The Great Chili Kill-Off

by Livia J. Washburn

  Boudreau leaned over the table and said, “What’s that? Chili waffles? Let me get a taste of that!”

  The judges all sampled the dishes. They had experience at this and were good at concealing any reactions they had, but Phyllis was watching them closely and her instincts told her that they liked everything they had tasted. Whether that would be enough to move Carolyn along in the contest, they would just have to wait and see.

  Boudreau and the other judges moved on to the rest of the entries. Eventually, they had sampled everything and withdrew to an area near the bandstand to confer. There was still a lot of hubbub inside the tent, but it began to subside a little as the minutes ticked past. The contestants and their friends were eager to hear the results, and the longer they waited for that announcement, the more the tension grew.

  Finally, Boudreau stepped up onto the platform with a wireless microphone in his hand and said, “Folks, gimme your attention. Normally, you put me up in front of this many people and I’m gonna do a little dancin’, but I know y’all are anxious to find out who’s movin’ on in the contest and who ain’t. Before I announce the results, I just want to say that there was some mighty fine eatin’ in this tent today! The other judges and me, we had us the danged hardest time makin’ up our minds that I ever recall in one o’ these contests. But we got it figured out at last, and here are the contestants who are movin’ on to the finals.” He held up a piece of paper in his other hand. “I’ll just call out the entry numbers, because right now that’s all we know.”

  Phyllis looked at the pieces of paper taped to the table in front of Carolyn’s entries. They had the number 99 printed on them, followed by the letters A, B, C. and D. She listened for that as Boudreau began reading the results from the sheet of paper.

  Those results started with the number 7C, which brought cheers from the friends of that contestant and groans of disappointment from the ones lower than that who hadn’t made the cut. A blend of similar reactions greeted each announcement from Boudreau. The numbers climbed rapidly, often skipping ten or twelve places at a time, and when Boudreau called out, “92A!”, Phyllis’s heart sank a little. Of course, logically that didn’t mean Carolyn wouldn’t advance, but Phyllis felt like it lessened the odds anyway.

  She could tell that Carolyn was experiencing the same worry. She was breathing a little harder than usual, and her face was tense. Eve stood beside her, patting her on the shoulder, but Carolyn didn’t seem to notice.

  Then Boudreau shouted, “99D as in dog!” into the microphone. Carolyn released the big breath that evidently she’d been holding and closed her eyes for a moment in relief. Entry 99D was the chili waffles.

  “I knew you could do it,” Eve said.

  “So did I,” Phyllis added.

  “Well, I couldn’t have done anything if it hadn’t been for Sam’s chili,” Carolyn said. “It tasted so good it couldn’t help but make my recipes better.” She paused, then added, “And if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it!”

  Phyllis laughed. It was good to forget about murder for a while.

  Unfortunately, the case was still there, and as she listened to Hiram Boudreau calling out the rest of the entries that were going to advance, she tried once more to grasp whatever it was that had been nibbling at her brain for the past couple of days . . . only to have it slip away again.

  Chapter 18

  By the time Phyllis, Carolyn, and Eve got back to the trailer, Sam’s chili was ready. He was stirring it occasionally and waiting for the judges to show up. There were too many contestants to have the judging for this preliminary round take place in the tent. The field would be narrowed down to the top thirty for the finals, and those contestants would move their grills into the tent and do their cooking there on Sunday.

  When Sam saw the looks on the face of his three friends, he grinned and said, “I’d be willin’ to bet that at least one of your dishes made the finals, Carolyn.”

  “The chili waffles,” she said. “I think at least one of the others should have been picked, too, but I’ll take what I can get. I’m still in the running, and that’s what counts.”

  “Darn right,” Sam agreed.

  “The judges haven’t been here yet?” Phyllis asked.

  “Nope. They’re still back up the line a ways, but they’re workin’ their way in this direction. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  That prediction proved to be true. Thirty minutes later, Hiram Boudreau, Wendell Carson, and three other judges—all male this time—approached the War Wagon, trailed by a fairly large group of spectators that included McKayla. Phyllis looked around but didn’t see Constable Chuck Snyder anywhere. Maybe he was deliberately keeping his distance from McKayla. That was a good idea. Also, he might be busy trying to get his hands on that forensics report. Phyllis hoped that was the case.

  Sam had foam bowls ready for the judges. He ladled out five samples from each pot. With great deliberation, the judges tasted the chili. They were so solemn the whole thing reminded Phyllis of a wine tasting. She was a little surprised that the judges weren’t talking about what sort of bouquet the chili had.

  Each man also had a clipboard with papers on it for notes. They scribbled down their impressions, smiled and nodded to Sam, and moved on. Before he left, Hiram Boudreau gave Eve an exaggerated wink, which made her laugh.

  “That man is incorrigible,” Carolyn said.

  “Thank goodness there are a few men in the world who still are,” Eve said.

  McKayla paused before following the rest of the spectators. She said to Phyllis, “Have you seen Constable Snyder today? I can’t find him anywhere.”

  Phyllis didn’t like to lie directly to anyone’s face, so she said, “He was in town this morning. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong about Chuck and me, you know,” McKayla said, lowering her voice and glaring a little. “Everything would be fine if people would just leave us alone.”

  She walked off in an obvious huff, prompting Carolyn to ask, “What in the world was that all about?”

  “Nothing important,” Phyllis said. “She just thinks we’re meddling in her love life.”

  Eve said, “Wait a minute. She asked about that young constable we were talking to this morning, Phyllis. Are you saying . . .?”

  “She’s got a crush on him, that’s all,” Sam said. “And ol’ Chuck seemed to takin’ a little too much pleasure in it. That’s all it amounted to.”

  “And the two of you knew about it.” Eve nodded. “Now I understand why the constable was willing to help you. He’s afraid of being accused of going after jailbait.”

  Phyllis shrugged. “I wouldn’t try to ruin his life unless he actually did something to deserve it, and as far as I know, he hasn’t. He seemed genuinely embarrassed by the whole thing. But if he feels guilty enough to help solve a murder . . . well, I’m not going to stop him.”

  “That’s a little cold-blooded,” Carolyn commented.

  “Nope,” Sam said. “Hardboiled. That’s us.”

  Phyllis changed the subject by asking, “How will the judges let you know if you made the finals?”

  “They’ll be around later,” Sam said, “and then there’ll be an official announcement in the tent tonight.”

  “So now we just have to wait?”

  “Yep. But you know what they say about all good things comin’ to those who wait.”

  Phyllis hoped that turned out to be true, although Sam’s personality was such that he wouldn’t be devastated if he failed to move on. He had been through a lot of adversity in his life, so not making the cut in a chili cook-off wouldn’t bother him. He would just say that the whole experience had been fun and maybe decide to do it again next year.

  Carolyn and Eve went inside the trailer. Sam had set up an awning to provide some shade outside, but the heat was still fierce, even underneath it. He leaned his head toward the door and told Phyllis, “You can go on in if you want. You don’t have to stay out here an
d keep me company.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’d just as soon find out the results when you do. You’ve supported me in every contest I’ve entered. In everything I’ve done since I’ve known you, in fact.”

  “And I’ve had a mighty good time doin’ it, too. I got to admit, wherever you are and whatever you’re doin’, you never let things get boring, Phyllis Newsom.”

  She laughed. “Is that a polite way of saying I’m a meddling old busybody who’s always sticking my nose in other people’s business? I’ve been accused of that, you know.”

  “You just try to find out the truth and make sure justice is done,” Sam said. “If anybody complains about that, it’s their problem, not yours.”

  Phyllis thought it was kind of Sam to say so. His attitude made it easier for her to deal with the doubts that sometimes crept into her mind about what she was doing.

  Another hour went by before Phyllis looked along the row of motor homes and travel trailers and saw Wendell Carson walking toward them. She told Sam, “Here comes Mr. Carson. He was one of the judges, wasn’t he?”

  “Yep. He looks like he’s got news, too. I just can’t tell whether or not he’s the bearer of glad tidin’s.”

  As Carson walked up, though, a grin spread over his face, and Phyllis felt her spirits rise at that sight. Sam got to his feet and held out his hand.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Fletcher,” Carson said as he gripped Sam’s hand. “Your Sam’s Smokin’ Red is going to be in the finals tomorrow.”

  “I’m mighty glad to hear it,” Sam said. “It’s an honor just to make the finals when this is my first time in the contest.”

  “Your chili was excellent. We had a lot of entries that deserved to move on. It’s never easy, when you have so many to choose from.”

  Sort of like suspects in a murder, Phyllis thought.

  ◄♦►

  Now that Sam had officially made the finals, he and Phyllis, along with Carolyn and Eve, celebrated with bowls of chili. Then Sam shut down the grill and took the pot inside to cool so that he could freeze the leftovers. Tomorrow he would start over inside the big tent, cooking his Sam’s Smokin’ Red.

  With the competition part of the day behind them as darkness approached, Phyllis and the others changed clothes and strolled toward the tent, where many of the people in Cactus Bluff would congregate this evening for music and good fellowship. There were other, smaller parties going on around the encampment. Music of many different sorts filled the air.

  As they walked along, they passed a trailer with a table set up outside where a card game was going on. Phyllis recognized one of the players as Jeff Porter. He glanced up, saw them going by, and called, “Hey, Fletcher, you play poker? You’re welcome to sit in on the game if you want.”

  “No thanks,” Sam replied with a shake of his head. “Gamblin’ problem, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” Porter nodded.

  As they walked on, Phyllis said to Sam, “You don’t have a gambling problem.”

  “No, but that makes a good excuse for not playin’, and fellas like Porter always understand and don’t get offended.”

  “Because he has a gambling problem, you mean.”

  “Well, I don’t know that,” Sam said. “But he seems like the sort who might. He held that grudge over losin’ to Hammersmith ever since last year, and here he is, playin’ again. Maybe he just likes cards. Either way, I’ve never been much of a poker player.”

  “I played a few times and enjoyed it,” Eve said. “Of course, the stakes were—”

  “We don’t care,” Carolyn said. “Anyway, gambling is foolish.”

  “What about betting on cooking competitions?” Eve asked. “I’m sure quite a bit of that goes on.”

  “I never had anything to do with it. If people want to throw their money away, that’s their business.”

  Sam said, “The one who’s really gamblin’ on this contest is Hiram Boudreau.”

  “How do you mean that?” Phyllis asked with a slight frown.

  “Well, this weekend is the only time all year when any money to speak of flows into Cactus Bluff. The cook-off’s got to make enough to support the town the rest of the year. I reckon that’s why Boudreau didn’t cancel the contest even after Hammersmith got himself blown up.”

  Eve said, “I don’t think that’s right. Hiram was in the oil business, you know. When he retired he had enough money to buy this entire town. It doesn’t seem to me that he would depend on the cook-off to generate any real income.”

  That sounded logical to Phyllis, too. But then she remembered Boudreau saying that his effort to be a real estate developer hadn’t worked out. There was one small mobile home park here in Cactus Bluff. What other projects had Boudreau tried to get started? Phyllis was far from an expert on such things, but she knew it was easy to pour a lot of money into real estate, only to be left with not much to show for it.

  Maybe she ought to look into that when she had a chance, she told herself. Right now, however, from the corner of her eye she spotted Felicity, Josh, and Nick closing in on them.

  “On your way to the party in the tent?” Felicity asked as the trio from Inside Beat came up to them.

  “That’s right,” Phyllis said. “We have plenty to celebrate. Sam and Carolyn both made the finals.”

  “We heard,” Josh said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said.

  “This isn’t about a cooking contest anymore,” Felicity said. “It’s about murder now. Have you made any progress in the investigation, Phyllis?”

  “I have a few ideas,” Phyllis answered. “Nothing concrete yet.”

  “We’re running out of time, you know. The contest is over tomorrow. Some people will leave tomorrow evening, and the rest will be out of here first thing Monday morning. The suspects will be scattered all over the country.”

  Felicity was probably right about that, Phyllis knew. She said, “I don’t know if the Rangers will allow everyone to leave—”

  “They can’t force that many people to stay here,” Felicity interrupted. “They don’t have any reasonable cause to lock down the whole town. All they’ll do is get contact info from everybody. They’ve probably got the sheriff’s department working on that already.”

  Phyllis hadn’t really considered the time element. With the end of the cook-off serving as a deadline of sorts, the Rangers would feel even more pressure to make an arrest and close the case before that happened. Which meant that Sam was in even more danger of being taken into custody . . .

  If the same thought had occurred to him, you couldn’t tell it by looking at him, Phyllis thought as she glanced at him. He seemed as calm and unworried as always, confident in his innocence . . . and in her ability to prove that.

  Felicity continued, “In the meantime, there’s nothing for us to do except to keep on filing reports about the competition. How do you feel about making the finals on your first try, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Is this on camera?” Sam asked. A glance at Nick confirmed that it was. “Well, it’s a real honor, of course. All these chili cooks are the real deal, let me tell you. I’m proud to be among ‘em, and proud that my chili’s been judged worthy to be in the finals.”

  “Are you going to win?” Felicity asked.

  “Oh, shoot, I couldn’t say about that. It’s just a big honor to be part of the contest.”

  Felicity turned toward Nick and the camera. “Humble as always, that was Sam Fletcher, a finalist in the Great Chili Cook-Off. This is Felicity Prosper in Cactus Bluff, Texas.” As Nick lowered the camera, Felicity sighed and went on, “Human interest stories!” Her disdain was obvious, but at least she’d been professional enough not to let it come through while Nick was recording.

  “You should have interviewed Carolyn, too,” Eve said. “She’s in the finals of the leftover chili contest.”

  “Leftovers?” Felicity smirked and shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She gestured at Josh and Nick
. “Come on, we’ll get some shots of the musical performances.” She looked over her shoulder at Phyllis as they walked away and added, “Solve that murder! On camera, if you can.”

  As they started on toward the big tent, Carolyn said, “That young woman can be very annoying.”

  “She’s . . . driven,” Phyllis said.

  “You’re being kind to her.”

  A few minutes later, they joined the large crowd gathering in the tent as dusk settled down on the valley where Cactus Bluff was located. A musical group was already on the bandstand, half a dozen men in late middle age playing classic rock songs. The tables where the contest judging had taken place that afternoon—and would take place again the next day—had been moved back to create more room for dancing. Stands selling beer, soft drinks, bottled water, hot dogs, popcorn, and cotton candy had also been set up. There was a definite carnival atmosphere under the big striped tent top.

  “Think I’ll get a hot dog,” Sam said. “You ladies want anything? My treat.”

  “I’d love a beer,” Eve said.

  “You got it.”

  “Do they have any of that frozen lemonade?” Carolyn asked. “It’s too sweet, but after such a hot day I think it would be good.”

  “I’ll bet they do,” Sam said. “I’ll check. Phyllis?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine right now, thanks.”

  “Be back in a minute.” Sam’s long legs carried him toward the area of the tent set aside for concessions.

  The band started playing “Louie, Louie”, belting out the unmistakable opening chords. Eve said, “I love this song!”

  “The lyrics make absolutely no sense,” Carolyn said.

  “They do under the right circumstances. You just had to be there, dear.” Eve drifted toward the bandstand. Carolyn went with her.

  Phyllis was still standing there, smiling after her friends, when someone came up and touched her on the arm. She jumped a little, even though she tried not to.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Newsom,” Constable Chuck Snyder said as she turned to him. “I’ve got something for you.”