I watched her go. Then I circled the tent just in case she’d lied about Elliot and his whereabouts. We found his open-air cage, but there was no sign of the green iguana. We moved on.
I tasted two traditional chili samples and one chili verde before I came across Russell and his feline friends.
“Howdy,” I called, determined to get to the bottom of this murder, if indeed that’s what the tragic event of the day actually was.
“Howdy, yourself.” He was sitting outside his tent, the two cats in a large cage behind him. “Name your poison.”
I had a bit of room left in a corner of my belly, but with chili one has to be careful. “Salsa and chips, please.”
He glanced at Lenny.
“Yip.”
“Polite dog, as far as canines go.”
“Yip.”
“Don’t push it,” said the tall giant of a man.
“You know my family organized this event?”
“That so?”
“I’m conducting an informal survey on how to improve for next year.”
“Go right ahead, but I don’t see as how you can improve on a murder.”
“Right.” Smart aleck.
He piled a plate full of chips and handed me a cup of salsa. “Want something to drink with that?”
“Dr Pepper?” A Texan can never get her fill of the world’s best carbonated beverage, especially when paired with spicy Tex-Mex.
“Coming right up.”
“Did you see anything suspicious this morning?” I decided to come right out with it.
“No, but I saw that woman with the kids jogging like a javelina with a hangover.”
I paused, distracted by the image of a small wild boar weaving through the brush, landing in a bed of cacti, and passing out.
Russell misjudged my silence for disapproval. “I don’t mean nothing by it. Want some chili to go with that measly helping of salsa?”
“No, thank you. And if it’s so measly why did you serve it to me in a small cup?”
He grinned. “Business is business, as they say in Big D.”
“Were you jogging as well?” I avoided staring at his girth.
“Yip.”
“Have a chip.” He threw a chip at Lenny, but I intercepted it with my foot and ground it into teensy-weensy pieces.
“Choking my dog isn’t on the menu.”
“Yip.” Lenny lapped up the small pieces without incident.
“Jogging?”
Russell patted his stomach. “As you can tell, I don’t jog. But I do like to stretch my legs every morning around five thirty.”
Which would have given him just enough time to bean Lucky with an iron skillet and drop a stun gun in his chili. That stun gun was a puzzle.
“Industrious,” I muttered.
He lowered himself into a camping chair and took a swig of the beer that’d been in the cup holder. “Nah. I can’t sleep like I used to, my legs get restless.”
“What about your wife?” It was a shot in the dark.
“What wife?” His smile was a bit too familiar.
“You know,” I shook my head. “The one that called you hon at the reception last night.”
Russell’s lips thinned. “What about her?”
My shot in the dark had hit the bullseye. “Did she see anything suspicious?”
“Just the inside of her eyelids. She could sleep through a tornado, even if it took the roof off and her bed with it.”
I sighed. “Poor Lucky. At least he died doing something he loved.”
“Humph. Don’t feel sorry for him. He did what he loved every day of his life.”
“Yip.”
“What was that?”
“Made people’s lives miserable.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“I’m not going to sugarcoat it. He was a mean son of a biscuit eater. All those years in charge at Texas Power. That man had enemies.”
Lucky had to have worked at the utility company at the same time as Bridget’s father. It was odd neither one of them mentioned it earlier. “You worked for him?”
He shrugged. “Might have. Heck, yeah, sorry to say, I did.”
“Why enter if you suspected he’d be here?”
“That’s it, don’t you see? Those of us that worked for him and suffered under his petty tyrannical moods, we compete to beat him at the thing he loves most.”
I studied the man and his long gray braids. He didn’t appear to be overly passionate in his hatred toward Lucky.
“When did you work for him?”
“Ten years ago.”
“Did he fire you too?”
“I quit. No matter what he told folks.”
I’d reached the far corner of my stomach. It was quit eating or burst. “Want the rest of these?” I asked, offering him my chips.
“Trash can’s over there.”
I turned to leave and he called me back. “Wait. I did see something suspicious.”
With an effort, I kept my face blank. “What’s that?”
“Whip coming out of Lucky’s tent.”
“When was that? Five thirty?”
He scratched his head—quite the performer. “Not my first time around the fairgrounds, but my second. I’d guess that was closer to five forty-five.”
“I’ll make a note.”
“Hey.”
I turned around once again. “Yes, sir?”
“Make a note to make the prizes bigger. Plenty of folks are still hurting after Texas Power laid them off a few years back.”
“Will do.”
I finally decided that Lightfoot had left the premises without telling me. There was no sign of him. I was on the way to the Prius—for sure this time—when I spotted Whip loading supplies into the back of his minivan.
Even though Lightfoot had questioned him, what would it hurt for me to toss a few innocent questions about the contest his way?
“Need any help?”
“Yip.”
Whip pasted on a smile, but I hadn’t missed the distress in his reaction. “I only have one more load.”
“Leaving already? Didn’t you win a ribbon?”
“Yeah. Second place in the salsa verde.” He had a large black duffel bag in one hand and the trunk lid in the other. With his foot, he was kicking the duffel into the back for all he was worth, but that cargo section was so full he could’ve set up his own flea market.
“You’re not taking any of Lucky’s things, are you?”
He gave one last shove with his foot and slammed the trunk closed. “Why would I do that?” he asked, refusing to meet my eye.
“You didn’t find Lucky’s iron skillet?”
His jaw muscles clenched. “I’ll have you know I packed my iron skillet, Miss
