The 27-Ingredient Chili Con Carne Murders: A Eugenia Potter Mystery

by Nancy Pickard

  Ken took a step into the cave.

  “Are you really engaged to her, Ken?”

  He laughed. “Of course. A little respectability don’t hurt none. And what’s more respectable than marrying the granddaughter of the king of the valley?” The last was said in tones of great, triumphant bitterness. “Said he knew what I was up to, said he wanted me to meet him, so we could look out over this great valley of his, so he could show me what a great wrong I was doing to good people, so he could set me straight in my ways. And then, we were going to come down off the top of El Bizcocho and he was going to hold a meeting of the ranchers and I was going to tell them I wanted to make amends and they were going to decide what to do about me. I could work real hard, Ricardo said, work real hard and over a period of years I could pay it back to everybody. Earn back my reputation and my self-respect. Be a man.” Ken’s laughter burst out and bounced off the walls of the cave until Mrs. Potter thought she could no longer bear the sound of it. “King of the valley. Pompous fool is what he was.”

  Ken stepped closer to her and even in the darkness, she sensed that he had brought the gun up a few inches in the air. He’d probably aim for her first, she thought, because Linda posed no threat to him, and there was no telling what she herself might do if the gun went off and he shot Linda first.

  Mrs. Potter slowly reached behind her with her left hand.

  Her fingers landed first on the Thermos, then slid over to what felt like the package of crackers and bananas. Finally, they landed on something smooth and long and rounded. Mrs. Potter’s hand closed around that, and inched it silently toward her.

  Ken walked closer, obviously intending to place the gun right against her head before he shot her.

  Mrs. Potter waited, trembling.

  She waited as he bent over in the cave and crouched toward her.

  She waited as he stooped near and the gun came close to her head.

  She waited until the gun was almost touching her hair.

  And then she whipped out the plastic spray bottle she held in her hand and squirted its contents into his face. Ken screamed in pain and dropped the gun, whirling in the cave with his hands covering his face, knocking his head into the walls and the rocks, screaming in agony as the liquid burned his eyes. He tried to plunge out of the cave, but banged his forehead against the edge of it and knocked himself out cold.

  Mrs. Potter, with shaking hands, put the spray bottle down.

  Before she left home, she had poured into it the juice from a bottle of jalapeno peppers.

  When she stepped outside the cave to take a few deep breaths before trying to drag him out of it—without the slightest idea of what she would do with him next—she saw many headlights converging below, at the foot of the mountain. Mrs. Potter ran back into the cave for her flashlight, and used it to signal whoever was down there.

  In a fairly short time, but what felt like an eternity to her, it seemed that half the residents of Wind Valley were there at the mouth of the cave with her, and Jed was leading them all. While the others took Ken away, and tenderly began the task of carrying Linda back down the mountainside, Jed took her into his embrace and held her as if he would not let her go for another forty years.

  “I was afraid you were mad at me,” he said, half laughing, while she tried, unsuccessfully, to keep herself from crying, “when you wouldn’t come out to dinner. I mean, supper. I was afraid I’d offended you, and that you didn’t want to see me again. And the only reason I canceled dinner … damn, supper … was because I’d decided I didn’t want anything to do with people like the McHenrys who were so secretive and who were so ill thought of by their own neighbors, and I had already hinted as much to them over the phone today. Then, when we had our flat tire, I got this idea that those two men of theirs—the ones we’d seen at Sally’s Café—had done it. And I didn’t want to pull you into any sort of bad situation. Eventually, I just phoned them and scotched the whole deal, and then I was free to see you. But you didn’t want to see me! So I drove to your ranch, and when I saw you weren’t there, I let myself in with your key so that I could leave you a poem on your yellow pad. And that’s where I saw the notes you had written, explaining the situation, and I saw the photographs, and I finally I saw the map you had drawn. So all I had to do was go for help … which was already right outside your door.”

  “It was?” she murmured happily into the snuggly warmth of his nice wool vest. “Why’s that?”

  “Because people had come from miles around.” Jed was laughing again. “To take you to the hospital. For your scorpion bite. Is that all better now?”

  She looked up at him, and he wiped tears from her cheeks.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling up at him. “It’s a miracle.”

  “Yes,” Jed said, wrapping his arms even tighter around her. “It is.”

  And Mrs. Potter didn’t even care what the neighbors thought.

  CHAPTER 32

  When Mrs. Potter drove up the winding drive through the detached guest cottages of the C Lazy U, past the tennis courts, the swimming pavilion, and up to the entrance of the large main lodge, she thought again what an appealing place it was. All the buildings were of simple, Spanish-style adobe construction, all of varying warm shades of tan and buff, all built in the simple pueblo architecture known in Arizona as “New Mexico style.” The buildings were flat-roofed, and dark, heavy, peeled timbers (which appeared to support the roof construction) protruded from the exterior adobe walls at ceiling height.

  She parked in the guest lot and stepped out into the twilight. A delicious fragrance hung in the air, of juniper and mesquite and desert plants and nearby horse corrals at the end of the day. The big double doors of the main lodge were opened and there were warm lights, the glow of a huge fireplace, the laughter and hum of people indoors at cocktail time.

  She had agreed to meet Jed at the C Lazy U for Che’s Wednesday night tostada fiesta, and she was early, several minutes earlier than the time upon which they’d agreed. Mrs. Potter had planned it that way to give herself enough time to visit the ladies’ room to check her dress, her makeup, her hair before she saw him again.

  The first thing she saw when she stepped inside the lodge was Che’s enormous buffet table, set up in the grand two-story lobby, and loaded to the edges with delicacies, both familiar and exotic. One of Che’s standard ploys for entertaining her guests was to give them a Mexican meal that appeared sufficiently foreign, yet was reassuringly and immediately familiar in its ingredients. Even those visitors who were sure that any hint of Mexican food was going to disturb their digestions could thus be lulled into confidence and enjoyment. Che’s favorite dish for this purpose was what the valley had come to call her “Make-Your-Own-Tostadas.”

  Each ingredient was presented in its pristine, virgin state, in a panoply of foods covering the sideboard. On the electric heating trays were the warmed crisp round corn tostadas, which Che bought commercially made. To spread lightly upon each of these was provided a cazuela of hot refritos—the mashed pink Mexican beans, so inaccurately named because as far as Mrs. Potter could determine, they had never been fritoed even once, let alone refritoed. These, too, Che purchased commercially canned, although occasionally she had her cooks make them from scratch (Mrs. Potter thought them better that way). To strew upon the thin layer of hot mashed beans, there was hot cooked shredded chicken, or freshly cooked, still-a-bit-pink lean ground beef, or any number of other chipped or shredded leftovers from the kitchen.

  None of these would be seasoned beyond a small touch of salt, and Che always pointed out to each of her guests that he or she alone was in charge of what dangerous additive would be included: diced fresh tomatoes; sliced ripe olives; chopped green onions; grated Monterey Jack or white country Mexican cheeses; cooked sliced zucchini, hot or cold; sliced crisp radishes; sweet dark raisins, earlier plumped in hot water; thinly shredded iceberg lettuce. Che might also bring out from the larder such items as cooked carrot rounds, warm or cold, or slic
ed papayas, garnished with their own black spicy seeds. There might be chopped cucumbers or cottage cheese with a sprinkling of chives, or drained, canned pineapple chunks. She had been known to add dishes of crumbled crisp bacon, or diced cold baked ham. There could be whole salted peanuts or chopped blanched almonds. There was sure to be any other leftover vegetable on hand—cauliflower, broccoli, beets, or turnips, sliced or chopped, or cooked fresh corn cut from the cob. Sweet green peppers, called “bell peppers” in Arizona, might appear crisp and raw or might be chopped and briefly sautéed in hot oil, then served cool. Sometimes there were all of those, sometimes only some; and tonight, Che appeared to have outdone herself with most of those and even a few others.

  Mrs. Potter saw that on this night her hostess was standing, as usual, right by the buffet, coaxing her out-of-state-guests to be … daring! Che was attired, as usual, in daring and inventive ways too—adorned in lots of turquoise and bright Mexican colors and fabrics to bring just the right appearance to her fiesta. “Do try things in combination,” Che was assuring her more timid eaters in her bold, vigorous voice. “That’s the only way to make it authentic! You’re building a pyramid, do you see?”

  Copper trays held the final toppings—a big emerald bowl filled with finely sliced crisp lettuce with silver tongs alongside, to strew over the entire structure; a second large bowl filled with pale, cool crescents of ripe avocado; and for a graceful touch … to top each layered serving, each as high as the appetite and inventiveness of the concocter would take it … there was sour cream for a snowy flourish. The final cascade (or dribble, if the guest preferred) was pale green tomatillo salsa with only a touch of Mexican fire. It was ground cherry, really, the same paper-skinned pale-green fruit, rather like a paper lantern flower, that her Grandma Andrews used to grow around the entrance to the storm cellar in Iowa, and from which she made an innocuous fig-like jam that nobody much liked. Whatever they did to ground cherries in Mexico by blending them, obviously, with mild green chiles, the thick green tomatillo salsa was the crowning glory of the make-your-own-tostada, and very pretty over the sour cream and avocado slices.

  Depending on her guests, Che served milk for the eight-year-olds, iced tea, fruit juice and decaffeinated soft drinks for the nondrinkers, and for everyone else, Mexican beer—Carta Bianca or Dos Equis. Great-aunts from Appleton might sip it dubiously, but unless she saw them actively shuddering she did not fetch the pitcher of ice water at the end of the buffet table. A little beer was the proper digestivo. Che would advise them, and often the conversation brightened as they sipped, telling each other they’d never thought they could tolerate Mexican food, but wasn’t this delicious, and it just went to show.

  Mrs. Potter walked over to say a quick hello.

  “Che,” she said quietly in her hostess’s ear, as she watched all the young employees scurrying about to do her bidding. Mrs. Potter had decided that she was, by gosh, going to find out once and for all what everybody in the valley wanted to know, even if meant asking a question so rude her own grandmother would have gasped to hear it. “How do you do it? Maintain this place so beautifully, travel, keep up your other place in Europe, employ all these people …?”

  Che turned astonished turquoise-blue eyes on her.

  “You don’t think I pay them, do you?” she whispered back. “Genia, I thought everybody knew … these are rich kids from back East whose parents are paying me to keep their offspring for a season. All except my head chef, that is. Why, they call it an ‘adventure,’ my darling. Or even an ‘apprenticeship,’ some of them. Poor dears. I call it free help.”

  The enterprising hostess turned away to encourage a quiet little mouse of a guest to “try the anchovies, they’ll add such a delightful piquancy!”

  Mrs. Potter saw Charlie Watt bearing down on her and, fond as she was of him, she tried to escape because getting to the ladies’ room was a far more urgent matter for her at the moment. But he had longer legs and a longer stride.

  “Genia, I’ll be driving to Ricardo’s funeral tomorrow and taking Che with me. You need a ride?”

  “Thank you, Charlie, that would be a great help.”

  Bandy was to be buried a day later, right there in the valley, and the two poor young Mexican men were being returned to their country, where it was hoped their homes and families could be located. Ken Ryerson had doctored their chili, it seemed, while it sat unattended in Bandy’s truck, after the old man had confided to Ken that his two “nephews” had heard shots and screaming early that fatal morning near El Bizcocho.

  “I’m sorry I said that about those two young fellers,” Charlie said. “But it’s just as well you’re out of the wetback business, if I’m going to get that governor’s appointment.”

  “If you do, you’re going to have to stop saying wetback, Charlie.”

  He grinned. “You’d like that.”

  She patted his arm, and made her escape.

  At least she didn’t have to worry about running into the McHenrys, who never showed up at these fetes. Jed had told her again the night before how uneasy he felt about doing business with people who were so ill-regarded by their neighbors, and how he even feared they might be wanting to use White Research for right-wing political purposes—like international arms and munitions operations—that he didn’t want any part of. He’d been taking early-morning rides, he’d told Mrs. Potter, thinking things through—and bird watching! He’d seen Mexican white-wing doves, he reported to her, and Gambel quail, and a wonderful, scalloping flight of blue-breasted western bluebirds, plus a million (he claimed) rosy-headed house finches.

  Mrs. Potter finally reached the ladies’ room, but didn’t even find herself alone there.

  Primping at the mirror was Kathy Amory, looking all duded up, as Che might have said, in cowgirl fringe and denim. Well, Mrs. Potter thought with a resigned sigh at her own failings, among which she counted a small streak of busybody, I may as well say it to her and get it over with. “Kathy, dear?”

  The young woman turned around with a bright smile.

  “Kathy, Lorraine Steinbach doesn’t understand that you’re only interested in her husband because you and Walt hope that Gallway will buy your ranch. She thinks you’re in love with him.”

  It was almost comical to watch the young woman’s bright smile turn a little sickish, and to see her tanned complexion grow pale. “Oh, my God,” exclaimed Kathy. “Me? With that yucky old … oh, my God! Mrs. Potter, we don’t even care if he buys our ranch, we’d be happy if Gallway would just lease it from us. His place adjoins ours, after all, and he’s got plenty of money.” Kathy still looked appalled at the very idea, which Mrs. Potter had to admit she also found appalling. “What should I do, Mrs. Potter? Should I tell her?”

  “No,” Mrs. Potter said quickly, imagining the tactless ways that Kathy might find to do that, “probably not.”

  Kathy screwed up her face as if struggling with a difficult question. “You think I flirt with him too much? You think anybody notices?”

  Mrs. Potter restrained her own smile. “Lorraine notices.”

  “I’d better quit then.” Kathy suddenly brightened to her own sweet, if rather vapid self again. “Anyway, he’s about to say yes. He’s out there right now telling Walt how we don’t know a thing about running a ranch. ‘You just can’t handle her,’ he keeps saying. ‘She’s a handful and you aren’t up to looking after her.’ Why are cars and ranches always ‘hers,’ Mrs. Potter?”

  Mrs. Potter allowed as how she didn’t know, but that perhaps a little less flirting with Gallway Steinbach was the right thing to do.

  And finally, she was alone.

  With the mirror, however.

  For this evening, she had put on her favorite long dress, an off-white wool, as plain as a T-shirt and as comfortable, long-sleeved and high-necked. No more makeup than her usual bare minimum. The less the better as she grew older, she thought—a quick bit of gray color above the lashes, a touch of pink lip gloss. She had added gold hoops at he
r ears, and a few rounds of pearls and bright Mexican beads at her neck in the hope of deflecting attention from what she saw was a tired face—moreover, a face clearly forty years older than it used to be. “At least I smell good,” she told herself. “Well, I am the age I am and except for once in a while in a good light, I look it. But I can be scrub-brush clean, I can afford good perfume, and—no matter what happens—I can try to be pleasant.”

  All of this was not enough reassurance.

  She still felt that she looked a million years old and in about one second she was going to see Jed again and he was going—finally—to get a really good look at her and one of life’s small, secret dreams was going to die forever.

  Mrs. Potter looked at herself in the mirror one more time.

  Then she gathered her courage and walked out to meet Jed.

  He was waiting for her at the front door, staring outside, as if he thought she would be driving up at any moment.

  Mrs. Potter walked to his side and put a hand on his arm.

  “Jed? I’m here.”

  He turned, and when he looked at her she saw in the very first moment that she had nothing to fear. “You look lovely,” he told her. And then he took her right hand and gently placed it on his own chest, above his heart. “You’ve always been here, Andy.”

  Jed bent down to greet her with a kiss, which she returned, and then she said, “Let’s go in to dinner, Jed.”

  “I think you mean supper,” he said.

  “Let’s eat,” she said.

  AFTERWORD

  Several years ago, I picked up a mystery called The Cooking School Murders by an author named Virginia Rich. I loved it. I wrote to her to say so and to mention some coincidental similarities in our lives and our books. She wrote me back a lovely note in which she mentioned that she was working on a novel called The 27-Ingredient Chili con Carne Murders. I waited what I hoped was a tactful period of time and then I wrote to her again, only to receive a reply from a nurse telling me that Mrs. Rich was too ill to correspond. Soon after that, I learned that Virginia Rich had died. I was shocked and saddened, as were the thousands of mystery readers who had loved that first book as well as the next two Eugenia Potter mysteries, The Baked Bean Supper Murders and The Nantucket Diet Murders.