Revenge of the Chili Queens (23 page)

He nodded. “I’ll repay the money. I can now that I don’t have . . .” He looked over his shoulder, back toward Tatiana’s, his expression wistful. “The minute I saw that gown in a magazine, I wanted it more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I knew I’d look spectacular in it, and it’s so darned pretty. But you’ve shown me that it’s not worth it.” He turned back to me. “The guilt has been eating me up. Between that and being afraid the police were going to think I had a good reason to kill Dom, well, I haven’t even been able to sleep a wink.”

“That’s because you’re really a pretty good person,” I told him. “And you’ll pay back the money?”

He patted the pocket where he’d put his wallet. “All of it. As soon as I get back to the plaza. I guess I don’t have to sneak the money into the tip jar since Ginger knows what’s going on.”

“She’ll be relieved.”

He smiled. “She’s got a heart of gold. I’ll have a talk with her as soon as I get back. Speaking of that.” He checked the time on his phone. “I’ve got to head home and get changed. I’ll see you over there later.”

I hung around for a few more minutes, finishing my mojito, glad that Teo hadn’t turned out to be the murderer. Thieving ways aside, he seemed like a nice enough guy, and I knew Ginger would be relieved to find out what had really been going on.

I was no closer to finding out who had murdered Dom,
and that was a bummer, but hey, I felt more relaxed and refreshed than I had since earlier in the day when I’d nearly been trampled by that bull. Ready to get to work, I headed back to the plaza.

And stopped on a dime not thirty feet from the café.

Here, the River Walk twisted and turned, and overhead—up on street level—a stone bridge crossed over the San Antonio River from one side to the other. Eleanor Alvarez—she of the willowy body, the flaming hair, and the gorgeous jewelry—was standing on it, and she was talking to a man with bulging muscles and golden hair.

They were so deep in conversation, they never looked over to where I stood, and that was fine by me. From this angle, I could see that Eleanor’s hand was on the guy’s arm. He flashed her a smile, and even from where I stood, I felt the sizzle.

Nice. Eleanor had a sweetie, and a hunky one, too. After what she told the Miss Consolidated Chili candidates about having her heart broken when her husband died, it was nice to see her happy, and I was smiling when I turned to head back to Alamo Plaza.

I would have gone right on smiling if there wasn’t something niggling at my brain.

That sweetie of Eleanor’s, there was no way I knew the guy. I mean, I’d certainly remember meeting a guy that good-looking.

But he sure did look mighty familiar.

CHAPTER 16

To tell the truth, I was actually relieved to find out that Teo was the one who’d grabbed me and warned me to stay out of the investigation.

I mean, in the great scheme of things, it pretty much proved he couldn’t have killed Dom, right? Nobody who made threats that lame would have had the nerve to twist guitar strings around a guy’s neck and pull tight.

This cheered me, because for one thing, Teddi the petty thief was repentant, and for another, what Teo had done back there at Tatiana’s—walking away from a gown he wanted more than he wanted his next breath—told me that deep down, he was a good guy. And a good girl, too.

But all was not rosy. Sure, the field of suspects was narrowing, but I still didn’t know who done it. Rosa and Martha
certainly remained in contention. They both hated Dom for what he did to them, getting jobs at their restaurants and then stealing their recipes, and hey, I’d seen the two of them go at each other. They might be getting up there in years, but I had a feeling either one of them could have ambushed me and dumped me in the pen with that rodeo bull. To survive in the world of restaurants, food service, and hospitality, you have to be strong. Not to mention fearless.

And what about Eleanor and that hunky guy I’d seen her talking to? Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought a thing of it (other than to be jealous) if not for the fact that he looked like . . . somebody. Somebody I’d seen? Somebody I knew? Somebody who might be somebody who was mixed up in murder? What with all the wrackin’, my brain was getting tired.

Then there was the mysterious John Wesley Montgomery. If he knew the truth was going to come out about how he’d sent Dom to pilfer those recipes so he could condemn them to a can, he had every reason to want to keep Dom quiet—permanently.

It was hotter than blazes that night at Alamo Plaza, but still, a cold chill snaked up my back, and automatically, I glanced over my shoulder, then toward the Consolidated Chili tent. There was no sign of that shiny black limo I’d seen cruising the fairgrounds earlier or of Montgomery, and that was too bad. I needed to talk to the man. I would talk to him, I promised myself. And I’d get to the bottom of what he knew about Dom and why he was hanging around the Showdown and if he was the one who’d tried to kill me earlier in the day.

Just thinking about my close encounter of the bovine kind made another shot of iciness crackle up my spine and across my shoulders. I shrugged it away, or at least I tried, and since it was better to keep busy than to imagine all sorts of strange—and possibly deadly—scenarios that involved me and that black limo and how Montgomery didn’t want anyone to know about his underhanded business dealings, I kept busy getting the tent ready. Sylvia would be at the plaza in just another hour with the chili she’d made for the night’s event.

Vegetarian chili.

My stomach protested at the very thought.

What was the woman thinking? Carrots, zucchini, bulgur wheat, and corn? My plans that night were to grab dinner in someone else’s tent.

And now that I thought about it, it was never too early to start.

Eating or investigating.

With that in mind, I strolled over to Martha and Rosa’s tent and was glad to see their slow cookers were already plugged in and steaming away.

“Chili!” I announced as soon as I stepped foot in their tent. “I’m starving.”

Rosa was closer to the slow cookers, and she had a bowl ready for me lickety-split. As soon as I sat down, Martha set another bowl of chili at my elbow. Since Rosa’s was right in front of me, I dug into her chili first and sighed with delight when the first mouthful set off a barrage of delicious firework sensations on my taste buds.

Like with so many really good chilies, the taste intensified the longer it was on my tongue.

Then it exploded like a Molotov cocktail.

As if I’d been kicked by that rodeo bull, I sat up like a shot. My eyes streamed tears. My cheeks turned so hot, I could only imagine that they were the color of the matching fire engine red aprons Martha and Rosa wore that night. My tongue swelled to two times its normal size—I swear it did—and every last centimeter of it felt as if it had been painted with molten lava.

“Wow!” Understatement, but even I—who love my chili hot—could not think of a word that was anywhere near appropriate to describe the spiciness. Dragon’s breath might do it. But only if dragons had learned to split atoms.

I sucked in a long breath in the hopes of cooling my tongue, and when that didn’t work, I waved both hands, frantically motioning toward where I saw some packets of crackers on a nearby table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Martha asked.

“Crazy girl.” As if that was something right up there with a terminal diagnosis, Rosa shook her head. “Poor crazy girl.”

I sucked and motioned some more, and Martha got the message. Or maybe she just finally noticed the tears that streaked my cheeks.

It wasn’t until I polished off three packages of crackers and one of those short little cartons of milk that Martha said she’d brought along to put in her coffee that I was able to breathe. A few more crackers and I could finally talk. Except all I could say was “Wow.”

Rosa screwed up her face. “Gringos! They can’t take a little heat.”

“Little?” I put a hand to my chest, grateful to feel my heartbeat, because I swear, this chili was hot enough to stop it cold. “I love spicy chili. But that . . .” With one finger, I pointed at the offending bowl. “You’ll kill somebody with that!”

Rosa, it seems, was not willing to take my word for it. She grabbed a spoon from a nearby place setting and dipped it into my chili. I guess she found out what I was talking about, because as soon as she swallowed, her ears turned red and her eyes popped open.

“Ay, caramba!”
There were a couple packages of crackers that I hadn’t eaten, and she grabbed them and wolfed them down. Even then, she was breathing hard when she asked, “What happened to my chili? It tastes like there’s too much lumbre pepper. Too, too much. But I added only two peppers.” She pointed toward each of the three slow cookers on the left side of the table. “Only two peppers to each pot.”

“Two peppers per pot! But those . . .” Martha gasped. “Those are my pots of chili! And I, I added two lumbre peppers per pot. Oh no.” She dropped her face into her hands. “This is bad. This is very bad. Rosa, what were you thinking?”

“Me?” I guess that shot of spice put a little extra oomph into Rosa’s step. She was up in Martha’s face before I knew it, standing on tiptoe so that she could glare right into Martha’s eyes. “You told me my pots were the ones on the left.”

“I told you your pots were on the right,” Martha said from between clenched teeth. “Right, right, right.”

“Left.”

“Right.”

I popped out of my chair and squeezed between them to make sure this didn’t come to blows. “It looks like we have some work to do,” I announced and, in response to their stunned expressions, added, “You can’t serve chili that hot. Not at a fund-raiser. We’ve got to get it toned down.”

“Crushed pineapple.” Rosa stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. “It cuts the heat and blends nicely with the chili. No one will ever know it’s there.”

“Cider vinegar.” Martha settled her weight back against one foot. “The acidity counteracts the heat.”

“Oh fine. Great.” Disgusted, Rosa threw her hands in the air. “It’s not your chili. You should just tell me how to fix it. You’re the one who ruined it in the first place.”

“I didn’t ruin it,” Martha growled. “I’m not the one who added the extra lumbre. And I told you, I told you as soon as you got here, your chili is in the pots on the right.”

“Left.”

“Right.”

“Ladies!” I put out both hands. Yeah, like that would stop them if they decided to plow right through me and go at each other. “We don’t have time for this. And we don’t have time to go grocery shopping.” I glanced around the tent and saw what I was looking for. “Follow me,” I told them.

They did, and I didn’t even need to turn around to see it. I could hear the stomp of their footsteps as they trailed over to the serving table.

“This is Martha’s chili.” I spooned up some of the chili from the pots on the right, and believe me, I took a careful taste. It had some zing—and a nice kick from the beer she used in the stock—but it wasn’t anywhere near as nuclear as Rosa’s. “Okay, good.” I pointed. “That empty pot,” I told Martha, who went and got it for me. “And now, we combine.”

Really, it was like I asked them to strip to their skivvies and pole dance in front of the Alamo.

Martha’s mouth dropped and stayed open.

Rosa’s jaw went up and down like a plunger. “You want to mix?” she stuttered. “My chili and . . .” Her eyes wide, she looked at Martha. “My chili with hers?”

“My chili mixed with . . .” I was pretty sure Martha was going to have a heart attack, so when she dropped into the nearest chair, I didn’t stop her. Instead, I grabbed the empty pot from her, and since neither woman was in any shape to move, I started ladling. I filled the pot halfway with Martha’s chili, then filled it the rest of the way with Rosa’s and mixed, and when I was done, I tasted. The chili still had a kick, but not a fatal one.

“Done.” I brushed my hands together. “You two can take care of mixing the rest of it. There will be no chili-induced deaths here tonight.”

“And no authentic chili,” Martha grumbled. “Not like my grandmother’s.”

“Not like
my
grandmother’s,” Rosa muttered. “She’s turning over in her grave. I know this for a fact. She’s thinking of her chili and her brave and noble ancestors and she’s—”

“Please!” Martha threw back her head and groaned. “It’s my ancestors who are offended. And who can blame
them? Combining our chilies, it’s an offense to nature. Like . . . like . . .”

“Like putting your family recipes in a can?”

Just as I hoped, this reminder of their common outrage settled both of them down. Martha let out a long, slow breath. Rosa took a seat next to her.

Now that they weren’t going at each other and I had their attention, I looked from one woman to the other. “Any word from Montgomery?” I asked. “About Dom and your recipes?”

Martha sniffed.

Rosa snorted. “Not a peep. That no-good gringo . . .”

“Now, Rosa!” Martha wagged a finger at her. “We had that talk, remember, and you—”

“Said that not all gringos are bad. Yes, yes, I remember. But Montgomery is. Him and his factory and his cans and his chili. Him and his underhanded employees.”