by Logan, Kylie
“That’s nice.” What else could I say that wasn’t, “Give me a break, Puff, you lying sack of dried beans,” or something very like that?
“He’ll probably stop by for a drink later,” Puff informed me as we watched Carter put his well-coifed head together with a frazzled-looking woman with long blonde hair who was probably his producer or director or whoever it was who was in charge of the filming. “Or at least to say hello. Sure, yeah, I bet he’s going to stop by later to say hello.”
“Give him my best.” I wondered if sarcasm could be detected from inside the chili, then decided it really didn’t matter. Even if he could hear it, Puff wouldn’t get it. And he wouldn’t take offense if he did. He was that laid-back.
Carter Donnelly, not so much.
Whatever the blonde had told him, he obviously wasn’t happy about it. Chest out and chin up, he stared at the woman and she stared back—until she broke off eye contact.
“I don’t care what your production schedule says, Amanda.” Carter softened the statement with a smile as sweet as a pimento and the stiffness melted out of Amanda’s shoulders. “I’ve got dinner plans early this evening, and I’m not changing them. Not for you. Not for anybody.”
“But, Carter . . .” Amanda glanced at that big ol’ RV parked next to the Palace. “It’s only going to take a minute for you to change. Remember? That’s why we went through the extra expense of leasing the RV. We talked about all this in the production meeting. We decided you look great in red. If you’d just dash into the RV and change into that red shirt—”
“What’s wrong with this shirt?” He looked down at the crisp white shirt that fit as if it had been made for him. No doubt, it had been, and he made the most of the fact by showing just enough skin to leave us all (well, me, anyway, and can anyone blame me?) guessing at the perfection of the body underneath. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and his sleeves were rolled over his elbows. “We’re in New Mexico. People are going to expect to see me in light colors.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the shirt. You look wonderful. You always look wonderful.” Whatever she was going to say next, Amanda did her best to cushion it with a smile that wasn’t nearly as brilliant as Carter’s. “But I was just thinking—”
“That is your problem.” Carter had his own way of taking their little tiff down a notch, and he did it with a wink and a kiss on the cheek that sent color shooting through Amanda’s face. “Stop thinking, honey, and let’s get to work.”
With that, Carter signaled to the cameraman to start rolling and ambled down the walkway between the vendor booths. Near the entrance to the fairgrounds and the ticket gates, he turned and, with the cameraman walking backward in front of him, started into his script.
“What could be more American than a chili cook-off?”
Of course there was more to Carter’s intro than that, but I didn’t waste any time listening. While he was still thirty yards away, I scampered as fast as stiletto-shod feet could into the Palace for the pot of chili I’d stashed there earlier.
Imagine my surprise when I realized I wasn’t the only one with a brilliant plan.
Behind the counter, Sylvia was wearing a red apron over her neat khakis and polo shirt. One eye on Carter, she stirred a pot of—
“Chili?” I leaned over her shoulder and took a look. It wasn’t the pot of Jack’s chili I’d left behind, that was for sure. The chili I’d taken out of the freezer didn’t have beans in it, and Sylvia’s did. Black beans, to be specific, and . . .
I took a whiff.
“Garlic, green pepper, onions. Just a little cumin.” Hardly original, especially for a woman who claimed she knew so much more than I did about food, but it would do in a pinch.
I backed away, and remember what I said earlier about me and suspicion, about how we were on a first-name basis? Well, every untrusting, cynical, leery thought I’d ever had about Sylvia (and believe me when I say there were plenty of them) blossomed like one of those mushrooms clouds that rise above an atomic blast. I propped my fists on the chili somewhere near my hips. “Sylvia, you sneaky, no-good, double-crossing publicity seeker. You made chili so you could give Carter a sample and get him to plug the Palace.”
“You make it sound like some kind of crime.” She didn’t spare me a glance. But then, she was busy looking outside to where Carter had apparently flubbed his lines and was starting in on his intro again. “Of course I made chili. Why wouldn’t I?” Humming a little tune, she ladled a scoop of her chili into a pretty terra-cotta bowl with a blue glaze on the inside. “If I can get Carter Donnelly to taste my chili—”
“Hold on there!” I reached for the pot of chili I’d heated back in the RV and like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, whipped off the cover. Instantly, the air around us was fragranced with peppery goodness. “Your chili isn’t going to do much to help the cause. Carter needs to taste Jack’s chili.”
As perfectly composed as a Martha Stewart clone, Sylvia ignored the obvious wisdom of this statement. She set her bowl of chili on a tray along with a blue linen napkin and a spoon. “Just think of the wonderful things Carter will say when he tries my chili.”
“You mean, my chili.” Don’t think I’d been standing around doing nothing while she was being Mrs. Stepford. Since there wasn’t another cute-as-can-be ceramic bowl nearby and I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to what I was going to serve Jack’s chili in, I grabbed one of the plastic bowls we use so customers can sample the dips and chilis we make with our spices, along with a plastic spoon and a paper napkin. Sylvia might have the whole elegance thing down pat, but I was faster than she was. By the time Carter was back in front of the Palace, I was already outside waiting for him.
Call me crazy, but I thought it might be impossible for him to ignore a dancing giant chili who also just happened to be holding out a bowl of chili to him.
Somehow, he managed.
“I’m going to spend an entire weekend here at the Showdown,” Carter said into the camera, and I found myself wondering how he looked so cool when I was sweating inside the costume like a son of a gun. “We’ll be learning the secrets of chili champions, judging one division of the competition, and while we’re at it, we’ll be sampling chili, too.”
Talk about a perfect cue!
And, damn it, Sylvia knew it as well as I did.
Just as she leaned over the counter of the Palace, her tray out like an offering to the red-haired god of cooking, I dance-stepped closer to Carter, my stilettos rap, rap, rapping on the blacktop and my bowl of chili in outstretched hands.
“Cut!” Amanda, poor thing, apparently did not adjust well to surprises. She glanced back and forth between me and Sylvia. “Who are you people? Is this in the script?” She rifled through the couple pieces of paper in her hands and when she didn’t find what she was looking for, she sent a death-ray look over at the production assistants shuffling nervously from foot to foot behind her. “Is this in the script?” she asked them.
Tap. Brush. Chug.
I dance-stepped my way closer to the Palace.
“Chili is all about the unexpected,” I said loud enough to be heard from inside the costume. “Just ask the Chili Chick!”
“And what better way to introduce a Showdown than with a bowl of delicious chili!” Sylvia’s smile was so wide, it looked like she was selling toothpaste, not spices.
Not to be outdone by her pearly whites, I did another brush/tap combination and added a hop for good measure. Honestly, I took dance lessons so long ago, I couldn’t remember if hops are officially part of the routine or not. But hey, hops are plenty dramatic.
“Texas Jack Pierce’s chili.” I danced around Carter, my words in rhythm with the staccato tempo of my taps. “It’s the best in the country, and if you could just try some while you’re doing your intro—”
“Did we hire this chili?” When he looked my way, Carter’s freckled nose was wrinkled. “I don’t recall approving budget for a chili.”
&nbs
p; “Not to worry.” I gave him a friendly elbow in the ribs. “The Chili Chick isn’t looking to be paid. Her mission is to let everyone know that chili is the best food in the world, and that any chili can be made even better . . .” A little tapping here, just for emphasis. “. . . with the addition of spices from . . .” Now, a Vanna-like gesture toward the sign with my free hand. “. . . Texas Jack Pierce’s Hot-Cha Chili Seasoning Palace!”
“Really?” Carter swiveled from the Chili Chick to Amanda. “Really? I host the most popular food-related TV show on the planet. I own the hottest restaurant in LA. I’ve got a book on the New York Times list. The flippin’ New York Times list, for crying out loud! And I have to put up with this horse-hockey while I’m trying to work?”
“You don’t. You won’t.” Amanda grabbed my arm and hauled me to the side of the Palace. “Out of my shots and keep your mouth shut,” she snarled. “And that goes for you, too,” she added for Sylvia’s benefit. “Or I’ll have Security—” She glanced over to where Nick was just waiting for the signal to step forward. That, and shaking his head as if he was seeing it all, he just couldn’t believe it. “I’ll have you both tossed out of here on your publicity-seeking little behinds!”
Sylvia blushed a pretty shade of pink.
I made a face at Amanda.
Even if I wasn’t wearing the Chick costume, she wouldn’t have seen it, because she turned right around and marched back to soothe Carter.
As soon as things were settled, he started back into his patter. “I’m here at the famous Chili Showdown in Taos, New Mexico, to get a taste . . .” The way he emphasized the word told me someone thought it was clever. “. . . of the chili cook-off circuit. Join me. We’ll take a look around and . . .”
“Yeah. Whatever.” My gaze glued to the action, I ignored the rest of what Carter had to say and leaned back against the Palace with my arms crossed over my chili, grumbling quietly enough so no one but Sylvia could hear me. “We’re only trying to help. You’d think they’d cut us a break.”
She didn’t respond.
Then again, what did I expect? Sylvia had always kowtowed to authority, and in this instance that meant Amanda. And Carter. With the double whammy of TV stardom and producer wrath trained on her, poor Sylvia probably wouldn’t be able to speak for hours, she’d be so busy sniffling and regretting that she’d ever cooked up that batch of oh-so-ordinary chili.
“I said, you’d think they’d cut us a break,” I repeated.
And when Sylvia still didn’t respond, I looked over the counter.
She was nowhere to be seen.
Nowhere inside the Palace, anyway.
Who would have thought Sylvia had the cojones!
I looked toward the action only to realize that while I was busy being annoyed, she’d come out of the Palace with her bowl of chili and before I could move, she was already closing in on Carter with it, waiting for the moment when filming stopped and she could make her move.
“Oh no.” She couldn’t hear me, not from where I was, but I didn’t care. She couldn’t see the fire in my eyes, either, but that didn’t stop me. I scrambled over to where she was standing and leaned in nice and close. “You’re not going to one-up me, Sylvia,” I crooned in her ear. “Carter’s not going to try your chili. Not until after he tries Jack’s.”
And with that I tap, tap, tapped my way over to Carter.
He was midway into explaining how a chili cook-off works, how each contestant prepares two gallons of his or her recipe and how each judge gets one scoop of each entry. That’s when I slid the steaming bowl of chili under his nose.
“The best in New Mexico,” I said. “Maybe the best in the whole US of A. Do your viewers and your taste buds a favor and—”
“I can’t believe this!” Carter groaned and threw his hands in the air. “Amanda, what the hell—”
He didn’t finish. But then, he was too busy taking a long whiff of the chili I held out to him.
His eyes lit. “Cognac?”
He couldn’t see me smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Another sniff. “And Malibar leaves?”
Oh, I was liking this guy better by the moment. Not only had he not called Nick over to get me tossed out on my cute little chili, he actually knew his spices. “Amanda!” He waved her over and this time there wasn’t even the teensiest bit of aggravation in his voice. “Let’s keep rolling the cameras while I take a taste of this chili.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Sylvia appeared at my side, the tray—and the bowl of chili on it—stretched out to Carter. “You’d like this one better.”
I stepped in front of her. “This chili is unique. You said so yourself. Sylvia wouldn’t know a Malabar leaf if it came up and bit her.”
She sidestepped from behind me and edged ahead of me. “Unique doesn’t always translate into good. In fact, Carter, you know that with such disparate ingredients, that chili could be a monumental failure.”
Those were fightin’ words.
I turned to face her. “Oh yeah, like Jack’s chili could ever be bad!”
She kept her smile pasted in place. “Like anything you’re ever involved in could actually be a success.”
I stepped toward her.
Too bad I didn’t look where I was going. The tall, thin heel of my left shoe met Carter’s instep and the results were predictable. He yelped and jumped back. I called out “Sorry!” and stepped forward. Sylvia saw her opportunity and made a move to get between us. While she was at it, she knocked into me and my bowl of chili sloshed, slid, and flew out of my hands.
I almost got a hold on it before it hit the ground, but let’s face it, bulky costumes do not make for graceful movement. At the same time my stilettos nearly slipped out from under me, I got one outstretched hand under the bowl, tried to close my fingers around it—and batted it right at Carter.
By the time I steadied myself on my feet, it was too late to do anything but watch the remarkable way the plastic bowl adhered to his shirt and the globs of Texas Jack’s secret-recipe chili slid down his chest and left red, greasy streaks in their path.
“I’m so sorry!” I was, and I tried to prove it by blotting the paper napkin I’d brought along against the chili that dotted his torso. “I didn’t mean to . . . well, what I mean is that I did mean to . . . except not like this.”
Carter didn’t speak. But then, his teeth were clenched, so I guess it would have been kind of hard.
“I’m so sorry!” Yes, I said it before, but in situations like this, it never hurts to repeat that sort of thing. “I lost my grip and I—” There was a bit of ground chuck near Carter’s collarbone, and with two fingers I carefully picked it off. “Not to worry! You’ve got another shirt,” I told him, remembering his earlier conversation with Amanda. “It’s in the RV. I know, I know . . .” I held up one hand though I wasn’t sure if it was to stop him from going to get the shirt himself or just to keep him from punching me in the nose. When I moved toward his motorhome/dressing trailer, I didn’t bother with any dance steps. “I’ll get your red shirt.”
Before anyone else could move, I raced over there and grabbed the door handle of Carter’s RV.
I yanked.
And nothing happened.
It was a bad time to look inept, what with the entire production crew, Carter Donnelly, Nick, Sylvia, and most of my fellow Showdown vendors watching in stunned silence. Rather than admit I was a weakling, I braced a hip against the RV and tried again.
This time, the door popped open, and for one second, I felt nothing but relief.
That is, until something big and heavy fell out of the doorway.
It wasn’t until I was lying under it on the blacktop that I realized that big, heavy thing was Roberto’s body.
CHAPTER 4
My feet were still moving, but this time I sure wasn’t dancing.
Nick behind me and a crime scene technician named Phil from the Taos police force in front of me, I stood inside th
e RV that I shared with Sylvia and hop-skipped a crazy pattern against the beige tile floor, each of my steps as discombobulated as I was feeling.
“Can’t you hurry it up, please!” I added a little oomph to the request by flapping my arms at my sides. “I’ve got to get out of this stupid costume. There was . . .” I looked out through the mesh at the front of the costume and down at the smear that started at chest level and went all the way down to where the chili ended just below my hips. It was a deeper red than the chili, and even now, a full hour after I’d gotten clobbered by Roberto’s lifeless body, the stain was still wet and sticky.
My stomach flipped. My brain froze. The composure I’d been trying (and failing) to maintain completely deserted me and I curled my hands into fists. “There was a dead guy on top of me!” I wailed.
“Take it easy. It’s over now.” Nick had insisted on coming to the RV while the technician collected evidence, and now he stepped up beside me and put a hand on my arm. “You’re not in any danger.”
“Except maybe the danger of throwing up.”
At this, Phil, who’d been using long tweezers to carefully collect anything that looked like evidence from the outside of my costume, made a face and jumped back. “You’re not actually going to—”
“She’s not.” The touch of Nick’s hand was as reassuring as his words. Or at least it would have been if I wasn’t so far past the panic point. I guess he’d learned a thing or two out on the mean streets of LA, because he slid his hand down my arm and closed his fingers over mine.
All right . . . yeah . . . I admit it . . . Any other time, any other place, and under any other circumstances, this would not only have turned my head, it would have sent tingles of anticipation racing through me. Of the rocket’s-red-glare-bombs-bursting-in-air variety.
Surprise! Murder, it seems, trumps even sexual attraction. The sound of my racing heartbeat was lost under my own rough breathing, and with thoughts of how there was nothing separating me from Roberto’s blood except a thin layer of canvas-covered wire, Nick’s touch wasn’t even mildly exciting. It was, in fact, just the anchor that kept me from spinning completely out of control.
