Revenge of the Chili Queens Read online

  “You and Nick, you’re—”

  When Sylvia squealed with laughter, I didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence.

  “Come on, Maxie. You know me better than that!” She smiled in the way she often did when she was doing her best to be understanding and I was doing my best to pretend I didn’t notice. “He’s not my type,” she said.

  “So you’re not—”

  “In a relationship? I don’t need some bang-bang, shoot-’em-up type. You know that, Maxie. I like people and relationships and situations that are—”

  “Boring?” I ventured.

  She didn’t hold this against me. At least not too much. “I was thinking more like stable,” Sylvia said. “Nick’s not my type.”

  Since I couldn’t exactly explain the funny little splurt of hope that tangled around my heart, I tried not to be too obvious when I said, “So you’re not—”

  “We’re not,” Sylvia assured me. “Not now, not ever.”

  “Then why—”

  “Is his number on speed dial on my phone?” She set down the box of spice jars so she could fold her arms over her chest and give me one of those big-sister looks of hers that she’d been practicing on me for years. Maybe she was finally wearing me down. As far as I could remember, it was the first time I didn’t resent it. “I figured I’d better keep Nick’s number handy,” she said. “You know, in case you get in trouble.”

  Arguing with her was second nature. Only this time, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  • • •

  In most towns we visit, we start our Chili Showdown on Thursday night and go all the way through the weekend, but because of the fund-raisers on Alamo Plaza all week, Tumbleweed had decided on a different schedule here in San Antonio. I wasn’t complaining. A few more days of cook-off fun is always good by me.

  But the new schedule presented a new set of problems, namely, how to bring in customers who were used to this sort of an event on weekends, not Wednesday afternoons.

  Leave it to Tumbleweed to come up with an answer.

  That afternoon, we’d be holding the cook-off contest for chili verde.

  By the time Sylvia and I finished stocking the Palace shelves, the fairgrounds was already teeming with eager contestants and verde fans. Verde, see, has a following all its own, its proponents as fanatical as the chili lovers who favor more conventional chili.

  In the world of chili cook-offs, chili verde—sometimes called Colorado Green Chili—can be made with any meat and green chili peppers, but absolutely no beans or pasta. My own favorite version was an old recipe of Jack’s that I’d kicked up a notch by adding Anaheim peppers instead of poblanos to the heavenly mixture of pork, fresh tomatillos, cumin, and heaping portions of our own Thermal Conversion spice, but I’d seen dozens of cooks around the country add their own touches, from shredded cheese to cornmeal, lard to limes. There’s nothing ordinary about verde, and nothing I enjoy more than watching the competition unfold.

  With that in mind, I was all set to head over to the main fairgrounds building where the judging was about to begin when a very weird thing happened.

  Well, come to think of it, it was two very weird things.

  Martha and Rosa strolled by.

  “Is that . . . ?” Sylvia was setting out a new load of brown paper shopping bags with Jack’s picture on them, and she stopped and stared. “What are they doing here?”

  A nugget of information dislodged itself from the logjam of my mind, and I remembered something I’d seen on the flyers Tumbleweed had sent out to advertise the event. “Martha and Rosa . . . !” In a move worthy of a beauty queen, I slapped a hand to my cheek. “I never put it together. Not until right now. They’re judging chili verde.”

  “Together?” Sylvia leaned to her left so she could look around me to where the two women walked down the midway side by side.

  Together we watched them stop at Gert Wilson’s setup and admire a set of yellow dish towels with tiny red chilies on them.

  Martha said something to Rosa.

  Rosa laughed and picked up a gigantic coffee cup with the words Everything’s Bigger in Texas written across the front of it.

  I sucked in a breath. “She’s going to clunk her,” I told Sylvia. “Rosa’s going to use that coffee cup as a weapon.”

  “Or not,” Sylvia told me, watching Rosa set down the cup and go on to examine Gert’s display of chili earrings, chili pepper–shaped evening bags, and funny T-shirts with things on them like peppers wearing sombreros, or the words Capsaicin Junkie, or my own personal favorite, the one with a picture of a fire-breathing dragon and the words Monster Hot.

  Now that I knew Sylvia didn’t have her eye on him, maybe I’d wear that one the next time I saw Nick and see if he got the message.

  Unless he was in jail, where the message might not have been all that appropriate, anyway.

  I batted the thought away just in time to see Rosa bend close and say something to Martha. Martha’s laughter streamed across the midway.

  “Weren’t they the ones who were at each other’s throats the other night at the plaza?” Sylvia asked me.

  “You got that right.” I watched Tumbleweed greet the two women and escort them to the main building for the judging. “And if you ask me, the fact that they’re suddenly getting along is more than just a little suspicious.”

  CHAPTER 8

  That night on Alamo Plaza I did my best to keep an eye on Martha and Rosa, and anyone with half a brain could see why. They were cordial—practically chummy—at the Showdown that afternoon. In fact, at the chili verde judging, they chatted like longtime friends, voted for the same winning chili, and left the fairgrounds arm in arm.

  After what I’d seen of the two of them on the night of Dom’s murder, this struck me as mighty strange. Strange in a murderous sort of way? That remained to be seen. I only knew that at this stage of the game, anything that deflected suspicion away from Nick was a good thing. What is it psychologists call something like that? Transference? I was transferring to beat the band, and the suddenly palsy-walsy Martha and Rosa were as good a place as any to start.

  It would have been easier to keep the two Queens descendants in my sights if the night wasn’t devoted to raising money for a local food bank and if the place wasn’t packed. Apparently, word had gone around about the quality of the chili at the Texas Jack food tent (hurray!), and the line for our chili samples snaked over to the Consolidated Chili tent and looped back around to where Ginger and Teddi were set up. This was a good thing, I told myself, wiping my forehead with the back of one hand. Word was getting out, and plenty of people who tasted the chili verde I’d made in honor of the day’s cook-off back at the Showdown said they’d stop in for spices and chili advice that weekend when the Showdown was in full swing.

  But the crowd, it was a bad thing, too. Every time I tried to see what was going on with Martha and Rosa . . . and I tried right then and there, standing on my tiptoes and craning my neck and pretty much getting a glimpse of nothing at all but the heads and shoulders of the people who crowded around . . . I got stymied by all those chili lovers. Martha and Rosa could have very well been killing each other—or someone else—and I never would have known it.

  “You girls are just amazing!” I guess Ginger’s tent wasn’t nearly as busy as ours, because she had the time to sidle over and watch me ladle samples into bowls that Sylvia then handed to attendees along with a thank-you for their contribution, a reminder that if they left a tip, the food bank would get even more out of the night, and one of her sunshiny smiles. “I can’t believe how busy you are tonight.” She gave me a playful poke with one elbow. Just for the record, it was encased (as was her other elbow) in a satin glove that went almost all the way up to her armpit. At the same time I wondered how anyone could keep satin gloves and an emerald green gown studded with rhinestones clean at an event devoted t
o chili, I marveled at Ginger’s sense of style.

  “You won the contest, you know,” she said with a smile. “I did a final count on your tips from last night before I dropped them off with Eleanor over at the main tent. A day off in New Orleans! You lucky dog! Sylvia’s pea green with envy. Not that she’d ever show it.” Ginger studied my half sister with something very much like admiration in her eyes before she added, “She’s got class.”

  “And me?” I shot her a sidelong look and did my best to pretend that I wouldn’t be offended by anything she said. “I’ve got—”

  “Sass!” Ginger laughed. “And if you ask me, honey, that’s way more important!”

  I agreed, and laughed, too. My smile was still firmly in place when Ginger’s melted right away.

  “I need your help,” she confided.

  I scraped out the remains of one of the pots of chili and moved on to the next, filling bowl after bowl, and as long as Ginger was standing there, she helped, handing one bowl after another to Sylvia.

  “What kind of help?” I asked.

  She shot a look over at the tent next door. “When I was counting your tips from last night . . . well, it got me thinking. About our tips. You did so much better than we did!”

  Even though I knew I didn’t have to apologize, I felt a little guilty, and apparently, Ginger knew it. Between bowls, she put an arm around my shoulders for a quick hug, and the warm floral scent of Calvin Klein Euphoria enveloped me.

  “Believe me, I’m not taking it personally,” she assured me. “But I am curious.” Again, her gaze strayed over to the next tent where Teddi was handing out chili samples, stone-faced and unsmiling. “And worried.”

  “About Teddi?”

  “It’s just not like her,” Ginger confessed. “She loves dressing up. She loves showing off. And look at her.” We did. “Last night a housedress. Tonight . . .” She looked over Teddi’s outfit—a pair of ’80s-inspired acid wash jeans, an off-the-shoulder shirt, leg warmers, and transparent jelly shoes, all in Pepto-Bismol pink. “She didn’t even try to look like a Chili Queen tonight.”

  “You’re worried Teddi’s losing interest in the fundraisers?”

  Ginger sighed. “I’m worried . . .” She took a breath for courage and threw back those wonderfully wide shoulders of hers. “I counted your tips last night, Maxie. And I know your tent has been a little busier than ours, but really, that doesn’t explain why we’re taking in so very little. I’m worried . . .” She shot another look at Teddi and lowered her voice. “I’m worried that Teddi is dipping into the till.”

  “Stealing the tips?” I gasped out the words. “Why?”

  “Who can say! Believe me, I’ve never seen her do anything like this before. I’ve never even thought it was possible. But it’s like I said last night; I think she’s gone a little crazy. You’ve got the perfect vantage point from over here. I thought if you had a chance . . . I mean, don’t worry about it when you’re busy or anything . . . but I thought when you had a chance and if you think of it, if you could just look over to our tent once in a while. Our tip jar . . . well, you can see it perfectly from here. I thought maybe if you noticed anything fishy going on . . .”

  She didn’t say what she wanted me to do if that happened, and that was okay. If I saw something fishy going on, I’d worry about it then.

  “No problem,” I assured Ginger.

  “And no progress with finding the murderer, right?”

  She didn’t wait for me to answer, but then, I guess the way I grumbled, she pretty much knew my answer.

  “I wish I could help,” she said.

  “I wish you could, too. I wish someone could. People say they saw Dom on Monday night. A couple of them admit talking to him. But there’s only one who has any real motive.”

  This, of course, was not precisely true since, transference or not, I knew there was someone else. Even if he didn’t want to come clean and tell me what his I-hate-Dom feelings were all about.

  “You should talk to her again,” Ginger told me. “That beauty queen. That is who you’re talking about, right? Word is out all around here, and everybody knows that the victim dumped her. Obviously, she’s got motive galore. Besides, I didn’t trust her from the moment I saw her. Imagine wearing cappuccino-colored lipstick with her pale complexion!”

  “You’re talking about that murder, right?”

  Apparently, not quietly enough. That’s why the guy who came to empty the trash cans butted in on my conversation with Ginger.

  “Some story, huh?” The name embroidered on the man’s gray shirt said he was Serge, and ol’ Serge stepped right up as if we were at a cocktail party and just looking for someone new to join the conversation. “I saw the pictures in the paper,” he said. “You know, of that guy that got killed. And I keep wondering if I saw him around here on Monday night. And I can’t remember.”

  “You probably did,” I informed him. “He had a guitar.”

  “That guitar guy!” Thinking about it, Serge pursed his lips. “That’s the one who was sick all night, right? You know, I don’t usually pay much attention to that kind of stuff. I mean, people coming and going and all—it’s always too busy at something like this to notice any one person. But this guy, this guy with the guitar, I saw him a bunch of times. He was always heading toward those porta-potties over on the other side of the plaza. After five or six times, I couldn’t help myself. I asked him if everything was all right.”

  “And what did he say?” I asked Serge.

  “Told me he must have gotten a bad batch of chili somewhere. And the way he looked, I believed him. All pale and shaky. You know, like he had the flu or something. Imagine that, a bad batch of chili! At a Chili Queens event. Hey, speaking of chili . . .” Serge eyed the nearest pot, and I loaded up a bowl for him.

  After all, I owed him. Thanks to Serge, I knew something more about Dominic Laurentius.

  A bad bowl of chili? Did it mean anything?

  I couldn’t say, but I did know that when I saw him talking to Miss Texas Chili Pepper on Monday night, she just so happened to be handing him a bowl of chili.

  • • •

  I chewed over this new nugget of information and bided my time, scooping and handing out chili while I kept an eye on Ginger and Teddi’s tent—and Ginger and Teddi’s tip jar. I filled Sylvia in on what Ginger had told me about the missing tips, and she kept her eyes peeled, too. Truth be told, I think we were both relieved when we didn’t notice anything even vaguely sketchy going on. For one thing, I wouldn’t want to be the one to inform Ginger that she’d been right about Teddi’s thieving ways, and for another, I liked Ginger and Teddi, in spite of the fact that their makeup was far more professionally applied than my own and their outfits (even Teddi’s ’80s apparel) looked better than the black skirt I’d paired up that night with a shirt I’d found at a small shop over near the fairgrounds, a sleeveless red peasant top embroidered with lots of flowers. Shamed by Ginger and Teddi’s sense of style, I’d left the wig with the long black braids back at the RV.

  Thinking and sweating and wondering what Dom being sick might have to do with how a big guy like him could have been overpowered and what Tiffany handing him a bowl of chili might (or might not) have had to do with the whole thing, I waited for a lull in the crowd, swallowed my disgust at even looking like I was supporting the canned-chili crowd, and headed over to the Consolidated tent in search of Miss Texas Chili Pepper.

  “Not here,” a woman told me. She was dressed in black pants and a yellow T-shirt with CCC emblazoned on it in alligator green letters. Since the color scheme reminded me of the sign above the Palace, I couldn’t help but bristle. Leave it to scumbags like Tri-C to not only co-opt chili and stick it in a can, but to try and copy the most iconic sign in chili-dom.

  “She was here not too long ago.” The woman glanced around. “She was handing out bottle openers ju
st a little while ago. Would you like one?”

  I ignored her offering.

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?” I asked.

  “She’s probably just on break. You know, over in the motor home where we go to cool off. Whew!” She fanned her face with one hand. “I sure could use it tonight. Aren’t you just dying, honey, in that long skirt of yours?”

  I was, but rather than admit it, I scampered off in the vague direction she indicated. It didn’t take me long to find the Tri-C motor home. But then, it was chili pepper red and had the words Consolidated Chili painted on it in letters taller than me.

  I knocked and waited until I heard a “Come in” before I went inside, and when I did . . . well, I am not an especially shallow person, or envious, either. At least I don’t like to think so. But it was a little hard not to get jealous when I looked around and found myself thinking about the RV Sylvia and I used to pull the Palace and travel around the country.

  About the tile floor in our RV that was the same color as the faux-maple cabinets.

  About the table bolted to that floor directly behind the driver’s seat, and the green vinyl bench on either side of it.

  About how small our RV is and how cramped, and how it hasn’t been updated since . . . well, I couldn’t remember when our RV didn’t look exactly like our RV looked now. And I’d been traveling in that RV all my life.

  Stepping into the Tri-C motor home (let’s face it, it was far too grand to be called an RV), I felt like Dorothy stumbling into a Technicolor Oz.

  We’re talkin’ hardwood floors, cherry cabinetry, a couch bigger than my bed, even a bar and an industrial-sized cappuccino maker. Need I mention the giant flat-screen and the wine cooler and the AC that was cranked and set blessedly low?

  If I ever doubted it before, I knew for sure now—there is money in canned chili.

  Big money.

  “What do you want?”

  There is not, however, anything that says a beauty queen who wants to represent a canned chili company needs to be polite when she is out of sight of her fawning fans.