Here Today, Gone Tamale

Praise for

Here Today, Gone Tamale

“This Southwestern cozy comes with a spicy, Tex-Mex flair. Its delightful characters and clever mystery will have you stomping your boots for more.”

—Mary Ellen Hughes, national bestselling author of
License to Dill

“Adler's debut sizzles with West Texas flavor and a mystery as satisfying as a plate of fresh tamales. Slip on a pair of cowboy boots, pour yourself a margarita, and kick back to enjoy this Texas-sized delight.”

—Annie Knox, national bestselling author of the Pet Boutique Mysteries

“Rebecca Adler's
Here Today, Gone Tamale
is a much needed addition to the cozy mystery genre. Terrifically tantalizing . . . and as addictive as a bowl of chips and salsa. Settle in for a mystery fiesta you won't soon forget.”

—Melissa Bourbon, national bestselling author of the Magical Dressmaking Mysteries

“What a tasty idea for a new series! In
Here Today, Gone Tamale
, Rebecca Adler merges the warm and vibrant West Texas town of Broken Boot with a clever murder mystery that kept me guessing until the exciting finale. Josie is an engaging hero who must solve the mystery while helping her delightfully quirky family and balancing trays of steaming tamales!”

—Kathy Aarons, national bestselling author of the Chocolate Covered Mysteries

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

HERE TODAY, GONE TAMALE

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Penguin Random House LLC.

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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-16670-7

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2015

Cover illustration by Ben Perini.

Cover Photo:
Limestone background
© by P. Chinnapong/Shutterstock.

Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

For my parents and my sons, James, Seth, and Pierce, with love

I was truly blessed to have the love and support of my friends and family during the writing of this book: Harold Carnley, JoAnn Woodall, Carl Woodall, Chris Carnley, Cathy Hubili, Ryan Woodall, Michelle Woodall, De Springer, Joli Garguilo, Carissa Brown, and Diane Lincoln. Thanks to Pat French and B.L. Brady for their friendship, prayers, exquisite meals, and hospitality. Did I mention the meals? Thanks to Nancy Connally for the tour of Weatherford and the insight on what it's like to be a journalist. And to Sergio Soriano, one of the best storytellers I know, who made the trek to Marfa a delight.

Big thanks to the Cowtown Critiquers—Jen FitzGerald, Clover Autrey, Chrissy Szarek, and Michelle Welsh—for their critiques, brainstorming sessions, and unwavering friendship. Thanks to the members of North Texas RWA for never failing to inspire. And to the mystery and suspense writers who shared with me their expertise and love of the genre: Linda Castillo, Angi Morgan, Melissa Bourbon Ramirez, and Wendy Lyn Watson.

A special shout-out to Molly Cannon, whose humorous stories of Southern romance never fail to amuse and whose friendship led me to this series. And to my former editor, Andie Avila, who entrusted me with this story so dear to her heart. I hope I did you proud. My deepest gratitude to my fearless agent, Kim Lionetti; my editor, Rebecca Brewer; and the excellent staff at Berkley Prime Crime and Penguin Random House who turned this story into a much better book.

In the midst of a hectic life filled with demanding deadlines, I find the solitary business of writing both a balm to my soul and a thorn in my side. It soothes, challenges, and often kicks my butt. Without the support of my family, friends, and fellow writers I would still be on chapter one.

“Josie!” Aunt Linda's high-pitched drawl soared like a heat-seeking missile up the wooden stairs from our restaurant below, through my quaint living room, and into my sweet but tiny bedroom.

There are three things Aunt Linda and Uncle Eddie have in common with tamales: they're unpretentious, comforting, and fattening when consumed in excess.

“Be right there,” I bellowed.

“I'll believe it when I see it, monkey.”

I groaned, but it was all for show. Long gone were the days of hiding beneath the warm cocoon of my quilts. I was no longer that grieving twelve-year-old orphan, yanked from the concrete glamor of Dallas and plopped into the dust bowl of the West Texas desert. Back then, Aunt Linda forced me to partake in what she knew best, the banality of folding napkins and the comfort of tamales. Now I craved the nostalgic aromas and chaotic chatter that would soothe my eviscerated heart and humiliated pride.

And it was time to boogie downstairs to set up for tonight's festivities before the stink of self-pity started oozing from my pores. I scrunched up my nose at my reflection. “You may not be a waitress, but you can toss plates with the best of them.”

My dog, Lenny, barked from the doorway in disbelief, his bright button eyes and long, silky coat trembling with excitement.

“Little man, watch and see.” With a sigh, I smoothed the red bandana at my neck and yanked up the neckline of my peasant blouse so as not to inspire a lecture on modesty from the matriarch of our clan, Aunt Linda's mother-in-law, Senora Mari. I tightened my ponytail and turned to my four-legged confidante. “Where is your bandana?”

“Yip.” Wagging his shaggy, miniscule tail a million times a minute, Lenny trotted to his doggie bed. The bed's designer had gone to a lot of trouble to create a sophisticated bed for beloved canine companions, and I'm sure in her mind it was a thing of beauty. Unfortunately, it reminded me of a crunchy taco with a golden outside and a brown lumpy cushion. It even emitted the faint fragrance of meaty dog bones and beefsteak with just a hint of flea powder. Lenny nosed around under the cushion until he found his own neckwear, wet from drool.

“You are the smartest Chihuahua in all Broken Boot,” I said, tying his bandana so as not to pull his long black-and-white coat. I scratched behind his ears. “Yes, sirree.”

I know what you're thinking:
Another Latina with a Chihuahua
.

Ah, but I am Irish, and Lenny is a Jewish Chihuahua, or so his previous owner told me. And how many of those do you come across?

My Irish-American father, Galen Thomas Callahan, had planned on naming me Joseph, but after my petite mother survived the rigors of her first, and last, childbirth, he was devastated to find that a girl's name was needed. It was Aunt Linda's new husband, the young Eddie Martinez, who suggested
Josefina
.

Scooping Lenny into my arms, I headed downstairs into an aromatic cloud of mouthwatering possibilities.

“Don't bring that dog down here,” Linda said as she stole him from me only to cradle him in her arms. “You know you don't belong at our
tamalada
,” she said in a baby voice reserved for Lenny. “But you are the cutest doggie in all of Texas, so you can stay.”

On Monday nights we closed to refuel after a busy weekend of takeout tamales and endless tables of fajitas and enchiladas. Lenny and I would plop on the couch, prop up our feet, and haze the cheesy TV dating shows. Or if we happened to be in the mood to eat dinner at Casa Martinez, otherwise known as the home of Aunt Linda and Uncle Eddie, we would join my family for burgers and brats while we argued over the culinary choices of the contestants on
MasterChef
.

But tonight was special. Milagro, our family's restaurant, was hosting a tamale-making party
.
Though a
tamalada
was typically a Christmas holiday tradition in our family, a night of sharing stories and reminiscing about the past year's events, this year, the Wild Wild West Festival committee decided to celebrate the arrival of their annual weekend shindig by gathering to make tamales. While partaking of yummy Tex-Mex and margaritas, the committee would also be contributing fodder for the festival's kickoff event, The Broken Boot Tamale Eating Contest, which raised a healthy sum each year for the Big Bend County Children's Home. Our staff could have easily made the tamales on their own, but we were more than happy to oblige the community movers and shakers who served on the committee.

“That dog should be roasted on a spit and fed to the hogs,” Senora Mari said, more from habit than any actual aversion to Lenny. Shoot, we didn't even own hogs. She emerged from the restaurant kitchen with her hands on her hips, wearing her usual uniform of a peasant blouse and a red flower in her hair. She had added the apron we gave her for her seventieth birthday that read
Get It Yourself
.

“Hola
,
abuelita
.
”
I ran to give her a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek. She wasn't truly my grandmother, but she had invited me to use the endearment. If she was displeased with me, like when Lenny ran into the kitchen to sniff at her ankles and break several health code violations, I was expected to call her Senora Mari—same as her daughter-in-law, Aunt Linda.

“Don't
abuelita
me.” She pointed her finger at the trembling dog. “He's not going to get under my feet and trip me up tonight.”

“Of course not.”

“
Of course not
.” A slim young man with dark expressive eyes stepped from behind Senora Mari.

I tried hard not to grin at his cheekiness. “You do realize you have tonight off, right?” Our newest busboy and fill-in dishwasher, Anthony Ramirez, was a cutie pie of charming efficiency. If our newly laid plans for expansion panned out, he'd soon be promoted to waitstaff. When that happened, his pockets would overflow with tips from our female customers.

“Yes, Miss Josie.” Anthony dropped his chin and gazed up at me through his inky lashes. “But with all these people coming tonight, I thought you might need an extra pair of hands.”

Linda slung Lenny under her arm and gave Anthony a motherly pat on the back. “Come on.” And with a patient smile she started for the office. “You can pick up your paycheck.”

As they left the room, Senora Mari raised her eyebrows. “Why didn't she ask me? I could have used the help.”

“You're not fooling me.” I gave her a smile. “You'd rather die than have anyone help you tonight.”

“Humph,” she grunted, wiping down the already clean counters.

While her back was turned, I slipped into the office. Amber Rose, my favorite country band, was playing in Odessa in July, and I was in need of someone to take my shift so I
could satisfy my craving for their howling blend of Southern rock and Texas blues. It would be the perfect opportunity for our newest employee to gain more experience, if Aunt Linda would agree.

My aunt was planted in her monstrous wooden swivel chair, flipping through one of the many stacks of papers on her desk. “Anthony, I promise,” she said, not looking up, “if we get slammed during the festival, I'll give you some tables.”

“I'm ready.” He cast a glance my way. “Tell her, Miss Josie. I can handle waiting tables.”

“Absolutely.”

Shooting a look of exasperation my way, Aunt Linda handed Lenny back to me. “He could be the best waiter in Big Bend County, but he doesn't have seniority. And I'm not going to take a shift from Camille. She has mouths to feed.”

He fisted his hand, crumpling his paycheck. “My brothers and sisters need me. They couldn't support themselves if they wanted to—they're too young.”

Aunt Linda's voice rose. “I'll give you some tables when we bring in more customers.

“If we want to keep our doors open,” she continued in a quiet voice, “we'd better pray for a stampede of tourists during the festival.”

He looked at me in surprise, and I nodded. We'd tried to keep it quiet, but Milagro was limping along from payday to payday.

After a moment of awkward silence, Anthony relaxed his hand and smoothed out his crumpled paycheck on the edge of the desk. “Thank you, Miss Linda. You treat me fairly. I'm sorry.”

My aunt pushed back her swivel chair, stood, and held out her hand. “No hard feelings?”

“No, ma'am.”

I flashed a grin at Anthony. “Uh, Aunt Linda,” I began in my most beguiling tone of voice, “when I go to Odessa in a few weeks—”

“Absolutely not. Everyone works the week of the Fourth.”

My best smile flew out the window with my patience. “Don't worry. I'm not talking about the Fourth of July. And I have an excellent replacement standing right here.” I placed my arm around Anthony's shoulders.

In a flash, a “no” formed in her eyes.

I held up a hand. “It's not as if I'm leaving tomorrow.” With a nod at Anthony, I headed for the door. “You can think about it while we entertain the committee.”

With me leading the way, we filed into the kitchen.

“See you tomorrow night, Senora Mari,” Anthony said, slipping his paycheck into his pocket.

“Wait, wait,” she called as he reached the back door. With a frown in my direction, she reached into the front of her dress and pulled out a folded bill. “Ask Dayssy to bring me a few jars of pickled okra.”

Beaming, he returned to take the fifty from her hand. “How many jars do you need?”

Her brow furrowed. “Ten.”

If memory served, we still had nine of the last ten jars Senora Mari had purchased from Anthony's sister.

“
Gracias
, Senora,” he said with a nod and a saucy wink.

I waited until the door closed behind him. “I knew you had a heart.”

“So I like pickled okra. So what?” she said, shrugging her narrow shoulders.

Lenny whined and tried to wriggle out of my arms. “Be still. You're going to supervise Uncle Eddie while he makes margaritas. Isn't that right?” I scratched him under the neck.

“Ah, Dios!”
Senora Mari narrowed her eyes to slits, once again the tough-as-nails matriarch. “Put him in his box, we don't have time to dance over his tail all night. You want us to lose our license?”

By box, she meant crate, which I had already hidden in the storage room behind our rustic oak bar. “Say good-bye to the angry lady,” I crooned into his ear.

“Yip,” Lenny said.

We walked into the other room and, after a quick kiss on his delicate head, I placed him inside his spacious second home and washed my hands.

No one made tamales in our restaurant without the ironfisted oversight of Senora Mari, otherwise known as Marisol Ramos Martinez, and tonight would be no exception. Delicious, traditional tamales were our specialty. They had a secret ingredient. Lard. We weren't foolish enough to share this secret with others, but everyone who makes real, old-school tamales knows the truth. Real tamales, at least in the Martinez family, are made with pork fat.

Much to Aunt Linda's chagrin.

After years of towing the Martinez traditional line, she taught herself to make healthy tamales with veggies, brown rice, beans, and healthy oils. At home, she even ventured into dessert and fruit tamales. Uncle Eddie and I loved her cooking, even if they didn't fill us up in quite the same way. Once, a few years back, she made the mistake of suggesting we add her healthy recipes to the restaurant menu, for health-conscious tourists. Senora Mari threatened to creep into her bedroom while she slept and pull out every hair on her head. I knew she wouldn't do it and so did my aunt, but sometimes Senora Mari would get that look in her eye, the one that made me think one day the crazy on her side of the family would bust loose. Aunt Linda must have thought so too, for she had yet to ask again, though she often made her healthy and flavorful tamales for the rest of us.

Earlier in the day, Senora Mari had supervised our kitchen staff in assembling and preparing all the precious tamale ingredients: corn masa, succulent pork and beef roasts, roasted chickens with crispy skins, onions, garlic, spices, lard, and our giant steamer, the
tamalader
. I had only to light the ivory pillar candles in the wall alcoves for ambiance and the restaurant staff would be ready to greet our guests with open arms. I sent up a prayer that Senora Mari's Saltillo tile had
completely dried from its recent mopping. The evening would be an epic fail if the mayor slipped on the wet tile.

In the kitchen, the ladies all laughed, a rare and precious sound. The cowbell above the front door began to clang, twenty minutes before our guests were scheduled to arrive. Their conversation stopped and then continued, and I realized they trusted me to greet the first guests on my own.

At the entrance, a young couple waited. They were tall and striking and— Oh, no, my past had come back to haunt me.

“Howdy, Josie.”