Here Today, Gone Tamale (5 page)

Lightfoot found a place setting from a nearby table, unwrapped the silverware, and handed me the cloth napkin. “Was Dixie wearing a necklace tonight?” he asked in a voice so deep it jangled my nerves.

Without a doubt, I thought the sheriff was going to throttle him. Lightfoot pulled up a chair, and Wallace glared at him. “No need to speculate, deputy.” He shot a glance my way. “Why don't you stay with Linda and Eddie tonight? You've been through the wringer.”

“She wore a tribal necklace, one of her own designs.” I
closed my eyes, filled my lungs with air, searching for the image. “Horses chiseled from different gem stones.”

“And?” Lightfoot asked softly.

Sheriff Wallace's voice rose. “It's time for her to go, deputy. Your questions will keep until tomorrow.”

My hand found the soft, concave spot at the base of my neck. “A large horse in the middle.”

“Which stone was it?” Lightfoot asked.

An image of Dixie, leaning close to the mayor, entered my brain. “Turquoise. It was blue
turquoise.”

I awoke the next morning, staring at a ceiling full of stars, and exhaled. I was safe. I was in my twin bed in my aunt and uncle's house. Twinkling above me were shiny bits of crystal Aunt Linda had painted into the ceiling when I was a child. If I woke from nightmares or troubling dreams I would search for the Big Dipper and the North Star until I fell asleep.

How I wished that Dixie's death had been only a bad dream. But it was real, as real as the crick in my neck from a flat pillow and the aroma of bacon and biscuits floating through the house. If I closed my lids, I would see Dixie's wide blue eyes staring up at me while her tie-dyed skirt flapped in the wind. How long could I go without closing my eyes?

Last night, the enigmatic Deputy Lightfoot had brought me to my childhood home without any further questions. By the look on his angular face, I knew he suspected foul play. Why else would he be interested in Dixie's necklace? Sheriff Wallace must have called ahead because my family stood waiting on our wide front porch in their pajamas and T-shirts. Senora Mari was pacing back and forth in her fluffy pink
robe and giant elephant slippers. They threw their arms around me and hugged me hard until Lenny complained. We tried to laugh, but the sounds we made faded away on the wind as we remembered not just anyone had died, but a three-times-a-week customer and friend. We'd wiped our tears, even Uncle Eddie, and then I'd dragged myself upstairs and fell into bed.

“Josie,” Aunt Linda called up the stairs bright and early, “the AC's out at Milagro. Dress accordingly.” I had not wriggled an inch, but her spidey sense was working overtime.

“And don't forget your neck,” Senora Mari added. As if I could forget her wacky method of staying cool in the Texas heat. I had to smile, for she was obviously treating me with unusual sympathy. During high school, she would have dropped a cold, wet washcloth in my face if I slept past nine o'clock.

After a quick shower, I found some old clothes in my closet: an atrocious broom skirt, a Corona T-shirt, and a faded, blue bandana. Nothing was going to take the place of the AC, but I knew Senora Mari would argue and nag until I tied a wet bandana around my neck, her idea of the next best thing.

“Hurry up. You can eat breakfast when we get there,” Aunt Linda called, answering my question before I could ask.

Dressing for a day without air conditioning in far West Texas can be like prepping for a day in hell. The air is cool in the early morning, but it climbs to a fever pitch by ten o'clock. Imagine standing in an oven until you're broiling and your skin flakes off like the skin of a pan-seared tilapia.

Only cowboys and ranchers venture into the full afternoon sun in Broken Boot, Texas. They pick their battles out here in the Chihuahuan Desert by taking long breaks in the hottest part of the day, which comes in handy if they've stayed up too late the night before tipping longnecks at Two Boots.

A week ago, the AC at Milagro petered out during the late rush, and nine people had to sweat it out. With any luck, they convinced themselves the chile diablo was to blame.

“Josie!”

I could picture Aunt Linda now, standing at the bottom of the stairs, her image indelibly in my brain just as her energetic voice was scratched into my eardrums. She would be wearing her chestnut hair smoothed into a sleek and serviceable bun at the back of her head with a red flower pinned above her ear. Her hands would be on the hips of her Wranglers, tapping the toe of her Tony Llama boots, a wet, red bandana at her neck. Beautiful, and not to be tangled with.

“Coming!”

“I'll believe it when I see it.” Moments later the garage door rose with a squealing groan. No biscuits and bacon for me.

Today the sheriff would ask me more questions, and I would be strong with my family behind me. During my shower, I'd wracked my brain. What else could I tell them?

Hungry and nervous, I slid into the passenger seat of Aunt Linda's white F150, lowered the visor, and began to apply my mascara in the mirror.

“Did you write your article for the
Bugle
?” my aunt asked in an overly optimistic tone.

She knew I'd submitted a couple of articles to the
Broken Boot Bugle
, and that they'd rejected both, saying they weren't
folksy
enough. Then last week, the editor made me an offer I longed to refuse. He wanted me to write an article about Hillary Sloan Rawlings and her new position at the university to prove I could give his readers what they wanted.

Folksy I could do, but Hillary was an unsavory morsel. At my aunt's urging, I told him I'd get right on it, as soon as we recovered from the festival.

Now if I were to cover something interesting like the Texas music scene, I'd be happier than a tornado in a trailer park. Even though Two Boots was located in a small town, it attracted the best musicians in Texas. And Texas music was no longer just for kickers and cowboys. Lots of hot guys played new country, alternative country, country western, country
rock . . . you get the idea. Uncle Eddie had been playing guitar in a country rock band when he met Aunt Linda, so I came by my love of Texas music and hot musicians honestly.

I slammed the visor shut.

Most musicians were also no good, unreliable narcissists, who put their careers before their nuptials. Brooks was a slime bucket full of putrid flesh.

“Josie, don't worry about that weak, silly boy. You're strong.”

I jumped in surprise and banged my knee on the dash. “Ow!” Of course, Senora Mari would be in the backseat. Where else would she be? And did I mention she's a mind reader?

“You're a Callahan,” Aunt Linda proclaimed, and I laughed in spite of myself. “Callahans are sturdy stock,” we said in unison. The paternal side of my family had settled in neighboring Cogburn County back in the 1800s, long before running any type of drinking and dancing establishment was considered an honorable profession.

“Did you have a good night's sleep,
abuelita
?” When she didn't correct me, I turned around in my seat and found her clutching her rosary beads, her lips moving soundlessly.

With a shudder, she opened her eyes and pierced me with a bone-snapping stare. “No. I had a visitor in my dreams.”

As if someone had walked on my grave, I shuddered as well. When Marisol Ramos Martinez said she had a visitor in her dreams, she meant a person who had passed on.

“No wonder,” my aunt said, “what with Dixie dying unexpectedly right there.”

I rested my chin on the top of the seat between us, settling in for a spooky tale. “What did Dixie say?” I wasn't sure I believed what Senora Mari spouted from her dreams, but she set great store by them.

Taking a deep breath, she paused for dramatic effect. “
Nada
.” And she nodded as if she'd bestowed a great pearl of wisdom. “Nothing.”

“Do you mean she said the word
nothing
or that she didn't speak?” Aunt Linda asked with exasperation.

Without acknowledging her daughter-in-law, Senora Mari gave me a baleful stare and whispered, “She didn't speak, no words, but she poured her thoughts into my mind.”

From previous experience, I knew better than to interrupt or try to lead the tortuous story.

“She was angry and sad.” She closed her eyes and crossed herself. “She wants revenge.”

“Revenge on whom, the cigarette manufacturers?” Aunt Linda shook her head. “Tell her to get in line.”

Without looking in my aunt's direction, I pinched her leg. I wanted to hear this one, but if she continued with her skeptical remarks, Senora Mari would clam up.

“She didn't give me a name, but she told me it was no cigarette.”

I wasn't about to correct my elders, even if she had said moments before that Dixie had used no words. “Did she give you a vision of how she died?”

Senora Mari pursed her lips and turned to stare out the window. A shadow of pain passed over her face. “She was so cold, so cold she couldn't breathe.”

Had I mentioned Dixie's cold clammy skin to the three of them when I finally arrived home last night? No, but Senora Mari would've noticed the cool air and gusts of wind. I turned to my aunt for support. “If you die from a heart attack you probably do feel as if you can't breathe. Right?”

“Oh, sure,” Aunt Linda chimed in. “You see that on television all the time. Someone dies grabbing their heart, gasping for air.” She smiled reassuringly at her mother-in-law in the rearview mirror. “I bet they go hand in hand.”

“That may be true, but that was not the feeling she shared.” Senora Mari pulled back her shoulders and lowered her chin. “Someone stole her life, and she wants me to do something about it.”

I reached over the seat and placed my hand on hers. “I'm sorry your friend is dead.”

She nodded and turned to stare out the window once again.

As I started to pull away, she grabbed my hand. “You believe me, don't you?”

“Yes, I do.” I believed Dixie had appeared in her dreams, and I was open-minded enough to concede there was more to life than the physical before us. But I wasn't sure Senora Mari had interpreted her dream correctly. Did being cold and out of breath mean that something nefarious had happened to Dixie? I wasn't sure.

As we drove down West Third Street, beneath a gigantic banner heralding Broken Boot's 5th Annual Wild Wild West Festival, I wondered if Dixie's death would affect the tamale-eating contest. I considered myself to be sensitive and unselfish, and my line of thinking made me feel as low as a snake's belly. But we needed the tourists to come in droves to survive the winter ahead. Our business had picked up in the past three months since Milagro made the cover of
The Texan
magazine last September, but we needed to double it to keep West Texas Savings and Loan off our backs.

“Did we make enough tamales for the contest?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. With any luck, this year's event would draw more folks seeking good ole family fun and savory Tex-Mex. Our entire town could sure use a boost in the present economy.

“Senora Mari's making another batch today, just in case.”

I swung around in my seat. “You'll need us to help you, right?” Making tamales was usually fun, but that's because it was a group activity. Sharing the work and gossiping with family made it less tedious.

The older woman shrugged. “I can do it by myself. I usually do.”

“What do you mean?” Aunt Linda asked in a panic. “Where's Carlos? Is his mother okay?”

I wanted to laugh, but I bit my tongue. Senora Mari had
once again taken on the role of family martyr, which was ridiculous because she usually made tamales with the help of Carlos, our to-go cook.

Instead, I changed the subject. “How are all those tamales going to keep until Saturday?”

“We had to freeze the ones for the contest,” my aunt said.

“Humph.” Senora Mari disliked serving anything that wasn't fresh, but we'd finally convinced her that the tamales for the contest weren't eaten because of their freshness. They were consumed in great quantities because people wanted to win a month's worth of free tamales from our restaurant.

Turning onto Main Street, the asphalt shimmered with heat like a mirage in the desert. The LED sign at First Cogburn Bank flashed ninety degrees at ten twenty-nine in the morning. A scorcher.

A Big Bend County sheriff's cruiser had parked at the curb in front of our restaurant, and down the block, I observed the deputy with the raven hair strolling into Elaine's Pies. I had a few precious minutes to grab some breakfast and coffee before he realized we'd arrived. Could it be a coincidence? Could he merely be hungry for a savory breakfast pie? Not today.

In all my years of living in Broken Boot, I'd never heard of anyone else being found dead in the street, or the alley for that matter. The sheriff's department would be all over Dixie's death like white on rice. I had no doubt Deputy Lightfoot was preparing to tie up the loose ends by putting me through the wringer, and I had the sinking feeling he wouldn't question me in the same fatherly way as Sheriff Wallace.

As Aunt Linda drove behind the restaurant to park, our jaws fell. Yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed Milagro's back door. Half the alley, including the area around the Dumpster and Dixie's van, was blocked off with traffic cones and the same yellow tape that warned
SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT DO NOT CROSS
.

“What did I tell you?” Senora Mari whispered.

I wasn't convinced. Wouldn't they mark off the scene if they were still investigating?

“People aren't murdered in this town,” I chided. “You watch too many crime shows.” There wasn't a CSI Broken Boot for a good reason. Who would want to watch a snooze-fest of an occasional criminal armed with a spray can?

“No, no, no! We can't close today!” My aunt slammed the car into park just as her cell rang.