Fool's Puzzle by Earlene Fowler Page B

mad,” I said. “I’m already knee-deep in cow crap with the new police chief. I don’t need to make it worse by talking out of turn.”
    “What happened between you and the chief?” she asked, her eyes lighting up.
    “Let’s just say he and I didn’t hit it off. I don’t think I met his standard of a respectful citizen. ‘Flippant’ was the word he used.”
    “You?” she said and laughed. “I don’t believe it.”
    I made a face at her. “He’s a pain.”
    “Well, I don’t know. He’s a strange one but he’s all right.” She shifted her skinny hips. “Brings his work in here and spreads it all over the table in neat little piles. Stays for hours. Good tipper. Real polite but not a talker. Doesn’t joke with the uniforms that eat in here. Never even seen him just shoot the breeze with anyone. Kind of odd, don’t you think?”
    “Hey, Nadine, why don’t you quit flapping your gums and take my order?” a raisin-faced man in the next booth called.
    “You just hold onto that rank old horse of yours,” she said. She leaned over and smacked his head with her order pad, then turned and patted my hand. “Your order will be right up. Don’t worry, hon. A good breakfast will set you right.”
    “So, you and our half-breed police chief had a squabble.” J.D. stuck a large bite of his ham-and-cheese omelette in his mouth. Wrinkles like bird tracks formed at the corners of his bright blue eyes.
    “J.D.,” I said. “I don’t like him, but that’s downright tacky.”
    “Honey, he is what he is. Wasn’t my first choice as a substitute for Davidson, but the mayor wanted him ‘cause he was bi-leengual. Big whoop-dee-do.” He twirled his forefinger in the air. “In my day you learned to speak English or tough shit.”
    I ignored him and concentrated on dumping enough cream and sugar in my coffee to make it acceptable to my irritated stomach.
    “So, our Mr. Ortiz puts a burr under your saddle, does he?” he asked.
    “He’s very overbearing, in a laid-back, L.A. sort of way.” I stirred my coffee absently. “If that’s possible.”
    I stared over his shoulder at the most recent addition to the sometimes unbelievable craft items the owner of Liddie’s continually tried to pawn off on unsuspecting tourists. The latest entry was a resin-covered clock of Elvis, with a slightly Navaho look to his face. His eyes were a shade of blue that I’d never seen on a living human being before. The number six hit him square in his bulging white crotch.
    “Well, it ain’t going to be easy for him substituting for Davidson. We’ll just see how the boy handles this murder. How are you, by the way?”
    “I’ll survive,” I said. “I’m a tough old broad.”
    “Well, you should be. You was raised by one. How is Dove doing these days?”
    “Ornery as ever. I haven’t told her about last night yet. And I hope”—I looked him directly in the eye—“that no one tells her for a few days. She hates me living alone, and this’ll just give her a pile of mesquite for the fire.”
    “I’ll keep quiet, but I can’t guarantee anyone else in this town. You tell her ‘hey’ for me.” He pushed his empty plate aside and looked at me seriously. “Now, enough of that. Tell me what happened.”
    “Carl called me as soon as I got in last night, or rather early this morning. He took down all the facts. Trust him for a change.”
    He shook his head doubtfully and sipped his coffee. “Took me two hours after the murder was reported to get word to him. He’s got people at every bar in town trained. My messages don’t always get through. And when they do, he doesn’t always remember them.”
    “Here you go.” Nadine plunked a large dinner plate of pancakes and chicken-fried steak down in front of me. I covered the steak with white gravy, sprinkled it with pepper, dotted it with Tabasco sauce.
    “Stomach of iron,” J.D. said to me.
    “Sustenance for battle. Now, tell me what you know about this Ortiz