He responded immediately. Can we meet tonight?
My first thought was to refuse. Though he appeared to be the perfect gentleman, polite and handsome in an older-man way, what did a guy his age think was going on when a woman texted him at nine o’clock at night?
Oh, heck. I hated this new and inferior version of myself, which reared its cowardly head after my breakup with my stupid-idiot ex-fiancé.
Fifteen minutes later, I met him outside Milagro, Senora Mari by my side.
“Howdy,” he said, and leaned in for a brief hug.
My abuela stepped between us. “Who are you?”
His eyebrows rose into his hat.
“This is Uncle Eddie’s mother, Senora Marisol Martinez.”
With a nod and a polite smile, he stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
She crossed her arms and gave him the once-over, ignoring his outstretched hand.
Dustin took it in stride, looking from one to the other of us as if trying to figure out the nature of our relationship. I shot a glance at her, but I couldn’t decipher her mood. No, she could take the lead.
“Josie is family. She is a good girl.”
He removed his hat and met her gaze. “She’ll come to no harm, ma’am. We’re going to take a stroll down Main Street in front of God and everybody.”
Senora Mari peered up and down the street. Only a handful of folks were out and about. The local business owners had rolled up the sidewalks, but the antique-style streetlamps glowed.
“You feel safe with this man?”
Too bad the lights did little to illuminate the dark alleyways between the buildings. I took the bit between my teeth. “Absolutely.”
He smiled and placed his hat carefully on his head. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Senora Mari stepped up close to him, tilted back her head, and narrowed her eyes to give him her most ferocious stare. “You treat her right, or I’ll sic her dog on you. He’ll tear a strip out of your hide so wide, you’ll think you’ve been skinned alive.”
There was a long silence.
I placed a hand on her arm and gently pulled her away. “He’s got it, Abuela.”
She pointed a finger and shook it at him. “Don’t forget what I said.”
Uncle Eddie peered out Milagro’s front door and glared at Dustin Akers as if he had a price on his head. Instead of adding a threat of his own, he engaged the country musician in a stare-down before finally giving him a curt nod. He opened the door wide enough for his mother to pass through, and then closed the door and locked it, staring at the two of us the whole time.
“They’re not going to stop until we cross the street at the corner, and maybe not even then.” I started toward the Cogburn Hotel.
“Tough crowd,” he murmured, catching up with me in three strides.
“Family. Can’t live with them; can’t exchange them for puppies.”
His laugh invited me to join in, which I did. “I was surprised to hear from you.”
I glanced in the window of Wicks of the West, the candle shop that stood next to our restaurant. I removed the elastic band from the end of my hair and ran my fingers through my braid until my hair spread over my shoulders.
“I don’t get it.”
I could see him standing behind me in the reflection from the plate-glass window. “What? Why don’t I look like the rest of my family?”
“No. Why don’t you wear your hair down more often?” From someone else, that line would have been cheesy. His voice was matter-of-fact and, more importantly, it didn’t get on my nerves.
I chuckled and started walking again. “Probably because I don’t have great hair like the rest of them.” Uncle Eddie and his mother both had thick, gorgeous hair. My hair resembled Aunt Linda’s, but where hers was all silky waves, mine was straight and lackluster.
We stopped again in front of the hotel to gaze into a window that held a display of antique pistols and rifles against a collection of pioneer furniture.
“Fishing for a compliment?”
I laughed. “Maybe.” I walked down to look in the next window on the other side of the grand entrance. This one was a display made to look like a scene from an old television Western, with figures dressed as bartenders, saloon girls, and cowboys. “Aunt Linda was my mother’s sister. We’re related to the Martinez family by marriage, not blood.”
“Miss Kitty means business.” He pointed to the female figure that wore a red silk dress with white pantaloons peeking out from underneath. The mannequin pointed a pistol at a shifty-looking cowboy, who held his hands high.
“Huh, Miss Kitty could give me a lesson or two.” Maybe. I still wasn’t sure I wanted to learn how to handle firearms. I continued down the sidewalk. “You must be going stir-crazy now the sheriff’s refused to let you leave.”
“Nah. It’s a nice break.”
I stopped and stared.
His mouth twisted. “Things are a bit slow around here. The folks are friendly. Makes it bearable.”
Past the hotel was an antique-looking streetlamp and bench. I led us to it and sat down. Time to dig for the dirt.
“Sheriff Wallace can come on a bit strong.”
“You got that right. Acts like somebody pis—” His eyes widened. “Uh, like somebody spit in his corn flakes.” His jaw clenched. “I apologize. That was rude.”
I waved it off. “It’s okay. I won’t sic my dog on you for something so piddly. Senora Mari might, but I’d protect you.”
He wiped the back of his hand across his brow in mock relief. “Whew.”
“I don’t know why Wallace would give you a hard time. What was his beef?” I held my breath as I waited to see if he’d take the bait.
Leaning back, he turned to stare at the shops on the other side of the street. “Someone told him I wanted Jeff’s job.”
“Lead singer?”
“Star.” He removed his cowboy hat and straightened the brim with his fingers.
I waited.
“I’ve been in this business twenty years. I’ve spent ten long years on a label with only one hit to show for it.”
“That’s one more than most folks will ever have.”
He didn’t appear to hear me. “When I met Ken Price, he was excited to hear my new stuff. Promised me a tour and a band and an album.”
“Oh no.”
“You guessed it. Shows you how stupid I was. Price said all that was required of me was to tour with Jeff and use my downtime to polish my songs, maybe even help Jeff write some new ones while I was at it.”
Under the pale illumination of the streetlight, I could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he struggled to remain calm. “Now I’m under a contract I can’t break.”
“How long had you been touring with Jeff?”
He sighed. “Three years. Stupid, right?”
“No.” Why didn’t it surprise me that Ken Price was a scoundrel? I contemplated the alternative. Perhaps Dustin wasn’t a great songwriter or potential star.
“Every year, Price had the perfect excuse: the market wasn’t right, the songs weren’t ready, I’d make more money touring with Jeff.”
“That’s awful.”
“What’s sick is that I let him manipulate me. Each time I vowed to leave, I’d back down. He was an expert at infusing his voice with just that hint of a threat that he was going to let me go.”
That sounded like a recipe for jealousy, if not murder. “Did you and Jeff hate each other?”
“It was hard to get past his talent. The man could sing. He and I wrote songs together that we wouldn’t have written apart.”
“Did you write ‘Sweet Thing’ together?”
“That one was written by Jeff and Clay.”
“Won’t Ken give you the band now that Jeff’s out of the way?” I was
leading the witness, letting out the rope.
“Not likely,” He shook his head, “but if he ignores me again, I’m walking. Nashville’s full of decent agents.”
“Speaking of walking . . .”
We crossed the street and spent a few minutes staring in the window of Barnum and Hailey’s, an emporium filled with handmade toys, magic tricks, novelty items—not to mention college fan gear and university apparel. The curiosity shop held sweet memories for me. When I’d first arrived in Broken Boot to live with Uncle Eddie and Aunt Linda, Mr. Hailey had presented me with a flea circus. The cigar box and my mother’s copy of Where the Wild Things Are still sat on my nightstand.
“What’s a young, pretty gal like you doing unattached?”
I groaned. “You’ve got to work on that line.”
“Old school?”
“Older than dirt.”
He narrowed his eyes and studied my face. “I’m still curious.”
“I’m recovering from a bad breakup. What about you?”
“You’re catching me at the right time.”
“Divorced?”
“Twice.”
“Oh.”
“Kick me to the curb. I can take it.”
“That’s sad.”
“Being with a musician sounds exciting until I’m on the road five weeks out of seven. Not many women can take it.”
I hadn’t been able to handle my ex playing venues every week around Austin, forget being on tour.
We continued down to the last corner with streetlamps and turned around. “Want to get a drink?” he asked with a grin like a little boy asking for candy before suppertime.
“No, thanks. Maybe some other time.”
“I’ll take you up on that. Now I’ve got your number, there’s no getting shed of me.”
His words should’ve sounded threatening, but his jovial delivery made me laugh. We stopped in front of the Cogburn Hotel. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be in town,” he said in a singsong tone.
I considered our conversation. From what he said, he had more than one motive for killing Jeff Clark. On the other hand, his words sounded genuine. Was he a superb actor or just a man fallen on hard times, like me? I hedged my bets. “Call me the day after tomorrow if you’re still around?”
“If that’s what you want.” He smiled and shook his head.
With a deep rumble, a familiar F150 with a Milagro decal drove around the corner and squealed to a stop. “Well, good night.”
He leaned in.
I backed away and pointed to the truck. “Remember my uncle? And that bit about a dog? If I’m not mistaken, he’s got Lenny in there right now.”
He forced a sound that resembled a laugh. “Day after tomorrow then.”
Something in the tone of his voice turned my head. In his eyes, a fury made my bones grow cold. Then he blinked and once again his eyes shone with warmth and goodwill.
He gave me a smile, waved at Uncle Eddie, and then pushed his way through the hotel’s revolving door.
Up until those last few moments, I’d subconsciously crossed his name off my list of potential suspects. Now chill bumps lifted the hair on my arms. Was he as harmless as he seemed? Or was that flash of cruelty his true nature?
I forced my admiration for him to the side. I’d find out what he was all about, and without placing myself in harm’s way.
With relief, I opened the F150’s passenger door, and Lenny catapulted into my arms. “Hey, Lenster.”
“Yip, yip, yip,” he chided.
“Ssh. I know,” I murmured, rubbing behind his ears. “The strange man is gone. Let’s go home.”
“You all right, Josefina?” Uncle Eddie asked.
I slid across the seat and slammed the door. “Things are looking up.”
Beneath Dustin Akers’s friendly exterior hid an angry man. Was that man capable of killing Jeff Clark? One thing was clear: I had my first suspect.
Chapter 15
It was late Monday morning. I was bound and somewhat determined to find someone else, another band member perhaps, who would confirm or deny that Dustin Akers had reason to harm Jeff Clark.
Britney and Clay had been completely too eager to put the blame on the forty-year-old guitar player and songwriter. I had no proof, but I trusted the two lovebirds about as much as I trusted a coyote guarding a henhouse.
I’d run by Two Boots, only to be told by Vince that the tour bus and its passengers, namely Wilhelmina and her daughter, Heather, had left to scout out the best barbeque joint in the county. Without a second thought, I headed over to Bubba’s.
I found the tour bus, complete with its airbrushed painting of the desert sky, stars, cacti, and a comet whose tail spelled out The Jeff Clark Band, taking up the empty public lot across the street. The patio was deserted, and there was no sign of activity.
As I approached the front door, someone came up behind me. I discovered with some dismay that it was Ken Price. He gave me a nod and held open the door for us both.
“Give her two weeks to make up her mind. She dyes it red and gets a perm or she finds another agent.” He lifted one corner of his mouth at my surprised expression, and pointed to his Bluetooth-enabled earpiece.
Was the brilliantly crafty Price determined to make country music fans forget about the iconic older singer by supplanting her with his own version? Had Reba McEntire retired from country music?
I avoided making more than brief eye contact. His gaze made me cringe, as if an iguana had licked my skin. Believe me when I say I know what that feels like. Uncle Eddie’s iguana, named Eric, lived to the ripe old age of fifteen before drying up into a dusty doorstop.
“Right.” Ken Price continued as if everyone in the place was on the conference call with him.
“Josie, you looking good.” Bubba’s rich, melodious voice bore only a sweet hint of flirtation. Taller and darker than any other man in town, he’d escaped a terrifying childhood in Chad and found a new life with Jerrie and Bill McAllen in Broken Boot.
“Not half as good as you, my friend.”
I found the costumer and her daughter in the corner next to a giant metallic sign that read, PIG’S FEET, JOWLS, AND EARS, ONLY TWO CENTS ON THURSDAYS. They’d acquired two 32-ounce red plastic tumblers, along with one of those long metal spikes with the number 27 written on a playing card clipped to the top.
I gave Bubba a look. “Don’t you think you could remember who ordered what without giving them the number?”
He slammed his cleaver into a beef brisket. “That’s the way we do it. Don’t go getting into my business.”
Assembling the meat into two red plastic baskets lined with wax paper, along with slaw, sauce, and French fries, he called out, “Number 27!”
“Hey!” Heather called upon seeing me. “Where’s Lenny?”
“He’s on guard duty right now, keeping our apartment safe from geckos.”
She giggled. “And I bet he’s good at catching ’em, isn’t he?” With a smile, she picked up their baskets and made her way back to their table. Gone was the jealous schoolgirl.
I started to follow, but my stomach overruled. I spun on my heel. “I’ll take a number 6, the turkey, no fries. Add beans, extra pickles, onions, and jalapeños.”
Bubba nodded his approval. “Coming right up.”
Price had parked himself at a table in the corner and was deep in conversation, muttering agreement to whatever the caller was saying. If he was waiting for table service, he was out of luck.
Dang. What was he doing here? I needed to talk to the mother-and-daughter pair without him overhearing or stifling their gossip with his presence.
“Mind if I join you?” I smiled.
“Come on,” Wilhelmina said with a wave. “Who would have thought we’d still be stuck in this,” she wrinkled her nose, “town.
”
“You can say it. Won’t hurt my feelings none.” I pulled up a chair. “Rinky-dink describes it best.”
“It’s awfully charming.” Heather smiled and salted her fries.
“I’ll get right to the point.” I hesitated. Technically, I didn’t know for a fact that these two hadn’t killed Clark, but I had serious doubts. I would have to be cagey, which wasn’t something I’d excelled at previously. “Jeff Clark was murdered.” I leaned in close.
“And?” Wilhelmina glared at me as if I’d done it myself.
“That’s old news,” Heather muttered.
I glanced over my shoulder at Price. Fortunately, he had turned his back to the room. “Jeff had enemies. Why do you think that was?”
“Are you going to print what we say in the paper?”
“Of course she is, Mom. What do you think?”
“No.” I met the daughter’s eye. “I’m here because they’ve accused the wrong person, a good friend of mine. And she didn’t do it.”
They exchanged glances. “How do you know?”
“I’ve known her since we were in seventh grade together. I’ve known her since she bought her first bra and choked on her first cigarette.”
I wasn’t sure what to do, so I did the unthinkable: I told a half lie. “I didn’t want to tell you this,” I said to Wilhelmina, “but I heard a rumor that you killed him because of something he did to your daughter.”
An avalanche of guilt tumbled to the bottom of my stomach.
Wilhelmina’s eyes narrowed, her face flushed, and I thought for a few seconds she was going to come across the table and throttle me. “Tell me who said something about Heather, and I’ll gouge their eyes out of their head.” Like mother, like daughter.
Me and my chair scooted backwards just in case. “Uh, I promised not to repeat their name.”
Heather, on the other hand, merely smiled as if remembering a pleasant occasion.
I was an idiot for lying—I almost always got caught. And I was a stupid jerk for getting Wilhelmina all worked up. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you exactly what they meant, as they didn’t go into details, but I probably misunderstood the whole thing.”
The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Page 18
