Revenge of the Chili Queens Read online

  Something told me that it was no coincidence that the smile dissolved on Martha’s face the moment the words were past my lips.

  And no wonder that I was more curious than ever.

  “How about Rosa’s place?” I asked, raising my voice a bit so Rosa could hear me from where she was going from table to table beneath the tent, collecting the used bowls and tossing them in the trash. “I’ve heard Caliente is plenty good, but nothing compares to Picante.”

  Who would have thought that an old woman could move so fast?

  Rosa was up in my face in a matter of seconds.

  “What do you know about my Picante?” she asked. “And why are you asking about it? How dare you just come barging over here and—”

  “Rosa.” Martha stood next to her and slipped an arm around her waist. “Rosa, you probably don’t want to talk about this. Not here. Not now.”

  “Or maybe I do.” Rosa pulled away from Martha. “Because I want to know what this little girl is talking about. What do you know?” She reached back to the serving table, and when she swung back around, she had a knife in her hands. It was maybe a foot long, and the pointed blade flashed in the gleam of the overhead lights. She didn’t point the knife right at me, but that didn’t stop me from knowing exactly what she’d like to do with it. And me.

  I managed to hold my ground, even when Rosa gave me a narrow-eyed look. “You tell me right now,” she demanded. “Or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Do what you did to Dom?” Okay, so it wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to accuse a woman holding a knife of a murder, but something told me the moment would not present itself again so perfectly. Rosa was irritated, and if I had to guess, I’d say she was afraid of something, too. Otherwise she wouldn’t have gone off like a bottle rocket. It was the perfect combination. At least when it came to getting her to spill the beans.

  It was not so perfect if she planned on actually using that knife.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and refused to look at the glittering blade of that knife. Courageous? Tell that to the crazy drum-line rhythm my heart was pounding out inside my rib cage. I swallowed hard and raised my chin. “You want to tell me about it, Rosa? Because you were the one who killed him, right? And Martha, you knew about it. You were part of it. That would explain why you two are so chummy all of a sudden. You were in it together!”

  The sounds that came out of Rosa started out small. Like the squeaks of a chipmunk. After a couple seconds, the squeaks blended together into one long screech, Rosa’s mouth fell open, and she let out a laugh that practically knocked her off her feet.

  I missed the joke, but Martha did not. She started laughing, too, the sound more of a bray to Rosa’s guffaw. Martha threw back her head and laughed loud enough to shake the lights that hung in twinkling arcs above our heads.

  “This little girl, she’s hilarious!” Pressing one hand to her heart, Rosa tossed the knife down on the nearest table and fought to catch her breath. “You think I killed that no-good Dominic? You know what?” She leaned in nice and close. She smelled like garlic and oregano and guajillo, those peppers so often used in mole sauces. “I wish I had. Oh, how I wish I had! Instead . . .” She reached behind her and whisked the knife off the table, and the blade sparkled. “All I did was scare the living daylights out of that rattlesnake. Just like this. All I did was wave this knife in his face. Oh yeah, that was enough to scare the bejabbers out of him!”

  I thought back to the night of the murder and how Dom had run into my tent looking for security and talking about—

  “Senora Loca!” I pointed at Rosa. “The crazy lady. That was you!”

  “You bet it was.” When she laughed, Rosa’s breasts jiggled and she wheezed. She plunked herself down in the nearest chair. “Oh, that was fun what I did to that Dom, let me tell you. I pulled out my little knife and I waved it under his nose and that no-good son of a gun, he went running away like a scared little conejo. You know, a little bunny rabbit.”

  “I told her not to mess with him.” Martha took the seat next to Rosa, and though she was apparently trying to prove that when it came to scaring Dom, she was the sensible one, she couldn’t hide the smile that went ear to ear. “But she wouldn’t listen, and really, I couldn’t blame her. That scumbag, he deserved it. Put a little scare in him. He deserved it after what he did to us.”

  At the same time I tried to take it all in and make some sense of it while I was at it, I looked from one woman to the other. “So you didn’t kill Dom?”

  Martha tsked. “Wish I would have.”

  “Wish I helped,” Rosa added.

  “And that’s why you’re friends now? Because you wished you’d planned a murder together?”

  Martha shook her head. “Well, it didn’t hurt,” she admitted. “But what made us realize we had a lot in common . . .” She looked to Rosa.

  “It was Dom,” Rosa said. “See, when we were here Monday night, first I took a break—”

  “No, no,” Martha butted in. “I took my break first.”

  “Did you?” I could just about see the argument form on Rosa’s lips, but instead of allowing that to happen—like the Rosa I met on Monday night would have—she laughed. “No matter. What matters is we each took a break, and when we did, what else could we do? We walked around the plaza.”

  “And tasted some of the chili available in the other tents,” Martha said. “Those society ladies . . .” She looked to the nearby tent where I saw Eleanor with a small circle of well-dressed people around her, laughing (ever so politely, of course) at some story she told. “And of course, your chili, it’s good. Believe it or not, so is theirs.” She didn’t so much look at Ginger and Teddi like she didn’t like them. It was more like she just didn’t get them. “But it was when I stopped over there . . .” Her gaze went over to the Consolidated Chili tent and her top lip curled.

  “We each tasted some of the samples of their new chilies.” Rosa took over the telling of the story, and the look she shot at the Tri-C tent was hotter than a ghost pepper. “They’re doing testing. You know.” Thinking, she scrunched up her nose. “They’re doing what-do-you-call-it.”

  “Test marketing.” Martha filled in the blank. “They were handing out tastes of their newest chilies, you know, the new flavors that they’re going to can and bring to market within the next few months.”

  More canned chili. Exactly what the universe did not need.

  I shivered at the very thought.

  “I tasted the first new flavor,” Rosa told me, “and it was good.” She glanced at Martha. “In fact, it was very good. Then I tasted the second flavor, the one Tri-C is calling Texas Favorite. I took a bite and . . .” Reliving the moment, she sat up like a shot, and maybe Texas Favorite is especially spicy, because Rosa’s face turned as red as a Fresno pepper. “It was wonderful. And . . . and so familiar. So like the recipe I call Picante.”

  “The same thing happened to me,” Martha added. “I tried Texas Favorite first. And it was very good. But when I tasted what Tri-C calls its Southwest Glory chili . . . well, I . . .” She fanned her face with one hand. “I couldn’t believe it. I would know those flavors anywhere. I should. My mother made that chili, and my grandmother, and her mother before her. It was my Chili ala Martha!”

  “Picante and Chili ala Martha.” I chewed this over (figuratively, of course) and just about heard the pieces thunk into place inside my head. “Those were two of the items Dom had circled on your menus. And Dom worked for Tri-C. Did he . . .” The thought hit with all the subtlety of a punch to the solar plexus, and I grunted. “Your recipes? For Tri-C’s canned chili? How?”

  “That’s what we didn’t understand,” Martha said. “Because we talked about it, of course. We both felt like we’d been sucker punched, and we put our heads together and we talked about it.”

  “And then . . .” As if it was happening right t
here before our eyes, Rosa pointed a finger out to the plaza. “We saw that lowlife Dominic walk by with that stupid guitar around his neck.”

  “I said he looked familiar,” Martha told me.

  “And I said he looked like someone who used to work at my restaurant as a chef,” Rosa said.

  “And that’s when I realized he worked as a chef at my restaurant, too,” Martha added.

  I’d heard of it before—industrial espionage—I just didn’t think it could possibly happen. Not in the fine and spicy world of chili.

  “He worked for each of you at the same time he was employed by Consolidated Chili. And when he worked for you, he—”

  “Stole our recipes,” Martha said.

  Rosa grunted. “And now those low-down rattlesnakes over at Tri-C are canning our chili.”

  “Canned.” A tear slipped down Martha’s cheek. “My ancestors are turning in their graves.”

  “And mine.” Rosa patted Martha’s hand. “That’s why I went after him with a knife,” she admitted. “Not that I ever really would have hurt him.” She pouted. “I wish I would have had the nerve to gut him. He deserved it.”

  “And after you found out what Dom had done to both of you, that’s when you realized that arguing all the time was silly. That’s when you became friends.”

  “Well, yes.” Martha smoothed a hand over her apron. “Something like that.”

  “It was the wake-up call we needed,” Rosa added. “It helped us see the light.”

  “And the folks at Consolidated Chili?” I asked. “Have you talked to them? What do they say?”

  Rosa sniffed. “Said those recipes have been in production for a couple years. That’s how long it takes, you know, for a new food to be introduced to the market.”

  “That Mr. Montgomery, he said he’d look into it,” Martha added. “ We haven’t heard back from him yet.”

  “But that doesn’t change what Dom did to either of you.” I could imagine their outrage, because I felt it deep inside my bones. Chili is more than just a food; it’s a philosophy of living. Like yoga, only without the deep breathing and with a whole lot more oomph. It boiled my blood to think someone could be despicable enough to do what Dom and Tri-C had done to both these ladies.

  It did something else, too, and as I scurried back across the plaza to take my place beside Sylvia in our tent, I wondered if Rosa and Martha even realized it.

  Knowing that Dom had stolen their recipes . . . that made the two once-warring Chili Queens look guiltier than ever.

  CHAPTER 13

  In spite of what some people—Sylvia, for instance—might say, I do actually have a conscience. I knew we’d be busy at the Showdown on Friday, and rather than make my half sister do all the work all day long, I got up brighter and earlier than I think is civilized and headed to downtown San Antonio.

  Yes, I would be back in the same part of town for that night’s fund-raising event, but that wouldn’t do me any good. Not for what I had in mind. I needed to be there during business hours.

  An Internet search, a scramble for enough cash to pay the fare, and a cab ride later, I was standing outside a twenty-six-story glass and steel monstrosity of a building with a wide plaza out front. There was a fountain gurgling away at its center, and for a couple cool and glorious moments, I let the spray splash over me. Sure, it was early, but already, the sun baked the plaza and my skin. The sprinkle off the fountain was heavenly, and I tipped my head back and enjoyed it. That is, until I realized the gleaming stainless steel sculpture that rose from the center of the fountain like Godzilla out of Tokyo Bay was actually a can of chili.

  Talk about putting a damper on the mood!

  Shaking off the bad vibes and the tiny drops of water that touched my face and my shoulders and the semi-professional-looking white blouse I’d worn with a black skirt and sensible black flats I didn’t own and had to “borrow” from Sylvia (hey, she was still asleep when I left the RV and she’d never know), I headed into the building.

  As I have noted before, there must be big money in canned chili, and nothing proved it like the lobby of the world headquarters of Consolidated Chili.

  Marble floor polished to a sheen.

  Bank of elevators that whisked away groups of conservatively dressed people who talked in hushed tones and carried leather briefcases and Coach bags and their lunches in cute insulated sacks that had apparently been a handout at some corporate event because they were all alike—yellow with a picture of a can of chili on it and the word Consolidated arched over it in alligator green letters.

  Somehow it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that it was against company rules to use a plain ol’ brown paper bag.

  Chili cans that matched the gigantic sculpture out in the fountain dangled from the ceiling of the atrium at the center of the lobby on invisible wires. The cans looked as if they were floating, flying, ready to swoop down on unsuspecting diners and snatch them up into the great big nothingness of taste that was canned chili.

  Behind the massive desk where four receptionists fielded phone calls and handled visitors, the entire wall was lined with real cans of chili. As if they were stars and all the world was a stage designed for singing the praises of mass-produced, tasteless, soulless chili, a bright spotlight shone on them, accentuating their familiar red labels and the names I’d grown up hearing touted on TV commercials that always gave me the willies.

  North, south, east, and west,

  Consolidated Chili is the best!

  Nothing proved the alluring nature of advertising better than the fact that I couldn’t get the words and the tune of the perky Tri-C jingle out of my head. No matter how hard I tried.

  Of course a guard in a dark uniform, his expression as stiff as the collar of his white shirt, stopped me.

  I explained that I had an appointment with John Wesley Montgomery, which wasn’t true but was better than telling the guard that I had to talk to his big, big boss because Montgomery might be mixed up in a murder. After all, it was Montgomery’s company that was producing Southwest Glory and Texas Favorite, using the recipes that had been stolen from Rosa and Martha by Dom, who’d gone undercover as a chef in both their restaurants.

  Rosa and Martha—and who could blame them?—were about to blow the whistle on the whole dirty scheme, and Montgomery knew it, because they’d talked to him about how Tri-C’s newest concoctions tasted awfully familiar.

  But wait!

  Didn’t I think that Rosa or Martha might have killed Dom because one (or both) of them was mad about the stolen recipes?

  Well, I did. But I had to hedge my bets.

  Rosa and Martha weren’t the only ones with motive.

  See, if John Wesley Montgomery knew that Dom could finger him in the recipe-rustling scheme, he might want to keep Dom permanently quiet.

  And don’t forget, I had seen that trail of Tri-C handouts on my way to finding Dom’s body.

  And as I followed that trail, I had been nearly run down by the sleek black limo that belonged to Tri-C’s president.

  I had also been grabbed by a man at the Showdown, remember, who had warned me to mind my own business.

  As for that figure on Dom’s balcony . . .

  I puffed out a breath of annoyance. I wished I could have seen better. Shadowy figures aren’t much help. Not when it comes to a murder investigation.

  Of course, I couldn’t tell the security guard any of that, so with a wide smile and a ring of confidence in my voice, I assured him that I had an appointment and that Mr. Montgomery was—even as we spoke—waiting for me. And when that guard went over to the reception desk so one of the women there could call upstairs and check it out? That’s when I hightailed it into the nearest elevator.

  I rode up to the top floor and wasn’t the least bit surprised when I stepped out of the elevator and onto a plush Oriental rug in muted shades o
f tabasco and jalapeño. The fresh flowers in vases all around the outer office were a nice touch, as were the mahogany desks of the three assistants outside a closed doorway with a brass plaque on it that told me I had found what I was looking for. In fact, the only thing that seemed out of place was the giant inflatable red chili next to John Wesley Montgomery’s door. It reminded me of the Chick, and I went over and gave it a pat.

  “Can I help you?”

  The voice that came from behind me was as chilly as the AC that poured out of a vent just above my head.

  I turned and found myself face to sneer with a woman in a black suit and pearls. Her dark hair brushed her shoulders. Her glasses gleamed in the early morning sunlight that flowed in from the windows on the far wall.

  “Great chili,” I said, looking back at the inflatable. “Just what this place needs, a little bit of fun!”

  My guess is that she didn’t agree with me, because the woman’s blank expression never changed. “Can I help you?” she asked again.

  I poked a thumb over my shoulder toward Montgomery’s closed door. “Appointment,” I said. “He’s waiting for me.”

  Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch at the same time her gaze fell to the tips of my shoes then slid up to the top of my head. Her lips pinched. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. And really . . .” I fished in my gigantic denim hobo bag and pulled out my phone to check the time. “I hate to keep him waiting, and I’m already a minute late.”

  “Oh?” This time, she didn’t wait for me to respond. The woman slipped behind the nearest desk and tapped on her computer keyboard.

  “I don’t see that Mr. Montgomery has any appointments scheduled for this morning,” she said.

  I waved away this bit of news as inconsequential. “He probably just forgot to tell you to put it on his calendar. We talked. Last night at the fund-raiser. You know, over at Alamo Plaza. And he asked me to stop by this morning and—”