“Why don’t you two go on and set up? The sooner we break this up, the sooner folks will get back to cooking.” Lightfoot waited until Hillary and P.J. wandered off toward the back of the fairgrounds before returning to Lucky’s tent.
From a distance, I spotted the O’Neal woman from the night before, sporting her red-framed glasses. She made a beeline for me, her gaze angry enough to singe my eyelashes. “Don’t tell me you intend to cancel? I asked for three vacation days and pulled the kids out of school to enter. And you know why?” Her arms beat the air in frustration. “Because I thought I’d have a better chance of winning the prize money at your pint-sized event.”
I swallowed. “And we’re glad you entered.” A plan began to take hold. I raised my voice for all to hear. “Don’t anyone pack up, throw out, or give up on your chili-cooking dreams. We’re going to proceed as scheduled. And may the best man, woman, or chilihead win!”
“When do we start cooking?” Dani O’Neal wore a flowered robe over a lace nightgown. She’d washed her hair and ponytailed it wet.
“Whatcha worrying about, girl?” I didn’t recognize the wizened old man. “I reckon your cooking skills amount to opening cans from your neighborhood Fiesta.” His tattered terry cloth robe didn’t quite hide his T-shirt and striped boxers.
“I’ll have you know that I like to use fresh ingredients.” Her cheeks flushed to a rosy hue. “I’m in the medical field. You can’t tell me half of you aren’t growing salmonella in your chili pots right this minute.”
The reverent hush evaporated as angry remarks flew through the crowd.
In spite of the tension in the air, the sight of the old geezer’s white knobby knees was burning a hole in my retinas, and I wanted to scream at him to get some clothes on. But what really chapped my hide was neither he nor the O’Neal woman had expressed fear or sympathy for Lucky, or even curiosity about the hive of activity at the far end of the fairgrounds. Their lack of emotion made me angry and suspicious. I studied them more closely, my Spidey sense springing to life.
A familiar short, middle-aged man, wearing a fringed leather vest led the crowd to the officials’ tent. “What in tarnation is going on? Don’t tell me someone broke in and stole Lucky’s knives again.” Whip’s face flamed with anger, then immediately fell. Mouth open, he surveyed the crowd, the sheriff’s cruisers, the crime scene tape surrounding the tent of doom, and the eyes that refused to meet his own.
“Lucky?” He spun in the direction of the ill-fated tent.
Lightfoot stepped into his path and raised his hands to block the other man’s progress. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Say what? Where is he?” Whip feinted to one side and then lunged around Lightfoot toward the opening.
Again the detective blocked his route, and Whip collapsed to the ground, his dark hair falling in his face. He swallowed hard. “What’s happened to him?” Lightfoot drew breath to speak, but the other man addressed those of us standing around gaping at his pain. “Somebody say something!”
“Lucky Straw is dead.” Lightfoot reached down and helped the other man to his feet.
Whip’s shoulders caved, his face paled, tears sprang from his eyes. “Nah, he ain’t.”
“Miss Callahan found him.” Lightfoot gave me a nod.
All eyes turned to appraise me. I could see their suspicions stamped on their faces. What had I seen? Why was I in Lucky’s tent? Had I killed him?
With another jab at the corner of his eyes, Whip shoved his hair behind his ears and turned to me. “Was it his heart?”
“I’m sorry.” Anguish closed my throat and forced me to mumble, “I don’t know.”
With a hard look, Lightfoot stared down the O’Neal woman, the old man in the robe, and the rest of the contestants and families that had gathered around. “You folks go on about your business. Let me talk to this man alone.”
I turned away with the rest. “Josie, you stay.”
Once the coast was clear, Lightfoot quietly took the other man’s measure. “You friends with the deceased?”
“We were partners.” Whip’s face flushed all the way to his huge ears. “I mean, we were chili-cooking partners. We traveled around together entering chili cook-offs. It’s what we did for fun.”
One thing about solving murders that I don’t like: everyone appears suspicious. Even then, I found myself observing Whip through Lightfoot’s eyes. Who else would have easy access to Lucky’s tent? And have known what he was likely to touch and in what order?
“You shared this tent? Or did you have your own?” Lightfoot asked.
Whip pointed to an open-sided tent with a blue canvas top on the far side of Lucky’s. “That one’s mine. We competed against each other something fierce, but he allowed me to store my cooker and coolers in his tent.”
“Why’s that?” I found myself asking.
“Folks are less likely to handle your property in a tent that zips shut.”
I glanced at Lightfoot and found him watching us both, his eyes narrowed in thought. “You stay out here last night?”
Whip pointed to a small silver Toyota truck with an Apache trailer still connected. “That’s mine.”
“Why didn’t you keep your things locked in your camper? Looks safer to me than any tent.”
Deep lines gouged Whip’s forehead. “‘Cause I wouldn’t have any room to walk around in that thing. That should be obvious as the nose on your face.”
Lightfoot pulled out the small notepad and pencil that lived in his breast pocket. “Where were you last night after the reception?”
Whip’s eyes grew wide. “Hey, what do you mean by that?”
“Did you go to Pecos Pete’s?” Lightfoot’s tone never varied. “Stroll down Main Street? Take in the sights?”
I wanted to ask, What sights? But I remained mum.
“Nah. We did walk over to Two Boots dance hall for a bit.”
“Did you argue?”
“Hey!” He yanked his hat from his head. “Cut
