Where There’s a Will . . .
When female screams filled the air a minute later, clueless contestants, vendors, tourists, and assorted townsfolk hurried over for a better look. The two women stood in front of their RV, wearing robes and pajamas, hair tangled and mussed. “Lucky’s dead,” cried one on the shoulder of the other. “Now I’ll never beat him. He got to heaven as a champion.” Huge crocodile tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I know, sister.” With the end of her belt, the terry-clad woman wiped the eyes of her grieving friend and then helped her climb back into their RV. “You were going to pulverize that two-faced braggart.”
I understood their pain. I would feel the same way if Hillary Sloan-Rawlings were to die before I proved I was a far better reporter. It’s not every day one awakes to find their competition stiff and dead.
As the crowd continued to drink their coffee, gossip, and watch the officials from the sheriff’s office go about their grisly business, P.J. Pratt and Hillary Sloan-Rawlings made their grand entrance.
“What in tarnation thunder is going on, Eddie?” Apparently, P.J. Pratt thought owning your own ranch gave him the right to boss everyone around, same as his cowhands and Herefords.
“I don’t know what you’ve done now, Josie, but I’ve had more laughs at a funeral parlor.” Hillary’s throaty laugh made me think of the sound you might get if you crossed an aging Hollywood actress with a braying donkey.
Lord, forgive me.
Just as I opened my mouth to say something socially unacceptable, Lightfoot stuck his head out of the tent, took in the situation at a glance, and quickly headed our way. “P.J.” He tipped his hat. “Hillary.”
Uncle Eddie removed his hat. “Show some respect, ma’am. One of the chili contestants is dead.”
“Oh, my.” Hillary slapped a hand over her mouth. “I was only kidding. I’m so sorry.”
“What’d you do, Martinez? Was it some kind of accident?”
My uncle paled. “No. He died of, uh, what did he die of?” He turned to Lightfoot.
“We don’t know.”
“So this could reflect poorly on the town?” P.J. insisted.
“Take it down a notch.” Lightfoot held up a hand. “Folks are riled up as it is. We’ve finally got everyone calmed down enough to go forward with the cook-off.”
“Go forward?” Hillary slanted me a look. “Was that your bright idea?” she murmured with a sly smile.
Uncle Eddie placed a hand on my arm. “It was mine. We’re going to bring this cook-off off without a hitch.”
“Except for someone getting killed.” P.J. puffed out his chest like a banty rooster. “I hope you know I’m demanding Cogburn call a special council meeting to discuss your part in this, Eddie.”
Lightfoot glared at P.J. and took a warning step into the rancher’s space. “Are you cooking chili?” Lightfoot gestured at P.J.’s dolly laden with fixings.
“No.”
“That’s good,” I said. “As one of the organizers, you can’t. It’s against the rules.” I was trying my best not to smirk.
“Well, I can if I want to . . . just to share with my friends. And you can’t say otherwise.”
“Why don’t you two go on and set up? The sooner we break this up, the sooner folks will get back to cooking.” Lightfoot waited until Hillary and P.J. wandered off toward the back of the fairgrounds before returning to Lucky’s tent.
From a distance, I spotted the O’Neal woman from the night before, sporting her red-framed glasses. She made a beeline for me, her gaze angry enough to singe my eyelashes. “Don’t tell me you intend to cancel? I asked for three vacation days and pulled the kids out of school to enter. And you know why?” Her arms beat the air in frustration. “Because I thought I’d have a better chance of winning the prize money at your pint-sized event.”
I swallowed. “And we’re glad you entered.” A plan began to take hold. I raised my voice for all to hear. “Don’t anyone pack up, throw out, or give up on your chili-cooking dreams. We’re going to proceed as scheduled. And may the best man, woman, or chilihead win!”
“When do we start cooking?” Dani O’Neal wore a flowered robe over a lace nightgown. She’d washed her hair and ponytailed it wet.
“Whatcha worrying about, girl?” I didn’t recognize the wizened old man. “I reckon your cooking skills amount to opening cans from your neighborhood Fiesta.” His tattered terry cloth robe didn’t quite hide his T-shirt and striped boxers.
“I’ll have you know that I like to use fresh ingredients.” Her cheeks flushed to a rosy hue. “I’m in the medical field. You can’t tell me half of you aren’t growing salmonella in your chili pots right this minute.”
The reverent hush evaporated as angry remarks flew through the crowd.
In spite of the tension in the air, the sight of the old geezer’s white knobby knees was burning a hole in my retinas, and I wanted to scream at him to get some clothes on. But what really chapped my hide was neither he nor the O’Neal woman had expressed fear or sympathy for Lucky, or even curiosity about the hive of activity at the far end of the fairgrounds. Their lack of emotion made me angry and suspicious. I studied them more closely, my Spidey sense springing to life.
A familiar short, middle-aged man, wearing a fringed leather vest led the crowd to the officials’ tent. “What in tarnation is going on? Don’t tell me someone broke in and stole Lucky’s knives again.” Whip’s face flamed with anger, then immediately fell. Mouth open, he surveyed the crowd, the sheriff’s cruisers, the crime scene tape surrounding the tent of doom, and the eyes that refused to meet his own.
“Lucky?” He spun in the direction of the ill-fated tent.
Lightfoot stepped into his path and raised his hands to block the other man’s progress. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Say what? Where is he?” Whip feinted to one side and then lunged around Lightfoot toward the opening.
Again the detective blocked his route, and Whip collapsed to the ground, his dark hair falling in his face. He swallowed hard. “What’s happened to him?” Lightfoot drew breath to speak, but the other man addressed those of us standing around gaping at his pain. “Somebody say something!”
“Lucky Straw is dead.” Lightfoot reached down and helped the other man to his feet.
Whip’s shoulders caved, his face paled, tears sprang from his eyes. “Nah, he ain’t.”
“Miss Callahan found him.” Lightfoot gave me a nod.
All eyes turned to appraise me. I could see their suspicions stamped on their faces. What had I seen? Why was I in Lucky’s tent? Had I killed him?
With another jab at the corner of his eyes, Whip shoved his hair behind his ears and turned to me. “Was it his heart?”
“I’m sorry.” Anguish closed my throat and forced me to mumble, “I don’t know.”
With a hard look, Lightfoot stared down the O’Neal woman, the old man in the robe, and the rest of the contestants and families that had gathered around. “You folks go on about your business. Let me talk to this man alone.”
I turned away with the rest. “Josie, you stay.”
Once the coast was clear, Lightfoot quietly took the other man’s measure. “You friends with the deceased?”
“We were partners.” Whip’s face flushed all the way to his huge ears. “I mean, we were chili-cooking partners. We traveled around together entering chili cook-offs. It’s what we did for fun.”
One thing about solving murders that I don’t like: everyone appears suspicious. Even then, I found myself observing Whip through Lightfoot’s eyes. Who else would have easy access to Lucky’s tent? And have known what he was likely to touch and in what order?
“You shared this tent? Or did you have your own?” Lightfoot asked.
Whip pointed to an open-sided tent with a blue canvas top on the far side of Lucky
’s. “That one’s mine. We competed against each other something fierce, but he allowed me to store my cooker and coolers in his tent.”
“Why’s that?” I found myself asking.
“Folks are less likely to handle your property in a tent that zips shut.”
I glanced at Lightfoot and found him watching us both, his eyes narrowed in thought. “You stay out here last night?”
Whip pointed to a small silver Toyota truck with an Apache trailer still connected. “That’s mine.”
“Why didn’t you keep your things locked in your camper? Looks safer to me than any tent.”
Deep lines gouged Whip’s forehead. “‘Cause I wouldn’t have any room to walk around in that thing. That should be obvious as the nose on your face.”
Lightfoot pulled out the small notepad and pencil that lived in his breast pocket. “Where were you last night after the reception?”
Whip’s eyes grew wide. “Hey, what do you mean by that?”
“Did you go to Pecos Pete’s?” Lightfoot’s tone never varied. “Stroll down Main Street? Take in the sights?”
I wanted to ask, What sights? But I remained mum.
“Nah. We did walk over to Two Boots dance hall for a bit.”
“Did you argue?”
“Hey!” He yanked his hat from his head. “Cut that out. We had a drink and listened to the band. Then we drove over here.”
Lightfoot made a note. “What time was that?”
“I don’t know.” Whip shrugged. “Twelve, maybe.”
“What’d you think of the band?” I asked before Lightfoot could get in another question. Ty Honeycutt and his compadres had gradually become the house band at Two Boots. I wasn’t sure they were all that and a bowl of grits, as my Granny Callahan used to say, but customers seemed to like them. At least after a drink or three.
“Better than cats making whoopee.” Whip grimaced.
With a narrow-eyed stare in my direction, Lightfoot cleared his throat. “What’d the two of you do once you got here?”
“Went to bed.” The chili cook frowned. “And not together. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” The stoic detective made another note, but I swear I caught a twitch at the side of his mouth.
“Why’re you asking me all these questions?” His gaze flew from one suspicious face to another. “It’s more than likely he was poisoned at that place her family calls a restaurant.” He pointed wildly at me.
“Are you crazy?” I smiled a can-you-believe-this-guy? smile at the dozen or so people who had failed to follow Lightfoot’s order to scatter. They stared blankly, failing to see the humor.
“Did you taste what you were serving last night? Nasty enough to give a buffalo food poisoning until Christmas.”
Uncle Eddie chose that moment to appear. “We’ve received high ratings in magazines and newspapers from Broken Boot to Juárez. What are you gabbing on about?”
“Is that a fact?” Whip snorted, thrust his hands on his hips, and rocked back on his bootheels. “That stuff you call gluten- and dairy-free was toxic.” He swung his arms wide, preaching to the crowd. “In fact, I could’ve cleaned my toilet with it, only it would’ve added to the germs instead of getting rid of ’em.”
My uncle’s face flushed a deep red. He clamped his mouth shut, his lips straining from the effort to hold back colorful, I-don’t-care-if-you’re-a-customer-or-not verbiage. He gave me a pitiful look, like a dog who’s begging to be let off his leash to chase the neighbors’ squirrels—just one time.
I gave him a stern shake of the head and a sympathetic smile, but I was fighting my own need to blast Whip and his random act of culinary libel. “We don’t usually serve special dietary items.” I lowered the volume and added what I hoped was more congeniality. “When Lucky demanded gluten- and dairy-free items—in the middle of an extremely busy reception—I immediately asked our chef to prepare something especially for him.” I didn’t flinch, though truthfully I had no idea what Senora Mari and our head cook had thrown together other than refried beans.
“So you say.” Whip’s lip curled, throwing his glasses off-kilter. “How do I know you didn’t serve him rotten meat just for demanding his due?”
“That’s a lie,” I said in a low voice. When I lose my temper, my voice drops to a whisper.
“Now, now.” Uncle Eddie grabbed me by the arm and placed himself between me and Whip. “Detective Lightfoot.” He paused to wet his lips. “Does that fella in there look like a man who’s died from food poisoning? You got a good like at him, right?”
Lightfoot shook his head. “We don’t know what killed him, but it doesn’t look like any food poisoning I’ve ever seen.”
“You would say that.” Whip thrust his hat on his head with a show of temper, unaware it was on backwards.
“Okay, that’s enough. We’ll give you more information when we have it.”
Whip remained along with me and Uncle Eddie.
“That’s all for now.” Lightfoot pocketed his notes. “And don’t disappear,” he said, giving Whip a pointed look. “I’ll be talking to you again, real soon.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Lightfoot.” My uncle’s face had paled beneath his tan.
“I’m not saying you did.” With a nod, Lightfoot walked back toward the entrance to Lucky’s tent where Barnes and Pleasant waited.
“You know what Mamá would say.” Uncle Eddie wiped the perspiration from his face with a red bandana.
I gave him a quick hug. “Are you kidding? She’s so politically incorrect, she’d say it serves him right for demanding anything but traditional Martinez Tex-Mex.”
I squeezed his hand. “Look on the bright side.” I plucked his handkerchief from his other hand and wiped a tear of perspiration from his earlobe. “She’ll have something to scold us about for the rest of her days.”
He chuckled, though it didn’t reach his sad, brown eyes.
A little ways away, more onlookers gathered, some confused, others scared, and too many murmuring about the inconvenience of a canceled chili cook-off. My heart sank at the disappointment and shame Uncle Eddie would feel, for he would consider it his own personal failing.
That’s when I spotted Bridget Peck and another ICA official pulling up in a blue Volkswagen Jetta—yellow and red ICA flags flying from the back windows.
Taking my uncle aside, I murmured under my breath, “Go tell everyone we’re not canceling one single solitary thing.” I grimaced. “Not yet anyway.” He gave me a one-armed hug, glanced with trepidation at the ICA officials, and hurried over to calm the contestants.
By the time I reached the parking area, where I’d spotted the coyotes only hours before, Bridget and her fellow official had unloaded their gear.
“We have chairs for you, all set up at the officials’ table.”
“Do they have double cup holders?” Bridget pursed her lips in disapproval.
“They have a cushion.”
Her companion laughed and closed the trunk. “Yes, but do they have a footrest?” Short and plump like a raisin, his smile was infectious. Beside the car, they’d unloaded not only chairs, but a rolling cooler and a crate on wheels filled with binders, pens, and Fiji Waters. Another crate, filled with humongous trophies and other awards, rested in the dirt next to the rear passenger door.
“Let me take those,” I said.
“Sure thing,” the man said with a courtly wave at the metal-and-canvas chairs.
I stuffed one under one arm and then struggled to pick up the other. Even folded, the chair was clunky, refusing to stay closed, poking the tender underside of my arm.
“She’s going to drop them. Then what?” Bridget’s lips pursed so tightly that deep lines like a freshly plowed field appeared around her mouth.
“Then she’ll pick them back up again.” The man handed me the second chair
so I wouldn’t have to bend over and dislodge the first chair from its strategic position. “You sure you wouldn’t rather take a crate? Much easier.”
I smirked. “No way. You wouldn’t rob me of my workout, would you?”
“Stop your yammering, and let’s get on with it.” Bridget grabbed the rolling office and trudged out of the weedy parking lot toward the tent that bore a large white OFFICIALS’ TENT banner.
After only a few steps, they halted to stare at the ambulance, the deputy cruisers, and the assembly of officers and EMT workers. “Good Lord.” Bridget turned to me, her face pale as flour. “Don’t tell me someone’s been hurt, already.”
“Well—”
At that moment, the EMTs appeared from the tent, carrying a motionless shape draped in a blue blanket between them. Lucky’s body. Carefully, they placed it on the gurney and then slowly began to roll it through the grass toward the waiting ambulance.
“No, no.” Bridget Peck’s voice was a thready whisper. “What’s going on? That’s Lucky’s tent.” With a thud, her book bag fell from her shoulder and hit the ground.
“Sure looks like it,” her fellow official said in a quiet voice.
I swallowed. “Um, yes. He, uh, had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” she demanded.
“Not exactly an accident, more like . . . an altercation.” And it hit me like a bolt of lightning. If Lucky’s death was a murder, maybe they wouldn’t have to shut down our event. It wasn’t as if we’d provided faulty wiring or tainted water. I swallowed my doubts. “I don’t know much, and it’s not for me to say.” I leaned in. “Could be foul play.”
“Foul play?” Bridget tried for scorn, but I didn’t miss the solitary tear coursing down her cheek. She drew back her shoulders, like an officer on a sinking ship, determined to hold on to his pride. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” She cast a hard eye across the fairgrounds. “We’re shutting this event down if I get one whiff of anything that indicates you and your organization had anything to do with his death.”
“That’s not necessary, is it?” I asked, hurrying along behind—metal chairs banging the undersides of my arms and my hips.
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