by Holly Plum
KILLER SALSA
A Mexican Café Cozy Mystery
Holly Plum
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Also by Holly Plum
A Special Thank You!
Copyright © 2016 by Holly Plum
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
CHAPTER ONE
Mari's bulldog Tabasco refused to come out of the office.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with him,” Mari Ramirez said to her brother Alex. She brushed her dark brown hair to the side. “Normally, I can't get Tabasco to stay in the office because all he wants to do is run around the restaurant. Now, he won’t come out.”
“Maybe he knows where you’re going,” Alex replied, sleepily stretching his pinched frame.
Alex and Mari helped their family run Lito Bueno’s Mexican Restaurant, the only Mexican restaurant in their small Texas town. Mari was the manager, while her brothers Alex and David worked in the kitchen and occasionally waited tables. For this, they were modestly compensated by their father, who had been running Lito Bueno’s since before they were born.
Mari couldn’t blame Tabasco for not wanting to come out of the office. Summer was just ending, but that was hard to believe when the temperatures still hovered in the upper nineties. All the way up and down Main Street, trees were dying for lack of water. Recently, a German shepherd had passed out in the parking lot of Food and Stuffs, where its owner had gone to buy dog food, and City Hall had sent out a public advisory asking pet owners not to leave their pets in parked cars.
“I won’t leave him in the car,” Mari stated as if responding to an accusation. “And I can’t leave him here, or Dad will lecture me about responsible pet ownership again.”
“There's lots of shade at Chile Fest,” Alex responded. “Just bring a couple of water bottles, one for you and one for Tabasco, and you will be fine.”
The town's annual Chile Fest was a community event held at the end of every summer. For years the Ramirez family had competed against fellow restaurateurs and other amateur chefs in the “Best Bite in Town” competition to see who could make the best dish. Contestants were judged according to taste, aesthetics, and originality. Mari loved it because for a few days she was able to pretend she was competing on the fiercely competitive cable cooking shows she loved to watch.
This year’s competition would be like one of those cooking shows in another way. While the judges had been unable to afford prizes in previous years, this year they had announced the first prize of one thousand dollars. Mari was determined to win the prize money because parts of the restaurant were desperately in need of renovation though her parents would never admit it. Recently, the kitchen fryer had broken, and Mari’s Abuela had gone through a world of trouble frying things by hand in a skillet, badly burning her arm in the process.
Ignoring the dog’s whimpers, Mari grabbed him gently by the front legs and pulled him out from under her father’s desk where he had been hiding. She lifted him neatly under one arm and with the other grabbed a green plastic bowl that was sitting on the kitchen counter. Inside the bowl was a special salsa made from a secret family recipe. This was Mari’s competition entry.
Mari took her dog and the bowl of salsa and slipped out of the restaurant before her dad arrived to open for lunch. Maybe he wouldn’t have been upset if he had known she was entering family recipes into competitions for money, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. Mr. Ramirez had always said the family would survive on hard work and money earned the old-fashioned way. He turned his nose up at cooking shows and said the winners were accepting handouts, which was one of the most vicious insults in his arsenal. Most likely he would not have approved if he had known Mari’s intentions. She would explain it to him later after she had won the money and her wisdom had been vindicated.
As always, this year’s Chile Fest was held in the town square, a thin strip of road a couple of hundred yards long where the oldest and prettiest buildings in town all converged. As Mari pulled into an empty parking space outside the town's Pioneer Museum, a group of women she recognized from church walked past her carrying covered pots. They talked loudly, oblivious to the sweat dripping down their necks and dampening their button-down shirts. Mari got out of the car and followed them to the end of the block where a crew of volunteers was busy setting up tables, tents, and fences for the first day of the festival.
Inside one of the tents, Mari found a long table covered with a white cloth on which an array of colorful dishes was displayed. Here she was warmly greeted by Brandy Davos, a radiant and professional-looking young woman wearing blue jeans, a black camisole, and a purple button-down. She talked sporadically into a headset. In one hand she carried a clipboard, while she held a paper plate bearing the imprint of the Lucky Noodle in the other, the Chinese restaurant across the street from Lito Bueno’s Mexican Restaurant.
“Hey Mari, you made it,” Brandy said cheerfully. “If you would just set your bowl down right over here.” She motioned toward the end of the table near a hot plate stacked with egg rolls.
“This all looks great,” said Mari commented. “You think you’ll have everything ready by tomorrow?”
“We will,” Brandy replied, as they left the cool shade of the tent and wandered outside among the rows and rows of booths. “This year’s Chile Fest is going to be our biggest and best ever. Not only do we have the cook-off, but there’s also going to be a dance contest, a couple of eating contests, carnival rides, a magician, a mariachi band, and loads of prizes.”
“Amazing,” Mari responded as they passed a small tent where a group of teens was playing horseshoes. A man with a shaved head and a beer belly walked by them carrying an ice cooler. Behind him, two guys used a dolly to unload cartons of beer from the back of a white van.
“It is amazing,” Brandy said. Even when talking to someone one-on-one, Brandy always sounded as though she was being interviewed on the local news. “Yeah, I’m right here.” Brandy touched her headset. “What? Are you serious?” She turned to Mari. “I’ve got to run. Some of the kids broke into one of the tents and started a food fight and now there is pudding everywhere.” She dashed off in the direction of the judging tent.
Left to herself, Mari decided to walk around and check out the festival. As it happened, the two guys with the dolly were setting up a beer garden in the alleyway between the town chapel and Frederick’s Emporium. A girl no
older than five was being marched away by a woman in a matching yellow dress, who was also trying to explain that beer was for grown-ups. In front of the emporium, a paunchy, middle-aged man with a pencil mustache has set up an art booth. Mari stopped for a minute to admire the rows of colorful paintings of sunsets, wildflowers, and empty train tracks. There was even a picture of a restaurant that looked suspiciously like her own.
“I see you went straight to it,” the artist said. He watched Mari study the painting of Lito Bueno's Mexican Restaurant. “I don’t normally do this kind of thing, but for you, I’m willing to give half off.”
“Is that my family's restaurant?” Mari asked.
“Yep, I’m a local artist,” the man said in a jovial voice. “Every portrait you see here was painted in town and represents a local landmark. So I’ve got pictures of the Emporium, the elementary school, the deserted gas station, the Catholic church, the yoga center, and much more.”
“Amazing,” Mari commented, hoping to stop him before he listed every home and building in town.
“This isn’t the only portrait I’ve done of a local restaurant,” he replied. As with Brandy a few minutes earlier, Mari had the distinct feeling he was trying to sell her something. He held up a canvas bathed in a red and gold sunset. Below, customers ate in the window of a diner. “You recognize this?”
“That looks like the Lucky Noodle,” Mari answered. “Is this what you do for a living?”
“Painting?” the man said, waving one hand with an air of practiced modesty. “This is just for fun. I run my own pizza place.”
“Rosetti’s Pizza?” Mari raised her eyebrows.
“No, the other one.”
“Oh, Bubba’s,” Mari added. “I’ve been meaning to go there.”
“So has everyone in town,” the man mumbled.
“Then you must be Bubba.” Mari set Tabasco down and extended her hand. “I’m Marisol Ramirez. Mari for short.”
“I know," Bubba replied. "I saw you coming out of Lito Bueno’s Mexican Restaurant when I was across the street working on this.” He motioned to the painting of the front entrance of Lito Bueno’s.
“You mean Mr. Chun let you paint inside his dining room?” Mari asked.
Bubba frowned, as if not liking the question. “Well, he didn't exactly know what I was doing."
“No, but when I found out,” Mr. Chun interrupted, suddenly appearing behind them so that Bubba and Mari both jumped, “I had him thrown out for upsetting my customers.”
“I doubt anyone, but you was upset,” Mari responded, who had known Mr. Chun for over twenty years and didn’t care how much she annoyed him.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Chun said, his arms folded. “Who are you to tell me what my customers do and don't like?”
“I offered to pay for the ruined upholstery.” Bubba shrugged.
“You offered to pay?” Mr. Chun chuckled. “A free pizza is not payment.” He spat on the ground as if to suggest that this was the worst insult.
“Paintings and pizza, to be fair,” Bubba added.
Mari suspected that this was why he had painted that portrait of the Lucky Noodle, and why it continued to languish in the booth unbought.
“I’m not interested in your pizza,” Mr. Chun went on. “Greasy, disgusting American food.”
“Technically, it is Italian food,” Bubba chimed in.
Remembering the egg rolls she had seen in the judging tent, Mari saw an opportunity to change the subject and avoid a fight.
“Mr. Chun, did you enter something in the cooking competition?” Mari asked.
Mr. Chun narrowed his eyes as if reluctantly treating a nasty wart growing on his big toe. The Ramirez and the Chun families had never been close even though their restaurants were right across the street from each other.
“Yes,” Mr. Chun stated. “I entered my bestselling item—my Shanghai egg rolls.”
“And I entered one of my best items,” Bubba said. “My pepperoni pizza bites.”
“I wouldn’t mind trying that,” Mari responded. She had always loved pizza.
“I’m hoping to bring more exposure to my restaurant,” Bubba added. “You’d be surprised how many people in town don’t even know there are two pizza joints. And with the money I win, I could stake out a more central location.”
“Where is your restaurant exactly?” Mari asked.
“It’s on the other side of town,” he answered. “Next to the old fruit stand that closed down a few years ago.” He held up a painting of the shopping center where the fruit stand stood.
“Don’t go,” Mr. Chun muttered. “It’s not worth it.”
Bubba looked like he was about to ask Mr. Chun how he could know this, but the shrieking of sirens interrupted their conversation. An ambulance barreled down Main Street, past the Emporium, past the church, and toward the heart of the festival.
“I wonder what happened,” Mari said quietly. The two men must have wondered this as well, for they both left the booth and began walking in the direction of the judging tent where a large crowd gathered. Mari was puzzled by the sudden turn of events that she no longer noticed the hot sun beating down on her back, nor the low growling of Tabasco at her feet.
At the entrance to the tent, they met a bronze-skinned woman with dark, curly hair. She motioned to them to stay back.
“You can’t go in there,” the woman said.
A wave of apprehension and dread rolled over Mari as she asked, “Who’s hurt?”
“Brandy Davos,” the woman replied. “It was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. One minute she was taking a bite of salsa. The next minute, she was dead on the floor!”
CHAPTER TWO
It was like a nightmare slowly unspooled all around Mari. She found herself in the office of her family's restaurant being interviewed by Detective Price.
“How long had you known the victim?” the detective asked, his gaze clearly fixed on the notebook in which he was writing.
“A few years,” said Mari answered. “Although, I didn't know her very well. She’s been running the cooking contest since I was in college. I met her not long after I came home to help out at the restaurant."
“And how did the victim strike you?” the detective went on.
“Strike me?” Mari repeated.
“What was your impression of her the last time you saw her?”
Mari fumbled for an answer, caught off-guard by the accusation concealed in the question. “She was busy. Brandy is always busy. She had her hands full organizing the competition. She was meant to be a judge as well. She's always the head judge.”
“Did she stressed more than usual?”
Mari shrugged. “Not especially.”
“Did you see her argue with anyone at the festival?”
“Not as far as I know. I mean, some people argue no matter what.” Mari chuckled. Her father was that way too.
“Can you expand on that?” the detective replied.
The most uncomfortable thing about interviews with Detective Price was that he would seize on the mildest statement and blow it out of proportion.
“I just mean, everyone has their quirks," Mari explained. "Everyone seemed to like Brandy, as far as I could tell. She had a kind and charismatic personality.”
Price made a show of painstakingly scribbling something into his notebook. Mari leaned forward squinting in the hopes of making out what it was but relented at his glance. It wouldn’t have done any good, anyway: his handwriting was indecipherable.
“Can you describe for me, Ms. Ramirez, how you made your salsa?”
"Ummm…" Mari inhaled slowly. Detective Price saw the objection in her eyes and countered it with one of his own.
“In case I need to remind you,” he said, in a steady and sober voice, “this is a police investigation. A murder investigation. A woman was found dead after eating your salsa, and that is deeply suspicious. I understand you do not want to divulge the ingredients of a secret family recipe, but I don’t thi
nk I need to explain to you how much is at stake here.”
Mari nodded. “I understand. I used garlic and cilantro, and I sautéed the onions. I also used fresh tomatoes. Then I added spicy chili that I fire-roasted the night before.”
Mari was grateful that the detective stopped his line of inquiry before asking what made the secret recipe so special. If she had to guess, he didn’t know the first thing about food and how it was prepared. He probably ate microwave meals for dinner every night.
“Detective Price,” Mari said, “can you at least tell me what’s going on?”
Detective Price set down his notebook and ran his fingers through his receding hair. Somehow he looked even older and more tired than he had during their last visit. “It’s going to be a few days before we get the official coroner’s report. But judging from the circumstances we think it’s safe to assume that Brandy Davos was poisoned. Several eyewitnesses reported seeing her in the tent sampling your salsa moments before she collapsed. This naturally leads us to the conclusion that either the food had been deliberately poisoned by whoever made it…” The detective held up his hand to quiet Mari before she protested. “…or it was tampered with.”
“You think someone snuck into the tent and poisoned my salsa when no one was looking?” Mari said flatly.
“The only other alternative is that you poisoned it yourself,” the detective responded.
Mari glared at him. "I'm not a murderer, detective."
“I'm not saying you are,” he replied. “You are a hard-working and honest member of this community, and I can find no motive that suggests you might have wanted Brandy Davos dead.”
"Thank you." Mari breathed a sigh of relief.
“I decided to question you first on purpose,” Detective Price went on. “I knew you would give me a clear picture of what happened today. Naturally, your salsa remains under suspicion. I cannot ignore that detail, I'm afraid.”
“I just have one question,” Mari said. “We’ve established that Brandy died after tasting my salsa. But couldn’t that just be a coincidence? Unless, of course, she sampled my food but none of the other foods that were on display.”
