Chili Con Carnage (8 page)

“I think . . .” I wondered if Karmen would even understand, decided she wouldn’t, and continued on, anyway. “I think it’s because if Sylvia didn’t do it—and I’m pretty sure she didn’t—that means the person who really did do it is out there somewhere laughing his ass off because he got away with it. I guess it’s all about justice.” I shrugged because let’s face it, this sounded pretty hokey. “I need to find out the truth not only so that the wrong person won’t be punished, but so that the right person will be.”

“And you think I can help.”

“Well, I didn’t know you’d be here,” I told Karmen. “I didn’t even know who you were, not when you showed up at the fairgrounds yesterday. I just thought I’d start here because this is the only place I ever went with Roberto. I thought someone here would know him.”

Karmen glanced around, obviously reliving memories. “We came here a couple times a week.”

“So you probably know that big guy Roberto had the fight with the other night. Did he come here all the time, too?”

Thinking, she closed her eyes. I guess that didn’t work, because Karmen waved over the bartender. “Hey, Joey P! What’s that guy’s name? You know, the dude Roberto got into it with the other night?”

Joey P came around to the front of the bar. “Guy bigger than me, right? Beard? And he always wears that leather cap. That’s . . .” Trying to come up with the name, he snapped his fingers. “. . . what’s his name . . . Alonzo or Alphonzo . . . Alphonse! That’s the guy. Alphonse Rettinger. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he’s some kind of hoity-toity artist. Some kind of sculptor or something. Has a big following in these parts, and the temper of a coyote.”

I made a mental note of the name.

“Did this Alphonse and Roberto have history?” I asked, and cringed at the use of the very word I’d objected to such a short time before.

Joey P shrugged. “I’d seen them talking to each other once in a while, but it never got ugly like it did the other night. Why? You think Alphonse might have had something to do with Roberto’s murder? Nah!” He waved a hand. “They already got the chick in jail who killed him. Case is all wrapped up.”

Watching Joey P go back behind the bar, a chill snaked over my shoulders. Is that what the cops thought, too? That the case was solved? That they didn’t need to look any further because they had their murderer, Sylvia?

I forced the thought out of my head and turned back to Karmen. “What can you tell me about him?” I asked.

“About Roberto?” She sniffled, then smiled. “You mean besides how freakin’ sexy he was?”

I bit my lip. “Yeah, besides that. Where did he live?”

She waved in some vague direction. “He was staying at one of those apartments. Over on Route 64. You know, the sort of place you pay for by the week.”

“Does that mean he was new in town?”

Karmen nodded. “I met him three weeks ago. He said he just got here.”

“From . . .”

She shrugged. “Somewhere. Roberto, he never said. I never asked. It didn’t matter, you know?”

It didn’t. At least until now. Now, I knew two interesting things about Roberto: He was living under a false name, and he was new in town. After years of traveling the chili circuit with Jack, I could smell the difference between wild tepin, pequin, and aji amarillo chili peppers blindfolded, but my talents for sniffing things out didn’t stop there.

I knew when I smelled something fishy.

I tried not to show how eager I was to find out even more when I asked, “What else did Roberto have to say about himself?”

Karmen grinned. “We didn’t do a whole lot of talking. You know what I mean?”

I did. I just didn’t want to think about it. “But when you did talk?”

“He was a smart guy. I could tell. Like, he used a lot of big words, you know.”

It was a side of Roberto I never saw. Then again, I hadn’t spent as much time with him as Karmen had, and I wasn’t as easily impressed.

“And he said he used to be some big shot somewhere.” She nodded. “You know, that he used to have some fancy job.”

“Do you think that was true?” This was, obviously, a more diplomatic question than the one I was tempted to ask, which was something to the tune of,
Why would a guy with a big-time job be working as a roadie for the Showdown?

“I know he had plenty of money to spend,” Karmen said. “It must have come from somewhere. And why would he lie to me, anyway? If Roberto said he was a high roller, then he was a high roller. Love is like that, you know.” She looked at me hard when she said this, like there was no way I could possibly understand. “You believe what the other person tells you, no questions asked.”

I knew where
no questions asked
had gotten me, but hey, this was not the time to bare my soul and bring up Edik. “So help me out here,” I said, just looking to confirm what she’d told me. “Roberto was new in town, you two hooked up—”

“You bet!” She ran a hand through her hair.

“And then he asked me out, and you were plenty pissed.”

Her pointy chin rose a fraction of an inch. “He asked you out because Roberto, he was just trying to make me jealous, remember? He wanted me to appreciate him more the next time he came around. Otherwise, I mean, really . . .” When she gave me the once-over, her top lip curled. “Why would he bother with you?”

Oh, I was plenty tempted to tell her that the day he died, Roberto was still trying to get on my good side. Somehow, I managed to contain myself. I wasn’t here to have a knock-down, drag-out with Karmen. Not again. I was here to look for the truth.

I brushed a finger through the wet ring left on the table by my glass of ice water. “You were at the Showdown early yesterday,” I said, as casual as can be. “Where did you go after that?”

“I went—” Karmen’s head snapped up. “Are you saying—”

“I’m saying that between the two of us, you look like you have a way better motive for killing Roberto than I do. Admit it, Karmen, after you saw me and Roberto here the other night, you thought there was a chance that he was going to dump you. What you didn’t know was that I had zero interest in him. So where did you go after you trashed the Palace, Karmen? Because I’m betting you found Roberto, and when you did—”

“You think it was me?” Karmen popped out of her seat so fast, the chair tipped and fell backward. That made less noise than the table. That, she flipped over with both hands. It skittered toward the door and Joey P came running.

I didn’t wait around to see what might happen after that. Before Karmen could attack again, I was out the front door and headed back to the Showdown with only one thought (well, aside from self-preservation) going through my head: My little experiment had worked, and I found out what I’d suspected all along—Karmen had one heck of a temper. She was plenty capable of murder.

It should come as no surprise that I am not a morning person. I would have liked nothing better than to brew a pot of coffee and stay put in the cushy confines of my room over at the Taos Inn. Problem is, by the time I found my way back to the hotel on Friday, it was too late to go see Sylvia at the police station. Cushy or not, I had no choice.

Instead of staying warm and comfy under the covers, I dragged out of bed at the ungodly hour of seven, took a to-go cup of coffee along with me, and scarfed down a handful of Oreos on the way to the police station. The cop at the front desk took my purse, patted me down, and gave me strict orders not to make personal contact with who he called “the prisoner.” If he knew Sylvia at all, he could have saved his breath. As ready as I’d ever be in a situation that felt more surreal by the moment, I waited in a room with a green tile floor and furnishings that amounted to one gray metal table and two gray metal chairs.

A cop led Sylvia in and, in direct contradiction of the fantasies that had been playing through my head, I saw that she was not wearing an orange jumpsuit. She was dressed in blue scrubs and she had those paper slippers on her feet, like the kind they hand out in hospitals. Her hair was combed and her face looked as fresh as if she’d just doused it with cold water, but I wasn’t fooled. There were smudges of sleeplessness under Sylvia’s eyes and streaks of red accenting those baby blues. Her cheeks were sunken. Her bottom lip quivered.

It was enough to actually make me feel sorry for her.

Well, at least until she opened her mouth.

“You didn’t come to see me yesterday,” she said, taking the chair across from mine.

“So now I have to defend myself? Even when I’m visiting you in jail?” Honestly, I was about to push back my chair and head out. That is, until Sylvia apologized.

Yes, that’s what I said.

Sylvia. Apologized.

Even if I wanted to leave, I wouldn’t have been able to. I was rooted to the spot. Stunned. Amazed. Sometime while I hadn’t been paying attention, the world had tipped on its axis.

“I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.” When she brushed back her hair, she had to use both hands, what with the fact that they were cuffed together and all. “I’m afraid I’m a little—”

“Scared shitless?”

She managed a smile, but a glimpse of her pearly whites didn’t fool me any more than the brave front she was trying to put on. Less than twenty-four hours behind bars and already Sylvia had the lean and hungry look of a death row inmate. She hadn’t been made for a life on the inside. She wasn’t tough enough.

“I guess that pretty much describes it,” she said, and added, “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Or to sound judgmental. It’s just that I didn’t sleep at all last night and yesterday . . .” She ran her tongue over her lips. “Well, yesterday was the longest day of my life. I kept thinking that you might show up and . . . well . . . you know . . .” She looked at everything in the room except me. “I kept hoping you would. I thought if you did, then maybe we could talk. I thought maybe that would help pass the time.”

“I would have. I wanted to. Really, I tried. But I got a little distracted.” I didn’t mention the trip I’d made to El Rancho because, let’s face it, I didn’t want to get Sylvia’s hopes up with thinking that there might be someone out there somewhere with some information that might help clear her name. Instead, I told her about the cops in the Palace and the RV.

“We lost an entire day of sales yesterday,” she said when I was finished. Leave it to Sylvia to think business and not even bother to ask where I’d ended up spending the night. “And we’ll lose more today.”

“Not.” I shook my head. “I had a message on my phone this morning. They said I can get back into the Palace today, so no worries. I’ll get back to the fairgrounds in plenty of time to be there when the Showdown opens for the day.”

Confirming this, she glanced at the clock on the wall behind me. “I bet the cops made a mess of the place. You’re going to have a lot to do to get ready. And still, you made the time to come down here and see me.”

Honestly, I wouldn’t have choked up if there weren’t tears in Sylvia’s eyes.

I pretended not to notice. “Hey, I had to find out what’s going on. You’re okay, aren’t you? They’re treating you all right?”

“I’m fine, and the food’s actually not half bad. I mean, considering. Tumbleweed was here with Ruth Ann for a little while yesterday. They arranged it so I’ve got a public defender representing me, but I can’t go before a judge until Monday. By then, you’ll have moved on to Vegas and the next Showdown.”

I hadn’t even thought of it, but as if I had, I waved away her worries. “We can always catch up with the Showdown later. I’ll hang around for a few days. You know, until things are cleared up.”

A single tear slipped down Sylvia cheek. “You’re being awfully kind. I’m surprised. I mean, what with the way we’ve always been with each other. We’re not exactly best friends. And yet you’re trying to help me.”

I acted like it was no big deal, because as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t. After all, if it was, that would mean I actually cared what happened to Sylvia. The world might have shifted, but not that much! Or if it had, I wasn’t about to admit it.

I grinned, more in an effort to lighten the mood than because there was anything to smile about. “I can’t stand out front of the Palace in the Chili Chick costume and be inside the Palace helping customers. You’ve got to come back.”

Another tear. Didn’t it figure? Sylvia wept as perfectly as she did everything else. Her nose didn’t even get red like mine always did when I cried. “I’m sorry.” She hauled in a stuttering breath. “It’s all so overwhelming. Everything that happened the day you found Roberto’s body, and then everything that happened yesterday. And now . . .” She cleared her throat. “Now, to find out you’re not going to abandon me. It’s not what I expected. I mean, what with you not bothering to come see me yesterday at all.”

I bit the inside of my lip and reminded myself that stress does strange things to people. In Sylvia’s case it had apparently just magnified her usual narcissistic, egotistical, megalomaniac self.

“I’m so grateful,” she sobbed. “I’m so humbled, and grateful, and thankful that you really care.”

Did I?

This was something I didn’t want to think about, not in a room decorated with gray furniture and with a wall made of one-way glass. Maybe not ever.

Instead, I leaned forward, the better to get Sylvia’s mind on the facts and off the undertow of emotion that just might take both of us down. “I don’t understand what’s going on,” I admitted. “What made the cops think you killed Roberto?”

“Well, the murder weapon—”

“I get that.” I sat back, thinking it over. “Nick told me it was one of your knives and he told me where they found it, too. But what put the cops on to you in the first place?”

I think she would have shrugged if she had the energy. Instead, Sylvia shook her head. “It’s like a nightmare. And it’s all because of Roberto.”

I made sure I kept my eyes on her to gauge her reaction when I said, “You mean Robert.”

Sylvia’s shoulders stiffened. Her gaze flickered to mine. “You know.”

“Not the whole story. I know you two were in culinary school together.”

She nodded. “It was more than that. We were . . . involved.”

“You and Roberto? I mean, Robert?” Like I said, definite shift in the world’s axis. I thought it was weird enough when Sylvia and I both had our eyes on Nick. Now to find out that I’d once dated a guy she’d once dated? It was too weird to even think about.

“I saw a newspaper article,” I told her, because it was better than considering that our tastes in men could possibly be the same. “It included a picture of you and Roberto. It was something your mom sent Jack a long time ago.”

“He kept it?” Her eyes lit. At least for a second. Then she seemed to remember where she was and the obstacles she faced and her shoulders drooped. “I think I pretty much screwed myself there. When the cops came to talk to me, I figured I had nothing to hide. I told them everything. I mean, everything about me and Robert and what happened back in New York when we went to culinary school there.”

“Like the fact that you were both finalists for some big prize.”

“The Mannington, yes.” Another nod, and in spite of our surroundings, Sylvia’s hair gleamed in the overhead fluorescent lights. I actually might have envied her if not for the fact that when I walked out into the sunshine, she’d still be there under those lights. “Robert was . . .” She considered this for a couple seconds. “Robert was a real mover and shaker,” she finally said. “I know that’s hard to believe considering how he was here at the Showdown, but back in the day . . . well, he was a chemistry major back in college, before I met him, and brilliant, believe it or not. He got involved in beer brewing and he decided he was going to make brewing his life. He dropped out of college and decided to open a brew pub. With his chemistry background, he’d take care of the beer, and of course, someone else would run the restaurant side of the business. But he was smart enough to know that he still needed an education and some understanding of the cooking process and restaurant management. That’s when he enrolled at the culinary school and that’s how we met.”

“And like you said, you dated.”

Sylvia gave me one of the patented eye rolls she usually reserved for those conversations in which she was criticizing me. Somehow, this time, I thought her sarcasm was actually aimed back at herself. “We more than dated,” she said. “Robert Lasky and I were living together. In fact, we were engaged.”

This wasn’t just news, it was momentous. In one instant, I learned that I had to rethink my concept of Sylvia’s cloistered life and her assumed virginity. Sylvia had a personal life? It was an idea so foreign, it took my breath away.

“You were engaged to Roberto? But when I went out with him, you told me he was a lowlife!”

In spite of our surroundings, her laugh was silvery. “Ten years ago, he was anything but! Robert Lasky had a lot going for him, and he knew it. He was on his way to being a superstar in the brewing world. I knew it, and so did he. In fact, there was only one thing standing in his way.”

Sylvia lowered her eyes and stared at the metal table for so long, I wondered if she’d fallen asleep. That is, until she glanced up at me. “The Mannington is one of the premier awards in the culinary world,” she explained. “It’s endowed by the Mannington family, they made their money in upscale restaurants and they say their mission is to give back, and to support up-and-coming restaurateurs. It’s a monetary prize. Fifty thousand dollars. It’s awarded to one student a year so that the person can study whatever facet of the culinary arts interests him the most. More than anything, Robert wanted to win the Mannington.”

I remembered the newspaper article I’d found in Jack’s things. “You did, too. You must have. You two were the finalists.”

“It was my dream,” Sylvia said on the end of a sigh. “You see, I never actually pictured myself spending my life writing for a food magazine.” Another bit of news, since in the past Sylvia had always acted as if her stint with the magazine was the be-all and end-all of her existence. “What I really wanted to do—”

“Was go to Vienna.”

“It’s kind of funny considering our background, isn’t it?” Sylvia said, but she wasn’t laughing. “Our father sells spices out of the back of a truck. Our mothers—both our mothers—put on a chili costume and danced around to bring in customers. And I had dreams of getting away from it all, of being something so much more! I wanted to be a pâtissier.”

Like I didn’t know what she was talking about (I didn’t, but she had a lot of nerve making the assumption), she added, “That’s a pastry chef. If I won the prize, I was going to use the money to go to Vienna and study. Because Robert wanted to concentrate on brewing, he said if he won, he’d use the money to tour microbreweries here and in Europe and study something called dry hopping. I never did understand exactly what it meant, but he was convinced it was some process that was going to change the industry. The two of us being finalists . . .” Sylvia pulled in a breath and let it out slowly and her voice dropped so low, I had to lean forward to hear her.

“I thought it was a dream come true,” she said. “Really, there was no way we could lose. If I won, Robert would come with me to Vienna. There would be plenty he could do there to study brewing. If he won, I was more than willing to give up my own studies for a year and travel with him. All each of us had to do was complete one major project and present it to the selection committee.”

Any other time, I might have tried to be a little more diplomatic about what I was about to say next. Well, maybe. But hey, I was sitting in the visiting room of a police station, and suddenly things like being politically correct pretty much didn’t matter. I decided to go for a truth as unadorned as our surroundings.

“I’m guessing since you never went to Vienna, Robert’s project was better than yours,” I said.

Sylvia’s eyes met mine, steady, and suddenly as cold as a snake’s. “Robert’s project was mine.”