The Big Chili (11 page)

Pet shook her head, frowning. “Everyone loved Bert . He was sort of a cumuldge—what's that word?”

“Curmudgeon?”

“Yes. He was a lovable curmudgeon.”

“Okay. Maybe Bert wasn't the intended victim. Could anyone have mistaken his food for someone else's?”

Again Pet shook her head. “No. When Bert brings his own lunch, he has it in this distinctive Tupperware with red lids. Other times he goes out and picks up something to eat at a local place. I'm not sure which he had that night.”

I sighed. “There are probably lots of other possibilities, but here's one more to consider, Pet. Maybe whoever poisoned him—if they did in fact poison him—didn't care whose food it was. Maybe they just wanted someone to die.”

“Why?” Pet asked, scandalized.

“Either because they're crazy, or because they wanted to
frame someone else—someone like you. In which case, the police will probably be considering those same scenarios.”

Pet plunged her hands into her pockets and nodded. She seemed slightly cheered by this. “You're dating the cop in charge, aren't you?”

“What?” I was so shocked I dropped Mick's leash.

“Harmonia saw him in your driveway the other night when she drove down Dickens Street. He didn't look like he was on official business.”

“I am not dating him!”

She grinned at me.

“I—we—I barely know him.”

“Well, if he asks you, tell him I'm a good person.”

“I've already told him that, Pet. Everyone knows you're a good person. Don't let this make you paranoid. Some evil person is doing bad things in this town, and for some reason both of those things have personally affected you. But it could be just a coincidence. I'm sure that the police know that coincidences happen all the time.”

She nodded. “Thanks, Lilah.” She scuffed her feet into the leaves for a while. Then she brightened. “Hey, you and I have another job to do!”

“Yes, I heard. I was wondering when you were going to mention it to me!”

“You
heard
?”

“From Trixie and Theresa. When I went to get the Crock-Pot. I told them it was for you, just like we agreed.”

Clearly relieved, Pet cuddled into her fleecy coat. “I told them I could make something different—maybe a big platter of mac and cheese or baked enchiladas or something. But
they said the ladies all want me to make my chili. Trixie said they trust me, and they don't want to change the tradition.”

“That's probably a good idea. You know I will make it with care, Pet. And I will be sure it goes directly into your hands, and then
you
can keep it under close guard until people are ready to eat. Not to be paranoid, Pet, but I don't think you should take your eyes off of it until it's served. Have the ladies guard it in shifts.”

Pet chuckled miserably.

“I'm not kidding, Perpetua.”

She nodded. “All right. I'll arrange something with Trixie. You can bring it to the church like always, and then we'll watch it, I promise.”

“And Pet—I know you have a lot going on right now, but don't forget that it helps if I have some notice before these events. Sometimes I'm working, and I don't always have time to run out at the last minute and get ingredients.”

Pet looked stricken. “I know, I know! I'm sorry. It's just—there's been so much going on, and it cheered me up to have them ask me to cook for the next event. You know. It makes me feel proud and happy.”

“I know.”

“But now you look kind of mad, and that upsets me, because we've become such good friends over this last year!”

So her sisters hadn't been joking. Pet Grandy considered me a friend: not just a businesswoman from the parish, but a friend. I thought back. We'd certainly had many clandestine meetings, during which I passed a covered dish (with the solemnity of passing the Holy Grail) into Pet's impatient hands. I often teased her about this, and Pet had shown no
humor at all. Perhaps she did in fact appreciate my little jokes, and just didn't show it that much. “Yes, of course, Pet.”

“Remember when we sang karaoke for Father Schmidt?” she said, beaming at me. The event in question had actually involved Pet asking me to help her transfer a rented machine into the church hall and then me showing her how it worked (since I had sung karaoke at Terry's before, and got the basic idea). In the process I had sung “Proud Mary” for Pet and Father Schmidt, both of whom had clapped enthusiastically and told me that I should join the choir. After that Pet held the microphone while I showed her the various cords and attachments. Perhaps, in her memory, she had sung, too. I had never heard Pet's singing voice, and I had no idea whether or not she could keep a tune. Despite what I considered the boring nature of my own life, there was a chance that Pet had done a little vicarious living through me. This was oddly flattering but also sad, and on impulse I slung my arm around her and kept it there as we started walking back.

“You are a nice friend, Pet. And that's why you have nothing to worry about: because the police will hear that from everyone in this parish. That Pet Grandy is just a genuinely nice woman who wouldn't hurt a fly, and who gets kittens out of storm drains. Whatever happened to that little cat, anyway?”

Pet looked up at me. “Didn't you know? We adopted him. His name is Stripey. You'll see him when we go back, I'm sure. He usually likes to talk to company; maybe he was afraid of the dog.”

“Ah. Well, see, there's another sign of your niceness. You rescued a kitten from the drain, and then you took him in.”

“We love him,” Pet said simply.

I nodded, squeezing her shoulder and rounding the corner to find Jay Parker and the blue-suited woman from bingo night standing in Pet's driveway. Even in the dark I could see that Parker's eyebrows had hiked up at the sight of Pet and me together. “Hello,” I said.

“Hello, Miss Grandy, Miss Drake.” Jay gestured to his companion, who was pretty, in a dark and self-contained sort of way. My eyes darted to her ring finger and found it bare. “This is Detective Grimaldi.”

“Hello,” I said. “I was just cheering up Pet. She's suffered some terrible shocks over the last few days.”

The detectives remained stone-faced. “It's a stressful time, we understand,” said Grimaldi in a smooth, uninflected voice. “But if we could ask you some questions, Miss Grandy? We could do it here, if you'd prefer, or at the station, if that's more convenient.”

“Will her family be present?” I asked, feeling protective of Pet in her lamblike fleece.

“We'd like to talk to you alone, if that's all right,” said Jay Parker.

I bristled at their attitude; I could feel Pet trembling under my arm. “I don't think Pet has to talk to you without someone present—either a family member or a lawyer—isn't that correct?”

Jay Parker shot me a surprised and slightly murderous glance. “Miss Grandy has every right to have counsel present during our interview. But since we merely want to establish a few facts about her job at the library, that hardly seems necessary.”

I realized that when it came right down to it, I didn't totally trust the police. They had to do their job, which was difficult. Whoever committed murder was going to lie as a matter of self-preservation, and there was always the off chance that Pet was crazy and actually guilty of poisoning two people. My instinct, though, was that Pet was in a bad situation, sort of naïve, and genuinely frightened, and these two cops were scaring her even more.

I shrugged. “Then I'm sure you won't mind asking those questions in front of her sisters and their friends.”

“Thank you for your input, Miss Drake.” Parker's voice was cold enough to freeze water. “If you'll excuse us?”

I gave Pet a hug in front of them. “Don't worry, Pet. I'll call you tomorrow to see how you're doing, okay? Keep a good thought.”

“Thanks, Lilah. Thank you so much,” Pet said.

I watched her walk in, followed by Parker and Grimaldi, who had a graceful walk, too, I noted with some resentment.

Then Mick and I went back to the car; he climbed in eagerly, and I realized he was probably a bit cold. “Sorry, buddy,” I told him, flipping on the heater. He settled into the passenger seat and slitted his eyes, making me laugh despite my growing misery.

I had been harboring a fantasy that someday, after the murder was solved, Jay Parker might show up at my house for dinner again, his blue eyes glowing like moonstones in the dim light of my porch. Now I was pretty certain that I wouldn't have to worry about Jay Parker showing up at my house late at night, or at any time, ever again. I had questioned his authority and his integrity in front of two other people, and it seemed he had perceived it as a betrayal.

Picturing Pet's childlike face, though, I knew that I would do it again. The police had to suspect everyone, but I didn't have to suspect someone I knew. Pet Grandy was an innocent woman, and I would not look kindly on those who tried to suggest
otherwise.

A
fter work the next day
I
went to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for Pet's latest batch of chili. She had texted me that approximately fifty women would be attending the event, which gave me a clear sense of portions. The ingredients were expensive; I wondered how Pet was able to pay me on such a regular basis when she probably made little more than minimum wage at the library and certainly made nothing helping out at church. My mother had once heard a rumor that the Grandys had some sort of family nest egg, perhaps as the result of a lawsuit.

Curious about that, I called her when I got home, nestling the phone between my cheek and shoulder so that I could unpack my groceries. “Hey, Mom. Remember how you told me that the Grandys inherited money once? Money that made them sort of wealthy?”

My mother was humming some little song under her breath; she was probably doing a task, too—I pictured her arranging flowers. Now she stopped humming and thought about it. “Oh, as I recall, the grandfather was working on the railroad—”

“All the live-long day?”

My mother giggled. “Probably. Anyway, I can't remember who told me this, but he got hurt somehow. I want to say there was a lawsuit, and he got a big sum of money. He was a thrifty Irishman, that's what your father says, and so he saved it and made more money. And then he died and it got passed down. That's why all those daughters can sort of just pursue their hobbies and their little church duties, because there's some money there. I don't know how much.”

“Huh.”

“If you ask me, it's also why none of them was in a hurry to get married. Why get married, if you don't feel dependent on two incomes?”

That one silenced me for thirty seconds. “Mom! That is a far more cynical view than I would expect to come out of your mouth. Especially because your own marriage is happy.”

She sniffed. “Yes, it's happy, but if I were twenty-three again and had a bank full of money, I'm not convinced that I would have rushed into matrimony. It's just a reality. It's Marxism.”

I stared at Mick, who nodded. “Who are you, and what have you done with Olivia Drake?”

She giggled again. “You'll understand someday, when you're ready to settle down.” Then her voice changed. “What's bothering you, hon? Besides the murder, I mean.”

“Nothing much. Mick got some glass in his paw and I had to get stitches for him.”

“Oh, poor doggie!”

“He's okay now. The vet was Tammy. Hank Dixon's Tammy.”

“She's a veterinarian?”

“That was my reaction—but she was good.”

“Huh. Hey, guess who I ran into yesterday? That handsome policeman who talked to us at the church. The tall one with dark hair and blue eyes.”

“Jay Parker?”

“Yes! Right.”

“Where did you run into him?”

“Daddy and I went to the diner on Stark Street for lunch, and he was there, having lunch with his partner. They were wolfing down their food; I'm sure they're super busy. But he remembered me and he said hello, and he asked how you were doing.”

“He probably suspects me of murder.”

“He's very handsome,” my mother said.

“You mentioned that.”

“If you married someone like him, can you imagine what beautiful children you'd have? With your blonde hair and his blue eyes?”

“You just told me that women are better off having money and not marrying! And why, by the way, are you fantasizing about me marrying him?”

“Oh, no reason,” my mother said meekly.

“Anyway. I'm pretty sure he hates me now.”

“Why would he hate you?”

“Pet's sisters called me last night and said she was upset, and asked me to come over.”

“Well, sure. You two have become good friends.” Was I the only one who had missed this?

“Anyway, Pet and I went out to walk Mick, and when we came back, he and this woman detective were in the driveway.”

“You said ‘woman detective' in a weird voice. Was she pretty?”

“Annoyingly so.”

“Oh, I'll bet it's the one I saw him eating lunch with. They didn't seem—you know. Intimate. They seemed like colleagues eating lunch. Did you notice if she was married?”

“No ring.”

“Ah,” my mother said.

“And they said they wanted to question Pet. I had just gotten her sort of cheered up; she's genuinely scared about the whole thing. I had her laughing and cheerful, and we were walking back, and then those two were there, with these cemetery faces, and Pet literally started trembling.”

“Oh, poor Pet!”

“So I basically told them to stop harassing her, and that she had a right to a lawyer.”

“Well, that's true.”

“I know, but he got really distant and cold then. He looked like he wanted to kill me, to be honest. And he basically told me to get lost.”

“Ah.”

“So. Not that I care either way—I'm just saying you can stop fantasizing about grandchildren.”

“Oh, honey, don't sound like that. You want to come over for some ice cream?”

“I have to make Pet's chili. Maybe after that?”

“Sure! Come for dinner. Dad is making steaks on the grill. And Cam is coming with his new girlfriend, this Bellini woman. They're staying overnight, because they're going to Terry's party tomorrow.”

“Oh, well then! I definitely want to be there! I need to meet this woman. Cam seems hung up on her.”

“Something about the change of season, maybe.”

“Yeah.”

My mother started humming “I've Been Workin' on the Railroad.” “Oh, Lilah, you put that song in my head!” she said, scolding.

“See you soon, Mom.”

I hung up and looked at Mick. “You like steak, don't you?”

Mick nodded.

*   *   *

M
Y PARENTS' HOUSE
—my old home—was a roomy Georgian on a one-acre lot, centered between two beautiful old elm trees, which now boasted an array of leaves in a whole spectrum of crayon-box autumn colors. When I pulled up I admired those leaves for a moment, on the trees, on the lawn, on the porch. Nature had blanketed the entire property with the shades of fall, and it was a refreshing sight.

Mick and I climbed the steps, and my brother Cameron, looking relaxed as always, came to the door with a glass of wine in one hand. His left hand was joined with the slender hand of one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Her tan skin and chocolate-colored eyes would have been her most arresting features, if it weren't for the gorgeous dark curls that tumbled down her back, almost to her waist, or for the
ridiculously generous proportions of her figure, which made her look rather like a cartoon that had emerged from a twelve-year-old boy's fantasy. Leave it to Cameron to find these women.

“Hey, sis. This is Serafina Bellini. Serafina, Lilah Drake.”

“Wow,” I said.

Serafina let go of my brother and grabbed me in a surprising embrace. “Oh my God, you are lovely! Cameron told me, but is true! You look like my little baby sister, Abia! She is so blonde like you. Like a golden angel!”

I looked at Cameron over her shoulder. “Seriously?” I said.

Cam nodded. “She's always like this. She's super affectionate.”

My mouth curled. I could only imagine how Serafina's
affection
paid off for him. Still, I enjoyed being hugged by her because she smelled amazing and everything about her was soft and comfortable. “It's nice to meet you,” I finally said, when she let go of me. “How did you happen to meet my brother?”

Serafina laughed and clapped her hands. This woman
was
enthusiastic. “It's so funny. Cam is visiting Rome, and he meets my brother Carlo, who directs him to a museum that Cam is seeking. So Cam tells Carlo that he is from Chicago, and Carlo tells him that his sister is studying there for several years. He tells Cam to look her up when he gets back. And Cam keeps this promise—and that sister . . . is me!”

She clapped again, as though she really didn't think I'd guessed the ending of the story.

“Well, that is very cool.”

My mother wandered in with a vase of roses. “Isn't Serafina beautiful?”

I could tell that she was doing that “future grandchildren” exercise, trying to morph together the best qualities of Cam and his girlfriend. I had to admit, they would be some amazingly cute kids.

“Yes, she is. Serafina, what are you studying here in the US?”

“I am working on my master's degree in chemistry,” she said.

“Wow,” I said again. Some women had it all. I had a brief wrestling match with my own jealousy; finally my polite self won out and I told her how impressive she was.

She shrugged. “In my family, I am not the impressive one. My brothers and my sisters, they are all like young Da Vincis. That is why I wanted to study overseas. Easier to be impressive when they are not standing beside me!” She grinned at me with perfect teeth.

“I get that,” I said, pointing at Cameron. “He graduated from high school at sixteen.”

Serafina hugged him; it looked sort of like a gorgeous, sexy boa constrictor wrapping around his body, and Cam's face said that he would die happy. “Cameron is brilliant,” she said.

“How long have you two known each other?” I asked, surprised at the level of their intimacy. In the past, Cam brought girls home to prove that they existed and then basically ignored them while he talked sports with my dad.

“Two months,” Serafina said. “Two months yesterday. We celebrated in the city, at The Berghoff.”

“Nice,” said my mother and I together.

Cameron smiled; his face was half-hidden by Serafina's amazing hair. “It
was
nice. We had a terrific time.” His
expression was so happy it was almost stupid. I had never seen Cameron this way.

This pleased me and depressed me simultaneously: it pleased me because I was glad Cameron had finally found a love match; it depressed me because my own perfect Italian man, with similar dark curls and gorgeous features, had been roundly despised.

In my family's defense, Angelo had done a lot of despicable things. He tended to neglect me for days at a time and then make some grand gesture to make it all better. That worked at the beginning but got stale after a few months. And a couple of months after that, I realized he had cheated on me. If he hadn't already lost my family's allegiance, he did then.

“Hey, I'll have what they're having,” I said, pointing to Cam's wine.

“Oh, sure, honey,” my mother said. She poured a glass, put it into my hand, and whispered, “She's a bit much all at once, isn't she? Go say hi to your father.”

I did, escaping into the cool, crisp air and the splendor of my father's deck. He had built it himself when I was about twelve, and since then it had weathered into a lovely, seasoned gray. The air smelled like charcoal and cooked meat; it cheered me considerably.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey, doll. You look nice tonight.”

“I'm feeling kind of like an ugly stepsister. I just saw the glory that is Serafina.”

My father shrugged. “She's sexy,” he said. “But you are the real deal.”

I kissed him again. “You're my dad, so you might be biased. But I will take your compliment and enjoy it.”

My father gave me an assessing look. “Anything on your mind?”

“No.”

“Mom says some cop gave you a hard time.”

“No, it's not like that. It's just—I thought we were friends, but then he got pretty angry with me. It's no big deal.”

“It's never fun to play the dating game.”

“Which I am not playing.”

“I'm relieved I never have to do that again,” my father said, with an innocence that I found charming.

I tried a new conversational tack. “Some men still play it after they get married.”

“God knows why,” he said, shuddering. “I hated dating. Even dating your mother I was a nervous wreck. I just remember sweating a lot.”

“Oh, Dad.” I sat down on the wooden bench attached to the deck and watched my father as he expertly flipped meat and vegetables. “Have you sold that house? The one I was showing Sunday?”

My father squinted at me over his shoulder. “Oh—didn't we tell you? Yes. Hank Dixon and his fiancée made an offer and the seller accepted. He went well over asking price, so the other bidders didn't have much of a chance.”

“Huh. Well, I'm glad for Tammy. She seemed smitten with the place.”

“Yeah. She's kind of a strange woman, but she genuinely seems to love Hank. God knows why,” my father said.

This was unlike him. My father tended to leave gossip and
judgment to my mother and me, and to be honest, we had indulged in our fair share in our mother/daughter talk sessions.