Revenge of the Chili Queens Read online

  He started walking again, and we sidestepped the cops and continued on along the plaza. By now, there were vans from a couple of the local TV stations there along with a crowd of curious onlookers. Nick didn’t say a word until we were well past all of them.

  “He was what?” he asked.

  “He was upset about something,” I said. “He said something about a woman he called Senora Loca. And then he asked for security. And I pointed you out to him, and that man, he took one look at you, turned around, and went the other way.”

  At this end of the plaza the shadows were deep; his shrug was barely noticeable. “That doesn’t mean anything. If the man was upset, it’s only natural he’d want to find someone from security.”

  Since he obviously wasn’t listening, I had no choice but to clamp a hand down on his arm. At my touch, his muscles bunched. “Of course it was only natural. But it wasn’t as simple as that. Don’t you get it? He asked for security, but when he saw you, he split. What does that tell you?”

  Light and shadows played over Nick’s expression, making him look as if he’d been carved from stone. “It tells me he changed his mind. Or he thought of something he had to do. Or he wanted to grab another bowl of chili. Or maybe he just decided not to talk to me because he didn’t like the look of my face or the color of my tie. I can’t say for sure, because I don’t know. All I know for sure is I never saw that man before in my life.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning the Chili Showdown was in full swing and the sky above the fairgrounds where we were set up was filled with fat, white clouds. The gates opened exactly at ten and already, the air was so moist and heavy, it was hard to breathe.

  Especially from inside the Chili Chick.

  The Chick, see, is a work of art constructed from wire and mesh and heavy canvas, a gigantic red chili costume that I step into, pull up over my head, and zip up the back. The chili completely covers me all the way to down just past my hips. My arms stick out the sides. My legs in their fishnet stockings stick out the bottom. The tall stilettos I wear with those stockings are impossible to miss.

  But then, so are my killer legs.

  Of course, that’s the whole idea. It always has been, since back in the day when Jack first thought of the Chili Chick and brought her to life through a series of Chicks who’d worn her proudly since. Sylvia’s mom was once the Chick. So was my mom. The fact that Jack had fallen in love with both of them was no big surprise. Aside from being a ladies’ man through and through, there is something about the Chick that makes her impossible to resist.

  Kitschy.

  Funny.

  Funky.

  In case the yellow sign above our chili pepper red food truck doesn’t get customers’ attention, the Chick does when she dances her fool head off and waves people in.

  Dancing my fool head off, I put my face as close as possible to the red mesh at the front of the costume and sucked in a breath at the same time I managed a shuffle step and a wave to the group of people walking by. It worked. They went up to the front concession window, and Sylvia started into her spiel about All-Purpose Chili Cha-cha, Global Warming, and Thermal Conversion, our three most popular spice mixes.

  This was a good thing, because while she was busy with them, I ducked around to the back of the Palace and into the shadows. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly cool, but it was cooler than standing out in the beating sun. This sweltering Chili Chick leaned against the Palace, pulled in a breath of wonderfully fragrant, chili spice–filled air, and took a breather.

  If only it was that easy to take a break from the thoughts of murder that swirled through my head.

  Murder. A mysterious victim. And Nick.

  See, I’d gotten up early that morning (and believe me when I say this is not something I am usually inclined to do), and I did a lot of thinking. But no matter how many times I went through the scene in my head, I couldn’t make sense of why the victim was so desperate to find someone from security, then just as desperate to head the other way when he realized that someone was Nick.

  And Nick claimed he knew nothing about the man?

  To me, it just didn’t add up.

  “So much for that flimsy explanation, buster,” I mumbled as if Nick was there to hear me and dispute the excuse he’d given me the night before.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” I told myself, and really, there’s only one thing to do when that kind of curiosity nibbles away at this Chili Chick’s brain.

  I had to do some more digging and find the answer.

  A plan already spinning through my head, I poked my chili around the corner of the Palace, made sure Sylvia was still busy with those customers, and took off down the midway as fast as a chili in stilettos can move. With any luck, Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann wouldn’t be in the trailer they used as the main office and mother ship of each Showdown event and I’d have a few minutes to myself to look through their files.

  “Maxie, good morning!”

  So much for luck. Half good, half bad by the looks of things. As soon as my chili-encased butt was up the steps and through the door, none other than Gert Wilson popped out of the chair behind the desk where Ruth Ann usually sat to take care of all the administrative details that allowed the Showdown to run like clockwork in each town we visited. Gert had her own setup at the Showdown where she sold things like chili-themed aprons and pot holders and jewelry. What she was doing in Ruth Ann’s place was a mystery. At least until Gert explained.

  “Ruth Ann had to step out for a minute and asked me to take her place. You know, in case anybody stopped in with questions. What can I do for you?” When I’m not wearing my Chick stilettos, Gert is a tad taller than me, but now, she needed to look up to try and see me through the mesh at the front of the costume. “Shouldn’t you be outside dancing?”

  “Too hot,” I told her. Which wasn’t exactly a lie. “I needed a break and I knew Ruth Ann would have the AC cranked.” It was, and I wallowed in the glory of it. “Besides, I need a little time to myself. It’s going to be busy today.”

  “Thank goodness!” Gert was a middle-aged woman with hair the color of a desert sunset, a wide, pleasant face, and ample hips. That day—like most days—she was wearing an ankle-length skirt. That day’s choice was denim, but that day—like most days—she’d added a dozen bright beaded bracelets, a yellow shirt, and a filmy orange scarf to her outfit, just to jazz things up.

  She strolled to the window that looked out over the midway and the crowds that poured in. “Ruth Ann tells me that poor Tumbleweed couldn’t sleep last night from worrying. Another murder, and you know as well as I do, that can’t be good for business. Thank goodness that man had the sense to get killed somewhere other than here at the Showdown!”

  She slapped a hand to her mouth. “You know I didn’t really mean that the way it came out,” she said. “I just meant . . . well, you know, Maxie. Two Showdowns these last few weeks. Three bodies. Sooner or later, that sort of thing gives a show a bad reputation. If people stopped coming, a lot of people would lose their livelihoods. That would be a real shame. For all the Showdown folks.”

  “Not going to happen,” I told her, stepping to her side. From outside, a man caught sight of the giant chili in the window and waved. I waved back. “The Showdown is the best chili cook-off show on the road. People are always going to want to come and taste our chili and be part of the cook-off contests and buy all the spices and the beans and the supplies our vendors sell. Real chili lovers? Not even bad news can keep them away.”

  “Well, at least this time, the bad news isn’t just ours. Too bad for those Chili Queens people, though. That woman, the one who’s in charge—”

  “Eleanor Alvarez.”

  “Yes, Eleanor. She’s the one. Ruth Ann tells me that you told her that Eleanor was plenty upset last night.”

  I knew this for a fact, but all wasn’t doom and gloom.
“Folks paid their money to get in, so the literacy organization will still collect a hefty chunk. And we took in plenty of extra tips and donations besides. Even though people were mostly only throwing in loose change and ones, Sylvia says our tent alone brought in an extra two hundred dollars.”

  Loose change and ones.

  The words bounced around inside my head, and I remembered what the cop at the crime scene had said the night before. The victim had seventeen dollars and seventy-five cents in his pockets. All in change and small bills.

  “That’s nice that people were willing to donate even more,” Gert said, drawing me out of my thoughts before that idea had a chance to bounce to any sort of conclusion. “Now if only the police can figure out who killed that poor man.”

  “Speaking of him . . .” Although most people who know me would say it isn’t possible, I can be subtle when it suits me. Subtly, I stepped toward the metal filing cabinets where all the Showdown records were kept. Well, as subtly as a giant red chili can. “We need to figure out who he was.”

  “We?” Gert didn’t say this the way Nick might have, the word tinged with contempt and suspicion. In fact, color rushed into her cheeks. “Are you sure it’s smart to investigate again?”

  “It’s not like I’m staking out some dive bar, waiting for the perp,” I told her. “I thought I’d just do some . . . recon. Yeah, that’s all I have in mind. I’m sure the cops are going to come around and question Ruth Ann and Tumbleweed. You know, about who the dead guy was, when Tumbleweed hired him, how they found him, where he lives. You know, all the usual background information.”

  “Just like on those police shows on TV.” Gert glanced over at the file cabinets where Ruth Ann kept all the pertinent paperwork. “You’d like to get a look at the files first.”

  I sidled closer to the metal filing cabinets. “It can’t hurt anything.”

  Gert looked over her shoulder toward the door. “And if Ruth Ann asks?”

  “You know she’d let me look,” I said, even as I pulled open the nearest file drawer. “Ruth Ann can’t say no to me.”

  “Well . . .” Gert may have talked the talk, but I couldn’t help but notice that when it came to walking the walk, she couldn’t resist. She glanced over my shoulder to get a look at the files. “There’s one marked Chili Queens Event,” she said, snatching it out of the drawer and flipping open the file. “It looks like permits, and agreements with the unions who put up the lights, and notifications to the police. I bet all those details were handled by Eleanor Alvarez and her committee. The way I heard it, the only thing Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann were in charge of was . . .” Her fingers fluttered over the file folders. “Yes! Here, the entertainers.”

  She took the file back to Ruth Ann’s desk with her. “Tumbleweed told me he did all the hiring, but none of it was done in person. I’ll bet that’s why he didn’t recognize that poor man. You know, last night, when the police asked him to look at the body.” Gert’s brows dropped low over her eyes. “Poor Tumbleweed, he was pretty shaken up by the time he got back here last night.” Her shoulders twitched. She slapped the folder down on the desk and flipped it open. “We’ve got to do whatever we can to help out Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann. They’re dear people,” she said. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

  It wasn’t easy reading, I mean, what with that mesh screen in front of my face and the fact that the Chick had to bend over in a pretty much not-so-bendable costume to get a gander at that file folder, but I made a valiant effort.

  “Mariachi band,” I said, skimming over the first employment contract Gert pulled from the file. “Guitar player.” My hopes rose when I saw the second contract, then plummeted right back down when I realized that particular application had a picture of the guitarist along with it. It was the man who’d played the lovely flamenco music I’d heard wafting across the plaza during the event, not our dead strummer.

  “Harpist.” I remembered this musician, too, tucked away in a corner closest to the entrance to the Alamo. “Maracas player, drummer, violinist.” I grumbled my way through the rest of the employment contracts. “There have to be more.”

  Just to be sure, Gert checked the file cabinet again.

  “Not a one,” she told me. “And you know Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann wouldn’t misplace anything like that. They’re too careful when it comes to Showdown business.”

  I’m not sure what we hoped to accomplish, but for a few moments, the two of us stood side by side and stared down at those employment contracts.

  “What does it mean?” Gert finally asked. “Why isn’t there a contract for that poor, murdered man?”

  Honestly, I couldn’t say. Not for sure, anyway. But . . .

  “If you ask me,” I told her, “it means he didn’t belong there.”

  “You mean, he was just posing as a musician?”

  “It’s what I told Nick last night. Mr. Hot Guitar Player was trying to fit in, pretending that he was working there.”

  “But why?” Gert asked.

  This, I couldn’t say, either, not for certain, but it didn’t take much of a leap of faith to figure it out.

  “He didn’t belong but he wanted to look like he did,” I mumbled, mostly to get the facts straight in my own head. “To me, that means the man had some sort of secret.”

  “It is just like in the cop shows on TV,” Gert gasped.

  And maybe she was right. I couldn’t say, but I sure intended to find out.

  With that in mind, I told Gert I’d see her later and headed back outside. Maybe an hour of dancing in the glaring Texas sun would heat up my brain and get it working.

  Or maybe I wouldn’t have to wait that long.

  Not far from Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann’s trailer, my attention was caught by a familiar pale face.

  Detective Anita Gilkenny, and she was walking toward where Nick was standing in the shade of the awning over the entrance to the spacious setup where—when she wasn’t manning the desk for Ruth Ann—Gert sold her chili-themed dish towels, coffee mugs, aprons, and jewelry.

  It probably goes without saying, but let me just mention here that it’s a little hard to be unobtrusive when one is encased in a giant red chili.

  It’s no wonder I had to duck behind the nearest food truck and make my way from behind a row of vendors to where Nick and the detective chatted. I sidled between Gert’s tent and Jorge LaReyo’s tamale stand just in time to hear Nick’s rumbling baritone when he responded to something Gilkenny said.

  “You’re a smart guy,” Gilkenny replied. “You know this doesn’t look good.”

  “It doesn’t look like anything.” With my chili butt as flat as it was able to get against Gert’s tent, I couldn’t see Nick, but I could well imagine the look on his face. I wondered if Detective Gilkenny would survive the icy onslaught. “It isn’t anything more than I said it was last night. I didn’t know the guy.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as it’s possible to be. But then, by the time I got called to the scene, it was late, the light was blinding, and our victim, he wasn’t exactly at his best.”

  There was silence for a few moments, and I pictured Gilkenny eyeing up Nick like just another perp.

  I guess I was right, because I heard him growl from deep in his throat.

  “What if I told you . . .” Gilkenny’s voice dropped, and I inched a little closer, my head cocked so my ear was closer to the mesh panel. “What if I told you we ran the dead man’s fingerprints and made an identification?”

  I didn’t have to see Nick. I knew him well enough. I could picture him crossing his arms over that chipped-from-granite chest. “That’s your job. I’m glad you were successful.”

  “If I told you our victim’s name, maybe that would jog your memory.”

  “I don’t see how,” Nick said. “I’ve never been in San Antonio before. I don’t know anyone
here.”

  “Dominic Laurentius. Unusual name, isn’t it? The kind that sticks with you once you hear it.”

  Stony silence from Nick, and oh, how I wished I could see him. Maybe then I’d have an idea what was going on behind that gorgeous face of his.

  From what I’d seen of her, I wouldn’t peg Anita Gilkenny as the type who lost her cool too easily, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. I heard her groan. “Come on, Falcone. You’re not dumb, and neither am I. You know where this is headed. Dominic Laurentius, our victim. He was ex LA police. Just like you.”

  • • •

  Ex LA police.

  Of course, on the face of it, that didn’t mean a thing. I mean, a whole bunch of people are probably ex LA police, right? And it’s got to be a huge department. Not everyone knows everyone.

  But not everyone knows Nick Falcone like I do, either, and I knew him well enough to read through the response he didn’t give Gilkenny. Unfortunately, at that very moment, Tumbleweed’s voice blared over the loudspeakers set up throughout the fairgrounds as he announced that the day’s first judging was scheduled to start (homestyle chili—that is, chili that’s made with any combination of ingredients and can include beans and pasta). Nick gave Gilkenny the “gotta work” excuse. She told him—in a no-nonsense, not friendly sort of way—that they’d for sure talk later.

  That gave me some time to poke my nose further into the mysterious death of Dominic Laurentius.

  With that in mind, I dragged myself back over to the Palace. Literally. When I got there, one stiletto off and in my hand, I braced my other hand against the front counter, listed to the left, and breathed so hard that not even Sylvia could fail to hear the signs of my distress from inside the Chick.

  “Gotta . . .” I gulped down a breath. “Gotta sit down,” I moaned. “The medic, over there at the first aid tent . . .” I glanced in the general direction. “When I fainted the first time . . . she said it’s . . . heatstroke for sure. It’s the costume. Too . . . too hot.”