Red Hot Deadly Peppers
Page 1
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Paige Shelton
Farmers’ Market Mysteries
FARM FRESH MURDER
FRUIT OF ALL EVIL
CROPS AND ROBBERS
Country Cooking School Mysteries
IF FRIED CHICKEN COULD FLY
eSpecial
RED HOT DEADLY PEPPERS
Red Hot Deadly Peppers
PAIGE SHELTON
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) * Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England * Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) * Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) * Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India * Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) * Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
RED HOT DEADLY PEPPERS
A Berkley Prime Crime eSpecial / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime eSpecial edition / September 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Paige Shelton.
Excerpt from A Killer Maize by Paige Shelton copyright © 2012 by Paige Shelton.
Excerpt from If Mashed Potatoes Could Dance by Paige Shelton copyright © 2012 by Paige Shelton.
Cover photos: Pepper © by Joyart/shutterstock; Background © by Photocell/shutterstock.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-58968-7
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Contents
Also by Paige Shelton
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Recipe
Special Excerpt: A KILLER MAIZE
Special Excerpt: IF MASHED POTATOES COULD DANCE
Chapter One
Their names were Cole and Brad. Even though just earlier that morning they’d seemed like helpful, nice, and intelligent eighteen-year-olds, I now wondered about the “intelligent” part.
They each sat in an old folding chair, and a big bowl of colorful peppers rested on the stall table in front of them. Apparently, sitting was required for the challenge. If you stood, you were disqualified. However, since Cole was the one who’d just been chewing on a pepper, he looked like he might want to explode out of the chair and run away from the horrible pain. I was sure it was my imagination, but I thought I saw smoke coming out of his ears. I peered past the boys and the small group of farmers’ market stalls.
If he ran, where would he go?
Beyond the big parking lot and across the two-lane highway lay desert; desert that at first glance looked flat, gray, and boring. But initial impressions can be deceptive, and though I’d yet to explore the area fully, I’d seen enough to know that one must give all deserts a second and more thorough inspection. There was color in the landscape, in the form of bright cactus flowers, among other things. I’d been told that the cactuses across the highway were called prickly pears, and I’d noticed a few bright yellow flowers extending from their Ping-Pong-paddle-like extensions.
The desert was also home to some vibrant wildlife. I’d asked my host about the unappealing-looking creature with the bright red head that we’d seen on the way into the market that morning. She said it was a turkey vulture and that I must be some sort of good luck because she hadn’t seen a turkey vulture in quite some time. I smiled but didn’t reply. If my luck had anything to do with something that had “vulture” in its name, I wasn’t so sure it was good luck.
Behind the market stalls and a building that housed a trading post, tall, sheer, and intimidating cliffs stretched toward the sky, their mostly red mineral layers interspersed with streaks of browns and grays.
Though I couldn’t see it at the moment, more civilization dwelled in either direction down the highway, but said civilization wasn’t close enough to consider making any sort of trek on foot.
Besides, it wasn’t just the peppers that were really, really hot.
“Come on, dude, give it up,” Brad said as he patted Cole on the back, a maneuver that caused Cole’s eyes to bug out. His face was red, and his now buggy eyes watered profusely.
“Milk?” Brad teased as he held up a glass of the good stuff next to his own sadistic but movie-star-like smile. He was a cute kid, with lots of brown curls.
Cole glared at the milk but then shook his head forcefully. He was a cute kid, too, but in a blond-haired and dimpled-cheek way. His denial caused Brad’s movie-star smile to dim slightly. It was evident that he wanted Cole to give in, to drink the milk and alleviate what must be some of the worst pain ever. I’d already tried some of the milder varieties and they were delicious, but I was staying away from any that were hot enough to be considered contest worthy.
“Boys will be boys, I guess,” Nera said with an eye roll as she and I observed from her stall, which was next to the one with all the activity.
Nera had explained that the boys, Cole and Brad, were locals who spent their summers helping out at the farms and the market. They were good workers who showed up on time and did what they were told to do. They had, without complaint, hefted some big boxes of pecans from Nera’s truck and carried them to her stall this morning. I hadn’t had to do much of anything to set up for the day, which was very different from my usual routine at home when I was tending to my own jam and preserve market business. But I was in a whole new world, here to observe another market and other vendors’ ways, and there had already been plenty to see and experience.
South Carolina could have some miserably hot and humid days, b
ut I’d never felt anything quite like the 117-degree dry heat of Arizona. Since the air wasn’t humid, the temperature was supposed to be more bearable, but the words “in theory” rang through my mind whenever someone mentioned that fact.
And there was the other heat, the heat that Cole was currently subjecting himself to: the heat from the peppers, the beautiful, colorful, and painful peppers.
Nera grew and sold pecans, which was a fascinating endeavor it itself. But it was the neighboring stall that had garnered a big chunk of my interest. Nick and Susan Rigger farmed some land next to Nera’s, and their colorful peppers were so beautiful and so southwestern that I couldn’t help but be intrigued by them. The Riggers displayed the peppers artfully. Pepper bunches decorated the stall, some hanging, some boxed, some just perfectly placed on the table. They were shiny and eye-catching.
I hadn’t yet been to the little pocket of Arizona where Nera and the Riggers had their farms, but I was anxious to see it and was promised a full tour later this afternoon.
“Cole and Brad do this weekly,” Nera explained. “They see how long they can take the heat from a bite of a Rigger habanero. The habaneros measure really high on the Scoville scale.”
“The what?”
“Oh, sorry. The Scoville scale is what’s used to measure the heat in peppers. The number of heat units indicates the amount of capsaicin, the heat, present.”
“Okay.”
Nera smiled. “All you really need to know is that Rigger habanero peppers are really hot. Milk calms the heat a little, but not enough if you ask me. So far, Cole’s got the record for holding out. He wants to beat his own time, though. Obviously, Brad isn’t interested in him doing so.”
“Seems . . .” I wanted to say “crazy” or “stupid” or “deadly,” but I didn’t want to be impolite.
“Like something a couple teenage boys might do?” Nera said.
“That’s about right.” I laughed.
“Nera,” said a voice from the other side of her small stall.
We both turned toward the voice and stepped away from the pepper activity to help our first customer of the day.
The old woman was tiny, certainly less than five feet tall, which made her at least a few inches shorter than my own short stature. I’d never seen a face with so many wrinkles and lines, and yet it was still appealing and friendly, with clear, brown eyes that twinkled when she smiled. A patch of gray hair poked out from under the shawl over her head. Her entire body was covered by the shawl and a long dress. My body temperature rose a degree or two just looking at her.
“Helene, good to see you,” Nera said as she leaned over the table and hugged the woman.
“Hello, dear. Good to see you, too.” She smiled at me and then turned back to Nera. “Sonny’s coming home. I need some of your pecans to make him a pie.”
“How wonderful! He’s been in Germany, right?”
“Right.” Helene looked at me again. “Sonny’s my grandson, young lady. He travels the world, some sort of import-export business. Things I don’t understand. And who might you be?”
Nera spoke before I could. “Helene, this is Becca Robins. She’s visiting from Monson, South Carolina. She works at a big farmers’ market there. She has a strawberry and pumpkin farm, and she sells preserves at the market. She’s here to see how we do things.”
“Ah, and what do you think so far?” Helene asked me.
“I think it’s a wonderful place,” I said.
“It is a wonderful place,” Helene agreed. “Those yours?” She pointed to the small stack of strawberry preserves I’d brought with me that sat on a back table of Nera’s stall.
“Yes, here, please take one.” I glanced at my host. They were a gift for Nera, but I didn’t think she’d mind. She didn’t.
“Oh, thank you!” Helene’s eyes opened big.
Nera and Helene conducted their business quickly. As Helene walked away, her bag of pecans clutched tightly at her side, I lifted the back of my short hair and hoped for a breeze.
“You look like you could use a little break from this heat,” Nera said.
“Oh.” I’d been caught. I put my hands in my pockets. I’d been trying not to complain, but my T-shirt was clearly sticking to my skin. Though it was mostly hidden by my short overalls I was sure I wasn’t being sly, particularly since I was also sure my short blonde hair was pasted to my head and the normally pale skin on my face was probably ruddy and glistening in that way that unmistakably says, “This person is melting.”
I’d pondered just how Nera managed to look so well put together in her own T-shirt and jeans (yes, jeans!). Her long black hair fell smoothly down to her waistband, and it was tucked perfectly behind her ears. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on her face, and her white shirt still looked crisp and clean.
“Why don’t you run inside and cool off,” Nera suggested. “It takes a little time to get used to the heat.” She smiled toward Cole and Brad. “All the heat, I suppose.”
“I’m okay,” I said so weakly that I was suddenly embarrassed by my wimpiness. For someone in their midthirties, I wasn’t very tough.
Nera laughed. “Don’t be silly. Go in for a few minutes. It’s cold in there just so the tourists who stop can take a break from their misery. Here”—she reached to her purse on a chair at the back of the stall and pulled out a sealed plastic bag full of turquoise beads—“tell Graham—you remember him, right?” I nodded. “Good, tell him that he needs to restring this necklace. He’ll want something to do if he’s not busy scamming someone.” Nera’s face pinched. “Sorry, dirty laundry. I shouldn’t air it to company.”
“No problem,” I said a beat later. I wanted to know more about the dirty laundry, but I hadn’t known her, known any of them, long enough to feel like I could ask nosy questions. “I’d be happy to.” I took the bag, stepped out the back canvas wall of the stall, marched over hot dirt, then zigzagged my way around the few cars on the hot black pavement of the parking lot, and finally entered Chief Buffalo’s, “Arizona’s Biggest Trading Post.”
Nera had been the one to initiate the partnership between the trading post and the small farmers’ market she’d originally set up in her green but lightly traveled pocket of the state. She’d been able to cultivate a successful pecan orchard in an area of Arizona that seemed surprisingly friendly to growing things. She and some of her neighbor farmers had created the market, and it had been a good little market. But they knew it could be better if they could position themselves where more people would see them, in an area that customers wouldn’t have to make a special effort to find.
Though Nera had moved off reservation land herself a number of years earlier, she was still close to many of the people who worked at Chief Buffalo’s and lived on the reservation. When she’d approached them about setting up the stalls on the trading post lot, most had responded enthusiastically. She said that it had been a good partnership for everyone involved. Learning how this good partnership worked was the reason my sister and Bailey’s Farmers’ Market manager, Allison, chose to send me to Arizona for a research visit.
The owners of Bailey’s as well as my sister had heard rumors of a potential strip mall being built very close to the wonderfully large and almost always busy farmers’ market in Monson, South Carolina. They were curious about how one might work with or against the other. I thought it might be a good opportunity to take a little time for myself (boyfriend issues, but that’s another story), so I volunteered for the project. It was just a short five-day visit, but the heat made me wonder if I could make it much past today—and it was only day two.
I almost cried with relief as the cool air pounded me when I stepped over the double doors’ threshold and into Chief Buffalo’s. After a few moments inside amid the chilled air, I silently chastised myself for my lack of toughness. I’d deliver the turquoise beads to Graham,
take a moment to allow my T-shirt to freeze up, straighten out my attitude, and then go back to the outdoor stalls, the stalls that sold the things I was more familiar with: fruits and vegetables. And pecans like I’d never tasted, and peppers that made me want to push Bailey’s peppers vendors to grow even more and hotter varieties just for the challenge. That’s why I was there, after all: the outdoor part of the partnership, not the inside parts where the vendors were comfortable with air-conditioning and cushioned stools behind glass-encased counters.
The trading post was, as advertised, huge. It was a large, high-ceilinged warehouse filled with anything and everything you would expect to find at a made-for-tourists trading post, except that it also took the experience to a whole new level. You could find the standard fare, like faux-feathered headdresses, miniature tepees, peace pipes, dream catchers, et cetera, but Chief Buffalo’s also had a wide array of merchandise that hadn’t been made and shipped from overseas. These latter items were painstakingly handmade; hours of attention and thought went into their creation. Those who worked there proved it.
Along one side of the huge building were stations where tribe members, some who lived on the reservation, some who didn’t, created wares like hand-woven rugs and baskets as customers looked on. The artists and crafters didn’t dress like early Native Americans, but in what I’d defined as contemporary Native American style. Like Nera, some wore jeans and T-shirts, while others had on shorts or dresses or khakis, but it seemed everyone had also adorned themselves with some sort of traditional Native American jewelry. Many of the men wore woven-leather necklaces or bracelets, their bands made of leather, turquoise, or silver.
Almost everyone who worked inside Chief Buffalo’s was darker skinned and had jet-black eyes. But Graham, the one who apparently contributed to the dirty laundry, stood out from the crowd, and I remembered him specifically. He was extraordinarily good-looking, with intense dark eyes and perfectly styled short straight hair. He wasn’t quick with a smile, and I’d felt somewhat uncomfortable when Nera had introduced us. Now that I thought back, I realized I’d probably sensed the tension between them.