“Of course.”
“So how long of a show did he request?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Lord, have mercy.” Now ten extra minutes didn’t sound like a lot to me. Still, if he was paid by the minute and he’d underbid to get the job . . . and he didn’t have any cash flow to speak of . . . well, it could seem like an eternity to the poor guy. “Please forgive him, but he thinks it makes him a strong leader to drive a hard bargain.”
His belly laugh filled the air. “Oh, I forgave him, all right, once he’d agreed to an adjustment to my original invoice.”
After getting the tour, Lenny and I cruised back over to the officials’ tent and found an empty chair. There was no sign of either one of the officials, which was just as well. I needed to process all I’d seen and heard over the past four hours. Almost everyone seemed to have a reason to dislike Lucky Straw. I could imagine any one of them punching him in the face, but killing the guy was a stretch.
“Maybe he did fall and hit his head.” I glanced at Lenny. “It’s possible.”
“Yip.”
Lenny was right. Hadn’t I learned my lesson? Sometimes people kill other people the same way I might kill a fly with a fly swatter. It wasn’t the fly’s fault he was born to aggravate people to distraction. But it didn’t make him any less dead.
Chapter 7
Lucky’s Heart Needed a Bit of Help
Lenny and I approached the officials’ tent, dragging our tails behind us. Bridget Peck was flipping through the entry forms in a file folder while her friend Sam played solitaire.
“Can I get you guys anything?”
“Why is it people always say guys when what they actually want to say is y’all?” She turned to Sam. “Haven’t you noticed that tendency, especially in young people?”
Sam glanced up and gave me a vacant smile. “Sure.”
“Do you have everything you need?” We’d provided sandwiches, snacks, cold drinks, and water for the officials. Aunt Linda had even provided chocolate brownies with pecans and gooey centers.
“I would love a fan.” Bridget Peck was dressed in her bright yellow T-shirt and visor. It was about seventy degrees and windy.
“What kind of fan did you have in mind?” If I drove about three miles down the road, I’d pass the chapel where they still passed out paper fans on hot summer days, emblazoned with Juárez Funeral Home on one side and the Mother Mary on the other.
“I don’t rightly care, child. Y’all just bring me a fan, ’cause I’m about to pass out.”
Sam gave me a nod and went back to his solitaire. I checked my watch. “We only have a few minutes until it’s time to start the judging. How about something cold?”
Without waiting for an answer, I tied Lenny’s leash to the table leg and dashed for the paletas vendor I’d spotted on our tour of the fairgrounds only moments earlier. When I returned with three different flavors—mango, coconut, and strawberry cream—Bridget blanched.
“What kind of Popsicles are those?”
“Mexican. And they’re cold. You’re going to love them.”
With a frown, she unwrapped the coconut one and gave it a small lick. Her countenance cleared and she lunged for a bite. Sam took the mango, and I took charge of the strawberry cream.
“You want a lick?” I asked my long-haired Chi.
Lenny didn’t bother to answer. He scooted under the table and lay down, resting his head on his paws.
At Lucky’s tent, Lightfoot stood talking to Ellis. The JP had his camera case in one hand and his medical bag in the other.
I hurried over. “You leaving without saying good-bye?”
“The rest will take place at the morgue, and then it’s off to the state lab.” Ellis checked his watch.
“What do you think killed him?” I asked a bit too innocently.
He fought a smile. “Why bother asking? Weren’t we in his tent together?” Something in his expression made me doubt my powers of observation.
“Did he fall or was he clobbered with a skillet like I thought?”
“We’re still collecting evidence.” Lightfoot gave me a stern look.
“Please tell me something.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “Come on. I’ve been collecting evidence myself all morning.”
A silent message went back and forth between the two men. Ellis blanked his expression. “We discovered Lucky has a pacemaker.”
“Whoa.” That added another layer to the cake. “Was it working when he died?”
“Hard to tell, but most likely.”
“What about the stun gun? Could he have been playing around with that, shocked himself, and then fallen and hit his head?” It would be a relief to not have another murder on our hands. One small town can take only so much mayhem.
He exchanged another quick glance with Lightfoot. “It’s possible.” Ellis shifted his feet. “Look, the detective can share more with you if he’s so inclined, but I’ve got to get going.” He headed for the row of chili contestant tents and shelters.
“Where’s he off to?”
“Checking in with the wife to make sure their chili hasn’t suffered in his absence.” Lightfoot removed his hat and wiped a hand across his brow.
With a twinge of impatience, I watched the JP leave. “How will Ellis know for sure whether it was Lucky’s pacemaker that killed him or the iron skillet?”
Rolling back his shoulders, Lightfoot blew out his breath in exasperation. “First, it’s highly unlikely that his pacemaker failed. That happens only on TV. Second, you seem to be the only person convinced he was hit with a cook pot.”
“If I’m wrong,” I interrupted, “then where is Lucky’s cast-iron skillet—the one Whip claims he never left home without?”
“Barnes and Pleasant will keep an eye out as they secure the scene.” Lightfoot’s gaze narrowed. “You can’t hurry the process along, Josie. Ellis will contact the victim’s doctor, who will provide the information on his pacemaker.”
“I can help you there. He was always going on about his ailments.” Whip was up close and personal before I saw him coming.
Lightfoot made ready to take notes. “Do you know the name of his doctor?”
“Samantha something or other. It’s in the medicine bag around his neck.”
Both men stared at me, waiting for a revelation. “I didn’t see a medicine bag this morning or anything else around his neck . . . except for his apron.”
“Where could it be?” Lightfoot asked.
“Nowhere . . . wait. Last night he lost it at that shindig.” Whip pointed at me, too close for comfort. “You were there, weren’t you?”
I nodded slowly. “I remember.” I held my fingers about six inches apart. “He said it was a leather bag about so big. Like a medicine bag—but not.” I shot a glance at Lightfoot to gauge his reaction to my basic knowledge of Native American accessories.
“What did he keep in it?” he asked, ignoring me.
“Let’s see.” Whip screwed up his face, like someone either drunk or suffering a tremendous hangover. Or like someone who’d lost his best friend. His half-open eyes were red, and he wore a smear of toothpaste across his chin. Beneath a heavy dowsing of chili powder, I could still make out the words on his red T-shirt, Naked Chili Burns in All the Right Places.
“What did he carry in the bag around his neck?” Lightfoot asked as he scribbled something down on his notepad.
“A card with his doctor’s name on it and something else.” Whip grabbed his head. “And something real important, if I could just remember.”
“House key?” I offered.
He gave me a look of disgust. “No. That ain’t it.”
“Was he allergic to medicines, bees, anything you can recall?” Lightfoot studied Whip closely.
The older man began to twist the end of his shir
t, as if wringing out a washrag. “Heck, no. He had a cast-iron stomach. Could eat a jar of jalapeños and never flinch.”
“Emergency numbers, maybe?” I asked. The poor guy needed an energy drink or a pair of jumper cables to give his brain a jolt.
He slapped the sides of his head. “Numbers! He kept the serial number to his pacemaker and the warranty information in that thing.” Reeling, Whip dropped to one knee, as if remembering had sapped his life force.
“Are you okay?” Lightfoot and I exchanged a glance. Was Whip putting on a show for our benefit?
“I’ll be all right . . . You got any coffee?”
“Where’s your RV?”
“I can’t go back in there.” He dropped his head and drew a shuddering breath. “Last time I made coffee in that kitchen, Lucky was alive.”
Lightfoot caught my eye. “Don’t you have coffee in the officials’ tent?”
“Could be.” Could also be that I didn’t want to leave this potential suspect behind, to miss out on any crucial information he would give the detective in my absence.
“I’d be eternally grateful.” Whip grabbed my hand and pulled it to his chest, dusting it with chili powder.
“Sure.” I withdrew my hand and wiped it on the side seam of my jeans. I’d taken three steps when I spun around. “Was that the only place he kept the number for his pacemaker? He didn’t keep it anywhere else, like a wallet or a safe?”
Whip lowered himself carefully to the ground. “I’ll just sit here until you get back.” His voice was wafer thin. What a drama queen.
Back at the tent, Lenny was snoring. I filled a paper cup with what I prayed was coffee, though it was so black and slick I could’ve sworn it was motor oil.
“Only thirty minutes until we get under way.” Bridget and Sam appeared to be playing go fish. “I hope you haven’t forgotten anything.” Entry numbers had been taped to the judges’ table, disposable tasting spoons and sample cups placed at each spot, and lined trash cans positioned in reach.
I prayed Uncle Eddie had followed our checklist to the letter. “Why? Is something missing?” I was a bit ticked at their lack of concern. “What else is there to do but wait for the entries?”
“Cheating is under way as we speak.” Sam shuffled the deck and then shuffled it again.
Bridget slapped her hands together. “Listen to him.” She gestured wide, encompassing the fairgrounds before her. “Right now, some contestants are bending the rules while others are breaking them.”
“I have to make an emergency coffee delivery.”
“If you want to protect the integrity of this event, then you better join your uncle policing the contestants.” Her beady eyes burned with religious fervor.
“Uh, well.” For Uncle Eddie, I’d do anything. “I’ll get right on it. But what kind of cheating should I be looking for?”
“Tell her, Sam.” She folded her hands in her lap, nodding for him to proceed.
He began to deal a hand of ten cards each—gin rummy, if I had to guess. “Look for folks taking precooked chili out of their coolers or RVs, trying to pass it off as fresh.”
“Wouldn’t they have already brought it out?”
He shook his head and studied his hand. “Contestants panic near the end, especially the first-timers. That’s when they bring out that Tupperware container of chili they made at home, just in case.”
“How am I supposed to catch them?”
“Your presence is a reminder for them to do the right thing, follow the rules, not act on their baser instincts.” Bridget frowned over her cards.
I sighed. “Anything else?”
“Store-bought meat.” With a smile, she moved three cards together in her hand.
“Excuse me?”
Sam studied Bridget as she rearranged her hand once again. “All meat is to be cooked on-site. Some folks cheat by bringing precooked meat.”
The coffee was cooling and my patience was wearing thin. “Any tips on finding those prepared meats?”
“Wrappers,” they said in unison.
“Got it.” I’m afraid I stomped away. Found Whip and gave him his lukewarm cup of coffee, and explained to Lightfoot my new tasks.
“Sounds like that’s your priority.” Lightfoot tried not to smile.
I watched Whip drink his coffee and toddle back to his tent to finish his chili preparations. “What else did he tell you?”
“Not much.”
“What about the pacemaker serial number? Where else did Lucky keep it?”
“He couldn’t remember, but he did remember the doctor’s name: Samantha Castillo.”
“Have you called her yet?”
With a shake of his head, he pocketed his notepad and pencil. “You understand that we’re not talking about only one phone call.”
“True.” He would have to call the doctor’s office. That call would be followed by a call to the surgeon who’d implanted the pacemaker, which would be followed by a call to the manufacturer, and on and on.
Uncle Eddie appeared from behind Whip’s tent. One look at my face and he swooped in to give me a quick hug. “It’s gonna be okay, Jo Jo.”
“You bet it is. You still on patrol?”
He grimaced. “Only made one circuit, but apparently I’m supposed to keep this up until it’s time for the judging to start.”
“I’ll take this turn.” I glanced at my watch. “You see to Lenny and drink a cup of coffee. You can relieve me in fifteen, twenty minutes.”
In the daylight, more of my uncle’s gray hairs stood out. “Lightfoot? Uh, Detective Lightfoot, please tell me this was a heart attack.” Worry creased Uncle Eddie’s dear face.
“I wish I could, but the death looks suspicious.”
Uncle Eddie took his cowboy hat in his hands. “I don’t care if they demand my resignation.” His expression reminded me of a depressed basset hound. “It’s the kids at the Big Bend Children’s Home who’ll suffer. It took us months to plan this fund-raiser so they could buy new playground equipment.” With a sniff, he found his handkerchief in his pocket, blew his nose, and turned to go.
“Nonsense.” I grabbed him by the arm. “Look around. These chili cooks aren’t letting a little thing like death stand in their way, and neither will we.”
Lightfoot caught my silent plea. “Everything appears to be in order. Everyone is going about their business.”
From the parking lot appeared a familiar figure. Mayor Cogburn in his rhinestone cowboy getup with Mrs. Mayor at his side. Surprisingly, she had ignored her matching outfit for a prairie dress and bonnet. If I wasn’t mistaken, she was wearing her costume from our recent Homestead Days Music Festival.
“Detective,” the mayor called, still a far piece away. “What in blue blazes is happening in these fairgrounds?”
“Uh, Jo Jo. I’ll take this round.” Uncle Eddie waved at the mayor and then turned tail and hurried away to hunt for chili-cooking cheaters.
“Where does your uncle think he’s going?”
“Howdy, Mayor Cogburn.” My smile stretched from ear to ear. “Mrs. Cogburn, that’s a beautiful costume.”
She straightened her bonnet and checked to make sure both her pearl earrings were still in place. “I bought this at a craft fair in Fredericksburg last weekend.”
“Eddie Martinez can’t run from me, young lady. He’s got some explaining to do.”
“How can I be of service, Mayor?” Lightfoot stuck out his hand.
The surprised mayor didn’t forget his manners and shook the officer’s hand. “You can start with the dead body.”
“Is it in there?” Mrs. Cogburn stared at the tent with wide, frightened eyes.
“No, ma’am. The body’s been taken to the morgue.”
She visibly relaxed. “Who was it? Surely not someone we know.” She took the mayor’s ar
m.
“A tourist, from what I hear.” Mayor Cogburn patted his wife’s hand.
“One of the chili cooks from out of town.”
“I heard he had a heart attack.”
Lightfoot shot a glance my way. “It’s possible, but not confirmed at this time.”
“Save your rhetoric for the media.” He nodded in my direction. “Let’s get it all out in the open.”
“But, Mr. Mayor, Josie’s writing for the Bugle these days.” Mrs. Cogburn gave me a warm smile, not realizing she was shooting my chance of gathering inside information in the foot.
“Hmm. That right?”
I assumed a downcast expression. “I do write the occasional article for them, sir.”
“Well, let’s just consider this a press conference. Let those magpies from Marfa and Fort Davis call the sheriff’s office for the nitpicking details.”
“Well?” Mayor Cogburn’s eyes narrowed.
“The dead man was hit on the back of the head or he fell. It’s unclear whether the blow killed him or he was dead before he hit his head,” Lightfoot said.
Well, well. Lightfoot hadn’t shared the bit about the stun gun in the chili, had he? And why was it there? Had it been dropped or hidden in Lucky’s flavorful concoction?
“Could this have been caused by negligence on the part of the cook-off organizers?” The mayoral couple in unison shifted their gaze to me, catching me in their critical net.
I opened my mouth to refute the accusation.
“No sign of negligence on anyone’s part, except maybe the deceased’s.”
“Explain, sir.”
“If you could see the inside of the deceased’s tent you would immediately note how organized it is. The only thing out of place are several extension cords just inside the tent opening,” Lightfoot said.
“Did you or did you not provide extension cords for the contestants?”
“I did not. It’s not customary to provide them, and furthermore we don’t have the money for a hundred extension cords,” I said.
“Why not?”
Was the mayor serious? “This is a charity event.”
Cinco De Murder Page 9
