Chili Con Carnage (A Chili Cook-Off Mystery)

by Logan, Kylie

  “You got that right.” I downed the rest of the coffee and tossed the cup in the trash. “I was actually relieved,” I told her even though I hadn’t decided yet if that was true or not. “I’ve got too much on my mind to add Nick Falcone to the mix.”

  She cocked her head and stared. “Not that it wouldn’t be plenty interesting.”

  “Not that it wouldn’t be plenty interesting.” I laughed. “But with all that’s going on with Sylvia . . .” Automatically, I glanced around the Palace. I was used to tripping over Sylvia’s perfect little self in there as she scurried around organizing the cowboy shit out of stuff and doing everything she could to drive me crazy. I hugged my arms around myself. “It feels weird without her.”

  “Oh honey! Of course it does.” Gert put an arm around my shoulders. “I know you two have never been close, but blood is blood. You’re worried about your sister.” Before I could correct her, she added, “Yes, I know. Half sister. Truth be told, we’re all worried about her. There’s not one vendor here at the Showdown who believes Sylvia is guilty.”

  “If only the cops agreed.” Another customer showed up, and even though the woman looked around like she was plenty interested in the Palace and all the secrets she might see revealed there, she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut and make a couple of purchases. I put three bottles of spices and a sack of dried cascabel peppers in a brown paper shopping bag with Jack’s face on it, but not before I took the opportunity to give the cascabels a shake. They’re round, brown peppers and they kind of look like dark cherries, but the best part of them is that when they’re dry, the seeds inside them rattle. I never could resist.

  “Nick says if I want proof that Sylvia’s innocent, I should go ahead and find it myself,” I told Gert once the customer was gone.

  One corner of her mouth pulled to the right. “That doesn’t sound like Nick. I can’t imagine he’d want you to get in over your head.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But then I figured it out. He told me to go ahead and try to prove that Sylvia’s innocent because he doesn’t think I’m capable. Oh, he knows I might ask some questions, but come on, he doesn’t have to come right out and say it. He doesn’t think I’m smart enough to do any more than that. Nick doesn’t think I’m going to find out anything useful. Big surprise—I already know that Roberto’s real name was Robert, Robert Lasky.”

  “Really?” I didn’t see anything spilled, but Gert reached for a nearby rag, wet it, and wiped off the front counter. “Did the police tell you that?”

  By way of letting her know how smart I was, I tapped a finger to my forehead. “They didn’t have to tell me.”

  “Did you know Puff was the one who put the cops on Sylvia’s trail?” Gert’s question stopped me short. So did the pained expression on her face. “I’m sorry, Maxie.” She slumped against the table where we filled spice jars. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, I mean what with Puff being an old friend and all, but I figured you had to know. Puff, he told me last night. After you and Robert . . . I mean, Roberto . . . after you two had that fight the other morning, everybody figured he just went off somewhere by himself to sulk. But Puff says that’s not true. He says a little while later, he saw Sylvia and Roberto having a heated exchange. He told the cops he heard Sylvia threaten Roberto.”

  “That’s because they knew each other back when she went to culinary school in New York City.” I left out the part about how they were engaged, because let’s face it, the cops were bound to find that out. Until they put out the word, there was no use adding fuel to the Sylvia’s-guilty fire. Sure, my fellow vendors said they didn’t believe Sylvia murdered Roberto. But how long would they hold on to that notion if they knew Sylvia and Robert were once romantically involved? Hell hath no fury, remember, and Sylvia already looked guilty enough without adding a whopping dose of he-done-her-wrong motive. “Sylvia knew Roberto was a creep and she didn’t want him hanging around.”

  “Maybe.” Just for good measure, Gert gave the counter another going-over. “But I guarantee you, all the cops heard was that they were seen together. And that they exchanged angry words. I guess once the police had that piece of information and then they found the murder weapon . . .”

  I didn’t need to go over it again in my head. I’d already been over the facts a few gazillion times and the outcome never changed. I guess my expression spoke volumes, because Gert put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you get out for a while. You know, take advantage of that change of scenery thing we talked about the other day. Go for a walk around the Showdown. Get some samples of chili and salsa and make a pig of yourself. I’ll stick around and watch the Palace.”

  “But your booth—”

  “Hey, they don’t call me smart for nothing.” Gert grinned. “I’ve got it covered. I paid Nicole to look after the booth for a while. You know, she’s the daughter of Jorge LaReyo, the guy who owns that new tamale stand. Nicole won’t mind if she ends up at my place a little longer. She loves arranging and rearranging the earrings and bracelets. I swear, that girl was born to be a jewelry designer.”

  “Well, I could take my duffel bag back over to the RV and unpack,” I told Gert.

  “Take more time than that. There’s an art show right outside the fairgrounds.” She pointed in that direction. “They’re trying to catch folks before and after they come here for the cook-off. Go on, look around. You never know what kinds of interesting things you might find!”

  I didn’t intend to. Find interesting things, that is. I’m not exactly an art lover to begin with and my mind was a million miles away from the ceramics and the handwoven baskets spread out on tables and colorful woven blankets all around the fairground entrance. Even if I had the money to spend (which I didn’t), I wasn’t much of jewelry wearer, either. And as far as paintings . . .

  I was standing in front of a guy putting the finishing touches on his version of the entrance to the fairgrounds in lurid shades of purple and blue and wondering how on earth his mind worked and what on earth his eyes saw, when a voice called out from somewhere behind me and brought me spinning around.

  “Hey, Alphonse! Nice work, buddy!”

  Yes, hope springs eternal, and Alphonse is not so common a name. I remembered what I’d learned from Joey P, the bartender at El Rancho, about the artist who’d gotten into the knock-down, drag-out with Roberto the night before the murder, and headed out in search of.

  It didn’t take me long to locate Alphonse. He was, after all, as big as an aircraft carrier, and just like I remembered, he had a long, gray beard that spread out over his immense stomach and a black leather cap atop his head. Wisps of gray hair hung from the back of it.

  He had a chain saw in his hands, and he was putting the finishing touches on a gigantic wooden sculpture that looked like a . . .

  I cocked my head one way, then the other.

  Bird? Flower? Tuna? Honestly, I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t waste a moment thinking about it. As soon as Alphonse cut power to the chain saw and took off his safety glasses, I closed in on him and his work of art.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Not nearly as pretty as the women here in New Mexico.” When he looked me over and smiled, I saw that there was gap between his front teeth. “You lookin’ to buy?”

  As if I needed a better look at the bird . . . er . . . tuna, I backed up a couple steps and made him wait long enough to think I was actually considering it. “Maybe,” I said. “Depends what you’re asking.”

  “Thirty-five hundred.”

  “Dollars?” So much for my blasé-art-buyer persona. I wasn’t exactly sure which came first, my mouth falling open or Alphonse realizing I was a poser and instantly losing interest.

  “I might want to buy it,” I blurted out, even though he’d already turned his back on me. I walked around to the other side of his setup, a card table up front under a pop-up tent, a couple rows of shelves to display wooden sculptures of s
maller proportions than the tuna . . . er . . . flower, and a big open space at the back where he was working on that particular gigantic sculpture and had a few others displayed.

  I put a hand on the snout of a wooden bear—and removed it fast when Alphonse shot me a death-ray look. “Actually, I walked over here because you look familiar,” I told him. “We’ve met.”

  He grabbed a broom and swept wood shavings into a pile. “I doubt it.” Just to be sure, he leaned on the broom and took another look at me, nice and slow. “I may be old, but I ain’t dead. I’d remember a chick as cute as you.”

  “When so many women must admire your work?” Okay, so yeah, this was a little blatant. So was the way I sparkled up at Alphonse. But see, it worked. I knew that because I saw some of the starch go out of those Grand Canyon–sized shoulders. “I think . . .” I pretended to, then snapped my fingers and pointed his way. “You were at El Rancho Tavern the other night.”

  His beard shivered, and Alphonse spat on the ground. “If you’re here about that front window, I told Joey P, it was the other guy that started it. He’s the one that should pay.”

  “I bet anything he’d love to be able to. Only see . . .” I scooted closer to the mountain that was Alphonse. “Roberto is dead.”

  Alphonse’s mouth fell open and his gaze snapped to the fairgrounds and the Showdown sign that hung above the entrance. “You mean that guy that was killed at the chili cook-off the other day? That was the same guy from El Rancho?”

  To show him how right-on he was, I gave him the thumbs-up. “I figured once you saw Roberto’s name in the paper—”

  “No. No.” Alphonse got out a dustpan, swept up the wood shavings, and tossed them in a nearby trash can. “I didn’t know the guy, see. Never saw him before in my life until he started acting like a jerk at El Rancho and we got to tussling. Didn’t read about it in the papers, either. Not that it would have mattered, ’cause like I said, I didn’t know the guy. I’ve been busy, working on a few pieces for this show. I haven’t even been watching TV. But I heard about the killing. You know, around. Even if I had ever heard the name, it wouldn’t have meant anything to me. On account of what I said. That I never knew the guy. What did you say his name was?”

  “Roberto. And you never met him before. But you were fighting. To me, fighting always seems sort of personal.”

  “Not at all.” Alphonse swept more wood shavings into a pile and gathered it up. “It was just one of those things, you know? Just a couple guys who had too many pops in a bar and got into it with each other. There was nothing more to it than that.” He looked over the sculpture at me. “I’m an artist, not a fighter. At least not most of the time. But that guy . . . what did you say his name was? Roberto? That Roberto guy brought out the worst in me. But hey, it was over just like that. No hard feelings, you know?”

  I didn’t, because I’d been there, and I saw the way the cops had to keep Alphonse and Roberto from ripping out each other’s throats, and that was after the fists stopped flying.

  That’s apparently not what Alphonse was thinking about, because he chuckled. “No way I’d waste my time worrying about a loser like that, anyway,” he said, and he grabbed a small, soft brush and whisked it over the . . . thing. “I’ve got a reputation in this town. Why would I want to risk it by mixing it up with some roadie from a chili show?”

  Why, indeed!

  I knew I wouldn’t get anything else out of Alphonse. Nothing else useful, anyway, so I thanked him for his time and strolled over to the next booth. It belonged to a Native American guy who had a display of the most beautiful woven baskets. I know what I said, I’m no expert when it comes to art. But I know pretty when I see it, and I picked up one small basket and turned it in my hands, admiring the workmanship. Just as the artist came over, Alphonse started up his chain saw again.

  “It can’t be easy having a booth next to that guy,” I said, and I practically had to scream to be heard over the buzzing and whirring.

  “You got that right.” The basket artist took it in good stride. “And to think, I was supposed to be next to some lady who makes soap. Soap. Soap sounds nice and quiet!”

  “Supposed to be?” I set down the basket so I could give him my full attention. “What do you mean?”

  “When they rent space for a show like this . . .” Apparently, he figured it would be easier to demonstrate than to try and scream the information. He reached under the table where his baskets were displayed and brought out an eight-by-ten map of the art show. Each of the vendor setups was marked with a rectangle. He pointed to his. “That’s me,” he yelled. “And that’s—”

  Alphonse turned off the chain saw and the artist grinned. “That . . .” He pointed to the rectangle next to his. “That’s Sally Blun, the lady who makes the soap.”

  It was the name written on the rectangle and I looked from it to Alphonse. “Then how—”

  “The how was the easy part.” The artist put away the paper. “The why is what’s got me confused. Heard the day before we set up that Alphonse Rettinger paid Sally one hundred bucks for her place at this show. It’s not exactly a prestigious show and none of us figured we’d be doing great business, but we thought it would be good exposure for our work. Alphonse, he doesn’t need exposure. Everyone around here knows who he is. Weird, huh?”

  Weird?

  He had no idea.

  Alphonse paying for a spot outside the Showdown grounds was just as weird as Alphonse knowing Roberto was a roadie. Yeah, after he swore up and down that he didn’t know the guy.

  CHAPTER 10

  When I got back to the Palace, there was another line out front, and this one was longer than the one that had been there earlier in the morning. The vultures were circling again, and that wasn’t fair to Gert. There was no use telling each person individually to get lost, so I climbed up on the two-foot-high concrete base of the nearest light pole, the better to read them all the riot act. That was the first I realized what was really going on.

  There was Gert, all right, still in the Palace, still smiling and helping customer after customer. And why were all those customers there in the first place?

  Because world-famous chef, Carter Donnelly, was standing out front—right where the Chili Chick usually did her routine—and greeting each person who walked up.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” I heard him croon to a middle-aged woman in black shorts and a yellow tank top when I hopped down from my perch and made my way over there. “It’s a great little place and their spices are nice and fresh.”

  With both feet back on the ground, it was impossible for me to see over the heads of the crowd, but Carter must have turned to another customer, because I heard his voice again. “Yes, sure. I’ll be ordering some of Texas Jack’s spices for my restaurant in LA. They’re the best, you know. You’re going to love ’em!”

  With all the oohing and ahhing and chefly hero-worshiping going on around me, it wasn’t easy getting to the front of the pack, but hey, I’m small and wiry. I sidled between two women who had their cell phones out so they could snap pictures of Carter and waited until he was done posing before I stepped up beside him.

  His eyes lit. “Hey, it’s the Chili Chick!”

  This was not the welcome I thought I’d get from the guy whose crisp white shirt I’d ruined with Jack’s chili. I tipped my head. “How do you know I’m the Chili Chick?” I asked, because if he wasn’t sure, I was going to deny it as fast as I possibly could. “Last time you saw me . . . er . . . her, she was inside the Chili Chick costume.”

  “Oh honey!” Carter’s gaze slid down the length of my body. Like I said, there’s not much to me; it didn’t take long. I was wearing khaki shorts and, since I figured I’d spend the day behind the counter at the Palace, one of the polo shirts with Texas Jack’s face embroidered on it.

  When Carter’s gaze made it all the way back to my face, he had a photo-op-worthy smile on his face. “I’d recognize those legs anywhere!”

  As complime
nts went, it was a good one. From a reasonably good-looking guy. But even that wasn’t enough to thaw the iceberg of suspicion in my stomach. I looked around and there wasn’t even one TV camera in sight. “What are you doing here?” I asked him.

  “Looks like I’m selling spices for you.” Another customer stepped to the front of the line, and Carter’s welcome was friendly enough, but he refused to autograph the guy’s program. He did pose for a picture, though. I waited until he was done.

  “But why?” I asked. “After what I did to your shirt—”

  “Please!” When a woman stepped up, Carter gave her a peck on the cheek and posed for a picture with his arm around her. “It was just a shirt,” he told me when he was done. “And a shirt doesn’t count for much of anything, not when you think of the poor man who died here the other day.” As if he realized this was probably not something we should be talking about in the midst of an adoring crowd, Carter told his fans he’d be back in a jiffy, took my arm, and led me around to the side of the Palace where we could have at least a smidgen of privacy.

  Once we were there, his gaze automatically traveled to the RV that was still parked nearby and draped with yellow police tape. “It’s all so horrible,” he said, and he might have been thinking about murder, but he didn’t let go of my arm.

  When I took care of that by stepping back and out of his reach, Carter shot me a million-dollar smile of apology.

  “Truth be told, I feel bad,” he said. “About how your Palace had to be closed down because of the investigation. In a small way, I feel I was partially responsible, seeing as how the victim was found in my motorhome. Or at least how he would have been found in my motorhome if he hadn’t tumbled out of it on top of you. Believe me, I know what being closed down for a day can do to your bottom line. I understand the challenges of being a small-business owner.”

  I am not a reader of Forbes magazine. Or even of People, for that matter. I don’t have the time, and I don’t really care what people who make too-much money do with the too-much money they make. But even I knew this was a line of bull. “Something tells me your restaurant in LA isn’t exactly a small business,” I reminded him.