The Great Chili Kill-Off

by Livia J. Washburn

  A lot of people were headed in the same direction. The sun hadn’t set yet, but the opening ceremonies would get underway around eight o’clock, with the concert to follow at approximately nine.

  Phyllis saw Constable Chuck Snyder’s Jeep parked near the tent but didn’t see the young lawman himself. She spotted the security officer named Ken standing at the tent’s entrance, however, looking over the people as they came in. Ken’s expression was wary, as if he were on the watch for trouble, which was probably the case. After the explosion that had killed the cook-off’s defending champion, everyone had to be at least a little on edge.

  Ropes had been strung between the tent’s support poles to create a wall of sorts, although those barriers wouldn’t keep anybody out. It would be easy to duck under the ropes. But people usually tended to do what was expected of them, so the crowd flowed toward the marked entrance at one end of the tent where Ken was posted. Phyllis, Sam, and Culbertson joined the stream of humanity.

  When they got inside, Phyllis looked for Carolyn, Eve, and the trio from Inside Beat. The night before, Hiram Boudreau had said they could sit up front, so Phyllis nodded to Sam and pointed in that direction.

  Sergeant Culbertson said, “I’ll see you folks later,” and drifted away in the crowd.

  “Take it easy, Sergeant,” Sam called after him.

  “What in the world was that man after now?” Phyllis asked as she linked her arm with Sam’s and leaned closer to him. Everyone in the tent was talking, it seemed like, so the air was full of sounds and the background noise made it more difficult for her to hear.

  “You mean the Ranger?” Sam said. “We were just talkin’ about chili—”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. The sergeant doesn’t seem like the type to engage in casual conversation.”

  “Well . . .” With obvious reluctance, Sam went on, “He didn’t come right out and say it, but the impression I got is that they found a piece of Hammersmith’s grill that survived the blast. And they pulled a fingerprint off of it.”

  “A fingerprint?” Phyllis repeated. “You don’t mean . . .”

  “From the way the sergeant was actin’, I’d say there’s a good chance that print belongs to me.”

  Chapter 13

  Phyllis stopped and stared up at him. “That’s insane,” she said. “You wouldn’t—”

  “Blow a fella up?” Sam laughed a little and shook his head. “No, I’m not really the explosive type.”

  “You’re not a murderer, and anyone who knows you would never have any doubts about that.” Something occurred to Phyllis. “Anyway, you admitted that you looked at Hammersmith’s grill. You probably got your fingerprint on it then.”

  “I lifted the lid,” Sam said. “Probably shouldn’t have. I wouldn’t like it if some stranger was pokin’ around my stuff. But it was just innocent curiosity, that’s all. I was admirin’ the blasted thing.”

  “Innocent is the key word here,” Phyllis said. “Did you explain that to Sergeant Culbertson?”

  “Oh, we never got around to speakin’ that plain about the deal. It was more, what’s the word, oblique than that. The Ranger knows that if he comes right out and accuses me of something, I’m gonna lawyer up.”

  “Maybe we should call Mr. D’Angelo right now.”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t want to bother Jimmy unless we have to.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, they’ll figure out who caused that explosion.” Sam paused. “Or somebody will figure it out, anyway.”

  Phyllis frowned. She knew what he meant, and the fact that the cloud of suspicion above his head seemed to be thickening just gave her more incentive to dig into this case and uncover some answers. But he was putting all his faith in her, and that worried her. What if she let him down? What if the Rangers wound up arresting Sam? Even worse, what if he wound up indicted, tried, and convicted?

  She wasn’t sure she could live without Sam Fletcher anymore.

  Phyllis swallowed. She was getting ahead of herself, and she knew it. There was no reason to indulge in wild speculation.

  Thankfully, she was distracted from doing so by Sam saying, “Hey, there’s Carolyn and Eve.”

  Their friends were standing near the front of the tent. Phyllis and Sam made their way through the crowd to join them. Felicity, Josh, and Nick weren’t with them, and as Phyllis and Sam came up, Phyllis asked, “What happened to the others?”

  “That man Boudreau came along and latched on to Felicity,” Carolyn said. “I don’t know where they went.”

  “Probably for an interview,” Sam said.

  “Without a cameraman?” Carolyn pointed across the tent. “He made Josh and Nick go over there to the press area. I don’t think an interview was what Boudreau had in mind.”

  “Well, maybe an off-the-record one.”

  The look Carolyn gave Sam showed just how much she believed that.

  Eve said, “Hiram told us we could sit in the reserved section.”

  “You’re on a first-name basis with him now?” Phyllis asked.

  Eve smiled. “Of course.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Carolyn said. “He’s got his eye on Felicity, just like that Hammersmith man did.”

  “Experience and guile nearly always emerges triumphant in the end, dear.”

  Eve didn’t even know that Hiram Boudreau had sold his company for at least ten million dollars a few years earlier. If she had, she might have been a little less lackadaisical about the man’s interest in Felicity.

  The first few rows of seating were marked off with bright yellow cord. It bore an uncomfortable resemblance to crime scene tape, Phyllis thought. The four of them sat down as more people continued to crowd into the tent and the noise level grew.

  Phyllis looked around for Sergeant Culbertson or the other Texas Ranger and didn’t see either of them. She felt confident both of them were around somewhere, though, probably close by. She saw half a dozen other security officers in addition to Ken. As big as the crowd was, that didn’t really seem like enough, but so far everyone was being well-behaved and as long as they stayed that way, everything would be fine.

  Hiram Boudreau suddenly appeared near the bandstand, carrying a cordless microphone. With an agility that belied his age, he jumped up onto the platform. Shadows had started to gather underneath the tent, but they were dispelled instantly as lights attached to the support poles came on. Boudreau lifted the microphone to his mouth, and an audible click signaled that he had turned it on. A burst of feedback made him lower it again without saying anything. The shrill squeal served to get everyone’s attention, though, and make the crowd in the tent quiet down.

  Boudreau tried again with the mike and this time didn’t cause any feedback. He waved his other hand above his head as he greeted the crowd by saying, “Howdy, howdy, howdy! And welcome to the Great Chili Cook-Off!”

  Applause, shouts, and enthusiastic whistles came in response. Boudreau let the tumult die down, then continued, “I want to thank each and every one of you for bein’ here and making this get-together the biggest and best celebration of chili aficionados in the world!”

  That bought more rowdy applause. A lot of these people had been drinking all day, Phyllis thought, so there was a good chance they would interrupt Boudreau’s welcoming remarks every time he paused to take a breath.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Hiram Boudreau—”

  More cheers and whoops.

  “Owner, mayor, and Grand High Poobah of Cactus Bluff, Texas!”

  The crowd just about raised the roof off the tent for that one.

  “Also, founder and chief judge of the Great Chili Cook-Off, the the most prestigious chili-cookin’ competition in the world!”

  This time, Phyllis thought she felt the ground shake a little.

  Boudreau hadn’t exactly dressed up for the ceremony, she noticed. He wore combat boots, another pair of cut-off jeans that prominently displayed his scabby knees, a psych
edelic tie-dyed T-shirt that screamed 1967, and what appeared to be the same camo cap he had sported the previous night when he was putting on his impromptu dance performance.

  He took off that cap now and held it over his heart as a solemn expression appeared on his face. “As I reckon all of y’all know by now, one of the most beloved of our contestants met an untimely end this morning when Joe D. Hammersmith went to that great chili pot in the sky.”

  A few scattered boos rang out.

  “Here now!” Boudreau scolded. “That’s no way to act. Have some respect for the dead, folks. I know ol’ Joe D. rubbed a few folks the wrong way from time to time, but he was still one of us. And he was the three-time defendin’ grand champion of the cook-off. That ought to be worth a moment of silence, and that’s what I’m calling for right now, in honor of Joe D. Hammersmith.”

  Still holding his cap over his heart, Boudreau closed his eyes, bowed his head, and lowered the microphone to his side. Although it took a few seconds for the noise to fade away, the people gathered in the tent gradually complied with his call for a moment of silence. A hush settled over the crowd. Some of them—perhaps even many of them, Phyllis thought, recalling how Hammersmith had seemed to be widely disliked—might regard themselves as hypocrites for going along with this display, but she didn’t see it that way. Hammersmith had been a human being, after all, and his life had ended suddenly and painfully, probably deliberately, and there was something awful about that.

  “All right,” Boudreau said when the silence had dragged out long enough, before it became too awkward, “let’s get on with it.” He tugged his cap down on his head again. “That’s what Joe D. would’ve wanted us to do. Nobody enjoyed these little get-togethers of ours more than he did. He told me himself what a great time he always had here and how he looked forward all year to his trip to Cactus Bluff every summer. So the best way for us to honor ol’ Joe D.’s memory is to have ourselves one hell of a blow-out!”

  That gave the crowd an excuse for another frenzied response. Boudreau did a little jig back and forth across the bandstand that urged them on. People began a rhythmic clapping as Boudreau threw himself into the dance. He had urged the crowd not to let Hammersmith’s death ruin their fun, and it certainly appeared that he intended to follow his own advice.

  Eve leaned close to Phyllis to be heard over the commotion and said, “I hope Hiram remembers that ticker of his and doesn’t push himself too hard!”

  Boudreau didn’t seem to be in any distress. He wasn’t even breathing very hard when he finally stopped dancing and held up both arms to call for the crowd to quiet down again.

  “Now, we all aim to have a lot of fun this weekend—”

  More whooping.

  “But y’all know the real reason we’re here, and it’s serious business.” Boudreau paused, looked to his right, then to his left, then addressed the crowd again. “It’s chili!”

  Wild applause greeted that declaration.

  “The best chili cooks in the whole wide world are right here under this big ol’ tent tonight, folks,” he continued when he could be heard again. “And they’ll be workin’ their culinary magic all weekend to whip up the best-tastin’ chili you’ll ever find anywhere!” He reached in the hip pocket of his cut-offs and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I’ve got here a list of all the people who are entered in the competition. When I call your name, I want you to stand up and wave to the crowd, if you’re sittin’ down. If you’re already on your feet, find some other way to let us know where you are. Hold your applause to the end, folks, otherwise we’re liable to be here all night, and then you won’t get to dance to the music of all the great bands we got lined up to play for you tonight! Here we go! Rusty Abernathy! Tom Allen! Jordan Anderson!”

  Despite what Boudreau had said about the audience holding its applause, there were a few scattered claps and shouts of encouragement each time he called out a name from the list in his hand. Even with that, the announcement of the contestants went fairly quickly.

  When Boudreau got to Sam’s name, Sam stood up, turned to face the crowd, and gave a brief, self-conscious wave. Phyllis knew he wasn’t accustomed to being the center of attention and didn’t particularly care for the sensation.

  Carolyn said, “I’ll bet he’s not going to read the names of everyone who entered the other contests.” Earlier in the day, she had gone to the office tent and signed up for both the side dish and the leftovers contests.

  “Well, chili’s sort of the main event in this competition,” Sam said. “I don’t think he’s tryin’ to slight anybody.”

  “It just seems to me that people are a little fanatical about it.”

  Phyllis said, “I think passionate is a better word.”

  “So do I,” Eve said.

  When Boudreau was finished with the list of contestants and there had been a long, thunderous round of applause for all of them, he said, “Now, we’ve got some mighty fine entertainment tonight for your boot-scootin’ pleasure, and first up are my friends B.J. Sawyer and the Lavaca River Boys! So give ‘em a great big Cactus Bluff welcome and then get on up and dance!”

  The four musicians Phyllis and her friends had seen the previous night came up onto the bandstand carrying their instruments. One of them set up microphones, and then they launched into a cover of “All My Exes Live in Texas” that soon had a lot of the crowd dancing.

  Having grown up a Baptist in Texas in the middle of the Twentieth Century, Phyllis didn’t dance, although she didn’t disapprove of anyone who wanted to do so. She enjoyed all kinds of music, so the hand-clapping, toe-tapping country tunes played by the band from Hallettsville were fine. After a while, though, she began to get a little tired, so she said to Sam, “I think I’ll go back to the trailer.”

  “I’ll walk you,” he replied without hesitation.

  Phyllis was about to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but when she glanced outside the tent she saw that full night had fallen, and although everything around here was fairly brightly lit, she didn’t mind admitting that some company would be welcome.

  Eve wasn’t ready to leave, however, so Carolyn said, “I’ll stay for a while longer and then the two of us will walk back together.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Eve said, “unless I get a better offer.”

  “Do you ever stop?”

  “I will one of these days,” Eve said. “When I get old.”

  As they were leaving the tent, Phyllis said to Sam, “Are you sure you don’t mind? I could tell you were enjoying yourself.”

  “I like that good old country music, but I like spendin’ time with you even more. I’m fine with leavin’.” He chuckled. “Anyway, I need to get a good night’s sleep. I’ve got a big day of chili cookin’ comin’ up tomorrow.”

  As they started back toward the rows of motor homes and travel trailers, Phyllis once again took note of the constable’s Jeep. This time it was parked over by the smaller office tent, and someone was standing beside it. At first she figured it was Chuck Snyder, but then the shape parted and became two, then merged into one again.

  A couple of people were necking over there, she thought, using the old-fashioned word out of habit because it hadn’t been old-fashioned when she had learned it. In fact, when she’d learned about necking, she had been young herself, or at least young compared to the age she was now. She felt her cheeks warming. Everything she had done back in those days would seem tamer than tame to the young people of today, but she had fond memories of that time anyway. She took Sam’s hand and squeezed it, and he squeezed back.

  She might have allowed herself to drift farther into those pleasant reminiscences, if at that moment a car hadn’t turned somewhere in the distance and swept twin headlight beams through the encampment. The illumination was a mere flash across the couple beside the Jeep . . .

  But it was enough for Phyllis to recognize them. That was Constable Chuck Snyder beside his official vehicle, all right.

  But the perso
n in his arms with her mouth pressed to his was McKayla Carson.

  Chapter 14

  Chuck was facing facing Phyllis and Sam as he stood by the Jeep, and in that brief moment of illumination he must have spotted them a few yards away. He broke the kiss, pushed McKayla away, stepped around her, and came toward the two of them, one hand lifted and held out in front of him.

  “Mrs. Newsom, Mr. Fletcher, wait. This isn’t—”

  “Isn’t what it looks like?” Sam said. As he went on, Phyllis knew he had seen the same thing she had. “Looked to me like you were makin’ out with a girl young enough to be your, well, your little sister, I reckon. You gonna try to tell me that’s not what was goin’ on?”

  In the shadows, Phyllis couldn’t see Chuck’s face that well, but he made little movements that seemed jerky and agitated and his voice was strained as he said, “That’s not exactly the way it happened. McKayla caught me by surprise—”

  “Like a kissin’ ninja?”

  Chuck scrubbed a hand over his face in a frustrated gesture. “I didn’t kiss her. She kissed me. I didn’t encourage her—”

  Coolly, McKayla said, “I’m standing right here, you know. And you certainly didn’t discourage me, Chuck. You know this is what you wanted. We’ve both wanted it for a long time.”

  “No! I mean—”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know how you feel about me.” She stepped closer to him and rested a hand on his chest. “I feel the same way. We were meant to be together.”

  Chuck shook his head and tried to put some distance between them again, but when he moved back McKayla went with him. Her head was tipped back so she could stare up at him adoringly.

  Somewhat to Phyllis’s surprise, she was starting to find herself believing what the young constable had said, to a certain extent, anyway. McKayla seemed to have a crush on him, and it was possible she had initiated this romantic encounter, probably taking him by surprise as he claimed. However, Chuck hadn’t been struggling to get out of her embrace, and in fact his arms had been around her, too. She might have thrown herself at him, but he hadn’t pushed her away . . . until they’d been caught.