these two onstage Thursday night, but I hated to say, So what the heck are you doing here?

  The older woman laughed so hard she began to cough. “I take care of wardrobe. Heather here takes care of CDs and T-shirts.”

  “Hats and beer cozies too,” the young woman said with pride.

  “I see.” I nodded and took a quick look around, making special note of the bedroom at the back of the bus—Jeff Clark’s, I’d wager.

  “Where’s the rest of the band?”

  “Hard to resist them guys in tight pants, ain’t it?” Wilhelmina laughed at my expression.

  Sharing my actual opinion on the unattractiveness of skanky male musicians—like my former fiancé—would not produce the desired result. “Um, you said it. I’d like to get some quotes for my article.”

  “They’re not going to give you much, seeing as how they’re not here.” Heather flipped her hair back over her shoulder, which reduced her age from thirty to at least twenty-one.

  “Where can I find them?”

  “They went into town.” Heather eyed me suspiciously as she plopped down into one of the plush seats.

  I’d wow these women with kindness by this end of this exchange, or I wasn’t the niece of Linda Callahan Martinez, the strongest, most persuasive woman this side of El Paso. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Get lost.” In her eyes, I read curiosity in spite of her terse words.

  “Don’t pay her no mind.” Wilhelmina turned to her daughter. “Tell her the positive things. Don’t focus on the negative. Wouldn’t Jeff like that?”

  Heather stared over my head out the window and eventually nodded. “Go ahead. Ask away.”

  Her mother dropped into a leather bench seat that folded down from the center section of the wall.

  With another we’re-all-friends-here smile, I joined her and removed my phone from my pocket. “Is it okay if I record this? I don’t want to misquote you or anything.”

  “Oh, she’s going to misquote us.” Heather turned up her nose. “That’s what happens to celebrities all the time.”

  “Or so they say.” I laughed, but neither woman joined in. “Uh, I won’t misrepresent you. I can’t afford to be sued for libel or slander.” I chuckled, while they refused to crack a smile. “If I had to pay a penalty, I wouldn’t be able to afford to keep Lenny.”

  “Who’s he?” Heather looked suspicious. “Your boyfriend?”

  I tried not to frown as I bit the inside of my cheek. “He’s a much better roommate than any man. He’s my long-haired Chihuahua.”

  “Ooh. I love little dogs.” She turned sad puppy eyes to her mother. “And we’re going to get one soon, aren’t we?”

  Wilhelmina reached over and smoothed her daughter’s hair. “Sure thing, sweetie. As soon as we finish this tour.”

  “I’d be happy to introduce you.” I waggled my eyebrows. “He really likes the ladies.”

  “Cool.” Heather sighed and gave me her first genuine smile.

  “Best get on w
ith it.” Wilhelmina gestured to the phone.

  I set it up to record. “What was it like working with Jeff Clark?”

  They stared at each other, exchanging a silent conversation.

  After a moment, Wilhelmina began. “Well, it was fine. He could be real nice and friendly.”

  “Huh.” Heather’s mouth twisted in derision. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  I knew what they meant. “Was he an easy man to work for?”

  “Yes,” the older woman said. “He’d buy you a drink at least once a week. He didn’t get angry if you couldn’t find where he’d thrown his clothes.”

  “Huh, not unless he was hungover.” Heather giggled behind her hand.

  I made a show of stopping the recording. “Do you want me to use that negative stuff?”

  She shot a look at her mother and then turned away.

  “No, she don’t.” Wilhelmina shook her head. “She’s just upset that he’s dead.”

  I turned the recorder on again. “Did you enjoy working with him?”

  The older woman looked away and then a slow smile spread across her face. “He was real sweet. He was a mess, but yeah, I loved being around him and the other guys.”

  “Did he have any family?”

  “No, not really. I think he said his mom lived in Oklahoma.”

  “He had a brother, lived in Tulsa.” Heather leaned toward the recorder when she spoke.

  “No family, no wife, no girlfriend?”

  Heather stared as if she’d unexpectedly lost her hearing and good sense.

  The older woman stood and retrieved a pack of cigarettes from a shelf above the window. “You mind?”

  Of course I did. Who wants to inhale secondhand smoke? “No, go ahead.”

  She lit a long brand and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke back over her right shoulder. I could only assume that was her way of protecting me from the cancer-causing fumes. “To hear Dustin tell it, Jeff had an ex-wife, but he’s the only person I’ve ever heard mention her.” She inhaled again and her foot started tapping. “He wasn’t married.” She tapped the ash into her hand.

  “Dustin?”

  “He’s the gray-haired one,” Heather said with impatience.

  I shook my head.

  “Plays guitar?”

  “Sorry.” I didn’t remember any members of Clark’s band except the angry guy with auburn hair.

  “So Jeff wasn’t married?” That much I figured. My conscience did a flip-flop. Did I really want to know all the dirt on Jeff Clark? Depending on what I found out, how could I look Patti in the face the next time she mentioned him? Did I actually need to know how many girlfriends Clark had in addition to Patti and the giggling beauty backstage, assuming she had been there to see him? After a long, awkward pause, I swayed toward the whole truth and nothing but the truth. “Girlfriends?”

  “What’d you say?” Heather was glaring at me as if I were a fly on a fruitcake.

  “That’s a slippery subject.” The older woman wasn’t biting. “Let’s talk about his good qualities, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Handsome as Tom Cruise.”

  “True.” I was already formulating how to incorporate her comments into what I had in mind.

  “Whatever.” Heather moved her self-righteous glare onto her mother. “He was tons more handsome than any Tom Cruise. Try more good-looking than Channing Tatum.”

  “Cool.” I settled back, enjoying their sudden enthusiasm. “And?”

  “He had a voice like an angel.” Heather beamed.

  Wilhelmina chuckled. “Like a fallen angel.”

  “And he wrote his own songs.”

  “Well, most of them he wrote with Clay,” corrected the girl’s mother.

  “He was down-to-earth and cared that we all got along like a family.”

  The older woman pinched the end of her cigarette until satisfied it was out. “He was the real deal.” She sniffed and wiped her nose. “He was going to be a star.”

  “Jeff was taking us with him.” Heather leaned forward and grabbed my arm. “He would never have left us behind.”

  “How do you feel about his death?” I hated to lead these people on—they were obviously hurting—but I needed direct quotes. That’s what Sumter Majors, my editor, required.

  “Things won’t ever be the same without him.” Heather nodded, her eyes wide and swimming with tears.

  “If we were a family,” Wilhelmina paused, drew a sigh, and crossed her hands over her heart, “he was like a son to me.” Her eyes remained dry, though she rubbed the corners with a knuckle. “I’ll miss him and his music.”

  “If you had to compare his music to that of another country singer, whose would it be?”

  Wilhelmina closed her eyes and smiled. “George Jones.”

  “Are you crazy? He sounds more like Keith or Kenny,” Heather argued.

  I grinned at her passionate response.

  Wilhelmina’s eyes flew open. “Girl, have you lost your mind?” She turned to me and raised her drawn-on eyebrows. “Who does Jeff’s music make you think of?”

  Under the pressure of their intense stares, my mind went blank. I dug for the only country music star I could remember—the one country star no true Texan could ever forget. “Willie Nelson?”

  Heather squealed with displeasure. “That old weasel? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Weasel? Willie?” I’d never heard anyone criticize the Texas legend. I paused to consider my words as I recovered from Heather’s slanderous comment. She had a point. Clark no more resembled the ancient singer than Lenny resembled Lassie.

  “In what way are they alike?” Heather asked.

  “Smiling on the outside but sad on the inside,” Wilhelmina said. “And they both sing ballads as big as the Grand Canyon.” Wilhelmina laid a hand over her heart. “That hit me right here.”

  Strangely, I understood. My curiosity getting the best of me, I turned off the recorder to encourage her to share more. “Why would anyone want to kill him? I don’t understand.”

  “Jealousy,” Wilhelmina said, rising from her seat and pointing a finger at me. “It’s the devil’s tool.” She made her way to the front of the bus, making me wonder what I’d done to shut down the interview so soon. “No explaining it. It’s just a fact of life.” She wrenched on the silver door handle with her wizened, pink-nailed hands.

  I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, buying time. “Women. The original green-eyed monsters.”

  “Men are worse,” Heather muttered.

  I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise. Men?

  Wilhelmina shook her head, her lips pursed. “Band members, friends, other musicians—guys hired to support each other but jealous of Jeff’s success.”

  “His career?”

  “Girl, his life.” She gestured to the stairs.

  I tried to think of one last question, but their faces bore the same closed expression. They’d had enough of the likes of me prying into their business. “Thanks for everything.” I stepped down and froze. “Where’s the band?”

  “Look for tequila and Tex-Mex,” Heather called out as the door began to close. “You’ll find ’em.” I jumped off the last step to the gravel, the door screeching closed behind me.

  As I walked back to my Prius, I considered what I’d heard. The two women obviously loved Jeff Clark in distinctly different ways. Wilhelmina wouldn’t have touched a hair on his head, except to smooth it with her motherly fingers—or so she wanted me to believe. Heather, on the other hand, reeked of jealousy. Though it wasn’t a stretch to believe she’d kill anyone Jeff took a shine to, I wasn’t convinced her rage had extended to her crush.

  Would the sheriff’s office even consider Heather or Wilhelmina as suspects when they already had tough Goth Girl Patti at the scene of the crime? I
struggled to swallow the lump of dread in my throat.

  I gave myself a mental pat on the back for completing the first interview for my story, and froze. The mother and daughter roadies had shared a little and left out a lot . . . like their last names. Hang it.

  After convincing Wilhelmina and Heather to divulge their last names through a crack in the bus door, I flew into town to transcribe my recording and reconnoiter the only two locations in Broken Boot that sold tamales: Milagro and Milagro’s to-go window.

  It was early dinnertime by then. I strolled inside, my eyes darting to and fro, searching for guys that fit my idea of a country band. Instead I found a restaurant teeming with locals.

  “You did it again.” Senora whispered behind my back, causing me to start.

  “What?” Before anyone spied me, I took her arm and stepped into the office.

  “You and your dead bodies,” she continued in a hiss. “You’ve brought in more customers.”

  I peered around the doorjamb and discovered the restaurant was standing-room only. “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Not for the dead people.”

  With great effort, I avoided rolling my eyes and the subsequent pinch Senora Mari would immediately give my arm. “Have any members of Jeff Clark’s band stopped by?”

  “Who?” She removed the flower from above her ear and pinned it in my hair.

  “You know the dead guy from your dream?”

  “Ah,” with a small, bony finger she placed my hair behind my ear, “the musician.” With a purse of her lips, she considered for a moment. “No,” she turned to leave, “but there are some hippies at the bar.”

  From the doorway to the bar area, I peered around the jamb and spied six guys in country western Harley wear—almost bikers, but a bit more styled.

  Only half of Clark’s posse wore the requisite leather vest and blue jeans, while the others sported Western shirts and bolo ties. They ranged in age from the redheaded twentysomething who’d pushed past us the night before to the silver-haired, bespectacled grandfather with a potbelly.

  I crossed to where Aunt Linda was tending bar. “That Clark’s band?”

  “More like a troop of baboons escaped from the zoo. Next thing you know, they’ll start throwing feces at us.”