“Last night I was eating chili.” She folded her hands in her lap.
“I thought you had tilapia.”
She glared. “In. My. Dream. I was eating a perfect bowl of chili.” Tapping her chest, she lifted her chin. “I made it. That’s why it was perfect.”
“Of course,” I said with a wave of my hand. “Continue.”
She leaned in closer. “After I finished, bits of ground beef formed a pattern in the bottom of the bowl.”
“Like tea leaves. Well, I don’t believe in those either.”
“Shh. The bits of beef created a symbol.”
“A question mark or a cross?”
“Shh. A lightning bolt.”
I frowned. “Like Thor?”
“No.” A deep frown line appeared across her forehead. “Like power.”
I leaned back against the industrial sink. “What do you think it means?”
“I am not sure.” She slid from her stool. “Lightning is powerful. Like you.” Softly she laid a frail hand on my shoulder. “You don’t think so, but you are a Martinez.”
I blinked away unexpected tears. “Gracias, Abuela. I’ve made some dumb mistakes.”
She patted my cheek. “So have I. Remember?” She claimed she stole some goats and spent time in the local jail when she first arrived in Texas—but I wasn’t convinced. She raised up on tiptoe and took my face in both hands. “You lost your important job and your fiancé. So what? We solved two murders.”
“We did?”
“Sí. You, me, and that smelly chucho.”
I disengaged myself, swiping at the corner of my eye with my sleeve. “Don’t say that in front of Detective Lightfoot or Sheriff Wallace. They might throw a hissy fit.”
“Humph.” Abruptly she removed a container filled with skirt steak and marinade from the fridge and fired up the stove-top grill. “So you can’t cook.” She thrust her index finger into the air as if leading a charge. “It’s never too late.”
“Hey, what’s going on?”
She grabbed her purse and the large black-and-white golf umbrella she used as a parasol from the broom closet.
“Finish the skirt steak.” She marched into the alley, opened the umbrella, and nearly fell over from the force of the wind. One strong gust and she’d fly into Parker County like a Latina Mary Poppins.
“But where are you going?” I called as she charged toward the street.
Stopping long enough to glance over her shoulder, she responded, “To teach the town council a powerful lesson!” She narrowed her gaze and lifted her chin. “If I’m going to win tomorrow’s cook-off, I need to set my hair.”
Chapter 2
The First Annual Charity Chili Cook-Off Reception
After posting Lenny’s daily remarks on his Little Dog Blog and sprucing up my look, I strutted downstairs. The First Annual Broken Boot Charity Chili Cook-Off reception was now in full swing and Milagro was overflowing with contestants, council members, volunteers, ICA officials, and the usual Thursday-night regulars. As the town council members and other locals had arrived, they all looked to my abuela’s empty stool as if the world had tilted on its axis.
Coach Ryan Prescott warbled a familiar drinking song from behind the bar as he fired fresh fruit into the blender and let her rip, filling the air yet again with a refreshing burst of lime and an earsplitting whir.
I stole a good hard look at his tan profile. In spite of losing his frat boy smugness and sleep-deprived lassitude, he’d kept his lean, athletic frame and wavy hair, not that you could tell with it hidden under his cap. I might not drink from the holy grail of football, but Ryan had won the hearts of rabid West Texas fans by leading sweaty, testosterone-dripping, heat-addled young men into battle day after day, week after week.
“What?” He rinsed his hands and bent to turn off the faucet with his elbow. “I’m doing it wrong . . . again?” With a quick flick of his wrist, he snapped me with the hand towel that seconds earlier had rested on his shoulder. “What’d I do now? Add too many limes? Not enough mix?”
“Yip,” Lenny called.
“Are you trying to get me fired?” I scurried around the bar and found my handsome Chi hidden under the sink.
“Yip, yip.”
“Uncle Ryan’s an old softie, huh?” I chucked Lenny under the chin. “If Senora Mari hears about this, it’s pistols at sunrise—and I don’t own a weapon.”
“Women don’t understand how hard it is for us to be cooped up, do they?” Ryan placed Lenny in his crate in the storage closet. “Keep the faith, man.” Ryan lifted a fist to the side of Lenny’s crate, and the Chi met the fist with his paw.
Ryan joined me at the bar sink. “I’ve never known Senora Mari to be sick.”
“If she’s sick, I’m a rodeo clown.”
“I was wondering why you were wearing makeup tonight.” Ryan ducked my swing.
“Three frozen, one salt, one sugar, one bare as a baby’s bottom,” Aunt Linda called through the window between the bar and the kitchen.
“Mrs. Martinez, where’s Senora Mari?”
She threw her hands into the air. “Don’t ask.” She waited until Ryan began filling her drink order. “All I know is those judges from the International Chili Association better hold on to their clipboards.”
I was walking back to my post, ready to greet any late arrivals in my fashion: wide smile, warm gaze, and a heartfelt howdy, when the door catapulted open on a gust of wind so strong I thought the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had developed a hankering for Tex-Mex. In the distance, lightning danced on the horizon near Big Bend National Park, and two older gentlemen in cowboy duds stepped through the doorway.
“Is this here the chili cook-off reception?” A tall, white-haired man with a luxurious salt-and-pepper mustache thumped his naked chest, which was bare except for a jungle of curly white hair, freckles, and a small leather medicine bag that hung around his neck. He was at least six feet tall, but I swear his ten-gallon hat made him ten inches taller. And if I didn’t know better, I’d bet good money
