The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole

by Rebecca Adler

  “Yip,” he said, catching the treat with his teeth, which set his tail to wagging on its highest speed.

  “You’re coming with me to Pecos Pete’s. Would you like that?”

  “Yip, yip.”

  I tried to find Senora Mari, but she was helping Uncle Eddie hire a new cook for Two Boots. After giving Anthony and Camille my prime lunch tables to make amends, Lenny and I marched down the block. We successfully avoided a tumbleweed twice his size and tourists who wanted to pet him, turned left at the post office, and found Pecos Pete’s, the sports bar with pool tables that Ryan mentioned.

  From the outside, Pete’s was nothing to bark about. Concrete blocks held together by crumbling mortar, grime-streaked windows, and a broken neon sign that, unfortunately, declared the establishment’s name as PECOS PEE’S.

  The interior was a horse of a different color. Modern and bright with a wide bar, vinyl booths, and scattered tables. In the next room, I could make out pool tables, dartboards, and a shuffleboard table. A Luke Bryan tune was blasting from the sound system, and football and soccer games played on giant screens in the four corners and above the bar.

  I began by questioning the bartender. “You Pecos Pete?”

  He was shorter than me and twice as round. He tossed a menu on the bar. “Very funny. Who said you could bring that mutt in here?”

  “No one.” I was tired of prevaricating. “He’s real sweet. He won’t bite or chew things.”

  The height-challenged bartender walked around the bar to get a good look. “You going to order?”

  “No, but we’ll be out of here lickety-split.”

  He frowned. “Wrong answer.”

  Realization dawned. “Yes.” I nodded emphatically. “We are definitely going to order.” I thought about the twenty in my pocket. “What do you recommend?”

  “Beef,” he answered, and returned to his spot behind the bar.

  As I studied the menu, I threw out a hook. “They make you work behind that bar every night?”

  “I’m married, see?” He raised his left hand in front of his face and wiggled his fingers.

  I explained who I was and what I needed. The only information forthcoming was that his name was Shorty. I kid you not.

  As I ordered a basket of fries and a mushroom burger with avocado and bacon for Lenny and me to share, Clay Conley strolled in.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked in a cheerful way.

  He wore his standard uniform of black leather pants and vest, but he’d mixed it up with a white cowboy hat. Not unlike the one Jeff Clark used to wear.

  “I’m getting myself a drink,” he muttered, and sat two stools down.

  “What’s up with your band?”

  “What’s up with that dog under the bar?”

  Lenny growled.

  “Shh,” I whispered.

  Before I could answer, the bartender intervened. “He’s a service pet.”

  “Just keep him away from me. I’ll take a Coors Light with a whiskey chaser.”

  “Are you thinking about moving to Broken Boot?” I asked, praying the answer was no.

  “Heck, no. We’re playing another week at Two Boots. Don’t you and your uncle ever say hey?”

  “But you don’t have a lead singer.”

  Shorty served Clay his beer and whiskey without comment.

  In one gulp, the singer’s shot glass was empty. “We’re using the place as a tryout for our new lead singer, namely me.”

  “Congrats.” I was anything but happy for the man. I hadn’t forgotten that night at Milagro when he’d never said a kind word about Jeff Clark, even after the man’s death.

  “What are you drinking?” Shorty demanded.

  I started to say nothing.

  “Yip.”

  “Uh, pear cider?”

  The bartender frowned. “How about hard cider?”

  Cider was my speed. “If you recommend it.” I pasted on a smile and turned to Clay. “I heard tell you’re the fellow to beat at cards around here.”

  He pulled his hat down over his eyes and groaned. “Who told you that?”

  “You win big, word gets around, but only to the right people.”

  After a swig of his beer, he responded. “I win. Sometimes.”

  “Did you win big last Thursday night?” I held my breath.

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” He sat up and stared me straight in the eye. “That’s why they can’t pin that murder on me.” He gave the bartender a nod and finished the beer in one gulp. “I was at the poker table all night.”

  All of a sudden, I wished that Lightfoot, Pleasant, or even Barnes would walk through the door and take over. Interrogation was hard work. “Is your fiancée, Britney, your good-luck charm?”

  “Most times.” He waved the bartender over. “Give me a cheeseburger with American cheese this time.”

  “She must’ve been with you all night for you to win so much.” My legs began to shake. I was used to whistling “Dixie” in the dark, but this was more like spelunking without a headlamp.

  “I reckon,” he said, his words slurring ever so slightly. He sat up straight. “Now that I think about it, she played a couple of hands while I went home to get me some cigs and a fresh shirt.”

  I took a deep breath to slow my pulse. “Uh, so your luck changed while you were gone during that— what?—thirty or forty-five minutes?”

  He stared at me, his eyes narrowing while he tapped his pack of cigarettes on the bar. “I see what you did there. You think I’m lying?”

  “Yip.”

  “No.” I swallowed. “Why would I think that?”

  He turned to face me, so close the alcohol on his breath made my eyes sting. “I did exactly what I said.” He leaned even closer. “Why you asking?”

  What should I do? I closed my eyes and told the truth. “I’m trying to put together everyone’s whereabouts at the time of the murder.”

  “What business is it of yours?” His voice lowered to a growl.

  “I’m a reporter with the local paper.” My voice cracked. “I’ll be out of a job if I don’t come up with something plausible enough to please my editor.”

  “So you say.”

  “If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “I have a roomful of witnesses who’ll tell you what happened that night.”

  “What if I told you the bartender remembers differently?” Shorty was on the phone, taking a to-go order, and missed both my taunt and the furtive glances I sent his way.

  “I’d say that was more than forty-eight hours ago and he’s just trying to get into your pants.”

  Clay was a horrible human being. I wanted to shove him backwards until he fell off his stool. He wasn’t going to make me run scared or stop asking him questions by making me uncomfortable.

  “All grossness aside, he said that you were gone for an hour,” I lied.

  “Well, that’s his word against mine.”

  “He’s also given me the names of the guys at the table.”

  “Look, I don’t know why you think I’d do Jeff any harm, especially right now. That’s what this is all about, right?” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “My fiancée’s not at her best right now. In fact, you could say she’s weak as a newborn.” He threw his head back and roared, releasing my shoulder.

  Whatever had him grinning into his beer had me wondering what was up with old Brit.

  “Speaking of poker games, I’m overdue.” He swallowed the last drop and slammed the mug to the bar. “Bring the next one to the table.”

  “Sure. Why not?” The bartender removed the empty, caught the ten-dollar bill Clay threw at him, and gave the cardplayer a solemn nod.

  Shorty stared at me long and hard after Clay left.

  “Uh, sorry about th
at.” Of course, he’d overheard our conversation. “He gets under my skin.”

  “He and his band need to beat it out of town before I’m tempted to beat his . . .”

  I chuckled. “You don’t see eye to eye?”

  “More like fist to face.”

  I swallowed. “Were they here the night of the murder?”

  “I’d love to say no,” he wiped down the bar with the towel over his shoulder, “but he’s right. I would have remembered if I’d been clear of them even one night.”

  “Did he do or say anything odd?”

  “Nah. He don’t say much, and when he does it’s about how he’s going to take Nashville by the tail and swing it over his head.”

  “Doesn’t sound like him.”

  “Huh. Guess that was my interpretation of his boring bullcrap.”

  “What about Britney?”

  “Ah, Britney the beautiful.”

  “Puh-lease.”

  “She would be if she weren’t always tied up in knots about something or other. She’s always on his case.”

  “About what? He’s a musician. God knows they only have to look good and play the guitar.”

  He chuckled. “Bitter?”

  “You bet.”

  “What kind of things is Britney tied up in knots about?”

  “She’s always eating crackers and complaining that the food gives her indigestion.”

  I looked at him and he looked at me.

  “You think Clay puts up with Britney ’cause she’s got pregnancy hormones shooting out her ears.”

  Shorty cocked a finger at me. “That’s what I know.”

  “And Clay’s excited?”

  “Oh yeah. He let it slip one night when she left early that they’d broken up, until she told him about the baby.”

  They wouldn’t be the first couple to find true love while pushing a baby stroller. That could keep people together longer than true love sometimes, or so they say.

  “You going to order something else or prop up the bar?”

  I started to give him what for, as I still held a hard cider in my hand, but then realized he’d had maybe five customers all day. Another drink wouldn’t do, as I might or might not be in the same establishment as a killer. On the other hand, I did want to grease the wheels of information, so I ordered oily cheese fries, the sports-bar equivalent of tamales, and a Dr Pepper.

  As he entered my order into the computer, I threw out my first live one. “Was Britney here that night?”

  “She’s here every night.”

  “She stay in there with the cardplayers or out here with you?” I said it with a smile.

  He frowned. “She’s wound too tightly for me. End of story.”

  “She ever complain about Clay?”

  “Try asking if she ever said anything nice about the poor guy.”

  “Did she?”

  “Nope.”

  “That night she was out here?”

  “If I’m remembering right, she was inside with Clay. They ordered a BLT on whole wheat, which we don’t have, with mayo on the side and extra bacon. She loves the bacon.”

  I glared at him.

  And he lifted his hands in surrender. “What?”

  Questioning this dude was starting to resemble a wrong turn on the road to nowhere.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. She left around twelve thirty.”

  “You sure it was Britney, not Clay?”

  He wrinkled his forehead. “Yeah, almost positive.”

  Aha. Clay was lying. That meant Britney could’ve driven over to Patti’s and killed Jeff . . . but why?

  I perked right up. “How’d he get home?”

  “Oh, she came back to get him around one.” That shot a hole in my assumptions.

  “Does she always do that? Drive him home?”

  “No, he usually walks back to the hotel.” Hmm. Clay had lied about Britney’s staying for his entire poker games. Guess he wanted me to think that she idolized him.

  I bolted from the stool and hurried toward the door. “Thanks,” I said as I ran to the Prius, too stoked to care if he heard me or not. As I reached the door, I screeched to a halt and retraced my steps.

  I opened the front door and stuck my head inside. “She’s not back there now, is she?”

  He shook his head. “No, Sherlock, she’s not.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “You bet your butt you do.”

  “Tamales?”

  “Fajitas.”

  I tried staring him down, but he didn’t flinch from his pricey request. “Fine,” I muttered.

  “And free admission to Two Boots tonight to hear Clay’s band.”

  “Jeff Clark’s not even buried yet. And it’s not Clay’s band—not from what I heard.”

  I returned to the bar. If I continued to holler, even the folks in the back would hear me. “What did Clay say?”

  “Hmm.” He began to retrieve glasses from the dishwasher. “Let’s see. . . . He’s the man.” He grabbed a clean towel from beneath the bar.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Didn’t you hear? It’s now called the Clay Conley Band. Said his agent pulled some strings, and they’re hitting the road for Nashville in a day or two. “

  My heart sank. Pulled strings with whom? Sheriff Wallace? I didn’t want to consider that the perfect sheriff of my youth had heels of clay. Lightfoot? No, that I refused to consider. The upright deputy didn’t have compromise in him, or my name wasn’t Josefina Callahan.

  Chapter 20

  After that bit of bad news sank into my bones, I drove back to the Cogburn Hotel, called Ken Price, and demanded that he meet me in the lobby immediately. For once, the agent was in a benevolent mood. Whether he felt sorry for me or was merely bored, ten minutes later we sat in a secluded corner of the lobby in Manchester carved chairs with curved backs, scroll arms, and fine leather upholstery. As it was afternoon, the hotel provided us with a pot of tea and freshly baked cookies. Price turned up his nose, but I helped myself to a couple of chocolate-chip pecan cookies.

  “The Clay Conley Band, really?” I asked.

  Giving me a look of disgust, Ken handed me a napkin. “You have some chocolate just there.” He pointed to the corner of my mouth. “Not my first choice for a band name, but the guys suggested it.”

  “You don’t mind if I record this, do you?” I asked, phone in hand.

  “Yes, I do. I don’t know why, but I want to give you a break.”

  I placed my phone in the middle of the table. “Do you think Clay is lead-singer material? Will he win over the fans still grieving for Jeff Clark?”

  Price hesitated, and then his gaze shifted to something over my shoulder.

  I started to turn to find what had captured his interest.

  “Well,” he said in a piercingly loud voice, “he’ll have to learn how to win over the audience. Friday night’s concert at Two Boots will give him a chance to practice his powers of persuasion.”

  “Why haven’t I heard anything about it?”

  “Why indeed?” He frowned. “Your uncle and I confirmed the arrangements early this morning.” Even as he frowned in disapproval, I finished off my cookie. “I have no doubt Clay can pull it off now that I’ve convinced Dustin to stay with the band for another year,” he said, tipping more tea into my cup.

  “Is that fair?” I whispered. “The man has cancer.”

  “Past tense. He’s in remission.”

  I sighed and picked up another cookie, vowing to skip sweets for the rest of the week. How could I make such a pledge? I currently had none in my pantry. When I looked up, I caught Ken Price involved in some kind of drama. His eyes wide and his brow furrowed, he shook his head back and forth in tiny but emphatic
gestures as he attempted to communicate silently to someone behind me.

  I whipped around, hoping to catch one of the band members. Instead the only person nearby was a woman reading one of the host of tourist brochures.

  Price touched my arm. “Callahan, the man needs to keep his mind off dying. Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for Dustin. He didn’t need much convincing to keep things the way they are.” Though he focused his gaze on me, his complexion was mottled.

  “How do you know her?” I asked Price.

  “Hmm?” He sipped his tea as if he’d forgotten the last few seconds.

  Quickly, I glanced over my shoulder. Exiting the hotel lobby at a fast clip was the woman: full-figured, platinum blond, and very familiar.

  “That women leaving the lobby, the one you were nodding to? What’s her name?”

  With his thumb and index finger, Price squeezed more lemon juice into his cup. “I don’t know her.” He sighed. “People always mistake me for someone famous.”

  “Really? Well, I’ve met her . . . somewhere.” I stood and the memory shook loose. On the day I’d interviewed Patti’s neighbors, she was door number 3. The paranoid one with the small children. “She lives across the street from where they found Jeff Clark’s body.”

  He cocked his head as if considering the veracity of my statement. “I guess she could. I really don’t know.”

  “That’s a bizarre coincidence.” I chomped on my cookie. “Did you notice she was carrying a guitar case?”

  “Are you insane?” Ken’s eyes darted around the lobby, but the only other person in sight was the desk clerk who played bingo with Senora Mari on Monday nights.

  “Did you notice whose guitar she was carrying?”

  He leaned in close. “Keep your voice down.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her to have stolen that guitar.” The brief time I’d spent on her doorstep was enough to make me think she was at the very least peculiar. “If you don’t know her—and I suspect you know all the musicians staying at this hotel—then I need to have a word with the manager.”

  “Okay, ssh. Can’t you mind your own business?” His words were clipped.

  “Not when my best friend, Patti Perez, is in jail for murder.” I leaned into his space. “Now tell me her name and who she is to you.”