The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole

by Rebecca Adler

  “That’s all behind us. A big misunderstanding. Jeff apologized.” She reached for her daughter’s hand and gripped her fingers. I was guessing that if Jeff had a reputation for being a ladies’ man, a girl like Heather would have had a bit of a crush on him—even if he was several years older.

  “You don’t have to give me details.” I gave Heather an apologetic smile.

  “You’d think we had wild sex in a pasture under a full moon.” She laughed.

  I waited, but I wanted to scream, Well, did you?

  “Which they didn’t do.” Wilhelmina stuck her finger almost up my nose. “And don’t you forget it!” Wilhelmina took a big swig of her tea and a bite of her brisket sandwich.

  Ken Price turned and stared. With a bemused shake of his head, he made his way to the counter, placed his order, and paid, all the while keeping his phone glued to his ear.

  Heather bit her bottom lip. “Oh, Jeff was real nice to me. We used to talk about his daughter, Chrissy. She’s six.”

  “Some jerks started spreading rumors that Jeff was coming on to Heather. If you ask me, they were hoping to get him fired from the tour.”

  “Why would they do that?” Heather asked, her cheeks bright red. “Jeff’s a sweetheart.” Her hand flew up to her mouth. “I mean, he was . . .”

  My pulse quickened. This was exactly what I needed. “Who’d want to get Jeff fired?”

  The two women looked at each other, but remained quiet. On cue, they both took a bite of their brisket sandwiches.

  I leaned forward. “It’s okay. I know how much Dustin wanted Jeff out of the picture.” I had to tread carefully. If I offended them, they might give me the boot. “But he sure is a nice guy. What do you think? Could he have done it?” During our walk together, he’d been charming—except at the end. Had I only imagined the dangerous rage in his eyes? Perhaps a trick of the light on the dark street had transformed everyday frustration into a malevolent glint.

  Wilhelmina glanced over her shoulder at Price and then whispered, “Dustin wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s like the father Heather never had.”

  Drenching a fry in ketchup, the girl nodded. “He’s cool. He’s teaching me how to write songs.”

  “But he told me that he should’ve had Jeff’s position.” My argument was weak, even to my own ears.

  “I can’t believe he’d tell you that. He must have trusted you.” She gave me a reproachful look. “He shared that with you because he liked you. He doesn’t confide in just anybody.”

  “That’s a heavy load of disappointment for one man to bear.”

  “True,” Heather said.

  Price had waited at the counter for his food. Now he headed our way. He drew back a chair and said, “Mind if I join in?” His phone rang again.

  I prayed he’d leave us to our conversation. Instead he checked the screen and placed his phone in his shirt pocket. “Ladies, don’t stop gossiping on my account.”

  I licked my lips, my mouth as dry as the banks of the Rio Grande in August. I frowned, hoping to convey that I had no earthly idea what he was talking about.

  “You must be Josie Callahan.” He extended his hand.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Price. That’s me.” His palm was sweaty, but I didn’t want to insult him by pulling my hand sanitizer out of my bag.

  His eyes narrowed as he studied my face. “Wilhelmina’s right,” he said after a moment.

  “I am?”

  “She wouldn’t have killed Jeff for flirting with her daughter, who’s no longer underage, by the way, no matter what story you’ve concocted in that crazy brain of yours.”

  I opened my mouth to argue.

  “You’re desperate to find anyone other than the killer already incarcerated in the county jail, aren’t you?” He turned to the mother-and-daughter pair. “Why do you think that is?”

  “We’re good friends,” I interrupted. “That’s true.”

  He snorted, which obliterated his smooth persona. “From everything I heard, you and Patti Perez are thicker than thieves.”

  Ignoring his tired cliché, I pointed at him. “You understand the guys better than anyone. Do you think one of the band members killed Jeff?”

  His expression froze, and then he snorted again. “You need to get out of this town more often. Women are the ones who go crazy over Jeff—crazy enough to want to marry the guy and murder him at the same time.”

  After Ken’s pronouncement, I could get only a smidge of information out of Wilhelmina and her daughter. I couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t their fault they needed to stay on his good side. Or file for unemployment.

  “How long did the sheriff say the band has to stay around? Especially if they have the killer, as you say,” I asked.

  “Sheriff Wallace wants them to stick around a couple of days—that’s true. No problemo. I’ll use that time to audition new lead singers.”

  “Aren’t the crowds coming to see the Jeff Clark Band? And wouldn’t that be strange if no Jeff turned up to their concerts?” I’m good at making a nuisance of myself.

  “We have customers who love the sound of the band. Tickets that have been purchased well in advance for the rest of the tour.”

  “What are you going to do? Have a sing-off?” I couldn’t help it. I’d asked that question to watch his reaction.

  “I want to audition,” Heather said, opening her eyes wide.

  “Not interested.” He looked back and forth between the mother and daughter. His countenance took on a conciliatory shade. “Work on your songs and your guitar playing. I’ll give you an audition next time.”

  She beamed at her mother. “Told you.”

  “Thanks, Ken,” Wilhelmina said, throwing her arm around her daughter.

  Heather shot to her feet. “Let’s go, Mom. I want to practice.”

  “Sure thing, sug.” They tossed their trash, waved good-bye, and hurried out the door. Wilhelmina climbed behind the wheel of the tour bus and drove away, without ripping the siding off the building or knocking down the nearest telephone pole. If you ask me, that was mighty impressive.

  “You aren’t fooling me with that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-your-mouth routine.”

  I counted to ten in my head and turned slowly. “What?”

  “You’re not going to find a single band member who would have killed Jeff except Dustin.”

  “But you said—”

  “I couldn’t very well say that in front of those two, could I?”

  “You shouldn’t say that. That could ruin his reputation.”

  “Why not? You won’t print any of your wild theories in that local rag of yours. You can’t afford to lose your job and become a financial burden on your family.”

  “It’s called a newspaper last time I checked.” It was a weak comeback, but I refused to let him intimidate me or get the last word.

  “What about Clay? Couldn’t he have done it? And what about Wilhelmina? You have to admit, she’s overprotective when it comes to her daughter.”

  “Like I said. If it is a member of the band, then it has to be Dustin. He did time for assault and battery back in his youth.” Smiling smugly, he added. “He carries a grudge for all to see.”

  I wanted to argue, but I was enjoying this chatty Ken Price. The article from the AP journalist had appeared on the Internet yesterday. Ken had made no actual accusations. And wasn’t it interesting that he still managed to imply that a local had killed Clark, not one of his band members? If the goober had done his homework, he would’ve discovered that some of them were born and raised in Big Bend County.

  “What’s with you giving my story to that AP reporter?”

  He stared. “You’re serious. It was an über-sensitive matter that required delicate handling.”

  “And you didn’t think I could give it the care it deserved?”

  “I th
ink your readership is about . . . what? Twenty thousand? Five?”

  “I have contacts in Austin. They would’ve found a national audience for my piece.”

  “I couldn’t take that chance. Jeff may have died in near obscurity, but he won’t stay there. Not as long as I have the power to promote his music all the way to the top of the Billboard country music chart.”

  I bit my tongue and barely managed to refrain from saying that I was sure sales of “Sweet Thing” would skyrocket without his help now that Jeff’s murder had hit the national newswire.

  “Why won’t you call Wallace and tell him what you just told me? Patti’s innocent. You know it, but you won’t do anything about it.”

  “I’ll make the call,” he checked his phone, “though I don’t think he’ll listen to anything I have to say.”

  “But will you try?”

  He straightened his tie. “I said I would.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Uh,” he kicked the dirt with his leather shoe. “I’ll tell the Sheriff in a day or two.”

  “What?”

  “The song’s almost at the top of the charts now. If word gets out that Dustin killed Jeff . . .”

  “What about your word is your word?” I studied his expression, trying to comprehend whether or not he had lied from the first. “Isn’t any publicity good?

  “One day,” he said, taking my hand. He had a much better manicure than I did. “That’s all I ask.”

  “Forget it.” I pulled away. “How would you like to be in jail with prostitutes and heroin addicts?”

  “You get those here?”

  “We aren’t completely bereft of hardened criminals.” A plan was brewing in my brain. “Okay.” I nodded. “I won’t tell Sheriff Wallace until tomorrow that Dustin had a good motive for killing Clark.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “You mean, what’ll it cost you?” This guy was the absolute limit. Slimier than a puddle of kitchen grease and smellier than the slime in the bottom of the ice machine at the Gas & Guzzle. I had a plan that would cook his goose six ways from Sunday. “It’s free. I don’t want to benefit in any way from Jeff’s death.”

  Relief shone from his face like the sun emerging from a bank of clouds. “Well, if you’re sure—”

  “Go.” I smiled. “I’m sure.” I waved him away. “You’ve got important things to do.” I prayed he wouldn’t see through my mock bravado.

  He stood. “Can’t keep the band waiting.”

  I must have reacted, for he raised a hand. “It’s a private meeting.”

  “What do I look like—paparazzi?” A girl could hope for an invitation, but that didn’t mean she was a stalker.

  He gave me the once-over, his mouth twitching. “Definitely not.” He started toward the hotel and then made a right, heading off in the direction of Two Boots.

  If I called Sheriff Wallace and broke my word, I might alienate Price—but that didn’t mean Lenny couldn’t print something in his blog about the whole stinking mess.

  * * *

  By four o’clock that afternoon, Lenny had written a blistering account of Patti’s arrest. He’d taken a bite out of the sheriff’s department, Sheriff Wallace, Ken Price, and Jeff Clark’s band. He had mentioned all the innuendo that Britney, Clay, Wilhelmina, and Heather had passed around like mono at the prom.

  Right away folks started chiming in with their reactions. Most were in favor of Patti’s release, but there was a crackpot or two who thought she was guilty.

  I headed downstairs to check on the dinner prep.

  Carlos was cleaning the griddle with a wide metal spatula. “Patti might have done it. You tell Lenny that Perez is one tough chick, like Michelle Rodriguez in Avatar.”

  “Tell him yourself!” I had no clue our cook liked to read, let alone Lenny’s blog.

  “I did, but he hasn’t commented on my comment.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets right on it. Where is everyone?”

  The back door opened, and Anthony and Lily came in. “You don’t even know who these people are,” Lily argued. “What makes you think you can tell if they’re lying or not.”

  “I can tell in the way Lenny described them,” Anthony answered in his patient way. “He thinks it was that Dustin character.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Lily hurried over to me. “Tell him, Josie.”

  “Lenny doesn’t share his ideas with me. He doesn’t want me to get in trouble for interfering with an investigation.”

  “It’s not interfering to state your opinion.”

  “If I know Lenny,” I said on my way to the cooler to check the vegetable prep, “he’ll post again tomorrow with even more opinions.”

  “It’s not funny, Miss Josie,” Anthony said. “Patti Perez does not need to be in jail one more second. I wouldn’t wish that on a dead man, even if his name was Jeff Clark.”

  “That’s a strange thing to say. What do you know about Clark?”

  “I know I saw him at Two Boots the night he was murdered.”

  “Were you working that night?” I asked.

  “No, but I was dancing that night.” Anthony grinned sheepishly. “Eddie let me in for free.”

  “Dancing with Vanessa.” Lily sashayed from the refrigerators to the storage closet and back again.

  “Hush.” Anthony’s brow furrowed like a bull preparing to charge a bullfighter’s cape. “No one asked you.”

  “Vanessa?” She was the afternoon sales clerk at Wicks of the West candle store, next door.

  Anthony knew all too well what Patti was going through. Three months earlier, Sheriff Wallace arrested him on circumstantial evidence for the death of Dixie Honeycutt, one of Broken Boot’s premier jewelry artisans. With the help of Patti, I’d proven Anthony was innocent. “What happened?”

  Anthony placed his Mexican-style bow tie around his neck. “Before the show, I saw Jeff Clark leaving the men’s room. He was arguing with an older man. He grabbed the man by the shirt collar and started yelling in his face.” The young waiter created a lovely bow and then tied a white apron around his waist. “The old man started to cry.”

  “Men don’t cry,” Lily said.

  “Right?” Anthony nodded sagely. “He must have said something terribly cruel.”

  “What did this older man look like?” I asked.

  Anthony went on to describe Dustin Akers to a T.

  The cowbell over the front door banged against the wall.

  “Who left the front door open?” I walked into the restaurant and found Ken Price carrying some crumpled pieces of copy paper in his hand.

  “What’s going on?” Senora Mari hurried in from the office, holding her gold cross in her hand. “Are you trying to wake the dead?”

  Which I thought was a strange comment, as no one was asleep. Come to think of it, her hair was lopsided, one side flat and the other puffed up like a bag of cotton balls. Price had obviously woken her from a short siesta in the office.

  He shook the papers in his hand. “Who wrote this drivel?”

  “What drivel?” An old-fashioned word, for a young professional like himself.

  “Who is Lenny?” Price’s skin had turned an angry purple.

  Senora Mari and I stared at each other. “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I’m going to sue him for libel.”

  My throat constricted and I tried unsuccessfully to swallow. “Libel for what?”

  “You know who he is, or the hotel wouldn’t have told me to ask you where to find him.”

  Senora Mari stepped up. “Lenny is cagey. No one knows where he lives. Some say behind the old cemetery, and some say he lives in an abandoned mine on the edge of town.”

  My abuela had seen too many old Westerns.

  “How did you happen to read Lenny’s blog?” I asked P
rice, smiling in spite of the tension in the room. One more reader was, after all, one more reader.

  “Someone in the bar at the hotel was reading it.” Price crumpled the pieces of paper into a ball. “They made a point of telling me I should check it out.”

  “I read it,” I lifted my hands as if in surrender, “and I don’t see the problem. It was just a lot innuendo and general silliness.”

  “If it goes viral, the fans that would have bought Jeff’s record and any records that came from his surviving band aren’t going to support their music. Look at what happened to that girl group from Texas. They never made it back after their comment went viral.”

  “That was a gecko of a different color.”

  “As they say in Texas, bullcrap.”

  He marched over to Senora Mari. “I bet you know where he I can find him.”

  My abuela drew up her to her full height, threw back her shoulders, and raised her fists like a prizefighter. “I do, but you’re not going to touch a hair on his head. You understand?”

  Price nearly fell on his head, backing over the step stool Senora Mari used to reach the back of the grill. “Once I press charges, the sheriff will rout him out. You tell that little coward what I said.”

  We followed Price as he huffed toward the exit and jerked the door open. Senora Mari and I shot a glance at each other. If he slammed the door against the wall, the decorative pane would break into pieces. Again.

  As if he’d heard my thoughts, Price stepped outside, glared at me so hard I thought his eyes would fall out, and then slowly closed the door.

  “What did our little friend write this time?” Senora Mari hurried to the window and peered through the blinds until the agent was out of sight.

  “Lenny said Price was a deceitful, immoral jerk. He also accused him of protecting the band from prosecution in spite of the fact that one of them clearly killed Jeff Clark in order to lead the band to fame and glory.”

  Aunt Linda joined us from the back. “What did you say this time, you handsome troublemaker?” She held the Lenster in her arms, having just returned from taking him to the vet for his shots. With gentle hands, she turned him around so that she was conversing with him face-to-face.