Death by Devil's Breath Read online

  Like everyone else, I pulled in a breath and leaned toward her, hanging on her every word.

  Now that she was the center of attention, Reverend Love stood tall and threw back her shoulders. She also threw out an arm and arced it slowly across the circle of gathered judges and contestants.

  “I saw it. I saw it all,” she announced. “Right when Osborn and Dickie went at each other and everyone was watching them and he didn’t think anyone would notice, I saw him pour some kind of powder into one of the judges’ bowls. Well?” When no one moved fast enough to suit her, Reverend Love sent a laser look at the detective in charge. “Don’t just stand there. Arrest him. Yancy Harris poisoned Dickie Dunkin!”

  Chapter 4

  In a town where over-the-top is never over-the-top enough, chili poisoning was so over-the-top, folks couldn’t resist.

  By that afternoon word was out, and the dusty main street of Deadeye (which also happened to be the only street of Deadeye) was packed.

  It said something about people’s love of the weird, the offbeat, and the just plain disturbed, but I will admit, it was also good for business. Never one to shy away from a sale, a sales pitch, or a chance to sell more product and maybe catch up on the bills, I took full advantage. As soon as I got back to the bordello, I put on my Chili Chick costume, which covered me from the top of my head to below my hips, my fishnet stockings, and my stilettos, and got to work out front.

  “I don’t suppose you could see anything really interesting from here.” Even though I was mid–dance step and obviously busy, a middle-aged woman with a big belly who shouldn’t have been caught dead wearing the tiny pink tube top she was wearing walked out of the bordello and stopped to chat. She craned her neck to look beyond the crowd toward the far end of Deadeye, and the doors to the auditorium that were now crisscrossed with yellow crime scene tape. “Have they arrested anybody yet?”

  I was tempted to tell her I’d make sure she got arrested if she stepped any farther away from the door while she was hanging on to the unpaid-for bags of peppers she had in her hands. Instead, I opted for a little of the chili-palace-proprietor charm that usually eluded me.

  “I haven’t heard a word about an official arrest,” I said, and it was the absolute truth. While I thought about it, I did a couple quick dance steps and waved my arms in the hopes of attracting the attention of a group of men who walked by, and even though they couldn’t see my face behind the red mesh insert at the front of the costume, I grinned a welcome when they stepped into the bordello to look around and (hopefully) buy. “I do know they’re questioning a suspect.”

  A suspect.

  Yancy Harris.

  The very thought made my stomach turn, and I would have pressed one hand to it if I wasn’t incased in the giant red chili. I liked Yancy, and I couldn’t see him as a killer, yet if what Reverend Love said was true . . .

  “Questioning isn’t the same as arresting,” Tube Top Woman said. “I watch enough TV to know that. If they thought the person they’re questioning did it, they’d already have him in jail by now. Isn’t that how it works? Can’t they find out who really did it in like an hour? I mean, with all the science and DNA and stuff they have now?”

  I would have mentioned that counting commercials, it probably actually takes something like forty-five minutes for the cops to find the bad guys on TV, but something told me she wouldn’t have picked up on the sarcasm.

  “Maybe nobody killed Dickie,” the woman suggested. “Maybe it was the hot peppers that did him in.” She looked at the bags of dried scotch bonnet and datil chilies in her hands. “Because you know, if hot peppers really can stop somebody’s heart, I’ve got this real loser I’m married to. You think these will do the trick?”

  I would have laughed if I didn’t think she was serious. Instead, I mumbled something about how all hot peppers need to be used with caution, waved her toward Sylvia, who was behind the cash register, and got back to my dancing.

  For about three seconds.

  That was when Ruth Ann showed up.

  “Oh, Maxie!” She grabbed on to my hand, and for a small, bony woman, she had the grip of a WrestleMania superstar. A couple seconds in and I had to yank my hand away and shake it to get the circulation going again. Not such a bad move as it turned out. A guy walking out of Gert’s place next door thought I was waving to him and came on over to check out our wares. Right after he checked out my legs.

  “We’ve got to talk, honey,” Ruth Ann said.

  One look at the tears that shimmered in her eyes, and I grabbed on to Ruth Ann and tugged her out of the walkway and closer to the building.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  A single tear slipped down Ruth Ann’s cheek. The last time I’d seen her cry was when Gingerboy, her nineteen-year-old cat, kicked the bucket, and now, like then, my throat clutched and my heart beat a little too fast. “Something happened . . .” Like I could help it if I hiccuped over the words? “Did something happen to Tumbleweed?”

  “Oh, no, honey.” I’m pretty sure she needed the comfort more than I did, but Ruth Ann patted my hand. “Nothing’s happened to Tumbleweed. Not yet. But it’s . . .” She drew in a shaky breath. “It’s gonna, Maxie, I just know it in my heart. Something’s gonna happen to my Tumbleweed. People dying at the Showdown! He’s so worried about what it’s going to do to our reputation, it’s got his stomach in knots.”

  A group of guys with badges around their necks that said they were part of an insurance company convention walked by, and one of them knocked into the Chili Chick but didn’t bother to apologize. At the same time I sent him a death ray look he was probably too drunk to notice even if I weren’t hidden inside the costume. I steadied myself. “Tumbleweed shouldn’t be worried. Obviously, Dickie’s murder isn’t hurting us at all,” I told Ruth Ann. “Look around. The place is packed.”

  “Oh, sure. Here. In Vegas. People here are always looking for the sensational. But what’s going to happen at the next Showdown when we’re in San Antonio? Or the cook-off after that? Or the one after that?” Ruth Ann dug a tissue out of the pocket of her yellow shorts and wiped her eyes. “Most places aren’t so free and easy about things as Vegas is. Including murder. Tumbleweed, he’s afraid this is going to be . . .” Ruth Ann’s throat clogged. She coughed. “He’s afraid it’s going to be the end of us.”

  “Well, it isn’t.” I did not know this for a fact, but I made it sound like I did. “The last person who’s going to put us out of business is a jerk like Dickie Dunkin. Besides, the cops found the killer, right? Yancy Harris.” Even though Ruth Ann couldn’t see me, I shook my head at the thought. “I just can’t believe it. Yancy seems like such a nice guy.”

  Ruth Ann took ahold of my arm. “You haven’t heard? The cops took Yancy away, all right, because Reverend Love, she said she’d seen him sprinkling something in one of the judges’ bowls. Turns out it was Yancy’s own bowl and what he was sprinkling—”

  I would have slapped my forehead if the Chili Chick had a forehead to slap. “Baking soda! I’m the one who suggested it to him. He wanted something to cut down on the heat of the chili. I didn’t have any baking soda so I gave him some lime juice.”

  “He got baking soda from the kitchen.” Ruth Ann laughed. “You should have seen the looks on the cops’ faces when one of the cooks back in the kitchen confirmed it. They thought they had their man.”

  “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t Yancy,” I admitted. “As to who it could be . . .”

  “Well, that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about.” Ruth Ann scooted closer. She was even shorter than I am, and since I had the added advantage of stilettos with four-inch heels, I had to bend over to see her out of the red mesh panel that covered my face. “You need to investigate,” she said.

  Not what I was expecting, though what I was expecting, I couldn’t say. “Nick says I need to mind my own business.”
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  “Nick.” Ruth Ann flicked away the thought with the snap of her fingers. “The man’s hotter than a habanero. You being the beautiful young woman you are, I bet you’ve noticed. But he obviously doesn’t have a brain in that gorgeous head of his. If he did, he’d know what I know. You’re the one who cleared things up back in Taos, Maxie. You’re the one who found the murderer and got your sister—” She couldn’t see me open my mouth, but she knew exactly what I was going to say and corrected herself before I could. “Half sister. Yes, I know. You’re the one who got your half sister out of jail. You’d think Nick would just admit it and admit that the cops couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Well, he won’t. And he says I shouldn’t stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Except that we’re talking Tumbleweed here.”

  The waterworks started again, but three cheers for me, I stayed strong.

  “You found the killer last time,” Ruth Ann whimpered.

  “I hoped last time was the last time,” I reminded her.

  She clutched my arm. “We all did. But that’s not how things worked out.”

  “But a crazy artist came after me with a chainsaw!” I reminded her. “And I had to break into a dead guy’s apartment. And there was the dead guy’s girlfriend, the one who was gunning for me and—”

  “And this is Tumbleweed.”

  Did she hear the sigh of surrender from inside the Chili Chick?

  That would explain why Ruth Ann’s expression brightened just a bit. “Oh, Maxie, honey, I knew I could depend on you.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to do it.”

  “You didn’t have to. All you had to do is think about Tumbleweed. Just like I did. He’s no spring chicken anymore. And the stress . . . Oh, Maxie!” Even though there was a smile on her face, there were tears on Ruth Ann’s cheeks. “We’ve got to leave town with a clean reputation. That will make Tumbleweed feel better. We can’t . . .” She gulped down a breath. “We can’t let anything happen to him.”

  Inside the Chick costume, my shoulders drooped, but Ruth Ann couldn’t see that, not with the infrastructure of wires and mesh that allowed the red canvas to hold its chili shape. “I can’t promise anything,” I said.

  Her fingers dug into my arm. “Just knowing you were trying would cheer me right up.”

  “I don’t know any of the players.”

  “That doesn’t matter. If I know you’re out there talking to people and looking for motives and digging for the truth, that would make me feel so much better!”

  “I can’t let Nick find out.”

  Ruth Ann could be as sweet as spring roses, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a cagey ol’ girl. Her mouth pulled into a smile and she narrowed her eyes to give me the sort of penetrating look she used to aim my way back when I was a teenager and she suspected I’d pinched a can or two of the beer in her fridge (which I usually had). “You’re not afraid of Nick, are you?”

  The very thought felt like a kick from a mule. My shoulders shot back and my chin went up. “No, I’m not afraid of him, but—”

  Ruth Ann didn’t wait to hear what was bound to be a pretty wimpy defense anyway. She gave me a wink. “You can handle him, Maxie. I know you can. I mean, when it comes to investigating. And other things.”

  Oh, I was pretty sure I knew what other things she was referring to, but before I could squelch the sudden heat that boiled through my blood or ask for confirmation, Ruth Ann sauntered away.

  “Great, you just promised Ruth Ann you’d investigate.” Good thing I was encased in the chili so nobody could hear me mumble to myself. “Now what are you going to do?”

  I wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, I knew I couldn’t do it at the bordello.

  To make it look like I was actually working the job I was supposed to be working, I ducked into the bordello and grabbed a stack of Texas Jack Pierce’s Hot-Cha Chili Seasoning Palace flyers, then I headed down the dusty main street of Deadeye, handing flyers left and right to everyone who happened to so much as glance at the giant chili. I knew the auditorium was off-limits—at least through the main doors—so when I got over there, I looked around for what might be another way in. I found it in the form of a door painted to look like the entrance to a mine shaft with a sign hanging from it that declared, Do Not Enter.

  Just as I hoped, the door opened directly backstage.

  I closed it behind me and took a couple cautious steps forward.

  As far as I could see, there was no one around and, now that Dickie’s body had been removed and the cops were gone, no one out front, either.

  I headed for the stage.

  And stopped in an instant.

  The moment anyone heard the sounds of my stilettos rapping against the wooden floor, Security was bound to come running.

  And Security, I didn’t need.

  I slipped off my shoes and, dangling them from one hand, slid across the floor in fishnet-stockinged feet.

  Except for the fact that Dickie’s body was gone and all the chili—including the bowls the judges had been sampling—had been packed up and carted away to be tested, nothing looked different than it had when I waited backstage for the cops to talk to me. Now, I stood in the center of the stage, imagining what I’d seen earlier that day, before the cops arrived, before Dickie took a header into the Devil’s Breath.

  “The Great Osborn, Hermosa, Yancy . . .” Standing in front of the judges’ table, I let my gaze move left to right, picturing where each judge had been seated. “Reverend Love, Dickie. And the scuffle between Dickie and The Great Osborn . . .”

  That had taken place right at center stage, between the judges’ table and the tables where the contestants did their cooking.

  My stockings sliding against the slick floor, I made my way over to the cooking space, but like the judges’ table, nothing looked different to me. Brother William’s cooking area was neat and well organized. Karl Sinclair’s included a life-sized poster of him hanging from the front of the table. Tyler York’s makeshift kitchen was as shiny as Tyler himself, and still curious about him, I gave it a closer look. Every pot looked brand-new. Every pan, like it had just come out of the box. Every spoon and spatula and knife gleamed. Shiny. Like Tyler.

  Finally I looked at the space that belonged to the woman with the dark hair. Unlike Tyler’s, her area was dotted with grease and spotted with tomato sauce. Her spoons looked as if they’d put in years of service. And the smell . . .

  I stopped in my stocking-foot tracks, sniffing the air around the woman’s cooking space.

  “Blackstrap molasses and . . .” I pivoted, carefully taking another whiff, and breathed the words “Jack Daniel’s.”

  I darted to the other side of the table and looked through the woman’s stored supplies and found exactly what I knew I’d find—a bottle of tequila.

  “Tequila, molasses, Jack Daniel’s.” I really didn’t need to review the evidence, but I couldn’t help myself. In all my years on the chili circuit, I’d known only one person who used all three of those ingredients in his chili—my dad, Texas Jack Pierce.

  And eight weeks earlier, Texas Jack Pierce had fallen off the face of the earth.

  Don’t ask me what I was looking for, but even that little bit of a shaky connection made something that felt like hope blossom in my heart. I riffled through the rest of the woman’s supplies and, in the end, found myself right back where I started. There was no sign that she knew Jack, and nothing that indicated that the woman might know anything about his disappearance.

  Annoyed at myself for getting carried away, I gave an empty pot under the table a little kick.

  And stopped cold.

  A thump from backstage told me I wasn’t the only one poking around.

  Careful not to make a sound, I headed that way.

  There was a hallway behind the stage, an
d I peered around the corner, only to find a man looking into the open door of one of the dressing rooms.

  It was Dickie’s, and while he was still busy carefully poking his head past the crime scene tape strung over the doorway, I closed in on him.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  The man jumped and spun to face me, his back to the wall outside the dressing room.

  He was fifty or so with hair that must have once been sandy and now was a washed-out shade of mouse. He had a wide nose, a weak chin, and very small hands. I noticed them right away because they flew around him like butterflies on a caffeine high.

  “Um . . . what . . . hey, how are you?” He must have realized he was way too jumpy because the man hooked his thumbs into his belt buckle. It was big and silver and there were turquoise chips in it. The Southwestern theme went along with his jeans and his black shirt with red stitching.

  “Who are you?” I asked him.

  The man scratched a hand behind one ear, and call me crazy, but I would swear he didn’t think it was all that unusual to have a conversation with a giant red chili. Then again, we were in Vegas.

  “George,” he said. “George Jarret. I was just looking for . . .” His gaze darted to the dressing room. “I was just checking to see if Dickie was around.”

  If George Jarret hadn’t heard the news, he was the only one in Vegas. “Are you a friend?” I asked. “Or maybe a fan?”

  “Fan. Definitely. I’m a fan.” Jarret ran his tongue over his lips. “I mean, the guy’s a comic genius, right? I see his show every time I’m in Vegas, and I thought if I stopped by, I might catch him when he was rehearsing. I thought . . . well, I thought maybe Dickie would give me an autographed picture of something.”

  “Or you figured nobody would be around and you could pick up a little souvenir now that the news about Dickie is out,” I suggested.

  Jarret stepped away from the wall and backed a few steps down the hallway. “News? I hope nothing bad has happened to Dickie.”

  I wondered if he could pick up on my nonchalance, I mean what with the costume and all. “I’d say murder qualifies as something bad.”