I patted the barstool that she’d abandoned, hoping she’d take the hint. “You like to cook, so you must be a dietitian.”
She mimicked my actions by patting the barstool in front of her. “No. I work with pacemakers.”
The bartender waltzed right through the dining room, passing me on his way back to the bar. “Gracias, Jo Jo.”
“You’re welcome, but that’s Josie to you.”
He winked again and stepped behind the bar. Within a matter of seconds, he’d brought another round for the couple at the end of the bar, cleared Dani’s empty glass, made her another strawberry daiquiri, and settled in to watch the game.
“You’re a surgeon?”
“The look on your face is priceless.” Dani O’Neal climbed back on her barstool and slammed her hand down on the bar. “No, of course not. I work for a pacemaker manufacturer.”
Like the woman in front of me, I suddenly felt a bit off-kilter, as if the room had tipped a little to the right, and as if I too were slightly inebriated. What was the likelihood that Dani would have worked with Lucky Straw at Texas Power, competed against him in our chili cook-off, and worked with pacemakers? The odds were astronomical.
“Lucky wore a pacemaker,” I managed.
She screwed up her face. “That so?”
“Let’s get some food in you. You like jalapeños?”
“Ooh.”
I marched into the kitchen. “I need an order of jalapeño poppers.”
Carlos, our head cook, ignored me.
“What did I do now?” Though bad tempered on a regular basis, he usually acknowledged me when I called out food items needed for my tables.
“My sister says you didn’t invite her to dance folklórico with you.”
“Since when do you have a sister?”
He gave me a dark look. “Last year her father married my mother.”
How old is she? Did he mean a child? Did it matter? I could picture young girls and boys dancing with our troupe just as soon as I had a lobotomy. That was the only way for me to gain the patience needed to work with a large group consisting of women, men, boys, and girls. Once we added little girls, the rest would insist on joining as well.
“What if I give you Patti’s number instead?” I asked. Carlos had been itching to ask Patti out for a year now. And I could wheedle with the best of them.
His expression changed immediately from surly to surprised. “Oh yeah?”
“But be cool, don’t come on too strong. She’ll carve out your gizzard with her nails.”
“Come to Papa.”
“Ew.”
“Take the ones under the warmer.”
“I’ll give you the number tomorrow when I’m not so busy.”
“Put those back where you got them from.”
“Just kidding.” I pulled out my phone and read him the digits, which he scribbled on his arm with a felt-tip marker. I’d have to text Patti later to give her a warning.
I found Dani with her head propped on her arm, eyes closed. “Here.” I gave her shoulder a shake. “Eat these.”
With a big smile, I checked on my tables, handed them their checks, and helped Lily bus their dishes in preparation for those waiting.
While Senora Mari handed the next group of customers their menus and took their drink orders, I hurried back to Dani.
Eating the poppers gave her the semblance of being all there. “If you’re not a surgeon, what is your position? Do you work with the manufacturers?”
With great relish, she dipped one of the fried delicacies in ranch dressing. “Pacemaker and EKG tech at Vista Heart Institute.”
“And what does that mean?” I had to take care of those tables or lose their goodwill for the rest of their meal. “Hold that thought.”
With practiced alacrity, I recited the specials—Steak Ranchero, marinated skirt steak with shrimp and our creamy diablo sauce; and the Three Amigos, three four-ounce grilled chicken breasts with bacon, poblano peppers, Senora Mari’s special sauce, and jack cheese—both with rice and beans. Everyone was in the mood for the Three Amigos special, which made taking their orders a breeze.
I found Dani much more alert than when I left her. “How many brands of pacemakers are there?” While in the dining room, I’d thought of the perfect question to test her knowledge.
She shrugged. “I work with eight different manufacturers, but I can never remember all their names.”
I called my food order into the kitchen and prayed she’d let something slip that would prove her guilt. “What does a pacemaker EKG tech do?”
She wiped her mouth and managed to wipe her lipstick onto her chin. Dani O’Neal was feeling no pain. “I check in with patients . . . make sure they aren’t having any problems with their pacemakers after their surgery.”
I moved her plate with the last popper on it out of reach. “Yeah?”
She frowned. “I remind patients over the phone about their remote device checks.” She began to count off on her fingers. “I document data records to their electronic record—”
“Electronic records. Who has access to those?”
She pouted and pointed to her plate until I returned it. “Well, there’s the patient, me, the surgeon, my supervisor, the other pacemaker techs.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t have access to the electronic records of every pacemaker in the world, only the ones implanted by doctors at my hospital. And then, only the patient records assigned to me.”
The rest of the night was a whirl of activity. When I returned to the bar, Dani was gone. I was tempted to call the Cogburn Hotel to make sure she got back okay, but I knew from previous experience they wouldn’t connect me to her room. Instead I called Lightfoot and left a message to spread the word that a woman with dark hair, red glasses, and jalapeño breath might get lost on her way back to the hotel and to keep a close eye out.
* * *
• • •
I needn’t have bothered. Not twenty minutes later, the Big Bend County JP, Ellis, and Lightfoot walked in looking like two sides of the same coin. Both wore pressed jeans with a crease down the front, a button-down shirt, and a blazer. Only difference was that Lightfoot wore his sheriff’s-issue Stetson and Ellis wore its straw cousin.
Senora Mari greeted them at the door. “Hola, ¿muy bien?”
“Okay,” they answered in unison. She seemed entranced by their blazers, or maybe it was their bolo ties. Lightfoot wore the turquoise and silver one I’d seen over the past few days while Ellis wore twisted black leather with silver tips.
“You two brothers?” she said with a straight face.
I gently removed the menus from her hands and gave her a look.
“Don’t give me the stink eye. I know they are not brothers.” She pointed to Lightfoot. “He has a ponytail, and the other one, I can see his ears and no little-girl ponytail.”
The whole business with Dani O’Neal had me a bit wigged out. “If you two aren’t just what the doctor ordered.”
As they took their seats, Ellis observed the overflowing room. “You always do this much business?”
“Cinco de Mayo weekend. It’s always this way.”
“Yet you don’t look tuckered out.”
I guffawed. “Don’t let my bright eyes fool you. I’m tired, but I’m excited for the business.”
“This is good.” Senora Mari smiled one of her rare smiles, all teeth and crinkling at the corners of her eyes. “Order the specials, you will be very satisfied.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lightfoot’s gaze traveled to the blackboard and the specials written there.
“Good. Josefina, write these down. Which one do you want?”
“They might want to look at a menu.” I tried to communicate with my tone of voice that it was time for her to go back to her wooden stool at her
hostess station, but she ignored me—a special talent of hers.
“Three Amigos is very good.” She tapped her chest. “I created that name. Do you like it?”
Without moving a muscle, I did a mental eye roll. In this part of the country, almost everyone knew that Three Amigos was the name of a Steve Martin movie, an album title by a popular Tejano band, and a menu item in restaurants from Broken Boot to Brenham.
Lightfoot gave the blackboard his somber consideration. “Three Amigos, por favor.”
“I’ll take the Steak Ranchero.” With a smile, Ellis handed back his menu.
Senora Mari gave him a quick once-over. “This does not surprise me.” She handed me the menus. “But you will enjoy it, and that’s what counts.”
I stepped close to the table and lowered my voice. “Did you hear back from Lucky’s surgeon?”
Ellis glared as if I’d stepped into his house with horse hockey on my boots. “That’s not something you need to worry about.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Lightfoot skewered salsa onto his tortilla chip from the green woven basket in the center of the oak table.
“You crazy?” Ellis asked.
“Doesn’t matter because she’s going to ask anyway. And she’s going to keep on asking until you tell her.”
His brow knitted and he glanced at me and then back at Lightfoot. “I have rules to follow, confidentiality policies.”
I wasn’t about to point out that he’d been open about the details of Lucky’s death at the chili cook-off. “I understand.” I gave him a smile, took their drink orders, and hurried off to refill a coffee and two iced teas on my other three tables.
I wasn’t too worried by Ellis’s proclamation. I might be a waitress on the outside, but I was an investigative-reporter-in-training on the inside. And my insides were stronger than any rare and expensive telescope at the McDonald Observatory in Fort Davis.
Unfortunately, when I returned to their table, Ellis stopped his conversation until I’d delivered their drinks: Dr Pepper for Ellis and black coffee, per usual, for Lightfoot. Still, I wasn’t discouraged. We’re a smallish restaurant and my tables were close together. I refilled drinks and checked on my customers until they certainly must have thought I’d lost all my friends.
“Take these.” Senora Mari tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a tray of two bowls of drunken beans and a large Queso Martinez filled with ground beef, pico de gallo, guacamole, and sour cream.
I must have looked doubtful.
“You drop them off.” She mimed carrying out the tray. “You wait until they have been talking a good minute, and then you slip up slowly behind that one with the ears showing. He will not know you are there until you have overheard part of their conversation.”
“What if I don’t hear the important part?”
She shrugged. “Why ask me, Miss Investigative Reporter?”
I grinned. “I try it again with the entrées, the refills, and the desserts.”
She studied the two men in earnest conversation. “They do not look like the dessert type.”
“Then I give them each one on the house.”
Her eyes narrowed and she pointed a finger to my nose. “If you have to give something away, you give them an order of sopapillas to share.”
“Sí, Abuela.”
“You give them more than one order and it’s Senora Mari to you.” Her words could be cross, but her heart was big—if hidden behind leathered skin and a tight gray bun.
I managed to sneak up on Ellis as Lightfoot was asking him about Lucky’s head injury. “Was it a skillet?” Lightfoot’s eyes flicked with the effort not to look at me, where I stood a foot or so behind Ellis.
“Josie was right.” There was a pause as he turned his head toward the waitress station. “I was able to find flecks of iron consistent with an old cast-iron skillet. Did the deputies find one in Lucky’s tent?”
Lightfoot dipped into the salsa. “No. Checked twice, but no sign of the skillet or any other pan, not even a boiler.”
When Ellis paused to check his phone, I caught Lightfoot’s eye. “Ask about the pacemaker,” I mouthed silently.
He shook his head in unbelief, grinned—which was unexpected—and ratted me out. “Is that for us?”
“From Senora Mari, Our Lady of Tamales.”
Ellis perked up immediately. “Is that a good thing?”
“Oh yes. It’s a very generous thing for her to do as well.” I placed the beans and queso on the table. “She is also known as Our Tightfisted Lady of Tamales to her family and friends.”
At Ellis’s look of confusion, Lightfoot chimed in. “Senora Marisol Martinez started this restaurant out of a tamale truck.”
“And her recipes are featured on the menu, no one else’s—and she won’t let you forget it.”
The JP chuckled. “I noticed.” He flicked his napkin over his lap. “Tell her thanks for us.”
“Did you ever hear back from the surgeon who implanted Lucky Straw’s pacemaker?” Lightfoot asked.
“Yes. We should have the electronic detail of the pacemaker data by tomorrow morning.” Ellis glanced my way as he chewed a spoonful of drunken beans. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
I shot a quick look-see at my tables.
“Nope,” Lightfoot said.
I ignored his quip and locked eyes with Lightfoot. “I sure do. Thanks for reminding me,” I replied, careful to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“Detective Lightfoot?” I needed to convey information to Lightfoot without Ellis picking up on its importance.
“Yes?”
“I left you a voice mail a few minutes ago about a certain problem we were having with one of our customers.”
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Did you get it settled?”
“Yes, yes, I did.” I was thinking so fast, my brain was skidding from one gear to the other. “I don’t want to disturb your dinner,” I said, widening my eyes, “but I sure would appreciate it if you would give it a listen when you have a minute.” Ellis was watching our exchange with unwarranted interest. “It’s a pressing issue that needs to be discussed.” I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I saw in his gaze that he understood the importance of my message.
I pasted on a bright smile. “Okeydokey, then. Your entrées should be out in a few minutes.”
I wanted to slap myself upside the head. If I’d only kept Dani O’Neal at the bar a bit longer, she would’ve sobered up and Lightfoot could’ve questioned her. For that matter, had Lightfoot already questioned her? As Senora Mari wasn’t at her post, I darted outside and looked toward the Cogburn Hotel. Truth was, my conscience was bothering me. I should’ve never let Dani leave without help or at least a few cups of coffee inside her.
Suddenly I heard a voice behind me. “What was so important?” Lightfoot’s deep voice nearly made me jump out of my apron.
“I can’t believe the lab didn’t find anything else on Lucky’s pacemaker.”
“Calm down.” He lowered his voice. “After you walked away, Ellis said the guy at the lab told him unofficially over the phone that it appeared as if the pacemaker had been interrupted—”
“That’s old news.”
He raised a hand, crossing-guard style. “The pacemaker interruption was caused by a programming error. The coding suggested the device had been configured incorrectly in the factory.”
“This guy on the phone was one hundred percent sure?”
With a sigh, he lowered his hand. “He didn’t use those exact words, but that’s the idea.”
“But what if the error occurred after Lucky’s pacemaker left the factory? What if the programming glitch happened after it was implanted in his chest?”
I could see his gears turning. “After, huh?”
“Watch out.” My heart started two-st
epping inside my chest. Maybe I was finally on the right path. “I’m about to start whistling ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas.’”
With a frown, he said, “Spit it out. What’s going on inside that head of yours?”
“That chili cook, Dani O’Neal?”
Slowly he shook his head. “Go on.”
“Well, she had an ax to grind with Lucky Straw.”
“I remember; he laid her off from Texas Power.”
“But did you know she’s a pacemaker tech?”
He pushed back the brim of his hat. “You don’t say.”
“Which means she has access to her patients’ pacemaker codes.”
“We covered this. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s not a pacemaker failure.”
Aunt Linda appeared at the entrance. “Nelson, party of two. Your table’s ready.” A young couple dropped their cigarettes into an ashcan as my aunt held the door.
“What if the killer used the stun gun on Lucky and it made his pacemaker go kaput?”
From the darkness, a man approached from the parking lot. It was Whip, lanky dark hair in his face. “Have you seen Dani?”
“She was at the bar inside earlier,” I said, refusing to look at Lightfoot. “Bartender said she headed for the hotel, but I can’t be sure.”
“Why?” Lightfoot asked.
“No reason.” Whip’s gaze swung from the front door to the Cogburn Hotel. “The hotel, you say?”
“That’s what she told the bartender.”
He tipped his fancy cowboy hat and hurried off toward the hotel, a worried look on his face.
“Josefina Callahan.” Aunt Linda’s glare could skin a buffalo. “You’re gonna see kaput if you don’t get back to your tables.” She could scare the bejesus out of me when she set her mind to it.
Lightfoot leaned in close. “I’ll ask Ellis to double-check the body for unusual marks that could’ve been made by a stun gun.” He took my arm and escorted me back to the door. “All yours, Mrs. Martinez.”
Aunt Linda smiled. “Thank you kindly. Didn’t want your food to get cold.” She held the door for us and hurried away.
Cinco De Murder Page 20