“This year we decided to make an exception to the rules.” Bridget Peck waited for the crowd to quiet down. “Since this cook-off is not yet an official ICA-sanctioned event until next year, we have decided to award the people’s choice award to Senora Marisol Martinez.”
The crowd cheered.
“Mamá?” Uncle Eddie found her at the edge of the crowd and led her forward.
“Didn’t I tell you I would show them how to make chili the proper way?”
Mayor Cogburn stepped forward. “Pratt, stop hogging the spotlight and clear out of the way.”
Outflanked, Pratt and his women moved aside.
The photographer for the Bugle took photos of the winners with their awards along with the officials, and even the proud event organizer—Uncle Eddie.
“I am so proud of you, Abuela.” I gave her a quick hug.
With a pat to my cheek, she said, “Of course, you are. But don’t worry, it’s not too late for you to learn.”
The Cogburns and other friends gathered around and I slipped away.
I said good-bye to Bridget and Sam, making sure to thank them for giving us a chance, even after Lucky’s death and my abuela’s brazen stubbornness. I was too exhausted to care enough to see if we’d passed muster. Uncle Eddie could ask the hard questions: Would we be welcome to hold one of their hallowed ICA events next year? And would they be so kind as to list our event on their website? I gave my uncle a saucy salute, two fingers to my temple. He responded with a wry smile and a shake of his head as I left him to wrap up the loose ends with the rest of the cook-off volunteers.
I was halfway to the Prius when I remembered Lightfoot. He was nowhere in sight. I wanted to discuss my thoughts on the case, with the sole intent that he would share his thoughts on the case with me. I decided to take one last tour of the chili cook tents. I could easily combine my tour with sampling chili and discussing the case with Lightfoot—if I didn’t make it too obvious for his taste.
I began with Dani O’Neal’s site. “I’m sorry you didn’t win.”
“Oh, it’s you and that dog. Should have known.” She looked up briefly from pouring out the contents of her chili pot. She wore giant pot holder gloves on each hand and held her head to one side to avoid the steam from her brew.
“Where’re your kids? I bet they were disappointed.”
She ignored me and finished emptying the last of her chili concoction into an empty plastic gallon jug. She then threw the plastic jug into the metal garbage barrel to the side of her shelter.
“Where’s Elliot?” I tried to make my question sound casual, but I was more than happy to see her destroy the salmonella-infected concoction. Perhaps there was a slight chance her chili was untainted; but I’d seen her return to her cooking without washing her hands after handling him. That was enough for me.
“Does it matter?” She slammed the lid of a large blue ice chest and rolled it onto the grass along the outer perimeter of her site.
“Sure it does. You competed for your . . . kids. That makes it important.” I’d almost let the cat out of the bag. If she wanted to pretend those three tykes were hers, I had to find out why.
With a dramatic sigh, she fell onto the chest. “Not my kids.”
“I’m sorry.” I was always stepping into it with both moccasins. “I didn’t mean any insult.”
She waved a hand. “Chill. They’re not even mine.”
My mouth fell open like a doofus. “Whose kids are they?”
“Janice. My sister. She needed a break from her brats so she sent three of them with me.”
“How many did you leave her with?” Would Janice agree that her children were brats?
“One. The baby.” Dani raised up enough to lift the lid of the ice chest and bring out a wine cooler. Cherry breeze. Then with a quick glance my way, she stuck the unopened bottle under her arm, removed her glasses, and cleaned the lenses on her white tee. “Don’t look at me like that. So I lied . . . a little. I never actually said they were mine.”
“Why in the world would you do that?”
“Sympathy, I guess.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re not brats—at least not most of the time. I just wish I knew what I’d done wrong.”
“Well, let’s see.” Did she really needed me to spell out how crude it was to temporarily adopt children to win the sympathy vote?
“I just knew those kids would push me right up to the top.”
No longer shocked, I was downright disgusted. But I wasn’t about to share my true feelings with this possible suspect when an investigation was under way. “What time did you start your preparations?” I asked, treading lightly.
“Is that a trick question? Nine o’clock, like everyone else.”
“Sorry. It’s our first time hosting a chili cook-off and I need some feedback.”
Her gaze narrowed.
“Everyone was supposed to start at eight, but with Lucky’s death and all, I figured some folks got distracted.”
“Not me. I was glad to see the end of the old coot.”
“The arrival of the deputies didn’t wake up you and the kids?”
“These guys are up every day at six, rain or shine.” She glanced to her left and then her right. “Speaking of kids.”
“Did you find any time to yourself this weekend?” Had she woken earlier than her borrowed offspring and wandered out onto the fairgrounds, perhaps in the direction of Lucky’s tent?
“I run every morning at five, kids or no kids. That’s my me time. Look, I gotta go find them before we end up in the ER on the way out
