Chili Con Carnage (A Chili Cook-Off Mystery)

by Logan, Kylie

  “You want to serve me chili?” He was skeptical but interested. Oh yeah, I noticed the way he skimmed a look from the top of my head to the heels of those stilettos and back again. He was plenty interested. “Why?”

  “I did sort of accuse you of Puff’s murder. And hey . . .” I leaned in nice and close. “As far as I’m concerned, nothing says I’m sorry like a bowl of hot, spicy chili.”

  He tried not to smile, but hey, Carter is a guy, and he just couldn’t help himself. He saw the possibilities, just like I hoped he would. “You’re not going to accuse me of murder this time?” he asked.

  “Cross my heart.” I did, and watched him watching me when my finger skimmed my breasts. He was so busy that he missed what my other hand was doing.

  That one was behind my back and my fingers were crossed.

  • • •

  Carter brought champagne and I mean, really, I had to give the guy credit. Seedy campground, middle of nowhere, and there we were in the Palace. Even so, he still thought of champagne. I let him open it while I dished up two steaming bowls of what was left of the chili I’d made a couple days earlier. Leftovers, tacky? Not at all!

  Years ago, Jack had taught me that nothing could make a bowl of leftover chili take on a new twist like adding a few peppers that weren’t in it the first time around. Words to live by. When I heated up the chili, I threw in a little bit of Naga Bhur Jolokia (also known as ghost chili), one of the hottest peppers on the planet. I’d promised Carter hot and spicy, hadn’t I? It was time to deliver.

  “I’m glad you decided to come.” I pointed to the stool across the table from where I sat, and he poured champagne in paper cups and sat down. “I thought you were mad at me.”

  He took a sip, nodded his approval, and drank a little more. “I was. It’s not every day a man of my standing gets accused of committing a murder or of dealing in . . . what did you call them? Magic beans?”

  I blew on the chili on my spoon. I’d already tasted the concoction while I was warming it, and I knew it was spicy enough to take the paint off walls. Fine by me. I liked my chili with a nuclear kick.

  Carter? Not so much. He took one taste and his cheeks shot through with color. “Wow.” He blinked, took another drink of champagne and blinked some more. “Wow.”

  “Sorry, no baby squid tentacles.” I had considered the possibility—briefly—and decided it would be a waste of perfectly good chili. “But there are some of Puff’s beans in the chili. Jack bought a huge amount of them earlier in the year, and now, I’m glad since whoever torched Puff’s trailer . . . well, they made sure there wouldn’t be any beans left. Or any magic beans. It really was a brilliant way to get rid of any evidence.”

  Carter rolled his eyes. “You said you didn’t invite me here to accuse me of anything.”

  “And I’m not. Honest.” I spooned up another delicious bite of chili and popped it in my mouth. “I’m just curious, that’s all. About what you said about your restaurant.”

  Carter’s smile was tight. “You mean about how successful it is.”

  “I mean about how it almost went under a few years ago. You told me that. You said you’d turned things around and I just wondered, that’s all, if channeling Puff’s product through your restaurant—”

  “That’s it.” Carter popped off the stool, and for a second I thought he was going to walk out. I prayed he wouldn’t take the champagne with him. I couldn’t read the label since it was in French, so I couldn’t say for sure what kind it was, but the stuff was mighty tasty. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this again. I didn’t kill Puff, you got that?”

  “Okay. All right. Relax.” I tapped a hand against the table, inviting him to sit back down. “I believe you. But like I said, there are a lot of loose ends, and I’m just trying to tie them all up. Tie them up . . .” Over the rim of my paper cup, I kept my eyes on Carter. “You know, like you tied up that veal roast.”

  “Magic beans and veal roasts.” He either was truly confused or he was a great actor. Guess which one I was betting on? “You really are talking crazy. Maybe something in my dinner tonight didn’t agree with you.”

  “Weeds never agree with me, but that doesn’t matter since I didn’t have much of a chance to eat, anyway. I was too busy thinking.”

  Carter dropped onto his stool and dared another bite of chili. This time he didn’t flush quite as much. He set down his spoon, the better to give me his full attention. “The chili’s hotter than Hades, but I’m actually enjoying it. So let’s just get this over with, then I can settle back and finish eating and you can share your recipe. It’s the least I deserve for playing what’s looking more and more like a game. You spent the evening thinking. I bet you can’t wait to tell me what you were thinking about.”

  “Exactly.” I pointed his way with my spoon. “Here’s the deal. Puff killed Roberto. But I’m guessing you already knew that. I’m guessing you already know why, too. Roberto was involved in an illegal business. He and his cronies were making fake pharmaceuticals. You know, those little blue pills some guys take to jazz up their love lives. Puff knew it because Puff bought the pills from Roberto, and Roberto tried to blackmail him about it.”

  “The magic beans.” Carter nodded. “And you think—”

  “Well, I didn’t,” I admitted. “I mean, I did, but then, I thought a lot of things. It’s impossible not to when you’re trying to work your way through a murder investigation. Once Puff was dead, I thought plenty. And it always brought me back to the same spot—nowhere. That is, until tonight, when I saw that veal breast.”

  Carter tipped back his head. “It’s been a long night, and I really am tired. It’s not easy standing up in front of a crowd and being fascinating, you know. Or maybe you don’t.”

  I’d been dissed, and that was fine with me because, let’s face it, I deserved it. But I wasn’t done.

  “The veal breast,” I said, leaning forward just a little so Carter couldn’t fail to hear and listen. “You tied it.”

  “I’d never cook a roast that wasn’t tied.”

  “And every single one of them is probably tied in exactly the same way.”

  He allowed a small sigh to escape. “Yes, exactly the same way. You start with a square knot at one end of the roast and—”

  “I never cook roasts and even if I did, I wouldn’t bother to tie them, so you can spare me the lesson. What’s important here isn’t the veal, it’s Puff’s bike.”

  I got another blank look for my efforts. “When I saw the way your veal roast was tied, it looked familiar, and it took me a while to figure out why. Those complicated knots you use for tying your roast, they were the same ones that tied Puff’s bicycle to the back of his trailer.”

  “So now you’re accusing me of teaching Puff to tie knots. Even if I did . . .” Carter shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that’s not illegal.”

  “And I’m pretty sure Puff couldn’t do it if he tried,” I said. “His eye-hand coordination was spotty at best, it disappeared long ago along with most of his brain cells. But if you tied the bike on his trailer . . .”

  Carter traded me look for look. “If I did . . . ?”

  “Well, it would prove you knew him well enough to visit his trailer and tie his bike onto the back of it for him, and it’s only a short jump from there to proving he sent you the magic beans along with his real chili beans. That’s how you saved your restaurant. You were dealing drugs out of it.”

  Whatever I expected, I didn’t expect Carter to burst out laughing. Or to applaud. “Brilliant!” Carter toasted me with his champagne. “Really, Maxie, I’m impressed. There’s only one problem with your theory.”

  Personally, I couldn’t see it. Which is why I waited for Carter to fill in the blanks.

  “I can’t,” he said, and it was as simple as that. “I can’t tie veal roasts or anything else.” He held up his hands as if they would give away some secret. “Arthritis, and it’s bad. Not exactly something a TV chef wants to admit to. O
h, I can get away with the basics, a little stirring, a little chopping, a little showing off dishes so the camera can see them. But tying a roast? I haven’t been able to do it in years. Tessa does that for me.”

  “Tessa!” If he was telling the truth, this wasn’t just important, it was monumental. “Let me guess, she also does a lot of your ordering for the restaurant.”

  He still didn’t get it, so he nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world. “All of it, in fact.”

  “Like the beans from Puff.”

  Carter winced as if he’d been slapped. “You mean you think Tessa—” He couldn’t make himself say the rest; he simply sat, stunned and silent.

  “She can’t stand you,” I told Carter and of course, this was no big surprise to him. “She wanted her own TV show and when she didn’t get it . . .” Yeah, it was a stretch, some might even say a leap of faith, but I took it. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted Puff’s murder pinned on you all along. We’ve got to call the cops.” My phone was on the counter and I reached for it.

  Too bad I wasn’t just a little faster.

  Then I would have had a chance to dial the cops before Tessa walked into the Palace.

  I might have tried anyway. If she hadn’t had a gun in her hands.

  “Away from the phone.” Tessa pointed back toward the table with the little silver gun, and I wasn’t about to argue with her. I slid over to stand next to Carter.

  “I guess it’s my fault for not being a little faster,” she said. “If I’d called the cops as soon as you said you knew Carter did it because of the way the roast was tied—”

  “But I didn’t do anything!” Carter took a step forward, but when Tessa trained the gun on him, he stopped in his tracks. “Why would you call the cops, Tess? You know I had nothing to do with Puff’s death.”

  “That’s the whole point, don’t you see?” It was all so clear now, I groaned. “Tessa wanted you to be accused of the murder, because she wanted you out of the way. She wanted your time slot.”

  A slow smile lit Tessa’s face. “For my own show. The show you owe me, Carter. If I couldn’t get it from you one way, then I had to find another.”

  “So you killed Puff and tried to pin the crime on Carter.” She didn’t protest, so I knew I was on the right track. “But I’m thinking it worked out for you in other ways, too. Puff was shipping you the little blue pills along with his beans, wasn’t he?”

  She shot me a look. “You know about that?”

  “I know a whole lot. And so do the cops. They’re on to you, Tessa. In fact, they’re on their way here right now and—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You hadn’t figured it out until right now, so I guarantee the cops haven’t, either. And when they find your two bodies in those hills out back in the morning . . .” Again, she motioned with the gun, this time toward the door.

  Carter moved to the door, but I wasn’t feeling quite so agreeable. I waited until he was close to her so that when I spoke, she’d have to turn my way.

  “We won’t live if we go out there with her, Carter,” I said, and it was all I had time for. While Tessa was still turned and looking my way, I heaved a bowl of my chili right at her face.

  It’s amazing what can happen when ghost peppers get in a person’s eyes.

  The sting was instantaneous and it packed a punch. She yelped. She screamed. In a desperate effort to wipe her eyes, she dropped the gun and I moved to kick it out of her reach.

  Carter held her hands behind her back while I called the cops. They almost couldn’t hear me, what with all Tessa’s screaming and begging for something to wipe her eyes.

  Hey, they don’t call it killer chili for nothing.

  CHAPTER 20

  “So let me get this straight, you thought Carter was the murderer and so you decided to invite him over here for chili?”

  Oh yes, I detected the note of sarcasm in Nick’s question. That didn’t mean I had to acknowledge it. In fact, I was feeling so darned pleased with myself, I decided I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. In honor of that conclusion, I finished up the second of the Little Debbie Cupcakes that were my breakfast, washed it down with a cup of coffee, and poured another. We were in the RV, and there were more cupcakes close at hand. I opened another package and offered one to Nick, but I guess he’s not a breakfast guy. Rather than say yes, no, or thank you, he just got a little green. More cupcakes for me.

  I bit into one and wiped gooey frosting off my chin. “Sylvia knew what I was up to,” I said with a look over to where my sister was sitting on the vinyl bench. “She had strict orders: If Carter was in the Palace too long or if I walked out with him, she was supposed to call the cops.”

  “Except I couldn’t.” Sylvia, too, wasn’t looking exactly rosy. She sipped the tea she was having along with dry toast. “It must have been the baby squid tentacles,” she said, and she burped. Politely and behind her hand, of course. “I was as sick as a dog.”

  “One of you sick and the other one of you . . .” I saw a muscle jump at the base of Nick’s jaw. “The other one of you playing games with a guy who could have been a murderer.”

  “Except he wasn’t. She was.” I laughed. “It all worked out, Nick, and now we can all head to Vegas for the next Showdown.” I finished the cupcake and looked at him while I wiped my mouth with a paper towel. “Unless you’re not coming to Vegas.”

  His gaze darted to Sylvia and I wondered why. Had he already discussed his plans with her? Or were his true feelings about the Showdown something only I knew? Either way, another burp from Sylvia kept him from answering.

  “Here’s what I don’t get . . .” She nibbled on her toast and waited to see if it would actually go down and stay down, and when it did, she tried another bite. “You never explained, Maxie, about where my bail money came from.”

  I looked at the photograph of the kids who used to be us, and smiled. “My guess is that Jack had something to do with it,” I told her.

  Even when she wasn’t feeling well, Sylvia could smirk with the best of them. “Don’t be ridiculous. If Jack was around, he would have contacted one of us.”

  “But he did contact us.” I waved the picture in front of her nose. “This was his way of doing it, don’t you see? He left us clues. The money, and his favorite picture of the two of us together.”

  “Then why not just walk in and hand you the money?” She looked at me for as long as she was able, but my guess is a couple seconds and the room started to spin. Sylvia closed her eyes, waited, took another sip of tea. “You’re building up some romantic story about Jack in your head, Maxie, because it’s what you want to believe. Jack’s gone. There’s nothing left here of him.”

  “Oh yeah?” So it wasn’t the best comeback. It pretty much said it all. Just in case Sylvia didn’t get the message, I went into my bedroom and got the shoe box full of Jack’s things out from under the bed. I dropped the box on the table in front of her and smiled with perverse pleasure when the sound of cardboard plunking down on Formica made her wince.

  “There’s plenty of Jack left around here,” I told her. I took the lid off the box. “I’ve got all these things. Letters and receipts and pictures. It all belongs to Jack and we can use it . . .” I looked at Nick. “We can use it to help find him, right?”

  He stepped forward and poked a finger through the stuff I’d collected. “Maybe,” he said, and my spirits soared. In my book, maybe was a hell of a lot better than an out-and-out no way.

  “Look.” I dragged Jack’s notebook out of the box and flipped through the pages so Nick could get a quick look at them. “I even have Jack’s notebook and there might be something in here, right? I just wish . . .” I stopped at the spot where the pages were torn away from the spiral binding. “I bet these pages could tell us something. If they hadn’t been ripped out.”

  “Maybe they still can . . .” Nick took the notebook out of my hands and tipped it so that light shone on the pages. “This
is the page behind one of the ones that was torn out,” he said. “If we rub it with a pencil—”

  “That’s just silly. Like something from a stupid movie. Put that notebook away.” Sylvia made a grab to snatch the book out of Nick’s hands, but he held on tight. I’d already gotten a pencil out of a nearby drawer, and I handed it to him.

  “You’re not going to find anything,” Sylvia grumbled.

  But she was wrong.

  Nick put the notebook on the table and ran the pencil over the page he’d pointed out. Like magic, a couple words appeared.

  “Three quarters of a cup of onions,” Nick read out loud. “And here, it says . . .” He rubbed some more. “Two tablespoons of cumin.” He glanced at me over the open pages of the notebook. “It’s a recipe.”

  “Jack’s recipe for . . .” When I took the notebook away from Nick, my hands actually shook. “It’s like the Holy Grail,” I breathed. “Jack’s recipe for his special chili. Only why was it ripped out?”

  The truth dropped down on me like an atom bomb, and just like that bomb, I blew. “You!” I pointed a finger in Sylvia’s direction and she didn’t have to say a word. The way her spine stiffened, I knew I’d found the culprit.

  She was wearing a fuzzy pink robe and she adjusted it on her lap. “So? Jack isn’t using the recipe and if someone else can make better use of it—”

  “Someone like you?” I closed in on her, propped my hands on the table, and leaned forward. “That’s the only reason you’re here, isn’t it? You don’t give a damn about Jack. All you wanted was to find his recipes so you could . . . what are your plans, Sylvia? Your own truck at the cook-offs?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She stood and edged out of the booth. “You can’t really imagine I want to spend my life hanging around with the Showdown losers. But a cookbook . . . now that might attract some attention. A cookbook with chili recipes, the likes of which—”