Read Online Chili Con Carnage by Kylie Logan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kylie Logan
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downsizing and a midlife crisis produced the perfect storm, and she’d up and sold her tony condo in Atlanta and done what she’d always dreamed of doing—she became an entrepreneur. At the same time, she unleashed her inner free spirit and hit the road with the Showdown.
I was glad. What I’d seen of Gert, I liked. She had a wide, pleasant face, hair the color of a New Mexico sunset, and ample hips. That day, she was wearing an ankle-length denim skirt and a yellow scoop-necked top along with a handwoven scarf in shades of turquoise, red, and purple and about a dozen colorful beaded bracelets on her left wrist.
“Don’t listen to them.” Gert didn’t have to tell me who she was talking about. She sent a death-ray look toward the volunteers in the next tent. “Gossipers. And idiots.”
“What, you mean you don’t think I killed Roberto?”
The fact that she didn’t bother to answer told me she didn’t think the question was worth it. Gert waved me under the tent and back toward where she had a table set up and an electric teakettle about to boil. Without asking, she poured a cup of tea for herself and one for me, then patted one of the two red director’s chairs near the table. Once we were seated, she folded her hands in her lap.
“I think,” she said, “that there are people who need killing. But Roberto wasn’t one of them. Not as far as you’re concerned, anyway. In my experience, there’s always someone out there who hates someone else enough to kill that person. And Roberto . . .” She pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. “Well, I’m pretty sure you didn’t care about him one bit. After all, I heard he just started with the Showdown. None of us could have possibly known him well enough to hate him, right? My guess is ignoring him was more your style than stabbing him through the heart.”
“Exactly.” She handed me a mug that featured a picture of Michelangelo’s
David
wearing a red chili pepper where his fig leaf should have been. Her own mug had a bright-green jalepeño on it along with the words
Hot Stuff!
I cupped my mug in my hands, took a deep breath of the steam that rose from it—and nearly choked. “What the hell!” I looked into the murky amber depths. “It smells like a barn.”
“It’s my own combination of herbs, all of them proven to relieve stress. I always have a cup before the cook-off opens. A little honey . . .” She pointed to a small ceramic jar that looked like a beehive. “. . . and you’ll be fine.”
I added the honey. I took a sip.
Fine
was not the word I would have used. To be polite, I held on to my mug while Gert sipped away at hers.
Finally, she looked at me through the tendrils of steam that rose off her cup. “So, what you are going to do?”
“About Roberto?”
“Of course not. The cops will take care of Roberto, won’t they? No, what I mean is what are you going to do? About Jack?”
I was so grateful to have found a kindred spirit, I took another sip of tea, just to show how much I appreciated her support. I hoped she didn’t notice the face I made when I gulped it down.
“Jack. That’s exactly why I’m here,” I told her. “I wanted to talk to some of the Showdown people. To find out what they know.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’ve done that already.”
She hadn’t been one of them. Six weeks earlier when I’d arrived in Abilene, Gert was in Arizona with an elderly, sick relative. She’d just rejoined the Showdown here in Taos. “Sometimes people remember things. You know, sort of after the fact. If I keep asking questions, maybe I’ll get the right answers.”
“Or maybe you’ll stumble on the right questions.”
I wasn’t sure I understood the difference, but I did know an opportunity when I saw one. I set down my mug, partly so I didn’t have to finish the tea and partly so I could lean forward when I said, “What can you tell me, Gert? How well do you know Jack?”
Gert was wearing
I was glad. What I’d seen of Gert, I liked. She had a wide, pleasant face, hair the color of a New Mexico sunset, and ample hips. That day, she was wearing an ankle-length denim skirt and a yellow scoop-necked top along with a handwoven scarf in shades of turquoise, red, and purple and about a dozen colorful beaded bracelets on her left wrist.
“Don’t listen to them.” Gert didn’t have to tell me who she was talking about. She sent a death-ray look toward the volunteers in the next tent. “Gossipers. And idiots.”
“What, you mean you don’t think I killed Roberto?”
The fact that she didn’t bother to answer told me she didn’t think the question was worth it. Gert waved me under the tent and back toward where she had a table set up and an electric teakettle about to boil. Without asking, she poured a cup of tea for herself and one for me, then patted one of the two red director’s chairs near the table. Once we were seated, she folded her hands in her lap.
“I think,” she said, “that there are people who need killing. But Roberto wasn’t one of them. Not as far as you’re concerned, anyway. In my experience, there’s always someone out there who hates someone else enough to kill that person. And Roberto . . .” She pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. “Well, I’m pretty sure you didn’t care about him one bit. After all, I heard he just started with the Showdown. None of us could have possibly known him well enough to hate him, right? My guess is ignoring him was more your style than stabbing him through the heart.”
“Exactly.” She handed me a mug that featured a picture of Michelangelo’s
David
wearing a red chili pepper where his fig leaf should have been. Her own mug had a bright-green jalepeño on it along with the words
Hot Stuff!
I cupped my mug in my hands, took a deep breath of the steam that rose from it—and nearly choked. “What the hell!” I looked into the murky amber depths. “It smells like a barn.”
“It’s my own combination of herbs, all of them proven to relieve stress. I always have a cup before the cook-off opens. A little honey . . .” She pointed to a small ceramic jar that looked like a beehive. “. . . and you’ll be fine.”
I added the honey. I took a sip.
Fine
was not the word I would have used. To be polite, I held on to my mug while Gert sipped away at hers.
Finally, she looked at me through the tendrils of steam that rose off her cup. “So, what you are going to do?”
“About Roberto?”
“Of course not. The cops will take care of Roberto, won’t they? No, what I mean is what are you going to do? About Jack?”
I was so grateful to have found a kindred spirit, I took another sip of tea, just to show how much I appreciated her support. I hoped she didn’t notice the face I made when I gulped it down.
“Jack. That’s exactly why I’m here,” I told her. “I wanted to talk to some of the Showdown people. To find out what they know.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’ve done that already.”
She hadn’t been one of them. Six weeks earlier when I’d arrived in Abilene, Gert was in Arizona with an elderly, sick relative. She’d just rejoined the Showdown here in Taos. “Sometimes people remember things. You know, sort of after the fact. If I keep asking questions, maybe I’ll get the right answers.”
“Or maybe you’ll stumble on the right questions.”
I wasn’t sure I understood the difference, but I did know an opportunity when I saw one. I set down my mug, partly so I didn’t have to finish the tea and partly so I could lean forward when I said, “What can you tell me, Gert? How well do you know Jack?”
Gert was wearing
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