“Did you find any time to yourself this weekend?” Had she woken earlier than her borrowed offspring and wandered out onto the fairgrounds, perhaps in the direction of Lucky’s tent?
“I run every morning at five, kids or no kids. That’s my me time. Look, I gotta go find them before we end up in the ER on the way out of town.”
I watched her go. Then I circled the tent just in case she’d lied about Elliot and his whereabouts. We found his open-air cage, but there was no sign of the green iguana. We moved on.
I tasted two traditional chili samples and one chili verde before I came across Russell and his feline friends.
“Howdy,” I called, determined to get to the bottom of this murder, if indeed that’s what the tragic event of the day actually was.
“Howdy, yourself.” He was sitting outside his tent, the two cats in a large cage behind him. “Name your poison.”
I had a bit of room left in a corner of my belly, but with chili one has to be careful. “Salsa and chips, please.”
He glanced at Lenny.
“Yip.”
“Polite dog, as far as canines go.”
“Yip.”
“Don’t push it,” said the tall giant of a man.
“You know my family organized this event?”
“That so?”
“I’m conducting an informal survey on how to improve for next year.”
“Go right ahead, but I don’t see as how you can improve on a murder.”
“Right.” Smart aleck.
He piled a plate full of chips and handed me a cup of salsa. “Want something to drink with that?”
“Dr Pepper?” A Texan can never get her fill of the world’s best carbonated beverage, especially when paired with spicy Tex-Mex.
“Coming right up.”
“Did you see anything suspicious this morning?” I decided to come right out with it.
“No, but I saw that woman with the kids jogging like a javelina with a hangover.”
I paused, distracted by the image of a small wild boar weaving through the brush, landing in a bed of cacti, and passing out.
Russell misjudged my silence for disapproval. “I don’t mean nothing by it. Want some chili to go with that measly helping of salsa?”
“No, thank you. And if it’s so measly why did you serve it to me in a small cup?”
He grinned. “Business is business, as they say in Big D.”
“Were you jogging as well?” I avoided staring at his girth.
“Yip.”
“Have a chip.” He threw a chip at Lenny, but I intercepted it with my foot and ground it into teensy-weensy pieces.
“Choking my dog isn’t on the menu.”
“Yip.” Lenny lapped up the small pieces without incident.
“Jogging?”
Russell patted his stomach. “As you can tell, I don’t jog. But I do like to stretch my legs every morning around five thirty.”
Which would have given him just enough time to bean Lucky with an iron skillet and drop a stun gun in his chili. That stun gun was a puzzle.
“Industrious,” I muttered.
He lowered himself into a camping chair and took a swig of the beer that’d been in the cup holder. “Nah. I can’t sleep like I used to, my legs get restless.”
“What about your wife?” It was a shot in the dark.
“What wife?” His smile was a bit too familiar.
“You know,” I shook my head. “The one that called you hon at the reception last night.”
Russell’s lips thinned. “What about her?”
My shot in the dark had hit the bullseye. “Did she see anything suspicious?”
“Just the inside of her eyelids. She could sleep through a tornado, even if it took the roof off and her bed with it.”
I sighed. “Poor Lucky. At least he died doing something he loved.”
“Humph. Don’t feel sorry for him. He did what he loved every day of his life.”
“Yip.”
“What was that?”
“Made people’s lives miserable.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“I’m not going to sugarcoat it. He was a mean son of a biscuit eater. All those years in charge at Texas Power. That man had enemies.”
Lucky had to have worked at the utility company at the same time as Bridget’s father. It was odd neither one of them mentioned it earlier. “You worked for him?”
He shrugged. “Might have. Heck, yeah, sorry to say, I did.”
“Why enter if you suspected he’d be here?”
“That’s it, don’t you see? Those of us that worked for him and suffered under his petty tyrannical moods, we compete to beat him at the thing he loves most.”
I studied the man and his long gray braids. He didn’t appear to be overly passionate in his hatred toward Lucky.
“When did you work for him?”
“Ten years ago.”
“Did he fire you too?”
“I quit. No matter what he told folks.”
I’d reached the far corner of my stomach. It was quit eating or burst. “Want the rest of these?” I asked, offering him my chips.
“Trash can’s over there.”
I turned to leave and he called me back. “Wait. I did see something suspicious.”
With an effort, I kept my face blank. “What’s that?”
“Whip coming out of Lucky’s tent.”
“When was that? Five thirty?”
He scratched his head—quite the performer. “Not my first time around the fairgrounds, but my second. I’d guess that was closer to five forty-five.”
“I’ll make a note.”
“Hey.”
I turned around once again. “Yes, sir?”
“Make a note to make the prizes bigger. Plenty of folks are still hurting after Texas Power laid them off a few years back.”
“Will do.”
I finally decided that Lightfoot had left the premises without telling me. There was no sign of him. I was on the way to the Prius—for sure this time—when I spotted Whip loading supplies into the back of his minivan.
Even though Lightfoot had questioned him, what would it hurt for me to toss a few innocent questions about the contest his way?
“Need any help?”
“Yip.”
Whip pasted on a smile, but I hadn’t missed the distress in his reaction. “I only have one more load.”
“Leaving already? Didn’t you win a ribbon?”
“Yeah. Second place in the salsa verde.” He had a large black duffel bag in one hand and the trunk lid in the other. With his foot, he was kicking the duffel into the back for all he was worth, but that cargo section was so full he could’ve set up his own flea market.
“You’re not taking any of Lucky’s things, are you?”
He gave one last shove with his foot and slammed the trunk closed. “Why would I do that?” he asked, refusing to meet my eye.
“You didn’t find Lucky’s iron skillet?”
His jaw muscles clenched. “I’ll have you know I packed my iron skillet, Miss Martinez.”
“Callahan.”
“Whoever you are. Not Lucky’s, but mine.”
“Where do you think his iron skillet ran off to? Could he have left it at home?”
Glancing to his right and his left, he stepped closer. “He’d sooner leave his jockey shorts. That skillet was his lucky charm.”
“Maybe he loaned it to you, and you just forgot.”
He frowned. “Shoot, he’d never let anyone borrow it, not even me.”
I tried another tack. “I wanted to ask how we can improve our contest next year.”
“As long as you don’t have another murder, you should be fine and dand
y.”
“Funny. Did you see anything or anyone out of place this morning when you first stepped outside your tent?”
“Who said I slept in my tent?” He backed away, his elephantine ears turning red.
“Isn’t that what you said to Detective Lightfoot earlier?” I was obviously bluffing, but I was trying to rattle his cage. In fact, I remembered quite well that he’d slept in his Apache camper.
His countenance cleared. “Oh, sure.” He tried a smile. “Out of place. Hmm, well, I think I saw a couple of people milling around.”
“Who was that? Did you recognize them?”
“A dark-haired woman was jogging, a regular Nosy Nell.”
“How’s that?”
“Until she noticed me, she was peeking in tents and other people’s shelters.”
“Sabotage?”
He shrugged and pushed a lank hair out of his face. “Not that I could see, but very curious.”
“Was there anyone else?”
“Just Russell stretching his legs.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. He was too fast for me. Didn’t meet my eye.”
“Not a Nosy Neil, then?”
“Heck no, minding his own business.” He slammed the back door of the minivan and locked it with his remote. “I’ve got one more load that’s not going to carry itself.” Without another word, he hurried off toward his tent.
“Oh, Whip?”
He turned, an angry, impatient look on his face. “Did Lightfoot give you permission to leave town?”
Without replying, he stomped off.
Chapter 9
Break-In at Pinyon Pawn
I retreated only as far as the quiet interior of the Prius. It was nearly impossible for me to blow off my family responsibilities when it came down to it—Uncle Eddie being my adopted father, for all intents and purposes. After a few seconds it became clear the sun was too bright, and though exhausted, my mind was too full of murder and mayhem.
I began to write down the last of my observations.
My editor’s tool for helping me move up the journalistic ladder, the police scanner, was staring at me. It was perched on the passenger seat, light blinking. I waited for something to happen, but other than a loud crackling sound every few seconds, nada.
“Barnes.” The crackle became words. Tense. A female dispatcher.
“Go ahead.” He sounded as if he was chewing.
“What’s your twenty?”
“Round Robin.” That time I heard a distinct swallowing sound.
“There’s a 10-15 at 203 Pinyon Street.”
“Oh. Sheriff on his way?”
“Negatory, good buddy. Sheriff’s taking a stand.”
I’d heard a rumor that Wallace was on a hunting trip—which would explain the reference to taking a stand. Only it wasn’t deer hunting season. Or maybe I was wrong.
“I’m on my way.” Barnes was excited, by the sound of his voice, anxious to be first on the scene.
“Roger that.” I’d warrant the dispatcher was supposed to stay neutral in case folks—like me—were listening in, but I could hear the laughter in her voice.
I was guessing that a certain detective was listening in, unwilling to reveal his whereabouts especially if he was in close proximity to Pinyon Street. The only two businesses I could recount in that location were Pinyon Pawn and Trail Head Bail Bonds. Either business seemed a likely place for a robbery.
In the blink of a gecko’s eyelash, I was driving the Prius, two wheels on the ground every time I took a curve. How could I get access to the scene? Would they toss me out on my proverbial ear? In the back of my mind, I considered the upcoming edition of the Broken Boot Bugle. Today was Friday, which meant I’d missed the deadline for Sunday’s edition. Wednesday’s paper was going to be a real doozy, chock-full of stories on Cinco de Mayo, the chili cook-off, and now a burglary.
At least I wouldn’t have to fight the likes of Hillary Sloan-Rawlings for this story. Sumter Major’s loan of the police scanner was proof of his intention to groom me for the crime beat. I had to smile. The Broken Boot crime beat was as dangerous as a prairie dog parade, but it was mine.
The block was short. I could see a white and black SUV at the far end of the street. Couldn’t see the tag, but the cleanliness of it and the glossy shine made me think it was Lightfoot’s. On my end of the street only one cruiser had pulled across the road. In a high-speed chase, the bad guys would roll up on the sidewalk and easily evade Deputy Barnes’s car straddling the middle of the street.
Which meant there were no bad guys on the scene.
I parked at the end of the block. From my car I could now see Barnes standing in the doorway of the establishment, his head turned in my direction. As if I hadn’t seen him, I turned away, walked away from him and the corner—which I rounded until I came to the alley that ran behind the street. When I approached the back of the business, I discovered a sign at the back door. PINYON PAWN. ACCEPTING GUNS AND AMMO ONLY ON THURSDAYS. NO ANIMAL CAGES OR KENNELS.
No sign of Barnes from this angle. I approached the door and slowly looked inside.
I didn’t step any farther because my way was blocked. If I kicked any of the debris with my foot, I’d be disturbing the crime scene. So I soaked it all up with my eyes. From my shoulder bag, I retrieved my notebook and pen.
There were items scattered on the floor from the back door, throughout the main room, and all the way to the front door, clearly visible, as the place was rather small.
Items that appeared to me to have very little value: record albums, a baby seat, a CD player, a tricycle, and two girls’ bikes with baskets. Shelves were turned over, and I realized the item I’d been staring at for the last few seconds was the cash register. I swallowed back a nasty taste. This was someone’s livelihood scattered across the floor like so much trash. I blinked back emotion. Was there anything left to sell that wasn’t damaged or destroyed?
Suddenly the front door opened, and I jumped back into the alley. I pressed my ear to the outside of the door.
“No sign of forced entry.” The voice belonged to Barnes. He must be on the phone. “I’d say they used a crowbar or a meat cleaver.” He broke into delighted laughter at his own wit. “Yes, sir.” He spoke with sudden deference and seriousness. Someone on the other end hadn’t found his laughter well suited to the situation.
I ventured to peek around the doorway. Barnes’s back was to me as he surveyed the room. “A lot of broken merchandise: radios, televisions, baby stuff.” There was a pause. “No, sir. I can’t tell what’s missing. If you were to ask me, which I guess is what you’re doing, I’d say it was vandalism—everything appears to be on the floor.”
“Don’t think about disturbing my crime scene.”
“Ahggg.” I jumped backwards, thunked into Lightfoot’s chest, thwacked his chin with the back of my head, and landed on his boots.
“Huh.” The air whooshed from his lungs. “Watch out!” Before I could permanently change his voice from bass to tenor, he grabbed me by the arms, lifted me off his feet, and set me down to one side. “Are you out of your mind, woman?”
My heart was racing. “Only on Fridays.” I laughed. “Oops, guess today’s Friday, isn’t it?”
“Who tipped you off?” He retrieved his hat from the weeds. “And don’t give me your Spidey senses bullcrap.”
The blood rushed to my cheeks. Lightfoot didn’t swear, at least not in front of me. For him to use even a mild expletive meant I’d done some damage. “Sorry about that.” I gestured helplessly. “You okay?”
He began to slap his Stetson against the side of his leg. “I might ask you the same thing.” A bit of dirt and a bird feather fell to the ground. He frowned, a deep line appearing between his pitch-black eyes. “I’m waiting.”
While I considered my answer choices
, I straightened my brunette braid so that it lay over my left shoulder and smoothed the bottom of my chili pepper red Milagro golf shirt.
His eyes narrowed, too close to a glare for comfort.
“I heard it in passing.” I shrugged. “You know how gossip travels in this town.”
Raven brows lifted for a second and then plummeted, giving him the expression of an angry bull.
“I bet she heard it from Maria.” Barnes swaggered out the door, thumbs in his belt. He glanced from me to Lightfoot and shook his head in disgust. “You know, the wind?”
“No,” I said.
He puffed out his chest, pulled in a lungful of air, and warbled the familiar lyrics in a high tenor that matched his fair coloring.
I grinned. “Yeah, I’ve heard it—just wanted to see if you’d sing it.”
His freckled complexion reddened. “What are you doing here?” He shot a glance at Lightfoot.” You ain’t supposed to be at our crime scene.”
I stared around him. “What crime?” A large hand clamped onto my shoulder.
“Walk behind us, got it? You touch so much as a loose hair on your shirt, you’re out on the seat of your Wranglers.”
I stepped out of Lightfoot’s grasp, chin tucked, trying for cowed and intimidated. “Yes, sir. Not even to swat a scorpion from your hat.”
One side of Lightfoot’s mouth twitched. “Ten paces behind Barnes. Got it?” He stepped around me and gestured for Barnes to follow.
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“What is it with you and seamen?” Lightfoot murmured.
Pulling his hat down over his eyes, Barnes gave me a steely-eyed glare and turned abruptly away.
Once they’d entered the store, I followed and halted just inside the doorway.
“You call the owner?” On the far side of the room, Lightfoot lowered himself onto his haunches, the better to stare directly into the front door’s damaged lock.
Barnes cast me a suspicious look. “Just got off the phone with her.”
“Who’s she?” I resisted the urge to open my notebook.
Lightfoot stood. “Bubba’s mama.”
Bubba owned the BBQ joint of the same name. His mama, Mrs. McAllen, was a tough old bird. She was sweet as pecan pie around town, but I noticed that her six-foot-four-inch son jumped whenever she looked at him cross-eyed.
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