Chile Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  "I’ll try to talk to Joyce Sanders, too.”

  "It’s time she knew about what Angie claims to have seen,” I said, "even if Angie isn’t there. You could also ask her to examine Miss Velma for bruises.”

  "Where’s Angie?"

  “She didn’t show up for work this morning.” I paused. "Maybe we should be worrying about her."

  My next call, a quick one, was to KPST, where Fannie was doing her daily radio broadcast. I caught her during a commercial and got the phone number of her friend Rosie Montgomery, the woman who was supposed to know something about why Opal Hogge had left her previous job in San Antonio. I phoned, got an answering machine, and left a message. While I talked, my Datsun had cleverly driven itself into town (that’s the way it seems, when I’m using the cell phone), turned left on Lampasas Street, right on San Antonio, and pulled up to the curb in front of Cody and Clendennen Insurance. It was just about noon, when Pokey was supposed to get back from his trip to Austin. If I was lucky . . .

  I was. I was just getting out of the car when I saw Pokey's red pickup truck turn the corner into the alley around back. I slung my purse over my shoulder and went after it, hoping to catch him before Roxanne held a chance to clue him in. I wanted to see his reaction when he learned how his partner had died.

  “Hi!” 1 said, with a breathless smile. "I'm China Bayles, the editor of the Enterprise’,) Home and Garden section. Alike McQuaid mentioned to you that I’d like to get your chili recipe for the newspaper. Did you remember to bring it?”

  Pokey Clendennen is in his late thirties but he has that forever-young Jimmy Stewart look: gray Stetson, Western shirt, jeans, and boots, which goes with gingeiy hair, blue eyes, and a fetching gte-whiz grin. Appearances are deceiving, however. Word has it that this slow-talking, slow-walking all-American boy (he earned his nickname by always being late for school) has had more than his share of problems with alcohol, drugs, and women, including, most recently, his partner's wife—now his deceased partner’s widow. Still, Pokey is definitely a world-class charmer, and I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that he’s a card-cariying member of the Million Dollar Sales Club. Some clients, particularly single women over forty, might be willing to fork over a sizable premium just so they could call on Pokey in time of need. (It is whispered around town that the nickname describes habits other than tardiness.)

  He gave me an engaging grin as he got out of the truck. "China Bayles? Yeah, sure. I’ve got the recipe here somewhere.” He came around the truck to the passenger’s side, where the seat was stacked with papers. He fished through, found, it, and handed it to me. It was clipped from an old newspaper. He frowned a little. "It’s not supposed to be totally original, is it?"

  "Not necessarily,” I said. I looked at it. "Didyou follow it exactly?”

  He folded his arms, leaned against the truck, and tipped back his Stetson in a classic Western pose. "Yeah, I did,” he said amiably. "I’ve made chili myself, of course, but I never do it the same way twice, and I always forget exactly what I did. This is a recipe my cousin had, and he said it was pretty good. It was my first time to enter, so I thought I'd use his, rather than try to remember mine.” There was an attractive dimple to the left of Pokey’s mouth. It came and went as he spoke. He smiled. "I’d hate to poison anybody.”

  I smiled back. “What made you decide to enter the cookoff? If you don’t mind my asking, that is. I thought I’d include a little bit of human interest along with the recipes.”

  "Oh, that was Roxanne’s idea. Roxanne Cody. She’s our office manager. Every year, she nags all the guys in the office to enter. Says it’s our civic duty. This year, she got on my case and wouldn’t let up until I agreed.”

  I glanced down at the recipe, then up at him. "Roxanne. Wasn’t it her husband who died?”

  He shifted his weight against the truck and the smile faded. "Yeah. My partner. Too bad. You know, to look at the guy, you’d never know Jerry Jeff had a bad heart. Ran a couple of miles a day, didn’t smoke, ate healthy, more or less. He maybe drank a little, but no more than the rest of us. Too damn bad.”

  "Right.” I looked back down at the recipe, studying it, and frowned. "Are you positive you followed this exactly?”

  He took the recipe out of my fingers, looked at it, and handed it back. “Yep, I sure did, down to the mountain oysters." He gave me a boyish grin. “You know what those are?”

  “I don’t think so,” I lied.

  "They're ...” He blushed. “They’re what comes off a bull calf when he’s . . . you know.” His face was red.

  “Castrated?” I asked pleasantly.

  He cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. That’s right." He shuddered. "I gotta admit, cuttin’ them durn things up made me a little queasy.”

  "I’ll bet,” I said. I gave him a puzzled look. “But I’m jure there’s something missing from this recipe.”

  "What?”

  "Peanuts.”

  "Peanuts?” He chuckled. “I get it—this is some kind of joke. Mike McQuaid said something on the phone yesterday about peanuts.”

  "A joke?” I shook my head soberly. “I don’t think so. Your entiy number—it was twenty-two, right?”

  "Yeah, that’s right.” He looked at me narrowly. "Yeah, twenty-two. How’d you know that? I thought the entiy number was supposed to be such a big mystery.”

  "I guess you haven’t talked to anybody at the office today.” I put the recipe in my purse.

  “No, I’ve been in Austin all morning.”

  "Well, I suppose you’ll find out quick enough. You see, the police gathered up the chili samples that Jerry Jeff tasted before he died and got them tested. The results came back this morning, only a couple of hours after the autopsy report. Jerry Jeff died of anaphylactic shock. He was allergic to the chopped peanuts that were found in one of the sample cups.”

  "Well, I’ll be damned.” Pokey straightened. “So his allergy finally caught up with him, after all! Is that why you’re interested in—’’

  “In the missing ingredient in this recipe,” I said.

  He lowered his head like a bull, his face darkening. "Wait a minute. I don't get it. What missing ingredient?” “In fact,” I continued, as if he had not spoken, “if the judges had been able to finish their job, you might have won the prize for the weirdest combination of ingredients.” I paused. “Entiy Number Twenty-two was the only sample that had chopped peanuts in it—along with the mountain oysters, of course.”

  For a long, drawn-out moment, Pokey stared at me with the horrified look of a cowboy trapped, in a loading chute, watching twelve hundred pounds of red-eyed, sharp-homed snorting bull charging at him. Sweat popped out on his freckled forehead.

  “You’re not. . .” He gulped, blinked, and gulped again. "You’re not saying—”

  I nodded. “According to the police report, it was your chili that killed Jerry Jeff, Pokey.”

  That did it. He looked at me wildly, then took two steps away from the truck and started to run, stumbling across the uneven pavement of the lot.

  "Roxanne!” he bawled, flinging open the back door to the Cody and Clendennen Insurance. “I gotta talk to you, Roxanne!”

  Lunchtime on the Pecan Springs Square is the social event of the working day. There are several options to choose from, but if you find yourself on the town square when the fire station whisde blows at noon, I suggest that you join the crowd at Krautzenheimer’s German Restaurant, which occupies the narrow building between the Sophie Briggs Historical Museum and the Ben Franklin Store.

  That was where I was headed, anyway—partly because breakfast had been about a quarter-century earlier, partly because I wanted to locate Mae Belle Battersby, and partly because Hark Hibler usually eats lunch at one of the front-window tables, on the theory that if a courthouse story breaks, the press will be front row center.

  Today, Ruby had joined Hark, and he was more interested in her than he was in the breaking news from the courthouse. I couldn’t blame him, because she was
dressed to brighten a cloudy day: lime-green and yellow batik- print top, matching patio pants, gauzy yellow scarf tied around her mop of red hair, yellow and green wedgies that looked like they might have come out of the Andrews Sisters’ closet, yellow and green plastic bangle bracelets and matching dangle earrings.

  I sat down. “My, we are colorful today.”

  "Ive been to see our architect,” Ruby said happily. "She’ll have the drawings in a few days.”

  "What architect?”

  Ruby gave me a sliver of Mona Lisa smile. "I told you I was going to get an architect to draw up the plans.” She studied my face, beginning to frown. "Really, China. I’m going to have to keep a better eye on you. You do remember, don’t you? The shop is called Thyme for Tea. It’s located behind Thyme and Seasons. My name is Ruby Wilcox, and I’m your partner. Your name is — ”

  "Writing the checks does not confer on you the right to be tacky in public,” I said severely. "I’ve had other things on my mind.”

  "Thelma and Louise,” Hark said. He handed me a handwritten menu enclosed in greasy plastic. "Did I ever tell you about this guy I know down around Fredericksburg? He had these two female ostriches on his ranch, named Thelma and Louise. But Thelma was such a stupid bird that she hung herself in the gate and Louise got lonesome and ran away from home, and he decided he wasn’t cut out for the ostrich business.”

  "I fail to see the relevance,” Ruby said. She folded her menu. “I’ll have the turkey Reuben with sauerkraut and German potato salad.”

  Hark looked at me. "Are you working for me today?” I reached into my purse and pulled out Pokey Clenden- nen’s recipe. “You bet,” I said, putting it down in the center of the table.

  "Then I’ll buy. What are you having?”

  One of the numerous Krautzenheimer granddaughters— there are more than I’ve ever been able to count—came to take our orders. I dittoed Ruby’s Reuben but subtracted the potato salad, which would only make my skirt even snugger than it already was.

  When the girl had gone, Ruby said, “I’ve got a frontpage stoiy for you, Hark.” She glanced knowingly at me. “It’s a romance.”

  "Then it goes on the society page,” Hark said.

  “This is different,” Ruby said. She stirred sugar into her iced tea. "I mean, it’s newd. ‘Home and Garden Editor Announces Engagement to Local Hero.’ ”

  "China and Mike?” Hark swiveled to look at me. "No kidding. I had you figured for an old maid.” He grinned, to show me he didn’t mean it. “Congratulations. When’s the big event?”

  “As soon as McQuaid feels like it. But—” I frowned at Ruby. "It will not be big news. McQuaid and I have no desire to make a public spectacle out of our private — ” "We hope to coordinate the event with the grand opening of Thyme for Tea,” Ruby said. She put her hand on Harks arm. “Will you see what you can do to help us get the beJt media coverage?” she asked sweetly.

  “You see?” I said. “The woman wins a little money, gets a little power, and thinks she’s a CEO from the Fortune Five Hundred.”

  “What I think is,” Ruby said thoughtfully, “that we should give our grand opening a name. That’s what publicists do to create interest in an event. How about the Lavender and Lace High Tea? That sounds very bridal. We could use lavender as the theme of the menu, as well as our theme color. And lace, of course — ”

  “Ruby! I’m so glad I’ve run into you.” It was Pauline Perkins, Pecan Springs’s eternal mayor, who is campaigning for election to a fifth term on the platform of more responsive law enforcement. She gave Hark a warm pat on the shoulder and me a friendly see-you-at-the-polls handshake, and turned back to Ruby. “I was hoping you would volunteer to help me organize a—”

  I let Pauline go to work on Ruby, and turned to Hark. “One of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” I said, speaking jotto voce, "has to do with the Manor. You said you did a piece on it last year. What was it about?”

  "Oh, the usual,” Hark said. "It covered the histoiy of the place, its organization, the role of the board, their plans for the new wing, stuff like that. There’d been a problem with the former administration, and the board was anxious to put a new face on things when they hired Opal Hogge. I interviewed her too, of course.”

  "What do you think of her?”

  His mouth twitched. "Do you want to know what I wrote in the paper, or what I thinkV'

  “I can go back and read what you wrote. Tell me what you think.”

  "I think she is an insecure, vulnerable woman who knows her business but feels threatened as hell by anybody who is remotely competent—except for Joyce Sanders, who maybe gets along with her because she doesn’t rock the boat. I think the board made a lousy decision when they hired Hogge. I think they should fire her this afternoon, if not sooner. But none of the above alters my opinion that the Manor’s therapy unit is one of the best in the state. Does that cover it?”

  "Just about.” I sat back while one of the Krautzen- heimer grandsons put my plate in front of me. The sharp odor of sauerkraut seasoned with caraway seeds made my mouth water. "How about Velma Mayfield? What do you know about her?”

  "New subject?” Appreciatively, Hark eyed his plate of bratwurst, potato salad, and cole slaw. He picked up the catsup bottle and laced a thick red ribbon down the middle of the sausage.

  "Not entirely. It seems that Hogge and Miss Velma are distandy related. Second cousin, or something like that.” "I suppose 1 know what eveiybody knows about Miss Velma.” He nodded toward the courthouse. "She was a fixture in that place for quite a while. She was old man Periy’s law clerk, you know, except he never called her that. Called her his 'girl’ and never let on that he appreciated what she did. She rewrote his briefs, filed all his court papers, ran messages to the judge, wrote wills and probated them, even negotiated out-of-court settlements with opposing attorneys, especially later on.”

  “Sounds like she did eveiything but plead and argue,” I said.

  “You got it. If you ask me, she was a better lawyer, hands down, than Tom Perry. That old rascal didn’t give a damn about anybody. She had a heart.” He sliced into the sausage and the juice squirted. "MaeBelle tells me she’s failing. Too bad.”

  "Did you ever hear of Miss Velma being involved in a legal case with Opal Hogge? Property, probate, anything like that?”

  Shaking his head, he speared a hunk of sausage and ate it enthusiastically. "Sounds like you’re fishing for a connection between them—other than bein’ cousins, I mean.” "In a word, yes, ” 1 said, and on impulse, decided to tell him. "One of the aides at the Manor told me she saw Hogge roughing Miss Velma up.”

  He stopped chewing and stared at me. "No kidding. If the board got wind of that, Hogge would be out on her butt in two minutes.” He chewed once or twice, then stopped again. "We got a story here?”

  "Not hardly,” I said. "No hard facts, as Bubba would say.” Just a girl’s word for what she had seen, and an old lady’s fiercely raised fist. And another old lady, dead in her bed. I shivered.

  “No hard facts, huh?” He grunted. "Well, you sure as hell ain't gonna have much of a career in journalism.”

  I grinned. "Aw, heck. And I've been collecting all these great chili recipes.” I put my finger on the one in the middle of the table. "This one’s made with mountain oysters.”

  Hark rolled his eyes. The freckled Krautzenheimer granddaughter came over to refill our iced tea glasses. Through the window, I saw MaeBelle Battersby, checking parking meters on the other side of the square. Pauline finished her conversation with Ruby, tossed a quick, polished smile around the table, and strode off in search of another volunteer victim.

  “Speaking of chili,” Hark said, taking care of the last of his sausage, "we heard over at the paper this morning that Jerry Jeff actually died from anaphylactic shock."

  Ruby leaned forward. “Did any of those recipes have peanuts in them?”

  “Not a one,” I said.

  Hark frowned. “Then where the hell did the
peanuts come from?”

  “You got me,” I said. Apparently, Hark had gotten only part of the news. He didn't know which sample the peanuts were in. "Actually,” I said, "I’ve been wondering about Cody and Clendennen—the insurance company, I mean. What do you know about it?"

  "As I recall,” Hark replied, "those guys have been in business since they got out of college. JJ and Roxanne got married about that time, too, so the three of them have been in it, together, for about fifteen years.”

  "Jerry Jeff has always had a reputation as a womanizer?” I asked. "Pardon, Ruby."

  Ruby tossed her head with an exaggerated carelessness. "We were just friends, nothing more.”

  "Pretty much,” Hark said diplomatically. "Pokey too, of course—although I heard that he settled on Roxanne a while back, and she’s kept him busy, more or less.”

  “Do you know if any of Jerry Jeffs women friends might have had resentful husbands?" I was thinking, of course, about the blackmail letters. Maybe it was as simple, and sordid, as adultery.

  “I doubt it,” Hark said. "His taste tended toward single women—unlike Pokey’s, which goes the other way."

  "What about the company’s reputation? Any problems, employee difficulties, disaffected clients, outraged competitors—stuff like that?”

  “Not that I know of,” Hark said. "They were just two good old boys, making a pretty fair living off people’s worries.” His chuckle was dry. “I don’t know why, but insurance people rub me the wrong way. We buy insurance because we're scared we'll lose what we've got. Why are we scared? Because the insurance companies keep reminding, us how much we’ve got to lose. Then, when you’ve got a claim, they send somebody out to tell you why they can’t pay.” He was warming to his subject. “Look at what happened in California. Get a good earthquake, and the insurance companies close up shop. Or Florida. Comes a hurricane, the insurance companies are the first to head for high ground. Not to mention all the pension funds tied up in — ”

  “Right,” I said. "Are you sure you didn’t slip Jerry Jeff

  a few peanuts?”