Here Today, Gone Tamale

by Rebecca Adler

  “Can we afford to help Anthony?” I murmured to Aunt Linda.

  “We have no choice.” The sharp look of disappointment she gave me made me squirm.

  I resolved to visit him as soon as I could get away, tomorrow or the next day at the latest.

  With each of us pulling our weight in coolers, chairs, and warming pans, we unloaded the truck and set up a long row of tables with red-checked tablecloths on the sidewalk out front. We made sure to tape down the sides so they wouldn’t blow away in the West Texas winds. Hanging signs was a bit trickier, but we used fishing line and red duct tape to secure everything. With an hour to spare before the big tamale event, we stopped to drink a cup of coffee and enjoy the tasty egg, potato, and cheese tacos Senora Mari had made for us at the crack of dawn.

  “Gracias, Mamá.” Uncle Eddie smacked his lips. “Delicious as always,” he said, planting a kiss on Senora Mari’s cheek.

  “What else was I going to do?” The older woman shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep for thinking about Anthony.”

  “Don’t worry.” Uncle Eddie stood and stretched his arms wide. “We’ll figure out a way to help him. Now, let’s get these cattle on the trail.”

  “I feel as if we’ve forgotten something,” my aunt said from her perch on the lid of a large drink cooler filled with bottled water. “Oh, shoot!” She shot to her feet. “Who’s in charge of the sound system?”

  Uncle Eddie reacted like a coyote caught in the headlights of a minivan on its way to the national park. His wide-eyed innocent expression made it clear he thought the answer was him. All the same, he remained mum and took another swig of coffee from his West Texas travel mug.

  “Eddie,” my aunt said in a singsong voice, “did you forget to remind the grounds committee we needed a microphone and a set of speakers today?” She stared him down like a rattler eyeing a field mouse.

  “Huh, what—” he began, determined to appear above suspicion.

  Aunt Linda pierced his facade with a narrow-eyed glare.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. No need to start a war today. Too much was riding on everyone keeping a cool head.

  “Thanks, Josie,” my aunt said, tossing a look of disdain at her husband. “Run up to the registration booth and find Mayor Cogburn—no, not the mayor. Find out from one of the volunteers who to talk to about the sound system.”

  I was glad to stretch my legs. It was a gorgeous day, even as the wind blew our hair into our eyes and tossed our hats into the bushes. People on the street smiled and laughed, clearly looking forward to a tremendous event. Only three days had passed since Dixie’s death, but Broken Boot’s citizens and her visitors were focusing on the positive.

  Yesterday, I’d seen the sheriff and his deputies traipsing up and down Main Street, entering the other businesses, but they had yet to stop in with more questions for us. Last night, Suellen Burnett delivered more pies and stayed to give us a blow-by-blow reenactment of both the questions they’d asked and the responses she’d given.

  Sheriff Wallace was a fair man. If Anthony remained in jail after two days, then Wallace had something concrete on the kid. Questions without answers had percolated in my brain all night, and I was no longer going to wait for law enforcement to kick it in to a higher gear. I had better get on with it and uncover what the sheriff knew if I was going to clear the boy’s name.

  Lost in thought, I nearly collided with two dozen kids and their bikes. They formed a haphazard line along the sidewalk. Judging by the streamers in their spokes and the tinsel on their handlebars, they were waiting for the bicycle decorating contest to begin.

  “Howdy,” I said with a smile to the young couple at the front of the line, manning the registration table. I wasn’t really a “howdy” kind of girl except for festival time each year. I had met the red-haired man and his pretty wife at a chamber of commerce meeting, where I’d politely taken a business card for their auto shop on Tenth Street. I had to give it to Elaine. The chairwoman certainly had a knack for matching her volunteers to the perfect event.

  Too busy to reply, they gave me a quick smile and continued helping two very small children fill out their forms.

  The dark-haired boy and girl couldn’t have been more than five and six. Behind them stood an older girl around eleven years old, perhaps a cousin or sister. When she turned her head, my breath caught. With her long dark hair and high cheekbones, she was the spitting image of her brother . . . Anthony.

  “Excuse me,” I said, walking around a nine-year-old boy who sported a short haircut combed into a point near his forehead.

  “Don’t worry,” I whispered in what I hoped was a soothing voice. “It’s alright.”

  The couple at the table had gone on to help another child, but the man was listening intently. Was he wondering if he needed to protect them from me?

  I forced myself to calm the heck down and appear as nonthreatening as possible. “Anthony was my friend,” I said as she helped the smaller children move their bikes out of line. “He works for my family at Milagro. Has he mentioned the Martinez family to you?”

  She nodded, but she glanced down the alley as if longing for escape.

  “My name is Josefina Callahan.” I added the Spanish pronunciation of my name, hoping to make her feel more at ease. “Is Anthony your brother?”

  She glanced around and gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “I like your brother very much. He’s kind and smart.”

  With wide eyes, she tipped her head to one side as if trying to determine what I wanted.

  “I don’t believe he’s guilty.”

  Her eyes darted from me to the couple at the table and back.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Dayssy,” she murmured.

  “Listen, Dayssy,” I said in a soft voice. “Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk in private?” When she didn’t respond, I continued. “Somewhere no one can hear us.”

  She nodded and her eyes darted down the alleyway again.

  Across the street, the Kandy Kitchen had set up a booth outside with old-fashioned hard candies: licorice, cinnamon, root beer, and the like. I hurried over to the stand and bought a striped stick of each flavor. When I made it back across the street, she and her siblings were waiting with their bikes at the alley entrance.

  We walked their bicycles, festooned with bright green, white, and red streamers, down the alley to the back of the local thrift store, Wear It Again, Sam. I helped them park their bikes, and after she translated the flavors into Spanish, gave each child their two favorite flavors, one for each hand.

  Once they started eating, I offered her a stick of candy as well. “Are they your brother and sister?”

  She reached eagerly for a blue-and-red striped stick. “Sí, yes.”

  I waited until she’d taken her first lick. “Who’s taking care of all of you?”

  “My older sister, Lily, is seventeen. She takes care of us now that Anthony is gone.” The girl’s face fell. It was clear she thought her older brother was gone forever.

  “Dayssy.” I paused to form my question carefully. “Why does the sheriff think Anthony is guilty of murder?” She shook her head several times.

  “I want to free him.” I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Please help me.”

  “I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “He would never do such a bad thing.” Her gaze dropped to the gravel.

  She was hiding something. What was she too afraid to say?

  Aunt Linda did the hiring and firing. We’d never discussed it outright, but I didn’t have any reason to believe she spent money on running criminal background checks on our employees. She either got along with them, or she didn’t.

  “Does he have a record, is that it?”

  Her soulful eyes suddenly burned with emotion. “He wasn’t guilty, but they arrested him anyway.”


  I checked my watch. Aunt Linda would have my hide if I was gone much longer. “What do they think he did?”

  She hesitated, watching her younger brother skip stones down the alley. “Our cousin, Miguel, asked Anthony for a ride from Terlingua to Fort Davis.”

  “That’s not illegal.”

  My question was met with silence. She bit the candy and chewed, delaying her response. Her gaze landed only as far as my neckline. “My cousin is an illegal.” She sniffed. “The Terlingua deputy arrested Anthony for transporting an illegal into the country.”

  A very serious offense. “Is that what happened?”

  “No,” her gaze flew to mine, “I promise. He picked him up in Terlingua, not the border.” With the back of her hand, she wiped her eyes. “Our cousin told us his papers were in order and that he had a job in Fort Davis. He said he just needed a ride to get there.”

  My heart broke for this family and their sad story. “Didn’t Anthony try to explain?”

  She began to cry. “They wouldn’t listen.” Her voice rose. “They never listen. They’ve arrested him again, but he’s done nothing.” Tears ran down her face, scarring her cheeks with sorrow.

  “I believe you.” With great care, I put one arm around her and drew her close. “I’ll speak to the sheriff and tell him what you’ve told me. Perhaps he will change his mind once he knows the truth.”

  I had my doubts that Wallace would change his mind so easily, but what if the sheriff believed that having a record meant Anthony was a hardened criminal? And, if he realized the young man wasn’t a criminal, wouldn’t Wallace be more inclined to believe that Anthony was incapable of committing murder?

  Inside my heart, hope flared. Even though there was only a slim chance I could change the sheriff’s mind, it was well worth an immediate discussion between him and Anthony.

  The boy and girl, now finished with their candy, kicked a plastic soda bottle back and forth. The boy wore shorts and a T-shirt, clean but well-worn. His hair was short, but growing out over the ears. His sister sported a bright pink cotton shirt and matching shorts, her hair in two braids down her back.

  Dayssy stepped away and wiped her eyes again. “We have to go.” She whistled, and immediately her siblings stopped their game and ran for their bikes.

  “Do you have money for groceries?” I asked as we exited the alley, heading for the street.

  She nodded, but kept her eyes averted.

  “Who is helping you? Family? Friends?”

  Stroking her sister’s hair, she shook her head.

  “Is Lily working?”

  With a sudden grin, Dayssy answered. “She goes to school and takes care of us.”

  We reached the street to find the red-haired man from the registration table handing out numbers. Several of the entrants had already tied them to their handlebars.

  With a quick hug from their sister, the two young children ran forward to receive their numbers.

  If I didn’t leave now, the tamale-eating contest would be delayed and my neck would be on Aunt Linda’s cutting board. “You tell Lily to come see me at the restaurant,” I said. “We’re shorthanded without Anthony, and she can work in his place.”

  Dayssy’s eyes brightened. “I will tell her, but now we must go.” She pointed to where the children stood in line, proudly displaying their bicycles.

  “Good luck,” I cried, waving madly to her sister and brother.

  I’d neglected to ask them their names, but it would have to wait until next time. Tamales were calling my name.

  I hurried to the registration booth, but after a lengthy discussion with the elderly volunteers there, I wasn’t convinced help was on its way. I tried to be gracious, but the more I talked, the more flustered they became. It took at least five minutes for the head volunteer to find the right channel for the maintenance crew on the walkie-talkie, and another five to communicate what I needed.

  Chiding myself for taking the whole tamale-eating contest way too seriously, I marched back to Milagro past a collection of antique cars festooned in red, white, and blue streamers only to find, much to my surprise, almost the entire festival committee seated around our long tables. Melanie and her husband, rancher P.J. Pratt, were smiling and waving at everybody as if they hadn’t seen them in a month of Sundays. Mayor Cogburn walked up right behind me, hung his sport coat across the back of his white folding chair, and reached over to buss his wife’s cheek. The only two committee members not in attendance ran their businesses with very little staff. Even Elaine of Elaine’s Pies couldn’t fault Bubba’s BBQ and Fredericksburg Antiques for choosing to man their forts on one of the busiest days of the year.

  “Wait for us!” Ryan and Hillary ran down the sidewalk hand in hand, trying not to take out a mother pushing a twin stroller. My handsome ex was laughing at Hillary, trying to make her move more quickly. Though not exactly dragging her five-inch heels, the beauty queen was moving in a much slower gear, her lips pursed tight as if holding in a string of curses.

  With a big smile, Uncle Eddie made his way down the tables of contestants, shaking hands and greeting each one. He raised the microphone to begin the proceedings, and everyone winced in pain as the speakers squealed at an ear-splitting decibel. Offering an apologetic grin, he stepped farther away from the amplifier and tried again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a sweeping gesture to the crowd, “thank you for joining us for Milagro’s Fifth Annual Tamale Eating Contest, benefitting the Big Bend County Children’s Home. We would like to thank the Wild Wild West Festival committee, many of whom are sitting right here before you, for stepping up, or should I say sitting down, to raise money for a good cause.” The crowd chuckled with good humor. Again, his arm swung wide. “Let’s get this party started.” The crowd applauded with enthusiasm as the waitstaff delivered the plates of tamales in front of each contestant. Uncle Eddie raised a hand, fingers spread wide. “Five . . . four . . . three . . .” he cried, lowering a finger with each number, “two . . . eat!”

  Now that the contest was underway, Hillary and the other female participants were taking noticeably smaller and smaller bites of the tamales set before them. The men continued on with gusto even as they turned gray around the gills. The only one who looked like he was having a grand ole time, like Father Allen on his way to bingo, was Ty Honeycutt.

  “Why is he here?” Senora Mari demanded, not caring who overheard.

  Pursing her lips, Aunt Linda answered in a lower volume. “I heard he’s trying to come up with money to bury Dixie’s body, once the autopsy’s complete.”

  “But surely he knows we’re not offering a cash prize,” I said.

  “Oh, he knows.” My aunt snapped her fingers, making sure she had our full attention. “But word is he’s been losing everything at the gambling tables, including money to eat on.”

  Maybe the gambling tables had been hard on him, so hard he’d been tempted to eat his shoe leather. I snuck a look at his boots and found the pair on his feet new and highly polished. Someone, either Lady Luck or a lady from The Cat’s Meow, had helped him buy the latest ostrich Lucchese boots or I was a native New Yorker.

  One of my jobs had been to place buckets under the table for the sole purpose of giving folks something to spit in if needed. Yuck, yuck, and double yuck. So when someone began to splutter and cough, I knew we were prepared. I rushed over in time to hear Elaine make a horrible sound, somewhere between a cat upchucking a hairball and a humpback whale. She raised a napkin, delicately, to her lips, and tried to smile with her lips closed, but her expression looked more like one of those jack o’ lanterns left to rot in the sun. Suddenly she spit into her napkin and turned bright red. She lifted a hand to her lips and pulled, and pulled, until something fell out of her mouth.

  And it wasn’t a tamale. It took me a few seconds to stifle my gag reflex, but then I recognized it. As Elaine pulled t
he chain, small figures began to pop out from between her teeth. Small carved horses.

  The crowd, all thirty of them, gasped. “She’s lost her teeth,” a boy shouted.

  “She’s coughed up her lungs,” an old geezer added.

  Elaine spotted me first. “Help me, for pity’s sake.” Ty, sitting next to her, leaned over for a better look at the necklace. “Give me that water.” He grabbed her half-full water glass and dropped the necklace into it, and then he began to rub away the tamale remains. “This belonged to my aunt. This is one of her designs.”

  All I could picture was the horse imprint on Dixie’s neck as she lay dead behind the Dumpster of my family’s restaurant. “Don’t anyone move,” I said, trying to sound official. “Not until the sheriff gets here.”

  Chapter 8

  Uncle Eddie had already pressed the button on the sound system. It made a loud squeal. “Sheriff, we’ve found the murder weapon. Sheriff Wallace, we’ve found the murder weapon.”

  Geez, what a great way to let the cat out of the bag.

  There was a loud crash, and Elaine fell backwards along with her chair, plate, and all the tamales she had left to eat.

  “Is she dead?” someone shouted.

  “Mom!” Suellen cried from somewhere behind me. “Someone help her!”

  I jumped onto the platform and tossed Elaine’s chair off the platform so I could get a good look at her. Maybe it was the time I’d spent on the phone with the 911 operator, or maybe it was the CPR training I’d received as a lifeguard in high school, but I didn’t hesitate this time.

  Elaine had fallen to her left, so I gently turned her on her back. Her lips were the color of the blue blotch pansies I’d grown on my balcony in Austin, and, aw, sugar snaps, she’d stopped breathing. I bent close to her nose and mouth, and confirmed that no air was coming from either.

  “Someone call the ambulance!” I heard Aunt Linda yell somewhere in the background. A woman’s voice called out, “Where’s Silas?” and part of my brain remembered the retired EMS worker was scheduled to take the morning shift at the first aid station.