Death by Devil's Breath (3 page)

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.”

“Well, I’m one of the judges.”

This was not news. I knew that Yancy would be judging along with Reverend Love, Hermosa, The Great Osborn, and Dickie Dunkin.

“A celebrity panel of judges,” I said, repeating the words on the posters I’d seen plastered all over the hotel. Even though I was pretty sure
celebrity
wasn’t completely accurate, I had to admit it was good publicity. “It’s going to be a blast.”

“Exactly what I’m afraid of.” Yancy patted his stomach. “See, from what I hear, this Devil’s Breath is hotter than a two-dollar pistol. And my stomach . . . whew!” Yancy blew out a breath that smelled like peppermint. “Now this isn’t something I want to get around,” he confided. “Can’t have people thinking I’m just an old man who can’t handle his food. But I’ll tell you what, I’m not as young as I used to be and I’m not sure my stomach can take it. Not if this Devil’s Breath stuff is as hot as everybody says it is. When I asked out front, the man said you might know what to do. You know, to tone down the spiciness so that I don’t sit up there at that judges’ table and go up in smoke.”

“I get it.” I did. Though I was a lover of all things hot (the aforementioned Edik being the perfect example), I understood people who liked less fire with their chili. I would never want to be one of them, but I understood. Honest.

“There’s baking soda,” I told Yancy. “You can mix a teaspoonful of that into the chili to tone down the heat. I’m pretty sure I don’t have any of that in the RV, but there are limes!” I’d already taken a few steps toward the exit (disguised as a livery stable door) that led to the parking lot and the RV where Sylvia and I lived on the road when I remembered this surefire remedy. “I know I’ve got some limes in the fridge. A couple squeezes of that ought to help.”

A smile made Yancy’s face fold into a thousand crinkles. “Much obliged,” he said and added a little bow. “You don’t think this will get us in trouble, do you? I mean, I understand these cook-off contestants are a serious bunch. If they think I’m messin’ with the flavors of their chili—”

I waved away his objection with one hand, then grumbled to myself. The man was blind. I had to be more aware and more considerate. “It’s not like this is a part of the official contest,” I told Yancy. “This Devil’s Breath championship is pretty much just for bragging rights, not some big prize. And besides, a squirt of lime juice isn’t going to change the taste of any of the entries all that much. It’s just going to tone down the heat.”

I promised Yancy I’d meet him back in the auditorium, and a few minutes before the judging was scheduled to start, I had a tiny Tupperware container of lime juice in my pocket, and I squeezed (pun intended because that’s what I’d just done with the limes) my way through the throng of spicy-chili lovers who waited outside for a chance to watch the judging and grab a bowl of fiery goodness.

The air inside the auditorium wasn’t just filled with anticipation; it was peppery and perfect. Inside the door, I paused so I could take a moment to bask in the spiciness, my gaze roving over the stage. To my left was the long table where the judges would taste and score the entries. To my right and directly opposite, the four regional winners were busy cooking.

See, that’s how the chili categories of cook-offs work. In the salsa category, contestants can make their mixtures and bring them along to the contest finished. But for the chili categories, everything has to be cooked on-site. Oh, not things like canned tomatoes or tomato sauce or pepper sauce or the beer that many competitors use in their chilies. But the meat and anything else they throw in, yup. That has to be prepared at the event, and contestants usually have between three and four hours to do it all. Which means these contestants had been here chopping and mixing and working their magic since before the sun came up.