Death by Devil's Breath (6 page)

Me? I vowed to keep an eye on Tyler York. Anybody that perfect had to have plenty to hide.

I considered my next move, and when I saw that the woman contestant was finished with the detective and her fiery gaze lit on me (and likely would have lit me up if I stayed in one spot too long), I spun around and headed back the way I’d come. I cozied up next to Ruth Ann and slipped my arm through hers just as Tumbleweed started talking to one of the cops.

“There’s no way a whole pot of chili could be poisoned,” I heard him tell the cop. “All the judges’ samples come from the same pot. And if one of them was poisoned . . .”

Tumbleweed didn’t need to finish the thought. The cop scratched a line in a small notebook. “You’re saying they’d all be poisoned.”

Tumbleweed nodded so hard, his jowls flapped. “They’d have to be, see. The scoops, they all come out of the pot at the same time. Which means the scoop Dickie got from that last contestant . . .”

He went on explaining, but I was too busy thinking to listen. That last contestant he talked about was the woman who’d decided for some strange reason that she didn’t like me, and wondering about her, I looked over to where I’d last seen her. Didn’t it figure, now that I was interested, she was nowhere around.

“Maxie will tell you.” Tumbleweed’s words snapped me out of my thoughts. “She’ll tell you that’s how a cook-off works. Always has, always will. No way one judge can get a taste of something another judge can’t. It’s all mixed. It’s all stirred. It all comes from the same pot at the same time.”

I nodded my agreement and took another thought for a spin. “That could mean what happened to Dickie . . .” At that particular moment, the guys from the medical examiner’s office were taking Dickie away, and we all watched as they lifted his body into a big black bag, set it on a stretcher, and strapped it on so it wouldn’t take a tumble. I am not a particularly queasy person, but the sound of the bag zipping closed sent shivers over my shoulders.

“Dickie wasn’t exactly a spring chicken and he was overweight, and I bet you anything he was a smoker, too.” Believe me, this was not a criticism on my part. Until a couple months before, I, too, had been a smoker, and there were days I wished I’d never quit. “Maybe Dickie died of natural causes.”

“Maybe.” The cop got our contact information down and flipped closed his notebook. “Maybe not.”

I guess The Great Osborn had been eavesdropping, because he darted forward, looking a little less great and a lot more panicked. “We should go to the hospital,” he told the cop. “We should all get checked out. We all ate from the same pots of chili. We could be ticking time bombs.”

Hermosa rolled her eyes. “If there was poison in your chili, you’d be dead by now, Osborn. Although if memory serves, the last time we went to bed together, you were already pretty dead.”

Osborn’s smile was acid.

Hermosa turned her back on him.

“Tumbleweed’s right,” I told the cop though he certainly hadn’t asked for my opinion. “The judges’ bowls are all filled at once. If the whole pot was poisoned, everyone would have gotten some. I’m going with natural causes.” I nodded, and so did Ruth Ann and Tumbleweed, not because they thought my announcement carried any weight, but because I knew what they were thinking: a death from natural causes was much easier to deal with than the thought that someone wanted Dickie dead and took the opportunity to help him along with a little Devil’s Breath.

“It’s possible.” The cop took pity on us. He even patted Ruth Ann’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Well, you could get to the bottom of it right now if you’d pay a little more attention.” Her eyes gleaming, Reverend Love stepped forward. “I’ve been trying to talk to someone but—”

“We’ll get around to interviewing everyone,” the cop assured her.

Reverend Love stepped back, her weight against one foot. “Do you know who I am?” she asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll tell you what, sonny, you will once I talk to your superiors.” She clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “If you’d all stop running around like chickens with your heads cut off, I could put an end to the questions right here and now. I know who killed Dickie!”

Like everyone else, I pulled in a breath and leaned toward her, hanging on her every word.

Now that she was the center of attention, Reverend Love stood tall and threw back her shoulders. She also threw out an arm and arced it slowly across the circle of gathered judges and contestants.

“I saw it. I saw it all,” she announced. “Right when Osborn and Dickie went at each other and everyone was watching them and he didn’t think anyone would notice, I saw him pour some kind of powder into one of the judges’ bowls. Well?” When no one moved fast enough to suit her, Reverend Love sent a laser look at the detective in charge. “Don’t just stand there. Arrest him. Yancy Harris poisoned Dickie Dunkin!”

Chapter 4

In a town where over-the-top is never over-the-top enough, chili poisoning was so over-the-top, folks couldn’t resist.

By that afternoon word was out, and the dusty main street of Deadeye (which also happened to be the only street of Deadeye) was packed.

It said something about people’s love of the weird, the offbeat, and the just plain disturbed, but I will admit, it was also good for business. Never one to shy away from a sale, a sales pitch, or a chance to sell more product and maybe catch up on the bills, I took full advantage. As soon as I got back to the bordello, I put on my Chili Chick costume, which covered me from the top of my head to below my hips, my fishnet stockings, and my stilettos, and got to work out front.

“I don’t suppose you could see anything really interesting from here.” Even though I was mid–dance step and obviously busy, a middle-aged woman with a big belly who shouldn’t have been caught dead wearing the tiny pink tube top she was wearing walked out of the bordello and stopped to chat. She craned her neck to look beyond the crowd toward the far end of Deadeye, and the doors to the auditorium that were now crisscrossed with yellow crime scene tape. “Have they arrested anybody yet?”

I was tempted to tell her I’d make sure she got arrested if she stepped any farther away from the door while she was hanging on to the unpaid-for bags of peppers she had in her hands. Instead, I opted for a little of the chili-palace-proprietor charm that usually eluded me.

“I haven’t heard a word about an official arrest,” I said, and it was the absolute truth. While I thought about it, I did a couple quick dance steps and waved my arms in the hopes of attracting the attention of a group of men who walked by, and even though they couldn’t see my face behind the red mesh insert at the front of the costume, I grinned a welcome when they stepped into the bordello to look around and (hopefully) buy. “I do know they’re questioning a suspect.”

A suspect.

Yancy Harris.

The very thought made my stomach turn, and I would have pressed one hand to it if I wasn’t incased in the giant red chili. I liked Yancy, and I couldn’t see him as a killer, yet if what Reverend Love said was true . . .

“Questioning isn’t the same as arresting,” Tube Top Woman said. “I watch enough TV to know that. If they thought the person they’re questioning did it, they’d already have him in jail by now. Isn’t that how it works? Can’t they find out who really did it in like an hour? I mean, with all the science and DNA and stuff they have now?”

I would have mentioned that counting commercials, it probably actually takes something like forty-five minutes for the cops to find the bad guys on TV, but something told me she wouldn’t have picked up on the sarcasm.

“Maybe nobody killed Dickie,” the woman suggested. “Maybe it was the hot peppers that did him in.” She looked at the bags of dried scotch bonnet and datil chilies in her hands. “Because you know, if hot peppers really can stop somebody’s heart, I’ve got this real loser I’m married to. You think these will do the trick?”

I would have laughed if I didn’t think she was serious. Instead, I mumbled something about how all hot peppers need to be used with caution, waved her toward Sylvia, who was behind the cash register, and got back to my dancing.

For about three seconds.

That was when Ruth Ann showed up.

“Oh, Maxie!” She grabbed on to my hand, and for a small, bony woman, she had the grip of a WrestleMania superstar. A couple seconds in and I had to yank my hand away and shake it to get the circulation going again. Not such a bad move as it turned out. A guy walking out of Gert’s place next door thought I was waving to him and came on over to check out our wares. Right after he checked out my legs.

“We’ve got to talk, honey,” Ruth Ann said.

One look at the tears that shimmered in her eyes, and I grabbed on to Ruth Ann and tugged her out of the walkway and closer to the building.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

A single tear slipped down Ruth Ann’s cheek. The last time I’d seen her cry was when Gingerboy, her nineteen-year-old cat, kicked the bucket, and now, like then, my throat clutched and my heart beat a little too fast. “Something happened . . .” Like I could help it if I hiccuped over the words? “Did something happen to Tumbleweed?”

“Oh, no, honey.” I’m pretty sure she needed the comfort more than I did, but Ruth Ann patted my hand. “Nothing’s happened to Tumbleweed. Not yet. But it’s . . .” She drew in a shaky breath. “It’s gonna, Maxie, I just know it in my heart. Something’s gonna happen to my Tumbleweed. People dying at the Showdown! He’s so worried about what it’s going to do to our reputation, it’s got his stomach in knots.”

A group of guys with badges around their necks that said they were part of an insurance company convention walked by, and one of them knocked into the Chili Chick but didn’t bother to apologize. At the same time I sent him a death ray look he was probably too drunk to notice even if I weren’t hidden inside the costume. I steadied myself. “Tumbleweed shouldn’t be worried. Obviously, Dickie’s murder isn’t hurting us at all,” I told Ruth Ann. “Look around. The place is packed.”

“Oh, sure. Here. In Vegas. People here are always looking for the sensational. But what’s going to happen at the next Showdown when we’re in San Antonio? Or the cook-off after that? Or the one after that?” Ruth Ann dug a tissue out of the pocket of her yellow shorts and wiped her eyes. “Most places aren’t so free and easy about things as Vegas is. Including murder. Tumbleweed, he’s afraid this is going to be . . .” Ruth Ann’s throat clogged. She coughed. “He’s afraid it’s going to be the end of us.”

“Well, it isn’t.” I did not know this for a fact, but I made it sound like I did. “The last person who’s going to put us out of business is a jerk like Dickie Dunkin. Besides, the cops found the killer, right? Yancy Harris.” Even though Ruth Ann couldn’t see me, I shook my head at the thought. “I just can’t believe it. Yancy seems like such a nice guy.”

Ruth Ann took ahold of my arm. “You haven’t heard? The cops took Yancy away, all right, because Reverend Love, she said she’d seen him sprinkling something in one of the judges’ bowls. Turns out it was Yancy’s own bowl and what he was sprinkling—”

I would have slapped my forehead if the Chili Chick had a forehead to slap. “Baking soda! I’m the one who suggested it to him. He wanted something to cut down on the heat of the chili. I didn’t have any baking soda so I gave him some lime juice.”

“He got baking soda from the kitchen.” Ruth Ann laughed. “You should have seen the looks on the cops’ faces when one of the cooks back in the kitchen confirmed it. They thought they had their man.”

“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t Yancy,” I admitted. “As to who it could be . . .”

“Well, that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about.” Ruth Ann scooted closer. She was even shorter than I am, and since I had the added advantage of stilettos with four-inch heels, I had to bend over to see her out of the red mesh panel that covered my face. “You need to investigate,” she said.

Not what I was expecting, though what I was expecting, I couldn’t say. “Nick says I need to mind my own business.”

“Nick.” Ruth Ann flicked away the thought with the snap of her fingers. “The man’s hotter than a habanero. You being the beautiful young woman you are, I bet you’ve noticed. But he obviously doesn’t have a brain in that gorgeous head of his. If he did, he’d know what I know. You’re the one who cleared things up back in Taos, Maxie. You’re the one who found the murderer and got your sister—” She couldn’t see me open my mouth, but she knew exactly what I was going to say and corrected herself before I could. “Half sister. Yes, I know. You’re the one who got your half sister out of jail. You’d think Nick would just admit it and admit that the cops couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Well, he won’t. And he says I shouldn’t stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Except that we’re talking Tumbleweed here.”

The waterworks started again, but three cheers for me, I stayed strong.

“You found the killer last time,” Ruth Ann whimpered.

“I hoped last time was the last time,” I reminded her.

She clutched my arm. “We all did. But that’s not how things worked out.”