A Thousand Deadly Kisses

By Britni Patterson

Mercy Givens, feisty genius behind the Givens Detective Agency, is determined to win the San Antonio Chili Chompers Cook-Off Competition Her motivation? To stick it to Marlene Givenchy, reigning Chili Chomper Queen and world-class local diva. Justice, Mercy’s long-suffering twin sister and agency partner, has humbler goals: to get through the competition without strangling one or both of the competitors!

When a Cook-Off judge, who also happens to be Marlene’s lover, dies after sampling her chili, Marlene and Mercy take center stage as suspects number one and two. Marlene hires the twins to find out who poisoned her chili, but it’s not long before she’s arrested for the crime. Mercy, frankly, isn’t sure whether Marlene is innocent or guilty. But it soon becomes apparent that the twins have taken over first place on the murderer’s To-Do list!

Justice and Mercy pull out all the stops to do what they do best – find the truth, dodge bullets, and catch a killer!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Britni Patterson
• Release date: Apr 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990809531

Britni Patterson

Britni Patterson was born and raised in Del Rio, Texas, a small border town in the geographic "armpit" of Texas. She attended the University of Alabama in Huntsville, and NC State University for chemical engineering, but she quickly realized that while she loved it when things went boom, engineering hates booms, and therefore she wasn't meant to be an engineer. Growing up with a West Texas family prone to "swappin' yarns" that have just enough truth to be possible gave her a love of telling stories, and the ability to laugh at anything. Through a series of hysterically bad decisions that somehow ended for the best, Britni now lives in North Carolina, married to a paramedic who keeps ruining her best murder ideas with "truth", two adorable children, and a healthy respect for serendipity's evil twin. She is also a member of the Society of Creative Anachronism, where she is known as Mistress Livia Zanna, Order of the Laurel for calligraphy & illumination, is a concert pianist, an avid reader, and tries to raise orchids with dubious success.

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A THOUSAND DEADLY KISSES

A THOUSAND DEADLY KISSES

Britni Patterson

Book 2 of the Justice & Mercy Mysteries

DEDICATION

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred.

Then, another thousand, and a second hundred.

Then, yet another thousand, and a hundred.

Then, when we have counted up many thousands,

Let us shake the abacus, so that no one may know the number,

And become jealous when they see

How many kisses we have shared.

Excerpt from Catullus 5

To Max. Because a single lifetime isn’t enough to spend kissing you.

Chapter 1

I like chili. In fact, I love chili. It’s a staple of Texan cuisine, whether you like it with beans or without beans, on top of Fritos, or drowning hot dogs. But for the two weeks leading up to the 73rd San Antonio Chili Chompers Cook-Off, I declared myself a vegetarian, rather than eat another bite.

It all started at my twin sister Mercy’s book club meeting. Every other Thursday night, she and twelve other people meet up, do a pot-luck dinner, and poke around the nuts and bolts of literature. I don’t go because I prefer to read for pleasure, rather than to critically analyze the use of the word risk versus attempt, and argue about the deep metaphysical meaning of a child playing with a bouncy ball instead of a hula hoop. I’d rather enjoy the damn book without having to take notes.

I knew I’d missed something important when Alberto Montoya, sergeant in the San Antonio Police Department, showed up the day after a book club meeting with a giant box of peppers and a troublemaker’s grin. Alberto’s also a member of the book club, though I have suspicions about his reasons for membership. He looks like the placid, stupid sergeant from the old Zorro T.V. show, round and cheerful with a neat mustache, but he’s one of the smartest cops in town. I opened the door to see him standing on the front porch, holding a giant box of more types of peppers than I could put a name to. Anchos, Poblanos, Serranos, Jalapeños, Chili Pepins, Pequeños, and more I couldn’t name.

Here you go, Justice. Better you than me, he said.

I looked down at the box and back up. I missed something last night, didn’t I?

You bet. His brown eyes were twinkling in his pudgy face with an evil glee. Marlene Givenchy.

I groaned. Marlene is a stick-thin hippie, usually draped in African prints and clattering wooden jewelry, despite being as white as Wonder bread, with straight brown hair and vague blue eyes contradicted by a thin-lipped mouth barred tight against incautious smiling. Marlene is also an aspiring author, so she likes to imply that her unsuccessful scribbling gives her a unique and infallible insight into literature. This drives my egotistical genius sister up the wall, and she and Marlene have a rivalry that occasionally turns the book club meetings into spectator sports. There have been three occasions where the book club meeting broke up early because Marlene and Mercy were getting close to blows. I’ll give Marlene credit. Most people don’t fight with my sister because she’s a paraplegic in a wheelchair. The ones who know her well enough to ignore the wheelchair don’t fight with her because Mercy’s as vindictive as a rattlesnake, and years of dealing with the asinine behavior of society towards paraplegics have given her a hair-trigger temper. Marlene ignores both counts and antagonizes Mercy every chance she gets. But their fights never led to next-day deliveries of produce before.

Well, come on in, and you can tell me what happened. I stepped out of the way and led him to the kitchen, where he filled me in while I tried to figure out where the hell to store all the peppers.

Apparently Marlene had ambushed Mercy in the pot-luck line before the discussion started. Mercy had made chili as her contribution, and Marlene had sidled up behind her while Mercy was making a plate.

Did you make this chili? Marlene had asked.

Yes. Would you care for a scoop? asked Mercy.

Ohhhh ... oh, no. No, thank you, sniffed Marlene. I’m very par-tiiiick-u-lar about my chili. But that’s natural, isn’t it?

I have no idea what’s natural about you, said Mercy, in what Montoya scored as a return jab at Marlene’s newly red hair.

Marlene puffed up with indignation, as she’d said, "Well, I happen to be the San Antonio Chili Chompers Cook-Off Champion. The Sun begged me for my recipe last year after I won. I wouldn’t want to insult you by spitting yours out."

I shoved half the poblanos into the butter shelf. She did not say that.

Montoya lifted a hand. Cross my heart and hope to die.

What’d Mercy say? I asked, wishing now I’d seen it myself.

What do you think? said Montoya.

I think Marlene was wearing chili.

Oh no, your sister was in rare form last night.

Oh God.

She told Marlene that the only way anyone would declare Marlene’s cooking worth eating was if Marlene was sleeping with the judge.

I snickered.

There’s more, said Montoya, still grinning.

I hope it’ll explain where the peppers came in.

Well, Marlene replied that clearly Mercy was not used to cooking done with fresh produce and natural simplicity. Marlene said she only cooked what she herself grew in her garden, but she didn’t expect Mercy to understand the joy of eating what you grow.

I winced. Mercy’s one of the most passionate gardeners you’ll ever meet, but she’s cursed with a murderous black thumb. She can’t even grow mint. We’ve spent so much money at gardening stores that we applied for a business discount, even though our business is the Givens Detective Agency.

And that’s why Mercy’s entering the competition. She asked me to raid my grandmother’s garden for peppers, said Montoya.

Wait, she’s doing what?! I said, seriously alarmed.

She’s entering the Chili Chompers Cook-Off competition.

I started hitting my head against the meat shelf.

That’s why she’s doing research in the office. I thought she was working on a case, I muttered.

Montoya shrugged. Well, I brought the peppers like she wanted. But it’s not that bad, Justice. Objectively speaking, your sister is a much better cook. She uses salt.

I continued hitting my head against the shelf. You do not understand, Alberto. Have you ever seen Mercy in a competition?

He squinted, staring at the far wall. Not unless you count the many, many times you two have technically broken the law and weaseled your way out of it.

That’s business, not competition. Mercy’s obsession with detail can be ... problematic.

Mercy’s voice called out from the office, Justice! Justice, I’m going to need you to go to the store!

I sighed and stood up, saying bitterly, You’d think a book club would be a bastion of good sense and polite behavior, not a breeding ground for vendettas. I’m severely disappointed in you, Alberto. As an officer of the law, you should have arrested Marlene for behavior likely to ruin my life for the next three weeks.

He rolled his eyes as we walked back to the front door. I think you’re exaggerating, Justice.

Oh yeah? Come back in a week. I’ll bet you lunch that you owe me an apology, I said, before I let him out and went to go get Mercy’s shopping list.

A week later he apologized after I showed him the first stack of notes.

I picked up forty-three pounds of meat from the butcher of every cut of cow, pig, and even some lamb that she thought might provide a unique texture, plus three crates of tomatoes from the farmer’s market, and twenty pounds of beans. She made fifty-two batches of chili and insisted we taste-test each one. I held up a handful of tasting sheets. She made her own tasting sheets of twenty questions each.

Well, at least you won’t have to eat any more chili, he said, the stunned expression stuck in place as he picked up some of the sheets. Brisket, mole sauce, with Thai bird chili and pinto beans? Ground filet, sundried tomato and nutmeg, smoked poblano? Did she really make all of these?

I gave him a pitying look, though I was the one I felt sorry for. She sure did, but you don’t understand. All this was only narrowing down a basic recipe. Now she’s going to test cooking techniques, simmering times, and proportion of the ingredients within the recipe. If she calls and invites you over to lunch, I suggest you think long and hard before accepting.

I declared myself a vegetarian three days later, when Mercy made me taste the same chili six times, after she added a single pinch of something each time. She made her own tomato paste and spent a day toasting and grinding spices.

A week before the cook-off, I was sleeping with the windows open despite the eighty degree weather because the smell of chili had permeated the entire house. The neighbors had stopped accepting chili, so I’d started hauling it off to the homeless shelters around the city. I came home with giant salads. Mercy pointed her nose in the air at my blatant vegetarianism and made snide comments, but I noticed that my leftovers were disappearing under the guise of rearranging the contents of the fridge.

The morning of the chili cook-off, I found Mercy asleep in the dining room, her chair parked at the table, and her head down on her folded arms. Sheets of paper and spreadsheets were all over the table. I picked one up and read in disbelief. Mercy had carefully tabulated exact quantities of every ingredient, into categories of smoky, salty, acidic, floral-peppery, spicy-peppery, umami, and tangy, balancing flavors with mathematical precision. I was looking at enough research to equal a master’s thesis in the art of making chili. I tapped her on the shoulder.

Wake up, monkey face. You’ve just got enough time for a shower, if you hurry. When you’re identical twins, insulting each other’s looks is an exercise of affection. My ears stick out a bit more, and Mercy’s eyes are a bit larger, but otherwise we look alike with straight, dark brown hair, blue-grey eyes, and our mother’s Scandinavian-white skin.

Mercy jerked up, a noise of pain escaping as her spine straightened and the damaged nerves screamed out their protest at being treated so cavalierly.

"You know, I’ve avoided saying this is stupid for three weeks, Mercy, but your stupid feud with Marlene is not worth any of this. You’re going to be in agony all day!" The anger I’d been swallowing for the ridiculous (and expensive) way we’d been living for the last three weeks suddenly boiled over, as I stared at the bags under her eyes and the way her jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles in her neck were standing out.

I’ll be fine, she said, not looking at me, before she rolled back away from the table and headed to her bedroom hurriedly. How much time do we have? she called.

We need to leave in forty-five! I yelled back. Unless you get sane in the next five minutes, and we can stay home!

There’s a crockpot on the counter! Take it, the bundle of herbs in the H.E.B. bag, and grab the nice tablecloth out of the closet! was the last series of instructions before the shower turned on. Forty-five minutes isn’t a long time for a paraplegic to shower and get dressed, but Mercy made it out in a purple silk wrap blouse and loose black pants over heels with five minutes to spare. She did have to do her makeup and hair in the truck though. She tried to get me to change my clothes, but I utterly refused to wear anything but my I’m with stupid t-shirt, blue jeans, and my comfy boots, because I was still mad.

We got to the convention center just in time for me to join the excessively long line that was wrapping around the building. Trying to slowly roll a wheelchair through a crowded line is a miserable exercise, so Mercy waited for me near the door. Two hours later, I was pointed to our table space and given our contestant number by a brunette in big glasses who looked like she’d been up since four in the morning setting up tables according to a diagram made by someone who felt actual measurements were only suggestions. The paper she consulted was covered in scribbled notes and blacked-out tables.

Your table should have your name taped to it because you pre-registered, she said tiredly, handing me the number. There are three plastic spoons on each half table. Those are for the judges to sample your chili. Please do not allow other people to use them. We recommend that you do not allow tasting by the attendees until after your chili has been judged. Someone must stay with your entry until it has been judged. You are responsible for your entry and its correspondence to the rules. Please sign here stating that you have been apprised of the rules.

I signed the forms and went back to get Mercy from where she was waiting. I led Mercy to our table, pushing through the thick crowds and occasionally helping her wheels over the duct-taped extension cords all over the floor. I started laughing when I saw who we were sharing a table with. Mercy’s response was far more caustic. Apparently the pre-registered contestants had been set up in alphabetical order, because the other name on our table was Marlene Givenchy.

I had just plugged in our crockpot when Marlene showed up. Instead of her hippie garb, she was wearing her 2011 Chili Chompers Champion sash over a glittery peach ball-gown that would have been more appropriate for a high school prom. Her hair was up in a professional chignon, and she had a five-inch high tiara. She was also pulling a little red wagon behind her loaded down with vegetables, a crockpot, and a giant trophy which was topped with a chili bowl.

She stopped dead when she saw us and realized we were her table mates. Her nose went in the air, and she came forward, nostrils flaring and her mouth pinched into a firm line. Hello, Mercy. What a nice surprise.

Mercy looked up from the book she was reading, and gave Marlene a slow look up and down. Hello, Marlene. Laundry day?

Marlene said pleasantly, You’re such a bitch.

But at least I don’t feel the need to overcompensate for my shortcomings by stuffing my bra, said Mercy, turning her attention back to her book. You do know that dress isn’t supposed to gap at the top, right?

Marlene’s face went pale and then mottled with fury.

I hid my laugh behind the Cook-Off Contestant booklet.

I don’t know why anyone pretends to like you! Marlene spat back and started slamming all the stuff from her wagon onto the table. The trophy was given prominence in the center, and the vegetation was stacked around it in decorative piles. She’d even made little picket signs that read Home grown! to jab into the tomatoes. I was impressed she managed to leave enough room for her crockpot, given the snowdrifts of rainbow glitter that filled in the spaces left by the vegetables.

I decided Mercy and Marlene probably weren’t likely to kill each other in the next thirty minutes, and I went to find a soda machine. I walked past a Wahoo Wasabi chili made with fish, soy sauce, and wasabi, and a Mango Ghost which boasted multiple warnings about the use of ghost peppers. The smell of capsaicin was so thick in the air that I could feel my nostrils itch. I paused in front of a pot of frothing goo the color of thick yellow snot. I read the card. Monkey Chili?

Yep! It’s made with bananas, chili, cinnamon, sugar, butter, vanilla, heavy cream, eggs, and Nilla wafers! said the cheerful teenage girl with Alice Simms on her nametag.

That actually sounds really good! I said. She shoved a spoon laden down with the unattractive glop at me, and I took the bite. If she was willing to break the rules, so was I.

It was like the best banana pudding I’d ever had, and even the fact it was hot didn’t detract. She’d put in enough of the wafers to make it almost like bread pudding, and it was ridiculously good.

Well, kid, I don’t know about everyone else, but you’d definitely get my vote. This is delicious!

Oh my gosh! Really? Thanks so much! The kid was all elbows and knees, vibrating in her chair with a huge metal-clad grin. She jabbed one of those elbows into the woman behind her who was trying to catch up on the sleep she was losing due to having a teenager. Mom! Did you hear that?! Other people like it!

Yes, sweetie. We told you it tasted good, but you need to stop offering people tastes, her mom muttered without opening her eyes.

Good luck! I said, meaning it, and continued on my hunt for the vending machines.

By the time I got back, there was a crowd around our table. Mercy and Marlene had apparently decided to spend the boring wait-time in a fight. The crowd watched in fascination as Marlene the Chili Prom Queen screeched and warbled at Mercy, the Wheelchair Wunderkind. I should have hung around and sold tickets.

I tapped an ancient old gentleman who was watching the spectacle in fascination on the shoulder. Excuse me, but who’s winning?

He whispered over his shoulder, I’d give it to the little girl in the chair. They’ve both gotten in some real zingers, but I think the other one is a bit more upset.

I want you to appreciate my amusement at this. The man was eighty if he was a day, dressed in a natty tuxedo with a string tie, over well-worn boots, and a jaunty cowboy hat with a curled brim that probably caused the women in his life despair due to its stains and wear. His face was a mass of wrinkles that turned his cheeky grin into a whole-face effect. He could have been the comic relief in any John Wayne movie.

Marlene’s hairdo was starting to frizz from the steam coming out of her ears, and she was so red in the face that her cheeks were beginning to match her lipstick. Her hands were curled into white-knuckled fists at her side, and her eyes were practically bulging out of her head. And this sweet-faced old man who was barely five feet tall, was suggesting that she seemed a little upset.

Yeah, she does seem a bit testy, I murmured, just as Mercy came back at Marlene, in clipped tones so cold and calm that I realized she was goading her on purpose.

You’re embarrassing yourself, Marlene. Perhaps if you didn’t spend so much time trying to elevate yourself by stepping on others and giving yourself airs about truly unimportant garbage, you wouldn’t be so insecure and defensive. Not that I think it would improve your likability, but it would certainly make you less insufferable, said Mercy, enunciating every syllable.

"I’m insufferable?! You’re the one who can’t bear to be wrong about anything! How many friends do you have, you shut-in recluse? One? Two? Even your garden hates you!" Marlene yelled.

I stepped in at that point. Look, if you two are having fun, then, by all means, go ahead, but can you take it outside? There are children who are getting their SAT scores improved in spite of themselves. Mercy and Marlene both blinked at me like they’d never seen me before, then glared at each other with the ‘she started it!’ look. The crowd mumble ed unhappily at my interruption and started dispersing. Everyone, that is, except my old friend who just stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his pants, and rocked back and forth on his heels, a grin still in place.

Mercy gave me a dirty look, because I was interfering in whatever she was up to. We have to stay at our tables, Justice. You know that.

Marlene snapped, "Ordinary competitors do. I have responsibilities as the reigning champion! Her eyes narrowed into slits, and she snarled, I’m sure you’ll watch my chili for me. You’ll make sure that no one touches it, because that would be cheating, and your overinflated ego couldn’t stand winning that way!"

I blinked. Marlene was more perceptive than I gave her credit for. She was right on both counts. Marlene swished off in a flounce of enraged taffeta. I sat down next to Mercy and opened my Dr. Pepper.

What was all that about? I asked. You know you don’t get extra points for making the other kids cry, right?

I didn’t want to sit next to her all morning. Her perfume was making me sneeze, Mercy said innocently.

Bullshit. The only thing anyone in this building can smell is pepper and tomato sauce. I took a swig of my soda, and propped my feet up on the folding table-leg hinge. Want to try again?

Did you get me a soda?

Just answer the question, Mousy, and stop being evasive. Why were you tweaking Marlene so hard?

Well, I really didn’t want to sit next to her all morning. And I want to taste her chili, Mercy muttered.

I pinched the bridge of my nose before dragging my palm down my face, wondering what sins I’d committed in a former life to predetermine my reincarnation as Mercy’s sister.

Don’t sigh at me! What if we both lost?! Then nothing would be resolved. If I can taste her chili for myself, then I’ll know one way or the other whether it was better than mine! Mercy was genuinely agitated; she spoke quickly and in an undertone.

"So you chased Marlene off so you could sneak a taste of her chili. Mercy, provoking someone into a frothing rage