The Big Chili (10 page)

Britt pouted briefly with her lovely red-painted lips. “That's the problem—I don't know when Terry is going to let me leave this thing tonight.”

“How about if I just leave everything in the kitchen, and you can use your key—just grab it whenever you get home. I'm an early bedtime sort of gal.”

Britt clapped. “That sounds great! Thank you so much, Lilah! You are a lifesaver, as I knew you would be. You're always so innovative.” Then she studied my face. “But you can't always be an early bedtime girl. I'm going to drag you out soon for a girls' night on the town. In a week or two, maybe. Right now I have to get ready for the Halloween party.”

I tried to keep the envy out of my voice when I said, “It must be weird to entertain constantly.”

Britt smoothed her lovely silken hair. “It has its rewards and its drawbacks.” She gave me another hug and ducked back out, telling me she had to change her clothes. I wondered what sparkly thing she would wear to her fund-raiser, where she would meet the mayor of Chicago.

With a sigh, I took out a dozen eggs and began cracking them into a bowl. I would be sure that everything I made for
Britt was top-notch. Then sometime in the future I would ask her casually if she ever wanted me to be a backup to her current caterers. Yes, that was the plan.

I lost myself for the next hour, stirring and beating and blending and baking. I carefully labeled the frittata mixture and put it in my fridge. I let the scones cool, then wrapped them up with a note to Britt and Terry. I tucked Britt's generous payment into my client earnings drawer, let Mick out and in, and climbed wearily upstairs.

When I came down the next morning, the food was gone, but someone had left a smiley face on a Post-it note and stuck it to my
refrigerator.

T
he next afternoon
I
worked my shift at the real estate office, answering phones and typing up files with only half of my mind on my tasks. I drove home at around five o'clock and passed The Pizza Palace, where a handmade sign in the window said,
ASK US ABOUT OUR CATERING!
It was written with a fading marker, and the words slanted upward; someone obviously couldn't be bothered to use a ruler. The sign made me angry. Who would want to hire a caterer who couldn't even make a legible advertisement? Who would want a businessperson who couldn't make a computerized ad, or at least locate an industrial marker?

I huffed and flipped on my radio, where a news announcer was saying, “The man was the second victim of poisoning in Pine Haven in the past week. Pine Haven police told reporters
that they are investigating several people of interest but are not ready to make an arrest for either murder.”

My hands went numb on the wheel. Someone else was dead. Someone had been murdered. Again. “Oh God,” I said, and I sent up a little prayer for the anonymous victim.

When I reached my house I ran inside and let Mick into the backyard. He had indeed removed his bandage, but his paw looked good and he didn't seem to have bothered the stitches. I threw away the gauze he'd left on the floor and turned on my message machine. I heard my mother's voice say, “Lilah, call me when you get a chance. Bert Spielman has been murdered!”

“Oh no,” I said, staring at the blue tile on my kitchen wall. Some sort of classical music was playing in my head; I didn't even recognize it, but my brain had probably heard it and stored it at some point in my life. Perhaps it was a funeral march.

Bert Spielman was the head librarian at the main library. This was bad, truly bad, for many reasons, but especially for Pet Grandy. Despite all of her volunteerism—at church, at the high school—Pet also had one part-time job, and it happened to be at the Pine Haven Library. This meant that the two people who had been poisoned were both connected significantly to Perpetua Grandy.

*   *   *

I
CALLED MY
mother, who was, naturally, distressed. “Bert Spielman!” my mother said. “Who in the world would want to kill a librarian? He just dropped dead, they said.”

“What do you mean ‘dropped dead'? As in the way that Alice Dixon dropped dead?”

“Well—I got this from Annie Prince, who was there looking at cookbooks. You know how the cooking section is pretty close to the main desk?”

I did.

“She said Bert had gone to the back to get his little dinner, and he took a bite of his meatball sandwich, and then she asked him a question and his eyes got really big. At first she thought he found her question shocking, but then she realized he felt ill. And by the time she noticed how pale he had gotten and started running over there, he had already keeled over.”

“That's terrible.”

“I know. I mean, talk about a harmless person. Bert could not possibly have had an enemy in this town. If it turns out that he was poisoned, like Alice—well, I think the police will have to assume they've got some kind of madman or serial killer on their hands.”

This was a terrifying thought. “Mom—was Pet there when it happened?”

“Pet? I don't know. Oh dear. Oh, poor Pet,” my mother said. “You don't think they'll suspect her, do you?”

“Of course they will! What if it's the same kind of poison? What if she was working that night? They're going to think she's an insane murderer!”

My mother contemplated this in silence. “You don't think there's any chance that Pet
did
kill two people, do you?”

“Mom, really! This is Perpetua, the woman who got her arm stuck in a storm drain because she was trying to rescue a trapped kitten.”

My mother giggled. “Remember when that was on the news?”

“She's also the woman who crocheted earmuffs for every
child in the St. Bart's kindergarten class because it was an unusually cold winter.”

“I know, I know. It's ridiculous. Poor Pet. What do you think we can do to help her?”

This was a good question. We certainly couldn't prevent the police from suspecting her, but surely there were other ways we could offer our support.

“I don't know,” I said.

My mother sighed. “I have to go now, hon. Dad and I have some work to do tonight. Do me a favor and make sure all your doors are locked. I don't want some mad poisoner murdering you.”

“That's a cheery thought,” I joked before we said our good-byes. Still, my mother had me feeling just paranoid enough to open my refrigerator and check to see if anything looked tampered with. Then I checked the locks on my doors and windows. When the phone rang again, I jumped about a foot in the air.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Lilah. It's Angelica Grandy.”

“Uh—hi, Angelica.”

“Listen, I don't know if you've heard about Bert Spiel—”

“I have. How's Pet?”

“She's really upset. We're all sitting here, trying to distract her, but she's got something on her mind. She asked if we would call you. Would you be willing to come over?”

“Um . . . sure. Why does she—”

“Well, you two are friends, and she figured your sense of humor would cheer her up.”

This was strange for two reasons. First, I did not think Pet Grandy viewed me as a friend—more like a co-conspirator
in our covered-dish secret. Second, although I liked to think I was a humorous person, Pet Grandy had not, to date, found one of my jokes amusing. Pet didn't really have a sense of humor. For a chilling moment I wondered if I was being lured to the Grandy house so that they could poison me. Then I realized how crazy a thought that was and said, “Okay, I'll be over soon, Ang.”

I decided to take Mick with me, just in case. The Grandys all knew and liked Mick, so I knew they wouldn't object to his presence. Mick followed me out to the car with no discernible limp. I let him in on the passenger side and he jumped up with his usual grace. Then we drove through a mostly quiet Pine Haven, where Dickens Street glowed with orange lights and lurid skeletons and mummies peered through store windows. I flipped on the radio and happened across the oldies station—
From the fifties to today!—
and caught the end of Sinatra singing “The Way You Look Tonight.” For a moment I wished that a man were sitting in Mick's seat, and we were talking easily and throwing each other secret, desire-filled glances. Then I sighed and figured I was better off with Mick. Men ended up disappointing me, but Mick had never done so.

When Mick and I got to the white two-level house with the life-size scarecrow on the porch, we climbed the stairs, I knocked, and we were admitted into a room full of people. Harmonia and Angelica both had their “boyfriends” over—Ted Parsons and Carl Booth, respectively—and the four of them seemed to be have been chatting near the fireplace when Angelica let me in. I stood in the doorway while Angelica returned to her chair. “You know everyone, right, Lilah?”

I nodded. Mick made his way into the room, drawn by the
scent of some pizza on a table. Harmonia practically dove onto Mick and started petting him with her big hands.

“Uh, yes, I think so. Hello, Ted. Carl.”

Ted, a fifty-ish man with the red nose of a drinker and the brown mustache of a lumberjack, worked at the Rite-Aid pharmacy and was an usher at church. Carl, who was bald and thin, owned Pine Haven's only car wash and was reputedly rich as a lord. They both waved to me, but none of them offered me a seat. Ted took pity on me, finally. “Pet's in the bathroom, washing her face. She had a little . . . weepy attack.”

“Ah,” I said, feeling awkward. I turned to study the picture gallery in the hallway, which seemed far preferable to making my way into the crowded living room. I turned to my left, contemplating a wall full of pictures of what seemed to be about a hundred years of Grandy history. One of the best shots was an eight-by-ten of three Grandys as little girls—and even though they were tiny, it was clear that it was Pet, Harmonia, and Angelica because they looked like shrunken versions of the women they were now—sledding in a snow-covered park. Perpetua, in a red coat, was trying to pull the sled. Angelica, smug as a little cat, sat on the sled, her face rosy inside her multicolored knit hat. Harmonia, the tiniest of them all, was crying and attempting to pull the sled the other way. It was obviously a family favorite, since it had been enlarged.

Farther down the hall and closer to the living room were some more recent pictures of the women; their hairstyles were slightly different, so the snaps were probably a year or two old. I wondered who had photographed them. These were great pictures, without the look of posed department-store portraits, and somehow capturing the personalities of all the women. Each of them had some sort of prop: Angelica,
holding a bouquet of tiger lilies, looked dreamily into the distance; Harmonia, holding a little black dog, smiled down into his face; and Perpetua, holding a wooden spoon, wore the homey expression of someone who loved cooking. I was guessing that our chili arrangement had already been established when this shot was taken. I looked away from the wall of photos and tuned in to the voices in the room, which now included Perpetua's. She had emerged from the bathroom and sat down in a plush red chair to the left of the hearth.

“Pet, just let the police do their job,” Carl said. “They'll sort things out and realize you had nothing to do with this, or with Alice.”

Angelica agreed. “You weren't even at the library today! How could you possibly have poisoned Bert if you weren't there?”

Pet nodded. “Bert was my good friend. We were just talking about Edinburgh. I said I had never been there, and he had been twice, and he showed me some books with pictures of the city. He said if I ever went, he could give me an itinerary that was better than what tourists usually got.” She wiped her eyes.

Mick, a therapy dog at heart, went to Pet and put his chin in her lap. This earned a smile, and then Pet started rubbing his head in earnest. “You're a good dog. Thanks for bringing him, Lilah.”

“Oh—sure. How are you doing, Pet?”

“I still can't believe it. I don't understand what's happening in this town. And why is it all happening right in the tiny little areas of my life? I'm a quiet person. I live a quiet life.”

Harmonia sat on the arm of Pet's chair and stroked her short hair; then she reached down and started petting Mick.
“Of course you do,” she said. “Just stop worrying, Pet. The police can't touch you, because you're innocent. Innocence doesn't need a defense.”

Everyone nodded, admiring this sentiment. I sat down on a chair near the door, wondering why I was there. Eventually Pet sent me a secret glance and said, “I think it would do me some good if I got some fresh air. Lilah, can I walk your dog with you?”

Curiouser and curiouser. “Sure. Mick loves walking in the evening.” I stood up and called Mick; I snapped on the leash I had just removed and said, “Why don't we walk around the block? There are some great Halloween decorations out here.”

Pet nodded; the other four people seemed relieved to give up their roles as counselors. When we left, Ted was turning on the television and Carl was helping himself to some of the pizza that sat on a sideboard.

Now I paused at a tree so that Mick could sniff it with elaborate care. I looked at Pet, who again reminded me of a child, bundled as she was into her little jacket. Her short, graying hair stood up in an uncombed tuft on her head. “Pet, what's going on?”

“I don't know. I want you to know that I didn't do it. Whatever someone did, that someone wasn't me.” Even in the limited glow of someone's landscaping lights, I could see the tears in her eyes.

“Well, of course you didn't! But why do you feel you need to say that to me?”

“Because you're involved, too! If they end up believing that I poisoned my own chili, and they interrogate me, then they might make me confess about who made it. I don't want to, but now I wonder what they'll do.”

She sounded genuinely frightened. “Pet, they can't interrogate you without cause. As your sister said, you weren't there on the day Bert died. I would think they'll be looking at who was. Does the library have a security camera?”

Pet looked surprised. “Yes, I think so. By the front entrance.”

“Let's be logical. If I were the police detective, I would study that tape and try to identify every person who had walked in that day. I would talk to witnesses and find out who had access to the back room where Bert kept his dinner. And then I would narrow it down, based on those two things, until I found my murderer. But before we get off this unpleasant topic . . . do you know of anyone who might have had a grudge against Bert ? Any patron he'd disagreed with lately?”