Cinco De Murder

by Rebecca Adler

  “Of course it is! You trying to discredit the ICA?” Bridget was on the move, shoulders rigid, muttering to herself.

  “No ma’am,” I countered meekly. “But wouldn’t you receive more negative publicity if you shut us down without just cause?”

  “Without just cause,” Bridget grunted. “Says you and who else?” Unceremoniously, she and the man dumped their bags on a table just inside the officials’ tent and rolled their crates of notebooks and trophies to one side. “Where’s the sheriff?” They marched from the tent and made a beeline for the first sheriff’s deputy in sight.

  I had lagged behind, but I saw Barnes shake his red head at their questions and then point a freckled finger to where Lightfoot stood talking to the JP outside Lucky’s tent.

  “We’ve a right to the truth.” The other ICA official’s expression was grim.

  “Who are you?” For Lightfoot to be anything other than polite meant he was on edge.

  “We’re from the ICA.” Bridget’s proclamation turned several heads.

  Lightfoot glanced at me, a question in his eyes.

  “International Chili Association. This is—” I began with forced politeness.

  “That’s Sam, and I’m Bridget Peck.” The older woman stuck out her hand with such force that her gray curls bounced. “We’re the official judges for this here chili cook-off.”

  Lightfoot put a hand to his hat and dipped his chin. “Did you know the deceased?”

  The two officials glanced nervously at each other. “Course we did,” Bridget said. “He’s been on the circuit for about ten years.”

  “The devil he has.” Sam gave his partner a sharp look.

  “Since he fought the ICA decision in Terlingua. We were both there, Sam.” That time the shrill pitch of her voice turned the heads of two deputies several tents away.

  Lightfoot’s brows lifted.

  “International Chili Association.” My cheeks ached from an overdose of smiling.

  “And we’re not going to allow any mishap to taint the reputation of the ICA. Let’s get that clear.” Bridget’s hands fisted as if looking for a fight.

  With a sigh, Lightfoot tipped back the brim of his hat with his thumb. “This so-called mishap means that a man is dead.” He glanced at me, his gaze conveying a message I couldn’t read. “We don’t have any reason to believe it’s anything other than natural causes.”

  The two officials stared at each other in silence. “Is that your honest opinion?” Sam asked, hat over his heart.

  Lightfoot’s gaze narrowed to a knife point. “Mister. Are you accusing me of lying?”

  I stepped back. I hadn’t heard the quiet detective lose his temper very often, but one day I was convinced it was going to blow. A gusher exploding all over God and everybody.

  “Uh, no, sir.” Sam worried his hat in his hands. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

  “Good.” Lightfoot’s threatening expression cleared. “I suggest you and your partner—”

  “We ain’t—”

  The detective raised a hand. “The two of you get back to the judges’ tent and figure out an alternate plan.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam took Bridget Peck by the arm and forced her back the way they had come.

  The taciturn newly appointed detective surveyed the crowd before turning a watchful eye on the deputies and JP cataloging the clues within the crime tape. Lightfoot caught my eye and motioned for me to meet him at the far side of Lucky’s tent.

  “Can’t we please go ahead with the cook-off?” I asked sotto voce.

  “Unlikely.” He turned his head to watch as the ambulance pulled away, lights flashing but no siren.

  “Please.” I grabbed his forearm. “For Eddie.”

  He looked away, but didn’t remove my hand. Knowing him, he was trying to evaluate the situation from all sides. “We could separate this section of the fairgrounds off and move the contestants at least a hundred feet away.”

  “Sure . . .” It would mean moving fifteen or so contestants to new digs. After a brief calculation, I realized it just might work, as we hadn’t attracted as many entries as we’d planned. It would be cramped, but folks might be willing to share their sites so the contest could continue.

  A frown appeared between Lightfoot’s eyes as he studied my hand on his arm.

  “Thanks! You’re a lifesaver.”

  I turned to go and he tapped me on the shoulder. “Tell me you and your uncle had the wiring checked out by a certified electrician.”

  “Are you kidding? We weren’t taking any chances. The head of the fairgrounds committee hired an expert from West Texas to check all the wiring.”

  Lightfoot actually appeared to be impressed, for once. “How’d you work that out with the university?”

  “Tamales.”

  He shook his head. “Should’ve known.” He studied the parking lot as a dozen more vehicles of various models and price ranges pulled in, many parking in the field alongside the full parking lot. Again the frown line appeared above his long, straight nose. He glanced at me, stretched out his arm, and pointed to the far side of the lot. “Someone’s in distress.”

  My heart nearly flipped over. No, no, no. This day just couldn’t get any worse. “Where?”

  “The Prius.”

  “The . . .” It was then I spotted the injured party.

  “Yip, yip, yip,” carried faintly on the wind.

  “Oh, heavens! Lenster!” How could I have forgotten him? The air was cool, the window cracked, but he was fit to be tied with a cattleman’s rope. I cradled him in my arms and kissed his pointed head. He reciprocated by licking my arm until I longed for a towel. Like a noble friend and partner, he’d waited quietly until he could no longer stand not being by my side or a piece of the action. “You’re right, buddy. You can come help me wrangle this mystery, these tents, and dozens of angry, frustrated chili cooks. No problem.”

  Lightfoot had followed me to the car, where he listened closely to my effusive murmurings with a bemused look on his face.

  “I can make it happen,” I insisted, trying to convince myself as much as anyone else.

  “Everyone moves a hundred feet, no less.” His sober gaze told me there would be no compromise.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” I lifted Lenny’s paw to help him give Lightfoot a proper salute.

  “Yip.”

  Slowly, Lightfoot shook his head at my attempt at levity. I could tell he wanted to issue me another strict warning, but he merely said, “You need assistance?”

  “Maybe. Let me get on the phone and see who I can rustle up.”

  First, I located Uncle Eddie, then together we convinced the ICA officials we could handle the change, and then we called our CEO.

  “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Aunt Linda grabbed the reins. “Hold a meeting with the contestants and explain what’s going on. If people insist on leaving it’s their prerogative. But if they decide to stay, they have to move their own gear and set up their new locations. Don’t you dare offer to do it all. We’re on our way.”

  If I had driven to a strange town only to awaken or arrive to the news that one of my fellow contestants had been murdered, on site, I’d have hit the road faster than a semi runs down roadkill. Well, not unless I was desperate to win the prize.

  By the time my family and the rest of the Milagro and Two Boots staff arrived, Lightfoot, Pleasant, and I had moved only three tents’ worth of contestants and their stuff. Jumping out of two white F150s—complete with metallic Milagro and Two Boots business labels, a ’72 Impala, a Dodge Charger, and various four-door, seen-better-days vehicles, our drowsy staff went to work.

  “Someone help!”

  I turned just as Senora Mari came around the back of one of our trucks with two gigantic rolling coolers, a handle in each hand. She was weaving to and fro like
a Saturday-night drunk.

  “Abuela, what are you doing here? Did you come to help Aunt Linda?”

  “Humph. I came to show these ICA gringos how to make authentic Mexican chili.”

  I grabbed the handle of one of the coolers. “But you know you can’t compete, right? It’s a conflict of interest.”

  She frowned, her lips pursed, and then she beat her chest with one small hand. “I don’t care. I will give it away. That will show those know-it-alls.”

  Aunt Linda set up a table for her mother-in-law and another for her own wares. She immediately began to win fans. “Howdy, folks! The cavalry has arrived. Come on over and enjoy some breakfast tacos and coffee. Even brought some cinnamon rolls. No charge for the coffee and cinnamon rolls. And tacos are only a dollar.”

  I raised an eyebrow at the fee.

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Can’t afford to give away the farm. They don’t have to buy them. It’s their choice.”

  You would have thought we were selling ice water in Hades. The line for grub grew exponentially, snaking down the length of the fairgrounds. First ten, then twenty, now forty people, mostly adults with a handful of kids thrown in.

  I cringed at how the parents would explain all the cops to their children. As I helped serve, the cooks passed by, looking no worse for wear. Only a few appeared to be overly concerned about the death of one of their own. Poor Lucky wasn’t a favorite with this crowd. Or maybe they were just relieved to have one less competitor.

  People are strange when it comes to winning five hundred dollars.

  After several tents, coolers, baskets, and generators were moved, Uncle Eddie made an announcement. “Folks, we appreciate your patience. What’s happened here is a horrible thing.”

  “Horrible,” a boy of maybe three repeated. His grin said he had no idea what the word meant.

  “Now I’ve talked to some of Lucky’s friends.” Uncle Eddie gestured to Whip and the wizened man from before—now clothed in Bermuda shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. “They assure me Lucky would’ve wanted us to proceed, seeing as how much he loved to compete.”

  “Darn right,” Whip said. A quiet exuberance floated throughout the crowd.

  Bridget Peck stepped up, clipboard in hand. “The official start time will be in one hour.” She held up her official rules and regulations binder. “As most of you know, it is at the discretion of each local organization to decide whether you have three or four hours to cook your chili. Due to all the hoopla this morning, you’ll have only three hours.”

  The crowd murmured.

  She held up a red air horn. “When the horn blows, you start. And not a second before.”

  “My ingredients can’t just set by for an hour. They’ll turn.” It was the O’Neal woman with the red glasses.

  “Some of us need more time,” yelled a voice from the back.

  “That’s not my problem.” Bridget’s stance was more Calamity Jane than Annie Oakley, which had me wondering if she was packing.

  “What if we have to share our site?” Whip demanded.

  Eddie stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, loud and long, finally gaining their attention. “Some share, some don’t. Everybody’s going to start in one hour. End of story.”

  The O’Neal woman cleared her throat as if she would spit like a cowboy chewing tobacco. “Rank-amateur event. If this is the last time I lay eyes on this sinkhole, it’s one time too many.”

  My uncle stared her down. “If you don’t like it,” he drew a breath, “then you can pack up your gear and go home.”

  Chapter 6

  Questions Asked

  An hour later, after everyone pulled out their pots, pans, and country music—except for one guy practicing yoga while Mozart wafted through the open window of his expensive sports car—Bridget Peck blasted her air horn.

  And they were off. They had a big job ahead of them because the ICA rules were clear. All chili had to be prepared on-site during the competition. I had no idea why any of these would-be pioneers would want to murder Lucky Straw with a blow to the head. And why was a stun gun discovered in Lucky’s prize-winning chili? Had he been trying to stun his attacker and dropped it?

  A heart attack would have been unlucky enough. But no. Someone decided our humble fairgrounds was the perfect location for a grisly murder. So much for the name Lucky that he’d worn like a badge of honor. How about Unlucky, Luckless, or even Wretched Straw? I immediately asked for forgiveness for my callous thoughts. The poor man’s body wasn’t even stone cold. It wasn’t his fault being murdered was the epitome of bad luck.

  “Come on, Lenny. Let’s help where we can.” We smoothed the waters by helping folks lug their stuff to a new site, saying a comforting word to those daunted by Lucky’s death, and sharing a smile and a howdy with strangers.

  We stumbled upon Dani O’Neal’s campsite. She stood over her cook pot, studying the concoction inside.

  “Mm. That smells like awesome.”

  She ignored me. “Don’t bring that dog any closer.” Her eyes remained riveted to her chili. “Don’t want him to contaminate my culinary offering.”

  “I get it. No doggie germs.” I kept my voice light, determined to remain positive. I backed up a few steps and then a few more for good measure. The word offering made me think of witches, Mayan priests, and Baptist ministers. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Yip.” Lenny was always ready to help, though most folks suspected he was in it merely for the spoils.

  “That would be illegal.” She continued to stir, adding in canned tomatoes, a bag of shredded fat-free cheddar, and diced onions.

  I didn’t bother to tell her that my only concern was whether or not she had running water and electricity. I was too shocked by the sight of her stirring fat-free shreds and raw onions into her chili. “Uh, right.” My gaze fell to a naked Barbie and an abandoned water pistol. “Where’re your kids?”

  At the mention of her children, her eyes narrowed. “What do you know about them?”

  “Well.” I took a deep breath. “I was the one who led you and your daughter to the bathroom last night. Remember?” The little hairs along my arms rose. Something about Dani O’Neal was a bit off. Her ponytail, robe, and gown were long gone. In their place, she wore a tight librarian’s bun, a Laura Ashley flowered prairie dress, and black combat boots.

  After a long pregnant pause, she slowly nodded. “Okay, then.” She stepped out from beneath her canopy and raised a hand to shield her eyes from the bright desert sun. “They’re at the taco stand, bringing us back some breakfast.”

  Though I looked in the same direction, I couldn’t make out anyone shorter than five feet.

  “The judging will take place at twelve thirty.” I looked at Lenny, and he looked at me. I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but adding in those last-minute items, which wouldn’t have time to marinate, had killed her chances for a prize.

  She etched a smile on her face. “So I heard.”

  “Well, then, best of luck!” As we walked away toward the next contestant, my canine companion made a run for the back of Dani’s canopy, barking as if a herd of cats were hiding inside.

  Behind the canopy, an iguana the size of my bathtub lounged inside a huge cage. “Yip, yip, yip.” Lenny pulled at his leash, longing for a game of chase.

  O’Neal hurried over, metal spoon held high. “Keep that long-haired rat away from Elliot.”

  “Calm down, Danielle.” Whip strutted into view.

  I gathered Lenny into my arms and held his trembling body close. “He’s only trying to protect me.”

  “Well, he’s ruining Elliot’s nerves.”

  Whip cleaned his frameless glasses with the hem of his shirt and gave me a tired smile. “She’s always going on about that reptile’s nerves. Personally, I think he’s got a brain the size of a gnat.”


  “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

  Dani’s expression turned stony. “We’ve met a time or two.”

  He threw an arm around her shoulder. “You could say I taught her everything she knows about how to make a decent chili.”

  Cheeks flushed, Dani pushed him away. “She doesn’t want to hear you putting on airs. You big blowhard.” There was a silent, furtive exchange between them.

  “Uh, she’s right.” Whip tucked a lock of lank hair behind his ear. “We don’t know each other half as well as I wish we did.” He forced a laugh.

  If Whip was still carrying a torch for Lucky’s fiancée, what was going on between him and Dani? The possibilities made me long for a hot shower.

  I cleared my throat. “Anyone who eats your chili could get salmonella from that thing if you’re not careful,” I said. “You work in the medical field, right? I would think you’d know.”

  With a look of disgust, she raised her chin. “My field is medicine, not zoology.” She lowered herself to one knee, reached inside the cage, and ran a finger down the iguana’s scaly back. “There, there,” she murmured as Elliot promptly scurried under a fake branch.

  “Plus, iguanas are an invasive species. He has to go.”

  For a good ten seconds, she tried to stare me down. “But we’re miles from home.”

  “Lock him in your RV. I don’t care, but get him out of here. And for God’s sake, wash your hands and everything he came in contact with.”

  “Yip, yip,” Lenny said.

  I agreed with my long-haired Chi. Dani didn’t seem to be much of a cook, and Elliot’s slithering tongue had turned my stomach.

  “Why don’t I put his cage in the minivan?” Whip knelt down beside her. “I’ll open the windows for a bit of cross ventilation. All that shade? Why, he’ll think he’s died and gone to reptile heaven.” He found a stray piece of lettuce on the ground and poked it into the cage, waving it slowly before Elliot’s fixed gaze.

  As I turned to make a getaway, Dani quickly stood and made her way back to her chili. “What did the police find out about Lucky?” she asked in a voice loud enough to turn Whip’s head.