“What?” He whipped around as if I’d touched him with a cattle prod. “We don’t date.”
I scooted out of reach. “You see each other, don’t you?”
His look of consternation cleared. “Oh, you saw us together the night of the murder.”
“Maybe.” I shrugged.
“Jealous?”
“No.” Relieved was more like it.
“Cool.” He gave me a friendly punch on my upper arm. “You and me: no strings, no drama.”
“You and me.” I gestured between the two of us. “Drama-free zone.”
“Yeah, that’s what I need.” His ready smile evaporated.
“Before we plan a trip to Austin, I need your help.” Something had been bugging me.
“What’s the question?”
“Why’d you leave the poker game early that night?” Winning or losing, if Ryan played poker, he played all night.
“That guy—what’s his name with the red hair?”
“Clay Conley.”
He shook his head. “What a braggart.”
“Has he played in Vegas?”
“Are you kidding? No, he was bragging about what a great musician he was. How he could write songs better than Jeff Clark and anyone in Nashville.” Ryan took off his sunglasses and wiped the lenses.
“And that made you leave?”
“I split because he wouldn’t shut up about his band.”
“His band?”
“You got it. Kept saying how soon everyone would be talking about the Clay Conley Band.”
Jackpot. “When’s the next game at Pete’s?”
“Evans!” He jumped to his feet. An assistant coach with wraparound sunglasses halted in midstride. Ryan started down the steps, waving the man toward him. They met a few rows from the bottom.
“What night?” I repeated.
Football, the queen of Ryan’s life, was demanding his undivided attention.
I hurried after him. “Hey!”
“I’m not sure. Friday, maybe,” he tossed over his shoulder.
By the time I reached the spot where he stood talking with his assistant coach, the two were deep in conversation about a passing route.
“Thanks,” I said with a wave.
He kept his eyes on the other man and a raised a hand in farewell.
Another woman would’ve been irritated, but I understood I was lucky to catch Ryan in a talkative mood. Too bad his information was as helpful as a makeup consultation without a mirror.
A poker game on Friday? If the murder took place on Thursday or early in the morning Friday, that was no help at all. The big lughead had probably confused his games, since the Broken Boot Bears played their high school football games on Friday nights.
I sighed. In truth, Ryan hadn’t sounded too sure about any of his answers. Perhaps he was trying to keep me out of trouble. I frowned. There was nothing for it but to do what I should have done all along. I had to get over to Pecos Pete’s to do some reconnaissance myself.
I headed for the exit when Ryan yelled, “Hey, Josie.”
It took me a sec to find him in the glare from the metal bleachers. “What?” I asked, squinting into the sun.
“Are you still looking for that truck?”
“Truck?”
He began to climb over four rows of bleachers, which was no problem with his long, muscular legs. “Yeah,” he said with no obvious sign of being out of breath. “Weren’t you trying to find a Land Rover?”
I perked right up. “Where? Where’d you see it?”
“Eddie mentioned he spotted one last night at Two Boots.” With a grin, he snatched his cap from my head, climbed over the front railing, and walked onto the field.
I pulled out my phone and dialed my uncle’s number. It rolled to voice mail, and I left him a message to call me as soon as possible.
* * *
I hurried out toward the Prius, started to dial Uncle Eddie once again, and froze.
Under the shade of a live oak tree was the vehicle of my dreams. Thank you, Lord. Then I took a closer look and my bubble of bliss burst.
A gold Range Rover. Dang it.
Slowly I circled it, studying the paint, the size, and the emblem on the back. Did the neighbor with the Doberman know one car from another? Like the difference between a Land Rover and its cousin? This four-wheeled answer to my prayers was mighty close to the mark.
I hurried back inside the field house and found Juan Marquez, another one of Ryan’s assistant coaches. Juan had leathery skin and a quiet smile. He’d played football at West Texas with Uncle Eddie.
“Hey, Mr. Marquez,” I cried, trying my best to sound nonchalant. “Who owns the Range Rover out in the parking lot?”
“Hey yourself, Miss Callahan.” Juan glanced up briefly and then continued to study his computer screen, his finger tapping a steady rhythm on the mouse.
I tried again. “Sorry, Juan. What are you doing playing hooky in here by your lonesome?”
“Trying to find the e-mail address for that Patrick kid’s high school coach over in El Paso.” He shook his head in disgust. “Useless machine. It was here last week.” He pushed the keyboard away and swiveled toward me. “What was it you asked me?”
“The Range Rover outside. Who does it belong to?”
“Some crazy kid from New Orleans. Name of Niles Williams.”
“I’ve never seen one around town. Has he always had it with him?”
His brow as furrowed as a field of cotton seedlings, Juan was studying the useless machine in front of him once again. “He’s only had it a day or two. You could ask him.”
He raised his whistle.
“No, don’t.”
“It’s okay. He’s on the field riding the bench today, recovering from a broken ankle.”
Juan Marquez raised the whistle again, and I covered my ears. In spite of the piercing sound, nothing happened for several seconds. I laughed. Did he really expect this Williams kid to hear him from the practice field? “That’s okay. I’ll find him on my own.”
He studied me for a moment. “Must be a big deal for you to find your way into the field house with Coach Prescott nowhere in sight, but have it your way.”
“Thanks. I’ll find him.” After a wrong turn that led me into an odorous room filled with industrial washers and dryers, I finally found the trail back to the coach’s office so I could start again.
* * *
“Looks like you found him,” Marquez said with a straight face. Inside his office, five very tall, muscular young men of various ethnic backgrounds stood at attention, holding their helmets in their hands.
Marquez stood. “These gentlemen are going to escort you to the field. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison. If they were surprised at his request, it didn’t pierce their serious expressions.
“Ms. Callahan’s family owns Milagro, the best Tex-Mex restaurant in Big Bend County. Y’all be nice to her, and there could be free tamales in your future.”
Five pairs of eyes looked at me with sudden interest.
“Good to see you, Miss Callahan.” The coach nodded, and we were off.
I smiled, showing both dimples. “For helping me out, you five guys can claim a dozen tamales at our to-go window for free.”
“A dozen?” a broad-shouldered Hispanic player asked.
“Two dozen would suit you better?”
They nodded.
“Two it is. Just tell them Josie sent you.”
They led me down a dark hall, and I clamped a hand over my nose in an attempt to block the stench of dirty socks, sweaty bodies, and nauseating disinfectant. When we finally exited into the bright sunshine and sparkling air, I nearly fainted with relief.
Like a marching band, we paraded in a straight li
ne through the gate and onto the grass. Players crowded the sidelines, some watching the field and others pressing close to the coaches. Every muscle in their bodies telegraphed their yearning to play.
We arrived at a row of benches near the back. Two were empty, but a third was markedly not. The massive young man before us sported a shaved head and a tribal tattoo around each bicep. As one, my escorts nodded to him and then turned to wait for me to do the talking.
“Coach Marquez said I could ask you a question.”
With small moss green eyes, Williams checked out my wardrobe. “Huh,” he grunted. “Guess so.” He shot a quick glance at his fellow players and waited.
I’d planned on pulling him aside to talk to him in private, but he wore a blue ankle cast and had stowed his crutches under the bench. “I’m a friend of Coach Ryan’s.”
The other players glanced at each other, and then nonchalantly gave me the once-over.
“And she owns that restaurant with the tamale to-go window on Main Street,” said the shortest player in a quiet, authoritative voice. He made a gesture that I should continue.
“Not that kind of friend.” I swallowed, trying to add moisture where none existed. “Let me get right to the point.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Close by, an assistant coach began to call players to the field. I was going to have to project if I wanted Williams to hear me. So much for privacy. “Is that your gold Range Rover in the parking lot?”
“Yeah.” His heavy brow lowered dramatically as if I’d come to tell him I’d damaged it with my car.
I chuckled. “Everything’s fine, but I, uh, want to buy one just like it.”
“Okay.” The frown remained.
I smiled sweetly. “So where did you get it?”
“I bought it.” With a grunt, he looked away to follow the action on the field.
“Craigslist?”
“No,” he said in disgust. “It was parked at the school with a For Sale sign on it.”
“Didn’t you think that was strange? An expensive vehicle left in a school lot for anyone to steal.”
“No. Well, yeah, but I see them in New Orleans.” At this point, his teammates lost interest and rejoined the ranks of players huddled around the coaches.
I stepped closer. “Have you seen any others like it in the area?”
He stared at me intently. “Just this one.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I’ve always wanted one, and this one was dirt cheap.”
Inside my head, alarm bells rang. “Do you mean to say you bought it recently?”
“Sunday.”
“This past Sunday?” I cried. “As in, three days ago?”
Helmets turned our way.
“Tamale Tuesdays, be there or be square,” I said with a smile, my nerves getting the best of me. What an eerie coincidence. Not wanting to be overheard, I sat beside him. “Did you have it painted, by any chance?” Someone nearby whistled.
With a frown, he scooted away. “No, but the owner claimed the paint job was new.”
“Who sold it to you?” I held my breath.
With a nervous glance at his friends, he mumbled, “Some woman who met me at Brookshire’s.”
“You didn’t get her name?” I sensed we had become an object of great interest for the other players. Time to wrap it up.
“I don’t remember much except she refused to lower the price when I pointed out the broken taillight.”
I made a note. “It’s on the title, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
With great effort, I refrained from raising my voice. “You don’t remember her name, not even her first name?”
“No.” His brow furrowed. “Uh, Katie something?”
“Don’t you have the title?”
He huffed like a bull. “She said she’d give me the title when I gave her the final payment.”
“Why the delay in paying her?” He didn’t seem too concerned about the expense.
“I gave her a deposit. My dad transferred the money to me the next day . . . like she asked.” He eyed me suspiciously.
“It’s okay. What happened next?”
“I told her I wouldn’t make the final payment until she fixed the taillight, like my dad said.”
“Callahan,” Coach Ryan bellowed from across the field. “Cut your interview short or suit up! You’re distracting my team.” Masculine laughter from several players followed.
I shot to my feet. “When will you meet her again?”
“I don’t know yet. She’s supposed to call me.”
“Do you mind if I call you, so you can tell me whose name is on the title? This Range Rover may have been driven by a person involved in a crime.”
“No kidding.”
“You betcha. It’s serious business.”
I looked up and found Ryan bearing down on me from forty yards away.
“What’s your number?” I held out my notepad and pen.
He gave me a look as if he suspected I had designs on his person. Finally, he scribbled down his digits.
“Thanks.” As I headed for the gate, I turned and waved to the entire team. Only Niles Williams waved back.
“Tamales on me,” I called to Niles.
“Yeaaaaah,” twenty male voices answered.
Senora Mari was going to have my head on a skewer. I left the field and walked over to inspect the Range Rover. It had a beautiful coat of new paint and a broken taillight. Who would dish out the money for a new paint job and fail to make such a simple repair? Only someone who was desperate to make a quick sale.
My heart sang with possibilities.
Chapter 19
Ignoring that little voice reminding me that I ought to call Lightfoot first, I followed my baser instincts and called Milagro.
“Anthony, be a sweetheart and cover my tables until I get there.”
“Miss Linda’s going to be angry,” said our newest full-time waiter.
“If she says anything, just tell her I’ll be there soon.”
There was a long pause on Anthony’s end. “Miss Josie, I will do this for you, but you must talk to Senora Mari for me.”
“I thought I told her to let you choose your own bride.” I was afraid I had forgotten.
“She has bought Lucinda a bus ticket.”
“Oh no.”
“And she is to arrive today.”
“I’ll talk to her, I promise, as soon as I get there.”
“Please, Miss Josie. I am an American. I don’t want an arranged marriage with a bride I have never met. Would you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Let me go so I can get there sooner.” Senora Mari needed a strong talking-to. What would happen to the girl arriving on the bus? Anthony had enough mouths to feed.
I drove over to Patti’s neighborhood. When Victoria Pappas answered the door after a good minute, I asked about both a Land Rover and a Range Rover.
“I don’t remember seeing anything like what you’re describing.” This time she’d forsaken the water for a twenty-ounce bottle of diet soda. “It was dark except for the light through the windows, like I told you.”
“What about your husband? Could he have seen anything else? Like a four-by-four or some other vehicle?”
“A four-by-four?” She curled her lip. “I doubt it.”
She studied the notebook and pen I held at the ready. “Look here. I’ll ask him if he noticed anything unusual that night when he came in and get back to you.”
“I thought you met him at the door with dinner and a smile.”
“True, but I’m kind of forgetful.” She waved a cell phone the size of a deck of cards at me.
I opened my mouth to supply my number.
“Oh, I know who you are,” she interrupted. “You’re that
niece of Eddie and Linda Martinez. I’ll call you at Milagro after Jason responds.”
“Call me anytime,” I pleaded. I dug around in my bag and found a Milagro business card, scribbled my cell number on the back, and handed it to her. “It’s that important.” I shoved my unused notebook and pen inside.
“You think you can get her off?”
“I’m praying I can.”
Victoria glanced up and down the street and then she leaned in close. “She’s a mess, what with all those piercings up and down her ears.”
“She’s good people.”
I didn’t wait for a response from Patti’s neighbor, too afraid she’d make a crack about my best friend. My gaze landed on her trash cans, barely out of the way of oncoming cars. If she said something despicable, she would be lucky if I didn’t flatten them with my Prius.
Goose bumps on my arms, I returned to the door and knocked.
“What?” Victoria Pappas thrust her hands on her generous hips.
“Did you see any raccoons that night?”
“Huh?”
“You said you heard raccoons in the trash cans and ran outside with a broom.”
Her expression softened. “Right. So?”
“So did you see any raccoons?” I tried to keep my voice calm.
She sighed and wiped her brow. “No, now that you mention it. The cans were on their sides, but I didn’t see any critters.”
“Great. Thanks!” In a state of elation, I almost ran back to my car.
“Just ’cause I didn’t see them, doesn’t mean it wasn’t raccoons,” she called after me.
* * *
Lenny and I needed to take a walk. “Lenster?” I called softly as I entered our apartment.
There was no answer, but I could see him hiding behind the gold-tasseled throw pillow on the love seat. He was ignoring me. I had left him alone quite a bit the past few days while I played crime journalist.
I bent down and gave him a belly rub. “Will you forgive me, buddy?”
“Yip,” he said.
Scooping him up in my arms, I carried him to the kitchen. With my other arm, I dug under the sink for a dog biscuit. “Friends?” I begged, offering the treat.
The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Page 23
