by Kylie Logan
That is, until Martha added, “Not this close to the Alamo where my ancestors—”
“Oh, here we go again!” Rosa groaned. “Now she’s going to make us listen to the list. Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie and William Travis. Yeah, yeah. Whatever! If I hear her say one more word about—”
“Oh, like we should listen to you?” Martha screeched. “What would you . . .” She pointed her chili ladle at Rosa. “What would you tell us about, Rosa? Your ancestors? The ones who fought for Santa Anna?”
“At least my ancestors lived to tell their story. And while they were at it, they taught their families the right way to make chili, too. That’s why my great-grandmother was the greatest of the Chili Queens.”
“Ha!” This from Martha, and I can’t say exactly what high dudgeon is, but I’d heard the phrase and I knew it had something to do with being really pissed, and if ever there was a dudgeon that was high, it was Martha’s. “My great-grandmother, she knew how to make chili. She was the greatest of the Chili Queens. Everybody knows that.”
“Everybody knows that each and every Chili Queen had her own secret recipe and her own special way of serving her chili.” I refused to get caught up in the squabble, so I kept my voice light and airy when I sailed past Nick. While I was at it, I gave him a look that pretty much told him, See, if it’s about chili, I can handle it. “I think it’s cool that you’re both related to real Chili Queens. It’s an honor to meet you. Both of you.”
Martha’s bony shoulders shot back.
Rosa lifted both her chins.
“I can’t wait to try your chilies,” I said, because really, in case Nick didn’t notice, since the subject of chili came up, they’d both lowered those lethal ladles and were actually looking a little less like they were going to kill each other. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to have some right now. Whose tent is this? Which one will I be trying first?”
Rosa sniffed.
Martha snorted.
“Whose tent?” Rosa hissed. “They’re actually making us share a tent. Share? With this gringo?”
“At least I know my way around a kitchen,” Martha shot back. “My restaurant is the best place in town for chili. I use my great-grandmother’s authentic recipe,” she added as an aside that interested me no end. I knew it meant nothing to Nick. Then again, when it comes to chili, he’s something of a Philistine. “We use the freshest ingredients, and we make the best chili in the world.”
I was pretty sure this wasn’t true, since my dad made the world’s best chili and mine ran a close second. Not to worry, I knew this wasn’t the moment to point this out.
Rosa, however, did not have the same diplomatic savvy as me. She rolled her eyes. “You might know your way around a kitchen if you weren’t so busy sitting up front at the hostess station and drinking palomas all day long,” she told Martha. “Now my restaurant . . .” She swung around to include me and Nick in her intense gaze. “You come to Rosa’s and you’ll have authentic chili. Just like the Chili Queens used to make. The real Chili Queens,” she added, and she wasn’t looking at me when she emphasized that real.
Martha’s mouth puckered.
Rosa’s eyes spit fire.
It was Nick’s turn to groan.
“I’m having chili.” Aside from the fact that I knew it was the best way to lighten the atmosphere, I really did want to try the chili, so I breezed past everybody and over to where pots of chili simmered away. Without waiting to be invited, I grabbed a ladle, filled a bowl, and plunked down in the nearest chair.
We may not be as snooty as so many wine lovers, but chili tasters have their rituals, too. I spooned up a nice, big scoop of chili, closed my eyes, and breathed in deep.
“Comino seeds,” I purred, and don’t think I didn’t notice that both Rosa and Martha smiled like those beauty queens over at the Consolidated Chili tent. I called it comino, not cumin. Right away, they knew I wasn’t a poser.
“And serrano peppers,” I added. When they’re ripe, serranos are red, and hotter than jalapeños. “And ancho,” I said, just so Martha and Rosa would know I wasn’t just some pretty face who didn’t know what she was talking about when it came to chili and peppers and the way tastes and spiciness and textures combine to create a really great chili. Ancho peppers are dried poblanos, and I knew they’d give this chili a subtle sweet smokiness.
I took a bite and nodded; I was right. While I was at it, I smiled at the two women, who were looking a little less angry and a lot more proud of their part in the tradition that is chili. “Beef and pork. And suet. Oh, ladies!” I was relieved when they smiled back. “If this is what real Chili Queens chili tasted like, it’s no wonder the plazas were full of patrons every night. It’s heavenly.”
Martha smirked. “It’s my great-grandmother’s recipe.”
Rosa looked as if she’d bit into a lemon. “Which she probably stole from my great-grandmother.”
And guess what, I didn’t want to hear any of it, not when I was mid-bowl of a mighty fine chili. Just as they started in on each other again, I hightailed it out of their tent and left Nick to handle these two warring Queens.
And yes, I took my bowl of chili with me.
I finished it right before I got over to the Consolidated Chili tent, but by then, Mr. Hot Guitar Player was nowhere in sight. That guy in the ten-gallon hat was, though. I got just a glimpse of his backside as he slipped into the shadows at the back of the tent.
I turned to head the other way, and Miss Hotter than a Chili Pepper (really, were they kidding, there’s a beauty queen title that dumb?) offered a cute little bottle opener. Big points for me. I managed a smile when I told her a polite “No, thank you.”
I have my standards, after all.
Eager to get away from the land of canned chili, I circled around the Consolidated Chili tent and over into our tent, where I saw Sylvia dishing out chili and looking just the slightest bit harried.
Aside from having standards, I also have a conscience, even if it’s darned inconvenient at times.
I was all set to go and help Sylvia until something across the way caught my eye.
It was Mr. Hot Guitar Player, and he was deep in conversation with one of the women from another tent, a woman who reminded me of a cayenne pepper—long and skinny and hot.
Cascades of red hair. Tasteful pearls. Manicure; expensive dress and shoes; glowing, polished complexion that showed she had a good aesthetician and visited her often.
I wasn’t surprised when I glanced to the sign above the entrance to the tent and saw that it belonged to the San Antonio Women’s League.
Oh yeah, this lady was all about style, class, and money.
She was also as high in her dudgeon as Martha and Rosa had ever been.
Only in a much more calm and dignified way.
When she crossed her arms over her chest and the goldenrod-colored sleeveless dress she wore, two spots of color erupted across her high cheekbones.
Mr. Hot Guitar Player said something to her, but from this distance—damn!—I couldn’t make out a word.
Whatever he said, she didn’t like it. Her lips pinched. The color drained from her cheeks. She put a hand on Mr. Hot Guitar Player’s arm, but he shrugged her off.
What they were talking about was none of my business, but hey, that had never stopped me before. I sidestepped my way through the crowd, hoping I might be able to catch at least some of the conversation.
I actually might have succeeded if the local celebrities who hang out at all these sorts of functions didn’t pick that exact moment to show up. A hum went through the crowd, and a whole bunch of people surged toward the entrance when a sleek white limo pulled up. I recognized the basketball player who got out first. He was hard to miss, since he was head-and-shoulders taller than everyone else around him. He was followed by a woman, who was followed by a camera crew from a local statio
n, and there was a big guy bringing up the rear. His toothpaste smile told me he was a politician.
What with the crowd and all, I lost sight of Mr. Hot Guitar Player, and by the time the celebrities went over to the Consolidated Chili tent (I gritted my teeth) and my path was clear again, he was nowhere to be seen and the lady in the golden dress had moved over to the other side of the tent to hand out bowls of chili.
“Nice dress, but she needs more bling.”
I glanced to my side and the woman who towered over me, and since I’d seen her around the tent being run by the drag queens, I guess that wasn’t a surprise. She looked glorious in fawn-colored gaucho pants, a balloon-sleeved blouse, and a vest studded with colorful beading.
She was looking where I was looking, and I was looking at the woman in the gold dress.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Evelyn, Eleanor, Edith. Something like that.” She twitched wide shoulders and batted eyelashes that were long and thick and nothing like what my eyelashes ever looked like. “And I’m Ginger.” She extended a hand and we shook. “I hear when you’re at the Showdown, you’re an adorable chili pepper. Teddi and I . . .” She looked over her shoulder back toward her tent where another woman—this one in a pencil-thin black skirt and a frilly red top with a plunging neckline—was greeting customers and handing out chili. “Teddi and I will be sure to stop in. Maybe we’ll see that good-looking guitar player there?”
I didn’t have to ask Ginger how she knew. I guess the way I scanned the crowd told her I was looking for someone. And the way I’d watched Mr. Hot Guitar Player with Evelyn/Eleanor/Edith said something, too.
“He said he’d drop by later for chili,” I told Ginger.
“Then, sweetie, you’d better get back over to your tent.” She offered me a glittering, toothy smile. “You don’t want to miss him!”
She was right, and I took her advice. I got back over to our tent just in time to help Sylvia handle a new rush of chili lovers who (by the way) all agreed that our chili had just the right combination of sweetness and punch.
“Kind of like us,” I told Sylvia.
She pretended not to get it.
The rest of the night went by in a swirl of chili, chatter, and mariachi music. None of which, I noticed, was provided by Mr. Hot Guitar Player. In fact, I didn’t see him again until just a few minutes before the event was set to end.
He didn’t show up looking for chili, though.
And he wasn’t there to connect with me, either.
When he raced up to where I was putting the last of our chili into containers that we’d take back to the RV and use the next day, his face was red and he was breathing hard.
“Hey!” I tried for casual, but that was a little hard seeing as how his mouth was hanging open as he pressed a hand to his heart. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Senora Loca!” As if even he couldn’t believe whatever it was that had just happened to him, he shook his head. “I’ve got to talk to . . .” His cheeks pasty and a ribbon of sweat on his forehead, he looked around. “Is there security anywhere nearby?”
“Well . . .” I scanned the crowd. “Somewhere.”
I guess he thought he didn’t have my complete attention, because Mr. Hot Guitar Player grabbed my hand and held on tight. He felt like a wet fish. A trembling wet fish. “Well, I need to find someone, and fast.”
I can be excused for being a little off my game. It was late, and still hotter than blue blazes. Mr. Hot Guitar Player had caught me flat-footed. I stammered, “I saw him . . .” and waved in some vague direction that was sort of kind of back toward Martha and Rosa’s tent.
Apparently, Mr. Hot Guitar Player was looking for something a little more definitive than that.
The next second, I caught sight of Nick and pointed.
“There he is,” I told Mr. Hot Guitar Player. “Nick Falcone. I’ll call him over and—”
“Nick Falcone?” Like my hand was on fire, the guitarist dropped it and turned as pale as a ghost. That is, right before he spun on his heels and staggered away.
“Hey, you didn’t try our . . .” I made an attempt to call out after him, but even before the words were out of my mouth, I knew it wasn’t going to work. Whatever the problem was, the guitarist was too worried to care.
“Chili,” I added, just for my own satisfaction. I got back to work and promised myself that as soon as I was done with what I was doing, I’d head out to see if he’d found Nick and what I could do to help.
Easier said than done when we were in full cleanup mode.
By the time a team of Showdown roadies showed up to help with tearing down and stowing our tables and chairs, there was no sign of either the guitarist or Nick, and I was way too tired to care if I ever saw either one of them again.
“What a night!” How Sylvia could possibly look as fresh as the proverbial daisy when I felt as if I’d been rinsed, wrung, and hung out to dry, I didn’t know. She flopped into a chair and took a long gulp from a water bottle. “I can’t believe we have to do it all again tomorrow. And for the animal-loving crowd.” A shiver scooted across her slim shoulders. “I hope they’re well behaved.”
“As long as they’re not lifting their legs on the potted flowers we should be okay.”
She didn’t laugh.
But then, I didn’t expect her to.
Instead, I got a bottle of water, too, and glugged it down. It was so cold, it hurt my throat and froze my stomach. It was fabulous.
“You coming with us?” I asked Sylvia, rubbing a kink from my neck. “Ruth Ann and Tumbleweed and a bunch of us are going to the River Walk. You know, to check out San Antonio nightlife.”
“Not a chance!” She stood and stepped out of the way of the roadie who came by with a big push broom. “I’m heading back to the RV, and if you’re smart, you will, too. The Showdown opens at ten tomorrow, and then we have to do this again in the evening. Honestly, I don’t know what Tumbleweed was thinking when he volunteered us for these charity events.”
“He was thinking publicity,” I told her. “Like we should always be thinking publicity. Like Jack always did.”
I wouldn’t exactly call the look I got a smile. It was more of a sneer. “Notice how he’s not around to do it anymore,” she said, and when she saw my shoulders shoot back and my hands curl into fists, she threw out her hands as a way of telling me not to go off half-cocked. But of course, it was already too late for that. “You know what I mean,” she said. “He’s gone on to other things. Better things. He’s not here because—”
“No one knows why he’s not here. That’s why we have to keep looking for him.”
“No signs of foul play.” She repeated the words we’d heard from the cops back in Abilene where Jack was last seen. “You know as well as I do exactly what he’s up to. He’s off with some woman. Probably another one of his floozies.”
Don’t think I missed the not-so-subtle implication here. When Sylvia starts throwing around words like floozy (who talks like that, anyway?), it’s her way of getting a dig in at my mother. Who, by the way, is anything but, and was head over heels in love with Jack. At least while it lasted.
Three cheers for me; I realized all this and didn’t bite at Sylvia’s bait.
“Going to the River Walk,” I told her, with an adios sort of gesture over my shoulder that she might have interpreted another, less friendly way had the light been better and had she been paying more attention. I’d told Ruth Ann and Tumbleweed I’d meet them near the gigantic sculpture on the plaza that commemorated the men who died during the Alamo siege, and I headed that way, but I never got that far.
That’s because a couple things happened to derail me.
For one thing, I was nearly run down by the big, black, and very shiny limo with Tri-C license plates that zipped by.
Once I steadied myself from jumping out o
f the way and my heartbeat slowed down, something that glinted in the glow of the twinkling lights from the Consolidated Chili tent caught my eye. I closed in on it and found that it was one of those little bottle openers, and though I had no intention of keeping it as a souvenir, I bent to pick it up so that the cleanup crew wouldn’t have to.
There was a coaster a little way off, too, and I went to retrieve that along with another little bottle opener that was close by.
In fact, when I looked around, I saw that there was a trail of Consolidated Chili promotional handouts scattered down the path that led toward the porta-potties that had been set up for the event, and from there, around to the other side of the plaza. The glow of the twinkly lights didn’t penetrate here, and I peered into the darkness lit only by the soft, ghostly light trained on the Alamo.
I guess that’s why I wasn’t sure I was seeing what I was seeing even when I saw it.
I froze in my tracks and peered into the darkness, letting my eyes adjust to the play of light and shadows.
And that’s when I knew my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.
It was Mr. Hot Guitar Player, all right.
He was sitting butt to ground with his legs splayed out in front of him.
His guitar was smashed to smithereens, the pieces of painted wood on the ground all around him.
Except for the strings. Those were wrapped tight around his neck.
CHAPTER 3
Sylvia has Nick on speed dial.
In the past, just thinking about her cradling her phone in her hot little hands and his number stored somewhere in its little cyber brain has annoyed me no end, mostly because I’ve always speculated about why she’d need to call him—and fast—and wondered if she did call, if he’d pick up.
That night, though, I was glad for the speed dial. The way my hands were shaking, I never would have been able to use my phone and call Nick myself.
I did, however, insist on talking to him once I raced back to our tent and had Sylvia make the call. When Nick answered, I heard laughter in the background, the clink of glasses, rattling ice cubes, and blaring music. I’m no expert, but it sounded like a Broadway show tune.