Cinco De Murder

by Rebecca Adler

  “Mamá.” Uncle Eddie lowered a fresh glass of sweet tea without taking a sip. “The town council is watching me like a hawk, just waiting for me to screw up.” My uncle’s dark hair was slicked back in his usual style, light puffs of gray at his temples. His broad, honest face was tense with worry, deepening the wrinkles the West Texas sun had furrowed across his forehead.

  “You’re imagining things.” I took the International Chili Association cook-off planning binder from his hands. “It will all fall into place, you’ll see.” And I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “We’ve reviewed every detail from beans to trophies.”

  “Yip.” Lenny stood on a wooden chair so Cindy could complete his costume fitting.

  “Okay, okay, little one. Soon. I will finish soon.” Her small, delicate hands had created a darling pair of white satin pants and jacket to match what the members of Anthony’s mariachi band were wearing.

  “Where’s his sombrero?” asked Uncle Eddie.

  “I have it here.” From her sewing kit Cindy retrieved a white satin hat with gold detailing and placed it on his head.

  I squealed with glee. “Isn’t he adorable?”

  “Humph.” Senora Mari thrust her hands on her hips. “If you think a long-haired rat dressed like a human is cute, you are loco.”

  “Is it not right?” Cindy asked.

  I glared at Senora Mari behind the young woman’s back. “It’s not you or your beautiful costume.” I smoothed Lenny’s white jacket and rubbed him under the chin. “She would say the same if he were dressed like Our Lady of Guadalupe.”

  Cindy turned her wide brown eyes on Senora Mari. “You would?”

  “I would.”

  Cindy smiled. “Then he is perfect for tomorrow’s parade.”

  “Let’s try it out.” I lowered Lenny to the tile floor. “Stand,” I commanded. Without hesitation, he lifted his front legs and pawed the air.

  “So adorable.” Cindy clapped her hands.

  “Turn,” I continued.

  With the grace of a ballet dancer, Lenny hopped in a full circle until he was back where he started, paws still high.

  “Good boy.” I scooped him up and kissed his head.

  “Yip.”

  “Yes, yes, very handsome.” I paid Cindy on her way out, even though she insisted the beautiful costume was a gift.

  When I returned, Senora Mari was waiting. “Where are you?” She tapped the paper with the tips of her fingers. “You said you wrote a story.”

  “Page ten. The article about the fifty head of Herefords blocking Highway 90.”

  With a grunt, she found the page and read the article. “This is,” she held her thumb and index finger about two inches apart, “smaller than a cucaracha.” She lifted her chin. “Why?”

  “That’s how much my editor trusts me.” In fact, he probably trusted a cockroach more.

  Uncle Eddie wiped his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket, still nervous as a cat on a porch full of rocking chairs.

  I grabbed two lime wedges and a salt shaker from behind the bar. “Even if we could rattle off all the ICA rules in our sleep, we’re bound to forget something on the big day.” I salted both lime wedges, handed him one, and we both took a bite. “Truth is, if we make a mistake, the judges will be there to smooth things out.” As one, we both made a sour face.

  Senora Mari shook her head in disgust. “What power does this IGA—”

  “ICA. The IGA sells sweet tea and chicken nuggets.”

  She glared. “Why must we bow to this ICA?”

  “Let’s see.” I counted off on my fingers. “One. They sponsor hundreds of chili cook-offs worldwide each year. Two. They raise millions of dollars for charities and nonprofits. And most importantly, the town council insists the cook-off be an ICA-sponsored event.”

  “Humph.”

  “If Uncle Eddie wants to earn the town council’s respect, he’s got to make sure this soiree goes off without a hitch.” I wasn’t about to admit how much I longed to throw the ICA’s rules and regulations binder into the nearest ditch.

  She drew herself up to her full four feet, eleven inches. “He should not have to work so hard to earn the respect of other men. Which one of them owns two successful businesses, like my son?”

  “You don’t understand.” His shoulders and chest deflated until he looked like a droopy cactus. “If I screw up again, the town council will tie me up faster than a rodeo calf and run me out of town on a rail.”

  “This cannot be true.”

  With a growl, he picked up the Bugle from the counter and quickly flipped through the pages. “How can I ever live this down?” He stabbed the photo that accompanied my story and began to read. “Dozens of Herefords were scattered across Highway 90 Monday afternoon, creating a traffic backup that lasted several hours.”

  Gently I took the paper from his hand and threw it behind the antique oak bar. “How were you to know the photographer didn’t know how to close a cattle gate properly?”

  “Tell that to Pratt. It took him and his hands over an hour to round up his herd.”

  “He can’t force you off the town council. It wasn’t your fault!” Rancher P.J. Pratt, long-time council member, had lined up one of the Bugle’s photographers to take my uncle’s official portrait on Pratt’s ranch.

  “No, but his friends can.” Senora Mari placed a hand on her son’s forearm. “He’s the richest guy in three counties; he can do what he wants.”

  I gave her a look. “They’ll do no such thing.” I threw my arm around his shoulders. “You’ll prove you deserve your seat on the council tomorrow when the cook-off goes as smooth as cold butter on hot corn bread.” I fired off a silent prayer that this good man’s bad luck would change.

  As if reading my thoughts, Senora Mari crossed herself and brought her thumb and forefinger to her lips. “Amen.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Our prayers must have worked. A few minutes later, Uncle Eddie hit the road, a spring in his step and hope in his heart. I hit the stairs, a hope in my belly that the leftover chicken in my fridge hadn’t spoiled.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Senora Mari was like a Mexican ninja.

  “To raid the refrigerator.” I glanced longingly up the stairs.

  She led me into the kitchen instead. “Ballet folklórico is a good idea. You and your friends embracing my heritage.” She spun around to stop Lenny with her foot. “No dogs in the kitchen.”

  With a soft whine, he trotted off, making a beeline for Aunt Linda’s office and the doggie treats hidden in her desk drawer. Lenster was no fool.

  “I won’t be good company if I’m hungry.”

  From the bottom rack of the oven, she pulled out an aluminum pie plate covered with foil. “Here. Eat.”

  Beneath the foil, I found two breakfast tacos, each containing egg, potato, cheese, and salsa. “Gee, thanks!” I was suspicious of her motives, not an idiot.

  “Last night . . .” Slowly she walked to the window and gazed out into the alley as if in a trance. “I had a dream.”

  I swallowed. “Was it scary?” My abuela took great pride in her dreams. She believed they held great significance for the people in our community.

  “I’m thirsty.” She found a tamarind-flavored Jarritos soda in the fridge. “You listen. This one has meaning for you.” She grabbed a knife from the counter and flipped off the bottle cap.

  Fighting a smile, I raised my hands in protest. “You know I don’t believe in dream interpretation.” Heck, I didn’t even read my horoscope.

  She wiped her mouth with her pinky. “That is because you went to college. Forget all that and listen.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “Go on.”

  She shook a stubby index finger at me. “God’s prophets interpreted dreams in the Bible.” She jabbed her finger i
nto her chest. “Why not me?”

  I could have said many things, but I remained as quiet as a pillar of salt.

  “Last night I was eating chili.” She folded her hands in her lap.

  “I thought you had tilapia.”

  She glared. “In. My. Dream. I was eating a perfect bowl of chili.” Tapping her chest, she lifted her chin. “I made it. That’s why it was perfect.”

  “Of course,” I said with a wave of my hand. “Continue.”

  She leaned in closer. “After I finished, bits of ground beef formed a pattern in the bottom of the bowl.”

  “Like tea leaves. Well, I don’t believe in those either.”

  “Shh. The bits of beef created a symbol.”

  “A question mark or a cross?”

  “Shh. A lightning bolt.”

  I frowned. “Like Thor?”

  “No.” A deep frown line appeared across her forehead. “Like power.”

  I leaned back against the industrial sink. “What do you think it means?”

  “I am not sure.” She slid from her stool. “Lightning is powerful. Like you.” Softly she laid a frail hand on my shoulder. “You don’t think so, but you are a Martinez.”

  I blinked away unexpected tears. “Gracias, Abuela. I’ve made some dumb mistakes.”

  She patted my cheek. “So have I. Remember?” She claimed she stole some goats and spent time in the local jail when she first arrived in Texas—but I wasn’t convinced. She raised up on tiptoe and took my face in both hands. “You lost your important job and your fiancé. So what? We solved two murders.”

  “We did?”

  “Sí. You, me, and that smelly chucho.”

  I disengaged myself, swiping at the corner of my eye with my sleeve. “Don’t say that in front of Detective Lightfoot or Sheriff Wallace. They might throw a hissy fit.”

  “Humph.” Abruptly she removed a container filled with skirt steak and marinade from the fridge and fired up the stove-top grill. “So you can’t cook.” She thrust her index finger into the air as if leading a charge. “It’s never too late.”

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  She grabbed her purse and the large black-and-white golf umbrella she used as a parasol from the broom closet.

  “Finish the skirt steak.” She marched into the alley, opened the umbrella, and nearly fell over from the force of the wind. One strong gust and she’d fly into Parker County like a Latina Mary Poppins.

  “But where are you going?” I called as she charged toward the street.

  Stopping long enough to glance over her shoulder, she responded, “To teach the town council a powerful lesson!” She narrowed her gaze and lifted her chin. “If I’m going to win tomorrow’s cook-off, I need to set my hair.”

  Chapter 2

  The First Annual Charity Chili Cook-Off Reception

  After posting Lenny’s daily remarks on his Little Dog Blog and sprucing up my look, I strutted downstairs. The First Annual Broken Boot Charity Chili Cook-Off reception was now in full swing and Milagro was overflowing with contestants, council members, volunteers, ICA officials, and the usual Thursday-night regulars. As the town council members and other locals had arrived, they all looked to my abuela’s empty stool as if the world had tilted on its axis.

  Coach Ryan Prescott warbled a familiar drinking song from behind the bar as he fired fresh fruit into the blender and let her rip, filling the air yet again with a refreshing burst of lime and an earsplitting whir.

  I stole a good hard look at his tan profile. In spite of losing his frat boy smugness and sleep-deprived lassitude, he’d kept his lean, athletic frame and wavy hair, not that you could tell with it hidden under his cap. I might not drink from the holy grail of football, but Ryan had won the hearts of rabid West Texas fans by leading sweaty, testosterone-dripping, heat-addled young men into battle day after day, week after week.

  “What?” He rinsed his hands and bent to turn off the faucet with his elbow. “I’m doing it wrong . . . again?” With a quick flick of his wrist, he snapped me with the hand towel that seconds earlier had rested on his shoulder. “What’d I do now? Add too many limes? Not enough mix?”

  “Yip,” Lenny called.

  “Are you trying to get me fired?” I scurried around the bar and found my handsome Chi hidden under the sink.

  “Yip, yip.”

  “Uncle Ryan’s an old softie, huh?” I chucked Lenny under the chin. “If Senora Mari hears about this, it’s pistols at sunrise—and I don’t own a weapon.”

  “Women don’t understand how hard it is for us to be cooped up, do they?” Ryan placed Lenny in his crate in the storage closet. “Keep the faith, man.” Ryan lifted a fist to the side of Lenny’s crate, and the Chi met the fist with his paw.

  Ryan joined me at the bar sink. “I’ve never known Senora Mari to be sick.”

  “If she’s sick, I’m a rodeo clown.”

  “I was wondering why you were wearing makeup tonight.” Ryan ducked my swing.

  “Three frozen, one salt, one sugar, one bare as a baby’s bottom,” Aunt Linda called through the window between the bar and the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Martinez, where’s Senora Mari?”

  She threw her hands into the air. “Don’t ask.” She waited until Ryan began filling her drink order. “All I know is those judges from the International Chili Association better hold on to their clipboards.”

  I was walking back to my post, ready to greet any late arrivals in my fashion: wide smile, warm gaze, and a heartfelt howdy, when the door catapulted open on a gust of wind so strong I thought the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had developed a hankering for Tex-Mex. In the distance, lightning danced on the horizon near Big Bend National Park, and two older gentlemen in cowboy duds stepped through the doorway.

  “Is this here the chili cook-off reception?” A tall, white-haired man with a luxurious salt-and-pepper mustache thumped his naked chest, which was bare except for a jungle of curly white hair, freckles, and a small leather medicine bag that hung around his neck. He was at least six feet tall, but I swear his ten-gallon hat made him ten inches taller. And if I didn’t know better, I’d bet good money that he and his friend stopped at a costume shop on the way, one specializing in singing cowboys like Roy Rogers and Gene Autry.

  “Uh, sir. You can’t come in here without a shirt on.” I pointed to a hand-painted sign behind the cash register. NO SHOES? NO SHIRT? NO TAMALES.

  “Pay up, you old goat!” His stocky companion didn’t laugh as much as he brayed like a donkey. “Heee . . . haw!”

  “I ain’t never” The tall man’s cheeks flushed bright red above his mustache.

  “Only every single time you enter a new chili cook-off.” His friend, who wore his lank, black hair parted in the middle and pushed behind his elephantine ears, stuck a plump hand in his friend’s face. “Hand over my five dollars and button your dang shirt.”

  The tall dude cut his eyes at me. “Hold your horses, Whip.” From the bag around his neck, he withdrew a roll of bills, peeled off a five, and flung it at him.

  Before it could hit the floor, his companion plucked the bill from the air. “Don’t pay him no mind. He insists on going around half-naked no matter the occasion.”

  The he in question fisted his hands at his sides. “You’d better watch that lip, boy. Lucky’s Naked Chili has won more cook-offs than anyone else in this entire salsa-swigging casita.” Muttering rude comments under his breath, Lucky buttoned every last button, threw a bolo tie around his neck that he fished out of his pants pockets, and tucked in his shirt.

  “Howd—”

  “Answer the blipping question.” Lucky, the formerly shirtless of the two, lunged closer. “Is this where the chili contestants are meeting?”

  “Yes, sir.” I plastered on a smile and gritted my teeth. “All contestants and their posses are welcome.�
��

  The two exchanged puzzled glances. “Was that a requirement?” Whip, the shorter one, smoothed a strand of lank hair behind his ear. “To bring a posse?”

  “No, and neither is ordering. Would you like menus? Or are you here for the meet and greet?”

  “Menus, if you would be so kind, senorita,” said Lucky, taking his hat in his hand, spreading his manners on thick when thin would’ve impressed.

  “Don’t mind my friend. That’s Lucky Straw and I’m Whip.”

  “I figured that out.” I handed each a menu. “Gentlemen, welcome to Milagro and Broken Boot’s First Annual Charity Chili Cook-Off.”

  Whip drew a deep breath and sighed. “Whatever smells so divine, that’s what we want, darlin’.” He was making serious eye contact as if I held the power to declare the winner of tomorrow’s contest in my hot little hands.

  Carrying a tray of margaritas, Aunt Linda hurried past. “Come on in, fellas. Let’s get you signed up.” One glance at her beautiful face and figure, and they trailed behind her like two lovesick calves.

  I followed along to where Uncle Eddie sat alongside a leathery-skinned woman with shoulders as wide as his own.

  “What are your names, boys?” Bridget Peck wore a neon yellow ICA visor over her cloud of gray curls, and a matching golf shirt. If it were up to me, I’d burn her headgear for failing to do its job. Her skin was red and sun-beaten, and unfortunately, starting to peel. God forgive me, her skin made me think of the side of a barn left too long without a paint job. And if anyone within a mile radius had a doubt she was the ICA official on duty, she flashed her yellow and red badge and whipped out her official letter of introduction from the president of ICA.

  “Bridget, cut the snuff. We’ve only attended two dozen of these here cook-offs,” Lucky said, smoothing his mustache with a bronzed knuckle.

  For a long moment, she studied the two chili cooks from their boots to their eyebrows. With a dramatic sigh, she shook her head as if bewildered. “Nope. Don’t know you. Show me your IDs and I might return them.” Her high-pitched laugh squeaked like a rusty door hinge.