“She’s going to drop them. Then what?” Bridget’s lips pursed so tightly that deep lines like a freshly plowed field appeared around her mouth.
“Then she’ll pick them back up again.” The man handed me the second chair so I wouldn’t have to bend over and dislodge the first chair from its strategic position. “You sure you wouldn’t rather take a crate? Much easier.”
I smirked. “No way. You wouldn’t rob me of my workout, would you?”
“Stop your yammering, and let’s get on with it.” Bridget grabbed the rolling office and trudged out of the weedy parking lot toward the tent that bore a large white OFFICIALS’ TENT banner.
After only a few steps, they halted to stare at the ambulance, the deputy cruisers, and the assembly of officers and EMT workers. “Good Lord.” Bridget turned to me, her face pale as flour. “Don’t tell me someone’s been hurt, already.”
“Well—”
At that moment, the EMTs appeared from the tent, carrying a motionless shape draped in a blue blanket between them. Lucky’s body. Carefully, they placed it on the gurney and then slowly began to roll it through the grass toward the waiting ambulance.
“No, no.” Bridget Peck’s voice was a thready whisper. “What’s going on? That’s Lucky’s tent.” With a thud, her book bag fell from her shoulder and hit the ground.
“Sure looks like it,” her fellow official said in a quiet voice.
I swallowed. “Um, yes. He, uh, had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” she demanded.
“Not exactly an accident, more like . . . an altercation.” And it hit me like a bolt of lightning. If Lucky’s death was a murder, maybe they wouldn’t have to shut down our event. It wasn’t as if we’d provided faulty wiring or tainted water. I swallowed my doubts. “I don’t know much, and it’s not for me to say.” I leaned in. “Could be foul play.”
“Foul play?” Bridget tried for scorn, but I didn’t miss the solitary tear coursing down her cheek. She drew back her shoulders, like an officer on a sinking ship, determined to hold on to his pride. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” She cast a hard eye across the fairgrounds. “We’re shutting this event down if I get one whiff of anything that indicates you and your organization had anything to do with his death.”
“That’s not necessary, is it?” I asked, hurrying along behind—metal chairs banging the undersides of my arms and my hips.
“Of course it is! You trying to discredit the ICA?” Bridget was on the move, shoulders rigid, muttering to herself.
“No ma’am,” I countered meekly. “But wouldn’t you receive more negative publicity if you shut us down without just cause?”
“Without just cause,” Bridget grunted. “Says you and who else?” Unceremoniously, she and the man dumped their bags on a table just inside the officials’ tent and rolled their crates of notebooks and trophies to one side. “Where’s the sheriff?” They marched from the tent and made a beeline for the first sheriff’s deputy in sight.
I had lagged behind, but I saw Barnes shake his red head at their questions and then point a freckled finger to where Lightfoot stood talking to the JP outside Lucky’s tent.
“We’ve a right to the truth.” The other ICA official’s expression was grim.
“Who are you?” For Lightfoot to be anything other than polite meant he was on edge.
“We’re from the ICA.” Bridget’s proclamation turned several heads.
Lightfoot glanced at me, a question in his eyes.
“International Chili Association. This is—” I began with forced politeness.
“That’s Sam, and I’m Bridget Peck.” The older woman stuck out her hand with such force that her gray curls bounced. “We’re the official judges for this here chili cook-off.”
Lightfoot put a hand to his hat and dipped his chin. “Did you know the deceased?”
The two officials glanced nervously at each other. “Course we did,” Bridget said. “He’s been on the circuit for about ten years.”
“The devil he has.” Sam gave his partner a sharp look.
“Since he fought the ICA decision in Terlingua. We were both there, Sam.” That time the shrill pitch of her voice turned the heads of two deputies several tents away.
Lightfoot’s brows lifted.
“International Chili Association.” My cheeks ached from an overdose of smiling.
“And we’re not going to allow any mishap to taint the reputation of the ICA. Let’s get that clear.” Bridget’s hands fisted as if looking for a fight.
With a sigh, Lightfoot tipped back the brim of his hat with his thumb. “This so-called mishap means that a man is dead.” He glanced at me, his gaze conveying a message I couldn’t read. “We don’t have any reason to believe it’s anything other than natural causes.”
The two officials stared at each other in silence. “Is that your honest opinion?” Sam asked, hat over his heart.
Lightfoot’s gaze narrowed to a knife point. “Mister. Are you accusing me of lying?”
I stepped back. I hadn’t heard the quiet detective lose his temper very often, but one day I was convinced it was going to blow. A gusher exploding all over God and everybody.
“Uh, no, sir.” Sam worried his hat in his hands. “That’s not what I meant at all.”
“Good.” Lightfoot’s threatening expression cleared. “I suggest you and your partner—”
“We ain’t—”
The detective raised a hand. “The two of you get back to the judges’ tent and figure out an alternate plan.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam took Bridget Peck by the arm and forced her back the way they had come.
The taciturn newly appointed detective surveyed the crowd before turning a watchful eye on the deputies and JP cataloging the clues within the crime tape. Lightfoot caught my eye and motioned for me to meet him at the far side of Lucky’s tent.
“Can’t we please go ahead with the cook-off?” I asked sotto voce.
“Unlikely.” He turned his head to watch as the ambulance pulled away, lights flashing but no siren.
“Please.” I grabbed his forearm. “For Eddie.”
He looked away, but didn’t remove my hand. Knowing him, he was trying to
