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Acknowledgments

CHAPTER 1

They say there is nothing hotter than Texas in July.

They are not only dead wrong, but that collective they owes me an apology, a clean blouse—since my white cotton peasant shirt embroidered with bright flowers was already wringing wet—and a tall, icy margarita.

Those perfect-haired, big-smile, smooth-talking weather forecasters on TV didn’t offer much consolation. They said the record high temperature for San Antonio in October was one hundred degrees, and that it looked like over the next few days, that record would be broken.

By the way, that record was set way back in 1938.

Didn’t it figure.

See, 1938 or thereabouts was exactly what we were trying to recreate there on the plaza outside the famous Alamo.

The year 1938, and the reign of the San Antonio Chili Queens.

“Are you just going to just stand there, or do you plan on doing some work tonight?”

My half sister, Sylvia, zipped by and tossed the comment at me, dragging me out of dreams of the AC back in the RV we used to travel the country with the Chili Showdown, the event that wandered from town to town all over America, hosting chili cook-off contests and showcasing chili in all its glory, as well as chili fixins and all the must-haves that go along with a good bowl of chili, stuff like beans and sauces. Too bad she was carrying a head-high stack of plastic bowls and she couldn’t see the look I shot her way in return.

Work?

In this heat?

The words I grumbled are best left unreported.

But never let it be said that Maxie Pierce isn’t one to pitch in. Especially when that pitching in meant reenacting the role of one of the city’s famous Chili Queens, those wonderful women who were part of a tradition here in San Antonio for more than one hundred years. The Chili Queens cooked pots of steaming chili in their homes, then, once the sun went down, carted them to plazas around the city to feed the customers who couldn’t get enough of the bowls of spicy goodness. For all those years, the Chili Queens were at the center of San Antonio nightlife. Along with them, the plazas filled with diners and musicians, with talk and singing and music that continued into the wee hours of the morning.

Of course I would work. But not because Sylvia asked me to.

Chili, see, is in my blood. Just like it’s in the blood of my dad, Texas Jack Pierce, a man who’s been missing for a few months and whose place Sylvia and I had taken behind the counter of the Hot-Cha Chili Seasoning Palace where he sold dried peppers and spices and chili mixes that were famous from one end of the country to the other. So it’s only natural, even though I’m not from San Antonio and nowhere near old enough to have ever had contact with any one of the original Chili Queens, that I definitely feel a connection.

I bet there were plenty of nights they melted in the Texas heat, too.

I lifted the hem of my flowing black skirt and headed into the nearby tent where Sylvia and I would be serving chili to the crowds of people gathered that night for a charity event.

Read with the Chili Queens.

That’s what they were calling it, and this night—a Monday—the event was raising money for a local literacy center. On Tuesday, we’d be there with a bunch of warm-and-fuzzy types collecting money for an animal shelter; on Wednesday, the food bank people; and on and on through the week. The whole celebration ended on Sunday evening with a beauty pageant back at the Chili Showdown at the fairgrounds.

Charities aside and beauty queens ignored, I had a proud tradition to uphold.

Chili. It’s my life. And I do everything I can to promote it in all its wonderful, glorious, spicy-good incarnations!

The thought firmly in mind, I sidestepped a stack of folding chairs that still needed to be set up around the tables under the tent designated for the Palace, and headed over to where Sylvia—dressed the way I doubt any real Chili Queen ever would be, in a flowered sundress in shades of pink and purple—was doing a last-minute check of our prep area.

“Chili. Spoons. Bowls. Napkins.” Just as I walked up, her jaw dropped and her baby blues bulged. “Napkins. There are no napkins. Where are the napkins?”

Rather than tell her not to worry (because Sylvia was going to worry no matter what; she’s just that sort of high-strung), I spun around and headed over to where we’d stacked the supplies we’d brought over to Alamo Plaza that afternoon.

“Napkins,” I mumbled to myself, and dug through a mountain of packing boxes in search of them. I found what I was looking for and gathered pack after pack of napkins into my arms.

“Need help?”

At the sound of the voice, I stood and found myself looking up into a pair of luscious dark eyes, a cleft chin, and a smile that lit up the quickly gathering twilight.

“Help?” I am not easily upended by good-looking guys. It must have been the heat that caused my voice to crack. “I’ve got it. Really.” As if it would prove my statement, I hugged the packs of paper napkins closer to my chest. “Thanks.”

The man turned his smile up a notch and added a wink to go with it. While he was at it, he strummed his right hand over the strings of the guitar looped around his shoulders. “No problem, senorita.” He made me a small bow that was corny and gallant all at the same time. “I’m at your service.”

I gave him a quick once-over, but it didn’t take even that long for me to realize he was one of the entertainers who’d been hired by Tumbleweed Ballew, the administrative power behind the Showdown, to add a bit of authenticity to the evening. He fit the part. Tall, and with hair the color of the crows I’d seen around the city. “You’re . . . ?”

“Glad I stopped over.” Another of his smiles sizzled in my direction. “You’re Maxie, right?”

“You know me?”

“I’ve heard about you. But aren’t you supposed to be . . .” I’d given him a quick enough once-over, but when he looked me up and down, he took his time. “I was expecting the chili costume,” he said. “From what I’ve heard, it’s really something, and you . . .” Another once-over made heat rush into my cheeks. “You’re something in that costume.”

I wasn’t about to deny it.

“I’ll wear the Chili Chick costume at the Showdown over at the fairgrounds every day this week,” I told him. “But in the evenings when we’re here as part of the fund-raisers, we’re supposed to dress like the old Chili Queens. This outfit . . .” I put a hand on my long, black skirt. “It fits with the whole Chili Queen thing. A giant red chili costume, fishnet stockings, and stilettos? They don’t exactly go with the re-creation.”

“Maybe not, but . . .” He let go a long whistle. “It sure is something I’d like to see.”

“So stop at the Showdown.” Believe me, I wasn’t being forward. The whole point of me wearing the Chili Chick costume and dancing outside the Palace was to draw in customers. And this guy would be a customer, right?

“I’ll be there,” he promised. “But only if you’ve got plenty of spice.”

He was talking about chili and the dried peppers we sold at the Palace, but the way his eyes sparked gave his words a certain little spicy kick of their own.

I told myself to keep my mind on peppers. “Abedul peppers to zia pueblo peppers,” I said.

“And selling pepper and spices, business is good?”

“We’re smokin’ hot!”

Another long look and he grinned. “I have no doubt of that. So . . .” Another strum of the guitar strings and he stepped away. “I’ll stop in at the Showdown this week to meet the Chili Chick, and later when I have a chance, I’ll come back here and get a sample of the chili you and your sister are handing out. But only if your chili is good.”

Who was I to miss an opening as perfect as that?

Heat flickered in my smile. “My chili is very good.”

His eyes gleamed. “I bet it is. I’ll be back later for some,” he said, and he strummed the guitar again and walked away.

“Chatting? You’re chatting?”

Sylvia’s high-pitched question came from right behind me and made me jump.

“You were supposed to be getting the napkins.” She grabbed them out of my arms.

“I was doing a little PR,” I told her. “Drumming up business.”

“With the entertainers. Who are working here just like we’re working here. So you know he didn’t pay his one hundred dollars for the ticket to get into the event and sample all the different chili, and how much you want to bet he’s not going to leave an extra donation even if he does come back here to our tent?”

I peered around the plaza, and in the glow of the thousands of twinkling white lights that had been strung between the tents of the fifteen organizations that were handing out chili in honor of the Queens, I saw the guitar player stroll over to the tent directly across from ours and accept a bowl of chili from a hot young cutie standing near the entrance. The banner over their heads announced that it belonged to Consolidated Chili Corp.

Call it gut reaction—my eyes narrowed, my mouth pulled into a frown.

“Get over it!” This from Sylvia, and this time, she wasn’t talking about tall, dark, and luscious Mr. Hot Guitar Player. If I ever needed any proof that she was not worthy of working at the Hot-Cha Chili Seasoning Palace (I didn’t), she provided it when she looked where I was looking and poked me in the ribs. “They’re a huge corporation and they give people what they want.”

“Mass-produced canned chili?” The very thought made me shudder. “They don’t belong at an event dedicated to the memory of the Chili Queens.”

“I heard they donated a bundle to be part of the week’s festivities. You know, for the publicity,” Sylvia informed me. “And look . . .” She wedged the stack of napkins under her chin so that she could retrieve something from the big square pocket on the front of her sundress. “They’re handing out the cutest stuff. You know, as a way to advertise the big Miss Consolidated Chili pageant that will happen over at the Showdown on Sunday.” She dangled a bottle opener in front of my eyes.

It took me a moment to focus and see that the bottle opener had Consolidated Chili written on it in red letters.

“And coasters,” Sylvia added, pulling one of those out of her pocket, too. It was made of heavy cardboard and featured a picture on it that I—along with millions of other people—instantly recognized thanks to the commercials on TV. A can of Consolidated Chili’s chili.

“Tacky,” I said. “And not at all in keeping with the spirit of the evening.”

“Maybe not, but it’s plenty clever,” Sylvia insisted. “So’s their marketing strategy. You’re dressed as a Chili Queen. There are a couple descendants of the real Chili Queens over there.” She couldn’t exactly point, since she had all those napkins in her arms, but she looked across the plaza at another of the tents. “There’s even a tent being run by a couple drag queens.”

This, I thought, was hilarious, but Sylvia just rolled her eyes.

“None of that was good enough for the Consolidated folks. They’ve got beauty queens handing out their chili samples. Real, honest-to-goodness beauty queens. I saw Miss Texas Spice. And Miss Chili’s Cookin’. Chili’s Cookin’, isn’t that cute? It’s one of the names of the chilies they sell.”

“Trashy and flashy.” I ought to know, since I’d been called the same things myself a time or two. I didn’t take it personally. At least not when the criticisms were aimed my way. I did take it personally when some big megacorporation stepped in and started messing with tradition and taste and everything else that’s near and dear to the heart of every true chili lover.

“They even have some bigwig here tonight overseeing the whole thing,” Sylvia added, standing on tiptoe so that she could crane her neck and get another look at the Consolidated tent over the heads of the workers who scurried around. “I didn’t see him, but I sure saw his limo. Big and black and shiny with a Tri-C license plate. Tri-C, get it? Consolidated Chili Corp. A big, shiny limo sure beats our RV and our food truck all to heck!” Sylvia gave an unladylike snort. “All these years, Jack has been wasting his time with the Showdown when he should have been concentrating on building a bigger business. Look what it did for those Consolidated Chili folks! And look . . .” In her megacorporation frenzy, she dropped the plastic-wrapped bundles of napkins so she could point. A tall man in a dark suit had just entered the Consolidated Chili Corp tent, and even though I couldn’t see his face, I could tell by the set of his shoulders and the angle of his white ten-gallon hat that he was someone to be reckoned with. Then again, the way the Consolidated Chili people started fawning and gawking and milling around him pretty much told me that, too.

I folded my arms over my chest when I raised my chin and leveled her with a look. “They can act like big shots all they want. And they can pretend they’re upholding some long Texas tradition, but anybody who knows anything about chili knows the truth. There’s nothing better in the world than honest-to-goodness chili and nothing better than real people making it, not machines and cans and conglomerates.” My lips puckered at the thought. “And there’s nothing better than the Showdown, Sylvia, don’t you forget that. Jack was doing what Jack loved to do. What he still . . .” Like I often did, I teared up thinking about Jack. Over the last couple months, I’d tried my best to find out what happened to my dad, but so far, I’d had no luck.

I bit my lower lip to control myself before I said, “There’s nothing better than traveling with our friends and fellow vendors. Nothing better than meeting chili lovers and spreading the word about chili.”

“Whatever!” Sylvia rolled her eyes. “You keep telling yourself that, Maxie. Me, I’ll keep dreaming of that wonderful someday when I work for some real company like that Consolidated Chili.” Thinking, she cocked her head. “They must need PR people, right? I’ve got plenty of experience as a food writer. And they must need admin types, too. Obviously, we wouldn’t have done as well as we have with the Palace these last couple months if it wasn’t for me. You have no head for business.”

“You have no head for business.” Yes, it was juvenile of me to repeat her criticism in a singsongy voice, but hey, Sylvia and I had been fighting all our lives, and maybe on some ethereal plane, even before. See, my mother had won Jack’s heart when he was still married to Sylvia’s mother. Sylvia had spent her life convinced that it was my fault.

His back was still to me as I watched the man in the dark suit and the big hat make his way through the crowd in the Consolidated Chili tent, and the way everyone bowed and scraped, I was surprised I didn’t see anybody kiss his ring. “You think real business is about some stuffy executive everyone sucks up to? That a real company is all about beauty queens and little bottle openers?” The irony of my questions was lost on Sylvia. Which is odd, since I’m the one who would normally find a bottle opener plenty useful, and she’s the one who usually thinks things like that are vulgar. Then again, I guess vulgar takes on a whole new meaning when it’s being orchestrated by some mega-rich corporation.

“I think real business is all about making connections with people,” I told my half sister.

The nod she gave me in return was filled with pity. “Like the connection you were trying to make with that guitar player? I see disaster ahead. Again. You’re always picking the wrong kinds of guys.”

“And you’re so good at picking the right ones? Like the one who got killed back in Taos.” Oh, there was a story there, all right, and it wasn’t a pretty one, since Roberto (whose name wasn’t really Roberto and who wasn’t really a Showdown roadie like we all thought he was and who, not so incidentally, turned up dead) was once engaged to my oh-so-perfect half sister. “Do me a favor and keep your advice to yourself,” I told her.

Her shoulders went rigid. So did that simpering little smile that was second nature to her, even when she was saying something hurtful and cruel. Which was a lot of the time.

“All right. If that’s the way you want it. But oh, Maxie, when will you ever learn?”

Good thing Sylvia gathered up those packages of napkins and walked away. Otherwise, I would have had to point out that I had already learned. I’d learned from Edik, the guy back in Chicago who emptied my bank account and broke what I have of a heart. Just like I had learned from a string of losers before him.

Speaking of guys, Nick Falcone, a former LA cop and now the Showdown’s head of security, picked that moment to stroll over to the Consolidated Chili tent. Yeah, Nick was delectable. And as cuddly as a cactus.

I’d bet anything he was after one of those little bottle openers.

Or one of those perky beauty queens.

I didn’t really care, right? I mean ever since Edik, I’d sworn off relationships.

Tell that to the sour thoughts that pounded through my head while I set up folding chairs, covered tables with plastic tablecloths, and—while Sylvia wasn’t looking—added some dried Aji Amarillo peppers and ground pasillas to the too-bland-for-me pots of chili she’d made for tonight’s event.

By the time I was done, the sun had set and the fund-raising event had officially opened to the public.

We were plenty busy, and for that, I was grateful. Aside from the fact that the donations guests left in the big pottery-ware bowl we had near our serving station were helping to raise money for a good cause, I was talking up the Palace and people were learning about the Showdown. Lots of them said they’d come to the fairgrounds over the next few days to buy spices.

I knew I could thank the Aji Amarillos and the pasillas for that.

“Whoo heee!” Wiping a big red bandana across his forehead, Tumbleweed Ballew plodded into our tent and helped himself to a bowl of our chili. He gave me a wink. “Hotter than a Lone Star barbeque tonight! But that’s not going to keep me from trying your chili. I’ve tried every single one of them.”

“Even Consolidated’s?” I asked him.

Tumbleweed has big ears and heavy jowls. He frowned and shook his head, and his jowls flapped. “Canned!” The way he harrumphed said it all. “But I’ll tell you what, those ladies from the Women’s League, their chili ain’t half bad.” He glanced beyond the Consolidated Chili tent to another setup where the lights seemed brighter than ours and the line for chili looked longer. And better dressed.

“No matter,” he said with a twitch of his shoulders. “I know yours will be the best, Maxie, honey.” Tumbleweed downed a spoonful, smiled, and nodded. “Sylvia didn’t have nothing to do with this bowl of goodness!”

“She had plenty to do with it,” I said, but only because Sylvia was within earshot and because I’d tell Tumbleweed the truth later. Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann, his missus, were the heart and soul of the Showdown. They scheduled our stops, they lined up city permits, they did all our advertising. All the years I traveled the Showdown circuit with Jack when I was a kid, Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann were the people I thought of as the ideal family. Even back then, I figured they’d been married for longer than I’d been alive, and since they didn’t have any kids of their own, they took me and Sylvia under their wings. Or at least they tried. Sylvia being Sylvia, she never got close to anyone who traveled with the Showdown, and me, I was usually too busy getting into trouble to listen to much of what Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann had to say.

Which didn’t mean I didn’t adore both of them to pieces.

Smiling, I glanced around at the twinkling lights and listened to the smooth cascade of flamenco guitar that came from somewhere over near the Consolidated Chili tent. I thought of Mr. Hot Guitar Player, but there was no sign of him over there, just another of the entertainers who’d stopped to play and smiled broadly when the little clutch of people around him applauded. “It must have been something, huh?”

Tumbleweed didn’t have to ask what I was talking about. Like I said, we’d known each other a long time. “It was a wonderful tradition. The Chili Queens were the center of San Antonio social life. At least until the late 1930s when the city shut them down. Said they were a health risk. Imagine that! Imagine giving up a scene like this that played out at plazas all over town. People gathered every evening to eat and laugh and talk. You don’t get that kind of community now and it’s a shame, ain’t it? These days, it’s all about how fast you can do something, not how well you can do it. It’s all about texting and e-mailing. There aren’t enough connections between people. Look around!” We both did, drinking in the wonderful atmosphere along with a huge helping of humidity. “Just think of how the world would be a better place. You know, if we all got out every evening and talked to our neighbors and got to know one another and—”

As sweet as it all was, Tumbleweed never got a chance to finish what he was going to say. That’s because we heard a woman scream from across the plaza. That scream was followed by another voice—also a woman’s—whose pinched falsetto could have shattered glass.

“She’s crazy. I told you the gringo was crazy! This crazy woman, you see what she is trying to do. She is trying to kill me!”

CHAPTER 2

Like I was going to miss out on something as juicy as a death threat in the middle of a charity event?

I gave Sylvia a quick “I’ll be right back,” and just like a whole bunch of other people who’d been nearby and heard the carrying-on, I raced across the plaza to see what was up.

I found the center of the commotion not far from the main entrance to Read with the Chili Queens.

Read with them?

It looked to me like the two Chili Queens who stood toe-to-toe just inside the entrance to one of the tents were more interested in duking it out. Oh yeah, they had fire in their eyes. And chili ladles coated with tomatoes and spices and all kinds of greasy goodness in their hands.

The woman on my left was short and husky. Her silver hair was pulled back and tucked into a neat bun, and her beefy arms were slick with sweat that sparkled like sequins when the overhead lights twinkled. She wore a long black skirt, like mine, and a red shirt. Both were covered by the white apron looped around her neck.

The woman who stood opposite her was taller by a head, with salt-and-pepper hair cut stylishly short and shaggy and a chin as pointed as the look she gave the other woman. She wore a white dress like a nurse might wear, with an apron printed with blue and red flowers over it.

“I’m crazy? Me?” Like the chili that dribbled from the ladle in her hand, the taller woman’s words dripped malice. So did the look she tossed at the other woman. “You’re the one who—”

“Loco! I told you! I told you she was nuts!” As if to gather support, the shorter woman took a moment to glance at the gathering crowd. When she stepped back and pointed her chili ladle at the other woman, the taller woman flinched, squinted, and stepped back, too. She bent her elbow and cradled the long handle of her ladle in one hand.

Across from her, the shorter woman mirrored her stance.

I held my breath and waited for someone to shout out En garde!

Before anybody could, Nick Falcone showed up. Didn’t it figure? The guy who fuels my fantasies also ruins all the fun.

Nick stepped between the two women, and I had to give him credit; while the rest of us were waiting there, tense and perspiring and anxious to see who would twitch her ladle first and fling the first splats of chili, Nick was his usual cool-as-a-cucumber self. Navy suit (in this heat, was the guy crazy?), starched white shirt, killer tie in swirls of green and a blue that (not coincidentally, I’d bet) matched his out-of-this-world eyes. His expression was as suave as his outfit, like he was chatting up these two adversaries at a cocktail party instead of diffusing what looked like it might turn into a rip-roaring chili smackdown.

“Ladies.” Nick nodded toward one woman, then the other, and believe me, I think he knew exactly what he was doing when he added one of his signature hotter-than-a-ghost-pepper smiles. Hey, when you’ve got that kind of talent, you’ve got to work it. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Problem?” the short woman blurted out. “Martha, she don’t know the meaning of the word problem.”

“Shaking in my shoes over here, Rosa,” the taller woman snapped, and as if to prove it, she gave her shoulders an exaggerated wiggle. “As always, you scare me to death!”

“I should.” Rosa’s dark eyes spit fire. When she stepped forward, so did Martha, and Nick held both his arms out to his sides to keep the women from getting any closer to each other. Or maybe he was just trying to make sure his suit didn’t get any chili on it.

He looked at the crowd in that steely sort of way cops (and, apparently, former cops) always do. “Excitement’s over, folks. Time to head back to the party.”

It wasn’t a request.

And nobody was about to argue.

One by one, the partygoers drifted away to the other tents.

Except for the one who wasn’t about to cave. Or miss one second of the excitement.

I think the moment Nick let go a breath that was all about praying for patience was just a heartbeat after he realized that I was still hanging around.

“You want to tell me what you’re doing here?” he asked me.

My shrug should have said it all, but in case he missed it, I told him. “I figured you might need my help.”

His smile was tight and not the least bit friendly.

Which was the only reason I was forced to remind him, “You know, the way you needed my help back in Taos when that Showdown roadie was killed. Or like back in Vegas when we were having the Devil’s Breath chili contest and—”

“I probably don’t need your help this time,” Nick said.

“But you might.” As if to prove it, I stepped into the tent where Rosa and Martha were still shooting death ray looks at each other. “If this has something to do with chili, let’s face it, Nick, I’m probably the only one who can help. So ladies . . .” I glanced from Rosa to Martha and back again to Rosa. “What’s shaking?”

Nick’s grumble echoed back at us from the walls of the Alamo just beyond the perimeter of this particular tent. Even though I’m not much for history and don’t know the exact story—I mean, not all the facts and all the details and the whole blow-by-blow the way a lot of people I’d already met in San Antonio did—I still recognized the iconic building made of creamy-colored stone. It was smaller than it looked in the pictures I’d seen online, and spookier looking, too. But then, the way I heard it, the famous battle that happened here in 1836 lasted thirteen days and killed something like eight hundred people.

Spooky went with the territory.

While I was studying the building with its arched facade and distinctive columns on either side of the main doorway, Nick was concentrating on the matter at hand.

“You’re causing a commotion.” I didn’t think he could possibly be referring to me, so I let him keep talking. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

“This gringo here,” Rosa began.

“She thinks she’s God’s gift,” Martha spat out.

And Nick held up both his hands again.

“One at a time. Or we’re never going to get anywhere. I was over there,” he said, “at the Consolidated Chili tent, and—”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Disgusted, I threw my hands in the air. “Don’t you know what those people are? Who they are? Purveyors of cheap chili. Cheap canned chili. You call that authentic? You call that in keeping with the traditions of the San Antonio Chili Queens?”

“This little girl, she’s right,” Rosa said, and just like I did, she shot a look back toward the tent. Even as we spoke, a woman with very big blond hair in a very short and tight black dress, a very sparkly tiara, and a banner across her chest was handing out bottle openers and chili samples to everyone who walked by—including, I noticed, the hunky guitar player I’d met earlier. Rosa’s top lip curled and left a smudge of ruby red lipstick on her teeth. “They have no business here.”

“They shouldn’t even be allowed in this sacred place,” Martha said, and for one moment, I actually thought the two women had found common ground and could put their differences aside.

That is, until Martha added, “Not this close to the Alamo where my ancestors—”

“Oh, here we go again!” Rosa groaned. “Now she’s going to make us listen to the list. Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie and William Travis. Yeah, yeah. Whatever! If I hear her say one more word about—”

“Oh, like we should listen to you?” Martha screeched. “What would you . . .” She pointed her chili ladle at Rosa. “What would you tell us about, Rosa? Your ancestors? The ones who fought for Santa Anna?”

“At least my ancestors lived to tell their story. And while they were at it, they taught their families the right way to make chili, too. That’s why my great-grandmother was the greatest of the Chili Queens.”

“Ha!” This from Martha, and I can’t say exactly what high dudgeon is, but I’d heard the phrase and I knew it had something to do with being really pissed, and if ever there was a dudgeon that was high, it was Martha’s. “My great-grandmother, she knew how to make chili. She was the greatest of the Chili Queens. Everybody knows that.”

“Everybody knows that each and every Chili Queen had her own secret recipe and her own special way of serving her chili.” I refused to get caught up in the squabble, so I kept my voice light and airy when I sailed past Nick. While I was at it, I gave him a look that pretty much told him, See, if it’s about chili, I can handle it. “I think it’s cool that you’re both related to real Chili Queens. It’s an honor to meet you. Both of you.”

Martha’s bony shoulders shot back.

Rosa lifted both her chins.

“I can’t wait to try your chilies,” I said, because really, in case Nick didn’t notice, since the subject of chili came up, they’d both lowered those lethal ladles and were actually looking a little less like they were going to kill each other. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to have some right now. Whose tent is this? Which one will I be trying first?”

Rosa sniffed.

Martha snorted.

“Whose tent?” Rosa hissed. “They’re actually making us share a tent. Share? With this gringo?”

“At least I know my way around a kitchen,” Martha shot back. “My restaurant is the best place in town for chili. I use my great-grandmother’s authentic recipe,” she added as an aside that interested me no end. I knew it meant nothing to Nick. Then again, when it comes to chili, he’s something of a Philistine. “We use the freshest ingredients, and we make the best chili in the world.”

I was pretty sure this wasn’t true, since my dad made the world’s best chili and mine ran a close second. Not to worry, I knew this wasn’t the moment to point this out.

Rosa, however, did not have the same diplomatic savvy as me. She rolled her eyes. “You might know your way around a kitchen if you weren’t so busy sitting up front at the hostess station and drinking palomas all day long,” she told Martha. “Now my restaurant . . .” She swung around to include me and Nick in her intense gaze. “You come to Rosa’s and you’ll have authentic chili. Just like the Chili Queens used to make. The real Chili Queens,” she added, and she wasn’t looking at me when she emphasized that real.

Martha’s mouth puckered.

Rosa’s eyes spit fire.

It was Nick’s turn to groan.

“I’m having chili.” Aside from the fact that I knew it was the best way to lighten the atmosphere, I really did want to try the chili, so I breezed past everybody and over to where pots of chili simmered away. Without waiting to be invited, I grabbed a ladle, filled a bowl, and plunked down in the nearest chair.

We may not be as snooty as so many wine lovers, but chili tasters have their rituals, too. I spooned up a nice, big scoop of chili, closed my eyes, and breathed in deep.

“Comino seeds,” I purred, and don’t think I didn’t notice that both Rosa and Martha smiled like those beauty queens over at the Consolidated Chili tent. I called it comino, not cumin. Right away, they knew I wasn’t a poser.

“And serrano peppers,” I added. When they’re ripe, serranos are red, and hotter than jalapeños. “And ancho,” I said, just so Martha and Rosa would know I wasn’t just some pretty face who didn’t know what she was talking about when it came to chili and peppers and the way tastes and spiciness and textures combine to create a really great chili. Ancho peppers are dried poblanos, and I knew they’d give this chili a subtle sweet smokiness.

I took a bite and nodded; I was right. While I was at it, I smiled at the two women, who were looking a little less angry and a lot more proud of their part in the tradition that is chili. “Beef and pork. And suet. Oh, ladies!” I was relieved when they smiled back. “If this is what real Chili Queens chili tasted like, it’s no wonder the plazas were full of patrons every night. It’s heavenly.”

Martha smirked. “It’s my great-grandmother’s recipe.”

Rosa looked as if she’d bit into a lemon. “Which she probably stole from my great-grandmother.”

And guess what, I didn’t want to hear any of it, not when I was mid-bowl of a mighty fine chili. Just as they started in on each other again, I hightailed it out of their tent and left Nick to handle these two warring Queens.

And yes, I took my bowl of chili with me.

I finished it right before I got over to the Consolidated Chili tent, but by then, Mr. Hot Guitar Player was nowhere in sight. That guy in the ten-gallon hat was, though. I got just a glimpse of his backside as he slipped into the shadows at the back of the tent.

I turned to head the other way, and Miss Hotter than a Chili Pepper (really, were they kidding, there’s a beauty queen title that dumb?) offered a cute little bottle opener. Big points for me. I managed a smile when I told her a polite “No, thank you.”

I have my standards, after all.

Eager to get away from the land of canned chili, I circled around the Consolidated Chili tent and over into our tent, where I saw Sylvia dishing out chili and looking just the slightest bit harried.

Aside from having standards, I also have a conscience, even if it’s darned inconvenient at times.

I was all set to go and help Sylvia until something across the way caught my eye.

It was Mr. Hot Guitar Player, and he was deep in conversation with one of the women from another tent, a woman who reminded me of a cayenne pepper—long and skinny and hot.

Cascades of red hair. Tasteful pearls. Manicure; expensive dress and shoes; glowing, polished complexion that showed she had a good aesthetician and visited her often.

I wasn’t surprised when I glanced to the sign above the entrance to the tent and saw that it belonged to the San Antonio Women’s League.

Oh yeah, this lady was all about style, class, and money.

She was also as high in her dudgeon as Martha and Rosa had ever been.

Only in a much more calm and dignified way.

When she crossed her arms over her chest and the goldenrod-colored sleeveless dress she wore, two spots of color erupted across her high cheekbones.

Mr. Hot Guitar Player said something to her, but from this distance—damn!—I couldn’t make out a word.

Whatever he said, she didn’t like it. Her lips pinched. The color drained from her cheeks. She put a hand on Mr. Hot Guitar Player’s arm, but he shrugged her off.

What they were talking about was none of my business, but hey, that had never stopped me before. I sidestepped my way through the crowd, hoping I might be able to catch at least some of the conversation.

I actually might have succeeded if the local celebrities who hang out at all these sorts of functions didn’t pick that exact moment to show up. A hum went through the crowd, and a whole bunch of people surged toward the entrance when a sleek white limo pulled up. I recognized the basketball player who got out first. He was hard to miss, since he was head-and-shoulders taller than everyone else around him. He was followed by a woman, who was followed by a camera crew from a local station, and there was a big guy bringing up the rear. His toothpaste smile told me he was a politician.

What with the crowd and all, I lost sight of Mr. Hot Guitar Player, and by the time the celebrities went over to the Consolidated Chili tent (I gritted my teeth) and my path was clear again, he was nowhere to be seen and the lady in the golden dress had moved over to the other side of the tent to hand out bowls of chili.

“Nice dress, but she needs more bling.”

I glanced to my side and the woman who towered over me, and since I’d seen her around the tent being run by the drag queens, I guess that wasn’t a surprise. She looked glorious in fawn-colored gaucho pants, a balloon-sleeved blouse, and a vest studded with colorful beading.

She was looking where I was looking, and I was looking at the woman in the gold dress.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Evelyn, Eleanor, Edith. Something like that.” She twitched wide shoulders and batted eyelashes that were long and thick and nothing like what my eyelashes ever looked like. “And I’m Ginger.” She extended a hand and we shook. “I hear when you’re at the Showdown, you’re an adorable chili pepper. Teddi and I . . .” She looked over her shoulder back toward her tent where another woman—this one in a pencil-thin black skirt and a frilly red top with a plunging neckline—was greeting customers and handing out chili. “Teddi and I will be sure to stop in. Maybe we’ll see that good-looking guitar player there?”

I didn’t have to ask Ginger how she knew. I guess the way I scanned the crowd told her I was looking for someone. And the way I’d watched Mr. Hot Guitar Player with Evelyn/Eleanor/Edith said something, too.

“He said he’d drop by later for chili,” I told Ginger.

“Then, sweetie, you’d better get back over to your tent.” She offered me a glittering, toothy smile. “You don’t want to miss him!”