A Twisted Inferno: Pixie Twist Mysteries, #5

By Alyn Troy

When the annual summer beach BBQ returns to St. Mo, murder is on the menu.

 

Mortimer and Basil convince Twiz to help judge the newly added chili-cheese-dog cook-off. But her concern over eating that many dogs is quickly extinguished. The event sours with the discovery of a deceased contestant, which puts the BBQ fires on ice.

 

Ice cream shenanigans, and a smoldering battle between the covens add unwanted spice to Twiz's weekend at the BBQ event. But, when the blaze spread into St. Mo and threatens Twiz's business, she suspects her shadowy ex-boss might be in the hot seat.

 

Can Twiz and her friends clear the smoke enough to untwist the mystery, and keep someone else from getting burned?

 

Another exciting mystery waits to be unraveled in St. Mo. If you love fun fae characters, twisted mysteries, and snarky humor, you'll love Alyn Troy's cozy mystery series. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystic Brews Mysteries
• Release date: May 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215988015

Book preview

1

J ust think, Mortimer Bluescales said in our slow walk along the beach, in about five hours, we’ll get to taste over thirty different chili-cheese-dog varieties.

And then the murders began. Basil, in his green tabby form, ambled along next to me and Mort.

What murders? I shook my head, doing my best to keep up with the two mini dragons masquerading as felines.

Basil chuckled and looked back at me. That’s how to spice up any story. Just make ‘and then the murders began’ your second line.

I poked my green-and-white cane at the Australian mini dragon. We don’t need more murders. St. Maurice has had enough of those. You keep your spiced-up stories to yourself. And why must I come along this early? This was my day to search for Chaz’s birthday present. Instead, I’m getting sand in my shoes. My twisted leg was mostly straight because of the leg brace I wore. Even so, walking with a cane on the beach didn’t give me a lot of speed off the paved path.

Can you pop pixie, mate? Basil paused and cocked his head at me.

My wing is as gimpy as my leg, I said, keeping my voice quiet. Even in St. Mo, I wasn’t fond of pointing out my faerock-induced alterations. I don’t fly straight.

I was going to offer to give you a ride. Basil chuckled. Cats are about the right size for a pixie mount. But if you don’t want to…

Don’t give her ideas, Basil. Mort shook his head. She’ll be asking me for rides next.

I sighed and rolled my eyes at Mort. Why do you think I don’t spend time on the beach? This sand is terrible for me to walk through. And it’s difficult to find sandals that work with my leg brace.

Do you want a lift or not? Basil asked again.

I thought for a second and nodded, then reached down to touch his neck. I popped into my three-inch-tall pixie form. Touching him allowed me to shift forms so I sat astride Basil’s neck. Normally, when a pixie shrank to their small form, we did so collapsing into the center of where we had been, but I could shrink focused anywhere on my body. This time I focused on my hand, where I touched Basil’s shoulder. That saved me a wonky flight to land there.

My cane shifted with me and became my wand, which I stowed in my blouse. Thank you, Basil. I appreciate your help.

Onward, mates! Basil pointed a paw at the row of tents and barbecue pits to the south of St. Mo’s amusement pier.

There were probably four dozen of the grills set up in two rows along the beach. Most of the grill stations had a small tent behind it, probably for overnighting on the beach. Barbecue must be serious business.

Basil stopped to sniff the breeze. I smell the good smoke, and that means someone has meat on the barbie.

Riding on Basil’s neck was only slightly easier than walking in the loose sand. I had to grab handfuls of green fur to keep from tumbling into the sand as he trotted.

This one, Mort said, and swerved toward a red canopy set up near an ornate metal smoker. It was no wonder Mort had selected this site to stop at. The barrel of the smoker was rigged to look like the firebox and boiler of an old steam locomotive. One end of the grill was decorated with metal to look as though it were a real steam train, complete with angled cow-catcher grate, headlight, and even a brass bell and steam whistle. The whistle head served as the grill’s chimney cap.

You smell shrimp? Fish? Basil changed course to follow him.

I just hung on, unsure what I had gotten myself into, romping on the beach with two mini dragons intent on free barbeque.

Willie, old chap. How are you? Mort dropped to sit near the grill, giving Basil enough room to come in next to him.

We staying for a few minutes? I asked.

Sure, the chap named Willie said, cocking an eyebrow at me. Evidently, a pixie riding on a green tabby cat wasn’t unusual enough to cause a stir. Mortimer, haven’t seen you in ages. Was it about five years ago down at the Lubbock train show?

Basil stayed away from the grill, in a more open section between the grill and tent, so I had enough room to pop into my tall form.

Howdy, ma’am. Willie reached up to tip an imaginary hat toward me from the metal camp chair he sat in. His eyes fell on my leg brace, running from ankle up to my tan shorts. He pushed up to standing. Apologies, Miss. My legs are a tad old, but I need to do some standing to keep the blood flowing. Take my chair, please.

He was only about my height, which was a few inches up from five feet in my tall form. His hair was salt and pepper and in a disheveled state. His mustache and beard matched his hair but seemed to frame the lower half of his head like a lion’s mane in several shades of gray.

I waved off his gesture and sent a blip of magic into my wand. It shifted into my cane. Thanks. Standing is fine.

Mort tilted his head toward me and Basil. Willie, this is Twizzle. You already met Basil.

Pleasure, Miss, Willie said with a smile. Any friend of Mort’s, no matter how pretty, is especially welcome at my pit.

What’s on the barbie, mate? Basil asked, standing on his back legs to sniff the black grill.

Pork shoulder, and a chuck roast. Willie lowered himself back into his chair with a smile at me. His knife slid along a hunk of wood. It forced a shaving to curl up, then fall to the surrounding sand.

Basil licked his lips. How close is your pork butt to finished?

The chuck will be done first. Willie pushed another curl of a shaving off the wood. Why did they make us set up out here in the sand? Seems silly.

Fire season. I pointed up at the bluffs. Southern California dries out this time of year. Heck, most of the year. The fire marshal had to give the barbecue contest special permission to set up, and only if you’re surrounded by sand and far away from the pier and any structures.

That’s why they said no fire sprites. Little buggers love to wander off from the grills once we get the coals ashed over. Willie nodded. Heard there’s a chili-cheese-dog showdown this afternoon. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Mortimer? Willie glared at Mort, then looked up at me and winked. Down in Lubbock, he made us try three different eateries before he pronounced the dogs good enough.

Well, I am one of the judges of the cook-off. Mort tilted his head toward the smoker. You participating in the contest?

Knowing how my favorite mini dragon loves the dish, how could I resist? Willie chuckled. The pork butt and chuck roast are getting pulled and going in the chili.

Sure you don’t have any shrimp on there, mate? Basil said, winding his way between the legs of the smoker. Mort ran us out here so early. I barely had time for any tucker.

Well, I don’t want to be seen bribing the judges… Willie chuckled, looked around, then waved. Hey, Sherrel! You got any shrimp in your cooler?

Sherrel was a tall man, with mostly silver hair, and aviator sunglasses under his ball cap. It sported the logo of the Southern Pacific Railroad. And an older logo, at that. The only reason I knew was because of all the chatter I’d endured from Mort as he tried to draw me into his model railroading hobby.

Not today. I was going to get some later in the weekend for the post contest blowout. Until then, it’s all beef, pork, and chicken. What about you, Beck?

Nope. Just good Texas brisket, chicken, and pork ribs. The other man with Sherrel wore a cowboy hat, jeans, with a brown leather vest over his button-up cowboy-style shirt.

I wasn’t sure he could walk the talk of roping little doggies, or whatever one did as a cowboy. He looked at me and grinned. Not exactly a creepy guy grin, but not one I felt comfortable returning. I expected California girls to be pretty, but I didn’t expect this level of beauty.

Chill out, Beck, Willie said, sliding his knife along the wood. If she doesn’t have a father in the vicinity, I’m happy to sit in for him. Might have to figure out how to get a shotgun permit, though. I hear Cali is strict on firearms.

Mort laughed. Sherrel and Beck, is it? This is Twizzle Twist. Her father is Colonel Twist, commander of the Pixie Air Wing for this sector.

Colonel Twist? Chubby? Sherrel grinned. I remember him. He and I went to flight school in the same class. Of course, I went on to fly passenger craft, not fighters like him.

A colonel, eh? That’s enough of a daddy to keep me away. Beck shook his head and held a hand out. Beck Barton, Miss Twist.

You all know Mort? I asked as I took Barton’s hand. He matched my polite grip and quickly released it. Perhaps I had misjudged his initial comments and intentions.

These fellas do. Barton nodded at Sherrel and Willie.

Barton’s first year competing on the pitmaster circuit. Willie pointed his knife at the man. Sherrel’s got the other locomotive smoker down the way. Set up like the old Daylight Express.

I thought I saw Daylight Orange down at that end of the pits. Mort sat up on his haunches to peer that way.

After I saw what Willie did to his pit, I had to modify mine. Sherrel grinned. Of course, Willie needs to add a second barrel to his smoker so he can go for a full Big Boy engine.

Bah! Willie stood and raised the hatch on his grill and peered in. If I made the pit into a Big Boy loco, I’d have to change my railroad layout to UP. You know I’m Santa Fe all the way.

I poked Basil with my cane to get his attention. Did any of that make sense to you?

He shook his fuzzy green head. My guess is these blokes suffer from the same affliction Mortimer does: Model-Railroad-itis.

Sherrel chuckled and nodded. When we don’t have the pits on the road grilling up delicious meat, we do dabble in things of a tiny scale. Which reminds me, Mort. I saw that there are a few Daylight Express locos in your scale coming up for auction.

Excellent. I shall search for them and arrange my bids. Mort said with a slow nod.

Good luck. Brass Daylight Express with special Toot-n-Clanken cars is a rarity. Sherrel added. Even rarer than Willie likes his steaks. Those in good shape go for far more than I’m willing to spend.

You spent enough making your pit look like a Daylight Express loco. Willie chuckled and raised the hatch on his grill. You probably could have purchased that G’Wilcox brass loco.

Yes, but my pit gives me tasty brisket and pork ribs. Sherrel pointed at Willie’s grill. And you need to remember that if you’re looking, you’re not cooking.

Willie let a grin poke through his beard. Just trying to let some of the aroma escape to bribe the judges here.

Why, umm… I looked at the men. Why are the grills called ‘pits’?

Willie pointed his knife toward the small campfire another barbecue contestant had set up inside a metal fire ring. Just like our ancestors used to dig a pit, light a fire, and cook, that’s what our smokers do.

I raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. Smoker? Grill? What’s the difference?

Sherrel pointed to a box at the back end of Willie’s train-shaped grill. The fire is in that box at the end. Heat and smoke go sideways into the main body of the smoker. That makes this an offset smoker, not a grill. Smokers go for low heat over a long time, so the smoke has enough time to flavor the meat.

Exactly. A grill is direct heat under the food, although you can set a grill up to smoke with. Willie pointed down the far end of the row of barbecue pits. Sacha down there with the red ceramic grills that look like big eggs, those are kamado-style grills. Fire in the bottom, heat deflector plates in the middle, and food above.

I’m not a fan of those, Barton proclaimed. I either want direct heat or offset smoke. Not both in one.

Well, you spent a pretty penny on that huge stainless-steel contraption of yours. Sherrel chuckled.

The Mark Seven has a fully insulated firebox and smoking chamber… Barton said, his tone dropping into a car-salesman cadence. Huge, Texas-sized storage under the insulated smoker barrel. A great piece of equipment.

Sherrel held up a hand. I know. You’ve given me the spiel before. Don’t need something that fancy to make good brisket or chicken.

We’ll see tomorrow when the real judging begins, Barton said with a sly grin. Stop on by. I’m right back there in the second row. Hopefully, I can give old Smudge a run for his money in the chicken contest.

Good luck. Sherrel laughed, then looked at me. Smudge places top three every time. Willie and I have been trying to get up there with him. Fifth place is the best we’ve managed with chicken.

I’ll figure his secret out, Willie said with a grin and slid the knife along the stick again.

Mortimer!

I recognized Mary Pat’s voice. She and a man approached. Both of them wore bright yellow lanyards with laminated passes dangling from the cords.

Mortimer, I’m afraid you are excused from judging the chili-cheese-dog competition.

What! Mort cocked his head and squinted at Mary Pat and the fellow with her. Why?

Even though the, ahh—the man rolled his eyes—the chili-cheese-dog portion of the event is an unofficial contest sponsored by the local chamber of commerce, we with the Fae Barbecue Association have received a complaint that you have favorites among the contestants. Specifically, those who have modified their pits to resemble locomotives. He looked down at the clipboard he carried. Yes, just like Mr. Pasternak’s here, and Mr. Airworth’s four sites down. You won’t be allowed to judge the event.

And we’d prefer—Mary Pat looked at me and Basil—that our other two judges not co-mingle with the contestants until after the judging. That way you don’t learn each contestant’s recipe. This is supposed to be a blind judging.

But what about all of those chili-cheese dogs? Mort groaned and fell sideways. How will I experience all the varieties and learn which is truly the best?

No worries, mate. Basil grinned. Twizzle and I will be sure to fill you in on how they each taste.

I’m sorry, Mortimer. Mary Pat stared at Mort. You are disqualified as a judge.

2

Mort moaned and dropped his head onto his paws as he lay on one of the metal tables in front of Beanzies coffee shop.

No chili-cheese dogs? How could they? He rolled onto his back, rubbing his belly. I’ll starve.

Well, mate, you do know several of the contestants. Basil looked up from the paper cup of frothed milk in front of him.

And… I pointed a finger at Mort. You convinced us, the other two judges, to go along with you this morning and try to score free taste samples. Way to screw up the impartiality of us judges.

Basil laughed. Right mate. Twizzie doesn’t seem enamored with the idea of tasting thirty or so dogs. But I sure want to try.

She normally likes chili-cheese fries and dogs. Amanda leaned out the window. But several dozen samples are way too many for a pixie girl. And now Mort is D-Qd? Is that poetic justice in action?

Hush you! Mort rolled onto his belly and flicked a paw at our local barista. Do merfolk even eat chili?

When we’re on land, we do. Amanda almost giggled. And we have several types of seafood dishes that you’d think was chili. There might even be a merfolk chef competing in your silly contest this evening.

Mort tilted his head sideways and look at her quizzically. Really? Merfolk know how to grill?

Well, we’ve got several of our chefs who work here in town. But the rules call for using charcoal or wood for fires to cook. They understand cooking, but not the smoking side of a grill.

Right. Star and Cinder have a merfolk sushi chef at the Grape Riposte. I pointed up toward the bluff where the restaurant sat.

And, Billie Quinn said, dropping onto the bench in front of Mort, Thad Greengills just opened a seafood themed pub, named Fishtails, on Ocean Boulevard. I’ve got a piece ready to drop on it on the next business page.

Billie glanced at Amanda. Didn’t your sister marry into the Greengills family?

Oh… why yes, she did. Her husband, Thad, is such a wonderful cook. If it weren’t for you land walkers choking while trying to eat underwater, I’d have invited Twiz down for some of his delicious dishes.

"Why didn’t you tell me that was your brother-in-law’s place? I