by Kylie Logan
“Come on.” Gert cupped my elbow and piloted me toward the general store. “Your knees are scraped. Let’s get them cleaned up and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Once we were inside, I ducked into a back storage room and peeled out of the costume and my ruined stockings. I dropped into one of the two director’s chairs Gert had set up at the back of the shop, took the wet cloth she offered me, and touched it to my knees.
When I was done, Gert handed me a mug of tea. She was famous for the herbal concoctions that she claimed were beneficial for everything from skin tone to mood to whole body cleansing. Translation: They tasted like boiled weeds, and smelled bad, too. But this tea . . .
I pulled in a breath of the steam that rose off the mug with a bright red chili pepper on the side of it.
Blackberries, and I took a tiny sip and nodded my approval when Gert dropped down in the chair across from mine and gave me a long, hard look.
“Scratched knees to go with your scraped chin. What have you been up to?”
“Oh, this?” I touched a hand to the Angry Birds bandage. “It’s nothing.”
Gert looked at me over the rim of her mug. “Looks like investigating to me.”
“More like being a klutz.” Just to prove that it really didn’t matter, I ripped the bandage off my chin. Nearly twenty-four hours after taking a tumble from Yancy’s fence and the wound was dry. And itchy. I whisked a finger over my chin, then got back to taking care of my knees. Fortunately, there was little blood and the bandage Gert handed me was free of cartoon characters.
I slapped it on my left knee, then reached for the second bandage she held out and applied that one to my right.
“She’s doing it because of Jack’s recipe,” I said.
I guess the way I ground out that she spoke volumes because Gert knew exactly who I was talking about. She nodded, and her auburn hair caught the light of the chandelier above her head. “You really think your sister would try to hurt you because of a recipe?”
“Jack’s recipe.” This was, obviously, a whole different thing from just any recipe, and Gert should have known it. Though she never came right out and admitted it, I was pretty sure Gert had a thing for Jack. Or at least she had before Jack disappeared.
This, of course, wasn’t a new thought. I wondered about my dad’s whereabouts pretty much morning, noon, and night. No, that wasn’t what made my chin come up and my eyes narrow. It was—
“Bernadette!” I grumbled the name from between clenched teeth. “Sylvia claims she doesn’t know anything about the itching powder, and I’d bet a dime to a donut she’s going to say the same thing about the greasy stuff on the bottom of my shoes. If it wasn’t her, it had to be Bernadette.”
“And she is . . .?”
I’d been so busy, what with Dickie getting murdered and Ruth Ann begging for my help, I hadn’t talked to Gert since the start of the Showdown. I filled her in about Bernadette and how she was one of the Devil’s Breath contestants and how she used to work at the Palace and how she obviously had a thing—a very sick thing—going for Jack.
“And you think this Bernadette—”
I didn’t let her finish. “Don’t you see?” I leaned forward in my chair. “She’s obsessed. With Jack.”
“And you think that means she wants to hurt you?”
I sat back. “You think I’m talking crazy.”
“I think it seems . . .” Since Gert still had her mug in one hand, she gestured with the other. “Implausible.”
She was being kind. But then, Gert’s that type of person.
She’s also loyal, and she can keep a secret.
Don’t think I’d forgotten. Back in Taos, Gert had hinted that she might know something about Jack’s disappearance. She’d also refused to share. No matter how much I begged, she swore she knew nothing. Nothing she could divulge anyway.
I took another drink of my tea before I set my cup on the table where Gert wrapped her customers’ purchases. “Bernadette’s crazy. She’s fixated,” I said.
“On Jack.”
“The whole thing with the altar . . .” The thought made me shiver. “You have to admit, it’s as creepy as hell.”
“It is a little odd,” she said. “But what does that have to do with—”
“Trying to make me suffer?” I stood and tossed my hands in the air for dramatic effect. “She doesn’t need a reason. She’s a crazy person,” I wailed. “And don’t you get it . . .” Desperate to have her see the error of her keeping-her-lips-shut ways, I closed in on Gert. “If there’s a crazy person out to get Jack and you know anything about where he might be—”
“I don’t. I told you that, Maxie.” When Gert bounded out of her chair, I had no choice but to step back. Gert wasn’t a tall woman, but she was substantial in an earth mother sort of way, and I didn’t want to take the chance of getting flattened by her sensible sandals or lost in the folds of her ankle-length denim skirt. “Even if I did, I can’t think that just because some woman remembers your father fondly—”
“Flickering candles and pictures printed from online? I’m thinking that’s more weird than fond.”
I expected Gert to register the same sort of panic that tapped away at my insides when I thought about Bernadette’s sick obsession. That might explain why I was stunned by the tiny smile that played over her lips.
“Jack has that sort of effect on women,” she said.
That might be true, but it didn’t excuse attempted chili mayhem. Knowing I’d get nothing further out of Gert, I tucked the costume under my arm and stalked out of the general store.
Did I need more proof that Bernadette was behind the mischief? It came as soon as I stepped out onto the dusty main street of Deadeye and saw her lounging in front of the saloon across the street where Bob Lennox had set up his stand to sell cold drinks, hot coffee, and pastries.
She looked from my face to the costume I carried. She studied my scraped knees.
And she grinned.
* * *
When I walked back into the Palace, I made sure I was limping like a peg-leg pirate. This did not, it should be noted, get me any sympathy from Sylvia, and it was her indifference that helped me make up my mind.
I stashed the Chili Chick in the back room and, limping no more, headed out the front door. I couldn’t dance, but I sure as heck could investigate, and with that in mind, I headed over to the theater, where that night, Hermosa would appear in all her glory.
Just as I hoped, the diva was mid-rehearsal.
If it was possible to call screaming at the orchestra conductor rehearsing.
“Are you a complete moron?” Hermosa didn’t give the conductor a chance to answer. She stomped one gold sequin-clad stiletto and shook the voluminous skirt of her purple caftan like a raging tropical bird puffing out its feathers to make a hungry snake think it was bigger and less tasty. “I said to play the intro twice.” She held up two fingers. “One. Two. Twice. And you play it once and expect me to start singing? There are millions of musicians in Vegas, Hal. Don’t get the idea that you’re indispensable.”
Hal, to his eternal credit, kept his mouth shut. But then, maybe there are millions of musicians in Vegas.
“Try again!” Hermosa commanded with a wave of her hands. “And this time, get it right.”
The music started up. The intro was played twice. And then one of the trumpet players got a little too enthusiastic when he leaned forward to hit a high note and knocked over his music stand.
“Idiots!” Hermosa screamed, and I wondered why she wasn’t worried about straining her voice, then decided it didn’t much matter. Maybe even Hermosa realized Hermosa wasn’t much of a singer.
“I need a break,” she said, and the singsong tone of her voice fooled no one. The woman was obviously about to bust a gasket.
Hermosa turned on her shiny heels and h
eaded backstage.
I found her in her dressing room slugging back a clear liquid I bet wasn’t water.
“You.” Hermosa was so full of Hermosa, I couldn’t believe she even remembered me from the Devil’s Breath judging. That didn’t stop her from giving me a look that would have frozen a lesser person at twenty paces. I, remember, have been eating hot-as-hell chili all my life. It would take a lot more than Hermosa’s icy glances to turn me into a snow cone. “What do you want?”
“An autograph, of course.” Never let it be said that I can’t shmooze with the best of ’em. I dragged over a scrap of paper on Hermosa’s dressing table, handed it to her, and waited while she scrawled her name in hot pink Sharpie. I tucked the paper in my pocket and gave her what I hoped was a fangirl smile. “And to talk about Dickie, of course,” I added.
Hermosa put the back of one hand to her forehead. I swear, she really did this!
“Dickie!” Her moaning sounded a whole lot like her singing. “My heart is broken.”
“Which is exactly why we need to figure out what happened,” I said, and when she shot me a look, I was quick to add, “So you can get on with your life.”
“Yes,” she nodded and a slow smile spread over her lips. “Hermosa’s Gift cannot be overshadowed by grief.”
“Exactly.” She didn’t invite me, but I made myself comfortable in the chair across from the one she sank down in. “Do you think Dickie’s murder had anything to do with the contest?” I asked, then just so she didn’t get the wrong idea, I was sure to add, “Not the chili contest. The contest to sell the most tickets to this weekend’s shows.”
Her chin came up. “Let us be perfectly clear. I always sold more tickets than Dickie.”
Ah, true love! “Of course you did,” I said instead of telling her I understood because I didn’t believe in true love, either. “But the others . . .”
Hermosa’s eyebrows were plucked to angel-hair pasta width, and thinking, she lowered them. “The others never had a chance to sell more tickets than I do.”
Not what I meant, and when I told her that, Hermosa’s eyes went wide. “You think Yancy or Osborn might have . . .” She chewed over this thought while she lit a cigarette.
Did everyone in Vegas have to remind me of my late, great habit?
Hermosa blew out a stream of smoke. “Norman,” she said. “It had to be Norman Osborn.”
See, just what I was saying. Love is overrated. Instead of pointing this out, I said, “You used to live with him.”
“Before I came to my senses.”
“But if you think there’s a possibility that he could be a murderer . . .”
When she smiled, Hermosa’s teeth sparkled. “Oh honey, there’s a possibility that we could all be murderers. Given the right circumstances.”
“And you think the circumstances were right for Osborn.”
“I think . . .” She tapped the ash from the end of her cigarette into a Styrofoam cup. “I just gave Norman the news about how Dickie was moving in with me. Of course the circumstances were right. Norman was insanely jealous. He was head over heels in love with me.”
There was the L-word again.
“Funny,” I said, even though it wasn’t. “Norman isn’t still so much in love with you that he worried about protecting your reputation. In fact, he thinks you might have killed Dickie.”
“Son of a—” Hermosa stubbed out her cigarette on the edge of her dressing table. “He would say that. Idiot. And I suppose he gave you some half-baked reason.”
“He said it was because Dickie promised you a job at some hoity-toity hotel on the Strip.”
Just as she was about to throw her cigarette butt in the trash, Hermosa’s hands froze. “Norman knew about that?” she asked, then realized she probably shouldn’t have. She shook her shoulders and her purple caftan quivered. “Norman got the story wrong.”
“Dickie didn’t promise you a job on the Strip.”
“He did, but—”
“But you found out Dickie was lying about the job.”
“I found out—” Hermosa stood. I hadn’t realized how tall she was, but then, I was sitting and I had to look up to see her face. It was a perfect mask of thick makeup and stonewalling. “If you think I was angry enough at Dickie to kill him, think again. If that was true, why would I be letting him move in with me? In case you don’t believe it . . .” In a swish of purple fabric, she turned and marched out of the dressing room, and curious, I scrambled to catch up.
“The dressing rooms in this hellhole are too small,” she grumbled, leading the way through a narrow hallway, and what that had to do with her adding, “Dickie’s lease was up on his apartment last week,” I didn’t know until she stopped in front of a storage room, threw open the door, and turned on the lights.
There were metal shelves against all four of the room’s walls, and they were filled with props like the bottles of fake liquor back at the bordello. Hermosa ignored that stuff and waved her hand toward what was piled on the floor.
“This is where they store the extra stuff for the casino, and nobody hardly ever comes in here,” she said. “So this is where we had the stuff from Dickie’s apartment delivered. We planned on having it moved to my place next week, after we figured out how to make some extra room. Damn!” Fists on hips and top lip curled, she looked over the mismatched suitcases, about a dozen cardboard boxes, and a trunk with a domed lid and rusted latches that looked as if it had come out of some granny’s attic. “I guess I’m going to have to figure out what to do with it before Cal catches wind of it being here and hits the roof.”
She backed out of the room and shut the door.
“Now do you believe me?” she asked. “No way I killed Dickie. Heaven help me, I loved the man, and I know he adored me. What man wouldn’t?”
CHAPTER 10
“I’ve got to leave.”
No hello, nice to see you, glad you’re back.
But then, that’s not Sylvia’s style.
The moment I walked back into the bordello, she slid out from behind the cash register and left a long line of customers with purchases in their hands, who automatically looked my way.
At the door, she called over her shoulder, “See you later.” And that was that.
The next hour was a blur of chili spices, peppers, and questions, and believe me, I am not complaining. When it comes to the Palace, slammed is a good thing.
But by the time I took care of all those customers and restocked the shelves, I was whooped. I’d brought a box of Hostess Twinkies from the RV and tucked it in the back room for just such an emergency, and convinced I needed a surge of sugar, I headed that way and—
Stopped cold.
The Chili Chick was exactly where I’d left her, draped over a chair in the storage room, but one look, and I knew something was wrong.
Yellow.
There was something bright yellow on the Chick.
I lifted the costume and my heart gave two mighty thumps. That is, before it stopped completely.
Someone had spray-painted a message on the Chili Chick in Day-Glo yellow.
Bitch.
As if the word were as flaming as the color of the paint it was written with, I dropped the costume and backed out of the room, Twinkies forgotten. I would have kept right on backstepping if I hadn’t bumped into something that felt more like a brick wall than solid flesh.
Nick.
His hands clutched my shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
The itching powder, the gunk on my shoes, that sleek knowing smile on Bernadette’s face when I saw her out on the main street of Deadeye a little earlier . . . I could deal with all that, and I had, in my usual way. I was pissed, and ready to rumble.
But this . . .
There was something about seeing the Chick herself vandalized, something that deep down
inside felt like a sacrilege so personal and so devastating, it took my breath—and my voice—away.
Like it had rusted shut, I worked my jaw up and down a couple times before I could get any words out. “Wrong? Somebody . . .” I made a sharp motion toward the back room and the vandalized costume, and fortunately, Nick got the message. He stepped in there, and when he came out again, his lips were pressed into a thin line.
“What did you see?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been busy. We had plenty of customers. And before that I was . . .”
I was what, investigating? Something told me mentioning that wasn’t the best way to get Nick’s sympathy. “I had the costume on earlier today and it was fine,” I told him instead. “Well, except for my shoes being slippery.”
“Which explains your knees.”
There was something about knowing that Nick was giving my legs a careful look that shook me out of my daze. “First the itching powder! Then my shoes were messed with! Now this!” I threw my hands in the air. “Don’t you get it, Nick? Somebody’s out to get me. And I know exactly who it is!”
“Could it be because you’re poking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”
If this was a legitimate question, I would have answered it honestly. The way it was, the tone of Nick’s voice told me he wasn’t as interested in finding out what I’d learned in regards to the investigation as he was in reminding me that I didn’t have the experience—or the smarts—to be investigating in the first place.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Somebody doesn’t like me,” I grumbled.
To which, let’s face it, Nick had no right to smile. “You’re really hard to like.”
He didn’t give me a chance to level him. “Go.” This time when he put his hands on my shoulders, he spun me toward the door. “Go find Sylvia so I can ask her what she might have seen. And don’t worry about sales,” he added because he knew that was exactly what I was worried about. “If customers come in, I’ll tell them to come back a little later.”