"McQuaid said this was your first chili cookoff. So you are a chile enthusiast?”
He grunted. "Not hardly. I’m one of those people who can’t stand them. They bum my mouth like hell.” He grimaced. "I never can understand how chileheads eat those things raw. I’d be blistered in five seconds.”
I was surprised. "If you don’t like chiles, what prompted you to enter?”
He grunted. “Wasn’t a what, it was a who. An investor from New York, who thought it would be a blast. You know, dress like a drugstore cowboy, brag to his Big Apple buddies about how he cooked up this fantastic chili in an old iron pot over a mesquite fire. I felt like a fool, but I got Lulu to dig up a recipe and went to a lot of trouble to set things up. The client was drunk by noon and passed out by two. Which I guess must have been about the time JJ cashed it in.”
“Cody was a friend of yours, I take it.”
"I wouldn’t call him a friend, exactly.” He looked away. "Still, it’s hard to think of him being dead. His birthday and mine were the same week.” There was a long pause. "Kind of brings it home when you say it that way, you know? He worked out, ran four or five miles a day, looked healthy as a horse. I never even knew he had a heart problem.”
"He didn’t have a heart problem,” I said. "The medical examiner says he died of anaphylactic shock. Somebody put peanuts into one of the chili samples.”
"Peanuts!” Burkhart looked back at me, his face registering a blank, unfeigned astonishment. “Peanutj, you said?” To my nod, he muttered, “Well, I’ll be damned." He mulled.it over for a minute, his jaw working.
"You knew that he had an allergy?”
"I never actually saw him have an attack, but I guess he’d had a bad scare or two, sometime in his life. When we'd go out for lunch, he’d never eat anything fancy or weird, only steak or fish or chicken. No nuts, not even a sesame seed. And he always pestered the waiter about soups, sauces, salad dressings, stuff like that. I’m sure he never figured that some idiot would put nuts in chili. Seems almost funny, when you think about it.” He paused for a moment, reflecting, and while his guard was down, I asked my first real question.
"What can you tell me about the two letters?” "Letters?" Still immersed in the irony of Jeny JefPs death, he raised his eyes to mine. "What letters?” "Charlie Lipman says there were blackmail letters.” "Blackmail — ” He stared. "What’s Lipman got to do with—?” His eyes narrowed. "McQuaid used to be a cop. Is he doing some sort of—”
I interrupted him with the second question. "Can you tell me the source and the amount of the unreported income Cody was holding back?”
"Unreported income?” The half-shouted words pulled him out of his chair. “Blackmail letters? What the devil i> this? What are you tiying to—?” He scowled and fished in his shirt pocket for my card. He pulled it out, looked at it, and found himself no wiser. "Bayles?” he snapped. "Never heard of you. You a lawyer? You working for Lipman?” "Mr. Lipman and I are associated,” I said.
His voice roughened and he raised his hand, pointing his finger at me. His hand was shaking. "Well, you listen to me, Ms. Bayles, and you listen good. If Charlie Lipman and Mike McQuaid are tiying to tangle me up in Jerry Jeff Cody’s dirty doings, you can tell them I’m not their patsy. Do you understand?” His face twisted and he punched a hole in the air with his finger. “Cocfy and I split the sheets a year ago, and that was the end of it.”
"You lost a lawsuit to him.”
Still standing, he folded his arms, glowering down at me. "Yeah. We went to court, and 1 lost. But I wouldn’t waste two minutes writing blackmail letters to that lying bastard. I don’t know anything about blackmail or tax holdouts or anything else that sonofabitch might have been up to.”
"Did you know that your wife has been reported to have had a relationship with him?”
He stared at me. There was a bright pink streak beneath the stubble on each cheek. His nostrils were pinched and white. I waited. For a long moment, all I could hear was the raspy sound of his breathing.
“My wife — ” he said. He swallowed. His hands were clenched into fists. “My wife never had anything to do with him. It was all gossip. Dirty, rotten gossip.” His voice rose, taking on a corroded edge. “This town is full of people who don’t have anything better to do than — ”
' “So the answer is yes,” I said quietly. "You knew what people were saying.”
He closed his eyes, half swaying. His jaw worked convulsively. He sank back into the chair and put his hands over his face. His silence, his retreat behind his hands, told me what I needed to know.
I let him sit for a moment. Then I said, in a conversational tone, “Now that we’ve established that, Mr. Burkhart, perhaps you’d be willing to tell me what else you might know. Who would have had a reason to want Jerry Jeff Cody dead?”
He dropped his hands. "Want him . . . dead?”
"According to Jerry Jeff, somebody was trying to blackmail him. Now he’s dead. The inference should be obvious. Can you think of anybody who might have wanted to get something from him—something that might be worth killing for?”
His face was white. "You can't be . . . You're saying it’s . . . murder?” He stretched the word out, incredulous.
"I’m asking you who might have wanted something from Jerry Jeff, and who would have been very angry if it couldn’t be gotten.”
"Who might have wanted — ” His breathing was ragged, and I could see the dawning of a horrible new thought in his mind. "Murder,” he whispered. He rubbed his temples with his fingers.
"I suppose you’ve heard that Cody and his wife were getting a divorce,” I said.
"Yeah, I — ” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Yes. I knew.”
"And that he was planning to marry Felicia Travis, and take an around-the-world honeymoon cruise.”
His eyes were fixed on mine. He nodded without speaking.
"Didyour wife know?” I asked.
He understood the question behind my question, and it seemed to pull him together. "Yeah, she knew,” he said. "She’s the one who told me.”
"And where was your wife during the chili cookoff, Mr. Burkhart?”
My question was soft and casual, like idle conversation, but it slammed him like a fist. He rocked with the punch.
"I . . . don't know where she was,” he said. “Helping out somewhere, I guess. She’s a . . . she’s a volunteer.” He gripped the arms of his chair and sat forward. "You’ve got to believe me, Ms. Bayles,” he said, and I could hear the desperation in his voice. "Lulu never had anything to do with Cody. It was all gossip, just people talking, you hear? There wasn’t a shred of truth to it. Not a shred.” Despite his effort to keep it even, his voice cracked.
It was time to back off. “Thank you,” I said. "Now, about my earlier question. Can you think of anyone who might have had a motive?”
I watched him telling himself that he was off the hook, forcing himself to relax. "Who? Oh, hell, I don’t know. Lots, I guess. Jerry Jeff never played a clean hand in his life. He was the greediest guy I ever met. There were plenty of people who’d had run-ins with him.” He stopped, thought for a minute, and offered me an alternative to his wife. "But if you’re asking who wanted something from Cody, you don’t have to look any farther than you can throw a rock. His partner wanted his wife. His wife wanted his hide nailed to the barn, and his money to boot. If I had to go looking for suspects, I’d start with the two of them." He stopped, closed his eyes, and shook his head. "Peanuts in chili,” he said wearily, and opened his eyes again. "It sounds like a stupid joke that went wrong. You’re sure that wasn’t the way it was?”
A good question. A very good question, one that I wished I had an answer for. I sighed, picked up my briefcase, and stood. "To tell the truth, Mr. Burkhart, we’re not sure of anything.”
This was not exactly true. Judging from Craig Burkhart’s reaction, I was virtually certain that he had not known how Jerry Jeff Cody died before I gave him the details, and that
my information about the blackmail let-
ters Had been news to him, as well. I was sure that Craig Burkhart was not a murderer.
But I was also sure that he was afraid, deathly afraid, not for himself, but for his wife. He suspected—and with good reason, I thought—that she had killed Jerry Jeff Cody.
Chapter Sixteen
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, Where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?
Traditional nursery rhyme
A few minutes later, I was back in the car and on the phone to McQuaid, who had just returned from an early supper of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and corn. Not exactly a gourmet meal, but the menu reminded me that the dinner hour was creeping up on me.
“Sounds like you got more than you went for,” he said, when I’d finished the brief sketch of my conversation with Craig Burkhart.
“Yes," I said. “In my opinion, we can scratch Burkhart off the list. But he’s scared to death that his wife was somehow involved.” I hesitated. “Come to thiitk of it, Lulu was working in the log-in tent, too. I saw her. She would have had easy access to those samples. And if she'd been close to Jerry Jeff, she would have known about his allergy.”
“And her motive?”"That’s easy,” I said. "Jerry Jeff was getting a divorce—but not to be closer to her. He was about to go off with Felicia Travis.” A rejected mistress, a spumed and angry lover, a jealous woman with revenge burning in her heart. This had been a crime of passion, and now I could see—oh, so clearly—the flame of desire, of anger, of jealousy, that had lit it.
“A very strong assumption,” McQuaid said thoughtfully. "Still, it’s all speculation, built on the rumor of a relationship. You say Craig denied it?”
"Sure—but what else could he do? He could see that her relationship with Jerry Jeff implicated her, and that Cody’s plan to go off with Felicia gave her an excellent motive. She’s gone to a soccer match at Johnson Field. If I hurry—”
"Ruby is going to talk to the women who worked in that tent,” McQuaid broke in, "which will include Lulu. I think you’d better stick with the original plan and talk to Pokey.”
I thought about that for a moment. Roxanne was a very likely suspect, although I was puzzled about those letters. She would have threatened Cody to his face, rather than writing to him. Still, McQuaid was right. Roxanne and Pokey—either acting alone or as a team—were at the top of my suspect list.
"You’re right,” I said. “The next question is, where will I find Pokey at this hour of the day?”
"Try the Ranchero. That’s his happy hour spot. Failing that, Beans.”
I started the car. "Okay, chief, we’re off to the Ranchero—after a pit stop at home to change clothes. Oh, by the way,” I added, as I pulled around the corner onto San Jacinto, "I had a phone conversation with Rosie Montgomery, the lady with the lowdown on Opal Hogge. It was pretty low down, too.” I summarized Rosie’s long lament in several short sentences: "Opal Hogge got fired from her job in San Antonio. At the nursing home board’s apparent instigation and without consulting the families, she solicited sizable bequests from residents. The families objected, the board reconsidered its fundraising strategies, and Opal got her walking papers.”
McQuaid thought about that. “Very interesting,” he said finally, ‘‘but I’m not sure it takes us anywhere.”
“I agree. Certainly, Hogge wasn’t after money when she went after Miss Velma. MaeBelle says her aunt doesn’t have anything.” I stopped for the short red light at San Jacinto and Pecos. “Have you talked to Joyce yet? Did she examine Miss Velma?”
"Yeah. She came down to my room just before supper to tell me that she had found evidence of bruising on both upper arms. She asked another nurse to make an independent evaluation, and they both wrote up their findings.” He hesitated. “But it seems there’s a problem,” he added.
I slowed to let two small boys and their dog cross the street. One of the boys—a leggy, awkward kid of twelve or so, dark-haired, wearing cutoffs, dirty T-shirt, and sloppy sneakers—reminded me of Brian, and I suddenly missed him. Mothering hadn’t been my career of choice (in fact, it was pretty far down on my priority list), and mothering somebody else’s child presents some fairly strenuous challenges. But Brian and I had managed to build a comfortable relationship before Leatha enticed him away with promises of horseback riding and daily swims in the river. I smothered a faint spark of jealousy and promised myself I’d call the boy tonight or first thing in the morning.
"What kind of problem?” I asked, still watching the kids as they slipped through a fence and cut across a yard.
McQuaid replied dtyly. "The dragon herself—Mrs. Hogge—came in while the nurse was doing her evaluation of Miss Velma. Hogge questioned the nurse, who had no idea that her boss might be the demon in disguise. Unfortunately,” he added, "the nurse told her that there was some suspicion of abuse, and that the supervisor was writing a report.”
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed in dismay.
“Oh, yes. But it’s even more complicated than that, because after Hogge left the room, Miss Velma, in a sudden flash of lucidity, said to the nurse, ‘She’s the one.’ ”
"Terrific!" I said. “That’s the corroboration we were hoping for. And thank God she didn’t speak up in front of Hogge.”
“Yes, but we’re not home free. You see, when MaeBelle showed up to fetch her aunt, Hogge informed her that an Alzheimer’s resident may not be discharged from the Manor until her doctor has done an examination and approved a transfer to an appropriate facility. Miss Velma’s doctor is out of town for several days. Which means that Miss Velma is still here, and that Hogge has been alerted to the suspicion of abuse. She probably sees Miss Velma as an even greater threat than before.”
"Hogge can actually refuse to discharge somebody?” I asked, aghast.
"The rule is designed to protect the Manor from a lawsuit,” McQuaid said. "They can’t very well have senior citizens of diminished capacity sauntering in and out on their own recognizance. Apparently, Hogge could let Miss Velma go, but she also has the right to insist on the doctor’s examination. It’s all perfectly legal, since it’s spelled out in the admission contract.”
"So Miss Velma has to stay where Hogge can get to her,” I said angrily. "Isn’t there something we can do to make sure she’s safe?”
“Actually, there is.” There was a chuckle in McQuaid’s voice. “They’re doing it at this veiy moment. Joyce and Edna, that is.”
"Edna Lund? What are they doing?”
"Transferring her to my room,” McQuaid said. "Jug is moving in with Air. Lewis for. the duration, and Aliss Velma is taking his bed. Hogge won’t be informed of the swap unless she asks, and if she does, she’ll be told that the family urgently requested it. I'll ask Charlie Lipman to write a lawyer-type letter that will get Joyce off the hook.” I could hear voices in the background. "Co-ed roommates might be a little irregular, but Aliss Velma seems to consider this an adventure. She thinks I’m a Texas Ranger, and I’ve been assigned to protect her.”
I was relieved. “It sounds like you’ve got the situation under control.”
"I hope so,” AlcQuaid said. "I wouldn’t be much good in hand-to-hand combat, but I doubt if Hogge is going to try anything with me here.”
"I’ll send warm thoughts,” I said.
"Send cookies,” AlcQuaid replied. "The meat loaf was adequate taste-wise, but there wasn't enough of it.”
Happy hour isn’t the big event in Pecan Springs that it is in the cities. There are no traffic jams to wait out and even the singles have things to do at home—water the grass, walk the dog, slap a steak on the grill. But there are a couple of places where people gather after work to discuss the weather, cuss the Cowboys, and grumble about the legislature. Beans is one, of course. The Ranchero, on the Staples Road, is another.
I was feeling cooler and much less rumpled in khaki pants, a
sleeveless plaid shirt, and sandMrs. I’d wolfed down a peanut butter-and-banana sandwich and a glass of milk, too, which blunted my hunger. The answering machine had offered me several messages, one from Brian, one from Leatha, and two from Ruby. I tried to call Ruby at her house and her shop without success, but I postponed the other calls. I wanted to catch Pokey, if I could.
The sun was still high when I walked into the Ran- chero, and after the early-evening brightness outside, it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the smoky gloom, illuminated by dim hanging lights over the bar and the glare of a neon Coors sign.
The Ranchero is a large, low-ceilinged cave of a place, with a dance floor and room for a few local musicians to get together for an evening of pickin’ and grinnin'. Nights and weekends, the place is jammed and the noise level is so high that it’s a good idea to plug your ears with cotton and forget about conversation. But at this time of day, the patrons gather along the bar and you can actually hear people talk, even if it’s almost too dark to see their faces. I sauntered to the end of the long bar, then back again, surveying the clientele, mostly pink- and white-collar folks in their twenties and early thirties. The ratio was three guys to one gal—normal for a place like this. None of the guys was Pokey.
The bartender broke away from a conversation with two young women in short skirts and high heels and swiped the bar in front of my stool with a rag. "Hi,” he said laconically, past the wad of chewing gum in his mouth. He was at least a dozen years younger than me and not particularly interested in older women. "Whatcha drinkin’, ma’am?”
I tried to pretend that I hadn’t heard the ‘ma’am,’ which always makes me feel that I’ve slid into a post-menopausal era without realizing it. “Actually," I said, “I’m looking for somebody. Pokey Clendennen.” I opened my purse and pulled a five-dollar bill out of my wallet. “Know him?”
“Sure,” the bartender said. He dropped the five into the tip glass and scratched his head with a vague air. "Seems t’ me I saw him tonight. But he was goin’. . . somewhere. With ... a coupla people.” He paused significantly.
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