Scratchgravel Road (Josie Gray Mysteries #2)(11)

The cell phone in her breast pocket vibrated and startled her.

“Where are you?” Otto asked.

“Just outside of town,” she said.

“I’m pulling up to the Tamale. I’ll order your usual.”

The Artemis Police Department sat between the Gun Club and the Artemis City Office across the street from the courthouse. Catty-cornered to the PD was the Hot Tamale, Josie and Otto’s favorite spot to eat. Josie pulled her jeep beside Otto’s and parked in front of the restaurant. On the front of the building a newly painted sign read The Hot Tamale: Quick Service, Authentic Recipes, and the Most Accurate Gossip in Texas. Josie smiled at the sign. She wasn’t sure if the gossip was accurate, but it was abundant.

She walked inside and found the waitresses wiping down tables and preparing for the supper crowd. The tables and chairs were up for grabs and were moved to fit whatever configuration the current group of customers cared to arrange. The waitresses wove their way through the jumble and typically knew every customer by their first name, as well as their daily order. Josie found Otto at their customary spot in the front corner of the diner, at a table with a clear view out the large window facing the courthouse.

She sat down and discovered a Coke already waiting for her.

“You look refreshed,” she said to Otto.

“Lucy special-ordered dill kraut to go with my bologna. The woman is a saint.” He smiled and shook his head, obviously touched by her effort. “Do you know how hard it is to get quality bologna in West Texas? Let alone dill kraut!”

Lucy Ramone, owner and head cook of the Tamale, doted over Otto shamelessly. Josie wondered if Otto’s wife, Delores, realized Otto had an admirer.

“How long has it been since you and Delores went back to Poland?” Josie asked.

“Ten years. Since our parents both passed we haven’t made the effort. We need to, though.” He leaned forward in his chair and propped his arms on the table, his expression pensive. “Sometimes I physically ache for the food from my childhood. The pierogi and gnocchi, the kraut and sausage. My mother would cook for hours for Sunday dinners.”

“Delores is a great cook,” Josie said.

He sighed as if talking to an amateur. “She is, of course. But a pierogi constructed in a Polish kitchen is comfort food like no other.”

Lucy ambled out from the kitchen and pulled up a chair. She ran the back of her hand across her forehead and sighed dramatically. “You missed it. Every table filled. A madhouse in here for lunch today.”

Josie smiled and leaned back in her chair.

Lucy was not from Mexico, but she spoke a fair amount of Spanish, and she had developed an authentic-sounding accent over her twenty years of running the Hot Tamale. She was a squat woman with black hair and dark eyes that fit the Mexican persona she affected.

Lucy leaned in to the table conspiratorially. “So? Everyone talked dead bodies today at lunch.”

Otto looked at Lucy in disbelief. “Who spreads this stuff?”

“I never reveal my sources,” Lucy said. She smoothed her white apron across her thighs. “Now, fess up.”

“Lou stopped in, didn’t she?” Otto asked.

Lucy smiled, her lips pressed tightly together.

Sarah, who did double duty as short-order cook and waitress, yelled from the kitchen, “Bologna sandwich and a cold tamale?”

Josie looked up and saw her standing behind the pass-through window in the kitchen and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Five minutes!” Sarah yelled, and turned back to the kitchen.

“One body,” Josie said. “Singular.”

“I heard multiple,” Lucy said.

Josie held up a finger. “One dead body.”

Lucy considered the answer. “Okay. How many live bodies?”

Josie looked at Otto and smiled, then looked back to Lucy. “We found one dead body, and a local woman who passed out, probably from heat exhaustion. Know anything about it?”

“An illegal?” she asked, ignoring Josie’s question.

“We don’t know yet.”

“Who was the local?”

“Cassidy Harper. You know her?” Josie asked.

“Vaguely. Doesn’t come in here much. Her boyfriend does, though.”

“What do you know about him?” Otto asked.

“I know he’s a lousy tipper. A loner. Always sits by himself. Looks ready to slash his wrists most of the time.”

Sarah brought their plates out and set them down, along with a bottle of Tabasco sauce. She was in her late twenties, and wore the unofficial Hot Tamale uniform: shorts, T-shirt, and tennis shoes. She wore her blond hair in a short bob and was covered in freckles from head to toe. Josie pointed at a button pinned to the pocket of her apron that showed her son holding a T-ball bat, a proud smile revealing two missing front teeth.

“Cute kid,” Josie said.

Sarah grinned. “You should see him hit that ball and run like the wind. He’s amazing.” She sat their drink refills on the table and hustled back to the kitchen.

Lucy stood to leave. “The monsoons are supposed to start tonight. Forecaster says it’s the hundred-year flood. Calling for a foot of rain over the next couple days.” She pointed a finger at Otto, then Josie. “Mark my words. Things are about to get bad.”