“I was drunk during that competition,” he admits, settling into a recliner that’s molded to his body shape. “Not slightly tipsy. Not buzzed.Drunk. Completely shitfaced. Some local lady had her ‘special’ punch at the pre-competition mixer. The one with the grain alcohol she pretends is just fruit juice.”
“So you just... guessed at the score?”
“I wrote down numbers that seemed reasonable. Your family got 27, McCoys got 29. Might have been the other way around. Might have been both 28. Hell, might have been both 30. I honestly don’t remember. I do remember throwing up behind the porta-potties.”
“And you never said anything? When the feud started? When people started shooting? Metaphorically?”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, I was too drunkto do basic math and now your families hate each other’? Besides, by the time I sobered up, the shooting had already started.”
“Someone actually shot at someone over chili scores?” I was just using that as a figure of speech.
“Warning shots. Mostly. Your family has excellent aim when motivated. Any one of them could shoot the hat off a man at fifty yards. Ask me how I know.”
“How do you know that?”
“Personal experience. I was wearing the hat.”
Jesus. “And you just... let this go on all these years?”
“Look, by the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. Your families were committed to hating each other. It gave them purpose. Something to do besides complain about cattle prices and weather.”
I pull out my folder of evidence, slapping it on his cluttered coffee table. “I need you to tell the truth. At the festival. Publicly. On stage. With a microphone.”
“Absolutely not. I have a reputation to protect.”
“What reputation? You’re known for falling asleep during trials and hitting on the court reporter.”
“Exactly. A reputation. Not a good one, but mine.”
“I’ll bring pie.”
He perks up slightly. “What kind?”
“Apple. My mom’s recipe. The real one, not the one she gave to the church cookbook.”
He considers this, picking up and turning over one of the ceramic cats. “That’s the recipe with the secret ingredient?”
“Brown butter and cardamom.”
“Make it two pies and I’ll throw in details about thepunch recipe. And the fact that I wasn’t the only judge who was drunk.”
“Deal. But you’re wearing pants to the festival. Real pants, not pajama bottoms you think look like pants.”
“Fine. But I’m not wearing a tie.”
“Wouldn’t dream of asking.”
Next stop is Mrs. Abernathy, who ran the church pantry in 1994 and still does because nobody else wants to deal with it. She’s essentially held the position hostage for three decades through a combination of competence and intimidation.
I find her in the church basement, organizing donations. Everything is labeled, categorized, and arranged by expiration date. The irony is not lost on me.
“Callie! Here to donate?”
“Here to ask about mayo.”
She freezes mid-can stack. The cans tumble, creating a symphony of aluminum against concrete. She doesn’t pick them up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Batch 447. Expired April 1994. Used at the chili competition in the potato salad. May 1994.”
