The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole

by Rebecca Adler

  “I’m sorry, hon.” I licked my parched lips. “Jeff’s dead.” Whatever she’d thought I was going to say, that wasn’t it.

  With a perplexed expression, she studied my mouth as if trying to make out what language I was speaking.

  I wanted to snatch my words from the air. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, not knowing what else to do.

  She blinked several times, shoved open the door, and started toward the house just as Deputy Lightfoot stepped onto the porch, face grim, hat clenched in his fist.

  Sirens shattered the scene as the ambulance rounded the corner and screeched into the driveway. A young man I didn’t know and Clarence Stubbins, a retired elementary-school principal with a cap of silver hair, raced to the back of the ambulance and removed the gurney. “Where’s the body?” the young one asked, unable to hide his excitement.

  I glared at the young man and pointed toward the front door.

  As if someone had unplugged her power cord, Patti burst into tears and collapsed into the nearest Adirondack chair, her head falling to her knees.

  I tied Lenny’s leash around one of the white porch posts and knelt beside her. As I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, I wished I could do more than next to nothing.

  “She all right?” Lightfoot asked me, studying Patti’s tears.

  I could guess what he was thinking. Ever since Patti’s parents left her the Feed and Supply, she’d put her grieving aside and transformed her parents’ struggling business into Broken Boot’s newest success story. To quote Uncle Eddie, that gal would charge hell with a bucket of ice water.

  Watching her cry was like watching the space shuttle: one minute she was awe-inspiring; the next she was exploding into the atmosphere. My guess was Lightfoot, like me, had forgotten she was human.

  I turned her shoulders and she fought me. “No, I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

  My eyes met the impatient gaze of the young EMS worker. “Ssh, we’re just going to go sit over there,” I said, gesturing to the wooden swing in the far corner of the yard.

  Her gaze followed my hand. She relaxed and allowed me to lead her to the place where we’d once shared our adolescent secrets. As we settled on the swing, Lightfoot led the EMTs into the house.

  “Can you believe it?” Patti demanded.

  “What?”

  “Crying like a big, fat baby in front of God and the neighbors.” She dropped her head to my shoulders and closed her eyes.

  I patted her hand. “Your neighbors are too busy chasing their tails to care.”

  After forever and a day, the EMTs brought out what was left of Jeff Clark, up-and-coming Country star. The man who’d once serenaded the Southwest with his melodic voice was silenced forever.

  Patti darted from the swing toward the back of the ambulance.

  I started to tell her that wasn’t such a good idea, but I swallowed my need to take control. If anyone could look death in the face and come out on top, it was Goth Girl.

  When she lifted her hand, the young EMT drew a breath to complain, but the older man scorched him with a silent reprimand.

  I wanted to be there for Patti, but I wasn’t sure I could stomach another glimpse of Jeff Clark’s cold, dead face.

  Her hand barely hesitated, and then she pulled backed the covering.

  “Oh, my,” the older man said in sympathetic tones.

  Clark could’ve been sleeping; his expression was that peaceful. No blood or gore oozed over his features, only a thin trickle down one temple. Unfortunately, he wore guacamole down his chin, as if the killer had caught him in midbite.

  On the other hand, if someone asked me what I would request for my last morsel on this earth, guacamole would be on the top of my list.

  Once Patti saw Jeff’s face, she was content to let the sheet fall back into place. She didn’t cry. Instead she remained riveted to the spot, transformed into a wax figure.

  “Thank you.” I nodded at the EMTs, placed my arm around her shoulders, and slowly helped her back to the swing.

  “I’ll be right back, hon.” Where was Lightfoot? I needed to get her away from this place before she let loose a storm of tears again.

  I could have saved my breath. As I glanced at her one last time before entering the house, she sat staring at her neighbor’s pink adobe bungalow, basking in the view of a breathtaking sunset on the Window View Trail.

  I found Detective Lightfoot in the kitchen.

  “You know I need to question her.” His stoic expression remained the same, but I could detect a flicker of sympathy in his dark eyes.

  “Are we suspects?”

  He hesitated a fraction of a second too long before answering.

  “Are you crazy?” I tensed, hoping he’d respond in anger so I could vent the feelings threatening to overwhelm me.

  Narrowing his eyes, he took a deep breath and slowly released it, making me suspect he learned that technique for dealing with hysterical witnesses. “Barnes has your statement, but I’d like you to stay with Patti while I question her.”

  “As if I’d do anything else.”

  He frowned. “She can stay outside. If she cooperates, it shouldn’t take too long.”

  “What good will it do to question her now? You saw her.”

  He clenched his jaw and remained silent.

  I realized what he left unsaid. As an officer of the law, he needed to evaluate her current state of mind. Questioning her at this vulnerable moment would make it clear how she felt about Clark and the frightful nature of his death. A guilty person might let something slip that would lead to her arrest.

  I wanted to punch something. Why did Patti and I have to be in the thick of things again?

  “That’s the best I can offer.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. I hated to admit it, but my journalistic side understood.

  Lightfoot and Barnes led the way onto the porch. “Where’d she go?” Barnes asked, raising his hand to his holster.

  With a hand shielding my eyes, I found Patti pulling up daisy fleabane along her driveway. “She’s right over there, Einstein.”

  Barnes’s pink skin flushed at my remark. Before he could respond in kind, Lightfoot raised his hand, palm out. “Follow the ambulance to the morgue. I’ll call you when I finish here.”

  “That’s forty miles,” Barnes said.

  “Then you’d better hustle.” Lightfoot followed the other deputy to his cruiser, where they exchanged a few words. They shot surreptitious glances Patti’s way until Barnes slammed his door and headed out.

  Patti pulled those weeds with the same concentration I imagined surgeons used when removing malignant tumors. “Can I go inside?” She carefully removed a tall weed from the dry ground, making sure to get both the flower and root.

  I glanced at Lightfoot and he shook his head.

  “I don’t think that’s a smart idea, hon.” The crime scene had to be secured and photographs taken.

  “I think it’s a brilliant idea.” She gathered the weeds from the driveway and carried them to the trash can. Across her forehead, she’d left a smear of dirt when she wiped her face. Dusty soil cascaded down her shirt like a trail of bread crumbs.

  With a deft movement, Lightfoot blocked the sidewalk. “Sorry, Patti, but we’re all staying outside for now.”

  “Fine.” She found the rake on the far side of the garage and began raking the flower bed. Vibrant pink azaleas snapped in two.

  “Watch out, hon,” I cried.

  Lightfoot placed a hand on my arm and shook his head. “Tell us in your own words what happened.” He removed a familiar small notebook from his pocket and a stub of a pencil.

  She continued raking, catching dirt, weeds, and azaleas with the rake’s tines. “We went to the show. We bought some beer. We drove to my house. We gave each other mouth-to-mouth.”

&n
bsp; A pause, and then, “Who bought the beer?”

  “Jeff Clark.”

  He nodded. “Who drank the beer?”

  When she didn’t answer, he paused to study her downturned face. He waited until she took a moment to rest on her rake. “Who?”

  “That’s a stupid question. Have you ever seen me drink anything but beer?”

  To his credit, he remained as cool as a fall breeze. “Who drank the beer last night?”

  “Both of us.” If he’d been a white-tailed deer, she’d have skinned him alive with her eyes.

  He nodded and made a note. “Did you drive separate vehicles or did he ride with you?”

  A spasm fluttered her eyelashes. “We rode in my jeep, and nobody drives Priscilla but me.” She marched to the other side of the porch and attacked that flower bed as well.

  I followed along and reached for the rake.

  With a jerk, she turned her back to keep me at arm’s length. Her shoulders tensed as she prepared to fight me if necessary.

  “How was Jeff Clark planning on getting back to his hotel this morning?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. He said something about sleeping in and calling some roadie to come pick him up.”

  “A roadie,” Lightfoot repeated.

  “Someone on the tour. I don’t remember who.”

  She began to tap the tines of the rake on the sidewalk, increasing her intensity as weeds and flowers broke free.

  Lightfoot and I exchanged glances.

  “What happened when you got here last night?”

  For a second she froze, and then continued to shake the gardening tool until I was afraid she’d break off the tines and send them flying like so much shrapnel. “You want to hear all about the mouth-to-mouth. Is that it?”

  He sighed. “Did you spend the night together?”

  I couldn’t help but study his expression. The two of them had dated once or twice. How did it feel to be asking her these intimate questions?

  “No.”

  Eyebrows raised, he lifted his head. “No?”

  “I said no, didn’t I?”

  “Why was he here if you didn’t spend the night together?”

  Without warning, she bolted for the side of the house, reared back her arm, and threw the rake like a javelin over the fence into the backyard. She spun to face him. “He slept here and I slept on the cot in my office.” Her cheeks flamed.

  His pencil froze above his notepad. “You’re telling me that Jeff Clark spent the night here, but you slept in your office.”

  “Have you lost your hearing? That’s what I said.”

  My pulse jumped to my throat. “That’s what she told me this morning. I swear.”

  “Why would you leave?” Lightfoot asked.

  “Because he was drunk and he wasn’t in his right mind.”

  “Why not drive him to his hotel?”

  “Why should I? He could sleep it off on his own. I wasn’t about to drag his drunk, lazy butt anywhere.”

  “Did anyone see you at your office?”

  “I didn’t see anyone, but I couldn’t swear that no one saw me.”

  In spite of everything, I smiled. Goth Girl had returned.

  One corner of Lightfoot’s mouth twitched. “What were you doing over here?”

  “I was trying to get an interview,” I said. “I thought he stood me up.”

  “Figures.” He pocketed his notebook and pencil. “That’ll do for now.”

  “Yip, yip, yip,” I heard from behind the fence to the backyard.

  “Oh, Lord. Lenny, how’d you get back there?” When had I dropped his leash? No telling how many doggie footprints had contaminated the crime scene.

  Patti opened the gate, and Lenny ran out. “Yip, yip, yip.”

  I hugged him to me. “So sorry, Lenster.”

  “Yip.”

  “You betcha,” I answered. “We can go, right?”

  Lightfoot stared at Patti for a moment. “You can go. I know where to find you.”

  When we arrived at Milagro I expected to find the place quiet, as the lunch crowd usually petered out by this time. Not only was my family and the waitstaff there, but folks from the neighboring businesses. Somehow word had spread that I had found the body, and they’d come over to hear it from my own lips.

  “Patti needs to go upstairs and lie down.”

  The two strong pillars of my family, Senora Mari and Aunt Linda, realized how fragile Patti was with one glance at her face. “Come, chica,” my abuela said. Though she didn’t always permit me to call her Grandmother, I couldn’t help but think of her that way when she showed her soft, caring side.

  They disappeared up the stairs to my loft apartment above the restaurant.

  “Yip, yip,” Lenny asked.

  “Of course you can go.”

  “Yip,” he said in appreciation, and headed off after them. In the quiet, I could hear the clatter of his toenails on the oak staircase.

  Anthony, our newest waiter, stepped closer. “Are you okay, Miss Josie?”

  I gave him a weak smile as I made my way to the coffee urn. “I’m fine except for feeling like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck.”

  Chapter 4

  After a few swigs of coffee, I turned to Dorothy something-or-other, the manager of Wicks of the West, and Sam from the local thrift store, Play It Again Sam. Both wanted as much information about the crime scene as I was willing to give. As they were neighbors and fellow business owners, their questions deserved honest answers. I gave them one or two gory details, while sparing Patti by not mentioning her date with the deceased the night before.

  “Where was the body found?” Samuel asked.

  I hesitated and chose to sidestep the question. “The body was found in Kenwood Estates.”

  “Yes, but which house. Didn’t you find the body?” asked Fred Mueller, the owner of Fredericksburg Antiques.

  My gaze shifted toward Suellen Burnett, but she’d slipped out. Couldn’t say as how I blamed her.

  “Whose house was it?” A loud male voice asked from behind me. Uncle Eddie waltzed into the room and gave me a tight side hug.

  I wanted to kick him in the shins. “I don’t know,” I said, widening my eyes, trying to convey how much he needed to change the subject. Now.

  He opened his big mouth again. “What do you mean you don’t—?”

  “I’m sorry, y’all. I’d love to tell you all about it,” I paused for effect, “but I need to go lie down.”

  “But, Eddie,” I heard someone say as I left the room, “who was killed?”

  “No one we know. Some singer, name of Jeff Clark.”

  Before I could check on Patti, I met Senora Mari and Aunt Linda at the bottom of the stairs.

  “How’s Patti?”

  “Yip,” Lenny said from the landing. According to him, she was doing better than expected.

  “She’s out like a light.” Aunt Linda grabbed my arm, preventing me from flying past her. “Let her sleep awhile.” She placed her arm around my shoulders and guided me back into the dining room. “She’ll need you plenty when she wakes.”

  Senora Mari peered into my face. “You need some tamales and sweet tea.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Tsk, tsk. When are you ever not hungry? If I didn’t lock the freezers at night you’d eat up all our profits.”

  The assembled neighbors laughed, and the tension in the room broke into tiny pieces and fluttered to the floor.

  “That’s not true.” I threw out my hands, appealing to the smiling faces seated around me. “We never lock the refrigerators.”

  They laughed even harder.

  “And, besides, Uncle Eddie eats more than I do.”

  “Is that so? He grabbed me from behind and pretended to throttle
me, much to the delight of the onlookers.

  “Sorry.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Uncle?”

  He pretended to tighten his grip.

  “Uncle!”

  With a laugh, he released me and patted me on the back.

  Aunt Linda pulled out a chair at an empty table, just as Senora Mari placed my favorite pork tamales and ranchero beans before me with a glass of icy sweet tea.

  “Eddie,” Fred Mueller called from the back of the room, “who do they think done it?”

  With one eye on my uncle and the other on my plate, I inhaled the comfort food in front of me, and even though sweet tea wasn’t my thing, I drank it down. The sugar and caffeine would help put me to rights after all I’d seen that morning.

  “Well, sir.” Uncle Eddie puffed out his chest. “I had a talk with Deputy Lightfoot about the case.”

  “Where’s Sheriff Wallace?” Jerrie McAllen asked in a timid voice. Her son Bubba owned the local BBQ.

  “He’s on vacation in Galveston this week,” Aunt Linda answered.

  Fred Mueller rose to his feet. “Galveston shmalveston. He must come home. Now.”

  Uncle Eddie raised his hands to calm the owner of Fredericksburg Antiques. “As I was saying, Lightfoot and the other deputies are on the job.”

  Apparently, the grapevine, otherwise known as the switchboard operator at the sheriff’s office, had spread the word faster than smoke signals.

  Uncle Eddie crossed his arms across his barrel chest. “I told him he should check into that band of Clark’s and that road crew he travels with.” His mouth turned down in disgust. “That crowd is hell-bent on causing trouble.”

  I turned in my chair and grabbed his hand. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” I whispered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I observed our usually calm neighbors murmuring to each other with angry expressions.

  Uncle Eddie eyed their heated reactions. “Uh, I spoke too soon . . . I guess. I don’t know nothing for certain.” He shot me a frustrated glance. “So don’t take what I said as gospel. I was just thinking out loud.”

  With a chuckle, Aunt Linda stepped up. “And Lord knows you’d better watch out when he’s thinking, ’cause he might hurt himself.”