Chili Con Carnage (9 page)

It took me a moment to figure out what she was getting at. “You mean—”

“My project was on culinary math,” she explained. “As you can imagine, it’s something I’m particularly good at. It was also something Robert didn’t know squat about. I can’t tell you how many times I had to help him with his math homework. Converting ounces to pints and pounds to cups, figuring weight and volume, determining costs and pricing. It’s still my strong suit.”

I knew this was a dig about Sylvia raising prices at the Palace, but I chose to ignore it. At least for now. She was the one wearing handcuffs; I could afford to be generous.

“Robert’s project was supposed to be about adding fruit essences to beer, but though he talked about it plenty, I hardly ever saw him working on it. When I asked, he told me not to worry. In fact, the weekend before we were scheduled to turn our projects in, he suggested we go away. You know, just to blow off some steam, to put the stress behind us. We left New York City and went upstate to this sweet little bed-and-breakfast inn. While we were gone . . .” Her voice clogged and she needed to cough before she could get going again. “Someone broke into our apartment. When we got back, both our projects were missing. All our display boards were gone. So were both our computers and all our backup disks. All of it . . . all of it had disappeared.”

“That stinks.” I actually felt sorry for Sylvia, but my sympathy evaporated under the harsh look in her eyes.

“I panicked and nearly had a nervous breakdown. I couldn’t understand why Robert was so calm. I stayed up for forty-eight hours, re-creating as much of my project as I could. I turned in crap. There’s no other way to describe it. All my months of research and my careful writing and editing . . . and I turned in crap. Robert, on the other hand . . .” She flattened her palms against the table, and the handcuffs on her wrists caught the light and glinted at me. “As calm as can be, he walked into that committee room and turned in his project. A project about culinary math.”

I sucked in a breath. “He stole your work.”

“Every last bit of it. And he won the Mannington for it.” Sylvia turned away and I gave her a moment. Even ten years later it was clear that Robert’s betrayal had turned her world upside down and broken her heart. “I can’t even describe how upset I was. And Robert? He told me it didn’t matter. He reminded me that we said no matter which of us won, we’d both be happy with the results, happy for each other. But that wasn’t what I was talking about when I said I’d be happy if he was the winner. I had no proof that he’d stolen my project, of course, and if I started complaining, it would have looked like sour grapes. I didn’t know what to do, so I took the coward’s way out. I broke off our engagement, quit culinary school, and went back home to Seattle. I gave up my dream of becoming a pastry chef. All because of Robert.” She shrugged like it was no big deal, but let’s face it, I knew better than that. Sylvia’s entire world had come crashing down on her thanks to Robert. I knew of what she spoke. After all, I’d had Edik in my life.

She tapped her fingers against the table. “That’s when I got the job with the foodie magazine,” she said. “I’ve been there ever since, and you can be sure I never thought I’d see Robert again. Then earlier this week, who walks into the Showdown?”

“But why didn’t you say anything?” I demanded. “If you knew the guy—”

“I couldn’t believe it. Not at first, anyway. He’d changed so much, and of course, he was using another name. He wasn’t Robert Lasky, he was Roberto Larko. Once I convinced myself it really was him . . . well . . .” Sylvia’s shoulders rose and fell. “There wasn’t much I could do, was there?”

“You still hated him for what he did to you back in New York.” The way she refused to meet my eyes told me I’d struck a chord. I scooted forward in my chair. “Sylvia, the cops are sure to find out.”

“They don’t need to. I told them. I told them everything when they came to question me yesterday. I didn’t think I had anything to hide.”

“So they know you’ve got the mother of all motives.”

Sylvia’s gaze snapped to mine. “Well, I do, don’t I? I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hated Robert Lasky.”

“Shhhh!” I looked at the mirror and pictured a row of stony-faced cops watching us from the other side of it. “Don’t make things any worse for yourself.”

“How can they get worse!” When Sylvia threw her hands in the air, the handcuffs protested with a metallic clank. “I also told the cops I saw Robert the morning he was killed,” she added. “You know, after you fought with him and clunked him over the head with the Chick costume.”

“Because . . .”

“Because I knew you went out with him that Wednesday night and—”

“And that’s why you gave me grief about it. You knew he was a scumbag, and you didn’t want him hanging around.”

This revelation should have made me feel better, but all it did was make me queasy. “Is that why you went to see him after I fought with him that morning?”

She nodded. “I knew he had his eye on you, and I told him to back off. I told him to clear out. I told him if he didn’t, I’d let everyone know what a lowlife he was. And Robert . . . he laughed.”

I could only imagine how humiliating that was for Sylvia, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the prize. Right now, that was getting at the truth, or at least as much of it as I was able to cobble together from the bits and pieces of facts being thrown at me. “Did he explain what he was doing there?” I asked.

“Don’t think I didn’t try to find out. About that, and about why he was using another name. I told him if he didn’t leave you alone, I’d let Tumbleweed know he was hiding something and get him tossed out on his behind.”

“And let me guess, Roberto didn’t care about that, either.”

Sylvia sighed. “Not even a little.”

Thinking, I scrubbed my hands over my face. “So what we know—”

“Is that there never was anyone in the world who deserved a knife to the heart more than Robert Lasky. I’m ashamed to admit it, Maxie, but that’s how I feel. I’m glad he’s dead. But I didn’t do it.”

At the risk of getting tossed out on my ass, I reached across the table and squeezed Sylvia’s hands. “I know that,” I told her. “And you know what?” I got up and headed for the door. “I’m going to prove it.”

“How—”

There was no use lying to her, so I didn’t even try. At the door, I turned and gave my sister one last look. “I don’t know how,” I admitted. “But nothing’s going to stop me.”

She rose to her feet. “Thanks,” she said.

And I hightailed it out of there.

I didn’t want to say anything else and risk her hearing the emotion that clogged my throat.

I didn’t want her to see the tears that suddenly filled my eyes.

If she did . . .

Well, dang, I didn’t want it to look like I actually cared.

I had to get back to the fairgrounds and get the Palace up and running by ten, so I raced right there from the police station.

I should have saved my breath (and the cost of a cab). I arrived just as the clock was striking the hour and Tumbleweed was making the first announcement of the morning to welcome folks to Saturday’s Showdown.

There was already a line of a dozen people in front of the Palace, and I admit this struck me as odd. That is, until I went inside, unlocked the rolling metal window cover, and opened for business.

“This is where it happened, right?” The woman at the front of the line stood on tiptoe and leaned forward, her gaze darting around the inside of the Palace like she expected to see bloodstains on the walls. “This is where the guy was killed by that maniac woman with the huge machete!”

I curled my fingers around the counter. It was that or punch her in the nose, and something told me that was the last thing the Palace needed, reputation-wise.

“We have spices, our one-of-a-kind chili powders, and a special on whole dried peppers.” Even I couldn’t believe I said this in a tone that sounded nearly professional and I somehow pulled it off with a smile, to boot. “What can I get for you?”

She winced and stepped back, and I cursed myself for missing out on the chance to pop her in the nose. If she was going to look that offended, it might as well have been for a good reason. “I don’t want to buy anything,” she said, and I swear, she didn’t need to add the
no duh!
because the way she scrunched up her nose and twisted her mouth pretty much said that. “I just wanted to see where it happened and you don’t need to be so snotty about it. Everybody in town’s talking about the murder, and I figured if I got here first—”

“Next!” I called out, and the woman didn’t so much back away as she got shoved out of line by the man behind her.

“Billy Wibler,” he said. “
Taos Ledger and Times
. I waited for you earlier, but you were late arriving. If you could just give me a few minutes of your time. You know, to talk about your sister.” He pulled a digital tape recorder out of the breast pocket of his tan sport coat. “I’d like to get some sense of what it’s like to live with a killer.”

“Next!”

I didn’t even wait for the tall, thin man who took Billy’s place at the counter to open his mouth. “Don’t say a word,” I snarled. “If you’re not here to buy anything, hit the road.”

He blinked. Swallowed hard. And hit the road.

The next guy in line was actually looking to buy Thermal Conversion, and yeah, he balked a little when he realized the price had gone up since the last time he’d ordered the seasoning from Jack’s website. Lucky for me, I am as good a schmoozer as Jack is and quick enough on my feet to come up with good excuses for what I thought was a dumb idea from the start; he bought three bottles.

“You must be Maxie.” The next guy in line was a cute cowboy in tight jeans and a T-shirt that hugged his six-pack abs. Golden hair. Sky-blue eyes. A lopsided smile that just about caused the soles of my sneakers to melt into the Palace floor.

Sure, I’d sworn off men in general and relationships in particular.

Of course I meant what I said.

But that didn’t mean a girl couldn’t make an exception when the timing was right.

I leaned an elbow on the front counter. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

With thumb and forefinger, he cocked his cowboy hat back on his head and smiled up at me as if he knew it would cause my heart to skip a beat. He was right.

“You can have coffee with me as soon as you take a break,” Cowboy said.

“I could.” Oh yeah, that was me sounding way too breathless for my own good and not giving a damn. I gave him a careful once-over, all the way down to the tips of his dusty boots and back again. “Oh, how I do love a good cup of coffee.”

“You can be sure I do, too, ma’am.” His gaze was just as thorough as mine, and I guess I passed muster because he touched a finger to his hat. “Then I can come back—”

“Anytime.” My smile matched his and yeah, I knew there were other people in line. Let them wait! They probably weren’t going to buy anything, anyway. This guy, on the other hand . . .

Cold, hard reality hit, along with the realization that just because I am easily distracted does not mean I’m stupid. I eyed up Cowboy again and believe me, it was no effort. Still smiling, I leaned a little closer and lowered my voice to what I hoped was a seductive purr. “If you want me to talk about the murder, you can get lost right here and now.”

“Wasn’t.” Again, that nuclear smile and it caused something very much like hope to blossom in my heart. Too bad he followed it up with, “And I wasn’t planning on asking any questions. As a matter of fact, I was hoping I could answer some for you.” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Tommy Taylor Thompson,” he said, his voice as seductive as warm brandy. “Personal injury attorney.” He gave me a wink. “If you’re innocent—and honey, one look at you and I’m bettin’ you are—and that sister of yours implicates your sweet little self in her crime, that’s slander, and we can sue the pants off her. I’m just the guy who can get you a nice, big settlement.”

“Why thank you, Tommy.” My smile firmly in place, I took the card out of his hands and studied it for a moment or two. That is, right before I slowly and carefully tore it into a dozen pieces. “Now why don’t you take this . . .” I put the scraps of paper back in his hand and closed his fingers over it. “. . . and stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

“You tell him, girlfriend!”

I hadn’t realized Gert was in line right behind Tommy until I heard her chuckle and glanced over. That was okay; Tommy Taylor Thompson had stomped off in a huff and turned the corner. I’d already missed out on my last opportunity to watch his cute little butt in those tight jeans.

“Hey, Gert!” This time my smile was genuine. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought you could use some help.” She didn’t wait for me to invite her, she went around to the side of the Palace and joined me inside, and together we took care of the next people in line. Two of them actually made purchases. After what happened with Tommy Thompson, the rest of them slunk away and disappeared.

“Brought you coffee.” Gert had set down paper cups from one of the local vendors on the counter when she came into the Palace, and now she held out one out to me. “Heard you went to see Sylvia this morning. After an ordeal like that, I thought you might need a little caffeine.”

I popped the plastic top off the cup, added three packets of sugar, and sipped, closing my eyes in gratitude and enjoyment when the coffee hit the back of my throat. It was still sore from my run-in with Karmen and the heat was heavenly. “I always need a little caffeine,” I admitted. “Especially today.”

She glanced back behind the Palace toward where the RV was parked. “I saw the cops didn’t clear out until this morning. And that tells me you couldn’t stay at home last night. You know, you could have bunked with me,” she said and paused a heartbeat before she added, “unless you had a better offer.”

“I had an offer. A couple, in fact. One was from Puff.”

I shouldn’t have said that while Gert was drinking her own coffee. She nearly choked on it and I had to wait to finish until she was done coughing.

“The other was from Nick,” I said when she was done.

Her auburn eyebrows rose. “Let me guess which one you accepted.”

When another customer walked up who was looking for a chili powder that wasn’t too hot (his wife wasn’t a fan of spicy), I sold him a bottle of Jack’s mildest mix, then turned back to Gert. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” I told her because, of course, she already had. “He was a real gentleman. In fact, he helped pay for my room.”

“And stayed in his own.” She nodded.

“You got that right.” I downed the rest of the coffee and tossed the cup in the trash. “I was actually relieved,” I told her even though I hadn’t decided yet if that was true or not. “I’ve got too much on my mind to add Nick Falcone to the mix.”

She cocked her head and stared. “Not that it wouldn’t be plenty interesting.”

“Not that it wouldn’t be plenty interesting.” I laughed. “But with all that’s going on with Sylvia . . .” Automatically, I glanced around the Palace. I was used to tripping over Sylvia’s perfect little self in there as she scurried around organizing the cowboy shit out of stuff and doing everything she could to drive me crazy. I hugged my arms around myself. “It feels weird without her.”

“Oh honey! Of course it does.” Gert put an arm around my shoulders. “I know you two have never been close, but blood is blood. You’re worried about your sister.” Before I could correct her, she added, “Yes, I know. Half sister. Truth be told, we’re all worried about her. There’s not one vendor here at the Showdown who believes Sylvia is guilty.”

“If only the cops agreed.” Another customer showed up, and even though the woman looked around like she was plenty interested in the Palace and all the secrets she might see revealed there, she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut and make a couple of purchases. I put three bottles of spices and a sack of dried cascabel peppers in a brown paper shopping bag with Jack’s face on it, but not before I took the opportunity to give the cascabels a shake. They’re round, brown peppers and they kind of look like dark cherries, but the best part of them is that when they’re dry, the seeds inside them rattle. I never could resist.

“Nick says if I want proof that Sylvia’s innocent, I should go ahead and find it myself,” I told Gert once the customer was gone.

One corner of her mouth pulled to the right. “That doesn’t sound like Nick. I can’t imagine he’d want you to get in over your head.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But then I figured it out. He told me to go ahead and try to prove that Sylvia’s innocent because he doesn’t think I’m capable. Oh, he knows I might ask some questions, but come on, he doesn’t have to come right out and say it. He doesn’t think I’m smart enough to do any more than that. Nick doesn’t think I’m going to find out anything useful. Big surprise—I already know that Roberto’s real name was Robert, Robert Lasky.”

“Really?” I didn’t see anything spilled, but Gert reached for a nearby rag, wet it, and wiped off the front counter. “Did the police tell you that?”

By way of letting her know how smart I was, I tapped a finger to my forehead. “They didn’t have to tell me.”

“Did you know Puff was the one who put the cops on Sylvia’s trail?” Gert’s question stopped me short. So did the pained expression on her face. “I’m sorry, Maxie.” She slumped against the table where we filled spice jars. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, I mean what with Puff being an old friend and all, but I figured you had to know. Puff, he told me last night. After you and Robert . . . I mean, Roberto . . . after you two had that fight the other morning, everybody figured he just went off somewhere by himself to sulk. But Puff says that’s not true. He says a little while later, he saw Sylvia and Roberto having a heated exchange. He told the cops he heard Sylvia threaten Roberto.”

“That’s because they knew each other back when she went to culinary school in New York City.” I left out the part about how they were engaged, because let’s face it, the cops were bound to find that out. Until they put out the word, there was no use adding fuel to the Sylvia’s-guilty fire. Sure, my fellow vendors said they didn’t believe Sylvia murdered Roberto. But how long would they hold on to that notion if they knew Sylvia and Robert were once romantically involved? Hell hath no fury, remember, and Sylvia already looked guilty enough without adding a whopping dose of he-done-her-wrong motive. “Sylvia knew Roberto was a creep and she didn’t want him hanging around.”

“Maybe.” Just for good measure, Gert gave the counter another going-over. “But I guarantee you, all the cops heard was that they were seen together. And that they exchanged angry words. I guess once the police had that piece of information and then they found the murder weapon . . .”

I didn’t need to go over it again in my head. I’d already been over the facts a few gazillion times and the outcome never changed. I guess my expression spoke volumes, because Gert put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you get out for a while. You know, take advantage of that change of scenery thing we talked about the other day. Go for a walk around the Showdown. Get some samples of chili and salsa and make a pig of yourself. I’ll stick around and watch the Palace.”

“But your booth—”

“Hey, they don’t call me smart for nothing.” Gert grinned. “I’ve got it covered. I paid Nicole to look after the booth for a while. You know, she’s the daughter of Jorge LaReyo, the guy who owns that new tamale stand. Nicole won’t mind if she ends up at my place a little longer. She loves arranging and rearranging the earrings and bracelets. I swear, that girl was born to be a jewelry designer.”

“Well, I could take my duffel bag back over to the RV and unpack,” I told Gert.

“Take more time than that. There’s an art show right outside the fairgrounds.” She pointed in that direction. “They’re trying to catch folks before and after they come here for the cook-off. Go on, look around. You never know what kinds of interesting things you might find!”