“Yes, dear?” Her eyes were filled with mirth.
“You wouldn’t happen to be missing a stun gun from your gun safe, would you?”
She knit her brow for a moment. “Why, honey, I think you’re right. I knew there was something else missing, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.”
“How many stun guns did you own?”
She tilted her head to stare at the ceiling. “I want to say there were three, but I could be wrong.” With a frown, she turned to Lightfoot and stared pointedly at his notepad. “Four. I’m missing four stun guns.”
“Not any chance you placed them somewhere else?” I asked as Barnes and Lightfoot exchanged a glance.
“No.” She raised her chin. “I don’t keep those out for the public to see. If someone asks me . . .” She bit her lip. “Uh, well. Someone did ask about a Taser earlier this week, but it wasn’t a stun gun.”
“Who was it?” I asked softly.
“It didn’t register right away because they’re not the same—even though most people think so.” Mrs. McAllen worried her wedding rings for a spell.
“Who asked?”
“I don’t know who it was.” She swallowed again. “Someone called and spoke to my son.”
“Can’t see how he has time to work over here and manage Bubba’s BBQ,” Barnes said.
“I wasn’t feeling too chipper on Monday so I stayed home.” She glanced at me for support. “When that happens I forward the phone here over to the BBQ so he can handle it.”
“You get many calls, Mrs. McAllen?” Lightfoot asked.
“Once or twice a day, but one is always Bubba, checking in on me.”
“Someone called about a stun gun on Monday?” I prompted.
“Yes.” She nodded, eager to pick up the thread. “Bubba called to see if I had a Taser in stock. I told him no.”
Lightfoot tapped his pencil against his notepad. “Man or woman, who called?”
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask Bubba. He’d remember.” She smiled proudly.
“I’ll give him a call, Detective.” Barnes unclipped his phone from his belt.
“Start dusting for prints. I’ll call him.”
“Oh, do you really have to get that dust all over everything?” The older woman’s lips pursed.
“We had a suspicious death at the fairgrounds today.” Lightfoot cleared his phone screen. “What’s Bubba’s number?”
“Oh no. You would ask me that.”
Mrs. McAllen joined the majority of cell phone users by pulling out her cell phone to search for her own son’s phone number. After an excruciating number of minutes, trying in vain to find Bubba’s number without her glasses, she eventually found the rest of her personal contacts—with the help of her dollar store readers—and rattled off the digits.
With a nod at me, Lightfoot stepped out to place his call.
I found a folding chair and helped her into it. “What is the difference between a Taser and a stun gun, Mrs. McAllen?”
“You know those weapons you see the police using on that reality show?”
I nodded, but I was clueless.
“Those are Tasers. They shoot probes twenty-two feet, and the civilian ones are good for fifteen feet.”
“Wow.” I suddenly had a vivid image of Lucky being shot by a Taser from the opening of his tent.
“Yes, ma’am.” Her eyes grew wide. “Poor criminals flop around like fish.”
I could picture the dead chili cook’s upper torso. “Do they leave marks?”
She leaned forward, a storyteller sharing a ghastly tale in the night. “They do. Two marks close together like a snake.” She held up her fingers. “One to two inches long.”
Had Ellis found marks on Lucky at the lab? “And a stun gun?”
“Well, you have to be in close range to use one, for starters. Up close and personal.”
“It doesn’t shoot these . . . probes?”
“No. You have to hold it against an attacker’s body.” She reached into the mini fridge and pulled out an orange Fanta. “Would you like a cold beverage, hon?”
I was tempted by the cool, neon orange color, but I was wired enough. “No, thank you. I can’t imagine holding a stun gun against a violent attacker. Sounds dicey.”
“Right.” Attached to the side of the fridge was an antique-looking bottle opener. With a surprisingly strong motion, she whipped the bottle top off and sent it flying. “You would need to be strong and agile.” She waved an arm down her body. “Which I am not.”
“Does a stun gun leave marks?”
“According to an article in the Austin Gazette, a stun gun doesn’t always leave marks, and it won’t knock someone unconscious.”
“No?” I digested her remark slowly. Part of my brain insisted the stun gun was an essential element in the death of Lucky Straw.
“It definitely leaves marks sometimes because I saw a young man with marks on his arm that he said were caused by a stun gun.”
“Where was this?”
“On that reality show with the cops and the fugitives.”
“Fugitives?”
“Mostly they’re drunk folks who are driving under the influence. Those shows are just a ploy to raise money for police pensions, if you ask me.”
“More likely the money goes to operating budgets.” It wasn’t hard to remember Lucky’s freckled chest covered with white curly hair. If there had been any marks, I was too rattled to see them.
“If the victim is squirming or trying to get away, it would leave multiple marks.”
I studied her sweet, motherly face. “Why are you interested in those cop shows, Mrs. McAllen?”
She glanced at the walls and the floor, searching for an answer. “I sell weapons here, but I don’t know anything about them. Makes me curious as to why folks buy them and why they’re in such an all-fired hurry to get rid of them.”
“There must be all kinds of laws you have to follow.” I didn’t have any doubt Mrs. McAllen knew more about the weapons she sold than she was letting on. What was interesting was why she didn’t want us to know.
“Sure. But if someone tells me they want to buy or sell a gun, they have to deal with Bubba.”
“He comes over here just for that?” Then I remembered the sign. “Only on Thursdays.”
“Yes, ma’am. Folks have to plan ahead if
