Here Today, Gone Tamale (7 page)

“She's not going anywhere without us!” Senora Mari said, grabbing me by one arm while Aunt Linda grabbed the other.

“Shh!” I hissed. Rational behavior was slipping downhill faster than a flash flood during a spring rain. “That's what he meant.” I wriggled free. “Everyone just calm down.”

And like magic, they did, their paranoia disappearing into thin air.

Lightfoot waited a beat, eyeing all three of us with caution. “Why don't you come with me, and we'll find Sheriff Wallace together?”

Without waiting for an argument, I took the bull by the horns. “Sounds like the best plan yet.” We followed him and his neat ponytail across the lobby and past an authentic buffalo head that hung over an enormous stone hearth. At a tall bronze sculpture of a western boot with a broken heel, he made a sharp left.

We followed him down a narrow hall and ran into Elaine Burnett coming out of the county tax collector's office. “Oh my, are you all right?” She grabbed Aunt Linda by the arms. “We could have all been killed!” Over Elaine's shoulder, I could see that my aunt was aggravated, but she managed to untangle herself from the other woman without being rude.

Before I could maneuver away, Elaine grabbed me in her lavender-perfumed arms, “Josie, you could have been killed.” I wasn't sure why she hadn't expressed such concern over the phone earlier, but much to my relief, she released me after a brief squeeze.

My eyes started to tear in spite of my command for them not to do so. “I'm fine. I was never in any danger.”

“No one's dead except Dixie.” Senora Mari stiff-armed Elaine, preventing the other woman from hugging her as well.

While Elaine uttered comforting platitudes, I caught Lightfoot's eye and delivered a silent plea for help.

“Let's get a move on, ladies.”

I adopted a put-out expression. “I'm sorry Mrs. Burnett, but we have to meet with Sheriff Wallace.”

“Oh, of course you do, and I'll say a prayer for all of you.” She pulled me to one side as if Lightfoot couldn't see or hear her. “Don't let that deputy get the better of you. You're innocent until proven guilty.”

Where she had whispered, I almost shouted. “I'm not guilty of anything.”

Senora Mari chimed in, “Me neither!”

Elaine's gaze flew swiftly over my shoulder.

“Don't you stare at me,” Aunt Linda cried. “I've got nothing to hide.”

Elaine's jaw dropped as if she'd been sucker-punched. Folks in Broken Boot did not raise their voice to the Wild Wild West Festival committee chairwoman.

Before she could gather herself, Lightfoot interrupted. “For Pete's sake, let's go.” He strode off down the hall.

Insulted at Elaine's insinuations, we marched after him,
fuming but no longer frustrated with the deputy who'd helped ruin a perfectly good lunch and dinner service only the day before.

We followed him down the narrow hall, passing cubicles and county workers, until we reached a wall plaque that read
The Office of Sheriff Mack E. Wallace
.

“Have a seat,” Lightfoot ordered, gesturing to a seating area composed of taupe walls and gray metal chairs with lumpy gray padding. The only way the designer, if that was the correct word, could have made this room more depressing would have been to add a huge flat screen TV that played a loop of used car commercials.

We followed his command without argument while he checked in with the middle-aged secretary behind the desk.

With a frown, Lightfoot walked over. “Wallace is out to lunch.”

Aunt Linda checked her watch. “It's a bit early, don't you think?”

“So he's out to breakfast.”

“Is he coming back soon?”

“She says he'll be back in about fifteen minutes.” He tipped his head toward the secretary, who was glaring at us over the rim of her glasses.

Senora Mari glared right back. “We wait.”

Lightfoot looked a question at me, and I shrugged. “You heard her. We'll wait.”

For a few minutes, no one spoke while the three of us with smartphones checked our messages.

Senora Mari tapped me on the leg. “You tell him.”

“What?”

After a dramatic exhale, she whispered, “You know.”

“I don't.”

Aunt Linda leaned toward me and muttered, “Tell him what Dixie said.”

Immediately interested, Lightfoot sat up straight. “What'd she say to you?”

Oh, boy. This could get out of hand faster than a jackrabbit on speed. “Senora Mari,” I said, with an expansive gesture, “had a dream about Dixie.”

“And?”

“Well . . . in the dream . . . Dixie, um, said, um, she wanted revenge.”

Silence. Like a statue, he didn't blink for a full thirty seconds.

“And what else?” he finally asked.

Senora Mari spoke up. “She didn't speak, but she told me that when she died she was cold and out of air.”

Another pregnant pause. He stared at Aunt Linda and he stared at me. “Is that it?”

With Senora Mari giving me a narrow-eyed glare, I didn't dare roll my eyes. “Pretty much.”

His mouth twisted for a second, and I could have sworn Mr. Silent and Stoic would laugh. Instead he blew out his breath and shook his head. “Thanks for telling me,” he said, his mask firmly in place.

“Who are your parents, Indian?”

Aunt Linda and I gasped. No one I knew would have dared use the word
Indian
instead of
Native American.
If we weren't waiting for the sheriff on behalf of my favorite employee, I swear I would've run for the ladies' room. Senora Mari was many things, but politically correct wasn't one of them.

Lightfoot snapped his head toward the elderly woman, eyes narrowed. “Tuti and Eric Lightfoot from New Mexico.” His lips thinned. “Why? You planning a trip to Albuquerque?”

“I've gone out West.” Her remark made me smile. I wondered if she knew that for most people Broken Boot was as far west as they wanted to go. She sized him up from toe to sternum. “Have you ever been to that UFO museum in Roswell?” Uncle Eddie had taken us on a vacation to see the Grand Canyon the summer before my senior year in high school. Senora Mari had insisted on choosing one of our stops.

“Hah,” he barked, which meant, I assumed, he wasn't
going to put her in cuffs or read her the riot act for not being politically correct. “Once, but that place was a joke.”

She leaned closer. “Oh, yeah? I bet you spend your Saturday nights in Marfa, staring at a bunch of giant fireflies.”

Who would have guessed the handsome deputy and the powerhouse tamale cook would share an interest in extraterrestrials?

Twenty miles southwest of Broken Boot stood the Marfa Lights Viewing Area, the perfect diversion for tourists on their trek to Big Bend National Park on the southwest Texas border. People of all ages came to stand in the dark to watch the red, blue, and sometimes white lights appear in the night sky. The cynics said this so-called paranormal phenomenon was just the reflection of cars and campfires at night. The believers said that was hooey.

Senora Mari chuckled. “I didn't see any UFOs when I was there.”

The smile he flashed her could have warmed the cold canyons of the moon. “Me neither, but I've seen the Marfa lights dance on the horizon dozens of times. We're old friends.” They beamed at each other, and then just as suddenly his smile disappeared as he checked his phone again.

“Who are you dating?” This time Senora Mari's inquisition was met with silence. The air fairly quivered with anticipation as all three of us leaned toward him just a smidge.

“Is she an Indian too?”

Oh, boy. The older woman might not have meant any harm, but I was embarrassed for the both of them.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I don't blame you. Best to stick with your own kind, though my son, Eddie, never listened to me. No offense, Linda.”

Next to me, Aunt Linda pulled a face. “None taken,” she turned her head toward me and muttered, “Now that you live with us.”

“Of course,” Senora Mari continued, “if you decide you
want to try something new before you settle down and have babies, you could ask Josie. She'd give you a run for your money.”

Great. Now I was a racehorse.

He glanced at me. One side of his mouth kicked up. “Hmm . . . I'll take that under advisement.”

“She's not a good cook, but she's smart.”

And now we were back in the 1800s. “You know I can hear you, right?”

Lowering her voice, Senora Mari continued, “She acts high and mighty, but she's not, when you know her.”

He leveled a glance at me. “You sure?”

“
Por supuesto
,” she said, patting my head. “I am never wrong.”

*   *   *

I talked Aunt Linda into staying with Senora Mari in the waiting area. She readily agreed that there was no need to henpeck the sheriff with an overabundance of female advice.

Humming a lonesome tune, Sheriff Wallace looked out his office window to the cloud-shadowed Chisos Mountain ridge. In the distance, a small herd of cattle grazed in the sparse grass. The sheriff turned to me with a sad smile. “I don't see you in a month of Sundays, and now it's two days in a row.”

We'd met when I was ten, freckled and reddish blond from the desert summer sun. I tried to chuckle, but his remark brought me back to Dixie's cold, pasty skin. “I wish it were for far better reasons.”

“I'm glad you're home. We need more young folks like you in Broken Boot.”

“Like me?”

He continued, “Educated, cool,” and chuckled, “you know, Austin weird.”

I grinned with pride. “Maybe just a touch.”

“
Austin weird
, that's a term my niece uses. She's artistic . . .
like Dixie.” He frowned as if remembering the cantankerous artist was dead. “I apologize for shutting down Milagro
,
but I couldn't see my way around it.” He and Lightfoot exchanged pointed glances. “But I do have a few more questions.”

I sensed, rather than saw, Lightfoot tense at my side. “Sure thing.” If I cooperated with the sheriff, he might release Anthony sooner. “Let's get started.”

“Have a seat.” He gestured toward a wingback chair in front of his desk. As he lowered himself to his own massive leather armchair, he gestured for Lightfoot to stand near the door.

“How long has Anthony Ramirez been employed at Milagro?” Wallace picked up a napkin with a coffee ring on it, wadded it up, and threw it in the trash.

I tapped my fingers on the arm of the chair. “Three months or so.”

“Why'd you hire him?” Wallace picked up a file from the corner of his desk and flipped it open.

“Business started picking up, and we needed the extra hands.”

Before I could test my ability to read upside down, the sheriff closed the file. “Why him?”

“You've met him. He's cute and personable, and he works hard. Our customers love him.”

He leaned his head back. “And your family, they love him?”

“Sure, he's sweet.” I realized what I was saying when Wallace leaned forward. “No, I don't
love him
love him. Come on, he's a kid.”

“Any problems with him?”

“None. Seriously, it's like I said yesterday. He provides for his brothers and sisters. He's taking classes at West Texas, working two jobs. He can't afford to get into trouble.”

Wallace taped his pencil on the table. “He was arrested last year for a felony. Did you know that?”

I swallowed a huge lump in my throat. “No,” I said in a small voice.

“Afraid so.”

I swiveled in my chair to look at Lightfoot. He gave a slow nod.

“But why would he kill Dixie? He doesn't even know her.”

Removing a pack of mint gum from his pocket, Wallace asked, “Was he there last night?”

I could tell that he already knew the answer. “Yes, but only for a few minutes. He stopped by to pick up his paycheck.”

As Wallace opened his gum, he tossed another question my way. “He didn't help out in the kitchen?”

“No.” My gut was telling me the sheriff's questions weren't as casual as he wanted me to believe.

“Didn't take out the trash? Sit outside? Smoke a cigarette?”

I racked my brain. “No. He wanted more hours, and Aunt Linda told him not yet.”

“He was angry about that?”

Talk about a fishing expedition. “No. He was frustrated because he's working two jobs and still not making ends meet, but he wasn't angry.”

Wallace rolled the wrapper into a tiny ball and aimed it at the trash can as if shooting a three-pointer. “So he didn't come back later to help clean up?”

“No, sir.” Whatever the sheriff thought he had on Anthony was wrong. I knew that boy, and he would never have hurt Dixie . . . or anyone else for that matter.

I leaned forward, grabbing the desk. “He wouldn't do this, sheriff. If you don't have any evidence, you know you need to charge him or release him.” I had watched my share of crime dramas, and that's what the lawyers always said.

“That's the thing. We do have evidence, and we charged him this morning.”

Outrage hit me hard upside the head. “You charged that nineteen-year-old kid with murder?”

“Afraid so.”

“On what evidence?” What had they found that incriminated one of the best teenagers in the whole county?

The sheriff's face had closed down tighter than our to-go window on a Sunday night. “Now, Josie, you're not family or his lawyer,” he said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet.

I sprang out of my chair. “Does he have one?”

“The public defender is no slouch. You don't need to worry yourself over it.”

After a quick glance at Lightfoot, I threw back my shoulders and locked eyes with Wallace. “I'm going to prove you wrong.”