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“It’s a dancing hot dog,” Lula said.
“It’s not dancing,” the man said.
There was a kid with the man. “I want to see the hot dog dance,” the kid said.
I did a couple moves and fell over. “Shit!”
The kid looked up at the man. “The hot dog said shit.”
Everyone hurried away.
“Dancing hot dogs don’t say shit,” Lula said to me, pulling me upright.
“What do they friggin’ say?”
“They say oops.”
“I’ll try to remember.”
“And that’s a cranky tone I’m hearing,” Lula said. “Hot dogs are happy food. If you was a brussels sprout, you could be cranky. Or maybe a lima bean.”
“I don’t feel happy. I’m sweating like a pig in this thing.”
“Hey,” Lula said. “You were the one who wanted to be the hot dog. Nobody made you be the hot dog. And you better learn how to dance before Al gets here, or you’re going to miss your chance at having a national television debut.”
My stomach got queasy, and I felt my skin crawl at the back of my neck. “What’s out there that I can’t see?” I asked. “Spiders? Snakes?”
“It’s Joyce Barnhardt,” Grandma said.
I turned around, and sure enough, it was Barnhardt. Her red hair was piled high on her head, her mouth was high-gloss vermilion. Her breasts were barely contained in a red leather bustier that matched skintight red leather pants and spike-heeled red leather boots.
“Who’s the hot dog?” Joyce wanted to know.
“It’s Stephanie,” Grandma said.
“Figures. I suppose you wanted her to be the hot dog so it would have a nice straight line. Nothing worse than a hot dog with boobs, right?”
I gave Joyce the finger. “Boobs this, Joyce.”
“What are you doing here?” Grandma asked Joyce. “Are you in the barbecue competition?”
“I put a couple things together,” Joyce said, and she turned to face Lula. “I listen to the police bands. I know all about the Chipotle killers stalking you. And I figure those guys are here looking to put a bullet in you. Or maybe carve you up for barbecuing.”
“So you’re here to protect me?” Lula said.
“No, Dumbo. I’m here to capture the idiots and get the reward.”
Joyce sashayed away, and we all made the sign of the cross.
“I always smell sulfur burning when she’s around,” Connie said.
“I want to do some walking and look at the other kitchens,” Grandma said. “We got an hour before we have to start cooking the ribs.”
“That’s a good idea,” Lula said. “We should be looking for the killers, anyway. I’m all ready for a takedown. I got my gun and my stun gun and some pepper spray. And I got body armor on under this white jacket.”
NINETEEN
CONNIE, LULA, GRANDMA, and I eased into the crowd that was slowly making its way past the cook-off teams.
