I opened my mouth to refute the accusation.
“No sign of negligence on anyone’s part, except maybe the deceased’s.”
“Explain, sir.”
“If you could see the inside of the deceased’s tent you would immediately note how organized it is. The only thing out of place are several extension cords just inside the tent opening,” Lightfoot said.
“Did you or did you not provide extension cords for the contestants?”
“I did not. It’s not customary to provide them, and furthermore we don’t have the money for a hundred extension cords,” I said.
“Why not?”
Was the mayor serious? “This is a charity event.”
As if on cue, men and women started filing by where we stood. Each hopeful contestant carried the large thirty-two-ounce cup provided by the judges, the cups filled with their chili. Some carried two, some used trays, and others gripped the cups tightly in their hands. Those that carried them in their hands wore padded gloves or gripped pot holders.
“Watch out,” a young boy cried, barely managing to hold on to his tray as two large cups slid first to one side and then the other.
“Oh, let me help, precious.” Mrs. Mayor stepped close to the little boy, who quickly stepped back. The cups again slid to the other side of the tray.
“You can’t help him, Mrs. Mayor.” Cogburn grabbed his wife’s arm and pulled her back. “He or one of his parents have to carry it to the judges’ table.”
“Why, that’s ridiculous.”
I shrugged. “But it’s the rule.” The rules were a pain in my backside. “Hey, kid. What if I walk alongside and point out any potholes?”
“Okay.”
All four of us traipsed along with him, joining the stream of chili bearers to the ultimate temple of official judging.
Chapter 8
And the Winner Is . . .
Slowly and steadily, like the Little Engine That Could, the boy managed to safely arrive at the judges’ table with his precious cups of chili—in spite of being hounded by one officious mayor, his well-meaning wife, an observant detective, and me.
Bridget checked the numbers on the cups and marked her list. “Where are your parents, boy?”
“None of your beeswax.” And he promptly ran away.
Guess he’d had enough of unknown-adult supervision for one day. I watched him run toward the edge of the fairgrounds, and my brain clicked his identity into place. He was an O’Neal, not one of the two I’d seen near the bathrooms at Milagro, but the other one. What was his name? Had I heard it before?
For the next twelve minutes, there was a flurry of contestants delivering cups of chili and salsa, entry numbers checked, and nervous questions by the contestants. “Does it matter what temperature it is?”
“No.” Sam accepted the cup of chili from the wizened fellow from the morning, now dressed.
“What if it has beans?”
“Don’t enter it in the traditional category.”
“But I already did.” An older woman, who looked vaguely familiar, cried.
“Next,” Bridget proclaimed, dramatically drawing a line through the old woman’s name on the list.
“Perhaps this once?” I asked.
With a snort, Bridget added the woman’s name to the correct category.
“What if my salsa verde isn’t green?” a familiar voice asked.
“Stranger things have won in the past.” Sam added Russell’s cup to a long line of salsa verde entries on a nearby table.
“I am here,” cried Senora Mari. She held a large plastic cup carefully in her two hands.
“Mamá!” Uncle Eddie hurried to her side. “You can’t compete, we discussed this.”
Bridget Peck barred his way. “Mr. Martinez, Senora Mari has my permission to place her chili alongside all these other entries.”
Uncle Eddie’s mouth fell open. “But—”
“She’s not eligible to win, but Sam and I discussed it. We couldn’t live with ourselves if we didn’t taste Senora Mari’s chili.” Bridget took the plastic cup from my abuela and placed it at the end of the judges’ table. “It’s not every day we meet a grand prize winner from Guadalajara.”
Senora Mari smiled beatifically, carefully avoiding the eyes of her family.
“Thirty seconds, ladies and gentlemen. Thirty seconds until the contest is closed.” Bridget stood, stopwatch in hand, determined to break the hearts of anyone too idle to make the deadline.
“Why is it so important to deliver it on time?” Whip said, squeaking in with a handful of seconds to spare. “It’s the taste that matters, dang it.”
“Organization and time management is the key to an excellent chili, Whip. You should know that by now.”
“I’d think with Lucky dead and all, you’d make an exception for a person being unable to see properly to cook because that person might have tears in their eyes.”
“Time,” Bridget proclaimed with triumph.
The crowd surrounding the judges’ tent burst into applause.
“We understand that this has not been an easy day for many of you.” Muttering broke out in the crowd. “Still,” she said, raising her voice even louder, “you persevered and did your very best to achieve your culinary dreams this day.”
Sam elbowed her in the side.
After an answering glare that could have melted his eyeballs into butter, Bridget threw back her shoulders. “May the best chili win!”
Again the crowd roared.
A tap on the shoulder had me turning around. “Oh, my gosh.” It was Aunt Linda, looking her usual gorgeous self, only a bit tired and shell-shocked. “Have you been selling tacos this entire time?”
She laughed and five years fell away. “No, Jo Jo. I had most of the staff here to help me, remember?”
“How’d we do?”
I could see the wheels spinning as she ciphered what she’d sold during the hours I’d interviewed and investigated—if you wanted to call it that—the fairgrounds and the suspicious death of Lucky Straw.
“We came out ahead by a mile, even giving away the coffee and the cinnamon rolls.” Aunt Linda wasn’t one to talk numbers. She played our successes and struggles close to her chest.
“Who’s left?”
“I sent the Milagro staff home a couple of hours ago to open for lunch. Tim and Mitzi are still over there selling what’s left of the tacos
