Red Hot Deadly Peppers (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

“She killed her uncle and her cousin? Over pepper juice?” Allison said.

“Yep. Well, the heat from the peppers, the capsaicin,” I said into the cell phone. “It’s big business, or has the potential to be, I guess.”

“She’s locked up?”

“Oh, yes. Both she and the boys. She promised them they were going to be millionaires. The boys might not have killed anyone, but they broke enough laws to be in trouble.”

“Wow, that’s terrible.”

“I know. But other than that, I’ve had an . . . interesting few days in Arizona,” I said as I peered at my work. After all the excitement, I hadn’t gone back to the trading post. I’d decided to cut my trip short and head home after only three short days in the beautiful but amazingly hot state of Arizona. Nathan and Amy were going to take me to the airport in their truck, but I’d decided to use my few available hours before leaving to spiff up the scooter. Harry had driven me into town to buy a new seat and a case of oil. I wished I knew how to do a tune-up, but I didn’t. Instead, I’d installed the new seat and polished the bike until the rust and the metal showed proudly.

I had a feeling that I’d stay in touch with Harry. You never knew when you might need the advice of a good private detective.

“I guess that’s good,” Allison said. “You do find trouble.”

“Hey, have I mentioned how hot it is here?” I asked, hoping to distract her from her “troublesome” thoughts.

Allison laughed. “Yes. I’m glad you’re okay. And I’ve actually got another assignment for you when you get home.”

“Really? What?”

“It’s a surprise, but it includes a Ferris wheel and a corn maze.”

I hesitated. “Well, I love Ferris wheels, but I’m not a big fan of corn mazes.”

Allison laughed again. “Oh, you’ll be fine. I hope. Get home in one piece. Love you, sis.”

“Love you, too.”

I hit End and looked around at the motel property. I wished for more time in Arizona, but it wasn’t to be. I shrugged to myself and wiped the sweat off my forehead, ready to head home and on to my next adventure.

Recipe

Pickled Jalapeño Peppers

It turns out that pickling peppers is a pretty easy thing to do. If you’ve ever grown a jalapeño pepper plant or two, you know you can end up with a surprisingly large crop of peppers. This is a great way to use them all.

1 pound (or so) jalapeño peppers

Bay leaves

4 cups cider vinegar

1 cup olive oil

1 tablespoon pickling spice (such as McCormick brand), tied in a small cheesecloth bag (you can make a bag using a square of cheesecloth and kitchen string)

1 cup water

1 1/2 tablespoons canning salt

Clean and sterilized canning jars and lids. This is a small recipe. I use pint jars and only fill about four to five of them with this recipe. I use these jars because I like to keep the peppers whole.

1 canner for boiling the jars after they’re filled.

Plastic disposable gloves

First, a note of caution: whenever you handle hot peppers, be sure to wear gloves. The oil in the peppers burns. Trust me on this one.

With gloves on, wash the peppers. I like to leave them whole for pickling, but some people cut them into quarters or rings. If you do cut them, remove the cores, seeds, and stems. And remember to keep the gloves on!

Pack the peppers loosely in the jars. They will expand during the pickling process.

Put one bay leaf into each jar.

In a saucepan, bring the vinegar, olive oil, spice bag, water, and canning salt to a boil.

Remove the spice bag and then pour the hot mixture over the peppers, leaving a half inch of air space in the jar. Put the lids on snugly.

Place the jars in the canner and process for 10 minutes with the water line about an inch above the jars. Using tongs, remove the jars carefully and let cool undisturbed overnight.

Of course, always check that the lids have sealed properly by making sure they haven’t popped up.

Enjoy!

Keep reading for a special excerpt from Paige Shelton’s next Farmers’ Mystery . . .

A KILLER MAIZE

Available in paperback December 2012 from Berkley Prime Crime!

Spider Symbolism from Wikia.com:
Linked to treachery and death in many cultures, the spider was seen as a “trickster” in ancient Africa and a “spinner of fate” in ancient goddess cultures; in ancient Greek myths, the goddess Arachne was turned into a spider by her jealous rival Athena. Christian cultures have viewed the spider as an evil force that sucked blood from its victims and, alternately, embraced it as “good luck” because of the cross on the back of some species. The Chinese have welcomed the spider descending on its thread as a bringer of joys from heaven.

Corn Maze:
A thing that I have no desire to ever enter. Ever. Sincerely, Becca Robins.

I love a good Ferris wheel, so much so that even as I stared up at this one, I was willing to tell myself that it really didn’t look like it might fall apart at any minute. I wanted to hop onto one of the swinging seats and ride the never-ending circle. I wanted it to stop when I was at the top, so I could look across the countryside and see . . . well, from there, I supposed I’d only get a glimpse of more countryside, but it’d be a nice view.

It probably wasn’t the best idea, though. Maybe it was the strange noise the engine made when Virgil, the operator, pulled the handle. Clunk, clunk, buzz, whoosh didn’t instill the confidence that a smooth engine rev would have. Maybe it was because the swinging seats didn’t seem to swing quite right. At least two of them didn’t seem to be swinging at all but were instead frozen in an uncomfortable leg-up position. Maybe it was because I’d noticed that at least a few of the security bars didn’t look like they would lock into place; they bounced open and closed unless someone was holding them down.

Maybe it was how the Ferris wheel was decorated, but fake spiderwebs only added a sense of the season, not something ominous. No, those were the least of my concerns. I liked the way they enhanced the spirit of the mid-October Swayton County Fall Fair and Festival.

Even with all of my doubts, I loved Ferris wheels. I was sure I’d ride this one at some point. I just had to work up the courage.

“You sell jams and preserves?” Virgil rejoined the conversation after he set the wheel in motion. There were only two riders, teenage boys who either didn’t have much else to do or were related to someone who worked at the fair and were still young enough to feel invincible.

“I do. I make them first, then I sell them.” I leaned against the tall measuring stick that illustrated the height requirement for the ride. I was short, but at least I was tall enough for all the rides, I’d noted to myself. “I have a small farm. I grow strawberries and pumpkins.”

“That sounds interesting,” Virgil said.

Virgil Morrison was somewhere north of sixty, but not far. He’d told me that he’d been working at the fair since he moved to Orderville, South Carolina, twenty years earlier. It was one of the many odd jobs he worked to pay the bills. Over the past few days I’d asked him a number of times about his other odd jobs and his life before the last twenty years, but he’d ignored the questions with either silence or a change of subject. However, he’d finally started asking me about myself; maybe we were getting somewhere.

His thinning gray hair was so short that it required only a washcloth to groom. His eyes were dark and seemed pupil-less until you looked really closely. When I first met him, I thought he might be angry about something, but that was just the way he held his face: scrunched and strained, uncomfortable and suspicious. After talking to him a few times, I decided that he didn’t know how his face looked and he didn’t much care anyway.

Virgil also had a tattoo on the side of his neck. It was this, even more than the Ferris wheel or our common wardrobe of overalls, that drew me to him. I was fascinated by a senior citizen with a tattoo on his neck. It was small and only a simple black ink spider, but it had piqued my curiosity. I’d initially thought it might just be a temporary addition, something to go along with the spiderwebs. But I was now pretty sure it was permanent. What was the story behind it? I hadn’t come out and asked directly. After all, I couldn’t even get him to chat about his life outside the fair and festival; I didn’t think he’d be willing to tell me about the tattoo. Yet.

“It is interesting,” I said. It was the first time Virgil had asked me something personal. I thought I might finally be making headway, and I hoped to ride the wave a little longer. “I’m really lucky to be able to do what I do, even though it is a lot of hard work. Stop by my booth, I’ll give you a free sample.”

I had plenty of jars of jams and preserves. I didn’t think I’d sold three since we’d set up temporary stalls on Monday. Today was Thursday, which meant I needed to sell at least one jar today to keep at a one-per-day pace.

The Bailey’s Farmers’ Market owners had requested that Allison, my sister and Bailey’s manager, round up some market vendors to sell their wares at the Swayton County Fall Fair and Festival. The annual event was full of the things a fair should be full of: rides, albeit I wasn’t sure of the safety of any of them; games; baking contests; butter sculptures; and some wonderful and adorable animals to peer at and pet. It was also the rev-up and kickoff to the opening of South Carolina’s biggest corn maze.

The fair ran from the second Monday in October to the third Friday, with the maze opening on Wednesday during the second week. The deluge of activities was a great way to both offer some family fun and gently shift everyone into fall and the upcoming Halloween holiday.

I’d been asked to donate some pumpkins for a decorating contest that would be a part of the maze’s opening day. I was happy to donate a whole truck-bed full of pumpkins to the cause, but I was currently doing everything I could to stay as far away from the maze as possible, and it wasn’t even open yet. I wasn’t a maze person, but that was only because I didn’t enjoy being in spaces where I couldn’t see a way out, couldn’t see over the top, or might end up hopelessly stuck at a dead end.

Plus, the whole corn-as-part-of-a-horror-story idea was well rooted in my psyche.

Fortunately, the temporary stalls set up for me and the three other Bailey’s vendors were on one side of the fairgrounds and the far-stretching field of corn was on the other side, past the Mad Maniacal Machine, aka the old, small roller coaster. But no matter where I was, at my tent or visiting the rides, food carts, trailers, or some of the animals in the two small barns, I could glance out and see the large hand-painted sign that stuck up from the middle of the maze. It was a cartoonish but eerie portrayal of a house that apparently used to sit on the property. Whether the actual house had been as spooky as the one in the illustration, with its big gaping windows and leaning walls, I wasn’t sure, and I hadn’t had much luck finding out. Every time I tried to get more of the house’s story, my questions were met with either shrugs or comments like “I dunno” or “Ah, gypsy magic.” The reactions only added to the atmosphere, though, so I’d begun to think that the people I’d asked were being purposefully mysterious.

So, not only did I avoid the maze itself, but I also tried to avert my eyes from the sign. I did think that business might actually pick up once the maze was open.

The fair owners had been mostly honest when they told the Bailey’s owners that their annual event had become less and less popular over the years and needed some help. They thought that the popularity of Bailey’s products might attract more fair attendees.

The fair, however, seemed not merely “less popular” but rather, pretty close to all the way dead. Bailey’s might have made a great name in the world of farmers’ markets, but we weren’t doing anything to help the fair’s attendance numbers.

“That’d be great. I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” Virgil said to the offer of samples. “Thank you.”

I smiled. We
were
finally getting somewhere.

“Becca!” called a voice from somewhere behind me. I thought I recognized it, but I couldn’t be sure.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I mumbled as the image of a face formed in my mind.

“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Virgil said.

“Is a tall blond man with a cowboy hat walking—with bow legs—this direction?”

“No cowboy hat, but yep to the rest.”

“Is he wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a T-shirt that’s seen better days?”

“Yep.”

“Oh no. How did this happen?”

Virgil stepped forward. “You want me to get rid of him?”

I didn’t know exactly what he meant. Would he tell him to go away, or would he get rid of him permanently? It was a tempting offer either way.

I reluctantly shook my head and then turned around.

“It is you!” said the man in worn jeans and ratty T-shirt as he pulled me into a hug, lifted me up, and twirled me in a circle. “It is damn great to see you, sweetheart.”

“Hey, Scott,” I said when I landed again. I didn’t want to smile, but his enthusiasm was infectious, and even though I’d never fall for that off-center grin and those overly happy green eyes again, it
was
kind of good to see him. That very same infectious enthusiasm had been the reason I’d stayed married to him about a year too long. Despite his many faults, he’d always been fun to be around.

“How are you? You look great, the same as when you dumped me, actually. Becca and I were married,” he said to Virgil.

“That right?” Virgil said, his face breaking into smile. He was amused. I liked seeing the smile take over his stern features. I felt another pull at the corner of my own mouth.

“I’m fine, Scott. What are you doing here?” I asked.

“The shooting gallery, right over there. Come over, I’ll give you some free shots.” He held up an invisible gun and shot it off to the side. “Boosh, boosh.”

“Really? What happened to the dealership job?” When he and I had divorced, he’d left for Charleston and a mechanic’s job at a Toyota dealership. It was the best job he’d ever had.

“Ah, lots has happened since then. The shooting gallery helps me be my own boss some of the time, Becca. You know all about that, right?”

“Sure.”

“I own it.” Scott crossed his arms in front of his chest and winked. “’Cept between you and me, and you, sir”—he looked at Virgil—“we picked a bad gig. This place is a graveyard.”

I looked at Virgil. Though I’d yet to crack his concrete-wall exterior, I knew he had pride invested in the Swayton County event. Perhaps the feeling was merely the result of having worked there so many years, but I could tell he liked the fair. He liked working the Ferris wheel. He even liked the frightening and disconcerting noises the engine made. It wasn’t hard to see that he took his job seriously, even though there wasn’t much to it.

The expression on his face told me I was right on target. His dislike for Scott was quick and obvious.

“I dunno,” Virgil said. “We get to work outside. We get the chance to meet some inter’sting people. Some of us, like you, young man, get to have access to guns. It’s a win-win, the way I see it.”

Scott blinked. He verged on annoying most of the time, and he wasn’t great at holding down jobs, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he’d insulted Virgil, a man who, though older than him, was built wide and solid like a good pickup, and had a spider tattoo on the side of his neck. Scott didn’t want to mess with Virgil, and he knew he just had.

“Sorry, man. I just meant . . . shoot, I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re right, this is a great place. I hope it picks up, that’s all.”

Virgil stared at Scott for a beat or two too long. If Virgil had continued to stare, I might have had to jump in and defend my ex and his copious talking skills. I’d done plenty of that when we were married, and I hadn’t wished for the opportunity to present itself again. Fortunately, Virgil let another smile sprout as he turned and pushed the lever so that the teenage boys could begrudgingly exit the ride.

“I’ll see you later, Virgil. Come by for some jam.” As I spoke, I put my hand on Scott’s arm and directed him away from the Ferris wheel.

“I didn’t mean to insult the guy, Becca. What is he, the owner of the fair or the land it’s on or something?” Scott said when we were far enough away from Virgil that he could neither hear us nor read our lips.

“I don’t know who he is,” I said. “I’ve been trying to figure it out.”

“I’ll go talk to him later, spread some of my Scott-charm. I’ll have him eating out of my hand by the end of the day.”

His Scott-charm wasn’t quite what he thought it was, but he could be likeable enough, especially if you remained more an acquaintance than a good friend, or a wife.

“Do you have a few minutes to walk with me? I need to check on my stall. Want some crackers and jam?”

I could have been rude and told him I just needed to get back to work. But as I’d watched him aggravate Virgil, something became clear in my head: I was kind of interested in how he was doing, even if we hadn’t been able to stay married. I didn’t know if some preordained amount of time needed to pass before you could have a mostly clean slate with an ex, but this felt about right. I was also just plain curious; what had he done with his life since me?

“Love some. Just like old times.”

The Swayton County Fall Fair and Festival was located about half an hour from my hometown of Monson, South Carolina, right outside the even smaller town of Orderville. Monson wasn’t in Swayton County, but close enough that the hilly green countryside, now covered in the reds and yellows of changing leaves, was just like what I was used to.

Scott and I wove around a few other quiet or mostly empty rides, a cotton-candy stand, and a goldfish toss. In the past few days, I’d spoken to a number of the fair workers, but the only one I’d wanted to really get to know was Virgil, so the free moments that I had—and there had been many—were spent chatting with my fellow Bailey’s vendors or trying to engage Virgil in a conversation.

“How long have you been here, Scott?” I asked. I waved to the corn-dog vendor who I thought was named Jerry as we stepped around his small trailer.

“Just set up yesterday,” he said. “Really, I had no idea how bad this fair was. I don’t think I’m going to stick around if it doesn’t pick up in the next day or so.”