by Kylie Logan
Praise for
CHILI CON CARNAGE
“Maxie is an edgy firecracker of a main character, and I can’t wait to see the trouble she gets into on the Showdown tour. I’m also anxious to meet her dad, the infamous Texas Jack Pierce. I’ve always found that chili gets better with time, and I predict that this fun new series is going to continue to get stronger and stronger!”
—Mochas, Mysteries, and More
“This is a fun mystery in a unique setting, and Maxie’s dedication to finding her father promises that there will be an enjoyable future for readers in this new series.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“I am always excited when I find a new book by Kylie Logan. To not only find a new book but a new series is heaven. She draws you right into the story and you can’t help but read the book to the very end . . . This is a fun, fast-paced read . . . If you like your mystery hot and spicy then you should be reading Chili con Carnage.”
—MyShelf.com
“The mystery aspect of the novel was well thought out and planned. Maxie is a sort of no-nonsense character and her investigation proves that . . . I’m looking forward to the next book in the series as much for the family drama as I am for the mystery . . . A great first effort!”
—Debbie’s Book Bag
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan
Button Box Mysteries
BUTTON HOLED
HOT BUTTON
PANIC BUTTON
BUTTONED UP
League of Literary Ladies Mysteries
MAYHEM AT THE ORIENT EXPRESS
A TALE OF TWO BIDDIES
Chili Cook-off Mysteries
CHILI CON CARNAGE
DEATH BY DEVIL’S BREATH
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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DEATH BY DEVIL’S BREATH
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2014 by Connie Laux.
Excerpt from Legend of Sleepy Harlow by Kylie Logan copyright © 2014 by Connie Laux.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-59275-5
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2014
Cover illustration by Miles Hyman.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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For chili lovers everywhere!
Contents
Praise for Chili con Carnage
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
Recipe
Special Preview of The Legend of Sleepy Harlow
Acknowledgments
Every book has its own story, and Death by Devil’s Breath is no exception. The Las Vegas setting? I’ve visited Vegas a couple times, and I know it’s the land of the weird and the wacky where anything can happen. Of course, it seemed like the perfect setting for a crazy hot chili contest and characters straight out of central casting. The spicy chili? Since my husband likes chili with far more heat than I do, discussing the wham-bam impact of one of his recipes is something that happens around here every time he puts a pot of chili on to cook.
As always, my thanks to friends and family, who take the time to listen when I discuss ideas and to help out when I find I’ve written myself into a corner. Thanks to everyone at Berkley Prime Crime and, of course, to David for the recipe at the end of the book. He promises it’s not too hot.
CHAPTER 1
The way I figured it, I had about three minutes.
The seconds tick, tick, ticked away, and before I could waste another one of them, I squirmed in my seat, cocked my leg at a funny angle, and stretched the toe of one stiletto toward the evening purse that was on the floor in front of the empty seat to my left.
Success! Or not.
My shoe snagged the sequin-covered purse, but my thigh muscle protested. I winced, morphed the expression into a smile when Jorge LaReyo, the man who ran the tamale stand at the Chili Showdown and who was sitting on my right, happened to glance my way, and counting on that smile to distract him, gave the purse a little nudge. Lucky for me, the floor in the theater of Creosote Cal’s Cactus Casino and Hoedown Hotel was faux hardwood. The purse slipped, skittered, and slid to a stop directly in front of me.
Head up and my gaze never leaving the stage three rows ahead of me, I dipped and grabbed, then sat back, unsnapped the little golden clasp at the top of the purse, and dared a look down. That’s when I grumbled a curse. The stage was brightly lit, but out here in the theater seats, the lights were dimmed. Teeth gritted, I pretended to be interested in the proceedings up there in the spotlight at the same time as I slipped my hand into the purse and felt around.
“It’s an ordinary deck of cards!” Up onstage, the man billed as The Great Osborn! waved a deck of cards still in its box above his head, then showed it to my half sister, Sylvia, who he’d called up from the audience to help with the trick. “I’m going to take the cards out of the box.” He did. “And then I’m going to make one of them magically disappear. But not until my lovely assistant here . . .” He wiggled his eyebrows at Sylvia and got a laugh from the audience. “Not until she chooses five cards and, without looking at them, places them facedown on the table.”
The Great Osborn was middle-aged, and his belly hung over the royal blue cummerbund he wore with a black tux that was a little threadbare at the elbows. When he looked from the br
ightly painted prop table to Sylvia, his eyes gleamed.
But then, Sylvia is known to have that sort of effect on weak-minded men.
It’s her fairy tale–princess looks that do them in, of course. The honey-colored hair she had pinned into a knot at her nape, the elegant line of her neck, the high cheekbones, and perfectly bowed lips. The pink dress dusted with sequins didn’t hurt, either.
Of course, the sparkly dress was exactly why she’d been invited to help The Great Osborn with this particular trick in the first place. From the magician’s vantage point onstage, it was impossible to miss a woman in the audience who twinkled like a drag queen on steroids.
Lucky for me.
Sylvia’s moment in the spotlight gave me the three minutes I needed.
Three minutes that were quickly slipping away.
“Lose something?”
I didn’t have to glance to my left to know when Nick Falcone slid into the seat next to mine. But then, the temperature in the auditorium shot up a couple dozen degrees at the same time an army of goose bumps popped up on my arms and a shiver cascaded through my body.
Ex-cop. Now head of Showdown security.
Deliciousness personified.
Attitude.
How could a girl have any other reaction?
This girl, it should be noted, kept her cool in spite of it all.
Hand in purse, I cast an oh-so-casual glance in Nick’s direction, biting back my disappointment when all I felt inside the purse were the usual essentials: wallet, tissues, contact case.
“Just looking for my lipstick,” I told Nick, then I pretended to be interested when The Great Osborn looked at each of the cards on the table and asked a man sitting in the front row to write down their names as he called them out. “Ace of diamonds. Three of hearts. Queen of spades. Seven of hearts. Six of clubs.”
Finished, he slipped the cards back in the deck and had Sylvia take the list and search through the deck for the original five cards she’d chosen.
“But there are only . . .” No one could do wide-eyed wonder like Sylvia. How she made herself blush a color that perfectly matched her outfit—and on cue—was anybody’s guess. She went through the entire deck one more time before she surrendered and put a hand to one cheek. “Only four of my cards are in the deck! The six of clubs is missing!” she gasped.
“That’s because . .” With a ta-da sort of motion, The Great Osborn opened the box the cards had come out of and extracted the missing six. “It’s here!” he said, and smiled and bowed when everyone applauded.
Except for me, of course. But then, clapping would have been a little hard since one of my hands was still in the purse.
And Nick. He didn’t clap because he was too busy leaning in nice and close. His hot breath brushed my ear when he whispered, “It might help you find your lipstick if you looked in your own purse.”
He never had a chance to notice the frigid smile I shot his way in response. That’s because the trick was over, and The Great Osborn kissed Sylvia’s hand and shooed her back to her seat.
Nick got up and sidled out of the row. Sylvia waited until he’d exited, and flush from her triumphant stage appearance, she sashayed back to her seat.
That left just enough time for me to replace her evening bag exactly where she’d left it.
“So?” Funny how she could twinkle even when the lights weren’t trained on her. “What did you think? How did I do?”
“Shhh!” I said, even though it didn’t matter. The Great Osborn took his final bows, and Creosote Cal himself strolled to the center of the stage and told everyone it was time for intermission.
“But don’t you go far,” he said, his pseudo-cowboy twang in keeping with the boots, the jeans, and the ten-gallon hat that fit in with the Wild West theme of Cal’s hotel in Vegas, where the next day we’d be opening another Chili Showdown. “Y’all are gonna get your booth assignments in a few minutes, and then, we’ve got a real treat in store for you. Hang on to your funny bones, pardners, because Dickie Dunkin is up next.”
I popped out of my chair, but dang, I couldn’t get away from Sylvia fast enough. Not when Jorge and the other folks to my right were being slowpokes about getting out to the aisle.
She knew I was stuck, and Sylvia pounced on the moment. “The Great Osborn said I was a natural,” she purred.
I’m not a big believer in batting my eyelashes, but this seemed as good a moment as any to give it a try. “A natural what?” I asked her.
I guess the way she puckered her lips made them need freshening up, because she got her lipstick out of the purse that only moments before had been in my hot little hands.
From the other side of the aisle, I saw Nick raise his eyebrows.
I ignored him.
I was getting pretty good at it. The ignoring part, that is. In spite of his deliciousness and all. Nick and I had actually been thrown together a time or two only a short while before when a Showdown roadie was murdered and I (yes, that’s right, little ol’ me) solved the crime. Nick wasn’t happy. About me investigating, and especially about me taking credit where credit was certainly due. But then, if there was one thing I’d learned about Nick in the weeks since I’d joined the Showdown to take over my missing father’s chili and spice truck, it was that Nick was never happy.
Far be it from me to try and be the one to bring some sunshine into his life.
“There’s my two favorite girls!”
Tumbleweed Ballew was one of only two people in the world I’d let get away with that kind of happy-family horse hockey when it came to talking about me and Sylvia. The other was his missus, Ruth Ann, and when they closed in on us, they were both grinning like prom queens.
Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann were the administrative heart and soul of the Showdown, and they’d been family friends for years, ever since back before I was even thought of when my mom showed up looking for work at Texas Jack Pierce’s Hot-Cha Chili Seasoning Palace and stole the job—and Jack’s heart—from Sylvia’s mother.
“We’ve got booth assignments!” Ruth Ann and Tumbleweed wore matching outfits: jeans, denim shirts, vests with long leather fringe on them. Ruth Ann had an envelope in her hand, and she waved it in front of me. “Bet you can’t wait. You checked out Deadeye when you got here, didn’t you? Isn’t it a hoot?”
The simpering smile that I’d thought was a permanent fixture on Sylvia’s face melted around the edges. Her lower lip protruded. “I think tacky is a much better word. Honestly, Tumbleweed”—she turned to the seventy-year-old—“how did you get talked into this whole fake Western thing? It’s going to make us look—”
“Like we can actually get into the spirit of things and have a little fun?” I refused to wilt beneath the acid stare that came from my half sister. That didn’t mean I ignored her. It was plenty fun to goad Sylvia. In fact, it was one of the joys of my life. “Get with the program! This is Vegas! Everything’s supposed to be over the top. And it’s all for fun!”
“Fun.” She rolled her baby blues. “A wing of the building that’s meant to look like a Western town.”
“Yeah, the town of Deadeye,” I reminded her.
A shiver snaked over Sylvia’s slim shoulders. “Sweet. And what’s the point of Deadeye anyway, except to make more work for us? If we’ve got to move all our merchandise and supplies out of our trucks and into one of those hokey little booths—”
“There’s a sheriff’s office, a blacksmith shop, a general store. Even an undertaker.” When Tumbleweed chuckled, his belly shook. “These next few days are going to be more fun than a pillow fight! Visitors will get to walk down the main street and stop into each of the little shops to do business with our vendors.”
“And this . . .” Once again, Ruth Ann waved the envelope in her hands. “Here’s your assignment.”
In Sylvia’s world, time was money, and she did
n’t like to waste either. She plucked the envelope out of Ruth Ann’s hands and opened it. When she read the single piece of paper inside, her jaw dropped. “The bordello? You’ve actually assigned Texas Jack’s stand to the bor . . . the bor . . .”
“Now, now, honey.” Tumbleweed put a hand on her shoulder. “It ain’t like we’re casting you two girls in a bad light or anything. It’s just that we looked the place over. You know, earlier in the week when we got here.” He leaned closer. “It’s the biggest space in Deadeye,” he confided. “And the nicest. We convinced Creosote Cal to assign it to you gals because we wanted to make sure you got the best spot.”
“Well, I think it’s hilarious and who knows . . .” Because I knew it would annoy her, I poked Sylvia in the ribs with one elbow. “Maybe we’ll end up getting a little action. Hey, what happens in Vegas—”
I didn’t get the chance to finish; Sylvia had already walked away.
“Seriously.” I shook off the bad vibes of Sylvia’s annoying Sylvia-ness. “We appreciate the plum spot. I can’t wait to see it.”
“There’s a bar along one wall where you can set up your spices,” Tumbleweed said.
“And even a red velvet fainting couch!” Ruth Ann grinned. “You’re going to love it, Maxie, honey. And Sylvia . . .” She looked toward where Sylvia made her way toward the ladies’ room. “She’ll come around.”
“Yeah, like in about a million years.” This didn’t bother me especially. After all, it wasn’t news. Sylvia was and always had been a stick-in-the-mud. You’d think a woman who had been arrested for murder back in Taos and owed her freedom to me finding the real killer would relax a little and get over herself. But then, we were talking about Sylvia.
I decided right then and there that it didn’t matter. The night before the opening of every Showdown was always a party, and I wasn’t going to let thoughts of Miss Tighter Than a Tick spoil my evening. Especially not in Vegas. “You ready for tomorrow morning?” I asked Tumbleweed.