Revenge of the Chili Queens Page 6

  To Sylvia’s credit, she didn’t exactly buy into the story. I mean, it’s not like she raced around to the front of the Palace, offered me an arm, and guided me to a bottle of icy cold water. But she didn’t call me a liar, either. At least not to my face. Had her memory been better and had there been fewer customers waiting for service, she might have taken the time to recall a similar incident back in St. Louis years before when a cute boy wanted to take me to McDonald’s for a burger and I was scheduled to work the Palace.

  That time, I’d developed a sudden and terrible case of the flu.

  “I’ll be back after I cool off,” I told her, and before she could start putting two and two together, I dragged around to the back of the Palace where she couldn’t see me, then raced to our RV and got out of the Chick costume.

  I knew exactly what my next move should be. Research. I needed to do some serious research and find out what Nick and this Laurentius guy might have in common. I mean other than both of them being former LAPD cops.

  The trick, of course, was where to begin.

  It only took me a few minutes to figure it out.

  It took a little longer than that to get over to the nearest public library.

  “Wasn’t it all just horrible!” The woman behind the front desk waved a hand in front of her face. “I mean, it wasn’t like I was there or anything, but I mean, really, a murder at a reading fund-raiser! It’s all anyone here at the library can talk about today, and it’s not something you can just put out of your head, is it?”

  It wasn’t, but I didn’t bother to mention that what little sleep I’d gotten the night before was punctuated with dreams of red Sharpies and broken guitars.

  “It must have been awful,” the librarian went on to say. “First all the excitement of the fund-raiser and so many wonderful people who support reading. Then . . .” She’d been standing behind the desk, and she dropped into her chair. “That poor, poor man. Have the police arrested anyone?”

  “They might have a suspect,” I told her, all the while thinking what I didn’t want to be thinking—from the way I heard Gilkenny talking back at the Showdown, I was afraid that suspect might be Nick. “That’s why I need your help.”

  I explained my dilemma, and just as I’d hoped, the woman pitched right in. Before I knew it, she had a page open on her computer and I was standing by her side and we were both looking through old newspaper articles about Detective Dominic Laurentius.

  “Seems like he was quite the hero,” the librarian said, skimming an article about an armed robbery and what Laurentius had done to stop it. “What a shame that a man with that kind of reputation has to die such a violent and tragic death.”

  I didn’t say Whatever, because it would have been insensitive and I was grateful for her assistance, but let’s face it, none of this was very helpful. I flicked a finger at the computer monitor, urging her to get to the next article.

  Honestly, I was kind of sorry when she did.

  There it was. Not exactly live and in color, but in color and on the screen right in front of my nose.

  The blood drained from my face and down to my toes and my stomach lurched when I looked at the photograph of handsome Detective Laurentius that had been taken three years earlier. He was sans guitar, of course, and along with his partner, he was being honored for bravery at a banquet given by some civic organization.

  “Well, that picture must have been taken in happier times,” Eleanor said. She pointed to the article that accompanied the photograph. “This story is about a serious altercation between Laurentius and that partner of his. It must have been really something, too, because it says here that after a department review, they both resigned from the police force. And listen to this! Laurentius, he had to give in his resignation from his hospital bed. Seems that partner of his beat him up really bad.”

  Yeah, that partner of his.

  Again, my gaze traveled to that banquet picture taken in happier days that showed Detective Laurentius standing with his partner.

  None other than the one and only Nick Falcone.

  CHAPTER 5

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Exactly what I wanted to say to Nick.

  Well, maybe not in so many words. But hey, I did need to talk to him. About what I’d found out thanks to that librarian. About what the heck he thought he was up to.

  About why he lied. To the police, and to me.

  I was for sure going to do it, too.

  As soon as I managed to locate him.

  With that in mind, I scanned the crowd—again—on Alamo Plaza that Tuesday evening, but I pretty much knew it was a losing cause from the beginning. Even if Nick was standing ten feet in front of me, it would have been tough to pick him out in the huge crowd that filled the plaza. It was definitely going to be another blockbuster fund-raiser. Tonight’s theme: The Chili Queens Go to the Dogs.

  They weren’t kidding.

  A new tent had been added to the plaza, and it was filled with kind people and noisy dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, dogs that howled and growled and barked. All of them looking to be adopted. The dogs, not the people.

  If the night before had been controlled chaos, that Tuesday was one step beyond. It was a more casual crowd, but then, I guess I should have expected that from the warm-and-fuzzy types who support these sorts of animal events. Instead of sequins, I saw lots of jeans and T-shirts with pictures of dogs on them along with sayings like Woof If You Love a Rescue and I Kiss My Dog on the Lips. If there was music, I couldn’t say, because with all the barking along with the oohs and aahs coming from adoption central, I pretty much couldn’t hear myself think.

  “You added spices to my chili yesterday.” With all the noise, Sylvia needed to stand nice and close when she sidled up and hissed the accusation. “The idea was to make a batch of chili that would be perfect for all palates. That’s what I did. Not too hot. Not too mild. Perfect.”

  “If I made a few changes . . .”—I emphasized that first word—“then of the course the chili was perfect.” I offered her a smile. For tonight’s festivities, along with the black skirt and the peasant blouse (yes, I laundered it), I’d added a black wig with long braids, and I flipped a braid over my shoulder so that the end of it flicked Sylvia’s nose and she was forced to take a step back. “And since I made tonight’s chili, it will be perfect, too.”

  “I’ve already sampled it,” she grumbled. “Too much oregano.”

  It wasn’t true, but I had to give her credit; she had a good taster. Most people wouldn’t have been able to pick out the Mexican oregano I’d added with a heavy hand, just like Jack always did. Then again, Sylvia had spent many a year writing for a food magazine in Seattle before she agreed to work the Palace with me, so culinarily speaking, she had the chops. Someday, she wanted to write a cookbook of her own. In fact, that cookbook was the reason she’d filched Jack’s secret chili recipe out of one of his old notebooks. I swear, I’ll get that recipe back one day. No way I’m letting her take credit for Jack’s genius.

  “And tequila? Really, Maxie.” Sylvia shook her slender shoulders and shook me out of my thoughts at the same time. “You don’t waste that kind of ingredient on this kind of crowd.”

  “Because, what, they’ll go to the dogs?” When she didn’t laugh, I elbowed her in the ribs. “Lighten up! That chili is so good, I bet we’ll collect more tips in the donation jar than we did last night.”

  “Really?” Those baby blues of hers lit with devilish delight. “You’d really bet?”

  I had to think about this for a second or two. Betting—or taking chances of any kind—was a decidedly non-Sylvia thing to do, and I wondered what she was up to. Then I remembered that I had an extra twenty tucked in the pocket of the shorts I wore under my long skirt. If, at the end of the evening, things were looking grim in the tip department, I was willing to sacrifice.

 
I stuck out a hand, but before we shook, I was sure to ask, “What are we betting?”

  “A whole day off at the next Showdown in New Orleans,” she said. “Whoever loses, that person works the Palace all of Saturday. No complaints. No backing out. And no pretending to have heatstroke so you can get out of work.” Since there didn’t seem to be much point, I did not rise to this bait or the very pointed look that went along with it. “The winner gets a whole day off in the Big Easy.”

  “Done,” I said, confident that I would win. The batch of chili I’d made for that night’s benefit was one of Jack’s favorite recipes and included the tequila and oregano Sylvia had detected along with molasses. No tomatoes. No beans. Just a lot of meat and spices. And beer, too. A real Texas chili, and I knew it would be a crowd pleaser. Already, I fantasized about how I’d spend my day in New Orleans getting my tarot cards read in Jackson Square and sipping a couple hurricanes over on Bourbon Street.

  “The line is starting to form,” Sylvia told me with a look back into our tent. “We’d better get to work.”

  Work, we did. And I’d say like dogs, but that would be way too corny, even though it was true. The good news was that people raved about my chili, and by the time the first wave of visitors subsided, that stoneware bowl where we collected tips was nearly full.

  “We’re going to need to empty it and stash the money,” Sylvia said, and when I shot her a look, she was quick to add, “I’m not going to tamper with the totals. Trust me. But there won’t be any room for more if we don’t do something with all this cash.”

  “Then just declare me the winner right now!” I knew she wouldn’t go for it. She didn’t. “Then how about an impartial third party to count the money?” I suggested. I glanced to the tent next to ours, and when Ginger looked our way, I waved her over.

  She was resplendent that night in a figure-hugging flamenco gown the color of hot lava. It had a deep vee neckline and ruffles on the sleeves and a layered skirt that flared out just below Ginger’s knees, like a mermaid’s tail. I didn’t know where these queens got their costumes, but they must have cost a fortune, and I had to give her credit; she wore it with sass and style. Tonight, Ginger’s hair was piled atop her head, and her makeup—just like the night before—was flawless.

  In the cheap costume-shop wig I’d picked up in the Halloween aisle of a local discount store, I felt second-rate.

  “What can I do for you?” Ginger asked, and I explained.

  “Thank goodness!” She exhaled a minty breath. “Helping you out will give me a break from Teddi.” She glanced over her shoulder to where, that evening, Teddi was dressed in a knee-length, slim-fitting dress and an apron decorated with drawings of brightly colored, old-fashioned kitchen appliances. Her red lipstick matched her nail polish and her snood. “She’s acting like a crazy woman! She has been all night,” Ginger added. Stepping to where I motioned her, she sat down and got to work, and a few minutes later when she called me over, it was with a look that was half envy and half wow-am-I-impressed.

  “You collected so much in tips!” Ginger showed me the sheet of paper where she’d added up the numbers. “More than one hundred fifty dollars so far, and the night is still young. Honey, your chili must rank up there with the best of the best. All of last night, Teddi and I only managed to bring in sixty-seven dollars.”

  It wasn’t like I was trying to make the drag queens looks bad, but hey, I couldn’t help it, could I? I scooped up the tips, put them in an envelope, and sealed it. Then Sylvia and I both signed the flap. Yeah, I know, we were being a little too obsessive, but when it came to our bet, I wasn’t going to take any chances that some of that tip money would mysteriously disappear just so Sylvia could make herself look good and get that day off that I was already daydreaming about.

  “So . . .” Ginger agreed to hold on to the tip envelope for us, and she tucked it under her arm. “Any word yet? About the murder? I’ll tell you what, everybody who walks into our tent is buzzing about it. Has there been an arrest?”

  Automatically, I scanned the plaza again.

  Still no sign of Nick.

  “I sure hope not,” I told Ginger. I didn’t bother to explain and she was too much of a lady to ask what I was talking about.

  “Well, it gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it.” A shiver ran across her shoulders and twitched those ruffles on her sleeves. “The police came around when we were setting up and talked to us, and just thinking that there was a murder so close to where we’re standing, well, I just about fainted.”

  Ginger was pretty tall, and I had to duck to one side to look past her and toward the tent where she and Teddi were working. “What about her?” I asked. “Is that how Teddi feels, too?”

  “You’d think she wouldn’t. You know, when she’s not Teddi, she’s Teo and Teo works down at the Bexar County Medical Examiner’s Office. Not doing autopsies or anything.” Another shudder danced over those broad shoulders that looked so perfect with Ginger’s narrow waist and rounded-just-enough hips. “When he’s there, he’s one of the people who counsels grieving families. I don’t know about you, but that tells me when she’s here as Teddi, well, you’d think she’d be plenty used to death.”

  “And she’s not?”

  “Like I said, she’s been a crazy woman all night! Jumping at every little sound. Looking like she’s about to burst into tears at any moment. You know, we do these sorts of charity events because we love to dress up and mingle and do some good for the community. We work for weeks on our costumes, and Teddi’s usually so proud of how she looks. And tonight . . . ?” Once again, her gaze slid to the nearby tent. “Housedress? Really? What was she thinking? I’m afraid Teddi is about to have some sort of breakdown.”

  “You want me to talk to her?”

  “Would you?” Ginger pressed a hand to my arm. “That’s so sweet. Maybe she’ll tell you what’s going on, because when I ask, she clams right up.”

  It was the least I could do for the person who was going to make sure I had that day off in New Orleans.

  I slipped out of our tent and over to the one next door where Teddi was scooping a batch of chili into the slow cooker where it would stay hot until it was served.

  “Hey, Teddi, what’s up?”

  The ladle she was using clattered to the table, and, one hand pressed to her heart, Teddi jumped back and her gaze shot to mine. “Oh, it’s you.” Her apron was polka-dotted with chili, and she reached for a rag and dabbed at it. “I didn’t see you. You startled me.”

  “Ginger tells me that’s been happening all evening.”

  “Ginger!” Teddi was not as carefully made up as she had been the night before. I swear, I could see the faint trace of a five o’clock shadow on her thin face. “What else has Ginger told you?”

  “That she’s worried about you. She says you’re not acting like yourself.”

  “Well, I’m obviously not myself, am I?” she shot back. “I’m Teddi tonight. The way I always am at these sort of events.”

  “Ginger knows that.”

  “Ginger needs to mind her own business.”

  “She cares about you.”

  Teddi chewed the lipstick off her lower lip at the same time she bit back her anger. “That’s nice. Really.” She grabbed the ladle and starting filling the pot again. “But there’s nothing wrong. I’m just a little moody, is all. Now, I’ve got work to do and I bet so do you. You’d be better off worrying about your chili than about people you don’t know anything about.”

  All rightee then.

  I backed out of the drag queens’ tent, gave Ginger a shrug when I went by that pretty much said Don’t ask me what’s the matter with her!, and would have gotten right back to work if something near the entrance to the Alamo didn’t catch my eye.

  Charcoal gray suit.

  White shirt.

  Red tie.

 
Did the man never see a weather report?

  I gave Sylvia a flimsy excuse about needing to find a ladies’ room, lifted my long skirt, and took off before Nick could slip from my sight.

  “You’re not in jail!” It wasn’t what I meant to say when I finally caught up with him, but honestly, I was so relieved, I couldn’t help myself.

  Nick jerked away from the hand I automatically clamped on his arm. “Jail? Why would I be in jail?”

  All that running and I was winded. I sucked in a breath of tropical air and pressed a hand to my heart. “This is how we’re going to handle the problem?” Good thing all that barking and woofing was going on at the fund-raiser or everyone there would have heard me when my voice rose to the night sky. “You’re going to act like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Nick stepped away.

  I stepped in front of him.

  “Let me refresh your memory,” I said. “Back in LA, you beat up Dominic Laurentius and put him in the hospital. Before that, he was your partner on the police force. After that, you were both forced to resign.”

  For a moment, he was so still and quiet, I thought maybe he didn’t hear me. Then I saw a muscle jump at the base of his jaw. “I didn’t kill him,” he said.

  “But you did beat him up really bad.”

  Nick’s gaze flickered to mine, then moved away just as quickly. “You did your homework. Yeah, I beat up Dom. Two years ago. And believe me, I paid the price. I resigned from my job, gave up my career, sacrificed my pension.”

  I knew the answer to my next question would tell me a lot, so I paid close attention to Nick’s expression when I asked, “Was it worth it?”

  Of course he didn’t give me the satisfaction of a flinch. Or a grimace. Or even a groan.

  “What exactly are you trying to prove here, Maxie?” he shot back.

  My temper snapped. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe it would be nice to prove that you’re not the one who smashed ol’ Dominic’s guitar, then wrapped the strings around his neck and pulled them tight enough to slice through his windpipe. But then, I guess I’m the glass-half-full type. Always looking for the bright side of a situation.”