The Great Chili Kill-Off Page 3

  “He’s been sniffin’ around Lindy again,” the man called Kurt said as he pulled against the grips of the two men, who seemed to be friends of his. “You know what he’s like. Damn tomcat always on the prowl!”

  By now the man who had been knocked down was on his feet again, brushing himself off. He took hold of his chin and worked his jaw back and forth, evidently checking to see if anything was broken. Satisfied that it wasn’t, he said, “You do me an injustice, old friend. I was just asking your wife about her health. Just a polite, friendly gesture, you know.”

  “You’re not polite or friendly when it comes to women, Hammersmith,” Kurt said. “You’re a damn shark!”

  “I thought I was a tomcat,” Hammersmith said with a smile. “You’ll have to make up your mind.”

  “Somebody get this son of a—Just get him out of my sight, all right?”

  One of the men holding Kurt said, “You won’t go after him if I let you go?”

  For a second Kurt still looked like he wanted to continue the attack, but then he said, “No, you’re right, he’s not worth it.”

  “All right, then.” The other man released Kurt’s arm and stepped over to Hammersmith. “Get out of here while you still can.”

  “This is a common area,” Hammersmith protested. “I have a right to be here.”

  “Just go, blast it! If you don’t, none of us are gonna be responsible for you gettin’ whipped.”

  Hammersmith held up slightly pudgy hands, palms out. He was a stocky man, just a little below medium height, with a ruddy face and curly brown hair. Phyllis estimated his age to be around fifty. He said, “All right, all right, I’m going. But I swear, I meant no harm. Anything between Lindy and myself is in the past. As long as that’s the way she wants it, that is.”

  Kurt started to lunge at Hammersmith again. The man who had told Hammersmith to beat it grabbed Kurt’s arm and he and his companion held Kurt back while Hammersmith turned to walk away.

  His path took him toward Phyllis, Sam, Eve, Felicity Prosper, and Josh Green. He glanced at them, paused for a beat, and then his face lit up with a smile. He came forward with enthusiasm and an extended hand. Phyllis realized he was heading straight for Felicity.

  “Well, hello there,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Joe D. Hammersmith, defending and perennial champion of the Great Chili Cook-Off.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of you, Mr. Hammersmith,” Felicity said as she shook hands with the man. “You’ve won the competition for the past three years, haven’t you?”

  “That’s why I said perennial. I intend to chalk up another win this year, too. And please, call me Joe D.”

  Carolyn nodded toward Sam and said, “This man right here might have something to say about who wins this year.”

  Hammersmith raised slightly bushy eyebrows. “Oh?” He turned away from Felicity, although with some visible reluctance, and faced Sam as he went on, “You’re one of my competitors this year? You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Yep, first time,” Sam said as he pumped Hammersmith’s hand. “Name’s Sam Fletcher. Good to meet you, Jody.”

  “It’s Joe D. First name and initial.”

  “Oh. I got you now.”

  Phyllis suspected that Sam had known all along what Hammersmith’s name actually was. The so-called mistake was just a subtle dig at the man. Phyllis felt an instinctive dislike for Hammersmith and wouldn’t be surprised if Sam did, too.

  Hammersmith lost interest in Sam and turned back to Felicity, practically purring as he said, “I don’t believe I caught your name, my dear.”

  “I’m Felicity Prosper. I’m sure you’ve seen me on Inside Beat.”

  “You know, I believe I have.” Phyllis figured Hammersmith would say that whether it was true or not. The man went on, “Wonderful show, just wonderful. And you do a spectacular job, Felicity. You don’t mind if I call you Felicity, do you? I’m sure you’d like to do an interview with me.”

  “Well, I had planned on interviewing you, since you’re the champion—”

  “Well, why not right now?” Hammersmith interrupted her. Smoothly, he linked his arm with hers and turned her away from the others. “I know a nice quiet place where we can get a drink and talk about whatever you’d like. Just don’t ask me to divulge my secret recipe!”

  They both laughed at that, then Felicity said, “But you must be a little shaken up after that trouble—”

  “Trouble?” Hammersmith waved his free hand in dismissal. “That was no trouble! Just a little misunderstanding. I’m fine.”

  “If I’m going to interview you, I should get my cameraman—”

  “Let’s just consider this a preliminary interview,” Hammersmith said as he urged her along the line of recreational vehicles. “You know, we’ll just lay out the groundwork.”

  Phyllis heard Josh mutter under his breath, “The groundwork’s not all he wants to—”

  Sam put a hand on the young man’s shoulder as Hammersmith led Felicity away. “I don’t reckon you have to worry, son,” he said. “If there’s anybody who can take care of herself, I think it’s Ms. Prosper.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that,” Josh agreed, nodding. “I don’t know, though . . . You get two egos like that together, something’s liable to blow up.”

  “If it does, I’m sure we’ll hear about it,” Phyllis said. “Not to change the subject, but I’m a little surprised your boss sent Felicity to cover something like a chili cook-off. Doesn’t she usually do stories that are more . . .”

  “Lurid?” Josh said. “Like violent crimes that have some sex angle?” His beefy shoulders rose and fell. “Yeah, I suppose so. But stories like those don’t come along every week, you know. And since Felicity’s getting paid a pretty good salary, the executive producer likes to keep her working as much as possible. So we get some human interest stories like this one. Anyway, this Hammersmith angle could be a good one. She can play up the guy as some sort of chili cook-off Casanova.”

  Eve laughed and said, “No offense, Josh, but I’m surprised someone as young as you knows who that was.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m an associate producer. It’s my job to know things. Like, where are you folks headed now?”

  “We’re just takin’ a walk and a look around,” Sam said. “You want to come along?”

  “Sure. Maybe we’ll come across something else Felicity can do a report on.”

  Phyllis didn’t see Felicity and Hammersmith anymore. She wondered if that “nice, quiet place where they could get a drink” was actually Hammersmith’s motor home or travel trailer. But as Sam had said, Felicity could take care of herself. A woman as attractive as she was probably had dealt with quite a few lecherous interview subjects over the course of her career.

  The smell of food cooking filled the evening air. Chili dominated, as would be expected, given the setting, but Phyllis also smelled barbecue, steaks, fish, and an assortment of other enticing aromas. There was a faint undertone of exhaust fumes from the many generators in use, but the more pleasant smells kept it at bay.

  The smell of food cooking wasn’t the only thing in the air. Phyllis heard music coming from several different directions in the sprawling encampment, and as they walked past a large black motor home with silver lightning bolts painted on it, a fast-paced tune burst out from much closer. Sam clapped lightly in time with the music and said, “‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’. One of my favorites.”

  “I think it’s coming from right behind this motor home,” Phyllis said. “Do you want to go watch?”

  Sam pointed to stylized lettering on the side of the motor home that read B.J. SAWYER AND THE LAVACA RIVER BAND. “I never heard of those fellas before, but they’re pretty good,” he said. “Let’s go have a look.”

  They walked through the lane between the motor home and a travel trailer and came in sight of a half-circle of about thirty spectators who were clapping along as four musicians played. Two guitars, a fiddle, and a bass finish
ed the famous bluegrass tune and launched into another one.

  In an open area between the band and the spectators, a lean, leathery man with long white hair and a bristling white beard danced a jig of sorts. He wore laced-up work boots, blue jean shorts that came down to just above his bony knees, and a black t-shirt with the logo of a heavy metal band on it. A camo cap was pulled down on his wild thatch of hair. He wore sunglasses even though night had just about finished settling down over the valley. A couple of floodlights mounted on the back of the motor home illuminated the scene.

  The old-timer’s scrawny legs flashed back and forth as he danced to the music. His arms pumped up and down. Phyllis couldn’t help but laugh a little at his enthusiasm. Eve said, “My, he’s certainly having a good time, isn’t he?”

  “He’s got the rhythm, all right,” Sam said with a grin. “Could be there’s a mite of alcohol or other chemical enhancement involved.”

  “Or maybe he just likes to dance,” Phyllis said. “Either way, he’s putting on quite a show.”

  The crowd’s clapping increased and whoops of encouragement rang out from some of the people who had gathered to watch. The white-bearded man didn’t need much urging. The musicians, all of them wearing boots, jeans, and cowboy shirts, grinned at each other and picked up the pace even more, as if they were challenging the old-timer to keep up with them.

  He rose to the occasion, matching his gyrating movements to the music. The song built to its crescendo and then stopped, and this time the musicians didn’t start another one. The crowd was still clapping and cheering as the old man spun around a couple more times, then stopped and raised his arms in acknowledgment of the acclaim.

  Then, as alarmed shouts replaced the cheers, he collapsed.

  Chapter 4

  Phyllis gasped at the unexpected sight. Eve said, “Oh, dear!” and Josh exclaimed, “Whoa!” Sam hurried forward to help.

  The musicians were closer and reached the old-timer first. Before they could do anything to help him, however, he sat up, waved them away, and said, “I’m fine, dadgum it, I’m fine! Just got a little winded.”

  As if to prove it, he scrambled spryly back to his feet and grinned around at the worried crowd.

  “See? Good as new!” he declared. “Come on, boys, play another one. I’m just gettin’ started!”

  “Maybe so, Mr. Boudreau, but we’re a little tired,” one of the guitar players said. “It was a long drive to get here all the way from Hallettsville today.”

  “I know, I know. Well, you boys rest up, then. You need to be good an’ fresh for the big show tomorrow night. Anyway, I reckon I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

  The man took off his camo-patterned cap and swatted at his legs with it, knocking some of the dust off his shorts that had gotten on there from his spill. Sam stepped up to him and said, “You’re Hiram Boudreau?”

  The man turned and gave Sam the once-over through his dark glasses, then said, “That’s me, sonny.” Phyllis doubted that Boudreau was actually much older than Sam, if any. “Owner, mayor, and grand high poobah of Cactus Bluff. Have we met?”

  “No, sir.” Sam put out his hand. “I’m Sam Fletcher. I’m one of the competitors in the chili cook-off.”

  Boudreau grabbed his hand. “Welcome, welcome! Good to see you, son, and I wish you the best of luck. Wouldn’t be no contest without fellas like you, and without the contest there might not be a Cactus Bluff. Hope you enjoy your stay.” He glanced at the others. “These your friends?”

  “That’s right.” Sam performed the introductions, then added, “Phyllis is gonna write an article about the cook-off for A Taste of Texas magazine.”

  “Well, how about that. A member of the media.” Boudreau wrung Phyllis’s hand for a second time. “I’m mighty glad to hear that, Miz Newsom. Hope you’ll tell ever’body that Cactus Bluff is a little bit o’ heaven on earth, all the way out here in West Texas.”

  “I think my editor would prefer that I write more about the chili and all the other food that people will be cooking this weekend, but I have to admit, from what I’ve seen of it so far Cactus Bluff does have a certain charm.”

  “It’s a great place for folks to retire. Beautiful weather all year ‘round, nothin’ but peace and quiet as far as the eye can see . . . Yes, ma’am, folks’ll never find a better spot to settle in and enjoy their golden years. If there’s one thing we got plenty of, it’s room!”

  Josh said, “I’m a journalist, too, Mr. Boudreau. Josh Green, producer for Inside Beat. I’m sure you’ve seen our show—”

  “Can’t say as I have, son,” Boudreau cut him off and turned to Eve. He clasped both of her hands in his and went on, “And what’s your special talent, darlin’, other than bein’ downright lovely?”

  “I’d be glad to tell you all about it,” Eve said with a smile, “but you’ve already collapsed once this evening and I’m not sure your heart could take it.”

  Boudreau stared at her for a second, then threw back his head and let out a bray of laughter. “You, I like!” he said. “I want you to be my special guest at the show tomorrow night. In fact, all of you can be my guests. You’ll have the best seats that way.”

  “We’re obliged to you, Mr. Boudreau—” Sam began.

  “Call me Hiram. Ever’body does.”

  “Thanks, Hiram,” Josh said. “We appreciate—”

  Boudreau gave him a chilly stare. “You got your press credentials, boy?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “There’ll be an area set aside for you, then.”

  Phyllis said, “It didn’t occur to me that I might need press credentials. I’m still a little new at this, I guess.”

  Boudreau waved a hand and said, “Aw, no, don’t worry about that. You folks’ll still be my guest. You’re my kinda people, I can tell it.”

  “Everybody sure is friendly here,” Sam said. “First that Carson girl, and now you, Hiram.”

  “You mean McKayla?” Boudreau asked with a hint of sharpness in his voice.

  “Yeah, I think that was her name.”

  “Wouldn’t think to look at the gal that she’s only sixteen, would you?”

  “Sixteen?” Carolyn said. “I thought she had to be twenty-two, at least.”

  “Nope. I’m thinkin’ I might ought to make a sign to hang around her neck, just to be sure some o’ these ol’ boys around town this weekend behave themselves. Her daddy ain’t the sort of fella you want to get on the wrong side of.”

  “Speaking of men behaving themselves,” Phyllis said, “we met Mr. Hammersmith a little while ago. There seemed to be some sort of trouble between him and a man named Kurt . . .”

  Boudreau nodded. “Kurt Middleton. He’s been nursin’ a grudge against ol’ Joe D. for a while now. Claims it’s because there used to be some sort o’ hanky-panky goin’ on between his wife Lindy and Joe D., but if you ask me, I figure the real reason is because Joe D. keeps beatin’ him in the cook-off. Kurt sets as much store by his chili as he does his wife, I’d say.”

  Josh said, “But is Mr. Hammersmith, you know, trustworthy? I only ask because he, uh, went off for an interview with the reporter I work with—”

  “Pretty gal?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This reporter, she’s a pretty gal?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Josh said. “She’s beautiful.” Then he looked embarrassed. Phyllis tried not to smile. It appeared that Josh still had quite a crush on Felicity Prosper, despite the fact that she seldom seemed to know he was around unless she needed him to do something for her.

  “Well, that’s no surprise,” Boudreau said. “Joe D.’s got an eye for a good-lookin’ woman, no doubt about that. But deep down, he’s a good sort. You don’t have to worry about your friend, son.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Boudreau looked around. The crowd had broken up after the musicians had gone back into the motor home they used as a tour bus. He said, “Reckon I’d best mosey on. I was just takin’ a l
ook around, makin’ sure everything’s goin’ all right so far, you know. I got to keep on top o’ things, me bein’ the grand high poobah and all. I’m sure I’ll see all you folks later.” He gave Eve a wicked grin. “Especially you, darlin’. I want to hear more about whatever it is you think this ol’ ticker o’ mine couldn’t take.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged,” Eve said.

  Boudreau waved and wandered off into the throng of people walking around the encampment, headed to or from town, which was now brightly lit, an oasis of illumination in the vast desert of darkness that was West Texas.

  “He’s certainly a . . . colorful . . . character,” Carolyn said with a note of disapproval in her voice. The number of things Carolyn disapproved of was legion, and it grew all the time. Phyllis knew she usually didn’t really mean anything by it, though.

  Sam said, “You’d have to be a little on the eccentric side to buy a whole town, especially if it was the next thing to a ghost town like Cactus Bluff was before Hiram came along.”

  “He owns the whole town?” Phyllis said.

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  Eve said in a speculative tone, “He must be very wealthy, if he owns a town.”

  Carolyn gave her a look. Eve had been married several times, usually to men with money, and most of the matches had not worked out well. After the last one had ended tragically, Eve had sworn off marriage, but it appeared that determination might be wearing off.

  Phyllis noted that and suggested, “Why don’t we see what else there is to see?” Carolyn needed to be distracted before she made some caustic comment.

  They walked on toward town, and as they did, they passed numerous spaces where people had set up propane-fueled grills outside motor homes and travel trailers. Some, Phyllis noticed, were using charcoal or wood chips for burning. Sam’s set-up used propane. Phyllis loved the taste of wood-smoked meat, but that didn’t really apply when it came to chili. A steady, well-regulated heat was more important.

  Sam stopped to talk to some of the people who were cooking. The conversations were pleasant enough but definitely guarded, which came as no surprise to Phyllis. She and Carolyn had been good friends for decades, but when they had been competing against each other in baking contests, they had always played their recipe cards very close to the vest, despite that friendship.