The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole

by Rebecca Adler

  Britney leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “We’re not paying for this little vacation, babe. That’s all that matters.”

  “You think Ken’s going to pick up the tab? He’s through. It’s on us from now on.”

  “Gosh,” I said, wearing a dumb look. “Hasn’t the sheriff already questioned all of you?”

  After a second, Britney slammed her menu closed. “Two of his deputies tried to treat us like a couple of rednecks without any common sense, but Ken provided us a lawyer the second time around.” She scored a point in the air with her index finger. “That shut them up. Didn’t it, babe?”

  I took their order and cruised into the bar to consider how best to keep the information flowing. So far, they didn’t seem to mind talking about their business.

  “Can I get you another drink while you’re waiting?”

  “This is yummy.” Britney took a deep sip of her peach-lime surprise.

  “Glad you like it.” I wet my dry lips. “Won’t you miss touring with Jeff Clark? I bet y’all had a ton of fun.”

  Clay. The guy’s name was Clay. It had all of a sudden come back to me. He stared at me over the top of his glass as he took another swig of beer.

  “Yeah, right.” Britney gave Clay a glance. He ignored her. “Touring with the band’s great. The last stop on the tour was supposed to be Nashville.”

  “You must really miss him.” I tried to load on the awe and wonder.

  “As if,” she said with a giggle.

  I waited and lifted my eyebrows to receive whatever info they would slide my way.

  He turned to glare at his woman. “Be respectful of the dead.”

  She shook her head and raised an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t wish Jeff any ill will, but everybody in the band knows that you are the real superstar of the bunch.”

  “Are you a singer too?” My cheeks were hurting from smiling so much.

  He gave me a curt nod. “You going to bring us our food, or what?”

  “You should hear him sing.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Melts your heart.”

  I went to check on their two orders of pecan-crusted tilapia, which happened to be a favorite of mine, and thought about what I had witnessed. The two seemed to be happy together. Neither one expressed any dismay over the end of the tour or sadness over the death of Jeff Clark, someone they had both known very well.

  From the order window, I watched between the paper tickets hanging on the line as they ate the chips and salsa before them, kissed briefly, and whispered together in a more serious vein.

  Did Britney always travel with the group? What kind of life was that? How did Ken Price feel about paying her way?

  “She’s too cute.” Senora Mari said, slipping up beside me.

  I glanced down and found my abuela studying Britney like a bobcat studying a field mouse.

  “Can you be too cute?”

  “Look at her,” she whispered. “She’s acting like she’s in love.”

  Was Britney merely pretending to be the dutiful girlfriend? Was there perhaps a bit of manipulation in the hand she placed on his arm or leg? She would turn her face to stare into his eyes when she spoke to him, and always with a little smile, an extra twinkle in her eye. Maybe she just loved the guy. People still fell in love and found their happily-ever-after. Or so they claimed.

  “How is everything?” Clay had eaten half of his fish while Britney had scraped the pecans and sauce from hers, until it looked like a chicken breast on a diet.

  “It’s great, but do you have some of that green sauce?” A line formed between her eyes, as if the answer would determine the outcome of the next Super Bowl.

  “Tomatillo?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Sure.”

  I turned to Clay. “I heard the band the other night. You were awesome. Are you thinking of forming your own band now that Jeff’s dead?”

  “He’s going to be a superstar. Ken’s working on a recording deal for him as we speak.”

  “I heard about that Jeff,” I ventured. “Were you about to leave the band? I heard he could be a real tool. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything.”

  “You ask a lot of nosy questions.”

  “Gee,” I said, placing a hand to my chest in mock horror. “I’m sorry. I’ve lived in a small town too long, I guess.”

  She frowned.

  “Tomatillo sauce coming up.”

  “You are quite the actress too,” Senora Mari whispered as I passed her on my way to the kitchen.

  When I returned with the salsa verde, their heads were close together. As I set the bowl down, she popped upright like a jill-in-the-box. “You may not have realized that Clay and Jeff were old friends, but we want to set the record straight. Do you know who would’ve killed to have Jeff’s position in the band? Dustin Akers. Ken promised him he would be lead singer when the band was first formed a couple of years ago,” she pulled down the corners of her mouth in an exaggerated frown, “but Ken never gave it to him. He gave it to Jeff and never looked back.” She turned to Clay, as if waiting for him to continue the performance.

  “I don’t envy Dustin,” he said, staring down into his beer. “He’s had to swallow his pride on more than one occasion.” They both looked at me as if waiting for my reaction.

  I swallowed. Did they know I was a reporter with the Bugle? Had they heard that Dustin had asked me out? Or was this routine merely their way of steering me away from their true feelings about Jeff and the band?

  “Is Ken going to offer Dustin a deal as well?”

  “He’s been pushing for one.” She patted Clay’s arm. “As if we don’t know what he does behind our backs.”

  My neck started to sweat. “Can I get you both a refill?”

  “Thank you, sweetie.” She handed me both glasses with a saccharine smile.

  I retreated to the bar, thinking about Dustin Akers and how’d he asked me to show him around town. No warning bells had pealed in my head as I accepted. For all I knew, he was exactly what he appeared to be—a friendly, warmhearted, dignified soul. What should I do? I sighed. If what these two yahoos said had even an inkling of truth to it, I needed to accept his offer, pronto.

  “Howdy, Josie.”

  I spun on my heel in surprise. When Coach Ryan Prescott arrived, the weight of the world seemed to lift off my shoulders a smidge. He was his usual tall and handsome self, if a little gritty from the heat. A glance at the UT clock told me he was stopping by for his post-practice tamales.

  “How’s the team shaping up?”

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kidnap your dog.” With a laugh, he walked around the bar and helped himself to a Shiner longneck from the cooler. As our special-events bartender, he made himself at home—as well he should. He and I dated in college, and though we’d both followed our separate paths to broken hearts, his had mended with the help of more than a few local beauties.

  I scurried after him and swatted his West Texas cap into the sink. “Don’t you even joke about hurting Lenny.”

  “Hey, Mike Tyson, watch that right!” He retrieved his cap from the damp basin and shook it at me for good measure before jamming it on his head.

  “That is the worst case of hat hair . . . ever.” I laughed. And then: “How could you say that after what happened last time?”

  “Aw, heck,” he groaned. “I forgot.” He placed a gentle arm around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he said in a baby voice. “Did the little-bitty doggie get an unexpected haircut from a wicked lady?”

  I pulled away and swatted him again. “She could’ve killed him, Ryan.” Elaine Burnett had shaved Lenny and written a threatening message on his side before my doggie sidekick had helped me bring her to justice.

  “Jos, Lenny and I are old friends. You know I wouldn’t harm a hair on his head.” After another lau
gh at the irritated look on my face, he took a swig from his longneck.

  I sighed. “What you’re not saying is that you hope to God you’ve got a good team, but you wouldn’t stake your life on it.”

  “That about sums it up.” He found the can of assorted nuts and refilled the bowls on the bar before tossing a handful into his mouth.

  “What are the experts saying?”

  “Seven and five.”

  “Not bad.”

  Before I knew it, he had a playful arm bent around my neck. “Not bad?” He taunted, once again turning into a ten-year-old. “Not bad?”

  I laughed in spite of myself and ducked out from under his arm. “Okay, okay. At least that’s a winning season.”

  He opened the door to the storage closet and looked around. “Where’s the Lenster?” On occasion, I hid my long-haired friend in the storage closet so he wouldn’t bark at being abandoned in my apartment upstairs.

  “Aunt Linda took him home with her. Something about him being the only grandkid she’s ever going to have.”

  I drew Ryan’s attention to the lovebirds in the restaurant.

  “Do you know those two?”

  “I’ve seen them around, mostly at Pete’s.”

  “Since when do you go out during football season?” Never. If he’d made time for a drink at Pecos Pete’s, then he hadn’t done so on his own—or his name wasn’t Ryan Nathaniel Prescott Jr.

  “All work and no play . . .” He wiped his mouth and tossed the bottle into the empties.

  “What night was that?”

  “Thursday. Why?” His eyes widened. “Tell me you’re not investigating again.”

  “Heck, no.” Energetically, I began to wipe the spotless bar. “I’m working on an article for the Bugle. What else?”

  “Huh.” He lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Yeah, right. And I’m going to run an Iron Man in the spring.”

  I pulled away. “So? What were they doing at Pete’s?”

  “Playing poker in the back room.”

  “Which means you were playing as well.”

  “Yes, Mom, but only for a round. Stakes jumped too high for this poor cowpoke.”

  I gestured toward Britney. “Was she playing too?”

  “Nah. She was railroading and playing games on her phone.”

  I cocked my head.

  “Railroading? Observing?”

  “Gotcha. Could he play?”

  Ryan frowned. “Who cares? I left early.”

  “Was he a serious player?”

  “Took the whole thing way too seriously.” Ryan shook his head and grabbed a Dr Pepper from the cooler. “Told me to shut my piehole.”

  “Were you telling more of your lame jokes?”

  Ryan raised his can to my face and lifted the tab. “Your mother’s lame.”

  “Boys.” I rolled my eyes and walked away. After a quick check on Britney and Clay, I returned to fetch them another round.

  I found Ryan in the kitchen, wrangling some tamales from Senora Mari. “Want to make this peach-lime surprise for me?”

  “Josie Callahan,” Senora Mari chided. “Take care of your own customers. Ryan is busy telling me all about Jeff Clark’s concert on Thursday night—which you have not cared enough to do.” She was filling an aluminum to-go container with pork tamales, rice, and beans.

  Leaning into the kitchen window, I asked, “Did you see anything strange the night of the murder?”

  “What?” He paused to drain his Dr Pepper can. “Patti being hauled onstage by that dude like a sack of potatoes wasn’t strange enough?” With no inhibitions, he lifted the cover off a tray of beef enchiladas.

  “You like these?” My abuela found another container, filled it with beef enchiladas, followed up with savory ranchero sauce, and sprinkled them with cheese.

  “Gracias, senora.” Ryan smiled that slow, cute grin of his. To my delight, her stern countenance transformed as she rewarded him with a genuinely fetching smile.

  Though I’d relegated Ryan to the friend zone years earlier, he was like double-fudge Blue Bell with chocolate sauce, real whipped cream, and toffee sprinkles. Deliciously tempting.

  But always in the back of my mind, like liver pâté that leaves a nasty taste in your mouth that never quite goes away, was the hurt and mortification I experienced when Brooks had left me at the altar on his way to the Great Barrier Reef nine months earlier.

  “What about the night of Jeff’s concert? Did you see anything out of the ordinary, or were you preoccupied?”

  He gave me a wicked grin. “Are you asking for your article or because you want to know who I was out with?”

  “Come here,” I said, gesturing for him to move closer to the order-up window. “I want to punch some sense into you.” Sometimes I remembered too clearly our days as college sweethearts. He, on the other hand, did not have any trouble putting the past behind him.

  With a “tsk, tsk” in my direction, Senora Mari bagged his to-go containers. “Tell her,” she said with a flick of her wrist, “that she will catch a man when she learns how to cook.”

  A gleam in his eye, he opened his mouth.

  “Don’t. You. Dare,” I said. “I’m asking because Patti’s in jail.”

  Immediately, he was all business. “Dang it.” His shoulders tensed. “Of course.” He walked over to where I stood, reached through the window, and gave my hand a squeeze. “I’m an idiot.” For a few seconds, he screwed up his face as he tried to remember the events of that night. “I don’t remember seeing anything strange, but it’s hard to say. There were a lot of folks in town for the concert that night from out of town.”

  “What about a Land Rover? Did you see one of those that night?”

  “A what?”

  I pulled up a photo on my phone.

  He squinted his eyes in thought as he studied the image. “I might have. Some weird metallic color. Purple? Midnight blue?”

  “Yes.” I wanted to pump my fist. “Where did you see it?”

  “I’m not sure.” He glanced first at me, then Senora Mari, and then back again. “There were tons of cars and trucks parked at Two Boots that night.” He handed back my phone. “Why?”

  “Someone was in Patti’s neighborhood that night in a blue Land Rover. And it wasn’t someone who lives on that street.”

  His phone buzzed. He answered with a quick text.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “What?” he asked, as if he had no idea what I was saying. Playing dumb was Ryan-speak for I’m never going to tell you, so quit asking.

  “Jayda?”

  “What?”

  “I knew it.” Another beauty. And why not?

  “Thanks so much, Senora Mari,” Ryan said, taking the to-go bag in one hand as he gave her a quick one-armed hug with the other.

  “Buenas noches, Ryan. You come back soon.”

  He headed for the exit and then turned on a dime. “Where’s Eddie?”

  “What is it with you? If it’s not food, it’s football.”

  Ryan ignored me. “Where’s your uncle hiding?”

  “He was in the office the last time I checked.”

  Ryan leaned close and my face flushed. At the last second, he rubbed the top of my head with his knuckles. “See you later.”

  “You wish,” I called after him, as he loped toward the office. I rubbed my head and any crazy, romantic notions out of my brain until the feel of his hand in my hair disappeared.

  Chapter 14

  As the two carnivorous lovebirds started for the door, I realized I had no idea how to reach Dustin to plan our rendezvous.

  “Thanks.” Britney’s voice bounced on the walls of the now-empty restaurant, high and loud.

  “Excuse me,” I said, meeting them at the door. “Dustin Akers asked me to call
him, but I’ve lost his number.”

  The two looked at each other with knowing glances. “He’s a real sweet talker, ain’t he?” Britney winked again.

  “Is there something in your eye?” I asked in a sympathetic tone.

  She glared. “No.”

  I deflected her anger with a smile. “He was awful nice.” I am not a hick, but it helps to know how to talk like one. It distracts folks from the truth, makes them think you’re not too clever.

  She chortled behind her childlike hands. “He must really have taken a shine to you if he forgot to get your number.” She elbowed Clay. “Right, hon?”

  Clay unwrapped a smile. “No doubt.”

  It took Britney only seconds to find his number and rattle it off. With a cat-that-drank-the-cream smile, she allowed her man to escort her out the door and down the sidewalk toward the Cogburn Hotel.

  While counting out my tips and wiping down the tables and chairs, I pondered how to best meet without placing myself in a compromising position.

  At first I’d considered a late lunch tomorrow at Elaine’s, but I immediately scratched that plan. I’d recognized on my last visit, albeit a bit too late, that I wasn’t ready to meet Suellen face-to-face. Even though it was not my fault her mother, Elaine Burnett, turned out to be a murderess—and I certainly didn’t think Elaine’s oldest daughter had anything to do with her mother’s kind of crazy—it was way too much too soon.

  So if not Elaine’s, we could meet at Black Creek Bagel or simply take a walk down Main Street, as he suggested. Somewhere we could be outside and still be private would work best. I didn’t want him to worry about being overheard if the conversation should happen to include Jeff Clark.

  At the last minute, I chickened out and sent him a text.

  Usually I hemmed and hawed over every minute decision pertaining to giving a man a bit of my time, unless he was one hundred percent in the friend zone, like Coach Ryan, Deputy Lightfoot, and my uncle Eddie. Only this time, I didn’t prevaricate. I thought only of his smile and a walk on a beautiful night. And, yes, curiosity had me by the tail. Call me single-minded, but I was going to relish picking this guy’s brain, even as we soaked up a bit of moonlight. If I could give Lightfoot something substantial the sheriff’s office didn’t already have, perhaps—just perhaps—he’d give me a crumb of information in return.