Chili Con Carnage (15 page)

Icy fingers touched my insides. “I borrowed Puff’s bike,” I told Nick. “So he knew I was headed somewhere. It would have been easy for him to follow me.”

I didn’t like to think that the twitch at the corners of Nick’s mouth was actually the beginnings of a smile. “You came here on a bicycle?”

This time when I wrapped my arms around myself, it wasn’t as much about being scared as it was about being defensive. “It made more sense than bringing the RV. Besides, when I asked Puff for his bike—”

“I get it. Really.” Nick turned away and I had a funny feeling it was to hide his expression. “So let’s ask ourselves the next logical question,” he said once he was sure he could keep the smirk off his face. “How would Puff know about the video?”

“Well, if he had Roberto’s phone, then I wouldn’t have Roberto’s phone.”

I guess that was the right answer because Nick nodded.

“So Puff didn’t have Roberto’s phone and that means . . .” The truth came down on me like a ton of bricks. “Roberto must have shown Puff the video. Or at least told him about it. Maybe he was blackmailing Puff.”

I thought Nick would tell me I’d been watching too much TV, but he nodded. “It’s certainly compelling evidence. Hard for Puff to deny with there being a video. Unless there was nothing more to that exchange we saw on the video than Puff picking up some Girl Scout cookies.”

“You don’t believe that, and I don’t, either.” I thought back to the video. “All those shelves in that room. It must have been a drug distribution place somewhere.”

“And it looked as if Puff was a regular customer.”

The Puff–drug connection didn’t actually surprise me. I mean . . . Puff was Puff, and Puff was a hippie throwback if ever there was one. Puff as buyer . . . I could see that. Puff as distributor . . . well, maybe that was true, too, considering that Roberto and Puff had talked about loading a van with product and that must mean Puff had rented a van because there were a lot of boxes. Puff as murderer . . .

I didn’t realize I was shaking until it was too late to stop it. “You think . . .” I slid Nick a look. “You think Puff killed Roberto?”

“I can’t think anything until I know all the facts. But if what we think is true—that Puff knew Roberto had this video—than I’d say it’s a very real possibility.”

“But Puff is . . . well, he’s odd. And kind of weird. And a little slimy. But I’ve known him since I was a kid. He parks his trailer next to our RV at every Showdown. He’s not my best buddy or anything, but he is a friend.”

Something told me Nick had heard this sort of pitiful statement before from any number of witnesses and victims. He slipped an arm around my shoulders. “We don’t know it’s true. Not about the drug deal and certainly not about the murder. We don’t know anything for sure yet. And even if it does turn out to be true, you can’t feel bad. We’re not infallible, Maxie. None of us. If Puff is a murderer, there’s no way you could have known it.”

Even though I was on the edge, I refused to cry. I sniffed, and ran my hands over my cheeks. “It’s a terrible thing to think a person is a murderer.”

“Murder is a terrible thing.”

It wasn’t until Nick got up (thus obviously removing his arm from around my shoulders) that I realized how warm and safe I’d felt when he was sitting beside me. Stupid, huh? And a dangerous way to think, especially for a girl with my track record when it comes to guys. Rather than deal, I got my head back in the game. There was only one logical question.

“What next?”

Nick was already slipping a hoodie over his head, so I thought I knew the answer. When he reached for a gun and tucked it in the waistband of his jeans, I was sure.

I popped to my feet. “We’re going to go pick up Puff!”

I guess he thought his look said everything, but when I didn’t respond to the steady stare and the slightly thinned mouth, he clicked his tongue with annoyance. “It’s not my job to go pick up anybody,” he said. “And it’s certainly not your job. What we’re going to do is take Roberto’s phone to the police. And you’re going to tell them why you have it and about the video. Just for the record, you might want to leave out the stuff about how you were in Roberto’s apartment.”

“Except it’s important, isn’t it? I mean, they should know that Puff was at the apartment, too. If it was Puff. They should know that Puff called the phone. If Puff was the one who did that.”

“They’ll make their own inferences.” Nick grabbed his wallet and stuck it in his pocket and yes, it was on the tip of my tongue to ask why it was out in the first place and mention Tiffany and maybe comment on how much she must charge per hour and how I bet it was more than a spice purveyor at a chili cook-off made in an entire day.

I kept my mouth shut. After all, Nick didn’t need the reminder of how I’d spoiled his fun for the night, and besides, he was the one who suggested I keep my mouth shut about breaking into Roberto’s apartment and really, it was good advice.

He opened the door and let me step out into the hallway ahead of him. “The police station is just on the other side of the fairgrounds,” he said, leading the way. “We can be over there in just a couple minutes.”

As it turned out, Nick’s
just a couple minutes
comment didn’t exactly come true. But then, I couldn’t hold that against him. No one was a good enough fortune-teller to predict that we’d be driving along and getting close to the fairgrounds when— “Nick.” The leather seats of his car were cushy, and when I sat down, I realized I was bone tired. That didn’t keep me from sitting up and hitting the button that rolled down the window. I pulled in a deep breath of the still New Mexico night air. “Do you smell smoke?”

He didn’t take a whiff. But then, Nick didn’t have to. His gaze was riveted to the windshield and the dull orange glow in the sky above the fairgrounds.

Both our attentions were snapped away from the sickening sight by the sound of a pulsing siren behind us. Nick pulled over to let the fire truck get by, then stepped on the gas and followed it into the fairgrounds.

By this time, every single one of my fellow vendors was out of their campers and following the truck, and Nick had no choice but to park his car in an out-of-the-way spot that wouldn’t interfere with the fire department. We hopped out of the car and fell into step behind the others. Even from so far away, I could feel the heat of the flames. A breeze pushed it past us along with the combined aromas that were usually commonplace at any cook-off: beans at the boil and meat simmering in pots. Spices. The simmering air was filled with the combined scents of chili powders and herbs, boiling together and wrapping around us like a scented cloud.

In spite of the heat, I froze and for the first time realized the crowds were headed to a spot right near where Carter Donnelly’s motorhome was parked.

“The Palace!” My hands flew to my mouth, but I wasn’t sure if that was because I was trying to control a scream or to keep myself from throwing up. Nick was three feet ahead of me and when he turned, I found I couldn’t do either. I was rooted to the spot, my eyes filled with tears. “The Palace. Nick, is it—”

He looked toward the fire. “I can’t tell. Not from here.” He grabbed my hand. “Come on. Let’s see.”

My legs were wood. My heart was in my throat. The closer we got to the fire, the harder it was to push through the crowd, but Nick managed. But then, he’s got a reputation with the Showdown, and the other vendors gathered around were nearly as stunned as I was. They moved aside and let us pass. As we made our way to where the fire trucks were parked and a couple cops stood guard to make sure no one got too close, I saw the shock registered on so many familiar faces and the crackling orange flames reflected in their wide eyes. By the time we got to the front of the crowd, my heart was hitting my ribs so loud, I swear there wasn’t a person in Taos who couldn’t hear it.

“Maxie.” Nick’s voice was gentle and close to my ear. It was that or scream over the sounds of gushing water and staticky two-way radios. “Maxie, it’s okay. You can look.”

I shook myself out of my daze and my knees buckled. “The Palace!” I pointed to the sign and the picture of Jack smiling down on me and I hate to admit it, but it’s true, I cried like a baby. “The Palace is okay. The Palace isn’t burning.”

Nick’s arm went around my waist. I’m pretty sure it was because he knew if he didn’t hold me up, I was going to hit the pavement and then the cops and firefighters there would have even more to worry about, but I wasn’t about to argue. I buried my face against his chest. “The Palace is okay. The Palace is safe. It isn’t on fire. It’s—”

“It’s okay. Really, Maxie. It’s okay.” Nick’s voice was as soft as the touch of his hand when he ran it over my back to calm me down. “Come on.” He slipped his hand away from my shoulders and looped his arm through mine. “Let’s get out of the way.”

“But Nick, just because the Palace is all right . . .” In the state I was in, it was nearly impossible to explain myself and make sense. I hiccuped, and when I drew in a mouthful of smoke, I coughed. “Something else is burning. Somebody else needs our help.”

Nick must have known what I was thinking because he tried to turn me in the other direction, but I would have none of it. At the same time I thought about the RV and my heart skipped a beat. I glanced over and saw that my home-on-wheels was fine, too.

That only left Donnelly’s RV, which looked to be just fine, and—

Maybe we were too close to the flames, because the words melted in my mouth. I dared a step forward, closer to the orange and yellow tongues of fire that licked Puff’s trailer. Already, the metal was buckled and burned to the color of charcoal. Fire thrashed against the insides of the windows.

I wanted to make a run for it and get even closer, but Nick clamped both his hands on my shoulders. “It’s too dangerous,” he said.

“But it’s Puff’s trailer.” As if Nick couldn’t see that. “We need to tell them, Nick. We need to tell the cops that he’s the one who might have killed Roberto. They need to go in there and see if he’s in there. Except maybe he’s not, right? Because if he was at Roberto’s, maybe he’s not home yet. Right?”

It made sense, and I actually might have fooled myself into believing it if I didn’t see Puff’s motorcycle leaning against the far side of the trailer. I guess the firefighters realized it was there at the same time I did because one of them raced over there to wheel the bike away from the flames. At the same time, two other firefighters suited up in spaceman-looking gear hacked down the door and made their way into the inferno. It was a small trailer, and they weren’t in there long. Good thing, because I held my breath the entire time, and by the time they staggered out again, I felt as if my lungs would burst.

The air rushed out in an astounded “Oh!” when I saw that one of the firefighters had a person slung over his shoulder.

“Puff!” I squirmed away from Nick’s hold and darted forward and around the nearest fire truck. I got over to where an ambulance was parked just in time to see the firefighter lay the person on the ground.

Even though the body was charred, I’d recognize the ponytail and what was left of the mustache anywhere. It was Puff.

It looked like I wasn’t going to have to worry about returning his bicycle.

When Nick found me the next morning, I was just finishing sticking a sign to the front of the Palace with masking tape.

“Smoked chili?” He raised his eyebrows as he read the words I’d scribbled on a piece of poster board with a big, fat Sharpie. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Why not?” I stepped back to admire my sign. It wasn’t exactly a work of art, I mean what with the letters being a little shaky and traveling downhill, but if nothing else, I’ve learned that people who attend chili cook-offs are a forgiving bunch. They’re there for the food. They’re there for the beer. They’re there to share their love of chili with other aficionados and to debate things like if chili really originated in Texas or Mexico or California, or if chili can really be chili if it contains beans. They don’t sweat the small stuff except when it comes to their recipes, then all bets are off. Chili people are serious about their meat, their spices, and yes, sometimes their beans.

They are not serious about things like signs.

“I made up a batch of chili this morning,” I told Nick, “and I might as well try and sell as much of it as I can. There’s no use ignoring the smoke.” As if he hadn’t picked up on it on his own, I took a deep breath to demonstrate. The air throughout the Showdown was still heavy with the smell of last night’s fire and here at the Palace—so close to the scene of the destruction—it carried the scent of overcooked beans along with the metallic, acrid whiff of melted aluminum siding.

I suspected the something else I was smelling—something sweet and coppery tinged with a hint of gas station odor—had more than a little to do with Puff’s charred body.

Rather than think about it and get as creeped out as I’d been in the small hours of the morning when the cops and the fire fighters were still busy outside my window, I stuck to what I knew best—chili. Or more specifically, how to sell chili spices.

“It’s the last day of the Showdown,” I reminded Nick, though I was sure he didn’t need it. “I need to sell as much as I can, and that means I need to show people how amazing Jack’s spices taste. They’ll eat my chili. Then they’ll buy my spices. Then I’ll maximize my profits.”

He nodded, but not like he really understood—more like he was just trying to humor me.

“What?” I turned away from my sign so I could look Nick in the eye. “You don’t believe a girl like me knows anything about maximizing profits? You should have asked Tiffany. I bet she knows plenty.”

His smile was cold. “I’m not here to talk about Tiffany.”

I wasn’t, either, and I could have kicked myself for letting the name slip past my lips. What Nick did on his personal time was his business. For that matter, so was what he did during work hours. I barely knew the man, and from what I did know of him . . . well, aside from the killer body, the dazzling (and very rare) smile, and the face that launched a thousand fantasies, I had to admit it, I didn’t like him very much.

“What are you here to talk about?” I asked him, sticking to the subject because it wasn’t as gray an area as all this like/don’t like.

“Murder.”

“You mean Roberto.”

“I mean Puff.”

I sucked in a quick breath and ended up coughing. I’d left a cup of coffee on the front counter of the Palace and went over and got it and finished it off. There was more in the pot, and I offered a cup to Nick and when he said yes, I went inside the Palace, refilled mine, poured one for him, and brought it outside with me. Back at the Taos Inn, I’d noticed he took his coffee black, no sugar, and when he realized I’d been paying attention and that I delivered his coffee just the way he liked it, what was almost a smile of appreciation touched his lips. At least before he took a drink and made a face. Ah, he’d just learned the true meaning of the words
strong coffee
!

Grinning, I blew on my coffee to cool it. My smile didn’t last long when I thought about what he’d said. “You think Puff was murdered.”

“I don’t think it. I know it. You would, too, if you weren’t so worried about the Palace last night. If you were looking a little closer, you would have seen the gunshot wound on the side of his head. And that smell . . .” The way he breathed in, I figured he was ignoring the sweet odor and concentrating on the other smell and honestly, I couldn’t believe I’d missed it.

“Somebody doused the place with gasoline.”

“You got that right.” Nick toasted my brilliance by lifting his cup in my direction. “After they shot the poor bastard in the head.”

I thought back to what I’d seen of the charred remains of Puff’s body and shivered. “I’m new to this murder thing,” I said, by way of explaining how I’d missed what was so clear to Nick. “So you’re saying somebody killed Puff, then started the fire to cover his tracks.”

“It looks that way.”

“And maybe to hide something else, too.” I looked over at what was left of Puff’s trailer, but I didn’t make a move in that direction. With any luck, Nick would think I was being careful and considerate rather than realizing I’d already poked around over there as soon as the last of the firefighters had left. There wasn’t much to see, and not much left of the shabby trailer that had been neighbor to our RV for so many years. “If Puff was distributing some kind of drugs, those might have been in his trailer, too, along with his supply of specialty beans. You know, so he could sell the drugs as he traveled from Showdown to Showdown.”

“And you said you’re new to this murder thing.”

It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but I decided to take it as one. My shoulders shot back.

“So Puff and Roberto . . .” It was early, and like I said, I hadn’t gotten much sleep. By the time four o’clock rolled around and I finally convinced myself there was no way I was ever going to nod off, I decided to make a batch of chili. It was a comforting routine and I knew why: Jack and I had worked together in the kitchen lots of times over the years, and in the wee hours of the morning, I did what I’d done so many times since I’d rejoined the Showdown—as I chopped and sautéed and stirred, I pretended he was with me and talked through everything that had been going on. It was nice, and it would have been nicer if he’d been there to share the moment. What it wasn’t, was illuminating.

“I’m not getting it,” I admitted to Nick, but only because I still hadn’t had enough coffee and I wasn’t at the top of my game. “If Puff killed Roberto like we figured he did, who killed Puff?”

Nick finished off his coffee, shivered when the last of my special-brew morning mud hit his stomach, and set his cup down on the counter. “That’s what the professionals get paid to find out,” he said. “And
that
—” He emphasized the last word in a way that made me bristle and even before I could figure out what I was bristling about, he supplied the answer. “—is what I came over here to talk to you about.”

“About how the professionals get paid to find murderers.”

“Yeah. Don’t you get it? They do. You don’t. Damn it, Maxie, you saw what happened here last night.”

I also saw what he was getting at, and I didn’t like it one bit. “You’re telling me to back off. You’re telling me I shouldn’t be asking questions, or—”

“Or breaking and entering into apartments that once belonged to dead guys. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

It wasn’t like I needed Nick’s permission—not for anything—but that didn’t mean I didn’t want his approval. And maybe a little bit of appreciation thrown into the mix, too. “But I’m the one who found Roberto’s phone,” I reminded him. “And I’m the one who found the video. If it wasn’t for me—”

“It doesn’t matter.” It was early, and the New Mexican sky was a crystal-blue bowl above our heads. When the sun was high enough that it spilled over Carter Donnelly’s motorhome, Nick squinted my way, ripped his Ray-Bans out of his shirt pocket, and put them on. “You’re not a professional.”

“But you are.”

I knew I’d screwed up the moment the words left my lips, and if I didn’t, the way Nick went as still as if he’d been flash frozen would have told me. Mistake. Big mistake. And too late to call the words back. I could apologize and look like a wimp, or I could prove my point and show him I was capable of not only explaining myself, but of investigating a couple murders.

If I stuck to my guns.

And ignored the muscle that jumped at the base of his jaw.

“I might be an amateur, but at least I’m making a little bit of progress. Besides, I’ve got you to talk to, and you know what’s what when it comes to an investigation. You can tell the local cops—”

“I can’t tell them anything. And even if I did, they wouldn’t listen. I’m nothing more than a glorified security guard.”

If he’d screamed at me, I would have come back fighting. But the way Nick said it, his voice as tight as the way he curled his fingers into his palms, I knew I’d hit a nerve. Did it matter? It shouldn’t have. But that didn’t stop me from closing the distance between us.

“I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject,” I said.

“It isn’t.”

“Yeah, and I don’t sell spices.”

I hoped for a smile and didn’t get one, so I put a hand on his arm. “I understand.”

He twitched away from my touch. “I doubt it.”

“Okay, so not totally. So I’ve never been a cop who isn’t a cop anymore. But the people around the Showdown, they say—”

“What?”

I didn’t need to see his eyes. I could feel them drill right through me. I swallowed hard, then cursed myself for caving like that. I might not have known him well, but I knew Nick wasn’t a guy who appreciated weakness. Or lies.

“They say something went wrong back in LA,” I told him. “At least that’s the gossip. They say you killed somebody. Or you got caught in some kind of corruption scandal. They say you can’t go back.” I thought maybe I should just leave it at that, but like I said, I knew he was a man who respected the truth, so I gave it to him with both guns. “They say that otherwise, a guy like you would never be working in a place like this.”

“Because this place—”

“Oh come on, Nick.” I threw my hands in the air. “Don’t play games. Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann, Gert and Jack . . . in my book, they’re the best of the best. Salt of the earth and all that. But I know what people think when we roll into a town. They think we’re losers. Every single one of us. Traveling around from place to place. Never settling down. We’re like gypsies without the big earrings and the tarot cards. That’s what you think, too, isn’t it? That would explain the attitude. It would also explain why you’re not planning on staying around here any longer than you have to.”

His stillness morphed into quiet, and quiet turned to stony.

I thought about walking away and decided that would make me look like the loser, so I stood my ground. It was a full two minutes before I felt the look he slid my way.

“I have an attitude?”

I barked out a laugh. “In spades.”

“And here I thought I was such a warm and fuzzy guy.”

“I’ll bet Tiffany thought so.”

“And you don’t.”

Had we just gone from discussing murder to talking about something much more personal? I wasn’t sure, and not being sure—of anything—always makes me feel like I’m walking on an Earth that has tipped slightly. Maybe the Mayans were right all along. I mean, about the change in magnets or poles or whatever the hell they were supposed to know so much about. Maybe that’s why I suddenly felt a little dizzy.

“Warm and fuzzy doesn’t do it for me,” I said, not only because it sort of skirted a subject I didn’t want to talk about, but because it was true. “Warm and fuzzy is a cover-up.”

“You’re bitter.”

“I’m pragmatic.” I sized up Nick’s reaction. “And you’re surprised I know big words like that.”

“Not as surprised as I am that you admit it.”

We’d taken another step away from murder and I couldn’t say that I liked it. At least murder was solid. Decisive. This other stuff—

“What makes you think I’m not going to stick around?”

I was grateful for Nick’s question. It snapped me out of thoughts I didn’t know how to deal with and the emotions that went along with them.

“The car, the clothes, the fancy hotel.” In my opinion, that should have been enough to explain everything, so when Nick didn’t say anything—when he only waited for more—I blew out a breath of exasperation. “It’s clear you don’t fit in, and you don’t want to, and you don’t care. You haven’t shown up at any of our Thursday night pre-Showdown dinners. You barely make conversation. Except for Sylvia who practically falls all over herself when you’re around, everybody’s too scared of you to chat you up. You haven’t made any friends.”

“So we’re not friends.”

I looked into my cup. It was empty, and I mumbled a curse. There’s never a better time for a jolt of caffeine than when you’re not sure what to say.

I went for noncommittal. Something told me Nick would be surprised I knew that word, too. “I thought we were working together. You know, comparing notes about Roberto’s murder.”

“And I thought I made it clear that when it comes to murder, you should mind your own business.”

If it hadn’t been my favorite coffee mug, I would have thrown it at him. Instead, I whacked the mug down on the front counter hard enough so that it sounded like a rifle shot. “You’re the one who told me—”