The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole

by Rebecca Adler

  “Doesn’t anyone want to know what I think?” Senora Mari was taking the floor.

  “Now, Mami.” Uncle Eddie tried to put his arm around her, but she stepped out of reach.

  “It’s a case of bad juju,” Senora Mari proclaimed.

  “Where did she pick that up?” Aunt Linda asked in a whisper from behind my shoulder.

  Senora Mari shrugged one eloquent shoulder. “It’s true. Before Josie moved home, we had no murders in this town.” She pointed at me with her melodramatic tendencies in full view. “Now we’ve had two in the past three months.” She shook her head and pinched her lips. “Bad juju.”

  “Don’t blame this on me.” I turned to Aunt Linda. “When have I ever had bad juju? Never.”

  Anthony, our youngest and most recently acquired waiter, stepped into the conversation with two feet. “Didn’t you lose your job and your fiancé nine months ago?”

  I caught Aunt Linda turning her head away in an attempt not to laugh.

  “See?” Senora Mari opened her arms to the crowd. “I told you. It’s getting worse and worse.”

  Fortunately for me, our friends and neighbors laughed.

  Bubba stood and shoved his hat on. “I don’t know about y’all, but I’ve got to get back to work.” He bit his bottom lip. “And y’all do too.” With care, he bent down to help his elderly mother out of her chair.

  “Come on, folks.” She lifted a feeble arm, urging them to follow her. “Let’s beat it.” She shuffled out the door, head high, her hand clenched on her son’s arm.

  One by one they left. A few were silent, casting curious glances at Senora Mari and me. Others shook my uncle’s hand and kept right on gossiping about Clark’s road crew and the other bands in town for the Homestead Days Music Festival.

  After they had all departed, Anthony, his sister Lily, and I cleared their tables and wiped them down.

  “I tell you what,” Lily said, slapping a table with a wet towel. “This here murder sure was good for business.”

  “Don’t do that.” Her brother grabbed the cloth from her hand, threw it into her plastic bucket, and gave her a shove toward the kitchen. “Go on, now. I need to talk to Miss Josie.”

  Lily puffed up like a bantam rooster, shot a glance at me, and then discarded her angry-younger-sister act. “He’s got girl trouble.” She threw her hands over her heart in a dramatic fashion and moseyed to the kitchen, probably hoping to wear her brother’s nerves down to a frazzle.

  Anthony looked around as if expecting to find someone hidden under one of the tables with a recording device. “Uh, Miss Josie. I don’t have girl troubles.” He straightened his Mexican bow tie. “I’ve got Senora Mari troubles.”

  “What’s she done now?”

  “She wants to set me up with her niece in Juárez.”

  “What niece in Juárez?”

  He stuck his finger in his collar in an attempt to give his muscular neck some breathing room. “How do I know? But she claims we’re perfect for each other and that all I need is a good wife to take care of my brother and sisters.”

  I tried to hide my reaction, but it didn’t sound like a bad idea to me. That is, if he knew the girl and liked the girl, the girl liked him, and the immigration services approved.

  “Can’t you ignore her?”

  He shook his head like a depressed basset hound, all sad jowls and sockets. “Every morning when I arrive and every day when I leave, she mentions her, describes her cooking, asks me over and over when I’ll call her.”

  I smiled with compassion. “I’ll talk to her. Sounds like she needs an intervention.”

  “Bless you, Miss Josie.”

  Lord bless me indeed. Trying to talk Senora Mari out of matchmaking would be like trying to divert a runaway train from disaster.

  * * *

  I left the staff to clean up and headed upstairs in case Patti needed me by her side. She was sound asleep. My mind was racing, what with the coffee, tea, and adrenaline pumping through my veins. What could I do? Lightfoot and the deputies had the crime scene in hand.

  “Do you think Uncle Eddie has tonight’s entertainment under control?”

  Lenny whined and placed his front paws on my leg.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.” Last night was only the first performance for the Jeff Clark Band. They were booked to play Two Boots tonight and Saturday as well.

  I sprinted down the stairs so fast, I nearly wiped out the Mexican Talavera planter at the bottom.

  “Yip?” Lenny asked from his perch on the middle step.

  “I’m okay, buddy.” I scooped him into my arms. “Let’s find the grown-ups.”

  When we walked into the office, all conversation came to an abrupt halt. It was clear as the frozen expressions on their faces that my aunt and uncle were troubled about my finding another dead body. I pretended not to notice. Since the day I’d come to live with them as a snarky twelve-year-old after my parent’s untimely accident, I’d seen that same fearful look from time to time.

  “Whose playing tonight if Clark’s . . . dead?”

  “Good question, Jo Jo.” My aunt, the practical one in the family, turned a narrow-eyed stare on her husband and pursed her lips.

  He popped his cuffs. “They signed a contract.”

  “Sure. Why not ask the band to play without him?” I dropped into the guest chair and lifted the soles of my Toms to the edge of the desk. “All they can say is forget you, old man.”

  “Humph.” Uncle Eddie removed his Stetson and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “They could also accuse me of being a coldhearted”—he shot a glance my way—“you know what.”

  He twirled his hat on two fingers. “I didn’t want to bring this up.” He dropped his voice. “He might’ve been a hotshot on his way to the big time, but he had a few problems.”

  I had a hunch what was coming.

  Aunt Linda leaned her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on her folded hands. “Hit me with it.”

  “He was a horndog with the ladies, hon.”

  “Eddie Martinez, what a thing to say!” Her back straightened. “Are you sure you’ve got your facts straight?”

  I refused to speak ill of the dead. In spite of his weaknesses, Jeff Clark had been someone’s son. And wrong or right, Patti had loved him once.

  Uncle Eddie sighed. “He flirted with more women than you could shake a stick at, and his bus only arrived yesterday.”

  Aunt Linda’s lip curled in disgust. “What are you thinking?”

  “What if one of those women killed him?” He shuddered dramatically. “Beautiful women can be more jealous than a herd of alley cats.”

  “Well, did you tell all that to the sheriff’s office?”

  “No,” he muttered. “I only thought of it this minute.”

  “You and your thinking.” She came around the desk and took his hand. “Go talk to them.” With her other hand, she relieved him of his hat and placed it on his head. “Plead our case, how we need the band’s help to survive. Then go and find that Deputy Lightfoot and tell him what you’re thinking.” She planted a kiss on his cheek and directed him toward the door.

  After a few steps, he turned back. “Ah, sug. How can I ask them? It’s callous as all get-out.”

  I could see Uncle Eddie’s side. Money was tight, and we would take a hit if we hired another big name for the weekend in addition to Clark’s. But there was another horndog that could possibly help us out of this mess. I bit back my own misgivings. “You could ask Ty to play again.”

  One corner of Uncle Eddie’s mouth kicked up. “He’d be tickled pink.”

  My aunt plunked the seat of her Wranglers on the edge of the huge metal desk she’d found in a going-out-of-business sale. “But will customers pay to hear Ty Honeycutt play again so soon?” She shook her head, answering her own ques
tion.

  I touched my aunt’s arm. “Hate to say it, but this crowd would come back if for no other reason than to see the place where the late Jeff Clark played the night he died.”

  Uncle Eddie removed his hat and placed it over his heart. “Sad thing, that boy dying, but Josie’s got a good point.”

  “That settles it.” Aunt Linda slapped her hands on the desk for good measure. “Call Ty before he dives headfirst into another all-night poker game.”

  “Will do.”

  I caught my uncle outside the office. “Shouldn’t you call Jeff’s agent and tell him what happened?”

  “Why, Jo Jo? His band’s probably gone and done that already.” He mussed my hair and strode for the door with springs in his bootheels.

  As grisly as the idea sounded, my gut was telling me that I needed to continue the story on Jeff Clark. Or did I? Some reporter somewhere was going to cover the story. Why not me?

  For starters, like Uncle Eddie said, some folks would accuse me of being coldhearted. What would Patti say? My gut said my friend would understand. After all, she’d called Clark a jerk and slept in her office last night in order to avoid him.

  A prickling sensation danced down my arms. If it had been anyone else, I would’ve thought that excuse way too convenient. I worried my bottom lip. I’d avoided thinking of Patti as a suspect up to this point, but that didn’t mean the sheriff’s office had done the same.

  My skin grew clammy. It would be too easy for someone in authority to judge my friend by her outward appearance. But if I did a little digging, I could set them straight—point them to the real suspects—before she suffered the bitter sting of any false accusation.

  I straightened my shoulders. I would call Ken Price, Clark’s agent, and ask him to grant me an interview so that I could write a proper eulogy for his former client. I’d collect enough evidence to keep Patti’s name above suspicion and my editor happy. It wouldn’t surprise me if some people accused me of being mercenary.

  I started out the back door, only to stop myself with my hand on the push bar. In my mind’s eye, Dixie’s dead body lay in that same alley—where I’d discovered her only months ago.

  Lenny whined.

  “Don’t worry. I got you.”

  Instead, I made my way to the front of the restaurant and parked us on the wooden bench facing Main Street.

  “I can do this without being a vulture. Right?”

  My four-legged friend ignored my vacillation and turned to greet a haughty tabby in the front window of Wicks of the West. “Yip.”

  Endora studiously ignored him and continued to clean her long orange coat.

  “Yip, yip, yip.”

  “Shh.” I found the agent’s number and dialed.

  “Ken Price,” a brisk, intelligent voice answered without a trace of accent.

  “Mr. Price, this is Josie Callahan.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m the reporter from Broken Boot, Texas. We have a phone interview scheduled for tomorrow to talk about Jeff Clark.”

  “Okay.” His tone said, Get off the phone, small-town idiot.

  With a sinking feeling in my gut, I realized no one had called him about Clark’s death.

  “If you need to reschedule, get with my assistant.”

  “Has anyone in the band, uh, called you today, Mr. Price?”

  There was a nine-months-pregnant pause. “What’s he done now?”

  With great effort, I attempted to swallow, but the giant ball of nerves in my throat made it impossible. “He’s . . .”

  He cursed. “Michelle,” he yelled, “get me a flight to . . . Where did you say you were?”

  “Uh, Broken Boot.”

  “Is Jeff in jail? Have they posted bond?”

  I tried to open my mouth to give him the horrific news. Honestly, I did. “You fly to El Paso and rent a car to Broken Boot, sir.” Instead, I could only blather on like a travel agent.

  “I’ll kill him.” He could not have chosen a more apropos turn of phrase.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” He waited in silence for several seconds. “Is someone else involved? Are they hurt?”

  “You can’t kill him, Mr. Price. Someone’s beat you to it.”

  I filled him in on what I knew, minus the part where I found his client naked from the hips up in my best friend’s guacamole.

  “Is there anything I can do to help before you get here?” Silence on the line.

  “Who’d you say you were again?”

  “Josie Callahan, a local reporter. I was scheduled to interview Mr. Clark this morning and you tomorrow on the phone.”

  “Well, that’s not happening.”

  This time the shivers ran down my spine. “Um, I do need to cover the story, sir. I thought you might want to help me shine a positive light on Jeff Clark’s career. Other papers are going to be saying all kinds of things, but we can hit the news feed early with the positive.”

  “Michelle, hold on a minute.”

  There was another long pause. “You have a point, Josie.” His voice had taken on a syrupy quality. “So, you’re with the Associated Press?”

  “Uh, not exactly.”

  Without a glitch in his new, friendly persona, he continued. “Now I know Jeff Clark’s dead, I’m torn. I could handle everything by phone. Or at least my assistant could.”

  How could he handle the fallout in the Jeff Clark Band over the phone? Clark was murdered, by God. Price had to have a sliver of tenderness in his stony heart, even if he was an LA agent.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Price, you should handle things in person. This is a small community, and the way we do things here may not be what you’re accustomed to. We need more direction. Also, what about the band? What are they supposed to do?” I thought about Uncle Eddie’s predicament. “Isn’t it in their contract to play two more nights?”

  “That’s none of your business,” he said, his tone chilly. “Their road manager can handle it.” He paused. “You may be right about my needing to fly down there to see . . . to things myself.”

  “I understand if you want to reschedule our interview.” My courage was drifting away like a stray gray cloud on a sunny day.

  “What? You nervous?” His laugh made the hair on the back of my neck dance.

  “Don’t be silly. Just sounds like you have a long night ahead of you.”

  “I’ll catch a flight this evening and drive to . . . Broken Boot. If you stop by the band’s hotel in the morning, we can chat over coffee. That’s all the time I can afford.”

  Weakness morphed into blithering joy. “I will, Mr. Price. I will. You can count on it.”

  “What?” He sounded far away.

  It took me several seconds to realize he’d hung up. How rude. Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard any sadness or regret over Clark’s death. Even if it was purely a business relationship, I expected a larger show of sympathy and horror.

  Clearly, Clark had caused his share of trouble in the past. Maybe that’s why Mr. Ken Price wasn’t a fan.

  Lenny and I trotted round the corner, dodging a boy on a skateboard and two teenage girls in frontier costumes taking selfies in front of the WELCOME TO BROKEN BOOT sign. One girl wore a gingham dress while the other preened in a buckskin jacket with fringe and a coonskin cap.

  I checked my watch. Lenny and I might catch Sumter Majors, the editor of the Bugle, if we walked over at this hour, but I couldn’t leave Patti behind. What if she awoke scared out of her mind? Or, worse, what if she was truly heartbroken over . . . whom? Her ex-beau? Her date? I mentally slapped myself upside the head. Did it matter what the exact nature of their relationship was? One night Jeff, a human being, was alive, and the next morning he was deader than disco.

  And in her house, for God’s sake. The very house she’d inherited after
the death of her parents. Now one more death would be associated with that home she once held so dear. What would she do? How could she live there again?

  Even as Lenny pulled on his leash to scamper after the skateboarder, I slowed down and dialed the paper, praying for once that my editor would respond better to an appeal on the phone than he did face-to-face. He picked up.

  “What do you think? Can I write it?”

  “If you mean am I aware that True Bell ice cream won’t go back into distribution this week? Yes. The factories still aren’t passing muster.”

  Oh yeah. That was the story I was supposed to be writing. Where was our beloved True Bell ice cream? Why had it been recalled—the real reason? How were locals coping with the loss?

  “I’m talking about the murder of Jeff Clark.”

  “Who?” His choked and spluttered his coffee. “Here?”

  “A musician playing Two Boots this weekend for the Homestead Days Music Festival.”

  “Holy guacamole, I have to get someone on that story pronto.” His voice rang with excitement.

  “Come on, Sumter, choose me. I found the body.”

  “Yip, yip, yip,” Lenny barked at a poodle promenading down the opposite side of the street with Mrs. Cho from the dry cleaner.

  “Ssh.”

  “Callahan, are you kidding me?” He chuckled. “Are you killing people so you can cover their stories? Is that your game?”

  “That’s sick.”

  “Huh,” he grunted. “It’s awfully convenient.”

  “Oh, please. Wouldn’t it be convenient to offer your readers a special edition of the Bugle?”

  “You’ve been watching too many old movies.”

  “But—”

  “James Eddleton’s in Dallas, visiting his daughter this week. If,” he paused, “you can’t get it done, I could ask Nancy Connally over in Alpine. She puts out smart stuff. Excellent writer.”

  “Give me a chance.”

  “When can you deliver it?”

  “I’ll start now. When’s your deadline for tomorrow’s paper?”

  “You mean Sunday’s paper?” he asked in a low, no-nonsense tone.