“Dad gum it!” I slammed on the brake, nearly rear-ending a minivan on its Don’t Mess with Texas Grandmas bumper sticker as I strained to see who all was being interviewed. I turned right down the alley next to Barnum and Hailey’s emporium and circled back around to Milagro’s parking lot. I hurried upstairs, clipped Lenny’s leash to his collar, grabbed him up into my arms, and hurried back down again.
“Yip,” Lenny said and licked my face.
“I’m sorry, Lenster. Didn’t mean to squeeze you so hard.”
“Stop where you are.” Uncle Eddie’s voice hit me from behind.
“Where are you going?” Senora Mari muttered. “Take me with you.”
“Mami, you aren’t going anywhere.” He gently but firmly ushered her into the bar area and tried to lead her toward a table.
“No.” Senora Mari pulled away. “I will seat myself.”
“Jo Jo!”
I knew that commanding tone. I climbed onto a barstool next to Senora Mari, who was looking none too pleased at being ordered anywhere by her son. Her legs swung in the air as if she were eight instead of almost eighty. Anthony and his sister, Lily, and Camille sat at a nearby table. Around me, seated at the restaurant’s bright-colored tables, was all of our staff—even Carlos, though his arms were crossed in defiance.
From across the room, Patti waved from a table near the window. I sighed with relief. It was unlike her to close the Feed and Supply, which meant she needed our company. In her way, she was admitting to being only human.
“But—”
“You might as well take a seat.” Aunt Linda walked in from the office, fast on their heels. “Eddie’s called a meeting.”
“Have a sit, kid,” Senora Mari said, patting the last empty stool. Anthony checked his phone and ignored her.
I sat. If I knew Uncle Eddie’s meetings, and I did, this one would finish quicker if I sat down and refused to ask any questions. If no one gave him any lip or questioned his thinking, we’d be out of there in a jiff. I could only hope that Mayor Cogburn would do his usual fine job of promoting his hotel and the town by giving an extensive interview to the reporters I’d spotted on the sidewalk.
“What’s—”
“Not now.” Eddie cut me off with a gesture.
I turned to Aunt Linda, but she merely raised a finger to her lips and widened her eyes.
“I’ve called you all here to tell you what I just saw in front of the Cogburn Hotel.”
“Beyoncé.” Carlos’s voice rang out with sardonic humor and just a touch of pubescent hope. Though it sounded far-fetched, the pop singer had made an appearance at a trendy campground not far from Broken Boot in the spring.
Everyone laughed, even Uncle Eddie. Senora Mari, on the other hand, merely looked at everyone in displeasure, as if Carlos had made fun of her beloved son.
“No, no. Reporters are here. They’ll eat in our restaurant. They’ll drink in our bar and dance in our dance hall.” He raised his arms in triumph. “We’ve struck gold.”
The staff murmured to each other in excited tones.
“Why are they here?” Senora Mari asked.
“To cover Jeff Clark’s murder.”
“Was it murder?” Camille asked, glancing toward the exits as if the murderer would walk in at any moment.
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that we jump on the bandwagon and make the most of it.”
“Eddie!”
“I didn’t know the guy, and I’m not happy he’s dead. Still, this case is drawing a lot of media attention.”
Aunt Linda placed a hand on his arm. “Tell them your idea.”
“It is a fine idea, and it has my blessing.” Senora Mari raised her chin with pride as she placed her hand on his other arm.
With a start, he disengaged from the grip of the two strong women in his life. “We take one of our signature tamales and we rename it in honor of Clark.”
“Who?” Lily asked.
“Jeff Clark.” Anthony nudged his sister with his elbow. “You know, the guy that was killed.”
“No.”
“Ssh.”
“Linda, find that song of his and play it for ’em.” My uncle was starting to sweat. Sometimes his good intentions got the best of his ability to express them.
Aunt Linda pulled out her phone, and after only a few seconds of scrolling, found the song. She adjusted the volume and played a familiar—and weren’t all country songs familiar?—tune called “Sweet Thing.”
“I’ve heard that one before.” Camille looked at Lily as if trying to pass along her love of the song.
“If I ever heard it, I erased it from my memory.” The curl of Lily’s lip and the disdain in her voice made it clear that Clark’s music was not her cup of tea.
“The order of six tamales will now be renamed as the Clark Six-Pack.”
“Did he have a six pack?” Lily asked with relish.
“What is this? You do not change the names on the menu unless you consult me.”
Uncle Eddie placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Mami, it’s important.”
With a look of disgust, she promptly removed his fingers as if they were a dirty dishrag. “He is not a star, this Jeff Clark, like George Jones or Romeo Santos.”
“But these aliens from out of town will be hungry for any mention of him.”
“I don’t see any aliens.” Camille leaned in, eyes as round as saucers.
I gave her a smile. “He means the reporters in town to cover the murder.”
With a grin, Uncle Eddie pounded his chest. “Don’t forget the folks in town for our new Homestead Days Music Festival.”
“What? All ten of ’em?” Carlos looked around, expecting laughter, but this time he received a dozen glares.
As my uncle thrust his hands on his hips in frustration, I wondered if he realized he was the exact mirror image of his mother. “I don’t care if it’s two or ten thousand. If we make a good impression on the tourists and these news folks, word will spread.”
“Eduardo, are you stretching the truth?”
My uncle blew out a big breath. “Regardless, we add this one dish to the menu and customers will love it. It’ll be a . . .”
“Talking point?” Aunt Linda shook her head and kicked up one side of her mouth.
“Yes, uh, a talking point.” My uncle glanced nervously among the female members of his family as if realizing anew he was outnumbered. “Why don’t we go ahead and name the chicken tamale dinner Dixie’s Delight in honor of the first victim Josie found?”
Aunt Linda reached over and slapped her husband upside the head with a stack of menus from the bar.
“Hey,” he cried, grabbing the menus from her hand. “Seems only fair,” he said, rubbing his head as he glanced around the room, clearly expecting each of us to appreciate his black sense of humor.
“You are disrespectful of the dead.” Senora Mari raised two crossed fingers to her mouth. “You must pray that their spirits don’t come and haunt you in your sleep.”
Muttering began among the various groups.
Aunt Linda stared at her husband in confusion. “What made you think that was appropriate?”
“Ah, Dios! I won’t change the menu for this dead man that I don’t know,” Senora Mari cried.
“Listen to his music.” Uncle Eddie took the phone from his wife and handed it to his mother. “Give it a try, and then you tell me if we should honor him in some way.”
“We could vote on it.” Anthony stood and opened his arms to the room. “That would be fair.”
The silence was deafening.
Into the tension-laced air, a quiet voice rang with steel. “You, who have only been working here three months, you want us to vote on the menu?”
He opened his mouth to respond, his cheeks flaming a deep red.
<
br /> Senora Mari cut him off. “You think we should vote on the menu that has existed in this restaurant for fifteen years?”
Someone in the back muttered, “Oh, boy.”
With a gesture of Uncle Eddie’s hand, Anthony moved to the back of the room. “Please consider it for me, Mami.”
The older woman adjusted her bracelets and touched the gold cross at her neck with the other hand.
With a chuckle, Aunt Linda stepped between her errant husband and her mother-in-law. “Eddie, you don’t spring a matter of this importance on Senora Mari as if you have already decided without her approval.” My aunt placed her red lacquered nails on her husband’s denim work shirt. “Let her consider it.” She turned her head so that her lips were closer to his ear and farther from the audience of employees. “Alone,” she whispered.
He nodded. With another big intake of breath, he stepped back. He schooled his expression, wiping it clean of disappointment and frustration. “Thanks, everyone. Back to work. It’s up to Senora Mari now.”
My uncle was wise in the ways of his mother. She was proud and had created the restaurant’s menu from her own sweat and creativity.
“Why don’t they name a dish after me?” Carlos muttered as he ambled back to the kitchen.
Everyone else murmured among themselves and went back to their prelunch chores of wrapping silverware, refilling bottles, wiping down the bright and lively oilcloths on each table, and other everyday but important tasks.
I watched Senora Mari as she studied the blackboard of daily specials on the wall.
“Where are you off to?” Aunt Linda followed her husband as he headed for the back door.
“Meeting with Ryan.”
“On Sunday?” Why Aunt Linda still acted as if my uncle would suddenly decide to stay home and ignore Coach Ryan and football was a mystery.
“Yes, my little cactus flower.” He turned and took her in his arms.
I stepped back, not wanting to interrupt. They had little time for tender scenes such as this one in their busy lives.
“Are you shorthanded?” He kissed the back of her hand.
She laughed like a teen with her first crush. “No, no.”
He kissed the back of her other hand. “That’s good.”
She backed away. “Come home early.” Her smile evaporated. “Someone killed this man, and we don’t know why or who.”
“Okay.” He gave her a light kiss on the lips. “I’ll come early so that no crazy can hit me with an electric guitar.” He chuckled and headed out the back door.
Before I could slip away, Aunt Linda turned and caught me smiling at their exchange. She dropped her soft demeanor. “He needs to come back early, not because I’m afraid, but because he’s going to work himself into an early grave if he’s not more careful.” What she said was true, and tough or not, I knew she was affected by yet another murder in our quiet town.
“I have decided.” Senora Mari joined us.
“And?” My aunt’s voice was a perfect study in politeness, but after years of living with her and Senora Mari, I could perceive the thin thread of irritation.
“We will add to the specials one of those things you make.”
“What? My tamales?” my aunt asked.
“Yes, a sweet one.” Abuela’s nose twitched in disapproval.
“How about the apple and raisin ones?” These were my and Uncle Eddie’s favorites.
“Sí. We will call it . . . what is the name of that Jeff Clark’s song?”
I laughed. “‘Sweet Thing.’”
“That’s it. Call it that, write it on the blackboard,” she shrugged, “and we’ll see if these tourists and reporters like it.” Her tone said she highly doubted it would be a success, even with strangers.
She straightened her shoulders, gave each of us an imperial nod, and walked back into the kitchen, her domain.
Once the doors to the kitchen closed, Aunt Linda and I laughed. “Well,” I said, placing an arm around her shoulders, “you got your wish.”
“Sweet Thing.” She shook her head. “I’ll prove to her how sweet it is.”
Patti joined us. “Do you make those at home?”
“I used to make them every Sunday night.”
“Would you be making them tonight, by any chance?”
“I could.”
Patti broke into a wide grin.
“Would you like to join us?” my aunt asked.
“That’d be awesome.” Patti opened her mouth to say something else and hesitated. She’d slept in my room the past few nights, but not well. Sleeping in my tiny apartment was an acquired taste. You had to like the sound of trains passing through town during the middle of the night, and the yips Lenny made as his little legs chased rabbits and mice in his dreams. Not to mention the clatter and bang of the garbage truck as it picked up trash from each of the businesses along Main—at the unfortunate hour of five o’clock in the morning, three times a week.
“What Patti’s trying to say is she’d rather stay with you tonight.” I raised an eyebrow.
“Did I give you permission to put words in my mouth?” She twisted the iron nail that hung on a leather cord around her neck.
“What do you think?” My aunt turned to me, searching for any sign of hurt feelings.
To be honest, I preferred my own company. “Patti’s used to sleeping in an old, quiet neighborhood.”
“True, that,” my friend said with a laugh.
Aunt Linda glared. “She can’t be any worse than you.” She grabbed my braid and gave it a yank. “Eating us out of house and home.”
“Excuse me.” I didn’t lay a finger on most of the items in the pantry or refrigerator when I stayed the occasional night at Casa Martinez.
“We can’t keep guacamole and hummus in the house if Jo Jo’s home. And forget about popcorn, Dr Pepper, tortilla chips, and ice cream.”
“Not true. I’ve cut way down on Dr Pepper and cookies ’n cream.”
“Since when?”
“Last week.” I hadn’t had the opportunity to shop for groceries or mooch from my family since the murder.
“You come over whenever you like, Patti. We’re glad to have you.”
“Thanks.” She threw back her rounded shoulders. “I’m opening the Feed and Supply later this afternoon to do inventory.” Patti gave me a lopsided grin as she made her way to the stairs. “Why don’t I go up and grab my things now?”
“Should I be insulted?” I called after her.
“Nope.”
“Should Lenny and I go with you to keep you company?” She was an independent cuss, but I couldn’t resist.
“Yip?” Lenny asked.
“The dog can come if he stays out of my suitcase,” she called from the top of the stairs.
“Yip, yip,” Lenny cried.
“Ah, go ahead.” I removed his leash and placed him halfway up to abbreviate his monumental climb.
I’d mulled things over in my mind as I bantered with Patti. Now I stared out the front window onto the street, searching for someone or something that might connect the dots. What did I know about Jeff’s murder? A few things: someone had hit him over the head with a guitar, he was a serious gambler and womanizer, his agent was desperate to break even on Clark’s tour, and every woman I’d met who knew him seemed to love him in one way or another.
I needed to process what I’d uncovered so far, but as Patti’s old boyfriend was the murder victim, I decided to leave her out of it. I rang Lightfoot at the sheriff’s department, but his line went straight to voice mail. I called back, hoping the switchboard operator would bend and give me his whereabouts. Though she was hardly friendly, the crotchety woman on duty did manage to loosen her corset enough to admit he was on patrol.
What better way to clear my head than to take Lenny for a run? A li
ttle thing like exercise wouldn’t kill me. And, besides, burning off more calories would allow me to consume more calories. I raced up the stairs.
“Where are you off to?” Patti removed a pile of clothes from the bedroom floor and stuffed them into a navy duffel bag.
I whistled, and Lenny raised his head from his taco-shell bed. When I’d bought the doggie bed shaped and colored like a crispy beef taco, I’d thought it cute and irreverent. Now it was just plain weird. When he raised his head from the meat-colored cushion, I swear it made me think of ants at a picnic, or worse.
“Lenster, run.” He stood and shook his whole body from silky head to feather-duster tail. With a lack of enthusiasm, he trotted over to where his leash lay on the floor near the front door and brought it to me. The handle lay between his teeth and the rest of it dragged along behind.
“Good boy. Who’s the smartest boy?” I scratched him behind the ears and he sighed and began to shake his back left leg.
“I know that look.” Patti had her duffel over one shoulder and a striped Guatemalan cloth bag over the other.
“You know me—business to tend to.” I hurried to my dresser, the first piece of furniture I purchased as a freshman in college with my own money, and located my running shorts, UT T-shirt, and sock monkey knee-highs.
“Exactly. Since when do you make exercise your business?”
I quickly changed, found my running shoes in the closet, and proceeded to lace up.
Tightening my hair band, I chuckled. “Need to clear my head.”
Her expression clouded as if she understood I was withholding what was actually weighing on my mind. “It’s okay.”
And she was right. My mind was racing with the desire to discuss the murder. My brain was brimming with questions and facts, as if I’d crammed all night for an exam and had yet to take my final.
I busied myself with attaching Lenny’s leash and finding some dog snacks for my pocket. How could I bring up Jeff’s murder yet again? Each time I mentioned his name it would stab her in the heart like a spear.
“Josie.”
The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Page 12