“Don’t think you’re getting away with murder. I’ll post so many negative reviews online you’ll have to move to Minnesota.” Dani O’Neal grabbed her little girl’s hand and hurried after the boys.
If this O’Neal woman did indeed spread atrocious rumors about Milagro all over social media, how could we ever live down such a catastrophic fiasco?
“Some folks suck all the fun out of life.” Mr. Hailey sighed.
“I don’t get it. She wasn’t upset yesterday.” I watched the O’Neal family plow through the tourists on their way to more free sweets.
“She didn’t win the prize money, did she?” Mr. Hailey asked.
“Definitely not.”
“There you go.” He picked up the cowboy hats from where the boys had thrown them to the sidewalk. “She’s about the fifth contestant who stopped by today, spouting bile and hard feelings.”
“Nuts!”
“Every last one of ’em.”
I laughed. “Didn’t I see you accepting an award for your salsa?” I was secretly pleased the honor had gone to a local, someone with a vested interest in our success.
“Top prize.” With a grin, he patted the pocket on the bib of his overalls.
I laughed. “You having a good day?” I asked.
“Beautiful,” Mr. Hailey said. With his round belly and lengthy gray beard, the emporium owner could have passed for Kris Kringle’s redneck cousin.
“Do you have a flea circus?” I asked with a smile.
“What, you don’t get enough fleas from that shrimp of a dog?”
“Yes, but they refuse to perform in a right-to-work state.”
He laughed, causing both his belly and his beard to jiggle. “For you, Miss Callahan, the world.” Mr. Hailey lifted a crate from beneath the table and withdrew a purple matchbox with a miniature circus painted on the side. “What happened to the first one I gave you?”
“Oh, Aunt Linda keeps it in my old room on the nightstand.” As an adolescent of twelve, full of grief over the sudden death of my parents, overwhelmed by moving in with Aunt Linda and Uncle Eddie, the flea circus had distracted me from my heartache.
I shrugged.
“Don’t tell me, the performers moved on?” He cocked his head to the side.
“Exactly.” His kindness on that wretched day so long ago still shone brightly in my memory. “I’ll take it and three packs of these playing cards with Looney Tunes characters on the back.”
A round, plastic-encased item caught my eye. The packaging showed a drawing of lightning bolts zapping a human hand.
“Can’t these hurt people?” I studied the warning on the side. Not recommended for children under three years of age.
He chuckled. “Not at this voltage.” From the crate, he removed a similar device, placed it in his palm, and stuck out his hand.
I jumped as tiny volts raced through my arm. That cheap piece of plastic had my attention. “I’m sold. I’ll take three.” Who knew who would end up with them, but my heart filled with pride. I was giving my Christmas list a mighty wallop.
Chapter 13
Josie Meets Ryan for a Dance
After Patti and I returned from our tour of the best artisans Main Street could offer, I stepped cautiously into Milagro’s dining room, expecting to find Anthony drowning in crowded tables and impatient customers. But for some reason the majority of our guests had apparently come and gone by two o’clock. Even though the sign outside said we closed at two o’clock, a large party of old friends still lingered to reminisce about their days at West Texas—their boisterous conversation filling our casita with warmth and goodwill.
Lily left their table carrying a round tray loaded with margarita glasses and red tumblers, empty chip baskets and half-eaten orders of queso. “I have everything under control, Miss Josie,” she said as she drew near. And she did. The tough, defiant teen she’d been was no longer in sight.
I gave her a grateful nod and ran upstairs to unbraid my hair and reposition the flower behind my ear. It was Cinco de Mayo, after all. I was nervous, and that was giving me fits. I had no reason to be the least bit excited, concerned, or edgy about meeting Coach Ryan Prescott for a dance in the middle of Main Street in front of God and everybody. In spite of his playful compliment about my folklórico costume, I pulled on a simple sleeveless flowered dress that hugged my curves in all the right places. Finally I took a close look at my brown, straight hair, even and ordinary features, and stuck out my tongue. Who was I kidding?
I knew Ryan and Ryan knew me . . . too well. We’d dated in college and been sweethearts joined at the hip. There weren’t any secrets between us, just a whole lot of mistakes. Since then we’d both grown up and both been engaged to other people. Geez. It was one dance in front of the whole town and a trainful of tourists. No sweat.
I calmed my nerves to appear normal, and then I was at the door with a wave to Aunt Linda and Anthony.
“Josefina!”
I froze, recognizing the imperial tone that belonged to none other than my strict abuela, Senora Mari. “Sí?” I didn’t turn around, but glanced over my shoulder.
“You are going to meet friends?”
I shrugged. “Of course. Who would I be meeting, enemies?”
She marched over to me and stood within inches of my chin—being a good five inches shorter than me. “Do not act so smart with me, young lady.”
I suddenly felt all of thirteen, trying to sneak out to meet Peter Sanders at the football game. For some reason, at that age I thought it would be no big deal to walk five miles of highway in my Sunday dress and best shoes.
I lowered my head. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m going to meet friends. We’re going to listen to the band.”
With her gnarled fingers, she gently grasped my chin. “I understand the insecurity you feel.” She stared into my eyes, her own burning with intensity. “I was young once.”
I tried to laugh it off. “So you keep telling me.”
She frowned at the return of my flippancy. “Love between a man and a woman is complicated.”
“You’re telling me?”
“Yes. That’s what I am doing. Telling you, so you will remember the truth.”
Sometimes the best way to get through these conversations with my abuela was to say nothing at all.
She waited for a response. Not getting one, she said, “Love between a man and a woman is not the best kind of love.” She removed her hand from my chin, lifted my own hand with hers, and placed them both over her heart. “This.” She tapped our hands against her chest. “Family. This is the best love has to offer. We won’t ever let you down.”
Through my engagement and through my fiancé’s desertion, not a single member of my family had ever said I told you so. I blinked. Hard. “If this cheap mascara runs, I’m going to blame you.” I sniffed. “Do you understand?”
She kissed my cheek and then slapped it, lightly, as was her custom. “You tell that Ryan if he acts like a boy instead of a man . . . if he treats you like he treats those other women with their short skirts up to their—you know what I mean—and their shirts open to their navels, I will find him, rip his eyes out, and feed them to the chickens.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry about Ryan. I only see him as a friend. Promise.” I wiped my eyes. “And all of our hens died three months ago. Where will you find these eye-hungry chickens?”
She fought not to smile. “Chickens may be hard for you to find. Me? I have a nose for bloodthirsty poultry. Tell him not to test me in this.”
“It’s just a dance.” I gave her a quick hug and backed away. “You’ll see.”
“You tell him,” she called as I waved one last time. “Don’t forget.”
As I hurried away toward the gazebo and the band playing a popular country tune, I called out, “Buenas tardes, Abuela.”
The farther I
walked, the more confident I became until I had to constantly remind my hips not to sway to the music. Every few feet or so, I’d greet a friend or a neighbor. It seemed as if the whole town of Broken Boot was on Main. Later that evening, the street would empty as folks loaded up their minivans and trucks and headed out to the fairgrounds for the fireworks display.
As I drew closer to the gazebo, a cool breeze brought gooseflesh to my arms and neck. Though the days were warm in May, the high desert winds reminded us that our elevation was above four thousand feet. Chairs and tables had been set up around the gazebo. A local country band had crowded into the gazebo and was using it as a bandstand. On either side of the steps leading up to the platform were powerful speakers on poles. The tables cascaded around a makeshift dance floor of cobblestones and wood planking. To each side were stands selling food, drinks, and sparklers. Children jumped up and down as their parents and grandparents talked, ate, and laughed together. On the dance floor, the young and the very old boot-scooted under the bright blue sky with its giant cumulus clouds. The wooden floor was crowded, but I expected Ryan to stand out at six feet and change. Of course, if he was wearing his cowboy hat instead of his baseball cap, he was blending into a sea of brims.
“Hola, chica.” The voice was low and shady, and I whipped around, ready to shove the stranger away.
“Whoa.” Ryan threw up a hand to block my fist. “It’s me.”
I squeezed out a laugh, realizing I was wound a bit too tight.
“Senora Mari sends her regards.” I grinned.
“And she told you to hit me?”
“Don’t be . . .” I’d almost said stupid, but caught myself, remembering it was an insult he hated from our college days. “How’s the band?”
He shrugged. “They’re not bad, but this cow manure they call ‘new country’ is melting my eardrums.”
We both eyed the crowd, watching as couples danced within feet of us. A few members of the town council gave me a nod, but to Ryan Prescott, head coach of the West Texas Tornadoes, they gave a wave—especially the wives.
I tapped my foot to the music, hoping he’d get the hint. Now or never. If I stood here like a lump on somebody’s head, I was going to go stir-crazy, which would lead to me saying Adios, amigo to my newfound confidence.
“Coach Ryan,” Mrs. Cogburn called as the song ended. She wore her rhinestone cowboy getup: cowboy boots, denim skirt, and Western shirt, all trimmed in turquoise rhinestones and fringe. Her husband wore the same costume as his wife only with jeans and chaps instead of the flouncy skirt. As they approached, I could see it playing out before me. Mrs. Mayor would dance with Ryan while I would dance with the mayor. Cogburn was harmless, but ever since I’d discovered the mayor and his wife making out in the alley behind Milagro, I’d never quite looked him in the eye.
“Won’t you ask me to dance?” She smiled coquettishly.
Ryan shot an apologetic look my way. “Mrs. Cogburn,” he began as he took her hand, “would you do me the honor of this dance?”
At that moment, a miracle happened. Patti Perez, like a Goth angel of mercy, appeared at the edge of the crowd. She waved, and it was enough to help me hatch an escape plan.
“Oh, heavens, I forgot to give Patti Senora Mari’s order this afternoon.” I gave all three an apologetic shrug. “I’ll be right back.”
Ryan’s gaze narrowed. “What was her order, Josie? Can’t wait to hear it.”
I glared right back, but kept my smile on tight. “Chickens. In fact, she wanted me to tell you that she wanted to order some new hatchlings as all her chickens are dead.”
“Chickens, huh?” Ryan game me a knowing glance. “Fits, wouldn’t you say?” He had me dead to rights.
“I’ll be back soon.” I smiled sweetly. “Promise.”
Mayor Cogburn didn’t appear to be too disappointed. “Josie,” the mayor called as I turned away.
“Yes, sir.” I had my excuse all prepared.
“It’s too bad your uncle’s big day was tarnished by another senseless death.”
With the blood rushing to my face, I was never so glad for the glare of the bright desert sun. “Even so, he brought the whole thing off without a hitch, sir.”
“Except for the death of that chili cook.” Mrs. Mayor searched our faces. “What was his name?”
“Caused quite a stir, from what I heard,” said the mayor, watching me closely.
“No one could have bounced back after a slam like that except Eddie,” Ryan interjected. He and my uncle worked together recruiting players for his team. Eddie had played ball for West Texas in his younger days, a real football hero.
Ryan met the mayor’s eye without flinching “Eddie’s got grit. He’ll give you and the council everything he’s got and never complain.”
I smiled my thanks, and Ryan answered with a slight nod.
Patti had started moving in our direction, which wouldn’t do at all.
“Be right back, folks.”
I caught my best friend by the arm at the opposite side of the dance floor and pulled her aside. “Save my bacon.”
“Hello to you too.” My Goth best friend wore her usual black, but she’d joined in the fiesta spirit by wearing bright pink lipstick and a matching fuchsia choker.
“Keep walking so I don’t have to dance with old Cogburn.”
“Why not? You like kissing up to important people.”
“Do not. I try to promote our business in the community by being decent and kind to folks, which is what we should do anyway.” I can sound preachy without too much effort.
“Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”
“Okay.” I stole a glance at Ryan, slow-dancing on the other side of the dance floor with Mrs. Cogburn. Perhaps sensing my gaze, he lifted his eyes to mine and mouthed, “You owe me.”
I placed my hands over my heart and responded, “I’ll be back.” I turned to Patti. “But if anyone asks, I’m ordering chickens from you for Senora Mari.”
“They come in dozens.” She raised a pierced brow in challenge.
“Fine, Simon Legree, let me think on it some more.”
“Don’t wait, I’d hate to escort you back over to the mayor’s table.”
“Show me what?” We had walked away from the dance floor, through the crowd, and close to the gazebo.
“What do you think?” She nodded at the bass player—a tattooed young man with ripped jeans, a tee that read Finger Lickin’ Good, and a black felt cowboy hat like that villain in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, starring Clint Eastwood.
“Dangerous.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She smiled at him in a dreamy way.
“No. More. Musicians. Remember?” Her last encounter with a musician had ended up with the country singer dead and her sleeping on the best cot the county jail had to offer until I’d proven her innocent.
She sighed. “Hmm. Did I say that? I don’t remember.”
A sheriff’s department SUV came into view at the end of the block. It slowly parted the tourists and came to a halt on the opposite side of the street.
“I think someone wants to talk to you.”
Chapter 14
Another Break-In
Detective Lightfoot lowered his window and waited.
“Maybe he has an update on the murder,” I said for her ears only. “If that’s the case, I’m moving up the need-to-know ladder, Goth Girl.”
She chuckled. “You go for it, Jos. Hate to tell you, but there’s not a whole heck of a lot of difference in the view from the bottom to the top in this flea-bitten town.” Patti sauntered over to Lightfoot’s SUV and leaned in the window. “Nice wheels, Detective.”
“What’s up?” I asked, yanking her backwards.
He hesitated. “Ms. Perez.” Lightfoot and Patti had dated once or twice, but it fizzled after their first att
empt at small talk. Not his specialty.
“I get the picture.” Patti stepped back. “You want to discuss the Lucky Straw murder, another irksome case for the crime-solving partners, in private. Hmm?”
He frowned. “Something like that.”
“Do you mind?” I asked Patti. Though she understood I was keen to solve the murder and to stake my claim on the crime beat at the Bugle, she couldn’t help but tease. After all, she was the only Goth princess in Broken Boot.
“Heck no. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
“See you later?”
“Depends on how tasty the fish is.” She gave Lightfoot a playful wave and began whistling Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive” as she headed toward the gazebo and the band.
Lightfoot frowned. “You coming or what?”
I glanced around to see who might have heard this strange request. “Sure. Uh, but how are you going to explain this to your peers?” I didn’t have the sheriff’s office’s procedures memorized or anything close to it, but it didn’t take an Einstein to figure out that was a big no.
He stared at me for a spell. “Let’s just say that I’m investigating the possibility of starting a community police academy and you’re my focus group.”
My smile must have lit my face from ear to ear, ’cause he managed to smile back. I gave a fist pump, but that made the familiar deep furrows on either side of his mouth reappear and his mouth actually turned down like a sad clown.
“Don’t push it.”
Immediately, I wiped the smile from my face. Or at least I tried. “Where are we off to?”
“Gold Rush Lighting.”
The police scanner buzzed. “You on your way, chief?”
I opened the passenger door. “Front or back?”
He glanced at the radio and nodded toward the backseat. “Don’t make me wish I’d left you behind to do . . . whatever it is you do.”
I jumped in the back. “All right, chief. Let’s go.”
Slowly he turned and caught me in his narrow-eyed stare. “Don’t call me chief.”
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