“Sure . . .” It would mean moving fifteen or so contestants to new digs. After a brief calculation, I realized it just might work, as we hadn’t attracted as many entries as we’d planned. It would be cramped, but folks might be willing to share their sites so the contest could continue.
A frown appeared between Lightfoot’s eyes as he studied my hand on his arm.
“Thanks! You’re a lifesaver.”
I turned to go and he tapped me on the shoulder. “Tell me you and your uncle had the wiring checked out by a certified electrician.”
“Are you kidding? We weren’t taking any chances. The head of the fairgrounds committee hired an expert from West Texas to check all the wiring.”
Lightfoot actually appeared to be impressed, for once. “How’d you work that out with the university?”
“Tamales.”
He shook his head. “Should’ve known.” He studied the parking lot as a dozen more vehicles of various models and price ranges pulled in, many parking in the field alongside the full parking lot. Again the frown line appeared above his long, straight nose. He glanced at me, stretched out his arm, and pointed to the far side of the lot. “Someone’s in distress.”
My heart nearly flipped over. No, no, no. This day just couldn’t get any worse. “Where?”
“The Prius.”
“The . . .” It was then I spotted the injured party.
“Yip, yip, yip,” carried faintly on the wind.
“Oh, heavens! Lenster!” How could I have forgotten him? The air was cool, the window cracked, but he was fit to be tied with a cattleman’s rope. I cradled him in my arms and kissed his pointed head. He reciprocated by licking my arm until I longed for a towel. Like a noble friend and partner, he’d waited quietly until he could no longer stand not being by my side or a piece of the action. “You’re right, buddy. You can come help me wrangle this mystery, these tents, and dozens of angry, frustrated chili cooks. No problem.”
Lightfoot had followed me to the car, where he listened closely to my effusive murmurings with a bemused look on his face.
“I can make it happen,” I insisted, trying to convince myself as much as anyone else.
“Everyone moves a hundred feet, no less.” His sober gaze told me there would be no compromise.
“Aye, aye, sir.” I lifted Lenny’s paw to help him give Lightfoot a proper salute.
“Yip.”
Slowly, Lightfoot shook his head at my attempt at levity. I could tell he wanted to issue me another strict warning, but he merely said, “You need assistance?”
“Maybe. Let me get on the phone and see who I can rustle up.”
First, I located Uncle Eddie, then together we convinced the ICA officials we could handle the change, and then we called our CEO.
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Aunt Linda grabbed the reins. “Hold a meeting with the contestants and explain what’s going on. If people insist on leaving it’s their prerogative. But if they decide to stay, they have to move their own gear and set up their new locations. Don’t you dare offer to do it all. We’re on our way.”
If I had driven to a strange town only to awaken or arrive to the news that one of my fellow contestants had been murdered, on site, I’d have hit the road faster than a semi runs down roadkill. Well, not unless I was desperate to win the prize.
By the time my family and the rest of the Milagro and Two Boots staff arrived, Lightfoot, Pleasant, and I had moved only three tents’ worth of contestants and their stuff. Jumping out of two white F150s—complete with metallic Milagro and Two Boots business labels, a ’72 Impala, a Dodge Charger, and various four-door, seen-better-days vehicles, our drowsy staff went to work.
“Someone help!”
I turned just as Senora Mari came around the back of one of our trucks with two gigantic rolling coolers, a handle in each hand. She was weaving to and fro like a Saturday-night drunk.
“Abuela, what are you doing here? Did you come to help Aunt Linda?”
“Humph. I came to show these ICA gringos how to make authentic Mexican chili.”
I grabbed the handle of one of the coolers. “But you know you can’t compete, right? It’s a conflict of interest.”
She frowned, her lips pursed, and then she beat her chest with one small hand. “I don’t care. I will give it away. That will show those know-it-alls.”
Aunt Linda set up a table for her mother-in-law and another for her own wares. She immediately began to win fans. “Howdy, folks! The cavalry has arrived. Come on over and enjoy some breakfast tacos and coffee. Even brought some cinnamon rolls. No charge for the coffee and cinnamon rolls. And tacos are only a dollar.”
I raised an eyebrow at the fee.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Can’t afford to give away the farm. They don’t have to buy them. It’s their choice.”
You would have thought we were selling ice water in Hades. The line for grub grew exponentially, snaking down the length of the fairgrounds. First ten, then twenty, now forty people, mostly adults with a handful of kids thrown in.
I cringed at how the parents would explain all the cops to their children. As I helped serve, the cooks passed by, looking no worse for wear. Only a few appeared to be overly concerned about the death of one of their own. Poor Lucky wasn’t a favorite with this crowd. Or maybe they were just relieved to have one less competitor.
People are strange when it comes to winning five hundred dollars.
After several tents, coolers, baskets, and generators were moved, Uncle Eddie made an announcement. “Folks, we appreciate your patience. What’s happened here is a horrible thing.”
“Horrible,” a boy of maybe three repeated. His grin said he had no idea what the word meant.
“Now I’ve talked to some of Lucky’s friends.” Uncle Eddie gestured to Whip and the wizened man from
