Here Today, Gone Tamale by Rebecca Adler

separated the sheriff’s secretary from the rest of the waiting room. “How’s it going? Is your daughter enjoying running Monday night bingo?”
    â€œShe sure is, Mr. Martinez,” the secretary answered with a smile that brightened her somber countenance, “and I can’t thank you enough. I guess you know it’s her first job.”
    â€œI would’ve never known.” He leaned closer. “I need to speak to Mack a minute.”
    After a cursory glance at her computer screen, she shook her head. “I’m afraid his schedule is full this morning.”
    â€œHe and I go way back.” Uncle Eddie tipped his hat. “Played football together, back in the day.”
    The sheriff’s secretary turned pink beneath her pale foundation. “Oh, I can still picture you two in your uniforms, like it was yesterday.” She called Wallace on the intercom, nodded quickly three or four times, and hung up. “He says that’s fine.” She bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Mr. Martinez. That’s how he prefers me to handle his visitors.”
    â€œNo harm, no foul,” my uncle said and loped off in search of his former tackle.
    The phone rang. As the secretary answered it, two deputies walked down the hall talking in low voices.
    I tried to appear nonchalant as I turned on my heel and hurried after them. As a journalist I’d developed the habit of listening to other people’s conversations, especially if those people were in law enforcement. And in this case, there was every chance they were discussing Dixie’s untimely death.
    They stopped in the vending machine area. “He’s going to inherit her money, every cent,” said a short deputy who sported long sideburns, a full red mustache, and a shiny bald head.
    Bingo. Didn’t Ty stand to inherit all of Dixie’s money? If she had any other relatives, none of us had ever heard her mention them.
    In a high voice at odds with his height, the other law officer said, “He owes everyone and their mother money. You’d have to be half stupid and the other half crazy to play cards with him.”
    â€œStupid hick needs to stick to guitar playing.”
    â€œNot too good at that either,” the bald guy said as his candy slammed to the bottom of the machine. When he picked up his chocolate, he noticed me and froze.
    Assuming a frustrated expression, I thrust my hand into the pocket of my jeans. “Dang it,” I said, snapping my fingers for good measure, “I must have left my money in my purse.” The bald one’s eyes narrowed as if trying to decipher what I’d heard. Before he could question me, I shrugged and headed back the way I had come, a ditzy smile plastered to my face.
    Back in the waiting area, I wandered over to the secretary’s desk. “Is the sheriff keeping you busy?”
    She shook her head in disgust. “No, but ever since that woman was found dead, it’s picked up a bit.”
    I smiled to commiserate. “Is the phone ringing off the hook?”
    â€œNot exactly, but the JP’s called a couple of times this morning.”
    Ellis. Last night, Wallace had said his name was Ellis. In Texas, a justice of the peace could issue warrants, conduct preliminary hearings, administer oaths, conduct inquests,
and
perform the usual weddings. He could also serve as medical examiner in counties without a coroner. Now that Wallace believed that Dixie had been murdered, he and Ellis would be sending the body to El Paso for an autopsy. That could take weeks, even in a case of murder.
    â€œI bet he’s in a panic, huh?” I was shooting from the hip. Most JPs or MEs would never be in a panic unless their office caught fire. When I’d worked at the
Gazette
, I’d heard reporters complain that the MEs were so backlogged they refused to rush anything.
    Amidst a chorus of guffaws, Lightfoot and Uncle Eddie walked out of the