Revenge of the Chili Queens (6 page)

She didn’t let me hang on to her for long. “I’m fine,” she said once we’d stepped away from the crime scene. She pulled back her shoulder, lifted her head, and pulled in a
breath of the air that was still as hot and humid as the inside of a dry cleaner’s. “Really. I’m not usually such a blithering idiot. It was just the shock, and thinking about what’s going to happen now. . . I mean, having the Women’s League associated with a murder, it’s just too terrible to even think about.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I told her. “I’ve had the same thing happen. A couple times, in fact. As terrible as it is, murder seems to bring out more customers.”

Eleanor’s rusty brows dipped low over her eyes. “Really? You think we could somehow use this to our advantage? Well, we could send out an e-mail newsletter and offer our condolences and say how terrible it is and if people want to donate money in the victim’s name . . .”

“Except they don’t know his name,” I told her. “That’s why they wanted to know if you knew him.”

“Me?” We stopped near the center of the plaza. Already, word had gone out about the murder, and there were a few cops there who’d established a perimeter of sorts to keep the curious at bay. We stepped around them. “Like I told that policewoman, I talked to the man earlier. But other than that . . .” As if she was waking from a bad dream, Eleanor looked around the plaza. When her gaze landed on the Consolidated Chili tent, some of the confusion washed out of her expression.

“What is it?” I asked her. “You remember something?”

She thought about it for a moment. But then, I suppose anybody who’s organized enough to put on a mega-event like this one had to make sure she had her facts straight. “I did see him late in the evening,” she said. “That poor
man, I mean. He was over in that tent. The one that belongs to Consolidated Chili. He was talking to John Wesley Montgomery. You know who I mean; I’m sure you saw him this evening. He’s the CEO of Tri-C and he’s hard not to notice. Such a well-dressed man, and that amazing ten-gallon hat!”

“He’s the one who left in the big black limo.” As far as I’d seen, he was the only one who had, but I figured I should get my facts straight, too. After all, it was that limo that had almost run me down as I was looking for Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann.

Right before I found the body.

“That’s the one,” Eleanor said. “And I saw him with the victim. I was on my way to get interviewed by one of the local TV stations. You know, about the event and about the work we do in the community. And I walked right by the Consolidated Chili tent, and that’s when I saw that guitarist. He and John Wesley, they were talking.”

“You didn’t . . .” I controlled my excitement. There was no use letting Eleanor think I had anything more than a passing interest. “You didn’t happen to hear what they were talking about, did you?”

Again, she paused to think. “It was very loud around here,” she said. “What with the crowd and those gorgeous young beauty queens handing out those adorable little bottle openers and talking to everyone who went by. How cute were they?”

Since I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the beauty queens or the bottle openers, I figured I didn’t have to answer.

“Still . . .” Eleanor cocked her head. “I did hear a bit. John Wesley, he must have asked that poor guitar player a question, because the guitar player said something about how he’d contacted her.”

“Contacted who?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Eleanor admitted. “But that’s what he said. He said, ‘I contacted her. Just like you asked me to.’”

“And Mr. Montgomery, what did he say?”

“He said that was good. Because he wanted to find out everything he could about the spice. Or maybe he said the price. Ice? Advice?” She groaned. “I don’t know. Like I said, it was noisy and I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention. Do you think it’s important? Do you think . . .” She glanced back toward where the glow of those spotlights lit up the nighttime sky. “Do you think I should tell the police?”

“I’ll tell them for you,” I assured her, and I’d been at this murder investigation thing for so long, I didn’t even cross my fingers when I lied. “If they have any questions, I’m sure they’ll ask you when they come talk to you later.”

I left her at the main tent, where she was instantly surrounded by a crowd who wanted to know what she saw and what she knew, and went looking for Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann. Just as I expected, they were worried, but I told them everything was under control (I’m pretty good at this lying thing, yes?) and said they’d better get back to the fairgrounds so they could get some sleep before the Showdown opened in the morning.

By the time I flagged down a cab for them and waved good-bye, I was all set to return to the crime scene and see
what was happening. I never got that far. That’s because halfway there, I met Nick coming the other way.

“So?” I asked him.

“So?” He kept walking and I fell into step at his side. Which might sound like no big deal but isn’t exactly easy considering that he’s tall, I’m short, and I was wearing that long black skirt. I lifted the hem of it so I could scramble and catch up.

“So what did the cops find out?”

He didn’t spare me a glance. “As far as they’ve told me, nothing.”

I figured it was only fair to give him a chance to come clean. “They don’t know who the guy is?”

“Nope.”

“Nobody does?”

He stopped so fast, I ended up a couple steps ahead of him and had to stumble back to him.

“Leave it alone,” Nick told me.

“But Nick, he was looking for security. The dead guy. That’s what I didn’t tell that detective. He came over to my tent and he was—”

He started walking again, and we sidestepped the cops and continued on along the plaza. By now, there were vans from a couple of the local TV stations there along with a crowd of curious onlookers. Nick didn’t say a word until we were well past all of them.

“He was what?” he asked.

“He was upset about something,” I said. “He said something about a woman he called Senora Loca. And then he asked for security. And I pointed you out to him, and that
man, he took one look at you, turned around, and went the other way.”

At this end of the plaza the shadows were deep; his shrug was barely noticeable. “That doesn’t mean anything. If the man was upset, it’s only natural he’d want to find someone from security.”

Since he obviously wasn’t listening, I had no choice but to clamp a hand down on his arm. At my touch, his muscles bunched. “Of course it was only natural. But it wasn’t as simple as that. Don’t you get it? He asked for security, but when he saw you, he split. What does that tell you?”

Light and shadows played over Nick’s expression, making him look as if he’d been carved from stone. “It tells me he changed his mind. Or he thought of something he had to do. Or he wanted to grab another bowl of chili. Or maybe he just decided not to talk to me because he didn’t like the look of my face or the color of my tie. I can’t say for sure, because I don’t know. All I know for sure is I never saw that man before in my life.”

CHAPTER 4

The next morning the Chili Showdown was in full swing and the sky above the fairgrounds where we were set up was filled with fat, white clouds. The gates opened exactly at ten and already, the air was so moist and heavy, it was hard to breathe.

Especially from inside the Chili Chick.

The Chick, see, is a work of art constructed from wire and mesh and heavy canvas, a gigantic red chili costume that I step into, pull up over my head, and zip up the back. The chili completely covers me all the way to down just past my hips. My arms stick out the sides. My legs in their fishnet stockings stick out the bottom. The tall stilettos I wear with those stockings are impossible to miss.

But then, so are my killer legs.

Of course, that’s the whole idea. It always has been, since back in the day when Jack first thought of the Chili Chick and brought her to life through a series of Chicks who’d worn her proudly since. Sylvia’s mom was once the Chick. So was my mom. The fact that Jack had fallen in love with both of them was no big surprise. Aside from being a ladies’ man through and through, there is something about the Chick that makes her impossible to resist.

Kitschy.

Funny.

Funky.

In case the yellow sign above our chili pepper red food truck doesn’t get customers’ attention, the Chick does when she dances her fool head off and waves people in.

Dancing my fool head off, I put my face as close as possible to the red mesh at the front of the costume and sucked in a breath at the same time I managed a shuffle step and a wave to the group of people walking by. It worked. They went up to the front concession window, and Sylvia started into her spiel about All-Purpose Chili Cha-cha, Global Warming, and Thermal Conversion, our three most popular spice mixes.

This was a good thing, because while she was busy with them, I ducked around to the back of the Palace and into the shadows. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly cool, but it was cooler than standing out in the beating sun. This sweltering Chili Chick leaned against the Palace, pulled in a breath of wonderfully fragrant, chili spice–filled air, and took a breather.

If only it was that easy to take a break from the thoughts of murder that swirled through my head.

Murder. A mysterious victim. And Nick.

See, I’d gotten up early that morning (and believe me when I say this is not something I am usually inclined to do), and I did a lot of thinking. But no matter how many times I went through the scene in my head, I couldn’t make sense of why the victim was so desperate to find someone from security, then just as desperate to head the other way when he realized that someone was Nick.

And Nick claimed he knew nothing about the man?

To me, it just didn’t add up.

“So much for that flimsy explanation, buster,” I mumbled as if Nick was there to hear me and dispute the excuse he’d given me the night before.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I told myself, and really, there’s only one thing to do when that kind of curiosity nibbles away at this Chili Chick’s brain.

I had to do some more digging and find the answer.

A plan already spinning through my head, I poked my chili around the corner of the Palace, made sure Sylvia was still busy with those customers, and took off down the midway as fast as a chili in stilettos can move. With any luck, Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann wouldn’t be in the trailer they used as the main office and mother ship of each Showdown event and I’d have a few minutes to myself to look through their files.

“Maxie, good morning!”

So much for luck. Half good, half bad by the looks of things. As soon as my chili-encased butt was up the steps and through the door, none other than Gert Wilson popped out of the chair behind the desk where Ruth Ann usually sat
to take care of all the administrative details that allowed the Showdown to run like clockwork in each town we visited. Gert had her own setup at the Showdown where she sold things like chili-themed aprons and pot holders and jewelry. What she was doing in Ruth Ann’s place was a mystery. At least until Gert explained.

“Ruth Ann had to step out for a minute and asked me to take her place. You know, in case anybody stopped in with questions. What can I do for you?” When I’m not wearing my Chick stilettos, Gert is a tad taller than me, but now, she needed to look up to try and see me through the mesh at the front of the costume. “Shouldn’t you be outside dancing?”

“Too hot,” I told her. Which wasn’t exactly a lie. “I needed a break and I knew Ruth Ann would have the AC cranked.” It was, and I wallowed in the glory of it. “Besides, I need a little time to myself. It’s going to be busy today.”

“Thank goodness!” Gert was a middle-aged woman with hair the color of a desert sunset, a wide, pleasant face, and ample hips. That day—like most days—she was wearing an ankle-length skirt. That day’s choice was denim, but that day—like most days—she’d added a dozen bright beaded bracelets, a yellow shirt, and a filmy orange scarf to her outfit, just to jazz things up.

She strolled to the window that looked out over the midway and the crowds that poured in. “Ruth Ann tells me that poor Tumbleweed couldn’t sleep last night from worrying. Another murder, and you know as well as I do, that can’t be good for business. Thank goodness that man had the sense to get killed somewhere other than here at the Showdown!”

She slapped a hand to her mouth. “You know I didn’t really mean that the way it came out,” she said. “I just meant . . . well, you know, Maxie. Two Showdowns these last few weeks. Three bodies. Sooner or later, that sort of thing gives a show a bad reputation. If people stopped coming, a lot of people would lose their livelihoods. That would be a real shame. For all the Showdown folks.”

“Not going to happen,” I told her, stepping to her side. From outside, a man caught sight of the giant chili in the window and waved. I waved back. “The Showdown is the best chili cook-off show on the road. People are always going to want to come and taste our chili and be part of the cook-off contests and buy all the spices and the beans and the supplies our vendors sell. Real chili lovers? Not even bad news can keep them away.”