Here Today, Gone Tamale

Book 1: A Taste of Texas Mystery

by Rebecca Adler

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

In this all-new culinary cozy mystery series, reporter turned Tex-Mex waitress Josie Callahan is about to go from serving queso to solving cases…
 
After losing her newspaper job in Austin and having her former fiancé unfriend her on Facebook, Josie Callahan scoops up her Chihuahua, Lenny, and slinks back to Broken Boot, Texas. Maybe working as head waitress at Milagro—her aunt and uncle’s Tex-Mex restaurant—isn’t exactly living the dream, but it is a fresh start.
 
And business is booming as tourists pour into Broken Boot for its famous Wild West Festival. But when a local jewelry designer is found strangled outside Milagro after a tamale-making party, Josie’s reporter instincts kick in. As suspects pile up and alibis crack faster than taco shells, Josie needs to wrap up this case tighter than her tía’s tortillas—before another victim calls for the check…
 
INCLUDES TEX-MEX RECIPES!

Release date: December 1, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Acknowledgments

Praise for Here Today, Gone Tamale

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Recipes

Chapter 1

“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.”

My heart sank into my socks. “What are you doing here?” He was no longer Ryan Prescott, my college boyfriend, study partner, and French-kissing instructor, yet he was still mighty cute in an all-American way. Years had passed, but his blond hair was still thick and curly. Now he herded football players over at West Texas University, and by the look of things he still worked out as well. Guess his BS degree in physical fitness had come in handy after all.

I hadn’t seen him up close and personal since I’d made a surprise visit home and barged into his engagement party at Milagro three years earlier. It must be something in the water, because Ryan never made it to the church with his adoring dental hygienist, just as my ex-fiancé, Brooks, left me with fuchsia pew bows and matching thank-you notes.

“Eddie said you were shorthanded and asked if I’d fill in and tend bar.”

Everyone enjoyed a margarita or a glass of wine as part of the festivities. It made the tamalada more fun. Strange, Uncle Eddie hadn’t mentioned a conflict to me, but I hadn’t seen neither hide nor hair of him since breakfast.

Ryan turned to the woman by his side—the willowy, blond woman by his side. “I think you know Hillary.”

Who didn’t know Broken Boot’s very own beauty queen? Start the drum roll. It was Hillary Sloan Rawlings: the former Miss West Texas University, Miss Texas, and third runner-up to Miss America.

She lunged into my personal space, giving me an air kiss on my cheek before I knew what hit me. “Josie! You are as cute as ever.”

Engulfed in the aroma of Chanel and hair spray, I struggled to speak as memories of our college days rolled through my mind. “Why, how are you? I didn’t know you were in town.” This was not quite true, as a little bird—my aunt—had told me Hillary was teaching English and journalism at the college.

Ryan reached out to give me a hug, but after a quick glance at Hillary he dropped his arms. “Eddie told me you were home. You okay?” His face was open, his voice sincere.

Hillary’s wide eyes gleamed even as her mouth formed a moue of displeasure. “What happened?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. “Things didn’t work out at the Austin Gazette?” By this time, everyone in Broken Boot had heard about my recent layoff and messy breakup.

What was the big deal? I couldn’t be the only reporter to mistake two innocent Slovakian brothers for jewelry thieves? To top things off, a week later, the man I thought I loved, the man who argued over every detail of our upcoming nuptials—from the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses to the satin ribbons on the church pews—unfriended me on Facebook, changed his status to single, and flew to Australia to see the Great Barrier Reef.

“Hillary.” Ryan gave her a look somewhere between surprise and disappointment.

Two years ago, Hillary and I had both applied for the coveted local news reporter position at the Gazette, and I won. Guess she figured she had the right to crow.

She smiled and tucked her chin. “I’m playing.” She flicked her shoulder-length hair from her neck. “We go way back. Right, Josie?”

Way back to me stepping in to save the college newspaper by writing her articles in addition to my own. I wrote my butt off and barely managed to keep my scholarships and shifts at the restaurant while Hillary managed to make it to Atlantic City.

Ryan gave me a nod and a crooked smile. “Where should she report for duty?”

“Aunt Linda and Senora Mari are in the kitchen.” I didn’t remember Elaine Burnett, the committee chairperson, mentioning that Hillary was putting in an appearance, but go figure. Hillary was big news and the festival needed big publicity.

Ryan tried to lead the svelte woman through the swinging doors, but she planted her pink and turquoise cowboy boots on the floor and refused to budge. Before my eyes, her countenance changed from spite to remorse. “Josie, I want to thank you. If the Gazette had chosen me instead of you, I would never have finished my master’s, found this fabulous position at West Texas, or met Ryan.” She tilted her expensive highlights toward his shoulder, her gaze level and clear of malice.

And the Oscar goes to . . .

The football coach beamed with pride at the homecoming queen’s performance. He raised his eyebrows at me, demanding reciprocation.

“You’re welcome?” I shrugged. It sounded like a bunch of hooey to me, but there was Ryan, still watching me with those puppy dog eyes, hoping us girls would be fast friends. “Congratulations,” I offered. “May you enjoy all the success you’ve earned.”

“Thanks,” she said. She looped her arm through his, and they strolled off to the kitchen.

Some people catch all the breaks, and the rest of us eat too many tamales.

Next to arrive was our dedicated committee leader, Elaine Burnett, owner of Elaine’s Pies, where the locals dropped in for homemade desserts, including empanadas, savory pies, and a bit of gossip. She was the ultimate festival committee chairperson. Well-mannered and pleasant, she and her daughters, Melanie and Suellen, handled the tamalada invites and reminder phone calls to the other committee members. Even though she was small in stature, she possessed the Southern knack of asking in such a way that none of them dared to refuse. They knew, as I did, one should try to stay on Elaine’s good side for she enjoyed paddling her fingers in several local pies, like the town council, school board, and chamber of commerce.

“Buenas noches, y’all,” Elaine called out as she and her daughters entered, carrying a white sheet cake decorated with giant blue roses and the words Happy Tamalada. In spite of their confusing decision to bring cake to a tamale party, Elaine’s daughters were no slouches.

“Melanie, don’t drop the dang thing,” mousy-haired Suellen chided as her sister stopped abruptly to wrangle the strap of her Coach bag onto her shoulder. Suellen ran Elaine’s Pies now that her mother had retired to play with her grandchildren while Melanie, the source of those little blessings, displayed her Southwest-flavored paintings at her own gallery, Where the Sun Sets.

“Welcome,” I said, holding open one of the swinging doors to the kitchen. “Right in here.”

“I don’t know why we both had to come,” Suellen murmured under her breath as they proceeded. “She knows I can’t stand tamales.” To quote Katharine Hepburn, Elaine’s oldest was all elbows and knees. She was stretched tall and thin, and I blamed it on working long hours at the pie shop with little time for romantic interludes. Melanie ignored Suellen and presented her cake for all to see. “I thought we could use something sweet as a reward for all the hard work we’re going to put in.” Elaine’s youngest daughter was Texas tall and tuned tighter than piano wire. Her hair was cut in a glossy, chic pageboy with retro bangs, as if she’d just walked out of a Manhattan salon.

“¡Ay! What’s that?” Senora Mari asked, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled a dirty diaper.

My aunt laughed. “Don’t pay her any mind. It looks positively yummy. Y’all are too thoughtful.” Her generous smile went a long way toward smoothing away her mother-in-law’s bluntness. “Bring it right over here.” Aunt Linda opened the large commercial refrigerator and indicated an empty shelf.

I prayed Lenny had gone to sleep. All it would take would be one yip and catastrophe would strike, but leaving him upstairs would have resulted in canine wailing. A banshee had nothing on the six-pound canine. How would Elaine’s clan react? Would they believe that Lenny had never been near the kitchen or the food? If he made an appearance, the committee members might find it hard to believe the setup was sanitary and freak out.

With a slight hesitation, I asked. “How are those grandkids?” Two energetic boys, with Texas-y names I could never remember. Were they Chase and Trace or Coy and Roy?

Elaine piped right up, “Wonderful! Smart as a whip, the both of ’em.” With a graceful movement, she smoothed her teased, white curls with a pale, manicured hand. “The question is, how are you?” She turned to my aunt with a sympathetic shake of her head. “Linda, you must be worried sick.”

“Josie’s fine.” My aunt drew me to her side for a quick, one-armed hug. “You’re ready to skedaddle out of here, aren’t you?”

Well, no. I’d only been home for three months. The slower pace of Broken Boot along with the warm acceptance of my family and neighbors all served as solace to my feelings of rejection and disappointment. Aunt Linda and Uncle Eddie didn’t worry I’d get rusty out here on the edge of the Chihuahuan Desert. If they had tried to push me back into the wide world beyond Broken Boot, I would’ve dug in my heels. Instead they plied me with work and the mouthwatering comfort food I craved.

Like I said, my aunt and uncle can be fattening.

I smiled. “Time heals everything, so they say.” No need to have a pity party in front of company.

Elaine cocked her head in a dovelike movement and pursed her lips. “No, not quite.”

On the heels of her weighty pronouncement, I changed the subject. “I’m submitting to the Bugle.” Broken Boot’s humble weekly had yet to accept one of my articles. I’d tried a community piece about the Spring Break Chili Cook-off at Bubba’s BBQ, but the editor said it lacked spice. With an attempt at something more intellectual, I followed with a piece on the Texas drought. He said it was too dry and never cracked a smile.

“But you have your family,” she continued with a smile for Melanie and Suellen. Her sympathetic gaze turned to Aunt Linda, Senora Mari, and then me. “Family, my dear, is everything.”

In the next few minutes, the rest of the committee arrived and eagerly donned white Milagro aprons. They were a friendly bunch, mostly local business owners, which led me to believe they were wholeheartedly invested in the success of this year’s tourist season. There was also a pastor, school principal, and PTO president in the bunch, if I had to judge from their perfect haircuts and hearty handshakes.

Elaine must have given strict orders for one and all to appear in Wild Wild West Festival attire, for there were enough folks wearing plaid shirts, cowboy boots, and blue jeans to provide extras for the next gun-toting, two-stepping, Texas-based Western. Come to think of it, Mayor Cogburn was likely to blame. According to the Bugle, he’d badgered the town council on a monthly basis to pay for a huge billboard on the highway which read, Welcome to Broken Boot, the Hollywood of Texas.

With the air of a military drill sergeant, Senora Mari clapped her hands. “¡Vamanos! Let’s get started.”

“But we’re missing at least four people,” Elaine said, glancing at her watch.

The drill sergeant frowned. “We start without them.” She waved her right hand in dismissal. “Everyone washed their hands, sí? You listen, I give instructions.”

“That’s my cue to salt some glasses,” Ryan whispered. He gave Hillary a peck, on the lips, and I thought Senora Mari was going to blow a gasket. Her face turned bright red, and when the coach turned to leave she stared at me with raised eyebrows.

“Let’s wash up,” I spun to the sink and began to lather up with the anti-bacterial soap before anyone noticed her disapproval. After washing their hands, everyone listened politely as the older woman issued explicit instructions in a no-nonsense tone. The ground masa would be carefully blended, the tasty roasted chicken pulled exactly so, and the succulent meat chopped to the correct size and texture. By the seriousness of her expression, everyone knew she didn’t suffer fools easily, and they listened intently, as if their one hope of leaving in a timely manner depended on pleasing the four foot eleven tyrant before them. Only Suellen Burnett dared to roll her eyes.

“I’ll make sure Ryan has everything he needs,” I said, making my escape.

I found him behind the bar, slicing limes and humming a hip hop song I’d heard on the radio. “I didn’t realize you were a Drake fan.”

He laughed and the corners of his eyes crinkled in that way that always made me feel so clever and amusing.

“Come on, player, I’ll help you set up.”

“Nah, I got this,” he said and gave me his crooked smile. “I’ve filled in plenty of times.” He stared at me with his dark blue eyes and inexplicably a few tiny butterflies swirled in my stomach. I frowned, reminding my heart it was a glacier, impervious to all male charm.

Wasn’t it a man who’d forced me to un-invite one hundred wedding guests?

“Make yourself at home.” I had plenty of things to do, like wrap silverware, double-check condiments, or find the breaker box and flashlight in case the AC unit blew a fuse again. “Where’s Uncle Eddie? Come on, spill it.”

My uncle liked to watch game film with Ryan while bouncing around ideas for lineups and upcoming strategies. You could say Uncle Eddie had played more than a little football in his day. During his freshman year, the NCAA had named him Rookie of the Year in Division III football, an unprecedented honor for a West Texas University athlete.

Ryan shrugged his straight shoulders out of his navy suit coat and hung it in the storage closet. “Two Boots, where else?”

Uncle Eddie and Aunt Linda were high school sweethearts who had married young. About eighteen years ago, they took over an old barn, named it Two Boots, and transformed it into the town dance hall, where every Friday and Saturday locals and tourists danced to the tunes of some of Texas’s best country and rock musicians. On Mondays, Eddie usually completed his liquor and supply orders by five o’clock. If this were a typical fall day, he would come home early and camp out in the den for his Monday Night Football fix, away from all the chatter over whose culinary masterpiece was going to take the