“Are you heading out soon?”
Before she could answer, Uncle Eddie spotted her and crushed her in his arms. “You did it again, hon. Thank you, thank you.”
“She’s the best,” I said. They were the cutest couple.
“And I’m so proud of her.” He kissed her, and she brushed her cheek as if wiping it away. Still I couldn’t miss her blush.
“I’m out of here.” She disengaged gently from his arms. “When will you get the results?”
“Y’all will get the results in about an hour . . . so cool your jets.” Bridget Peck delivered her directive to the crowd of contestants through a mini megaphone she’d produced from thin air.
Russell appeared at the edge of the crowd, cats in tow.
“Yip, yip,” Lenny’s voice rang out.
Bridget turned from the judges’ table, spoon at the ready. “Get that dog out of here! You’re interfering with the neutrality of the judges’ area.” Since neither Lenny nor I had entered the cook-off, I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. I scampered around the entry submission table and unattached my canine friend from the table leg.
“Yip.”
“Ah, geez, Lenster. Potty break?”
“Yip.”
“Meow!” From nowhere the two cats appeared, hissing and spitting.
“Get those felines out of here before you contaminate the whole kit and caboodle.”
Russell pushed his way through the crowd around the judges’ tent. “Donner. Blitzen. Come here.” Like good cats everywhere, they ignored him.
I scooped Lenny into my arms, turning my back from the table of chili entries, determined to show the officials I had no wish to contaminate their samples.
“Give him to me.” Aunt Linda appeared at my elbow. “I’ll take him home.”
“Take him for a walk first.”
“Don’t worry your head about that.”
Russell lifted the two cats by the scruffs of their necks and they immediately became neutral sacks of sweet, docile fur.
“Out.” Bridget pointed a long, officious finger toward the parking lot.
“We’re going, aren’t we, girls?” Russell said.
The crowd closed behind Russell as he ignored Bridget’s command and headed for his tent.
I said a quick prayer that Elliot the iguana wouldn’t be the next pet to make an unseemly appearance. A salmonella outbreak would equal a murder in Bridget’s book, any day.
“I thought you had this under control.” Mayor Cogburn had pulled Uncle Eddie to one side. “What do you call this?”
Mrs. Cogburn laughed. “Good fun, right, Detective? I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.” She shot a glance over her shoulder to where Bridget and Sam stood tasting the entries, backs stiff with self-importance and outrage.
Lightfoot smiled his first true smile of the day. “Seems to me that cats and dogs would worry her less than a dead body.”
“How much longer until they announce the winner?” Mayor Cogburn had the knack for ignoring his wife’s sage advice.
“Still forty minutes, unless certain individuals won’t leave us in peace,” Bridget muttered, never turning away from tasting and making notes next to each entry.
With a flirtatious smile, Mrs. Mayor drew her husband away from the officials’ tent. “Let’s check out the vendors. There’s a booth over there selling silk shawls. Maybe they have one to match my new dress.” Her prairie dress was green and purple gingham, but maybe the stars would align as they usually did when Mrs. Mayor had her mind set on a new fashionable purchase.
“What about you?” I asked.
Lightfoot checked his phone. “Barnes says everything’s packed up or closed off. Just as soon as I sample some chili, I’m heading over to the sheriff’s office to write a report.”
My stomach grumbled. “I’ll join you.”
“You’re going to miss the announcement of the big winners.”
“Unlike our cadaver, I’ll live.”
Before we could skedaddle, Bridget’s sidekick, Sam, brought out the trophies and displayed them across the front table. Alongside the Texas-shaped awards, they placed red and white ribbons for second and third place. Uncle Eddie appeared from the depths of the tent, carrying white Milagro envelopes—which held the prize money for the first-place winners and the people’s choice award. He spotted the mayor and Mrs. Cogburn now sitting in the front row and flapped the envelopes at them in greeting.
While Lightfoot and I sampled a chili apiece, the judges had put their heads together.
Bridget Peck blew her air horn before I could cover my ears. “Gather round, folks. It’s time to announce the big winners.”
Rancher P.J. Pratt pushed through the crowd, trailed by Hillary Sloan-Rawlings and his wife, the artistic gallery-owner Melanie.
“Hold up a cotton-pickin’ minute.” P.J. was as loud as any air horn. “The town council decided that Hillary should give out the prizes.” He took the beauty queen’s hand and presented her to Bridget Peck as if she were the First Lady and the Queen of England all rolled into one.
Uncle Eddie hurried over. “The rules say the ICA officials have to announce the winners, P.J.”
“It benefits our citizens.” Melanie crossed her arms in defiance.
“True, but this is Uncle Eddie’s event.” This trio of troublemakers had better keep their greedy hands off my uncle’s hard work.
“What do you say, Mr. Martinez?” Bridget Peck’s face had turned to stone.
Uncle Eddie glanced at Mayor Cogburn and his wife. “I say . . .” He threw back his shoulders and tucked his thumbs into his belt. “I say we play by the ICA rules.”
The crowd applauded enthusiastically.
• • •
The actual announcement of the winners was anticlimactic. The winner of the traditional red chili category was a woman from Waco, who cried, “Don’t mess with Texas!” and wiped her tears with her husband’s shirttail.
Everyone applauded, if a bit quietly.
After the announcement of the traditional red chili category, the chili verde was next. The wizened old man, white legs now covered, pointed a finger at the crowd as he claimed his trophy and two hundred and fifty dollars. “Doubters, look upon me and weep.”
The crowd laughed, which made him even angrier. He began to spout something about God’s judgment on Lucky and death to those who took advantage of others until Sam pulled him aside for a picture.
Finally,
