“Whoa.” That added another layer to the cake. “Was it working when he died?”
“Hard to tell, but most likely.”
“What about the stun gun? Could he have been playing around with that, shocked himself, and then fallen and hit his head?” It would be a relief to not have another murder on our hands. One small town can take only so much mayhem.
He exchanged another quick glance with Lightfoot. “It’s possible.” Ellis shifted his feet. “Look, the detective can share more with you if he’s so inclined, but I’ve got to get going.” He headed for the row of chili contestant tents and shelters.
“Where’s he off to?”
“Checking in with the wife to make sure their chili hasn’t suffered in his absence.” Lightfoot removed his hat and wiped a hand across his brow.
With a twinge of impatience, I watched the JP leave. “How will Ellis know for sure whether it was Lucky’s pacemaker that killed him or the iron skillet?”
Rolling back his shoulders, Lightfoot blew out his breath in exasperation. “First, it’s highly unlikely that his pacemaker failed. That happens only on TV. Second, you seem to be the only person convinced he was hit with a cook pot.”
“If I’m wrong,” I interrupted, “then where is Lucky’s cast-iron skillet—the one Whip claims he never left home without?”
“Barnes and Pleasant will keep an eye out as they secure the scene.” Lightfoot’s gaze narrowed. “You can’t hurry the process along, Josie. Ellis will contact the victim’s doctor, who will provide the information on his pacemaker.”
“I can help you there. He was always going on about his ailments.” Whip was up close and personal before I saw him coming.
Lightfoot made ready to take notes. “Do you know the name of his doctor?”
“Samantha something or other. It’s in the medicine bag around his neck.”
Both men stared at me, waiting for a revelation. “I didn’t see a medicine bag this morning or anything else around his neck . . . except for his apron.”
“Where could it be?” Lightfoot asked.
“Nowhere . . . wait. Last night he lost it at that shindig.” Whip pointed at me, too close for comfort. “You were there, weren’t you?”
I nodded slowly. “I remember.” I held my fingers about six inches apart. “He said it was a leather bag about so big. Like a medicine bag—but not.” I shot a glance at Lightfoot to gauge his reaction to my basic knowledge of Native American accessories.
“What did he keep in it?” he asked, ignoring me.
“Let’s see.” Whip screwed up his face, like someone either drunk or suffering a tremendous hangover. Or like someone who’d lost his best friend. His half-open eyes were red, and he wore a smear of toothpaste across his chin. Beneath a heavy dowsing of chili powder, I could still make out the words on his red T-shirt, Naked Chili Burns in All the Right Places.
“What did he carry in the bag around his neck?” Lightfoot asked as he scribbled something down on his notepad.
“A card with his doctor’s name on it and something else.” Whip grabbed his head. “And something real important, if I could just remember.”
“House key?” I offered.
He gave me a look of disgust. “No. That ain’t it.”
“Was he allergic to medicines, bees, anything you can recall?” Lightfoot studied Whip closely.
The older man began to twist the end of his shirt, as if wringing out a washrag. “Heck, no. He had a cast-iron stomach. Could eat a jar of jalapeños and never flinch.”
“Emergency numbers, maybe?” I asked. The poor guy needed an energy drink or a pair of jumper cables to give his brain a jolt.
He slapped the sides of his head. “Numbers! He kept the serial number to his pacemaker and the warranty information in that thing.” Reeling, Whip dropped to one knee, as if remembering had sapped his life force.
“Are you okay?” Lightfoot and I exchanged a glance. Was Whip putting on a show for our benefit?
“I’ll be all right . . . You got any coffee?”
“Where’s your RV?”
“I can’t go back in there.” He dropped his head and drew a shuddering breath. “Last time I made coffee in that kitchen, Lucky was alive.”
Lightfoot caught my eye. “Don’t you have coffee in the officials’ tent?”
“Could be.” Could also be that I didn’t want to leave this potential suspect behind, to miss out on any crucial information he would give the detective in my absence.
“I’d be eternally grateful.” Whip grabbed my hand and pulled it to his chest, dusting it with chili powder.
“Sure.” I withdrew my hand and wiped it on the side seam of my jeans. I’d taken three steps when I spun around. “Was that the only place he kept the number for his pacemaker? He didn’t keep it anywhere else, like a wallet or a safe?”
Whip lowered himself carefully to the ground. “I’ll just sit here until you get back.” His voice was wafer thin. What a drama queen.
Back at the tent, Lenny was snoring. I filled a paper cup with what I prayed was coffee, though it was so black and slick I could’ve sworn it was motor oil.
“Only thirty minutes until we get under way.” Bridget and Sam appeared to be playing go fish. “I hope you haven’t forgotten anything.” Entry numbers had been taped to the judges’ table, disposable tasting spoons and sample cups placed at each spot, and lined trash cans positioned in reach.
I prayed Uncle Eddie had followed our checklist to the letter. “Why? Is something missing?” I was a bit ticked at their lack of concern. “What else is there to do but wait for the entries?”
“Cheating is under way as we speak.” Sam shuffled the deck and then shuffled it again.
Bridget slapped her hands together. “Listen to him.” She gestured wide, encompassing the fairgrounds before her. “Right now, some contestants are bending the rules while others are breaking them.”
“I have to make an emergency coffee delivery.”
“If you want to protect the integrity of this event, then you better join your uncle policing the contestants.” Her
