“Look at you, you football fan, you.” Without rolling my eyes—though it required some effort on my part—I climbed into the backseat of the truck. Senora Mari, bedecked in one of my uncle’s West Texas jerseys and pearls, waited in the shotgun seat.
“Hola, Jo Jo. Why’s the dog coming?”
“He likes it outside—makes him think he’s a dog, not a human. Gets him back to his roots.”
“Yip, yip,” Lenny said, wagging his tail and jumping up on my lap.
I wanted to ask about the jersey, but I hated to see her overreact by taking it off.
As we drove out of the parking lot, two cars passed us coming in. Things were shaping up for a good dinner service. We’d seen a boost the past weekend. The city council could pat themselves on the back. The Homestead Days Music Festival had done the deed, bringing tourists and regional music fans to the area. Heck, we’d seen a boost in ticket sales from the Jeff Clark Band alone.
We passed the turnoff to the jail. “Should we stop by and see Patti?” I had been derelict in my visits, but only because I was trying so hard to get her out. We’d talked over the phone the past three days. Five-minute phone calls, I discovered, either flew by like a shaft of lightning or dragged on with nothing new to say, like a conversation with a total stranger your friend thought you should meet because you were suited for each other. Not that I knew anything about that.
“Visiting hours are over,” Senora Mari said.
I checked my watch with more than a twinge of guilt. Six o’clock. “How’d you know?”
She shrugged. “I am here because of my dream.”
Careful not to crowd Lenny, I leaned closer. “Give us all the gory details.”
Uncle Eddie frowned and turned on the radio.
“In my dream . . .” Senora Mari turned to glare at her son.
“I’ve heard it before, Mami.”
The slap she gave his hand had some heft. “Josie has not heard it before.”
“Yip,” Lenny said.
“We want to hear it,” I said, placing my hand on my uncle’s shoulder. “Who was in your dream this time? Did Jeff Clark schedule a return engagement?”
In the distance, the West Texas campus came into view. On the hillside above the administration building, a distinctive WT, formed from large white rocks, rested in the scrub.
“Jeff Sexy Clark was not present.”
Uncle Eddie swerved into a parking space, jumped out, and began unloading the back. A drumline cadence punctuated the air, echoing from the small stadium and spilling out into the surrounding neighborhoods.
“Who made an appearance, Abuela?”
“A baby.”
“Yip.”
“And a young man dressed like a . . .” Her brow creased in concentration. After a few seconds, she threw her hands up. “Oh, Dios, what are those called?”
“What did he look like?”
“A sissy. He wore a dress.”
Uncle Eddie popped his head in the driver’s door. “If you two are going to sit out here and have a séance, I’m going in for the preshow.”
“Leave the door open,” I said, catching him with his hand on the doorframe. A slight breeze was in the air due to the approaching sunset, but Senora Mari and I would cook in the 89-degree temperatures with the door closed. Plus, I didn’t want to be stuck out in the parking lot for more than a quick five-minute conversation.
“Adiós.” Uncle Eddie hurried away, two bleacher seats under one arm, my cooler and an umbrella under the other.
Jeff Clark was no sissy. “A dress?” I prodded.
“No. More like . . . a robe. With tassels.”
“Yip.”
“You don’t mean a sorcerer’s robe, do you?” I asked.
“No.” She closed her eyes and then popped them open. “Sandals on his feet that had those thingies.” She made a crisscrossing motion around one of her legs.
“Roman? Greek?”
She tut-tutted and opened the passenger door. “One of those two. He carried a sword and a shield, like in that movie with Russell Crowe.”
Now we were getting down to it. Senora Mari was a huge Gladiator fan.
“I get it.” I opened my door, grabbed my bag and Lenny, and slid down to the ground. Quickly I helped my abuela step down without falling and retrieved her sun hat from beneath the seat. “What was that all about? Some guy with a sword wants to fight?” We strolled between the parked cars, aiming for the entrance gate. “And what about the baby?”
“Poor thing. All blue from the cold.”
“And what does it all mean?”
We steered our way around two baby strollers and the various parents and siblings that accompanied them. At the gate, I purchased our tickets and set out to find the home team section and the seats Uncle Eddie had described.
The marching Armadillos gave a final fanfare, screamed a war cry, and ran for the sidelines as the drum section beat a warlike cadence. There was, unfortunately, another thirty minutes to go before the game started.
I glanced at the sidelines and found Ryan farther down the field, making battle plans of his own with two of his assistants. As we approached our seats, I craned my neck in an effort to find Niles on the bench, which was impossible because the players blocked my view as they stood around in full pads and uniforms.
As we climbed the bleachers, folks smiled and waved at Lenny. In return, he lifted his head and preened, so very proud of his West Texas shirt. Uncle Eddie was seated on the end of a row about halfway up, thank God. Lenny looked at me and I looked at him. We weren’t squeezing into those seats until we absolutely had to. My knees might be young, but years of playing softball had made sitting in tight quarters for a long stretch more than a mite uncomfortable.
We went strolling around the track until I had a clear view of the bench. No Niles Williams. After a thorough study of the players on the sidelines, we found no player of Niles Williams’s significant girth, with crutches or without.
“Yip, yip,” Lenny complained, giving me a certain panicky look.
“You got it, buddy.” We made a beeline for the exit.
The excited fans forced us to one side while we swam against the tide toward the parking lot to give Lenny a doggie pit stop.
After a quick examination of our options, I headed for a break of trees and scraggly grass. One row of cars and trucks remained when I hit the brakes. Under the same live oak tree rested Niles Williams’s new Range Rover.
Lenny whined.
“Shh. I understand, little buddy.”
Niles, in full uniform, and a woman wearing sunglasses, a hooded tracksuit, and a West Texas cap were making an exchange. The young man leaned heavily on his crutches as he passed over a few bills.
The woman glanced nervously around the parking lot, gave him a tight-lipped smile, and handed over a folded piece of paper. I’d wager my Prius it was the title. Niles must have grown impatient waiting for her to follow through on the repairs. The taillight was still broken.
I looked around. How had Katy arrived? Perhaps someone was waiting nearby to give her a ride home?
Lenny whined.
He’d held it as long as he could. “That’s okay, pal. I don’t think anyone will notice.” The back tire of the minivan would dry in minutes.
It was time to confront Katy about the broken taillight.
Suddenly Niles hopped on one foot, readjusted his crutches, and hurried toward the stadium with surprising speed. Like a master champion of the three-legged race, he had those crutches flying. Too bad he’d broken his ankle; he was a heck of an athlete.
Lenny and I dropped back behind a silver van. I raised a finger to my lips. “Ssh. Stealth is of the essence.” My long-haired accomplice remained silent.
I peered around the corner, revealing only one eye and the side of my face�
�a trick I learned in grade school playing hide-and-go-seek.
Katy was gone. I jumped out, turned in a circle, and spotted her, already yards ahead of me, cruising for the entrance gate to the stadium. I hurried after her, praying my irregular running regime would keep me from falling to the ground in a disheveled heap.
Lenny pulled ahead. “Yip,” he urged.
“I’m trying,” I whispered.
Katy turned around and saw us.
Without planning or thinking, I leapt. “Hey, girl. It’s me.” I slowed to a hurried walk. After all, I didn’t want to scare her away.
Her jaw dropped and she froze.
“I was coming to the game—great team, by the way—and happened to see you talking to that incredible Niles Williams.”
Her feet had yet to move, but I could see she was about to spring into action.
“I was so sorry to hear that he broke his ankle. Did he tell you all about it?”
“Uh, no.” She eyed me up and down, probably figuring she could outrun me. How dare she assume curvy girls can’t run fast?
“Well, he and I got to talking earlier this week about . . . what kind of vehicle I should buy. My Prius—you know the yellow one from the Milagro parking lot?—is on its last leg.”
“Is that so?” Then she made a huge mistake. She smiled and removed her purse strap from her right shoulder and placed it over her head and her left shoulder, which meant one thing: she was ready to run.
I raised a hand as if to calm a nervous filly. “I wonder if you could help me out.”
The muscles in her body tensed.
“Was that your Range Rover—?”
“No,” she cried, and then spun on her high heels and bolted like a wild mustang.
“Yip,” Lenny cried.
We ran, dodging enthusiastic football fans, their coolers and baby strollers, and their grandmothers’ walkers. In a moment of clarity, I reached down and tucked Lenny to my side like a football.
Katy collided with a display of blue foam fingers and yellow pennants.
“Watch yourself, young woman,” the elderly merchant cried. “You better git back here and straighten this mess out.”
“As if,” the renegade cried, righting herself and continuing with her escape.
“Hey, she’s knocked everything over,” a young voice in the crowd wailed.
“Sorry about that, mister,” I said on my way past.
“Yip, yip.”
“I just want to ask you some questions,” I hollered, hoping she would slow down before she caused someone to drop a hot dog or break a hip.
Lenny and I hit the track that surrounded the field and lost her. I hurried on a few feet, craning my neck to see through the crowd. Then I stopped and took stock.
“Yip,” Lenny said.
I spun to search back along the track going the other way. That smaller crowd was heading toward the visitors’ section.
“Yip, yip,” Lenny said.
She’d removed her hood, cap, and sunglasses, but I recognized her tracksuit. She turned her head.
It was Britney. Oh my God.
Slowly, I started toward her. “No need to worry,” I said, trying to sound as pleasant as I could with a dozen people between us. “I only want to ask you where I can buy—”
“Leave me alone,” she growled.
Two men, both wearing purple and white Mohawk wigs, turned around, and in doing so blocked her from our view. “Would you two stop acting like total idiots?” the heavier one demanded.
“Yip,” Lenny said.
“He’s right,” added his friend.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Britney sprint around the far curve of the track.
I heard the stadium announcer say, “Let’s welcome the Fort Davis Prairie Dogs.” The visitors went wild. Through a tunnel of cheerleaders waving glittery pom-poms in the air charged a herd of young men intent on intimidating their opponents, running straight for us.
I won’t ever forget that day. I ran so fast, I burned a hole in the sole of my Vans.
The herd passed. Again I caught just a glimpse of a blond head of hair. I turned this way and that. No striped blondes. The home-team side of the field was empty. At the opposite fence, another group of cheerleaders and fans formed a tunnel to welcome their hometown warriors.
She popped up along the visitors’ sideline, trying to hide behind the players. She hadn’t seen us approach.
Slowly we wove in and out of the spectators like two ninjas, moving closer and closer to our prey. I had one last opportunity to stop her before she slipped away, taking Patti’s only chance for vindication with her. Whatever I said had to be powerful enough to stop her in her tracks.
“And now,” the announcer said, “let’s welcome your hometown West Texas Armadillos.”
“Why did you kill Jeff Clark?” I bellowed.
In that split second, between the announcer’s proclamation and the band’s fight song, Britney froze. Her face turned deathly white, her hands fisted at her sides, her chest heaved. She opened her mouth—
And the fight song filled the air.
Her red mouth moved, words coming out that I couldn’t hear.
I sprang toward her, but she turned and ran like a yellow-bellied coward.
“Let’s go,” I cried.
“Yip, yip,” Lenny said.
“Hey, get off the field.” A boy bearing a rack of water bottles stood in our way. “What do you think you’re doing?” he yelled, his stubbly chin waving in the air.
I didn’t think. “See that crazy woman?” I swung an arm in Britney’s direction. “I think she’s got a gun.”
Lord help me. I’d lied. Again.
Britney’s mouth was no longer moving because her feet were carrying her across the field, right into the path of the hometown team. She must have run track in school. I swear she ran the fifty-yard dash in five seconds flat.
That lunatic was sprinting across the football field in front of God and all his children, as if chased by the devil himself.
Behind me, I heard voices gaining momentum. Words like crazy, gun, woman.
Realizing that I couldn’t lie about the gun without serious consequences, I took off after her. “Briiiitneey,” I screamed, nearly busting a gut.
The hometown team was halfway across the field when five large players separated themselves from the pack. They ran straight for me. I saw them point in my direction and then in hers. At the last second, they veered off, chasing the blond bullet as she headed for the end zone and the parking lot beyond.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the crowd rise. The roar from the stands overwhelmed me and drove me on. Britney passed the twenty-five-yard line, the twenty, and the fifteen.
I collapsed onto the field, my lungs in my throat. I lifted my head to watch her cross the goal line. That was when the players picked up speed and tackled her at the five-yard line.
Funny how the promise of tamales had worked in my favor.
Sirens wailed in the background. From my arms, Lenny whimpered.
“Sorry, boy.” I rained kisses on his head. “You were awesome.”
I struggled to my knees. I had to make it to those kicking legs and broken high heels before the bruisers let her go. That would be just like her to slither out of sight when no one was looking.
“Josie, are you all right?”
A strong hand grasped my arm and lifted me to my feet. It was Ryan. “I . . . have . . . to get . . .” This breathing was harder than I remembered. I waved toward the players, who were carefully lifting themselves off the grounded female.
A siren bleated. The crowd parted, and a sheriff’s cruiser pulled up to the field.
“Tell her she’s not going anywhere,” I hollered to the first deputy on the scene. After a few steps, I realized it was
Lightfoot.
“Did you hurt yourself?” Ryan asked, his forehead wrinkling with concern.
“I’m fine.” I straightened my shoulders and hurried to the runaway blonde.
Britney, playing the part of the injured party beautifully, took the hand Lightfoot offered and straightened her clothing. “Officer,” she whimpered, “that woman is a murderer.”
Lightfoot gave me a quick once-over. “She’s no more a murderer than I am.”
She turned on the Scarlett O’Hara act. “You saw her,” she said to the players and coaches gathered around. “She chased me all over the stadium, threatening to . . .” She sobbed, she sniffed, she batted her wet eyelashes. “Why, she threatened to run me over with her car and then shoot me for good measure.”
Lightfoot blinked. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard tell of.”
“Speaking of running things over with your car . . . What happened to your taillight? Did you back into something as you left Patti’s house?” It wasn’t the smartest remark I could’ve made or the swiftest retort, but my adrenaline was pumping.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The gold Range Rover,” I pointed toward the parking lot, “that you painted and sold so you wouldn’t get caught.”
“I don’t have a Range Rover. Katy, Jeff’s witch of an ex-wife owns one of those.”
“What’s the matter?” I demanded. “Were you jealous of her and her kids?” This woman had ruined my friend’s life. I wanted her to pay.
Britney’s face turned so red, I thought she was going to start whistling like a teakettle. She scrunched up her face. “I backed into the tour bus, and that’s a fact.” She turned first to one side of the crowd and then the other. “Clay will vouch for me. Just ask him.”
“I’m sure he will,” Lightfoot muttered. He grabbed one of her arms, and Deputy Barnes took ahold of the other. “Come along with me, ma’am. You can write it all down for us at the station.”
Britney realized her mistake. “Wilhelmina will vouch for me as well. She was on the bus that next morning. She can tell you I don’t have good night vision.” She glanced at the crowd and smiled weakly. “Can’t help it, but that’s the way the good Lord made me.”
The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Page 26
