Cinco De Murder

by Rebecca Adler

  As if on cue, men and women started filing by where we stood. Each hopeful contestant carried the large thirty-two-ounce cup provided by the judges, the cups filled with their chili. Some carried two, some used trays, and others gripped the cups tightly in their hands. Those that carried them in their hands wore padded gloves or gripped pot holders.

  “Watch out,” a young boy cried, barely managing to hold on to his tray as two large cups slid first to one side and then the other.

  “Oh, let me help, precious.” Mrs. Mayor stepped close to the little boy, who quickly stepped back. The cups again slid to the other side of the tray.

  “You can’t help him, Mrs. Mayor.” Cogburn grabbed his wife’s arm and pulled her back. “He or one of his parents have to carry it to the judges’ table.”

  “Why, that’s ridiculous.”

  I shrugged. “But it’s the rule.” The rules were a pain in my backside. “Hey, kid. What if I walk alongside and point out any potholes?”

  “Okay.”

  All four of us traipsed along with him, joining the stream of chili bearers to the ultimate temple of official judging.

  Chapter 8

  And the Winner Is . . .

  Slowly and steadily, like the Little Engine That Could, the boy managed to safely arrive at the judges’ table with his precious cups of chili—in spite of being hounded by one officious mayor, his well-meaning wife, an observant detective, and me.

  Bridget checked the numbers on the cups and marked her list. “Where are your parents, boy?”

  “None of your beeswax.” And he promptly ran away.

  Guess he’d had enough of unknown-adult supervision for one day. I watched him run toward the edge of the fairgrounds, and my brain clicked his identity into place. He was an O’Neal, not one of the two I’d seen near the bathrooms at Milagro, but the other one. What was his name? Had I heard it before?

  For the next twelve minutes, there was a flurry of contestants delivering cups of chili and salsa, entry numbers checked, and nervous questions by the contestants. “Does it matter what temperature it is?”

  “No.” Sam accepted the cup of chili from the wizened fellow from the morning, now dressed.

  “What if it has beans?”

  “Don’t enter it in the traditional category.”

  “But I already did.” An older woman, who looked vaguely familiar, cried.

  “Next,” Bridget proclaimed, dramatically drawing a line through the old woman’s name on the list.

  “Perhaps this once?” I asked.

  With a snort, Bridget added the woman’s name to the correct category.

  “What if my salsa verde isn’t green?” a familiar voice asked.

  “Stranger things have won in the past.” Sam added Russell’s cup to a long line of salsa verde entries on a nearby table.

  “I am here,” cried Senora Mari. She held a large plastic cup carefully in her two hands.

  “Mamá!” Uncle Eddie hurried to her side. “You can’t compete, we discussed this.”

  Bridget Peck barred his way. “Mr. Martinez, Senora Mari has my permission to place her chili alongside all these other entries.”

  Uncle Eddie’s mouth fell open. “But—”

  “She’s not eligible to win, but Sam and I discussed it. We couldn’t live with ourselves if we didn’t taste Senora Mari’s chili.” Bridget took the plastic cup from my abuela and placed it at the end of the judges’ table. “It’s not every day we meet a grand prize winner from Guadalajara.”

  Senora Mari smiled beatifically, carefully avoiding the eyes of her family.

  “Thirty seconds, ladies and gentlemen. Thirty seconds until the contest is closed.” Bridget stood, stopwatch in hand, determined to break the hearts of anyone too idle to make the deadline.

  “Why is it so important to deliver it on time?” Whip said, squeaking in with a handful of seconds to spare. “It’s the taste that matters, dang it.”

  “Organization and time management is the key to an excellent chili, Whip. You should know that by now.”

  “I’d think with Lucky dead and all, you’d make an exception for a person being unable to see properly to cook because that person might have tears in their eyes.”

  “Time,” Bridget proclaimed with triumph.

  The crowd surrounding the judges’ tent burst into applause.

  “We understand that this has not been an easy day for many of you.” Muttering broke out in the crowd. “Still,” she said, raising her voice even louder, “you persevered and did your very best to achieve your culinary dreams this day.”

  Sam elbowed her in the side.

  After an answering glare that could have melted his eyeballs into butter, Bridget threw back her shoulders. “May the best chili win!”

  Again the crowd roared.

  A tap on the shoulder had me turning around. “Oh, my gosh.” It was Aunt Linda, looking her usual gorgeous self, only a bit tired and shell-shocked. “Have you been selling tacos this entire time?”

  She laughed and five years fell away. “No, Jo Jo. I had most of the staff here to help me, remember?”

  “How’d we do?”

  I could see the wheels spinning as she ciphered what she’d sold during the hours I’d interviewed and investigated—if you wanted to call it that—the fairgrounds and the suspicious death of Lucky Straw.

  “We came out ahead by a mile, even giving away the coffee and the cinnamon rolls.” Aunt Linda wasn’t one to talk numbers. She played our successes and struggles close to her chest.

  “Who’s left?”

  “I sent the Milagro staff home a couple of hours ago to open for lunch. Tim and Mitzi are still over there selling what’s left of the tacos and sodas.” The couple were bartenders at Two Boots dance hall, and fast friends of Uncle Eddie’s.

  “Are you heading out soon?”

  Before she could answer, Uncle Eddie spotted her and crushed her in his arms. “You did it again, hon. Thank you, thank you.”

  “She’s the best,” I said. They were the cutest couple.

  “And I’m so proud of her.” He kissed her, and she brushed her cheek as if wiping it away. Still I couldn’t miss her blush.

  “I’m out of here.” She disengaged gently from his arms. “When will you get the results?”

  “Y’all will get the results in about an hour . . . so cool your jets.” Bridget Peck delivered her directive to the crowd of contestants through a mini megaphone she’d produced from thin air.

  Russell appeared at the edge of the crowd, cats in tow.

  “Yip, yip,” Lenny’s voice rang out.

  Bridget turned from the judges’ table, spoon at the ready. “Get that dog out of here! You’re interfering with the neutrality of the judges’ area.” Since neither Lenny nor I had entered the cook-off, I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. I scampered around the entry submission table and unattached my canine friend from the table leg.

  “Yip.”

  “Ah, geez, Lenster. Potty break?”

  “Yip.”

  “Meow!” From nowhere the two cats appeared, hissing and spitting.

  “Get those felines out of here before you contaminate the whole kit and caboodle.”

  Russell pushed his way through the crowd around the judges’ tent. “Donner. Blitzen. Come here.” Like good cats everywhere, they ignored him.

  I scooped Lenny into my arms, turning my back from the table of chili entries, determined to show the officials I had no wish to contaminate their samples.

  “Give him to me.” Aunt Linda appeared at my elbow. “I’ll take him home.”

  “Take him for a walk first.”

  “Don’t worry your head about that.”

  Russell lifted the two cats by the scruffs of their necks and they immediately became neutral sacks of sweet, do
cile fur.

  “Out.” Bridget pointed a long, officious finger toward the parking lot.

  “We’re going, aren’t we, girls?” Russell said.

  The crowd closed behind Russell as he ignored Bridget’s command and headed for his tent.

  I said a quick prayer that Elliot the iguana wouldn’t be the next pet to make an unseemly appearance. A salmonella outbreak would equal a murder in Bridget’s book, any day.

  “I thought you had this under control.” Mayor Cogburn had pulled Uncle Eddie to one side. “What do you call this?”

  Mrs. Cogburn laughed. “Good fun, right, Detective? I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.” She shot a glance over her shoulder to where Bridget and Sam stood tasting the entries, backs stiff with self-importance and outrage.

  Lightfoot smiled his first true smile of the day. “Seems to me that cats and dogs would worry her less than a dead body.”

  “How much longer until they announce the winner?” Mayor Cogburn had the knack for ignoring his wife’s sage advice.

  “Still forty minutes, unless certain individuals won’t leave us in peace,” Bridget muttered, never turning away from tasting and making notes next to each entry.

  With a flirtatious smile, Mrs. Mayor drew her husband away from the officials’ tent. “Let’s check out the vendors. There’s a booth over there selling silk shawls. Maybe they have one to match my new dress.” Her prairie dress was green and purple gingham, but maybe the stars would align as they usually did when Mrs. Mayor had her mind set on a new fashionable purchase.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  Lightfoot checked his phone. “Barnes says everything’s packed up or closed off. Just as soon as I sample some chili, I’m heading over to the sheriff’s office to write a report.”

  My stomach grumbled. “I’ll join you.”

  “You’re going to miss the announcement of the big winners.”

  “Unlike our cadaver, I’ll live.”

  Before we could skedaddle, Bridget’s sidekick, Sam, brought out the trophies and displayed them across the front table. Alongside the Texas-shaped awards, they placed red and white ribbons for second and third place. Uncle Eddie appeared from the depths of the tent, carrying white Milagro envelopes—which held the prize money for the first-place winners and the people’s choice award. He spotted the mayor and Mrs. Cogburn now sitting in the front row and flapped the envelopes at them in greeting.

  While Lightfoot and I sampled a chili apiece, the judges had put their heads together.

  Bridget Peck blew her air horn before I could cover my ears. “Gather round, folks. It’s time to announce the big winners.”

  Rancher P.J. Pratt pushed through the crowd, trailed by Hillary Sloan-Rawlings and his wife, the artistic gallery-owner Melanie.

  “Hold up a cotton-pickin’ minute.” P.J. was as loud as any air horn. “The town council decided that Hillary should give out the prizes.” He took the beauty queen’s hand and presented her to Bridget Peck as if she were the First Lady and the Queen of England all rolled into one.

  Uncle Eddie hurried over. “The rules say the ICA officials have to announce the winners, P.J.”

  “It benefits our citizens.” Melanie crossed her arms in defiance.

  “True, but this is Uncle Eddie’s event.” This trio of troublemakers had better keep their greedy hands off my uncle’s hard work.

  “What do you say, Mr. Martinez?” Bridget Peck’s face had turned to stone.

  Uncle Eddie glanced at Mayor Cogburn and his wife. “I say . . .” He threw back his shoulders and tucked his thumbs into his belt. “I say we play by the ICA rules.”

  The crowd applauded enthusiastically.

  * * *

  • • •

  The actual announcement of the winners was anticlimactic. The winner of the traditional red chili category was a woman from Waco, who cried, “Don’t mess with Texas!” and wiped her tears with her husband’s shirttail.

  Everyone applauded, if a bit quietly.

  After the announcement of the traditional red chili category, the chili verde was next. The wizened old man, white legs now covered, pointed a finger at the crowd as he claimed his trophy and two hundred and fifty dollars. “Doubters, look upon me and weep.”

  The crowd laughed, which made him even angrier. He began to spout something about God’s judgment on Lucky and death to those who took advantage of others until Sam pulled him aside for a picture.

  Finally, Mr. Hailey, from Barnum and Hailey’s Emporium, an old family friend, claimed the prize in the salsa category. As he accepted his award, his round belly jiggled with laughter. I’d heard his business was struggling to stay open, and I prayed the prize money would keep his dear establishment open a little longer.

  “This year we decided to make an exception to the rules.” Bridget Peck waited for the crowd to quiet down. “Since this cook-off is not yet an official ICA-sanctioned event until next year, we have decided to award the people’s choice award to Senora Marisol Martinez.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “Mamá?” Uncle Eddie found her at the edge of the crowd and led her forward.

  “Didn’t I tell you I would show them how to make chili the proper way?”

  Mayor Cogburn stepped forward. “Pratt, stop hogging the spotlight and clear out of the way.”

  Outflanked, Pratt and his women moved aside.

  The photographer for the Bugle took photos of the winners with their awards along with the officials, and even the proud event organizer—Uncle Eddie.

  “I am so proud of you, Abuela.” I gave her a quick hug.

  With a pat to my cheek, she said, “Of course, you are. But don’t worry, it’s not too late for you to learn.”

  The Cogburns and other friends gathered around and I slipped away.

  I said good-bye to Bridget and Sam, making sure to thank them for giving us a chance, even after Lucky’s death and my abuela’s brazen stubbornness. I was too exhausted to care enough to see if we’d passed muster. Uncle Eddie could ask the hard questions: Would we be welcome to hold one of their hallowed ICA events next year? And would they be so kind as to list our event on their website? I gave my uncle a saucy salute, two fingers to my temple. He responded with a wry smile and a shake of his head as I left him to wrap up the loose ends with the rest of the cook-off volunteers.

  I was halfway to the Prius when I remembered Lightfoot. He was nowhere in sight. I wanted to discuss my thoughts on the case, with the sole intent that he would share his thoughts on the case with me. I decided to take one last tour of the chili cook tents. I could easily combine my tour with sampling chili and discussing the case with Lightfoot—if I didn’t make it too obvious for his taste.

  I began with Dani O’Neal’s site. “I’m sorry you didn’t win.”

  “Oh, it’s you and that dog. Should have known.” She looked up briefly from pouring out the contents of her chili pot. She wore giant pot holder gloves on each hand and held her head to one side to avoid the steam from her brew.

  “Where’re your kids? I bet they were disappointed.”

  She ignored me and finished emptying the last of her chili concoction into an empty plastic gallon jug. She then threw the plastic jug into the metal garbage barrel to the side of her shelter.

  “Where’s Elliot?” I tried to make my question sound casual, but I was more than happy to see her destroy the salmonella-infected concoction. Perhaps there was a slight chance her chili was untainted; but I’d seen her return to her cooking without washing her hands after handling him. That was enough for me.

  “Does it matter?” She slammed the lid of a large blue ice chest and rolled it onto the grass along the outer perimeter of her site.

  “Sure it does. You competed for your . . . kids. That makes it important.” I’d almost let the cat out of the bag. If she wanted t
o pretend those three tykes were hers, I had to find out why.

  With a dramatic sigh, she fell onto the chest. “Not my kids.”

  “I’m sorry.” I was always stepping into it with both moccasins. “I didn’t mean any insult.”

  She waved a hand. “Chill. They’re not even mine.”

  My mouth fell open like a doofus. “Whose kids are they?”

  “Janice. My sister. She needed a break from her brats so she sent three of them with me.”

  “How many did you leave her with?” Would Janice agree that her children were brats?

  “One. The baby.” Dani raised up enough to lift the lid of the ice chest and bring out a wine cooler. Cherry breeze. Then with a quick glance my way, she stuck the unopened bottle under her arm, removed her glasses, and cleaned the lenses on her white tee. “Don’t look at me like that. So I lied . . . a little. I never actually said they were mine.”

  “Why in the world would you do that?”

  “Sympathy, I guess.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re not brats—at least not most of the time. I just wish I knew what I’d done wrong.”

  “Well, let’s see.” Did she really needed me to spell out how crude it was to temporarily adopt children to win the sympathy vote?

  “I just knew those kids would push me right up to the top.”

  No longer shocked, I was downright disgusted. But I wasn’t about to share my true feelings with this possible suspect when an investigation was under way. “What time did you start your preparations?” I asked, treading lightly.

  “Is that a trick question? Nine o’clock, like everyone else.”

  “Sorry. It’s our first time hosting a chili cook-off and I need some feedback.”

  Her gaze narrowed.

  “Everyone was supposed to start at eight, but with Lucky’s death and all, I figured some folks got distracted.”

  “Not me. I was glad to see the end of the old coot.”

  “The arrival of the deputies didn’t wake up you and the kids?”

  “These guys are up every day at six, rain or shine.” She glanced to her left and then her right. “Speaking of kids.”