Chile Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I looked at McQuaid, remembering something. "That’s why he wouldn’t accept a peanut from Jug, that time in your room at the Manor."

  McQuaid nodded. "I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him that anybody would put peanuts in chili.”

  “Nobody would put peanuts in chili,” Hark said in a definitive tone.

  "I know two people who would,” Ruby said with a little laugh. She looked at me. "Lois Alpert—”

  "And Barbara Holland,” I added. "In fact, both of them were planning to enter the cookoff—”

  "—until we told Lois it was only open to men.” Ruby finished the sentence for me, leaning back so that Bob could put the beer and nachos on the table.

  "Maybe they got some guy to enter their chili under his name,” I said.

  "Peanuts in chili?” McQuaid asked, amazed. "You’ve got to be kidding.”

  "Heck, no,” Bob said. He took a bottle of hot sauce out of his back pocket and plunked it on the table. "I had chili once in San Diego with chopped-up peanuts sprinkled on top. Tasted Gawd-awful to me, but everybody else was slurpin’ it up like it was good. And down in Mexico, folks dip whole peanuts in chile molido and eat ’em while they’re drinkin’ tequila." He looked at McQuaid. “I sent Budweiser to the Circle K for your milk. He’ll be right back.”

  "Thanks,” McQuaid said. Budweiser is Bob’s golden retriever. He often runs errands to the Circle K on the other side of the tracks, wearing a leather saddlebag Bob stitched up for him and stamped with his name, with instructions and money in one of the pockets. Bob has taught him to stop and look both ways before he crosses the tracks, to make sure there's no train coming.

  “You’re welcome,” Bob said. He looked around the table. "So what’s all this about peanuts in chili?”

  "That might have been what killed Jerry Jeff,” McQuaid said. "He was allergic to them.”

  "No foolin’,” Bob said, with interest. “Well, there ain't no peanuts in my chili, you’re guaran-dam-teed.”

  Ruby pulled a cheese-covered nacho out of the pile and began to munch on it. "My aunt Harriet used to work for the Oklahoma Peanut Commission. She always made chili with peanuts, and she’d put a jar of peanut butter on the table, in case it wasn’t peanutty enough. Her chili won a contest in Tulsa once, and she got her picture in the paper.”

  "Oklahoma,” Bob said with severity. “1 knew it. It had to of been a Okie who killed poor Jerry Jeff.” He wiped his hands on his apron and strode away, shaking his head.

  Hark picked up the pitcher and began to pour. "So whose chili had the fatal nuts in it?” He handed me a mug, obviously waiting for an answer.

  "You’re asking me?” I said in surprise. "How should I know?”

  "Because you're the one who was supposed to collect recipes.” Hark shoved my mug across the table, and pushed another toward Ruby. "Did you?”

  "Oh," I said, in a small voice. "I guess I forgot. In all the excitement, I mean."

  Hark rolled his eyes. "Some reporter you are, China Bayles. Give you an assignment and — ”

  "But I was only supposed to collect the winning recipes,” I said. "As it turned out, nobody won. The surviving judges got nervous and called everything off. There’s some talk about rescheduling, maybe in October.”

  “Still, we’d better have recipes,” Hark said crisply. "Here we are, staring straight down the throat of the biggest Texas chili story anybody ever heard of, bigger than Terlingua, even. We have to cover it from every angle.”

  “Bigger than Terlingua?” McQuaid chuckled. "I doubt it.”

  Ruby leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. "What I want to know is whether anybody had the presence of mind to confiscate the chili samples Jerry Jeff had already tasted. It shouldn’t be too hard to tell which one had the peanuts in it.”

  "Confiscate is not the right word,” I said. "But yes, McQuaid did suggest to Bubba that the chili samples should be impounded and analyzed.” Bubba, convinced that JJ had suffered a heart attack, hadn’t seen any particular reason to go to the extra work. But to humor McQuaid, the cups had been gathered up.

  Ruby cocked her head at McQuaid. "Did you have a special reason for suggesting it?”

  "It just seemed like a good idea,” McQuaid said slowly.

  Ruby pounced. “Why did it seem like a good idea?”

  McQuaid was silent for a minute. Then he glanced at me and shrugged. "I suggested it because Jerry Jeff told us that somebody was threatening him.”

  "Oh, yeah?” Hark swiveled around, suddenly intent. "Who?”

  "Unfortunately,” McQuaid said, "he didn’t get around to naming names. He was saving that part for after the judging.”

  "But the murderer got to him first,” Ruby said, and slammed her hand on the table. "I'll bet it was Roxanne! She hates him. He told me she thinks he’s stashed a bunch of cash somewhere, just to keep it out of the divorce settlement.”

  "Nobody said anything about murder. Ruby,” I said sternly.

  “Where the hell is that dog with my milk?” McQuaid demanded. "Ah, there he is.” He whistled and Budweiser trotted over and stood patiently while McQuaid undid the flaps of his saddlebag. He took out a quart of milk and rewarded the dog with a pat on the head and a nacho. “I could use somebody like you to retrieve for me, fella.”

  “You’ve got Howard Cosell,” I reminded him.

  McQuaid opened the carton and began to drink out of it. “Howard Cosell couldn’t retrieve a dog biscuit if he and the biscuit were in the same phone booth. Besides, they won’t let him into the Manor.”

  “Then come home,” I said playfully. “I’ll retrieve for you, if Howard Cosell won’t.” I gave him a more serious look. “It's going to be lonesome after Brian leaves tomorrow. I’ll rattle around in the house, all by myself."

  McQuaid didn’t answer, and the silence was finally broken by Ruby, who asked of the table at large, "If nobody suspects murder, why did McQuaid confiscate the chili samples?”

  McQuaid set down his milk carton. "You’re jumping to conclusions, Ruby. Nobody suspects anything, let alone murder. The hypothesis is that the victim suffered an allergic reaction while he was eating chili. You don’t need a degree in criminology to figure out that the chili should be analyzed and the victim should be autopsied. And that’s all there is to it.”

  "But somebody put the peanuts into the chili,” Ruby said. “That person is guilty of—”

  “Bad taste,” McQuaid said. "I vote we change the subject.”

  We ordered another plate of nachos and Hark told a couple of funny newspaper stories. McQuaid countered with one of Jug’s jokes. Ruby reported that an architect friend wanted to draw up plans for the tearoom remodeling, and I reminded her that I had only said maybe, not yes and that we definitely needed to talk about it before getting other people involved.

  “How about tomorrow afternoon?” she asked promptly.

  "Fine by me,” I said, and we agreed to four o’clock, at Ruby’s house. After we finished the second round of nachos and beer. Hark and Ruby excused themselves. McQuaid looked suddenly gray with weariness, so I loaded him and his chair into the van and drove to the Manor. But before I opened the door, I turned to face him. Today’s outing had been a good one, in spite of what had happened to Jerry Jeff. It was time to bring up the subject we’d been avoiding.

  “You could come home, you know,” I said, carefully casual. "You have the use of both arms now, and you’re getting around really well in your chair. Maybe you’ll even be walking in a few months. In the meantime, we could rent one of those beds that sings and dances and does massage, and put it in the downstMrs. guest room. And I’m sure we could locate a van with a lift, so I could drive you here for your therapy.”

  McQuaid said nothing for a long moment. “I wish I could come home,” he said at last.

  "Well, good.” I managed a smile. "That’s a first step.”

  "But I can't.”

  "Why not?”

  He turned his head and looked out the window. A boat- ta
iled grackle, wings drooping, tail cocked at a ludicrous angle, was parading lustily in front of a group of watching females in the early evening sunlight. "Do you want the truth, China?”

  "I — ” I swallowed. Did I? "Yes. Yes, of course.”

  He spoke in an evenly measured tone that told me he’d already thought this through. "I can’t come home because

  I can’t face up to everything home means. Sleeping with you and not being able to make love. Watching Brian run around and not being able to run with him. Living in the house and not being able to do little chores. Having to .. He turned to look at me, not touching me, but holding my eyes. "Having to depend on you for everything—get out of bed, get dressed, go to the bathroom, even. I can’t make you my caretaker.”

  That was it, then. I didn’t know what to say, but I had to say something. "I don’t mind,” I replied inanely. "I want to help.”

  "I mind.” His voice sharpened. "You don’t understand everything that’s involved in taking care of me, China. And as long as I’m here, I’m focused. I don’t have to think about anything but doing the damn therapy and going to the bathroom and eating and sleeping.” He pulled in a ragged breath. "I don’t have to worry about what this is doing to you or Brian or Mom and Dad. I don’t think about the past or the future. All I think about is right now, and legs that may never work right, and a body that—”

  "But we have to think about the future. We have to talk — ”

  "Don't push!" he said angrily. "For God’s sake, China, you ought to be able to understand without yanking the words out of me like bad teeth. You’re the one who hates to be dependent. It kept you from marrying me.”

  "That was . . . different.” I couldn’t think how, but surely it was.

  "I don't think so.” He dropped his eyes. "Anyway, I think you ought to bail out.”

  "Bail out! You mean, break up?” I stared at him.

  "It’s not such a crazy idea. In fact, it makes good sense, all the way around.” He put his hand on my arm, softening his tone. "Look. The way I am, the way I feel—it’s not your fault, China. Nobody will blame you if you call it quits and get on with your life. We never got married, thank God, so we don’t have to get a divorce.”

  I winced at his emphatic "thank God,” and felt a deep, twisting regret. If I had married him when he asked, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. He would be at home with me, where he belonged.

  "It’s not all that hard,” he went on earnestly, "if we take it step by step. Brian will be at the ranch all summer. Next fall, he can move in with Mom and Dad and go to school in Seguine. You can find a smaller place for yourself, so you don’t have that big house to take care of. Or you can move in with Ruby—she’s got plenty of room, and she’d love to have you. I’ll get somebody to pack up my stuff and put it in storage. Under the circumstances, the landlord isn’t going to give us any trouble about the lease.” His grin was crooked. “See? No big deal. No hard feelings. Just two people who have decided to call it quits.”

  "This is idiotic,” I said flatly. “You’re acting like you're the first man who’s ever been disabled. The same thing has happened to other couples, and they’ve gone on with their lives, together.”

  "No hard feelings, no strings,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. "Just call the landlord and—”

  I was suddenly, blisteringly angry. "No way, Jose,” I snapped. "That house belongs to us, you and me and Brian. As soon as the doctor says it’s okay, you’re coming home. I don’t care whether you’re walking or crawling, or whether we make love or we don’t." I spaced out the words. "You’re coming home."

  "But you don’t understand, China.” He sounded despairing. “I don't want you feeling sorry for me. Or for yourself. I—”

  "As soon as you can,” I repeated fiercely. I leaned forward and kissed Him, hard. "You stupid jerk.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was walking back to my Datsun, which had sat since morning under a cedar elm at the far side of the parking lot. It had been a long, hot, difficult day, and I was weary to the bone. I had laughed while a man died, and my lover had told me to get out of his life. I wanted to go home, make myself a stiff drink, and take it into a cool bath. I did not want to talk to Carita Garza, who was hunkered down beside my car, wearing rumpled green scrubs and dirty tennis shoes. She jumped to her feet when she saw me coming.

  “Oh, Ms. Bayles,” she said breathlessly, “I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”

  "Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” I stuck the key in the door and turned it. “It’s been a tough day.”

  "Please.” Her voice was thick with tears. "Ms. Sanders says that you’re a lawyer, and that you’re very smart. That you help good people who are in trouble.”

  “I told Joyce Sanders I’d find somebody else to help you.” I saw the pain on the girl’s face, and softened my tone. "And I did. I spoke to this lady about your situation this afternoon, and she’s agreed to help.” Well, not quite. But close enough.

  Carita held herself tensely, her brown eyes large and dark above high cheekbones. "Who? Who did you talk to about me?”

  I heard the half-fearful tone and wondered whether I should have been so free with Carita’s story. "Edna Lund. You probably don’t know her.”

  "Yes, I do.” The fear seemed to lessen, but the tension did not ease. "How can she help me? She’s just somebody who comes to read sometimes and talk to Miss Velma. She’s not a lawyer.” Carita said the word as if it were vested with some sort of magical power.

  "I’m not, either.”

  Carita went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Ms. Sanders says you helped her friend. She says the lady would still be in jail if you hadn’t found out who really killed that professor at the college.” She looked at me, pleading. “I know you could find out who is stealing, and prove it’s not me.” Her brown eyes filled with tears. "If it’s not too late.”

  "What do you mean, if it’s not too late?”

  She hung her head. "Mrs. Hogge fired me. She found a credit card in my purse. She said it belonged to one of the residents.”

  I frowned. “Where was your purse?”

  "She got it out of my locker and took it to her office."

  "She unlocked your locker?”

  “She’s got a master key, in case we lose ours.” Carita became dreadfully earnest. "I didn’t take the credit card, or anything else, Ms. Bayles, I swear it! My family depends on this job, and on me. I’d be a fool to risk losing it by doing something as stupid as stealing.”

  It was hard not to believe the girl’s protests. If she were guilty, surely she wouldn’t have appealed to me for help. And if her story was true, it raised several troubling questions. Why had the Manor’s chief administrator decided to search Carita’s locker at the very moment when the incriminating credit card lay in the girl’s purse? Had somebody tipped her off? If so, who? Might the tipster have slipped the card into Carita’s purse? And the search of Carita’s locker, while not strictly illegal, was certainly unethical.

  "She fired you—did she call the police?” I asked.

  Carita shook her head. "I told her I wanted to talk to the police and get this thing straightened out. But she said she had enough evidence to prove to her that I was guilty and that it wouldn’t look good for the Manor if the police got involved. She said they’d had enough trouble over the thefts already.”

  It sounded as if Mrs. Hogge needed a refresher course in employee rights. I looked at my watch. It was after seven. “I suppose she’s already gone home.”

  Carita nodded tautly. “You wilt help me, won’t you?” “I’ll do what I can,” I said. "On Monday, I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Hogge.” In the meantime, I would check Carita’s story with Joyce.

  Carita sagged against the car in relief. “Oh, thank you, Ms. Bayles,” she cried. “I know you’ll make it all right.” Don’t count on it, I wanted to say, but of course I didn't. I did what criminal lawyers always do to comfort their clients. I put on a confident smile, patted the girl
on the shoulder, and told her to go home and get a good night’s sleep and leave the worrying to me.

  As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.

  Chapter Eight

  Peppers range from brightly spicy little serranos and Thais to mysteriously smoky chipotles and dried fruit-flavored anchos. They can add an element of greater complexity to anything you cook, literally from soup to nuts, and they can be used as subtly or aggressively as any other spice once you understand how to cook with them.

  Helene Siegel and Karen Gillingham

  The Totally Chile Pepper Cookbook

  Brian had wanted to hang around to enjoy JuneFest with his friends, but once the Saturday afternoon contests were over, he was anxious to leave. Leatha didn’t make any secret of her eagerness to be gone, either. Since McQuaid had told me he’d given permission for Brian's summer at the ranch, I had felt betrayed, and she knew it.

  But things didn’t come to a head until the morning after the chili cookoff. Brian was getting the last of his gear together, and I was having a cup of mint tea in the kitchen, trying to decide which of my long list of chores I should tackle first. Laurel was taking care of the shop—we’re open noon to five on Sundays, to catch the tourists—and I was meeting Ruby at four. Until then, I had the day to play catch-up. Leatha came into the kitchen and set her cosmetic case on the counter. "I do hope you won’t be lonely, here by yourself,” she remarked in an offhand way.

  "You might have thought of that,” I said, "before you asked McQuaid to let Brian spend the summer with you. After,” I added pointedly, "1 had already said no.”

  Leatha looked apologetic. "I was only thinking of Brian. He is so deeply anxious about his father and—”

  "I know he’s anxious,” I said. "That’s why I want him here. So he can play a part in his dad’s recovery. So he can cheer his dad up, help him get better.”

  "But I’m not sure Brian should take that kind of responsibility,” she said quietly. “It’s not fair to a child to saddle him — or her—with the task of making somebody else better.” She paused for a moment. "I used you that way, when you were a child. It wasn’t fair to you, either.” I was about to retort that the two situations were entirely different, when I remembered that not very long ago I had made exactly the opposite argument. This recollection took the words out of my mouth, and Leatha went on speaking.