“Hey, this is a new shirt.” Barnes puffed out his chest.
“Fine.” She dropped the spoon back in the pot. “I’ll bag the chili fixings. You bag the dead guy’s hands.”
“Give them room to work, Lois Lane.” Lightfoot held open the tent flap, and we stepped outside.
“Does that mean you’re Superman?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “It means I’m the boss.” Flipping a page in his notebook, his gaze turned to the job at hand. “Where’s Eddie?”
“Holy guacamole!” Pleasant cried.
Before I could react, Lightfoot was inside. I followed, but it was impossible to see around the shoulder-to-shoulder lineup of Ellis, Lightfoot, and Barnes. Standing on tiptoe, I could just make out Pleasant as she balanced a strange object on the wooden spoon. Carefully she grasped the thing with her other gloved hand, and lifted it away from the table. It was small and rectangular, and it dripped chili onto the floor in big sloppy glops of meat and sauce.
“ Appetizing.” Ellis grimaced.
“What in tarnation is it?” Barnes made sure to keep his uniform out of harm’s way.
“Hand it over.” Lightfoot picked up a checkered napkin from a nearby basket and took possession of the unidentified chili-covered object. He studied it for a minute and then wiped it clean with the napkin. “Stun gun.”
“Huh.” Barnes chuckled. “Somebody must’ve beat me with a stupid stick. I thought it was a television remote.”
I could see the headline in my mind’s eye: “Chili Cook Stunned into Silence.” Or better yet, “KO’d in the Kitchen.” The alliteration was tempting.
“What if he fell when the killer used the stun gun on him?” Pleasant wiped her hands on another checked napkin.
“And hit his head on a skillet?” I asked.
Lightfoot took my arm and led me outside. “That’s enough interfering for now.”
I yanked free. “Hey, what gives? You’ve valued my input in the past.”
“Not on the scene, mixing it up with officers and the JP.” Nearby, small pockets of chili cooks and their supporters stood in front of their tents, watching us with open curiosity. “What about your cook-off?” He lowered his voice. “Looks like folks need some answers.” With a nod, he returned to the crime scene.
From the road came a squeal of brakes. A brand-spanking-new Dodge Ram truck revved its engine as an older couple rolled their cooler across the road and into the parking lot. I held my breath as the truck lumbered closer.
It was P.J. Pratt, town council member and Uncle Eddie’s nemesis. If I didn’t come up with a backup plan—and now—he’d try to blame today’s tragic event on my uncle. He’d start throwing his weight around, questioning our ability to keep the event on track.
I could see it now. He’d insist we cancel the whole kit and caboodle, and at the next council meeting, he’d demand Uncle Eddie’s resignation.
Chapter 5
Where There’s a Will . . .
When female screams filled the air a minute later, clueless contestants, vendors, tourists, and assorted townsfolk hurried over for a better look. The two women stood in front of their RV, wearing robes and pajamas, hair tangled and mussed. “Lucky’s dead,” cried one on the shoulder of the other. “Now I’ll never beat him. He got to heaven as a champion.” Huge crocodile tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I know, sister.” With the end of her belt, the terry-clad woman wiped the eyes of her grieving friend and then helped her climb back into their RV. “You were going to pulverize that two-faced braggart.”
I understood their pain. I would feel the same way if Hillary Sloan-Rawlings were to die before I proved I was a far better reporter. It’s not every day one awakes to find their competition stiff and dead.
As the crowd continued to drink their coffee, gossip, and watch the officials from the sheriff’s office go about their grisly business, P.J. Pratt and Hillary Sloan-Rawlings made their grand entrance.
“What in tarnation thunder is going on, Eddie?” Apparently, P.J. Pratt thought owning your own ranch gave him the right to boss everyone around, same as his cowhands and Herefords.
“I don’t know what you’ve done now, Josie, but I’ve had more laughs at a funeral parlor.” Hillary’s throaty laugh made me think of the sound you might get if you crossed an aging Hollywood actress with a braying donkey.
Lord, forgive me.
Just as I opened my mouth to say something socially unacceptable, Lightfoot stuck his head out of the tent, took in the situation at a glance, and quickly headed our way. “P.J.” He tipped his hat. “Hillary.”
Uncle Eddie removed his hat. “Show some respect, ma’am. One of the chili contestants is dead.”
“Oh, my.” Hillary slapped a hand over her mouth. “I was only kidding. I’m so sorry.”
“What’d you do, Martinez? Was it some kind of accident?”
My uncle paled. “No. He died of, uh, what did he die of?” He turned to Lightfoot.
“We don’t know.”
“So this could reflect poorly on the town?” P.J. insisted.
“Take it down a notch.” Lightfoot held up a hand. “Folks are riled up as it is. We’ve finally got everyone calmed down enough to go forward with the cook-off.”
“Go forward?” Hillary slanted me a look. “Was that your bright idea?” she murmured with a sly smile.
Uncle Eddie placed a hand on my arm. “It was mine. We’re going to bring this cook-off off without a hitch.”
“Except for someone getting killed.” P.J. puffed out his chest like a banty rooster. “I hope you know I’m demanding Cogburn call a special council meeting to discuss your part in this, Eddie.”
Lightfoot glared at P.J. and took a warning step into the rancher’s space. “Are you cooking chili?” Lightfoot gestured at P.J.’s dolly laden with fixings.
“No.”
“That’s good,” I said. “As one of the organizers, you can’t. It’s against the rules.” I was trying my best not to smirk.
“Well, I can if I want to . . .
