Since my recent layoff and breakup, these thoughts rupture my otherwise calm exterior when I am kept waiting or when I find myself in anxiety-laden situations. I pushed away the coffee, recognizing that the caffeine was adding to my anxiety—that or an army of ants had invaded my shirt—and pulled out my phone.
I discovered no new text messages or voice mails, so I called him. And Mr. LA, the hater of small-town journalists, refused to answer.
Chapter 9
After forcing myself to remain long enough to drink a big glass of water, I paid my bill and drove back to Milagro. Hoofing up the stairs to my apartment, I heard the familiar and heartwarming yips of my canine friend.
I unlocked the door and caught him in my arms. “Hello, precious Lenster.” I kissed him on the head as my phone started to ring.
“Hello,” I said with an effort, raising the phone to my ear as I juggled my long-haired, enthusiastic Chi onto my other shoulder, like the big baby he was.
“Yip, yip,” Lenny said in greeting.
“Kenneth Price.” The agent’s voice was brisk and officious. “You called this number.” Beneath his brittle sophistication, I could hear the slight blur of exhaustion or a late-night date with his mini bar.
“It’s Josie Callahan, Mr. Price. We were to meet at Elaine’s this morning. I waited for over an hour.”
A pause. “Oh, right. I had to take a call from the office.”
It was my turn to remain silent.
“I’m not going to have time to meet with you today. I have to visit the morgue and call Jeff’s sister in Oregon so we can transport the body. Plus I have to find the sheriff and get an update on what’s being done to remedy this situation.”
Could one remedy someone’s murder? “Oh, well,” I said with feigned nonchalance. “I guess I’ll have to print my article about Clark’s murder with what I have.” I dug the knife deeper. “If you don’t think there’s a need to give me information that will make his cause and his music sympathetic and appealing to our readers, then so be it.”
“Is your paper with the Associated Press?”
I ground my teeth. “No.”
“Then it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“You might want to reconsider. We have a hundred thousand readers from all over the state and the Southwest.”
He barked a laugh. “Not impressive by any stretch of the word.”
I took my pride in my hands. “You did say we’d meet today, and I did wait at a table, alone, for a long, long time.”
“That’s unfortunate for you, but I have to leave as soon as possible.” He paused, and then his tone changed for the better. “A deal’s coming through that needs my attention back in LA.”
“Why not right here, right now, on the phone?”
“Hmm. Sorry, but no. That window of opportunity has closed.”
My face flamed. I could feel my self-control flying down the stairs and out the front door. Before I could think of a suitable retort, he threw a gauntlet into my face.
“The AP will release an article later today that will include a bio of Jeff. You can do your own research or quote that article in yours. Be my guest.”
The line went dead. What was it about me that made him think he could keep hanging up on me?
“Yip,” Lenny said.
“You’re right. I’m toast.”
Lenny licked my chin.
Which I allowed him to do while I considered my next move. It was time for tamales. Was I hungry? No. Did it matter? Not today.
Without Ken Price’s interview, my article would still hobble into print. I edited what I had, adding in the bits about the business of Price’s schedule, his upcoming visit to the morgue, and the fact that Clark had a sister in Oregon who was being notified.
I fed Lenny some crunchy kibble and girded my loins to read everything online about Jeff Clark that I should have already read and consulted. I sent the updated version to my editor and explained I had a potential interview with a member of Clark’s band—the gray-haired Dustin with the warm smile—and Clark’s sister, if I could reach her.
I was hoping for an additional sidebar, though in my heart I feared the AP article would quell any enthusiasm my editor had for my homegrown stories. Of course, if a major catastrophe occurred or a reality show hero changed her hairstyle, the Associated Press might only release an article or two and be done with it.
While I was unearthing research on Jeff Clark’s early gigs in places like Ville Platte, Louisiana, and Bell Buckle, Tennessee, the AP article on his death hit the online papers. Their piece was thorough and to the point, stating that his death was under investigation by local authorities. Thankfully, it gave both the Homestead Days Music Festival and Two Boots a brief mention.
Who knew? Maybe that would cause a wellspring of business for our dance hall. And maybe the good Lord would forgive me for thinking such mercenary thoughts in the wake of a man’s murder.
I continued with the paper’s search engines at my fingertips, pulling all the relevant information together, and added my own brand of sentiment, turning the erstwhile King of Country into a veritable saint. I did eventually have at my disposal a scant number of facts that the AP reporter hadn’t mentioned: he had an ex-wife, a cousin in Fort Worth, a sister in Oregon, and a cousin who was a hot-yoga instructor. I was pretty sure that meant she used hot rocks in her studio and not a commentary on whether or not she was attractive. Heck, as I couldn’t find a picture of her, it could have been both.
* * *
After the evening rush, a short, slight man with dark hair, a perfectly groomed five o’clock shadow, and a killer pair of Ray Bans waltzed through the front door of Milagro, followed by a dude wearing the T-shirt, cardigan, jeans, and wire-framed glasses of every college journalist ever portrayed on the big screen. If the short guy with the perfect smile and pugnacious gaze wasn’t Kenneth Price, then my instincts were as out of tune as a fiddle in a leaky garage.
I watched Anthony step forward to greet him. As he started toward the door to the patio, the short guy stopped him and pointed instead to a table in the back near the emergency exit. Lily brought waters, chips and salsa, and complimentary frijoles borrachos, or drunken beans. The intense young man with black-framed glasses removed his phone from his man purse, asked Ken Price—for it had to be him—a question, and then promptly took a picture of the agent with his phone.
Anthony and I watched this from the broad archway that led to the bar. He pulled his order pad from his pocket. “Two orders of beef fajitas coming right up.” It was our private joke. If a tourist had no idea what to order, they demanded skirt steak, peppers, onions, and tortillas.
I stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I got this.”
He smiled. “Oh yeah?”
I chuckled. “Yeah, this guy owes me for standing me up this morning.”
“That guy?” Anthony asked with a sneer.
“What?” I asked, poking him in the side with my elbow. “You don’t think it’s true love?” I’d never seen our young headwaiter so disgusted with another human being, let alone with a stranger.
He took Ken Price’s measure. “You deserve better. Maybe the one with the glasses.”
“Not in this lifetime.” Only if I wanted to mother someone down the aisle and throughout our lives together. Ugh, there I went judging people again. Peccadillos indeed. My simple flaws were piling up like pumpkins on the annual Pumpkin Path in San Antonio.
I grabbed his order pad and the pen from his pocket. “Gentlemen.”
The Ray Bans were now on top of his head. He gave me a cursory glance that didn’t meet my eyes. “I’ll have whatever the special is tonight.” Was I so easily ignored because I was too curvy or too Texas? Who did he think he was dealing with?
Our special that evening was shrimp diablo, shellfish sautéed in coconut oil and a blistering ch
ile sauce. You could choose your heat level or go with the standard four and a half that Senora Mari and Carlos prepared. My abuela preferred a face-sweating seven, while our cook preferred a moderate three. I could warn Price, but, then again, maybe he read the blackboard when they arrived. And maybe he loved scorching-hot food that would leave his mouth inflamed for a few hours.
“And for you?” I turned toward the younger one. He held his phone in one hand while tapping the fingers of his left hand on the table, clearly impatient for me to go.
“Whatever’s decent.”
“Right,” I murmured. Most of our customers thought all our menu was lip-smacking good. I would bring him the cheese enchiladas with a guacamole tostada and a side of black refried beans.
I was itching to address Price, but I’d wait until I’d served the meal to confirm that Ray Ban Guy with the metrosexual vibe was indeed LA’s own Kenneth Price.
“Can I get you anything else?” I caught myself before I said Mr. Price. I would learn more if I didn’t identify myself. They gave me their drink orders.
The young journalist with the unwashed hair ignored me. “Jeff Clark was a one-of-a-kind, man.”
Price adjusted the gold bracelet on his wrist. “True.”
“Even so, for those who didn’t know his brand of country, who did he resemble on the country scene?”
“Kenny Chesney meets Brad Paisley meets Luke Bryan.”
I bit back a smile. Price was comparing Clark to every popular male country singer that was currently making big money. Those names would blow up social media.
“If Jeff Clark were here with us today, what would you tell him?”
“Can I help you?” He rolled his eyes at the reporter as if I couldn’t see him.
“Do you need anything else?”
He narrowed his eyes, the better to inspect my insectlike qualities.
“Hey,” the young journalist said in a softer tone, “if we need more chips and salsa, we’ll let you know.”
It took all the acting skill I possessed to give them a nod and walk away. I was actually biting the inside of my cheek to keep from giving Price a sharp piece of my mind.
Perhaps I could pretend to be the simpleton they assumed me to be and riddle Price with enough stupid questions to make him lose that LA sheen—like when you go canoeing on the Rio Grande and find you’re a gourmet entrée for a hoard of mosquitos.
I found a clean cloth and the spray cleaner and started wiping down the chairs, starting at the table farthest away but slowly moving closer. I was careful to work as silently as possible so I could hear the questions and answers, hoping for clues as to who would want to kill Jeff Clark.
“Got enough?”
The young guy checked his notes. “Yeah, looks great.”
“I almost forgot. Jeff’s new song dropped on iTunes yesterday.”
“Awesome. What’s it called?”
“‘Sweet Thing.’”
“Sorry about the timing.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s a gift from the gods.”
“Why is that?”
“Don’t get me wrong. Jeff Clark’s death is a tragedy, plain and simple.” I watched as Price pounded the table. “But we’ve got to honor his memory by getting the word out about his music.” Quickly, I glanced away. He must have paused to take a bite, for I heard the clinking of forks. “That’s where you come in. Once you post your story on social media, his single could rocket up the charts in a matter of minutes.” Price’s phony easygoing manner was wearing thin, and I could hear his underlying desperation. Was the band responsible for the losses incurred if they canceled the rest of the tour? Or was Ken Price?
The reporter-looking dude placed the notebook on the table and continued to eat his enchiladas. “Anything off the record, man?”
I froze, waiting to hear the juicy question, when out of the corner of my eye I could see Price waving a beer bottle. I acknowledged him and slowly made my way over, praying they’d continue while I was still within earshot.
“Another Dos Equis.”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned away as slowly as I could.
“Huh.” Price chuckled. “If we’re off the record, man, then you got to turn off the recorder.”
I started walking, straining to hear. Paranoid about missing something, I paused at each table along the way so I could straighten the salt and pepper shakers, which allowed me to hear their discussion.
“Sorry.” He must have turned it off. “Go ahead. Whatever you say, man, stops here.”
“It better.” There was a pause, and I proceeded to checking ketchup bottles. “Jeff was a real pain in the wallet, if you know what I mean.”
“Why?”
“He convinced the label to spend money on advertising and marketing like he was another Kenny Chesney, but his early releases were amateurish. The audiences didn’t buy the songs or tickets to his shows.”
“That’s tough.”
“I’m not saying my career’s on the line or anything.” Price chuckled. “But this song’s got to pay some serious bills. Capisce?”
“Sure.”
“Take these two women he had on tour with him—one old enough to be his mother and the other young enough to get him into serious trouble if he looked at her the wrong way.”
“Yeah, yeah, so what happened?”
I froze, praying they wouldn’t notice that I’d run out of things to straighten.
“Well, for one, he doesn’t need a seamstress for the band. What is this? The Elton John tour?”
The younger man laughed.
“Sure, she does laundry and whatever, but they can do their own. They’re not the Rolling Stones. And this girl, the CD Girl he called her. What a crock. Am I right?”
I heard no response, so the reporter was either in midbite or intent on taking notes.
“Come on. I told him the road manager could sell the T-shirts and stuff, but he complained like a little baby—something about her needing a job and running from a terrible home life. The two of them were probably running from the law and her parents, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh yeah.” In the young reporter’s voice I could almost hear his thoughts: I won’t tell until I need to further my career.
“Excuse me.” Price’s tone was icy.
Uh-oh.
I swung around, my simpleton mask firmly in place. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t forget exactly—I just caught up in these here chores.” I raised the ketchup bottle high. “So sorry. One Dos Equis coming right up.”
“Make that two.”
“Yes, sir. Two.”
“Geesh,” the younger one added as I left.
I hurried to the bar, found the beers, flipped off the lids so fast one hit the pressed-tin ceiling.
“What are you doing, Miss Josie?” Anthony was wiping down the tables in the bar. “Who are those guys?”
“Ssh. I’ll tell you later.”
I hurried through the doorway, a big grin on my face, but they weren’t following my progress. Once again I slowed down, trying to catch each word. I was sure I looked like a creature out of a sci-fi movie. You know the ones where everyone starts moving in slo-mo for no good reason?
“. . . probably found out he was screwing someone else.” Silence.
Two sets of hostile eyes were now riveted on me.
“Here you go.”
This time Price waited to speak until I’d not only left their table, but crossed to the back counter.
Was he talking about Heather, the CD Girl, or Wilhelmina, her mother?
While I was lost in thought, the cowbell over the front door jangled to life. In strode the gray-haired member of Jeff Clark’s band, his warm smile firmly in place.
“Howdy there, Miss Josie Callahan.” He might as well have anno
unced who I was over a loudspeaker at the county fair.
I hurried over. “Hey.” I placed myself between him and the two at the booth, praying they hadn’t heard.
“Would you care to join me for a late supper?”
“Uh, sure. But not tonight.”
“Oh?” His smile dimmed.
“I don’t get off work until nine.”
I had to give him credit. He didn’t check his watch or the UT clock on the wall behind me. “No trouble, darlin’. I’d wait until the sun comes up.”
“I’d love to, another time.” I touched his arm. “I have to finish a story I’m working on for the Bugle.” I wanted to process what I’d overheard between Price and the reporter dude. The iTunes drop was a great factoid.
“You’re thinking way too hard. I’m talking about tonight, not forever.”
“Order up,” Carlos said, ringing the bell at the pickup window.
“In that case, I’ll be sure to call you real soon.”
His self-deprecating laugh hit just the right note, warm and carefree, with no strings attached.
Chapter 10
My story on Jeff Clark’s murder had pride of place above the fold of Sunday’s Broken Boot Bugle the next morning when it hit the front yards of our fair city. My bubble of delight burst when I found AP articles in online newspapers throughout the region on the death and suspected murder of up-and-coming country music singer and songwriter Jeff Clark. How did I ever think I could scoop the major papers?
I stopped at Two Boots after church to pick up the limes Senora Mari needed for the day’s special soup. I was on my way back to Milagro when I spotted two news vans, one from an Austin station and another from El Paso, parked in front of the Cogburn Hotel. I passed Milagro and joined the other rubberneckers, as reporters with microphones, camera operators, Ken Price, Mayor Cogburn, and various onlookers all huddled in front of the hotel. The media had taken a bite and decided Clark’s murder was a tasty morsel.
The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Page 11
