Lightfoot made a note. “What time was that?”
“I don’t know.” Whip shrugged. “Twelve, maybe.”
“What’d you think of the band?” I asked before Lightfoot could get in another question. Ty Honeycutt and his compadres had gradually become the house band at Two Boots. I wasn’t sure they were all that and a bowl of grits, as my Granny Callahan used to say, but customers seemed to like them. At least after a drink or three.
“Better than cats making whoopee.” Whip grimaced.
With a narrow-eyed stare in my direction, Lightfoot cleared his throat. “What’d the two of you do once you got here?”
“Went to bed.” The chili cook frowned. “And not together. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” The stoic detective made another note, but I swear I caught a twitch at the side of his mouth.
“Why’re you asking me all these questions?” His gaze flew from one suspicious face to another. “It’s more than likely he was poisoned at that place her family calls a restaurant.” He pointed wildly at me.
“Are you crazy?” I smiled a can-you-believe-this-guy? smile at the dozen or so people who had failed to follow Lightfoot’s order to scatter. They stared blankly, failing to see the humor.
“Did you taste what you were serving last night? Nasty enough to give a buffalo food poisoning until Christmas.”
Uncle Eddie chose that moment to appear. “We’ve received high ratings in magazines and newspapers from Broken Boot to Juárez. What are you gabbing on about?”
“Is that a fact?” Whip snorted, thrust his hands on his hips, and rocked back on his bootheels. “That stuff you call gluten- and dairy-free was toxic.” He swung his arms wide, preaching to the crowd. “In fact, I could’ve cleaned my toilet with it, only it would’ve added to the germs instead of getting rid of ’em.”
My uncle’s face flushed a deep red. He clamped his mouth shut, his lips straining from the effort to hold back colorful, I-don’t-care-if-you’re-a-customer-or-not verbiage. He gave me a pitiful look, like a dog who’s begging to be let off his leash to chase the neighbors’ squirrels—just one time.
I gave him a stern shake of the head and a sympathetic smile, but I was fighting my own need to blast Whip and his random act of culinary libel. “We don’t usually serve special dietary items.” I lowered the volume and added what I hoped was more congeniality. “When Lucky demanded gluten- and dairy-free items—in the middle of an extremely busy reception—I immediately asked our chef to prepare something especially for him.” I didn’t flinch, though truthfully I had no idea what Senora Mari and our head cook had thrown together other than refried beans.
“So you say.” Whip’s lip curled, throwing his glasses off-kilter. “How do I know you didn’t serve him rotten meat just for demanding his due?”
“That’s a lie,” I said in a low voice. When I lose my temper, my voice drops to a whisper.
“Now, now.” Uncle Eddie grabbed me by the arm and placed himself between me and Whip. “Detective Lightfoot.” He paused to wet his lips. “Does that fella in there look like a man who’s died from food poisoning? You got a good like at him, right?”
Lightfoot shook his head. “We don’t know what killed him, but it doesn’t look like any food poisoning I’ve ever seen.”
“You would say that.” Whip thrust his hat on his head with a show of temper, unaware it was on backwards.
“Okay, that’s enough. We’ll give you more information when we have it.”
Whip remained along with me and Uncle Eddie.
“That’s all for now.” Lightfoot pocketed his notes. “And don’t disappear,” he said, giving Whip a pointed look. “I’ll be talking to you again, real soon.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Lightfoot.” My uncle’s face had paled beneath his tan.
“I’m not saying you did.” With a nod, Lightfoot walked back toward the entrance to Lucky’s tent where Barnes and Pleasant waited.
“You know what Mamá would say.” Uncle Eddie wiped the perspiration from his face with a red bandana.
I gave him a quick hug. “Are you kidding? She’s so politically incorrect, she’d say it serves him right for demanding anything but traditional Martinez Tex-Mex.”
I squeezed his hand. “Look on the bright side.” I plucked his handkerchief from his other hand and wiped a tear of perspiration from his earlobe. “She’ll have something to scold us about for the rest of her days.”
He chuckled, though it didn’t reach his sad, brown eyes.
A little ways away, more onlookers gathered, some confused, others scared, and too many murmuring about the inconvenience of a canceled chili cook-off. My heart sank at the disappointment and shame Uncle Eddie would feel, for he would consider it his own personal failing.
That’s when I spotted Bridget Peck and another ICA official pulling up in a blue Volkswagen Jetta—yellow and red ICA flags flying from the back windows.
Taking my uncle aside, I murmured under my breath, “Go tell everyone we’re not canceling one single solitary thing.” I grimaced. “Not yet anyway.” He gave me a one-armed hug, glanced with trepidation at the ICA officials, and hurried over to calm the contestants.
By the time I reached the parking area, where I’d spotted the coyotes only hours before, Bridget and her fellow official had unloaded their gear.
“We have chairs for you, all set up at the officials’ table.”
“Do they have double cup holders?” Bridget pursed her lips in disapproval.
“They have a cushion.”
Her companion laughed and closed the trunk. “Yes, but do they have a footrest?” Short and plump like a raisin, his smile was infectious. Beside the car, they’d unloaded not only chairs, but a rolling cooler and a crate on wheels filled with binders, pens, and Fiji Waters. Another crate, filled with humongous trophies and other awards, rested in the dirt next to the rear passenger door.
“Let me take those,” I said.
“Sure thing,” the man said with a courtly wave at the metal-and-canvas chairs.
I stuffed one under one arm and then struggled to pick
