Cinco De Murder

by Rebecca Adler

  I laughed with relief.

  “Don’t worry.” Lightfoot patted Lenny’s head. “He’s made of tougher stuff. Isn’t that right?” He scratched the long-haired Chi under the chin.

  Deputies Pleasant and Barnes had come as well and finished setting the perimeter with stakes and crime scene tape. Two more cruisers from a neighboring county pulled up. Unfortunately, two trucks and a minivan parked in the lot right alongside them. Folks piled out and immediately started unloading their chili-making equipment. I was torn. Didn’t Uncle Eddie need me to greet the contestants? Or was the whole event a wash?

  Before I could return to my uncle’s side, I observed him calmly taking people’s names, handing them numbers, and explaining that the rules were posted on the electricity hookups. His voice wafted above the chatter of the hopeful newcomers unloading their gear. “If you have any other questions, come and find me. It’s going to be a contest to remember!”

  My stomach filled with lead. My uncle, bless his heart, was determined to remain positive even if a dead body lay in a tent only a hundred feet or so from where he greeted his first chili cook-off contestants.

  “Right.” I turned back to Lightfoot. “What exactly do you need?”

  Studying me closely, he began. “When did you find the body?” I froze, looked at my watch. My mind was as blank as a whiteboard. “Uh, twenty minutes ago, thirty.”

  He nodded slowly. “You need to sit down?”

  “Heck no.” I smoothed my hair and straightened my shoulders. “I’ve seen worse. I’m just exhausted.”

  “In shock, more likely.” He gave me a quick once-over, his black eyes filled with concern. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  Who did he think he was talking to? “Cactus flowers don’t wilt, Detective,” I said with a corny Texas twang and a smile that made my cheeks ache. Suddenly gooseflesh raced along my skin. I crossed my arms over my chest to fight off the cold.

  “Exhausted?” He didn’t seem to be buying my futile attempt at keeping it together.

  Keeping my arms in close to my body, I began to rub my icy hands together. “I had to close Milagro last night, and then get up at the crack of dawn for this shindig. Nothing extraordinary.”

  For a moment, he merely studied my face. Then he reached out and touched my hands. “Your hands are like blocks of ice.”

  “It’s a nervous thing. They’ll warm up soon.”

  “Stick your hands in your armpits.”

  I made a face. “Thanks? I think.”

  “Don’t be such a girl.” His expression remained stoic, but there was a glint in his eye.

  With an eye roll, I did what he suggested, crossing my arms and then sticking my hands in my armpits. My hands began to warm almost immediately.

  “Come on.” He led me across the grass to where he’d parked his SUV, far enough away from Lucky’s tent that I couldn’t hear what was going on inside, but not so far that he couldn’t watch the comings and goings of the other officers.

  “Take a load off.” He gestured to the hood. “What’d you see when you arrived? Was Eddie with you?”

  Gratefully, I leaned back against the SUV, allowing the Suburban to take my weight. “I was alone when I arrived . . . except for Lenny. Uncle Eddie came later, but I’m not sure when.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll talk to him soon.”

  I shivered.

  “You need a blanket? I have one in the trunk.”

  “Who do you think you’re dealing with? Kim Kardashian?” This new touchy-feely side of Lightfoot was freaking me out. Did he think I was going into shock?

  “Who?” He frowned. “Never mind. Go on.” He bent his head, and I caught the ghost of a smile.

  “Contestants aren’t supposed to prepare anything ahead of time, so it was my job to inspect the tents for contraband. I found a half-dozen tents with coolers and supplies stored in them—chili preparations, I guess you’d call them—but I wasn’t about to police the contents, if you know what I mean. Actually, Uncle Eddie had asked me to inspect the tents to make sure the water and electricity were working because we didn’t want any hiccups this first time out. You know what I mean?”

  With his mouth open to respond, I had another thought. “You see, it’s like this: if we didn’t have everything working exactly right, the town council would come down on Uncle Eddie like a brick. And—”

  “I get the picture.” He leveled me with his best stoic expression. “You finished?”

  I nodded slowly.

  He waited a moment to make sure my chatter had run down. “You didn’t see anyone?”

  “No.” I filled my lungs slowly. Trying to relax, I thought back, hoping something worth remembering would float to the surface of my overwhelmed brain. “A couple of RVs and trucks had pulled behind their cooking sites and camped overnight . . . I said that already, didn’t I?”

  He reread the notes he had taken. “Did you enter Lucky’s tent as soon as you arrived?”

  Closing my eyes, I thought back to those first moments out of the Prius. “No. We started on the other end of the fairgrounds.”

  With a nod, he made a note and underlined it. “You willing to take a second look at the body?” His eyes held neither sympathy nor frustration.

  If he could function in the face of death, then so could I. Didn’t I have experience? Hadn’t I proved my ability to handle a crime scene without losing my objectivity?

  “I got this,” I said, pushing myself up to a standing position.

  “He stays out here.”

  “Yip.” Lenny gave me a look of disbelief.

  “Don’t hate me. It’s just for a bit.” I unlocked the Prius, cracked the windows, and placed him on the passenger seat.

  * * *

  • • •

  We returned to Lucky’s tent as more cars and trucks fought to find parking spots, indifferent to the deputy cruisers and unaware of the officers’ gruesome tasks.

  “Detective.” From the entrance, Pleasant gave me a sympathetic smile as she stepped aside to allow us room to enter around her statuesque frame.

  I forced myself to turn away from the chaos inside the tent for a minute more. Over the fairgrounds, golden beams of morning light embraced the distant hills and awakening desert, etching their beauty into my very soul. It was perfect weather, exactly what we prayed for. Would that we had prayed for a perfect day instead.

  From inside the tent, I heard Lightfoot’s voice. “What’s the story?”

  “Heart attack if I had to guess . . . which I don’t.” The quiet tenor belonged to Ellis, the JP. In Texas, a justice of the peace could issue warrants, conduct preliminary hearings, administer oaths, conduct inquests, and perform the usual weddings. He could also serve as medical examiner in counties without a coroner. If he and Lightfoot saw an indication of foul play, Ellis would be sending the body to El Paso for an autopsy. Strangled by budget cuts, the autopsy could take weeks, even in a case of murder.

  “Do you have your camera equipment?” Lightfoot asked.

  “Keep it in the car. Why, you not up to it?”

  Lightfoot chuckled low. “Not up to speed on all the lenses and gadgets you insisted on buying.”

  “By gadget, you mean a tripod and a video camera?”

  “If you say so.”

  Ellis continued nonchalantly. “You lucked out this time.” Silence. “What’d you say this guy’s name was?”

  “Lucky Straw.”

  “Geez.”

  “Get your camera, Ellis.”

  He was around thirty, with glasses, jeans, and a plaid shirt. My eyes followed him to his black minivan and watched as with graceful movements he unloaded a black camera bag and tripod. “Ms. Martinez.” He gave me a smile on his return.

  “Callahan. Same as last time,” I murmured. Ellis wasn’t the first person to a
ssume my last name was Martinez, like the rest of my family. But I was Aunt Linda’s niece, plain and simple. Why some folks couldn’t keep it straight was beyond me.

  He stepped into the tent opening, wearing a slight scowl of concentration. “It’s a bit cramped in there, what with all Lucky’s things.” Outside the tent, he assembled his camera, added batteries, set up the tripod, and began to take pictures of the body through the opening.

  “You knew Lucky?” I asked.

  “Knew of him. He’s Lucky’s Naked Chili. He’s been on the chili cook-off circuit for years,” Ellis said.

  “I guess I should feel relieved that he was wearing his pants.”

  Ellis rolled his eyes. “You’re not kidding.”

  “How’d you get here so fast?” Many times, the officers at the scene would certify a body was officially dead because of the pure size of Big Bend County, exactly 6,192 square miles.

  “My wife’s warming our vegetarian chili in booth number ten.”

  I froze in disbelief. “How come I didn’t know you entered?” Uncle Eddie and I had pored over each entry a dozen times, checking for errors or blanks left open.

  “She’s not an Ellis.” He waggled his eyebrows and laughed. “Said she didn’t want to marry down.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  “Starr.” He cleared his throat. “Her name is Brenda Starr.”

  I chuckled. “Come on.” The famous comic strip about a buxom, glamorous reporter was popular way before my time, but every woman I’d worked with in the news business had been ribbed with comparisons to Brenda Starr.

  “You think I would make something like that up?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re right. Her name is Brenda Smith.”

  A weight lifted off my chest. “Thanks.”

  “For what? Brenda Ellis would have been a fine name.”

  “For helping me forget for a split second why we’re here.”

  When he was finished, he placed the camera on the tripod and pointed it toward the body, fiddling with the zoom until satisfied. He stood in front of the camera. “This is JP Howard Ellis, Big Bend County. The date is May 4, 2018. Body found is a Caucasian male, approximately fifty to fifty-six years old. Identification found on the body belongs to Lucky Straw of Odessa, Texas.”

  My gooseflesh vanished as my journalistic side oohed and aahed over the shiny video camera. How easy was that? Instead of writing all these notes that I might or might not be able to read after spilling my coffee on them in the Prius on the way home, I could video my impressions along with actual images of the scene and the cadaver. “Can I take a look through the lens?”

  “No, ma’am.” He made an adjustment to the height of the tripod, and then slowly swiveled it from the left side of the tent to the right.

  Inside, the deputies went about the methodical task of collecting evidence. All three officers, including Detective Lightfoot, wore gloves. Lightfoot, as the highest-ranking officer, observed as Pleasant took photos of the body and Barnes collected small items of interest from the ground and the nearby surfaces. Barnes, the redheaded, fair-skinned deputy, wore purple gloves as he used tweezers to collect the detritus of Lucky’s life that might or might not provide a clue to how he died.

  “Turn him over.” Lightfoot’s deep voice vibrated with quiet authority.

  “Wait,” Ellis said. “Let me adjust the zoom.”

  By this time he and I stood side by side. I’d snuck close for a better look—close enough for me to catch a whiff of onions—but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “Go ahead.”

  With care and a specific hold, Barnes flipped Lucky’s body over onto a blue plastic tarp. “Burnt grits and gravy!”

  “Good call, Deputy Lightfoot.” Ellis snapped a few photos with his dual-purpose camera.

  “Detective,” I murmured.

  “What was that?” The JP’s expression said he didn’t know whether to be salty or sweet.

  I shrugged. “Sorry. It’s just that Lightfoot’s a detective, and, uh, well, I’m a Callahan.”

  His expression clouded with confusion, and then cleared. “That right?”

  “Not the end of the world. Let’s get on with it.” Lightfoot gestured toward the body. “Your camera’s rolling.” Once all eyes refocused on Lucky, he shot me a warning look. If I wanted to stay, I’d better zip it.

  Ellis double-checked that his video was recording every detail and then knelt down near Lucky’s head. Snapping away with the sheriff office’s Nikon, Pleasant inched closer until all four surrounded the body, blocking my view.

  “What is it?” My question busted out before I could harness it.

  “Good. Night,” Ellis muttered.

  “Someone hit him over the head with a sledgehammer, if you ask me.” Deputy Barnes crossed his arms across his chest.

  I rose on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder to get a better look.

  “What killed him?” Lightfoot asked.

  “Can’t say . . . not until I give him a thorough going-over, and maybe not even then. We’ll have to wait on the state for the official cause of death.”

  Which would be an excruciatingly long and frustrating wait. The state often took months to perform routine autopsies. If murder was suspected, the time frame shortened to a mere three to four weeks.

  Finally Barnes moved to one side, giving me a clear view. “How did I miss all that blood?” I asked, remarkably calm. Lucky’s expression was peaceful, as if dreaming of trophies and cook-off titles.

  “That’s not surprising, Josie.” Ellis continued adjusting his camera. “He was on his back and most of the blood soaked into the ground.”

  “Head injuries flow as free as Texas tea.” Barnes cleared his throat. “Uh, at least that’s what my mother always said.”

  “In my years of experience, I can tell you I’ve never seen a hammer shaped like this one. Whatever did this was round, flat, and heavy.”

  “Sounds like an iron skillet.” I clapped a hand over my mouth. You could have heard the proverbial pin hit the floor. I cringed, expecting to be booted from the proceedings.

  Lightfoot gave me a warning glance. “Pleasant. You and Barnes search his things. Don’t leave a fork or a side of beef unturned.”

  A large metal pot sat on the cooktop, surrounded by bottles of cumin, chili powder, salt, and pepper. On the wooden cutting board lay a paring knife, plus onion peels, bits of bell pepper, and tomato stems.

  Slowly Barnes removed a wooden spoon, dripping with chili, from the pot. “Looks like Lucky got a bit of a jump on the competition.”

  “The big cheat,” Pleasant said with a look of disgust.

  “What do ya want me to do with this?” Barnes held the spoon at arm’s length as if it might be tainted with the dead man’s blood.

  “Give it here,” Pleasant muttered. “Wouldn’t want you to get your uniform dirty.” With a disgusted shake of her head, she took the utensil from his outstretched hand.

  “Hey, this is a new shirt.” Barnes puffed out his chest.

  “Fine.” She dropped the spoon back in the pot. “I’ll bag the chili fixings. You bag the dead guy’s hands.”

  “Give them room to work, Lois Lane.” Lightfoot held open the tent flap, and we stepped outside.

  “Does that mean you’re Superman?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “It means I’m the boss.” Flipping a page in his notebook, his gaze turned to the job at hand. “Where’s Eddie?”

  “Holy guacamole!” Pleasant cried.

  Before I could react, Lightfoot was inside. I followed, but it was impossible to see around the shoulder-to-shoulder lineup of Ellis, Lightfoot, and Barnes. Standing on tiptoe, I could just make out Pleasant as she balanced a strange object on the wooden spoon. Carefully she grasped the thing with her other gloved hand, and lifted it
away from the table. It was small and rectangular, and it dripped chili onto the floor in big sloppy glops of meat and sauce.

  “ Appetizing.” Ellis grimaced.

  “What in tarnation is it?” Barnes made sure to keep his uniform out of harm’s way.

  “Hand it over.” Lightfoot picked up a checkered napkin from a nearby basket and took possession of the unidentified chili-covered object. He studied it for a minute and then wiped it clean with the napkin. “Stun gun.”

  “Huh.” Barnes chuckled. “Somebody must’ve beat me with a stupid stick. I thought it was a television remote.”

  I could see the headline in my mind’s eye: “Chili Cook Stunned into Silence.” Or better yet, “KO’d in the Kitchen.” The alliteration was tempting.

  “What if he fell when the killer used the stun gun on him?” Pleasant wiped her hands on another checked napkin.

  “And hit his head on a skillet?” I asked.

  Lightfoot took my arm and led me outside. “That’s enough interfering for now.”

  I yanked free. “Hey, what gives? You’ve valued my input in the past.”

  “Not on the scene, mixing it up with officers and the JP.” Nearby, small pockets of chili cooks and their supporters stood in front of their tents, watching us with open curiosity. “What about your cook-off?” He lowered his voice. “Looks like folks need some answers.” With a nod, he returned to the crime scene.

  From the road came a squeal of brakes. A brand-spanking-new Dodge Ram truck revved its engine as an older couple rolled their cooler across the road and into the parking lot. I held my breath as the truck lumbered closer.

  It was P.J. Pratt, town council member and Uncle Eddie’s nemesis. If I didn’t come up with a backup plan—and now—he’d try to blame today’s tragic event on my uncle. He’d start throwing his weight around, questioning our ability to keep the event on track.

  I could see it now. He’d insist we cancel the whole kit and caboodle, and at the next council meeting, he’d demand Uncle Eddie’s resignation.

  Chapter 5