In Chapter Three, with the help of her friend Flamenco, Cayenne gets into the Cookbook and Food Reviewers Writers and Publishers Conference. There she celebrates Mardi Gras with Deirdre's Bourbon Cheesecake, and hires Curtis, a computer whiz kid, to track down the web address where Monterey de Queso's recipes are showing up. She also encounters the famous Carson Fontainbleau. How can a man who makes people cry with descriptions of his mother's spring sausage be so nasty? After a stinging rebuke to Kristina's internet site Krewe du Review, Fontainbleau practically accuses and convicts Gusto Perez of murdering Seane Trudeau. These plots can make you thirsty! Never fear! The Taste of Louisiana Beer and Cheese Fest is just around the corner!

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It was late afternoon at The Cook Book and Food Reviewer Writers and Publishers Conference. There was a heavy, weary feeling in the air, as if too much information, too many ideas, and too many people were doing battle in your brain. Kristina left Cay at hotel to go pick up Stan and the food for the Taste of Louisiana Beer and Cheese Fest that night. Cay headed toward the Swiss Miss Cart, hoping to snag another slice of Mardi Gras Cheesecake, but in the lobby, the wagon was wrapped up tight and sporting a big "BACK IN THE MORNING" sign, draped with a bright purple set of beads.

With time to kill on her hands, she plopped herself into one of the plump couches in the Marriott hotel lobby and dialed her cell phone to check in with Mambozo .

"McKenzie Del Roi Detective Agency, can I help you?" He answered in his lilting Cuban accent, which seemed to be more cheerful than usual. Cayenne heard a clamor of metal in the background.

"Hey, Mambozo. Where y'at?"

"Cayenne, dear. I am spending a marvelous afternoon cooking, chere, so I forwarded the phones to my kitchen. No calls today, except from the landlord saying he is going to Aruba and will deal with the heat problem when he gets back at the end of February. Meanwhile, Señor de Queso and I are on a fabulous hunt to figure out the mysteries of a spice appropriate for a Cuban stew made with Bayou Cane Bitter. A delightful journey indeed."

She heard a mumbling in the back ground, a high whiney voice. "The bitter is not working. I'm going to try the stout ."

"Rey de Queso is with you? What the hell is going on?"

"Yes, catin, he showed up unexpectedly this morning with more samples of food as you had instructed. I left a delectable Porter Chocolate Pudding that I left in the icebox for you to try! The door, unfortunately was unlocked and I'm afraid my cover is blown, but we quickly got down to business. You see, I had a taste of his stew the other day, and when I had suggested that it would gain some interest if he added just a tad of cinnamon, he became intrigued. So long story short, we are here now, love, working on Cuban dishes for his brother Bert to use in the final Black Pot Chef Contest of Food Con. A variation on pepper steak." Mambozo give a little hiccup. "Excuse me, love. Mr. De Queso has quite a fine taste in rums, I must add."

Cay heard mumbling again and rustling, then Mambozo spoke, muffled through a mouth full of food. "I think we have it, mi amigo. This dish is making me homesick." She heard a barking.

"Ah yes, Cay. No need to feed Roux tonight. Your dog is feasting on leftovers. Quite happily, I must add."

"Any phone calls?"

"Just Rufus. Wants to know if you want to come over for barbeque this weekend. Said he should have an update on the Gusto Perez case for you."

There was another mumbling in the background and a clink of glass. "I got to go, chere. We haven't even begun to work on the side dishes."

************************************************************

Cay thought she'd kill some time by walking around the Henri Exhibit hall to check out the booths and the free samples. She took her jacket off so the room monitor could see her nametag and wave her in. At a large and important convention like this, the exhibit hall was basically a huge mass of advertising and public relations, and there is no better way to set a big fat hook than with free food. Cay's business as a detective agency was shaky enough that she never said "no" to free dinner, even if she had to forge it a teaspoon at a time. The beer tasting was still hours away, so she thought she should check it out.

The exhibit hall was sponsored by the major magazines devoted to food and each sported huge banners across the walls. Food and Wine, Gourmet, Bon Appétit, Cooking Light, and Food Review Magazines. Food Review Magazine was where Carson Fontainbleau was a senior writer, and Cay could already spot his book booth, front and center in the hall. She walked by the booth where a thin, stylish man wore black pants and a black turtleneck, with a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses seem to accent his very pale skin. He smiled at Cay then turned back to his reading. "All of these are autographed and there is a 10% conference discount."

His titles included, Nobody Can Cook Like My Momma: One Food Writer's Beginnings, and Food To Feed Your Soul: A Food Critic's Spiritual Journey through New Orleans, and Unpalatable, Inedible, and Indigestible: Unmasking the Hoax of Nouvelle Cuisine. Stacks of 175 Ways to Skewer, Roast, Toast and Broil filled the table. Cay remembered the verbal potshots that Carson had directed toward Kristina early, and moved on quickly before she got depressed thinking about this racist, erudite malcontent.

Looking around the hallway, it was easy to figure out that there were way more than four food groups in New Orleans. Many national food and restaurant groups were represented and the major marketing boards dominated the first half of the hall. There were exhibits by the Broccoli Growers Association, with a live wok demonstration. The American Beef Council served wooden skewers of teriyaki tidbits, while the Cranberry Institute served small mock cranberry cosmos with a drawing for a DVD copy of the movie "Sex and The City". The booths stretched across the hall. There was the National Country Ham Association, the National Honey Board, the Mushroom Council, the Apricot Producers of California, the National Pork Bard, the Salt Institute, and even the Pickle Packers International. She stopped by a brightly colored and festooned booth topped with a piñata and a orange, green and white and green sign sponsored by the Tortilla Industry Association. A three piece tejano band played and sang near the sample board. She stopped and picked up a paper cup filled with smoked pork carnitas with avocados, accompanied by a mini warm tortilla, with a small paper cup of salsa and listed to the music while she ate.

Dessert was made easy when she noticed the strategic placement of the National Coffee Association positioned next to booth of the American Pie Council. She stopped for a small sample of "Jambalaya Joe" and a slice of Apple Americana pie. She down a small sample of coffee, and after tossing her coffee cup away, attacked her second dessert of the day, noting the flaky crust and the crisp apple.

"Maybe I should learn to bake," she mused allowed, as she allowed herself to lick the spoon and get every last morsel of filling. She was totally absorbed in the heavenly sensualness of the satiny filling as she turned back into the flowing crowd and ran smack into a smoky grey suit.

"Goodness, be careful there, young lady!" A hand reached out to steady her as she fumbled her fork into the air and caught it before it fell to the carpet below.

"I'm so sorry" she apologized through a mouthful of flaky pastry. "I guess I got lost in the pie."

"That's the best excuse I ever heard!" A Louisiana accent laughed. "I love it when people get lost in food."

She looked at the nametag pinned to the chest of the suit she had plowed into and was horrified not only to see that she had deposited a slimy trace of apple pie filling on the right lapel, but was also looking at the nametag of Ralph Brennan,  New Orleans Restauranteur.

Cay was stunned. Even she who could hardly boil water knew who Ralph Brennan and his famous extended family. There was the famous flagship restaurant of Brennan's of course, but other family restaurants included, Ralph Brennan's Bacco, Dickie Brennan's Steakhouse, the Red Fish Grill, and the Palace Café amongst others.

She fumbled around for a napkin. "I am so sorry, Mr. Brennan. Please forgive me!"

The famous restaurant owner seemed to take it all in stride, waving it away. "Consider yourself forgiven. I love to see an enthusiastic eater, uh, Miss..." he leaned over and read her nametag "Dolores Flannigan from Missouri. With your red hair and your distracted demeanor around food, I should have guessed you were a fellow Irishman."

He continued to talk on jovially while Cay wondered if she should tell him about the greasy, slimy streak that shone on his well cut suit.

"You'll enjoy the topic of my keynote on the last day. They are calling it 'The Irish Contribution to New Orleans Cooking.' A joke rather. Mostly it's the Brennan contribution to New Orleans food. My family has been running restaurants in New Orleans since the mid 1800s and I think it's not boasting to say that we have learned to cook a whole lot more than potatoes. The Irish aren't particularly known for their cooking, but I'm happy to say, that the Brennans are."

He chuckled and bowed slightly. "The American Potato Council is personally sponsoring my talk, so that's where I was headed to supply my thanks. I see our conference organizers have a grand sense of humor. They've sandwiched the Potato Council between the American Beef Council and the National Cattleman's Beef Association."

She was carried away by his charm and a bit overwhelmed, not really knowing what to say. She blurted in a rather pinched, pitiful compliment. " I love your hickory grilled redfish over crawfish. It's the only thing I ever order."

Mr. Brennan leaned in and took Cay's hand and shook it warmly. "A personal favorite of mine as well, Dolores Flannigan from Missouri."

***************************************************
After wandering through the exhibit hall, including an entire separate room devoted to kitchen knives, blenders, mixers, stoves, chef ware plates, wine accessories, tasting kits, neon bar signs, and menu and table tents printing specialists, Cay decided that all this focus on food was making her thirsty.

"And we know that thirst is a dangerous thing," She said to a full cut out picture of Emeril, pushing his latest cook book of Emeril At the Grill to be released in May. She looked at the clock on her cell phone and was surprised to discover that the Taste of Louisiana was already under way.

"Time for a taste of beer, Emeril. Pow!" She said, shadow boxing the famous chef.

She rode the escalator and to the third floor where the Brewers Association of America had transformed one of the sections of the Ile de France ballrooms into a beer and cheese lovers paradise. The room boasted a version of Mardi Gras madness, with beads and balloons and jester images surrounding the room, and posters invited folks to be part of The Brewe Krewe. Jesters holding up pints of foamy beer instead of scepters grinned out from the wall at every turn.

A steady stream of people were poured into the room. While some of the participants still wore conservative business attire from the day's conference activities, Cay spotted a few in the crowd sporting tee-shirts with slogan both thoughtful and crass. "Wine is but single broth, ale is meat, drink and cloth" one tee-shirt read while another proclaimed "There are more old drunks than old doctors."

There two distinct categories of people who attend beer tasting events. The first is the 21 to 40 age group which focuses on quantity not quality. The second group is a group of the kind of individuals who when you ask if they want a beer, they start quizzing you on style, brand, hop content and location. These are the microbrew enthusiasts. These are the folks who have definite opinions about beer and the folks who made of the majority of the people who were now flooding the hall. Because you had to be part of Food Con to attend this, most of the attendees were in the latter group. Even the writers and chefs who preferred wine with their dinners were attending the special workshops and seminars so they could speak intelligently about beer and pick up tips for cooking with beer.

Cay stopped at the registration table to pick up a brochure from the reception table. The woman at the registration desk glanced at her nametag, handed her a commemorative tasting glass, and nodded her through. The event was cosponsored by the Brewers Association of America and the Southern Dairy Association. The event was called "Taste of Louisiana" and this year the theme was to promote the small but budding microbrewery industry in Louisiana and the South and to highlight the even smaller cheese making industry of Louisiana. Looking down the list of participants, Cay could see that the microbreweries and brewpubs throughout the state: Abita Brewing company from Abita Springs north of New Orleans, Lake Charles Rikenjaks Brew Pub in Lake Charles, the Crescent City Brewhouse in New Orleans, Lagniappe Brewing which was just starting to bring it's beers to the area, and of course, the featured brewery, Houma Brewing Company which Cay could already see had a huge clustering of enthusiastic fans tasting their wares. She was also surprised to see Dixie Brewing company represented, with a small exhibit in the corner with large displays for Blackened Voodoo Lager and Crimson Voodoo. Dixie had been ruined in the hurricane and the looting aftermath of Katrina, and were using outside breweries to keep it alive until they were able to reopen in New Orleans.

As she looked around the room, she heard a voice to her right call out, " How about starting your tour with a bit of Wisconsin Cheese Soup?" A woman smiled at her as she stirred a pot poised over a Bunsen burner. " I usually make it some kind of hoppy beer, something like the Afterglow IPA from Lagniappe, though it would be pretty good with the Jockamo IPA from Abita. If you like it, I'm doing a workshop on cooking with beer and cheese at 7 p.m. " She picked up a small portion cup definitely found it to her liking. It reminded of her days living in Chicago with Wisconsin cheese available just over the border . Cay picked up the book she was selling "Cooking with Beer, by Lucy Saunders." She thought of Rufus and his never ending barbeques and bought her book as a gift for her policeman friend as a peace offering and thank you.

Wiping drops of cheese soup from her lips, she starting walking around the room and taking in the sights. Next to Lucy Saunders table, stood a crowd of people waiting for samples from the Abita Brewing Company, one of the larger breweries in the region. Participants held out sample glasses to try 2 oz samples of Turbodog, Purple Haze and Jockamo IPA.

On the other side of the table, a young man in his thirties, dressed in a casual sweater and grey jeans stood behind a smaller table topped with a small poster display and a stack full of flyers. He was in the midst of explaining something in great detail to a serious looking couple, who by their nametags were with the Sunset Publishing Company out of Los Angeles. Besides the flyer, he also had two different kind of samples available for use, along with the recipes for each in a well printed 3 x 5 recipe card. She saw that each was made with some kind of beer and she was reminded of Rey de Queso's project. One sample was even labeled Porter Beef Stew. The other was Decadent ESB Brownies.

She chose a sample of the Brownies and scooped out the moist sample with a white plastic spoon. It was delicious. She could really get into this cooking with beer trend. Cay leaned over and took a flyer saying that his cook book of cooking with Abita beers was scheduled to come out later that spring. The flyer had a picture of the same young man gesturing wilding in front of her. Said his name was Ivan McNalton and he worked for the Time Picayune. She recognized the name from the Lifestyle pages of the Times Picayune. He was their up and coming food writer.

Looked like Monterey de Queso was getting some serious competition, she thought as she gave her spoon one more like before tossing it away in a nearby garbage container.

From the rising noise level in the room, it appeared the event was going very well. Over in the corner, a band called the Pine Leaf Boys played some high energy Cajun music and a few of the participants were two stepping on the makeshift dance floor. Dotted between the beer booths were a few scattered tables of food piled with cheese and crackers, cheesecakes and soufflés, wedges of cheese paired with fruit, and traditional cubes of cheese, pierced with festive toothpicks. Signs throughout the hall featured the logos of the Southern Dairy Association, Fromagerie d'Acadiana, the Creole Cheese company and, of course, the De Queso Family of Cheeses.

She looked around and spotted Rey over at the center of the room. He was wearing a pinstripe suit and a smart bowtie, but he perched on a stepladder next to what looked like a small mountain. At the nearby display table, small doilies of creamy white cheese were dotting the table. A patron stood listening seriously to a beautiful young woman who was obviously Rey's sister, nodding as he alternatively took sips of beer and bites of cheese as she shared the secrets of matching cheese and beer.

"I would suggest that the lighter ales, such as the Skeleton Key Lager, go best with a cheese such as Muenster or a Monterey Jack. Ambers are good with the Italian style cheeses, such as pecorino or Romano, and you can save your big bold dark beers for Gruyere or Swiss."

Meanwhile, on top the ladder, Rey was trying to balance the acts of cutting slices off a wedge of white cheese and reaching into the mountain of stone to place them on the smooth surface. The cheese sizzled when it hit the smooth, clean surface and slowing began to soften and melt, making an enticing water fall of white, warm brie.

Another brother who looked remarkably like Rey (Colby? Cay guessed. Maybe Camembert? She tried to remember if there was a Harvey, a.k.a. known as Havarti in the bunch) dumped a tin bucket of steaming rocks to the bottom of the rock mountain and arranged soft chunks of French bread, like tiny icebergs clustering around the hull of the Titanic.

"Cheese on A Rock," someone nearby read the sign posted at the front of the stones. "Oh I heard about this. It's all the rage in Paris."

Cay pushed her way into the excited circle of participants, took a torn piece of French bread and scoop up some the brie cheese sliding slowly down the fountain fall over the rocks. The cheese was hot, lumpy and delicious.

She caught Rey's eyes and remarked. "Bonjour, Mr. De Queso! I never thought I would be eating food off a rock and calling it fancy. I heard you met my associate."

"A fine fellow! He gave me some very good suggestions for improving my recipes and we are talking about writing a sequel together, " he said, waving his knife around, causing a bit of cheese to go flying. "Isn't this a grand party?"

"Rey, that's the last of the rocks," the unidentified brother said. "I'll check back on the temp in a little while, meanwhile, I'm going over to the Hops table to get some of that Flying Squirrel Nut Brown Ale."

"Thanks, Colby!" Rey said as he slowly came down the ladder. "Think I'll cruise a few of the tables myself." He looked at Cay sheepishly. "Research you know."

"Hey girlfriend! I see an empty-handed-thirsty-private-eye." A familiar voice rose over the crowd. Cay looked around. She would know her friend Marcy's voice anywhere. " Get over here and taste the best of the beers in the place." Cay smiled as she spotted her friend Marcy waving enthusiastically behind the table marked as "The Houma Brewing Company".

"Hey, you pouring for Houma? How'd you get that gig?"

"Yes m'am. The Rock N Bowl is the only place you can get it in New Orleans so I volunteered for the assignment. Of course, I always bring back a supply of HBC when I take a bus run, so it's about the only beer I drink anymore." Marcy handed her a glass. "I know you are a Skeleton Key gal, but check out the Swamp Boogie ESB, my personal favorite." She also handed her a small foil packet. "And a moist towelette for your personal hygiene. " Cayenne looked at the bright blue package. In bold letters it said, "Fred's Tours, Mamou, Louisiana." It was a leftover from the regular bus tours Marcy guided out to Fred's Lounge in Mamou. Cay had taken the tour one October morning. Fred's Lounge was a personal favorite of hers.  

"I hear Steve McCloskey is working for Crescent City now?" Cay sipped the beer that Marcy had pushed into her hand. Its sharp hoppy taste snapped her nose, like an alligator snapping prey in the swamp. Steve had been the bartender at one of her neighborhood hangouts back before Katrina hit New Orleans, back when her old jazz musician friend Mr. Jonathon was still alive, and back when he owned the place called McCloskey's. He was still around, however, as good natured as ever, though working for someone else for a change.

"Yes'm. In fact he's just started his beer lecture over in the Workshop Corner. Beer Tasting 101, he's calling it. You should go over and say hi." Marcy took a glass from a waiting customer and began to fill it with a the Bayou Key Bitter. "And I'm still waiting to see you at Tuesday night dance class, girlfriend, down at the Rock N Bowl. Don't think that I haven't noticed." She handed the glass to the eager young man as she asked Cay. "You riding on the Krewe de Couture float this year? You can bet that I am."

"Not in a million years," she answered, shaking her head firmly. "Midwesterners take a solemn oath not to show their midsections to anyone but their doctors."

Cayenne raised her glass to her friend as she moved away, then made her way over to the workshop section, roped off with velvet ropes. She picked a seat on the aisle to the side as not to disturb the session in progress where Steve McCloskey was giving a lecture on the proper tasting of microbrews. She caught his eye as she chose a chair in the back row, and he nodded his head in recognition and his face broke out in a big grin. But he didn't miss a beat with his lecture.

"First," he intoned, using his professorial voice that Cay remembered from his bartending days when he would argue with customers he didn't know at the bar. " Look at Appearance. Hold it up to the light. What's the color? Is it clear? How bubbly or carbonated is it? " Several folks in the audience obediently held small glasses of beer to the fluorescent, hotel lights and peered at the liquid, as if tracking down villains across a desert in the Old West.

"Now smell it," he continued. "What do you smell? What's the Nose of the beer? We also call this the bouquet. If you serve beer too cold, you'll lose the pleasure of the bouquet. "

He held his glass up and again grinned. "Here 's my favorite step. Drink it. Just a taste at first. Let it remain on your tongue for a few seconds. What is its Flavor? What kind of body does it have? Is it creamy? Smooth? Is it spritzy or carbonated?"

Everyone tasted their beer. Cay did too, swishing it around her mouth, making more noise than she intended to. A rather prim woman next to her glared at her, and she swallowed a bunch of foam and air, causing her to gasp and cough. She raised her shoulders in apology to Steve.

Again, he continued smoothly, always the professional.

"Now pay attention. What kinds of tastes linger in your mouth? What is the Aftertaste? Are you tasting the bitter hops? Espresso or toffee taste? Sweet or spice? Mellow flavors of malt or a bit of pleasant bitterness. " He wagged his finger at the crowd to remind them. "If it tastes like band aids or boiled cabbage, that's not a good sign."

He drained his sample, then smacked his lips. "And the most important quality for serious beer drinkers-- Drinkability. The true test of any beer is whether you want to taste it again." He put his glass down on the table, like punctuating the end of the lecture. "In moderation of course." He winked at the audience. Through foam stained lips, they laughed.

Cayenne had drained the beer from her glass and found that she was still thirsty. Cay looked around to see what other beers were being served.

She was surprised to see Costanza Collens leaning over and talking to a familiar looking man sitting in the back row with his lap full of notebooks and papers. The man seemed more interested in Costanza's cleavage that peered out suggestively than in what she was telling him. She handed him a full size glass of beer, , not a sample size glass of beer and squeezed his shoulder. Then she turned and walked toward the door. He watched Costanza hungrily and Costanza seem to be walking away as if knowing full way he was watching the sway of her hips. He slugged down that beer quickly, hardly looking for clarity, smelling for spices or tasting it for flavor.

Cay stared at the man and wondered where she had seen him before. He was handsome in an aristocratic kind of way wearing a coal black, well cut suit and a silk, lavender tie, but he was slugging back his beers reminiscent of the way people drank beer in the taverns of her home town of Chicago. His glass was quickly empty and he walked over to the nearest booth for a refill which was Crescent City. Cay saw that Gusto had taken over Steve's role while he was teaching and was laughing and enjoying himself as he poured. She had forgotten that Kristina had arranged for him to work the fest. Mr. Expensive Suit lumbered up to the counter and aggressively shoved the glass toward Gusto. The smile left Gusto's face and he filled the glass half full as he was instructed but the guy belligerently shook his glass for more and Gusto filled it up.

Then it came to her. Mr. Lavender-Tie was the man who was snubbed by Carson Fontainbleau at the earlier lecture. Cay was confused. Carson and Mr. Fill-It-Up-To-The-Top were obviously not even talking to each other, but Costanza seemed quite friendly toward him.

When Mr. To-Heck-With-Bouquet-and-Drinkability came back, Cayenne, out of curiosity more than anything, decided to occupy the empty seat next to the man. Out of the corner of her eye read his nametag, Nicholas Doogan, Atlanta Constitution. She noticed that the flyer for Ivan McNalton's soon to be published beer cookbook peeking out from under his notebook. She glanced down at his notebook, taking advantage of the fact that he was totally ignoring her. He had been paying attention, and had written down some of the words Steve had used to describe the various tastes of beer: Flowery, Fruity, Coffee, Coppery, Nutty, Bitter, Lemon, Citric, Spice, Hoppy, Caramel, Toffee, Molasses, Yeasty, Cocoa.

Nicholas Doogan caught her nosiness and turned his body to block her view.

"How about adding ' gut busting' to your list? Cay leaned over and suggested cheerily. "Some of those Belgians will knock you out. Like a big fat horse." She tried to look flirty and engaging.

Nicholas glared at her. "Should we also add plebian, crass and ignorant?" She noticed that he was sweating heavily and seemed in pain. He slurred his words, too. She immediately put him into the first category of beer tasters who went for quantity, not quality.

"Whoa, mellow out, big guy! Maybe you should slow down a bit on the samples? With that attitude, seems like you and Carson Fontainbleau should be bosom buddies. "

"Mark my word," he leaned over and peered at her nametag and spit out her name like venom from a snake, "Ms. Flannigan of Muffin Magic Fame. "Carson Fontainbleau is a hack, and his overblown, pompous career will soon be over."

He snapped his notebook shut a little too hard and pointedly. His face was flushed and he was extremely irritated. " I think I'll have another beer," he got up and unsteadily walked toward the nearby Crescent City Table, which was even more crowded than before. Cay caught Gusto looking in her direction, and she waved. Then she pointed her finger in Doogan's direction and she shook her head, and mimicked a shooting pistol at him. Gusto laughed and shook his head. Obviously he had already had the pleasure serving the boor and held the same opinion of the guy.

By the time Mr. Nicholas Doogan reached the serving booth, Gusto was all business again and tapping out a sample for an eager young man in jeans and a jeans jacket. Doogan pushed in front of the line and held out his large glass.

"Fill it up, amigo!" he grunted.

Gusto frowned. "These people were in front of you sir. I'll get to you in a moment."

"God damn it, just pour me a beer!"

Gusto took the glass to avoid a scene, but only filled it up halfway.

Nicholas slugged down his beer then shoved the glass toward Gusto again. "Make it count this time, amigo." he said rudely.

Gusto's eyes grew dark. She could see that he had was having trouble controlling his temper. "No hablo ingles, caballero." He said sarcastically and filled the beer cup full. When handing it to him, Cay noticed that he tipped the cup slightly toward the man so that beer spilled toward onto his hand.

"Damn it! Look what you've done."

Gusto just shrugged.

Doogan threw his head back and gulped down most of the beer in the glass, then tossed the glass on the counter, causing it to spill back at Gusto. He grabbed a stack of bar napkins and used one to wipe his increasingly sweating forehead and stomped away in the direction of the kitchen. Cayenne watched as Gusto mopped up the spilled beer, then lean over to say something to someone else at the booth. She saw with alarm that he untied his apron, threw it under the serving table and stomped off in the direction Doogan took toward the kitchen. Gusto's face was the temper of a sky right before a pending thunderstorm.

Cay was distracted by this scene by shouting at a nearby table. "It's you! This is mine. You are the one who has been stealing it!" She recognized the voice as belonging to Rey de Queso. He was shouting at the man at the Abita table and he was on the edge of losing it, glasses sliding down his nose, bowtie askew and his hands shaking a white card in the face of Ivan McNalton. This beer fest was starting to spin out of control.

"You're drunk," Ivan McNalton was shouting back. "Security! Take this man away."

"You did not create this. I did! That is not your original recipe. How did you get it? I demand you tell me how where you got it!"

Cay hurried over to Rey's side. Brie was already there, holding on to his arm. "Shhhh, Monterey. Let's discuss this quietly " she kept saying, realizing the scene he was making.

"Brie is right," Cay said, placing her hand on his other shoulder. "This is not the place."

She turned to Ivan. "Mr. McNalton, is there someplace we can go to straighten this out?"

But Ivan didn't get a chance to respond. A piercing scream came from the direction of the kitchen. "MON DIOS! MON DIOS!" A man's voice shouted over and over again.

Cay recognized it as Flamenco's.

She took off running toward the kitchen and pushed through the swinging doors, as other beer tasting participants took off running toward the exit doors. When she pushed through the door she saw a pale white Flamenco, dressed in his dishwasher whites, waving his hands in the air and repeating over and over again, "Mon dios!" Kristina Guillames, also dressed in kitchen whites, clutched a large tureen of sauce piquant and stood trembling over a crouching figure and a body lying prone on the floor.

Cay pushed Kristina aside and knelt down to the floor. She caught her breath when she realized it was Nicholas Doogan laying there, sprawled across the black rubber mats that protected the kitchen floor. He looked pasty white and Cay could tell he wasn't breathing. She searched for a pulse. Finding none, she yelled at Flamenco.

"Flamenco, stop screaming and call 911. Tell them we need an ambulance."

"I think he is dead," a figure crouching near the immobile body said. Looking up, Cay saw with shock it was Gusto. His shirt had a ripped button on it and his shirt was in disarray. Cay started doing CPR, trying to stave off the panic that was pushing up against her.

Cay heard the swinging doors open and between pumps on the chest of the unpleasant and unmoving man, looked up to witness Ivan McNalton charging into the kitchen with urgency, just as Christina put her hands to her face and cried, "Gusto, what did you do?"

Silence descended for a split second, the only sound being Cay counting her pumps on Doogan unresponsive chest before giving him two short puffs on his sour beer stained, cooling lips. Then Ivan fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He punched in some numbers and everyone in the room could hear the phone ringing several times before a garbled voice answered.

Ivan didn't wait for the receptionist to finish with her greeting. "Yeah, it's Ivan McNalton. Get me Jimmy at the Metro desk. We got another dead man at Food Con." He paused, his intense gaze travelling from Gusto, who seemed in shock and Kristina who seemed in double shock. "And get this-I think we got ourselves a serial killer."

February 3, 2009. Hot Tamale Belly