The Great Chili Kill-Off

by Livia J. Washburn

  He held out a file folder. Phyllis could tell he was trying to be discreet about it. She took it and said, “Is this . . .?”

  “Yeah. You told me to try to get a look at it, but I was able to get a copy.”

  She opened the folder, and in the light from the lanterns set up around the inside of the tent, she saw the reports from the forensics team and the county fire marshal on the explosion that had killed Joe D. Hammersmith. Quickly, she scanned the typed words and looked at the photographs and diagrams that accompanied them.

  Phyllis was still trying to digest everything when a hand suddenly reached in from the side, flipped the folder closed, and then took it away from her. Her startled gaze rose to the rugged face of Sergeant Martin Culbertson as he said, “I’ll take that . . . and I’m listening for a good reason why I shouldn’t arrest the both of you.”

  Chapter 19

  Chuck looked like he was ready to panic, but Phyllis met Culbertson’s accusing stare squarely. She said, “There’s a very good reason. You’re going to arrest my friend Sam, and he didn’t cause that explosion.”

  “You sound mighty sure about that.”

  “Wouldn’t you be sure, Sergeant, if you were talking about your best friend?”

  Culbertson narrowed his eyes at her and said, “I might feel that way, but I wouldn’t let my feelings stand in the way of evidence. And the only physical evidence we’ve got in this case—”

  “Points to Sam, I know. You can put him on the scene. But a thousand other people walked past that grill and motor home. They were on the scene, too.”

  “We can’t prove that any of them touched the grill,” Culbertson pointed out.

  “The grill’s not what caused the explosion,” Phyllis said.

  Culbertson narrowed his eyes at her and asked, “What makes you say that?”

  Phyllis pointed at the folder in the Ranger’s hand. “The investigation by the fire marshal, as well as the other forensics evidence, indicates that the ignition point of the fire was in the vicinity of the grill, but the cylinder itself wasn’t breached prior to the blast. The cause of the explosion was propane that leaked out of the ASME tank built into the motor home, collected underneath the vehicle, and seeped out near the grill. When Hammersmith went to light one of the burners on the grill, it ignited that collected propane, which then set off the cylinder inside the grill as well as the gas tank on the motor home.”

  The words spilled out of her mouth without her really knowing what she was going to say ahead of time, but even as she spoke, the things she had learned, as well as the speculation she had done, all seemed to link together, one bit of information after the other, to form a coherent chain of events. If she had spent a lot of time mulling it all over, she might not have been able to discern the pattern as clearly, but the threat represented by the angry Texas Ranger sergeant had forced her brain into overdrive.

  Culbertson and Chuck both stared at her. Culbertson found his voice first and said, “You got all that from a few glances at a report?”

  “You said it yourself, Sergeant. I have some experience in murder cases.”

  Culbertson tapped the folder against the palm of his other hand. “It just so happens that a theory pretty close to yours has been stirring around in my head. I had to study this report for a couple of hours first, though. You really do have a knack for this sort of thing.” He looked from Phyllis to Chuck and back again. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you two interfered in an active investigation.”

  “An investigation that Constable Snyder should have been part of to start with,” Phyllis said. “He knows this area and the people who live around here.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Newsom,” Chuck said.

  Culbertson shook his head, though, and said, “That doesn’t matter. Hammersmith only came to Cactus Bluff once a year, for this blasted chili cook-off, and he didn’t really have anything to do with any of the locals. My partner and I have questioned enough of them to know that. The only people he interacted with were the other folks who came for the contest. The murderer has to be one of them. So the constable’s background isn’t going to be any help to us.”

  “Sam never even met Hammersmith until less than twelve hours before he was killed,” Phyllis said, unable to keep the frustration she felt out of her voice. “What possible motive could he have had? Just to eliminate the defending champion in the competition? Are you really going to try to sell that to a district attorney to get a murder charge, Sergeant, let alone to a jury for a conviction?”

  Culbertson’s jaw tightened. Phyllis knew she had put her finger on the weak spot in the case the Ranger was trying to build. Someone with a history of trouble with Hammersmith might have gone to the trouble to blow him up like that, but a man who had just met him and had nothing against him?

  “What’s goin’ on here?” The question came from behind Phyllis and made her look around. Sam stood there with a hot dog—covered with chili, relish, and cheese—in one hand and a soft drink cup in the other.

  Culbertson nodded to him and said, “Evening, Mr. Fletcher. I was just saying hello to Mrs. Newsom and Constable Snyder.”

  “I sort of expected to see more of you around, Sergeant,” Sam said. “You must’ve been busy today.”

  “Busy enough.”

  “Still looking into that explosion?”

  “We are,” Culbertson said.

  “I’ll wish you luck, then. Hope you find the killer before the contest is over.”

  “We will, Mr. Fletcher.” Culbertson’s head moved in a curt nod. “You can count on that.” He smiled thinly at Phyllis. “Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Newsom.”

  The Ranger turned and walked away, weaving through the crowd in the tent and disappearing from sight. He took the file folder with him, of course, which brought a sigh from Phyllis. She would have liked to study its contents more closely. She would just have to be satisfied, she told herself, with enough of a look to be able to put together a theory that even Sergeant Culbertson thought was plausible. As soon as she got a chance, she would discuss it with Sam as well.

  “I got a feelin’ there was more goin’ on here than a friendly chat,” Sam commented once Culbertson was gone.

  “It wasn’t friendly,” Chuck confirmed. “I don’t think the sergeant likes any of us very much right now.”

  Sam looked at Phyllis and said, “What did you do?”

  “Constable Snyder got his hands on the report from the fire marshal and the sheriff’s department forensics team, and we were just taking a look at it when Sergeant Culbertson showed up.” Something occurred to Phyllis. “How did he know you had it?”

  “One of the deputies I sounded out about it must have sold me out,” Chuck said. “That’ll teach me to trust people, even if they are old rodeo pals.”

  Sam said, “I’m surprised the sergeant didn’t arrest the two of you.”

  “He threatened to,” Phyllis said. “But I think I gave him too much to think about.”

  “He made a good point,” Chuck said. “Nobody around here would have had any reason to kill Hammersmith. The murderer has to be someone from out of town.”

  Phyllis nodded slowly, unable to escape the logic of that idea.

  Sam took a bite of the hot dog, chewed, and swallowed. “I hate to say it, but the chili on this dog is dang near as good as mine. Not quite, mind you, but in the same neighborhood.”

  “Did you take Carolyn and Eve their drinks?” Phyllis asked.

  “Yep, dropped ‘em off before I came back over here.” Sam grinned. “Carolyn even seemed to be enjoyin’ herself a little, listenin’ to the music. Even if it is rock an’ roll.”

  “I guess I’d better circulate around and make sure everything stays peaceful,” Chuck said. “I’m still the constable around here . . . at least for now.”

  Sam watched the young man walk off, then said, “What do you reckon he means by that?”

  “Well, now he’s in trouble with the Rangers, and he already has an
underage girl pursuing him,” Phyllis said. “I suppose he’s worried that one or both of those problems will catch up to him and cost him his job.”

  “I hope that doesn’t happen. He seems like a nice enough young fella. A little out of his depth, maybe.”

  “It probably didn’t help matters that I forced him to help me. I feel a little guilty about that.” Phyllis thought about what she had learned. “Only a little, though.” She looked around. “Let’s find a quieter spot.”

  They walked to the one of the rear corners of the tent and went behind one of the tables. A few folding metal chairs were still sitting around, so Phyllis pulled over a couple of them and they sat down. Sam continued eating his hot dog while Phyllis said, “I was right about how it wasn’t the propane cylinder in Hammersmith’s grill that exploded first, even though the area around the grill was where the fire started.”

  “It was a fire first, not an explosion?”

  “That’s what the evidence indicates. But it all went so fast after ignition that anyone would think it was all one blast. My idea is that someone sabotaged the propane tank on Hammersmith’s motor home so that the gas leaked out and collected under the vehicle. There was enough of it reach the grill.”

  “So when Hammersmith went to light it . . . blooie!”

  “Yes, blooie . . . if you want to get technical about it.” Phyllis smiled.

  Sam nodded and said, “Could’ve happened that way. There’s a valve on those tanks that lets you bleed off the propane. It’s there next to the fill valve, and sometimes people have covers on those that you can lock up, to keep people from messin’ with ‘em. You could still make the propane leak out by breachin’ the tubing, though. Wouldn’t take much. And since it’s underneath the motor home, people would be less likely to see what you were doin’.”

  “From what I saw of that report, I’m convinced that’s what happened.”

  “But it doesn’t make any difference,” Sam said. “Whether the killer sabotaged the cylinder in the grill or the tank on the motor home, you’re left with the fact that it had to be somebody who knew what he was doin’ and had a grudge against Hammersmith.” Sam waved a hand to indicate the crowd. “You’ve still got the same pool of suspects you always had.”

  “I know,” Phyllis said, trying not to feel discouraged.

  The rock and roll cover band finished their set. Before another group of musicians could take the stage, Hiram Boudreau appeared on the platform, bony arms extended over his head as he clapped his hands.

  “Let’s give ‘em a big round of applause, folks!” he called. “That was some mighty fine music. We got more comin’ up. In fact, anybody who wants to come up here and jam is welcome. But before we move on to that, I want to announce the names of all the contestants who’ll be in the finals of all the contests tomorrow, so listen up!”

  Sam finished his hot dog and threw the little paper boat it came in into a plastic garbage can. Phyllis said, “Let’s move up to the front so we can hear better.”

  “We already know that both Carolyn and I are in the finals,” Sam said.

  Phyllis smiled. “Yes, but I’d like to hear it again. I’m proud of my friends.”

  “I’m not gonna argue with that,” Sam said with a grin of his own.

  They worked their way forward through the crowd until they were near the bandstand. Phyllis heard Eve say, “There they are!” A moment later, she and Carolyn slid through a narrow gap in the press of people to join Phyllis and Sam.

  Less than a minute later, Boudreau announced Carolyn’s name as one of the finalists in the leftover chili competition. Phyllis could tell that her friend was pleased and proud of the recognition, and she was happy for Carolyn. She had no idea if the chili waffles stood a chance of winning, but if that happened, it would be a nice touch for the article she was writing for A Taste of Texas.

  Boudreau worked his way through the rest of the list, including Sam, who just nodded confidently as Phyllis, Eve, and Carolyn applauded at the mention of his name.

  Phyllis heard some other familiar names, too. Kurt Middleton, Royce Glennister, and Jeff Porter had all reached the finals. Maybe with Joe D. Hammersmith dead, one of them would actually win this time . . . although that still seemed awfully far-fetched to Phyllis as a motive for murder.

  Of course, each of those men—and there was no telling how many more—had other reasons to hold a grudge against Hammersmith as well.

  Boudreau made several other announcements, including reading off the license numbers of cars where the drivers had left the lights on, and then said, “All you chili cooks who are in the finals will need to be set up here in the tent by ten o’clock in the mornin’, ready to cook. Y’all know the rules. There’ll be cook-off officials checkin’ your grills and ingredients to make sure everything is the way it’s supposed to be, and may the best chili cooker win!

  “That’s for tomorrow, though,” he went on. “Tonight we’re here to have a good time, which means more music! Who’s comin’ up here to entertain us next?”

  B.J. Sawyer and the Lavaca River Boys took the stage and immediately launched into “Foggy Mountain Breakdown”, the sprightly bluegrass standard they had been playing when Phyllis and the others first heard them two nights earlier. Evidently the song was one of Hiram Boudreau’s favorites, too, because he started dancing back and forth across the bandstand in the same sort of wild abandon he had displayed on the previous occasion. His scrawny arms flapped, and his knobby, scraped knees pumped high. Sam laughed, clapped his hands in time to the music, and said, “I think he’s tryin’ to do a chicken dance, but it’s not like any chicken I’ve ever seen.”

  “Unless it was one with its head cut off,” Carolyn added as she smiled and clapped, too.

  Phyllis nodded her head to the rhythm, and as if the music had an effect on her thoughts, they began to dance around, too. She lifted her hands, about to clap along with Sam, Carolyn, and Eve, but then stopped short and stood there with her hands raised in front of her. A moment passed, and then two. Then she gave a little shake of her head and lowered her hands.

  More than once, one of her friends had seen the same sort of look on her face that she wore now and asked her if she had just solved the case. Tonight, though, none of them were looking at her. They were all watching the stage, enjoying the music and Hiram Boudreau’s antics.

  But whether they were aware of it or not, Phyllis now had a pretty good idea who had killed Joe D. Hammersmith.

  What she didn’t know was why.

  Chapter 20

  Phyllis managed to hide her distraction during the rest of the evening. She never liked to discuss her theories until she was certain of them, although sometimes she would share some of her thoughts with Sam.

  In this case, however, the idea she had was so nebulous, and supported by only one real piece of evidence, that she wanted to keep it to herself until she had a chance to find out more. She told herself that under the circumstances, she might as well just relax and enjoy the music and the festivities . . .

  But that wasn’t easy, knowing that a murderer was on the loose in Cactus Bluff.

  Still, she was confident that none of her friends knew what was really going on in her brain as she walked back to the War Wagon with Sam, Carolyn, and Eve later that evening. When they reached the trailer, Carolyn and Eve went on inside, but Sam gestured toward the lawn chairs and asked, “Would you like to sit out here for a while before you turn in?”

  “Actually, I believe I would,” Phyllis said. The air had cooled off quickly once the sun was down, as it had a tendency to do in this region, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing over the encampment. Phyllis and Sam sat down side by side. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed, not . . . content . . . exactly, since the murder case was still hanging over their heads, but she was glad to be here with Sam.

  “Are you looking forward to tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Well, sure,” he said. “It’ll be a big day. I’m not wo
rried so much about who wins. I just like knowin’ that more folks will get to try my chili. It’s fun, you know.”

  “I know. That’s one of the best parts about being in these competitions. You want people to enjoy what you’re doing.”

  “Yep. I figure just bein’ part of it is winnin’ enough. Anything else is gravy.” Sam paused. “Hmm . . . chili gravy.” A grin lit up his face. “Chili SOS!”

  “Next year,” Phyllis said with a smile of her own.

  They sat there for another half-hour, not talking much, just enjoying the night air and each other’s company. Phyllis had too much going on in her brain to relax completely, though, and she found herself anxious to spend some time on her computer.

  “I believe I’ll go on in,” she told Sam as she got to her feet.

  “I might sit out here for a while longer, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” she said as she bent over and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night.”

  “‘Night.”

  She went in, sat down on the loveseat, and picked up the laptop from the little table in front of it. A quick check of her email didn’t turn up anything that had to be dealt with at the moment, so she was able to begin searching.

  She started with county tax records and moved on to satellite images. From there she began digging deeper into on-line newspaper archives.

  As often happened at times like these, Phyllis got lost in what she was doing, so she wasn’t aware of how much time had passed until Carolyn said, “Good grief, Phyllis, what are you doing? It’s the middle of the night. Can’t you sleep? Wait a minute. You don’t look like you’ve even been to bed.”

  “I haven’t,” Phyllis said as she looked up from the computer to see her pajama-clad friend standing in front of the refrigerator.

  “I got up to get something to drink, then realized the light was still on in here,” Carolyn said. “You were staring at that computer like your mind was a million miles away—” Carolyn stopped short and drew in a breath. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”