Death by Devil's Breath Page 2

  His grin traveled ear to ear. “Devil’s Breath chili judging first thing in the morning! I’ve got to admit, having it be event numero uno was a stroke of genius.”

  “And your idea!” Ruth Ann wound an arm through her husband’s and smiled up at him. She was a dozen years younger than Tumbleweed and as stick-thin as he was beefy. When I was a kid and fantasized about the perfect family that I did not have, I always thought of Ruth Ann and Tumbleweed. Unlike my own parents—divorced going on twenty years—they’d stayed together through thick and thin. I always thought they were the perfect couple, and over the years nothing had made me change my mind.

  “Karl Sinclair is here, you know,” Ruth Ann purred. “That ought to attract plenty of attention to the Showdown.”

  Sinclair was a showman extraordinaire. He billed himself as the champion of hot chili and had a legion of followers from all over the world. Well, tomorrow’s event ought to prove if he had the chops to go along with his reputation. Four regional winners coming together to earn a national title that was as hot as . . .

  Well, as hot as Devil’s Breath.

  See, in the chili community, Devil’s Breath is an all-encompassing name for the hottest of the hot. I, for one, was thrilled that this special category had been added to the cook-off for the weekend show along with the usual divisions: traditional red chili (made with any meat and red chili peppers but absolutely no beans or pasta), chili verde (made with any meat and green chili peppers but absolutely no beans or pasta), salsa, and homestyle (made with any combination of ingredients including beans and pasta). The Devil’s Breath contest was garnering us plenty of publicity and putting us on the map here in Vegas, where, let’s face it, you have to be over the top to get noticed. And since I love chili—the hotter the better—and after the contest, attendees could donate money for charity and get a taste of each of the finalists’ recipes, I couldn’t wait.

  “What a weekend it’s going to be!” Tumbleweed beamed. “Why, we’re even going to have a wedding.”

  “You mean weddings,” his wife corrected him. “And speaking of that . . . oh, Reverend!” Ruth Ann waved toward a woman who made her way through the crowd toward us. “Reverend Linda Love,” she told me as an aside while we waited for the minister to come over. “She owns the largest wedding chapel in Vegas, and on Sunday, she’s going to officiate at a ceremony that will get her in the record books. The largest mass wedding ceremony—”

  “Ever performed in Nevada at a Western-themed hotel on a Sunday afternoon.”

  I had to give Reverend Love credit. When she finished the sentence for Ruth Ann, she smiled in a way that told me that even she knew how crazy it sounded. But like I said, this was Vegas, and you didn’t get to be the proprietor of the most mega of the wedding chapels in the town that wild and crazy built without having a little bit of attitude, and a lot of circus ringmaster going for you.

  I could tell Reverend Love had plenty of both.

  She was a tall woman of sixty, slim, and she wore her chin-length blond hair stylishly mussy. The hairdo added a casual little bit of pizzazz to what might otherwise have been a forbidding persona: black power suit, sparkling diamonds at neck and wrists, a watch that no doubt cost more than the worth of Texas Jack’s entire enterprise.

  She shook hands all around. “I hope you’ll all be here for the ceremony,” she said, taking each of us in with a glance. “Tumbleweed and Ruth, like I told you when we made the arrangements, you could always renew your vows.”

  “That’s a great idea!” I said.

  That made Reverend Love turn her attention to me. “And how about you?” she asked. “If you’ve got a special someone in your life, Sunday would be the perfect day to make it official.”

  “Oh no!” My hands out flat, I backed away, both from the woman and the thought of such a thing. “Been there, done that,” I told her, which wasn’t technically true because Edik and I were never married. “Not going to make the mistake again.”

  The reverend’s smile never wavered. “Love is never a mistake,” she said. “No matter the outcome. It’s that moment of commitment that matters. The way it shines through the universe and touches the world with love.”

  Maybe.

  Or maybe Linda Love had never had her credit cards scammed and her bank account emptied by a rock band lead guitarist she thought she loved.

  The old memories came crashing down, and a shiver snaked over my shoulders. I twitched it away and changed the subject as much as I was able, scrambling to remember any little bit of info I’d heard about the weekend ceremony. “One of the performers from here at the casino is going to assist you, right?”

  “Absolutely!” Reverend Love glanced around at the crowd, obviously looking for the performers. Like The Great Osborn, each of them—except for Dickie Dunkin, who was slated to be up onstage next—had already done an abbreviated show for the gathered vendors. “Each of the regulars here is going to perform one more show this weekend, and whoever sells the most tickets, well, that’s the performer who will help me out with the ceremony and be immortalized along with me in the record books.”

  “I hope it’s that magician fellow we just saw perform,” Tumbleweed said, rocking back on his heels. “He was mighty good. Did you see the way right there at the end, he made that card magically move from the table back into the box?”

  I didn’t have the heart to point out that even I could have gotten away with that trick. That six of clubs had never left the box to begin with.

  “Or that wonderful singer, Hermosa,” Ruth Ann piped up.

  Again, I kept my mouth firmly shut. Hermosa (just Hermosa, one name, like Cher but without the looks or the talent) had treated us (and oh, how I use those words in the broadest sense) to a medley of songs right before the magician came onstage.

  “Or Yancy. Don’t forget Yancy. He’s a perennial favorite here at Creosote Cal’s.” With a nod, the reverend indicated the elderly African-American man who chatted with a group of people on the other side of the room. I’d come in late and had missed Yancy Harris’s performance, but I remembered seeing the poster that advertised his act when Sylvia and I checked in. Yancy was blind, had been all his life, and according to what I’d heard about him, he could wail on the piano keyboard like no other man around.

  “And then there’s Dickie, of course,” Tumbleweed reminded us.

  Was it possible? Did I actually see the reverend’s eternally pleasant expression droop at the mention of the comedian’s name? It sure didn’t last long. But then, a middle-aged balding guy in an orange-and-brown-plaid sport coat came up behind the reverend and wound an arm around her waist, and whatever expression had been on her face, it was lost in a tiny screech of surprise.

  “Talking about me, aren’t you, sweetie?” Dickie Dunkin himself, I recognized him from the posters out in the lobby. His publicity photos had obviously been taken by a skilled professional—or thirty years before. They didn’t show the bags under Dickie’s eyes, or the blubbery jowls. They definitely weren’t scratch and sniff, either, because if they were, I would have caught wind of the musky aftershave Dickie must have applied with a soup ladle.

  “You are going to stay around for my act, aren’t you, Reverend?” Dickie asked, then gave me a broad wink. “She’ll stay. I know she’ll stay. Reverend Love here, she’s a real doll!”

  One more squeeze and Dickie hurried onto the stage.

  It was our cue to get back to our seats.

  I slipped into mine just as Sylvia came to hers from the other aisle.

  She smoothed her skirt. “Busy mingling, I see.”

  “Maybe.” We’d just gotten off the road a couple hours before and parked our RV and the food truck we hauled behind it, and I hadn’t bothered to get dolled up like Sylvia had. I was wearing skinny jeans and a skin-hugging top that was nearly as dark as my short, spiky hair. Vegas, remember, and I wasn’t about
to be intimidated by the likes of Sylvia because I went for casual (and pretty sexy, if I did say so myself) rather than for her sober good taste.

  I smoothed my hand over the legs of my jeans. “Mingling is good for business.”

  “Business is good for business,” Sylvia shot back and I braced myself. If she started into another lecture about price points and profit margins, somebody was going to have to call the Vegas boys in blue because I was going to go off on her.

  Good thing she didn’t have the chance.

  The stage lights dimmed, and a single spotlight turned on Dickie Dunkin.

  We clapped politely.

  And I settled back, all set to enjoy a little comedy.

  At least until Dickie opened his mouth.

  “Hey, did you see who’s here? It’s the Lee family!” The comedian pointed down toward the front row, and like everyone else in the audience, I craned my neck to see who he was talking about. Turns out it was Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann.

  “Ug and Home!” Dickie announced with a flourish. “Get it? Ug Lee and Home Lee.”

  A couple people actually had the nerve to laugh.

  I was not one of them.

  “Not here.” Just as I was about to jump out of my seat, Sylvia’s hand came down on my arm. “You’ll embarrass us,” she said.

  “I’ll pop that idiot in the nose.”

  As if this was exactly what she expected, Sylvia was ready with an answer. “That’s what he wants. It’s how he gets attention. Dickie picks on everyone and everything in the room during his shows, and the madder they get, the more he picks. Look, Tumbleweed’s laughing.”

  He was, but not with a whole lot of enthusiasm.

  Ruth Ann, it should be noted, was not.

  “And that Reverend Linda Love!” Both hands to his heart, Dickie went into a pretend swoon. “Have you heard about the big wedding on Sunday here at Creosote Cal’s? That’s going to be something, huh? And I’ll let you in on a little secret . . .” As if it was actually what he was going to do, he leaned toward the audience. “You know, the one who sells the most tickets to his show in the next couple days is going to help out Reverend Love with her ceremony. Come on, folks! You know where you’re going to be on Saturday night. My show. My show!” He pointed a finger at his own chest. “If you’re not, you’re idiots. Or you’ve got lousy taste. But then, I’m guessing you must not be the brightest bulbs in the box anyway. Otherwise you wouldn’t be traveling around with this crazy cook-off show! I don’t even think any of you are Americans. I think you must all be from Chile. Chile! Get it?”

  Somebody must have; there were a few laughs.

  “Hey, as long as you’re all here.” Dickie glanced around the audience. “I figure you’re all experts, and I’ve been meaning to ask you, where do you find chili beans?”

  Someone in the back row thought Dickie was serious and called out the name of his own stand, to which Dickie replied, “Idiot. You find chilly beans at the North Pole.”

  He actually got a couple laughs out of that one.

  “So, back to that wedding ceremony. You know, the one Reverend Love is going to perform. Reverend Love, she’s a real doll.” He put a hand to his eyes and scanned the audience. “Where are you, Reverend Love?” he asked and waved when he saw her. “A doll,” he said. “A real doll. And since I’ll be selling the most tickets this weekend, I’ll be helping her out with the ceremony. She’s going to be marrying a whole bunch of people, all at the same time. Hey, Osborn!” He leaned back and looked into the wings. From where I was sitting, I could see that The Great Osborn was watching the show. “Bet you’re not gonna be one of them, huh?”

  It was an inside joke so it was no wonder nobody laughed. Especially not Osborn, who threw a look at Dickie that could have incinerated asbestos.

  Water off a duck’s back. This time, Dickie aimed his sights on Yancy Harris.

  “You see who’s over here.” From the stage, he pointed down to where Harris sat all the way at the end of the same row I was in, sunglasses on and a white-tipped cane in one hand. “Hey, Yancy, you see what I mean by all this, don’t you? I mean, you see what I mean, don’t you?”

  Yancy shook his head and I couldn’t hear him, but I saw a muscle bunch at the base of his jaw at the same time his lips moved. Something told me the words weren’t a glowing review of Dickie’s shtick.

  “And then there’s Hermosa! You all saw her here earlier this evening, didn’t you, folks?” Dickie pointed to the back of the theater, and we all turned in our seats when he waved Hermosa toward the stage. It took a moment for the spotlight to find her, but when it did, it followed along. She was a chesty woman with a big head of bleached hair, and she was squeezed into a green dress that fanned out at the bottom, like a mermaid tail. She took tiny, mincing steps up to the front of the theater.

  “She’s something, isn’t she, folks?” Dickie clapped and the audience joined in. “Hermosa has an unforgettable voice. And have you seen the way she sways left and right when she really gets into a song?” Dickie swung his hips back and forth. “You know why she does that, don’t you? It’s harder to hit a moving target!”

  I didn’t even bother to groan. But then, I was pretty busy watching Hermosa curl her lip, toss her head, and turn on her heels to march out of the theater.

  Me? I was pretty much with Hermosa. I’d had enough of Dickie Dunkin. I got up out of my seat to leave.

  “Hey, where you going, sweetheart?” Dickie called after me and checked his watch. “We had it all planned. You’re not supposed to meet me in my dressing room for another fifteen minutes. Hey, that would be something, wouldn’t it? That little chickie and me.” He whistled low. “Talk about a hot tamale! And believe me, when it’s all over, I’m going to talk about it plenty!”

  By the time I punched open the door and walked out, I wasn’t even mad, just disgusted by stupid Dickie and his stupid jokes.

  Come to think of it, I guess I wasn’t the only one. There hadn’t been very many laughs packed into Dickie’s performance, but there had been plenty of people—Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann, Hermosa, The Great Osborn, Yancy Harris—who looked like they would have liked nothing better than to commit murder.

  CHAPTER 2

  We moved into the bordello that night.

  We carried boxes and arranged merchandise, and Sylvia grumbled the entire time. I, it should be noted in the interest of fairness, didn’t let that get to me. Yes, the Deadeye house of ill repute was as corny as can be with its fake red velvet, its grainy photographs on the walls of women in various stages of undress, and its faux bar (complete with bottles of colored water to look like liquor), but Tumbleweed was right. It was the biggest spot in Deadeye, and there was plenty of shelf space for us to display the spices and chili mixes and peppers we sold. It was also immediately to the right when folks walked in from the casino. Primo. And with me out front all weekend dancing and waving people inside dressed in the giant red Chili Chick costume I wore at every Showdown, I predicted our profits for the weekend would be primo, too.

  The next day was Thursday, and walking into Deadeye, I decided life was good and Deadeye . . . Deadeye smelled like hot-enough-to-self-combust chili heaven!

  I took a deep breath, savoring every bit of the aroma that wafted out of the auditorium at the far end of the “street” between the rows of shops. The general store was next door, and the night before, after I was done setting up Texas Jack’s Hot-Cha Chili Seasoning Palace in our spot and before I moseyed into the casino to lose twenty bucks at video poker, I helped Gert Wilson put her crockery and pot holders and cookbooks on display there. Next to her was the bakery shop, where the bean guy who’d taken over for the late (not so great) Puff sold his dried beans and, beyond that, the sheriff’s office. As if the Universe was conspiring to get my goat, just as I looked that way, Nick walked out. Sheriff’s office. Security. Get it? I bet Creosote Cal
thought he was one hilarious guy.

  Just so Nick didn’t get any ideas about lecturing me for the purse-stealing incident the night before, I turned my back on him, and while I was at it, I closed my eyes and tilted back my head, too. The fragrance of hot spices didn’t just tickle my senses, it punched me right in the nose, and from there, it tingled its way into my lungs. My eyes watered just a little. My breath caught. My stomach growled.

  I couldn’t wait until after the judging, when I could get my hands on a couple bowls of Devil’s Breath.

  I was so busy indulging my chili fantasies and dreaming about the butt-kicking good times my taste buds were in for, I would have completely missed the tapping noise if it wasn’t followed by the polite sound of someone clearing his throat.

  “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

  I opened my eyes to find Yancy Harris, white-tipped cane in hand, sunglasses in place, and a smile on his face. Yancy wore a black suit that was a little too big for his slim frame and a fedora with a jaunty red-and-gray feather in the band. He lifted his hat in greeting. “I asked at the front entrance and I was told Miss Maxie Pierce was the woman to see.”

  “Well, you’ve got the right person,” I told him. “What can I do for you?”

  As if he could actually see and make sure we were alone, Yancy looked around before he stepped nearer. “I’ve got a problem of a delicate sort of nature,” he confessed.

  I was already shaking my head before I remembered it was a waste of time. “I’m not exactly a delicate sort of person,” I told him.

  Yancy laughed. “This, I have also heard. That’s why the guy out front said you could help. You see, my problem is a chili problem.”

  “Chili.” The word escaped me on the end of a sigh. “Chili problems I can handle. What do you need?”

  “It’s more like what don’t I need. You heard about the contest judging this morning, right?”

  I stopped myself on the brink of a nod. “Devil’s Breath. Yeah, it’s going to be fabulous.”