The Red-Hot Chili Cook-Off (2 page)

“Okay,” she muttered at the ceiling. “They say they are bringing the kids to see me so I don't get lonely since Louis died. Me, I think they are coming home to be waited on and to eat my cooking. Tell me I'm wrong. No? You can't lie?”

She warmed two leftover waffles from the day before in the microwave and drizzled a mixture of hot butter and maple syrup over them. That and coffee would keep her until she arrived at Bless My Bloomers where she sewed fancy lingerie for all sizes of women. Crazy women who wanted pearls and ribbons and fancy crap all over their under-britches. Josie couldn't imagine wearing the things that she made. Plain old white cotton panties were good enough for her butt and Louis had never complained one time when he took them off.

He would turn over in his grave if he knew she'd gone back to work. She'd retired at sixty-five and she and Louis had twelve good years together before he died. But she got lonely after he was gone, and when Carlene came to ask her if she wanted a job at Bless My Bloomers, she'd jumped at the chance.

She was ten minutes early and parked her twenty-year-old car around back, leaving the curb space and driveway for customers. She was a short woman with a touch of gray in her hair and brown eyes set in a bed of wrinkles. She was eyeballing her eightieth birthday in another year and she loved those three girls she worked with as much as her own granddaughters. Before she got out of the car, she took out the little compact that Louis had given her for their first anniversary and reapplied her trademark bright-red lipstick.

No one else had arrived yet so she let herself in the back door with her key and headed straight to her little room. It had been the library when the house was a residence but nowadays it was her sewing room. The living room was the store. The parlor had been divided into four fitting rooms. The dining room was the stockroom and the walls were lined with basic bras, corsets, and panties in all sizes, shapes, and colors. There were three bedrooms upstairs, and sometimes the owners, Carlene, Alma Grace, and Patrice, kept extra stock up there if the dining room overflowed.

She'd been working on a fancy corset for a bride when she left Friday evening. She pulled up her rolling chair, picked up the pearls, and started sewing them one-by-one onto the lace panels between the boning. She'd always liked intricate work. Even as a child she was the one who loved embroidery and needlepoint.

“I don't remember Carlene ever being out sick before. I hope she ain't sick today. Alma Grace will have a prayin' fit if she has to fit all those choir women from her church without any help.”

***

Alma Grace stopped by her mama's house on the way to work every morning so they could have a mother/daughter devotional. They read the daily pages from the study Bible, said a prayer, and then had breakfast.

Few people in Cadillac even remembered the Fannin sisters' real names. Sugar's birth certificate said Carolina Sharmaine, but she'd always been called Sugar. The same with Gigi; her real name was Virginia Carlene. And Tansy had started out life the day she was born as Georgia Anastasia. They'd each had a daughter within a year of each other twenty-seven years before. Alma Grace belonged to Sugar, Patrice to Tansy, and Carlene to Gigi.

“Are you planning a surprise for the Easter program this year?” Her mother pushed a strand of ash-blond hair back behind her delicate ears. Diamond studs glittered in the morning sunlight. Both of her sisters told her that the television show
Good
Christian
Bitches
had really been modeled after Miz Sugar Magee. Those women damn sure hadn't given up a bit of their bling or their style to be religious and neither had Sugar or Alma Grace.

Alma Grace's curly blond hair, the color of fresh straw, was held back that morning with a silver clasp. Cute little cross earrings covered with sapphires matched the necklace around her neck and her blue eyes.

“Now Mama, you know I never give away all my secrets about the Easter program. That's why we have such a crowd. Everyone knows it'll be spectacular and even bigger than the year before. But I will tell you this much. The teacher from the drama department at the school is working on a gizmo to make me fly as I sing the final song and there will be sparkles on my wings. It's going to be breathtaking. They'll still be talking about it at the chili cook-off. Maybe even at the festival this fall.”

Sugar's eyes misted. “It will be the best thing that's ever happened in our church, and when your sweet voice starts to sing the final song, it will be like the heavens open up and the angels are singing.”

Alma Grace dropped a kiss on her mother's forehead. “Thank you, Mama. I've got to go to work.”

Sugar sighed. “Lord, I wish you wouldn't have…”

Alma Grace laid a hand on her mother's arm. “I prayed about it, remember? And God told me it was just underwear. Carlene, Patrice, and I are making a good living at Bless My Bloomers. And just think of all the happy men in the world who are staying home with their wives because of our jobs.”

Sugar nodded seriously. “That's the only thing that I take comfort in, darlin'. Now let us have a little prayer before you go. We'll pray the blood of Jesus will keep you pure as you work on all those hooker clothes.”

“Mama!”

Sugar tilted her chin up. “Well, God didn't tell
me
that those things were fit for decent God-fearin' women so I intend to pray about it every day.”

“I've got to go or I'll be late. Dinner at Miss Clawdy's at noon?” Alma Grace asked.

“Not today. Gigi and Tansy and I are going up to Sherman to look at a new car for Gigi. She's still driving one that's four years old. It's a disgrace, I tell you. She's got a son-in-law in the business and she drives a car that old. Why, honey, it's almost a sin. I guess I should be happy that she's driving a car instead of a truck, but honestly, four years old!”

“Well, y'all have a good time and bring the new car back by the shop for us to see. That Lenny is so good to his family. Maybe someday I'll find a husband like him. Carlene is one lucky woman.”

Sugar waved from the front door. “Yes, she is.”

Alma Grace parked the car beside Josie's and went in through the back door. “Hey, no coffee? Where's Carlene?” she yelled.

“Ain't here yet. Hope she ain't sick. Y'all have got all those church women coming for a fitting today.”

Alma Grace rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. She'd forgotten about that appointment. Thank goodness her mother was tied up with Aunt Gigi's new car business or she'd have had to cancel lunch with her. Sugar Fannin Magee pouted when she got all dolled up and didn't get to go out and it was not a pretty sight.

“Think I should call her?” Alma Grace asked.

“Hell, no! She'll call us if she's sick. Maybe she's finally pregnant and got the mornin' sickness.”

“A baby.” Alma Grace almost swooned.

“I didn't say that she was. I said that she might be, and if she is, she'll tell us when she damn well gets ready. Why don't you make coffee?”

“Because Carlene says that my coffee isn't fit to drink. I'll get the lights turned on and the doors opened. I'm sure she'll be along in a little while. Patrice is late all the time but I've never beat Carlene to work since we opened the shop last year.”

***

The alarm rattled around in Patrice's head like steel marbles banging against the edges of a tin soup can. She groaned and shoved a pillow over her eyes with one hand and used the other hand to slap the hell out of the clock, sending it scooting across the floor. That the plug came loose from the wall was the only thing that saved the damn clock from being stomped to death that morning.

Damn Monday mornings after a weekend of hell-raisin' sex and booze. Wine, beer, Jack Daniels, and half a gallon of rocky road ice cream after the fight with her boyfriend did not make for a good start to a new week. Hangover, bloat, and tears were poor bed partners, especially on a Monday morning.

She kicked the covers off, took a warm shower, drank a cup of tomato juice laced with curry, ate half a can of chilled pineapple, and popped two aspirin. It was her special recipe to cure a hangover.

Her job at Bless My Bloomers was keeping books, inventory, and anything to do with a computer. Lord, she hated to face columns of numbers and deal with the wholesale sellers all morning with her head pounding like she was standing next to a jackhammer.

No one at the shop could help her, either. Alma Grace, bless her heart, could sell a blinged-out corset to a saint, but she could not add up a double column of figures even with a calculator. Carlene, God love her soul, could design something so sexy that the devil would hock his horns to buy it, but she was all thumbs when it came to keeping track of what went out and what came into the shop. If things got hectic in the sales room, Patrice could talk to customers, show them the merchandise, and even make a sale, but she didn't enjoy it.

The bathroom mirror brought about a loud groan. Her aqua-colored eyes looked like two piss holes in the snow and her platinum blond hair, straight from a bottle down at the Yellow Rose Beauty Shop, was only slightly better looking than a witch's stringy strands in a kid's movie. Hell, next week, she might cut it all off and wear it in a spike hairdo. It would damn sure be easier to fix than getting out the curling iron every damn morning.

“Grandma Fannin would have your hide if you did that,” she whispered to her reflection.

When she'd done enough to cover up most of the hangover, she pulled a pair of skinny jeans from her closet, along with a tight-fitting shirt that hugged her double Ds and black, shiny, high-heeled shoes that she could kick off under her desk.

Evidently Lenny had brought Carlene to work that morning, since her car wasn't parked out behind the shop. Patrice laid her head back against the headrest for a minute and shut her eyes against the blinding sun, vowing that she'd find her sunglasses before she stepped out into the sun again. She needed coffee, good black strong coffee, and lots of it. Thank goodness Carlene always started a pot first thing in the morning.

Her head throbbed so bad, she'd almost be willing for Alma Grace to lay hands upon her and pray that God would heal her, but then she'd have to listen to her asking God to forgive her for drinking. She just needed something to relieve the headache. She hadn't killed her boyfriend, so she didn't need forgiveness, and even Jesus drank wine, so Alma Grace could keep her preaching to herself.

Shading her eyes with her hand against the bright sunlight, she made her way to the porch. Coffee! She needed coffee and lots of it. Bless Carlene's heart; she always had it brewing first thing in the morning. But that morning the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee did not greet her when she opened the door.

“Dammit!” she swore.

“Carlene?” Alma Grace yelled from the front of the house.

“It's Patrice, not Carlene. Where is our cousin? She's never late,” Patrice said.

Josie poked her head out of the sewing room. “From the looks of your eyes, I'd say you have a supersized hangover.”

Patrice held up a palm. “Guilty. Don't tell Alma Grace or she'll start praying.”

“Come on in the kitchen. I'll fix you up,” Josie said.

“I already did my magic.”

“Did it work?” Josie pointed at the kitchen table.

Patrice shook her head and it hurt like hell.

“No.” She sat down, put her head down on her arms, and poked her fingers in her ears when Josie started the blender.

“What is it?” she asked when Josie set a green drink that looked like ground-up bullfrogs in front of her.

“Don't ask and don't come up for air. Drink it all down without stopping,” Josie said.

Patrice did and then slammed the glass on the table with enough force to rattle the salt shakers. “Holy damn shit! That's hotter than hell's blazes.”

“Yep and it'll burn that hangover right out of you in five minutes. Now let's go to work. Carlene's not here. I hope she's not sick. Y'all have the church choir coming today for fittings.”

“Dammit all to hell!” Patrice groaned. “I'm not in the mood for praisin' God and blessing souls or fitting bras to those holier-than-thou gossiping women.”

“Me neither but they've got boobs that have to be roped down, so suck it up. Must have been a helluva a weekend that you had.” Josie smiled.

“I don't even want to talk about it until my head stops pounding. God, I hope Carlene isn't sick. I don't want to wait on customers today.”

Alma Grace poked her head in the kitchen door. “I hope she's not sick, too, but it would be wonderful to have a baby in the family. My mama and your mama and Aunt Gigi are going to Lenny's this afternoon to look at a car. It'd be a shame if Carlene isn't here when they drive it by to show us.”

***

Carlene breezed in the back door of the shop with an armload of clothing, her head held high, her makeup repaired, and a vow that no one else would ever see her cry again. That damned Lenny Lovelle would never, ever know how much he'd broken her spirit and her heart with his cheating.

“I'd appreciate it if y'all would lend a hand and help me bring in all that stuff in my van before customers start coming into the shop.”

Patrice peeked outside and frowned. “Good God, girl. You did more than clean out your closets while Lenny was gone this weekend. Did you buy out a store? Are we going into more than lingerie or what? And the look in your eyes is damn scary. What's going on? You look like you could commit homicide on a saint.”

“I'm divorcing that two-timing sleazy sumbitch Lenny Joe Lovelle. I should never have married him in the first place. Aunt Tansy read my palm and told me that you can't change a skirt chasin' bastard, but would I listen? Hell, no! Now are y'all going to help or not? And if you start praying, Alma Grace, I'm going to slap the shit out of you,” Carlene said. She sounded mean, but truth was she was just like those hollow chocolate Easter bunnies. If anyone pushed her, she'd crumble into a million pieces.