The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole

by Rebecca Adler

  “What did he look like?”

  “Sex on a stick. Jeff Clark’s as sexy as they come.”

  “And you knew it was him from the back of his head?”

  For a second, she cocked her head to one side. “I noticed he was lean, with a great butt.” She gazed off into the distance, remembering every stitch on his back pockets. “He wore a white hat over wavy brown hair.” With a sigh, she settled back down to earth and eagerly brought her water bottle back to her lips. “I guess I didn’t know for certain that it was actually Jeff Clark until the police showed up.”

  If I hadn’t been desperate for information, I would’ve walked. This woman was lying or I was the next governor of the great state of Texas. “You were a fan?”

  Her eyes widened. “Not until I laid eyes on him.”

  I made a quick note. “What about later that night? Did you see anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “I heard something that sounded like raccoons in the trash cans and went to run ’em off with a broom. That was about twelve thirty.”

  “Was Jeff still there?” Now, I knew that she would have no way of knowing that unless she had peeked in Patti’s windows through the plantation shutters, but I didn’t put it past her.

  “Girl, you can say that again.” She realized her mistake, turned on her heel, and carried her bottle to the faux-marble counter that separated her kitchen from the great room. “I mean, as far as I could tell with that racket going on.”

  “Were they fighting?” That would align with Patti’s story.

  With an impatient gesture, she wiped her hair from her forehead. “They were jamming on their electric guitars loud enough to wake the living dead.” Her chuckle was forced. “I guess the living dead would already be awake, wouldn’t they?” She wiped her face again. “I’m sorry, but you need to go. If I don’t finish this workout, Jason will never let me hear the end of it.”

  “Just one more question?”

  As if I were a small dog, she shooed me toward the front door, knocking me into her Dallas Cowboys umbrella stand. “Don’t write in your article I made jokes about the dead, living or otherwise. Okay? I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “How do you know it was him the entire time?” I asked, picking up an umbrella from the floor. “Did they leave the blinds open?”

  “Well, there aren’t any on the windows at the front door, are there?” She threw up her hands. “I could see them walking back and forth. And, like I said, I heard the music.” She opened the door and reached for the screen.

  All kinds of alarms were going off in my head. I thought she was lying, but what if she had all these details about the hours leading up to Clark’s murder for another reason? This was not how I wanted this interview to end. “What about the rest of the night or the next morning?” I asked, unable to hide my growing impatience.

  “Look, hon, you have to go.” With a nervous glance out the screen, she opened the door.

  “Please.” I placed a hand on the doorjamb. “Patti’s your neighbor. She needs your help.”

  “I guess it was around one, one thirty when I heard her start up the jeep and drive away.”

  “How can you be so sure of the time?”

  “My husband gets off work at midnight.” She smiled like a cat inhaling catnip. “I make a point to greet him at the door with dinner and a smile.” She glanced longingly toward the television.

  I pocketed my notepad. “Thanks for your help . . . uh?”

  “Victoria Pappas.” Did that explain the Grecian blue shutters?

  “How do you know it was Patti behind the—?”

  She didn’t answer except to let the door swing shut. As it did, I heard the swell of the instructor’s voice and the energetic music playing beneath it.

  I checked my watch. My interview with the next Jillian Michaels had only taken fifteen minutes. Now for the neighbor on the other side.

  This house was an unfortunate shade of pink adobe with a roof that had seen better days. In fact, the roof slumped so badly across the front of the house that I could envision rain pouring through the shingles and onto the floor. No flowers sunned themselves in the front beds, but the owner had planted four pink flamingos in different sizes. They clustered near the front door. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were waiting to peck the toes of individuals brave or foolish enough to knock.

  I dropped the door knocker twice in spite of the watchful pink fowl and immediately heard the ferocious barking of what sounded like two extremely large dogs. In seconds, they were hitting the door with their paws, scratching, and whining to get at me. “Get back, you idiots!” I heard a man’s voice yell through the cacophony of snarling and growling.

  I backed onto the sidewalk—the better to sprint for my car if he unleashed the hounds. The door opened a crack and the barking became louder. I saw a black Doberman trying to squeeze his head through the bottom crack of the door. The handsome but ferocious creature began to whine at not being given free rein to remove my ankles from my legs. “I said ‘Get back!’”

  The dog was jerked away from the opening with a yelp. For a second, I saw a second canine head try to make its way through the doorway. This one belonged to a whiskey-brown pit bull. The second one wasn’t whining. Instead, he was growling as if a generator had kicked on inside his throat—a generator that would propel him through the door to remove my ears from the sides of my head.

  I backed away just as the second doggie disappeared. A bald head with wizened features; gray bushy eyebrows; wire-framed glasses; a long, thin nose; and full lips, made a brief appearance. “What do you want?” All I could see was the dome of his bald head and the elbow of his plaid flannel shirt.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I said in what I hoped was a confident voice. “I’m a friend of Patti Perez, your neighbor, and I write for the Bugle.”

  “Seen you before,” he cried, yanking one of the dogs away from the door. “Get on with it!”

  I moved closer and instantly regretted it. In addition to loud canine threats puncturing my eardrums, the odor of unwashed dog and cooked Brussels sprouts assailed my nose. “Did you see any strangers pull up to Patti’s house on the night of the murder or that next morning?” Abruptly, the threatening noise and stench dispersed. From somewhere in the back of the house, I could still hear them whining, scratching, and longing for my flesh.

  “Didn’t see anyone or anything,” he said in a nasal voice as he opened the door a measly five inches.

  I sighed. “What about on the street? Did you see any unfamiliar cars or trucks?” If he could see my face, it was a miracle. His glasses were thicker than Coke bottles. Made me wonder if he could see his own hand in front of his face.

  “Didn’t want to help that deputy that came by.”

  “No?”

  “Women shouldn’t be in law enforcement. What a crock.”

  “Deputy Pleasant came by?”

  He sniffed. “We didn’t get to the introductions.”

  “Oh, well. I’m Josie Callahan. You know my aunt Linda and uncle Eddie, I imagine. They own Milagro.”

  “Never heard of it.” He tilted back his head as if trying to see me through the bottom part of his lenses.

  “On Main Street? Tex-Mex, tortillas? No?”

  “I don’t eat out. Gives me indigestion.”

  I started to pull out my notebook and pen, but sensed he might shy away if I did. “I could really use your help.”

  “Blue. I saw a blue vehicle.”

  Nodding encouragement and smiling like an idiot, I said, “Great. Was it a truck or a car?”

  “No. Was definitely not a car, but it did have four doors.”

  That was promising. “Was it a truck with an extended cab?”

  After a few seconds to scratch his nose and a
djust his glasses, he sighed. “No. Wasn’t a truck.”

  I checked my watch. Lightfoot could arrive at any time. “If it wasn’t a car, how about an SUV? I bet that’s what it was, right?”

  I watched as he rolled his eyes skywards. “All that comes to mind is the word Rogers.”

  “Rogers. Like Roy Rogers?”

  Screwing up his lips, he rolled his eyes in the opposite direction. “Land. Rogers.” He shook his head violently. “No. Land . . .”

  “Rover?” I nearly shouted. “Land Rover?”

  “Yes,” he said with a prim nod and a finger to the bridge of his glasses. “A blue Land Rover is exactly what I saw the night of the murder.”

  I wanted to twirl him around like a preschooler. I wanted to give him a high five with one hand and a knuckle bump with the other. I did none of those things because his face contorted into a mask of terror as if he suspected where my thoughts had gone.

  “Hmm. Are you sure?” I asked. I had never seen a Land Rover in Broken Boot that I could remember. The last time I noticed one was in Austin, when my neighbor’s father came to visit from Dallas.

  “Young lady, I used to sell Mini Coopers for a living back in the eighties. I know a Land Rover when I see one.”

  His logic made no sense to me, but I persevered. “Did you see who was driving it?”

  “No.”

  “What time did you see it?”

  “I don’t sleep much. I came out to get the paper at five thirty and saw it driving down the road, back toward the interstate.”

  “Five thirty in the morning?” I was confused.

  “That’s what I said.”

  I could have sworn he said he saw the blue Land Rover that night. I started to correct him, but thought better about it. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

  “Don’t see how it matters.”

  “Want to give credit where credit is due.”

  “Here’s my name: mind your own business.” He cackled and slammed the door.

  Didn’t matter. Lightfoot would get it out of him once I passed along the neighbor’s identity. Would the deputy be willing to trade some facts in return?

  I figured I should hit the three houses directly across the street. Wouldn’t that be something if I discovered more than one clue that Lightfoot didn’t already possess? All three driveways were empty, but the one directly across the street had two children’s bicycles parked haphazardly across the sidewalk that led from the street to the house. One was a purple girl’s bike with a pink basket, and the other, smaller one was green with black racing stripes.

  I rang the doorbell and waited. Immediately I heard a child scream “Mom!” at the top of her lungs. I waited for thirty seconds without any other sound permeating the expensive dark wood and decorative glass panels. Then a small child peeked out from behind the living-room curtains. I couldn’t be certain, but I suspected she was all of two years old.

  The door opened on a full-figured woman with platinum blond hair and braces. Her eyes flew to the notepad and pen I held at the ready. “I’m not signing anything or supporting any causes,” she squealed. “Take my name off your list and don’t ever come back.” She moved to close the door.

  Normally pink rubber bands on someone’s teeth meant they were still too young to drink, but her age was hard to determine—probably because all I could see through the crack in the door was the right side of her face.

  “I’m not selling anything.” I took out my driver’s license and tried to hand it to her. “I work for the Bugle.”

  She didn’t open the door or make any move to study my identification. “I’ve seen you with Patti,” she said in a childish whisper.

  I smiled. “Yes, that’s true. She and I go way back. I know Patti Perez like a sister. There’s no way on God’s green earth she killed Jeff Clark.” I lay my hand across my heart. “Lord knows she seems tough on the outside, but she’s as kind and considerate as everyone else.”

  The paranoid woman continued to study me with her right eye. “She honks at my kids all the time. I don’t know why she couldn’t have done it.”

  “Mommy,” a girl’s voice broke in.

  The right side of her face disappeared. “What?” she hissed.

  “I need to go number one.”

  “Go on and go. I’ll be right there.”

  This time the woman’s entire face appeared, her eyes downcast.

  “I didn’t see anything.” She ran her tongue across the front of her teeth. “Don’t ask me again. I have my children to consider. Lord knows you don’t care what happens to people in this neighborhood.” Her eyes grew wide and wet.

  As the door closed, I called out, “Did you see anything suspicious that night?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, stepped onto the doormat, and pulled the door shut behind her.

  “Uh, if you think of anything, no matter how small it seems, will you call me? Please?”

  “I already spoke to Deputy Barnes. Does he know you’re here harassing us?”

  I backed away from the raw emotion in her face. “Uh, I understand your concern. I’m only trying to help my friend.” I turned to stare across the street at Patti’s house, now abandoned and desolate. Across the front door, the yellow crime-scene tape hung in the shape of a tattered X.

  I heard the brush of the door closing and a small voice ask, “Who was that lady?”

  “Calls herself a reporter.”

  Before I could turn around, she slammed the door, rattling the decorative panes. With a sigh, I left my card on top of the mailbox.

  As I suspected, no one was home at the houses on either side, so I decided to pack it in.

  If I were a detective, I would canvass the neighborhood, asking questions about a blue Land Rover. But I was a waitress. If I didn’t pull a shift sometime today, I wasn’t going to be able to pay for Patti’s new Latina lawyer.

  Chapter 13

  Back at Milagro, our usual Sunday business was off. One table held two couples from out of town, but the only vehicles in the parking lot were our own.

  “Carlos,” I called through the service window. “Do you know anyone who drives a Land Rover around here?”

  He schlepped over. “I don’t think so. Wait, my cousin has a hack job. The front’s an old El Camino, but the back is a Grand Cherokee.”

  “That’s a jeep.”

  “Excuse me for trying to help a body out.”

  Thanks to Senora Mari’s constant criticism, Carlos’ skin was a bit thin. “How’s that going for him?” I asked, hoping to calm the waters.

  He shrugged. “He can carry six people, two ladders, and all his tools.”

  “Trouble is, I wouldn’t know a Land Rover if it ran me over in the middle of a cow pasture.”

  “Humph.” Carlos gave me a look of disgust. “If you find one in this county, you’ll be lucky.”

  We both pulled out our phones and started searching for a photo of said Land Rover.

  “Here’s a sweet one.” He held out his phone. The four-by-four in the photo was a silver Defender model. If the Terminator were to go on an African safari, this would be his ride.

  “Would you ask around? See if anyone has seen one?” How hard could it be to find such a strange specimen?

  “Why?”

  Senora Mari hurried over. “Let him get back to work.”

  “Abuela, I need him to help me find this.”

  She grabbed Carlos’s phone from me. “I have seen one of those.”

  “You have?”

  “Ten, maybe twenty years ago.”

  I sighed heavily. “Gee, thanks.”

  “I’ll check around. Don’t worry.” Carlos gave a superior nod, while doing what he did best: ignoring Senora Mari and her attitude.

  I was in the process of persuading Aunt Linda to close the d
ining room early for the night when another couple slipped in. As I seated the slim blonde and tall, redheaded dude at a booth in the rear, I recognized him. I would’ve been a dolt not to. He’d fought with Clark the night of the singer’s murder, and he failed to make a sweeter impression when the band chowed down at our expense. The young woman, judging by her distinctive hair color, blond with chocolate highlights, was the giggling bimbo that had left Jeff Clark’s dressing room right before their fight.

  Had Lightfoot questioned them? Or was I going to have the first crack at them? “Howdy,” I said. “What would you like to drink?”

  They ignored me and looked pointedly at the dinner menus I still held in my hands.

  I handed them over and pointed to the blackboard on the wall. “Tonight’s specials are chiles rellenos or pecan-crusted tilapia. Our special margarita is a peach-lime surprise.”

  “Ooh, baby.” The young woman wiggled her shoulders in delight. “I’ll have the peach-lime surprise.” She gave me a wink. Guess the fact she was buying liquor made us suddenly fast friends.

  “Just give me whatever Mexican beer you got on tap.” He gave his partner a disapproving stare while placing a proprietary arm around her shoulders.

  “You got it.”

  I returned with their drinks. “I’m surprised you and the band are still here.”

  They glanced at each other.

  Playing it smart, I took my time as I carefully laid their drinks on their Revolver beer coasters. “I mean, now that Jeff is dead and all.”

  “It’s not like we have any choice.”

  “Britney,” the man warned.

  So this was Britney, the creature who supposedly heard Patti threaten to kill Jeff Clark.

  My blood pressure rose so quickly, I could feel my ears redden like a Tasmanian devil’s. I gripped my emotions with both hands. All I had to do was keep my cool to find what they heard that night. Subtle was my new middle name. “I don’t get it. Not that we don’t love the band, but why can’t you leave?”

  “Ask your sheriff,” the man muttered. “It’s his party.”