Cinco De Murder

by Rebecca Adler

  With matching scowls, they retrieved forms of identification, Whip from his wallet and Lucky from the medicine bag inside his shirt. “Bridget Peck, four years is too long to hold a grudge.”

  Her face turned a pale pinkish color. “Seems to me that four years might not be long enough, considering what the other person did to land a body in jail overnight, which caused her Thunderbird to be towed and her prize chili pot to be stolen out of the backseat.”

  Lucky swallowed hard. “Now, Bridge, it’s not my fault you didn’t pay your tickets in Highland Park. Those highfalutin cops don’t play.”

  “Was it or was it not you who told the police officer that my registration sticker was out of date in an attempt to keep me from entering the Highland Park Presbyterian Chili Cook-Off?”

  “How was I to know they’d throw you in jail overnight?”

  Her jaw clenched so hard I thought she’d start spitting teeth. “Not to mention, the police also took possession of my daddy’s Colt .45 from under the front seat, where it lived since the days when my daddy drove that Thunderbird back and forth to Texas Power.”

  “He made it home to the missus one night too many, if you ask me,” Whip muttered.

  “I heard that, mister. Don’t think I’ve got wax flowing from my ears.”

  Bridget made a big production out of poring over their pictures before eventually locating them on the list of registered chili contestants. She retrieved their preprinted application forms from her plastic file box and tossed them on the table. “Welcome to the provisional ICA Broken Boot Charity Chili Cook-Off. Make sure to sign at the bottom, and don’t skip any lines.”

  Uncle Eddie handed each man a black pen with a pair of boots on top, his idea of a promotional tchotchke. “Keep the pen, boys, and check out Two Boots while you’re here, the best dance hall in Big Bend County.” My uncle told the truth. We owned the best and only dance hall in three counties.

  As his friend signed his waiver, the short fellow named Whip pulled a pair of frameless glasses from his pocket and studied the assembled cooks. “Quite a turnout you got here. This your first time outta the gate?”

  “Yes, sirree.” Uncle Eddie stuck his thumbs in the straps of his leather vest and puffed out his chest. “Next year we’ll have even more.”

  Bridget Peck adjusted her visor. “The committee will review your event and make the final decision on whether or not you will be allowed to proceed in the future as a sanctioned ICA event.” She lowered her readers and leveled Uncle Eddie with a look I associated with prison matrons, wearing steel gray hair buns.

  “Looks like you’re the last of the bunch.” Without acknowledging Bridget Peck’s remark, Uncle Eddie peered at the list over her shoulder, a deep furrow appearing between his eyes. Poor man should’ve been wearing his glasses, but he was too vain. He could no more read the checkmarks on that page than I could dance the flamenco.

  “Don’t give me one of your icy stares, Bridget Peck. Lucky was the one who just had to say good-bye to Becca for a good fifteen minutes before we could leave.” Whip glared at his friend.

  “Oh, honey, I’ll miss you,” Whip said in a sweet falsetto. Along with the high voice he added a drawl right out of Georgia. “Give me another kiss, you big, strong handsome man.”

  Lucky slammed the pen to the table. “Course I did, and you would too if she were still your woman . . . which she ain’t.”

  He pressed a cell phone into my hand, and I immediately understood that he fit his moniker. His screen saver was a gorgeous blonde with fashionable inky roots, bright red lips, and light blue eyes like cornflowers in the sun. He was obviously Lucky in love and proud of it.

  “Give him back his phone before he has a conniption fit.” Whip gave his friend a long-suffering look of amusement. “Can’t stand to go a moment without keeping her in full view.”

  “She’s something, all right.” I returned Lucky’s phone. I was embarrassed for the shorter man. His friend needed a lesson in humility or simple good manners.

  “When are you going to let us set up, Bridget?” Whip asked. “Lucky and his iron skillet are primed to take the win.”

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” she answered, poring over the two men’s applications. “Same as every other event you’ve attended,” she said under her breath.

  Lucky straightened his shoulders. “Now, Bridge, how do we know you didn’t bend the rules for this flyspeck town?”

  I resented that remark. It didn’t matter that we had only three thousand or so residents—we had a hundred entrants.

  “Bending the rules in my business can endanger the lives of animals and humans, not to mention the natural beauty of protected areas like the Chihuahuan Desert.” Frank Fillmore, the fireworks guy, had wandered over unnoticed. “Why not play by the rules and keep everyone safe?”

  “Any of you know this joker?” Lucky, sneering, asked the rest of us.

  “What do you think would happen to these fine folks and their houses, cars, businesses, and whatnots if I fired off my rockets and missiles at will?” Frank’s gaze narrowed on Lucky like a mountain lion tracking a desert cottontail. “You think I can shoot off rockets in any direction, anytime, day or night, and on any day of the year without following the guidelines set in place by the Texas fireworks code?”

  “Hey there, Frank,” I said with a bright smile, hoping to distract him from his tirade. “Glad you could make it. Are you hungry? Would you like some quesadillas?”

  “Thank you kindly.” He rubbed his hand back and forth across his forehead. “I apologize. It’s been a long day and I have a thunderous headache.”

  Bridget Peck handed Lucky and Whip their lanyards and welcome packets. “No irregularities. Move along.”

  With a glare at the ICA official and a curt nod to Frank, Lucky moved to a vacant booth, and Whip trailed behind, eyes wide behind his nearly invisible lenses.

  “If you’re hungry, I’ve got the cure for what ails you.” I gestured to the buffet tables filled with flautas, quesadillas, and warming trays overflowing with fajita fixings: sautéed onions and peppers, savory chicken, and fajita skirt steak.

  “How much?”

  “All of the chili cooks eat from the buffet. It’s included in their entry fee.” We’d lose money, but it was our first rodeo—so to speak—and Uncle Eddie and Aunt Linda wanted to make a lasting impression. “For you, seeing as how you’re Aunt Linda’s prom date, it’s on the house.”

  He cast a furtive glance around the room. “The state fire marshal nearly shut us down.”

  “Good Lord! What was he doing here?”

  “The mayor’s office set it up.”

  “Why?”

  “Every fireworks display site has to pass inspection.”

  If we canceled, that would put a hole as big as the Grand Canyon in our weekend. Visions of angry tourists seated on blankets at the fairgrounds filled my head. Faces, young and old, looking up into a dark sky to a big fat nothing. As if the tooth fairy, Easter bunny, and Santa Claus all forgot to visit on that special morning.

  “But we’re good to go? You passed?”

  He sighed. “Yeah, after separating several launchpads and moving the whole platform one hundred more feet from the parking lot.”

  My heart sang with relief. “But you passed with flying colors!” I would’ve offered him drinks on the house, but a hungover fireworks engineer—or whatever they called themselves—didn’t sound like a safe idea, especially if a state inspector was lurking around town.

  Frank gave me a wan smile and headed for the grub.

  “Each and every event must be run the same way.” Bridget Peck was frowning at Uncle Eddie. “Doesn’t matter the size or shape. It’s best for the hosts to learn the rules at the very beginning.”

  She checked her watch and scurried to the center of the room. “May I have your attention?�
� Her voice took on a melodious tone, which projected to the far corners of the room. The volume slowly lowered until only one or two voices could be heard in the back.

  “My name is Bridget Peck. I’ll be your lead official and head judge at this event. On behalf of the International Chili Association, I want to welcome each of our entrants and their friends and family to the Broken Boot Charity Chili Cook-off.” Warm applause followed along with a couple of whistles. “Now, I don’t want any of our more serious cooks out there—Lucky, I’m looking at you—to worry about any irregularities that might keep you from qualifying for the nationals in Boise. We’ve worked closely with Eddie and Linda Martinez, the host of our event tonight, to guarantee a well-organized, official contest.”

  “Where’s Sam?” asked a female voice from the back. “I thought two officials had to be here.”

  “Mary Jane’s having her third boy, bless her heart.” The room erupted in applause. “But Sam’ll be at the fairgrounds tomorrow.”

  The cowbell clanged. “Wait for me,” a too-familiar female voice called. Hillary Sloan-Rawlings hurried into the room in five-inch heels, a fur vest, and enough bling to feed a small country. The locals in the crowd applauded and my heart sank. Six years after almost winning Miss America and she was still Broken Boot’s biggest celebrity. Hang it all.

  Bridget frowned as the beauty queen made a production of hugging a few folks along the way to an empty seat at a front table.

  “Looking good, Hillary,” a local rancher called from the back.

  “Who said that?” The beauty queen stood, hands on hips. “You are too sweet, P.J. Pratt. Does this mean you’re going to sell me that piece of property I’ve been begging you for?”

  The crowd laughed. The battle between the two sides had carried on for the past twelve months. Hillary wanted to extend her own acreage, but despite his drought-related problems, Pratt refused to sell.

  “Uh, hem.” Bridget’s smile faded as she waited for Hillary to take her seat. “As I was about to say, everything you need to know is spelled out for you in your registration documents. If you have any questions, this would be the time.”

  A dark-haired woman wearing red-framed glasses stood, giving the crowd a nervous glance. A small girl and two young boys munched on chips and salsa at her table, all three children wearing wire-framed glasses. They wore clean, well-worn T-shirts and matching sneakers. “Will we have our own water hookup?” The little girl clamped two hands around a large red tumbler and slowly maneuvered it toward her mouth while the boys stuffed already-full mouths with tortilla chips until their cheeks were as round as a sow’s belly.

  “That’s my understanding.” Bridget Peck turned toward another raised hand.

  “Last time,” the dark-haired woman interrupted, “I had to share with Lucky.” She extended her arm and pointed a finger at him, like Dickens’s Ghost of Christmas Future. “And he only let me use it once.” Without taking her eyes from his, she reached down to help her daughter hold her drink.

  Lucky laughed, but no one joined in. “That’s not how I remember it. If you needed water, Dani O’Neal, you should have spoken up loud enough for me to hear you.”

  She kept her fervent gaze locked on Bridget Peck. “You’re positive about the water?” Dani’s bottom lip trembled.

  “Eddie Martinez, come on over here.” Bridget waved to my uncle. “Why don’t you set the woman’s mind at ease?”

  With a nervous smile, Uncle Eddie wove his way through the tables and chairs. “That’s right. I spent a couple hundred dollars having the hookups added so we would meet the ICA standards.” He smiled wide. “So keep on drinking and I’ll make that money back in no time.”

  “Will do,” someone hollered. Laughter followed.

  A heavyset man with long, wavy hair staggered to his feet. “Why don’t you tell Lucky’s lapdog to keep his hands off other people supplies?”

  “Let it go, hon,” said the red-headed woman seated next to Grizzly Adams.

  Whip jumped up. “Russell, I didn’t take your bowls in Laredo.” He looked to the crowd for support. “Is it my fault he can’t count?”

  For a giant, Russell was fast. He was in Lucky’s face before you could say chile rellenos. “You, my friend, always weasel spices, gear—heck—even meat off other folks who can’t afford to share!” The crowd murmured in agreement. “What happened to your fat pension?”

  “That true, Whip?” Bridget Peck asked.

  With a worried look, Whip adjusted his leather vest. “Maybe once or twice, but I’d never steal from someone, only borrow.”

  Russell bowed out his chest. “No, but you’d steal someone else’s recipe.”

  Eyes round as a couple of cue balls, Whip stepped forward. “Ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

  “Boys, boys.” Bridget Peck’s voice demanded their attention. “Go on back to your seats and order some grub. It’s been a long day and I bet you had to put in a full day’s work before you hit the road.”

  Russell nodded and, with a swift glance at Whip, trudged back to his seat. The shorter man watched him go, eyes narrowed and neck stretched forward like a rattler.

  “It’s not all about the winning.” Bridget Peck grinned. “It’s about the food.”

  “You got that right,” someone shouted from the back.

  “So go out and make chili like your mama taught ya and don’t forget to have fun!”

  As enthusiastic applause changed to excited chatter, Uncle Eddie joined me behind the counter. “I thought for sure, Jo Jo, we were about to have a sparring match, right here in front of God and the ICA.”

  “Night, folks.” I waved to a group of customers still chattering about their recipes.

  “Mommy, I have to go potty.” Something jerked my apron. Below me stood a miniature person with glasses, only three feet tall.

  “Hey, honey. Where’s your mommy?”

  “Kayla.” Suddenly the woman called Dani appeared with one of the young boys in tow. “I told you not to talk to strangers.”

  With a whimper, she buried her head against her mother’s leg. “I have to go potty,” she wailed.

  “Come on,” I said with a smile. “It’s right this way.” Luckily, the niñas’ room appeared to be unoccupied.

  Dani opened the door, prodding the girl in front of her. As she tried to bring the boy inside, he dug in his heels. “Not going in the girl’s potty. I’m a big boy.”

  The exasperated mother rolled her eyes. “Not now, Keith,” she muttered between clenched teeth.

  “We’ll wait out here.” I gave him a wink.

  And he reciprocated.

  After a quick study of my face, Dani accompanied her daughter inside.

  “Keith, huh.” I didn’t know what else to say to a seven-year-old. “Like Urban?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Heck, no. Toby Keith. He’s a red-blooded American.”

  Before I could defend the handsome Aussie, the mom and daughter reappeared, singing “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue.”

  “I promise, Uncle Eddie’s as good as his word.” I grinned. “You’ll have all the H2O you need.”

  Dani lowered her voice. “It’s not him I’m worried about. If Lucky can rain down havoc on his competitors, by God, he will.”

  “Sounds like a real nut job.” Nut job? I sounded just like Uncle Eddie.

  The cords in her neck stood out. “I swore I’d never be on welfare, and here I am. Why else do you think I entered this contest? Because I like chili?” She grabbed the hands of her two children and hurried away.

  I hurried to the bar and found two margaritas and a Coke. “Who are these for?”

  “Table six . . . I think.” Ryan had his thumbs raised to type a text. “What time is this shindig over?”

  “Thirty minutes ago.”

  As he typed, a faint smile
appeared.

  “Big plans?”

  Wiping away his smile, he pocketed his phone. “You’d better deliver those before I have to remake them.”

  “Good point.” I loaded my tray and turned, nearly slamming into Lucky Straw.

  “Whoa there, gal.” With nimble hands, he steadied my tray as Coke splashed over the side of a red tumbler. He smelled of cinnamon candy and salsa.

  “Oh, wow. Are you okay?” I stepped back.

  He pasted on a charming smile. “Is one of those mine?” With a long arm, he reached for a glass.

  “Sorry. Table six.”

  The smile evaporated along with his smarmy tone. “You’ve yet to bring me and my buddy Whip our free drinks.” After a deep breath, I replied in my best friendly-yet-firm manner, “The drinks aren’t free tonight. Only the Cokes and iced tea.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he studied me as if I enjoyed cheating him out of his due. “Seems to me, you’ve been avoiding me and my friend. We’re tired of waiting on you to take our order.”

  I glanced around the dining room, filled to capacity with smiling faces and cheerful conversation, until I located Anthony. “There’s one of our other waiters,” I said, gesturing with my chin to the corner. “That young man will help you straight away while I take care of these drinks.” Inwardly, I groaned. The glasses were sweating and the ice had begun to melt. I could hear Aunt Linda’s rant in my head.

  Mouth turned down in disapproval, Lucky paused. “Better than waiting for you to get around to it.” He marched away two steps and spun again. “And by the way, I have special dietary needs, which you would know if you read the comments section of my registration.”

  Oh, great. Had I forgotten any dietary requests in the dozen or more comments we’d received? My stomach plummeted. I vaguely recalled setting aside a registration to discuss with Carlos, our lead cook. Something that required creating an additional item or two for the evening’s menu.

  Lucky pulled the corners of his mustache. “Just as I thought. You’re dumbfounded.”