Free Here Today, Gone Tamale by Rebecca Adler Page A

far corners of our restaurant as she rose to her feet. “I will see to it you don’t starve.” She started toward Carlos, our lunch cook.
    With a shake of her head, Deputy Pleasant blocked the elderly woman’s path. “Not until he’s interviewed, senora.” She softened her words with a smile. “But I sure could use some quesadillas and sweet tea.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Aunt Linda said, walking over to join the sheriff at his makeshift desk. “We’ll rustle you up something tasty as soon as I’m finished.” The determined optimism in her voice made me cringe. I didn’t envy Sheriff Wallace. He was going to have to tell this zealous businesswoman there would be no lunch service today.
    The cowbell on the front door jangled and Lightfoot entered, holding a batch of papers. After a quick glance around the room, the solemn deputy whispered in Wallace’s ear. A resigned look fell over the sheriff’s weathered countenance, and he spoke to Aunt Linda in a low voice.
    â€œWhat do you mean we have to close for the day?” My aunt jumped to her feet.
    I hurried over.
    â€œJudge Hoskins gave us the okay to search the place.” Wallace gestured to the papers in Lightfoot’s hand.
    â€œFine,” she nearly yelled. “Search away. We don’t have anything to hide.” Throwing up her hands, she tried to laugh. “How long could it take?”
    â€œSeveral hours,” Lightfoot offered.
    Wallace thrust his thumbs into his belt and puffed out his chest. “I need to finish interviewing the staff while the fellas take a look around and dust for prints.”
    With a glance at my aunt’s tortured face, I spoke up. “Is that absolutely necessary? Didn’t she die outside?”
    â€œWe’re searching the entire property.” The older officer exchanged a long look with his stoic sidekick. “The killer left something behind, and we’re going to find it.”
    I was the next subject to be interrogated. Wallace asked me the same questions, but I had nothing new to add. Afterwards, I tried to stay out of the way while surreptitiously watching the deputies dust for prints. Black dusting powdersullied the dark and light surfaces everywhere I turned: the industrial appliances, the colorful ladder-back chairs, everything from the washing machine to the jar of mints at the cash register. What a mess. How many hours would we spend wiping everything down before we could reopen? And what was happening upstairs? Were they dusting my furniture as well as my clothing? And would it wash out?
    We couldn’t get to the kitchen to make the requested quesadillas, so we decided to order Bubba’s BBQ instead. As the staff huddled around the center tables, eating our brisket sandwiches and pickles, Lightfoot sauntered over.
    â€œIs this everyone who works here?” he asked.
    â€œYes, and most of them weren’t even here last night. Why did they all have to stay for questioning?”
    He lifted an eyebrow as if responding to a precocious child. “Procedure.”
    With a bang of the swinging doors, Anthony rushed through the kitchen door. “Miss Josie, I just heard about that woman being found outside behind the trash can. Is everyone okay?” In the craziness of the last few hours, I’d forgotten all about him.
    â€œWho are you?” Lightfoot demanded.
    I gave our newest busboy and dishwasher a reassuring smile. “This is Anthony Ramirez.”
    Clenching his jaw, the dark-haired deputy opened his mouth to speak.
    â€œHe’s an excellent employee who supports his family while he finishes his GED at West Texas.”
    â€œIf he’s so great, why’d you forget to mention him?”
    Before I could respond, the older deputy walked in from the rear entrance. He carried a clear evidence bag in his gloved hand. Inside I could see something red, shiny, and vaguely