The Big Chili (15 page)

Serafina was dialing 911 on her cell phone. “They'll be busy tonight,” I said. “It's Halloween. Ask them to tell Jay Parker. Tell them it's related to the poisoning case.”

But was it? Is that what the message meant—that two people had died of poisoning, and I would be the next to die? Or was it just some crazy Halloween prank, some kids doing graffiti on a dare?

Serafina spoke into the phone in her lilting accent, her voice solemn. I liked the way she said, “Jay Parker.” Coming from her, they sounded like beautiful words.

Minutes later Cam was back, and he and Serafina stood with me, contemplating my house. Cam said, “I didn't see anyone, but I think they must have just been here, right? Otherwise why would Mick be barking?”

I shook my head. I hated to contemplate someone wishing
me ill, especially to the extent that they were willing to vandalize my home, my sweet and private space. Why me? What had I done? What had Bert or Alice done? Why was this happening?

“That is scary stuff,” Cam said, echoing my thoughts. “Lilah, I know there's a murderer in this town, but I didn't think it had anything to do with you!”

“Neither did I!” I said. “I don't know what it's about.” I could hear Mick whining at the hallway door; he had heard our voices and he wanted to join us.

“Not yet,” Cam said, restraining me.

We waited for a few minutes. The first car on the scene was Parker's. He jumped out and strode toward us; even in my shaken state I found myself glad to see him.

Before he said a word to us he went close to my house, looked at the graffiti, and then spoke into his phone. Then he came back and looked at me. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. I wasn't home—I was at Terry's Halloween party until about fifteen minutes ago.” I pointed at Terry's house. Parker nodded. His eyes flicked up and down, taking in my outfit.

Cam said, “I think the person was just here. I can smell that spray paint strongly, as if particles of it were still floating on the air. And we heard Mick barking when we came down the driveway.”

“Don't touch anything,” Parker said. Then he turned and walked swiftly into my backyard, as Cam had just done. When he returned he said, “No one there. This seems recent, though, as you said.” He sniffed the air.

“Henry!” I yelled.

They all looked at me.

“I'm sorry?” said Parker.

“Henry—he's a little boy that I know—he said earlier that one of the trick-or-treaters smelled like markers. He probably meant those industrial-strength markers that smell like paint. We all laughed at him.”

“Did you get a look at the person he meant?”

“Just someone going past in the darkness. Dressed as a monk.”

Parker said something into a voice recorder, then looked back at us. “We can look for security-camera footage of this person. Lilah, you'll need to find somewhere else to stay tonight. I need my team to examine this, and I don't want you—I mean, you shouldn't be alone.”

“She won't be,” said Cameron. “She'll be with us.”

“No,” I said. “I'll go to Mom and Dad's. They're closer. You can drop me off there, right, Cam?”

He hugged me against him. “Of course we can. And you'll stay there until this is resolved.” He turned to Parker; even in the dark, I could see it dawning on my brother that this was the man I had mentioned to him. He did a good job of hiding his reaction. “Do you think you're on the verge of getting this person? Will this little incident help in apprehending him?”

Parker shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “I can't really comment on that, Mr. . . . ?

Cam stuck out his hand. “I'm Cameron Drake. Lilah's brother.”

It was probably just my imagination, since it was dark out, and we had illumination only from Terry's landscaping lamps and my little pumpkin window lights, but I thought Parker looked relieved. “All I can tell you,” he said to my brother in
his official voice, “is that we'll be asking neighbors what they saw and combing this scene for evidence.”

“But there have been people running all over the place. It's Halloween, for goodness' sake!” I said.

Suddenly Cam was pulling Serafina away. “Lilah, we'll be right back. We're just going to tell Terry what happened.”

They disappeared rapidly up the driveway.

Parker looked ominous. “Tell me what you think. Who might have a grudge against you?”

“I can't think of one soul. Seriously. I mean—”

“Yes?”

“It's nothing.”

“Then say it.”

“I have an ex. But we're fine with each other. He was just here earlier tonight.”

“Why was that?”

“Well—because he thought I knew you well, and he asked me to vouch for him to you.”

Parker scratched his head. “Why?”

“Because you've questioned him. Uh—something about his peanut butter and the sandwich Bert Spielman ate.”

Parker started. “The Italian?”

“Angelo, yes.”

“You dated
him
?”

“Why is that hard to believe?”

“I don't know. So you think he might have done this?”

“No! I'm telling you he wouldn't have. He's at a party downtown, in any case, so I'm sure he has a nice alibi.”

Parker's face was unreadable. “Fine. Who else?”

“I don't know! Up until now I didn't think I had an enemy in the world!”

“Any real estate deals gone bad?”

I snorted. “I'm just a receptionist. This is something else—I just don't know what that something is.”

Parker was feeling for his phantom cigarettes again and, as he had done on the day that I met him, he settled for a piece of gum. Then he said, “Lilah, you're shaking.” He took off his jacket and put it around my shoulders. “Listen, I'm on this,” he said in a low voice, his hands still resting on my shoulders. “Tell me your parents' address and I'll have a guard put on the house.”

“I need my dog,” I said, as Mick's plaintive barking grew louder. My throat felt tight as I spoke. “He can't stay in there alone!”

“I'll get him for you. I don't really want anyone on the porch right now, okay? Give me your key.”

“His leash is on a nail just inside the door, on the left,” I said, touching his arm.

He sent me a quick look in the dark; I didn't know what it meant. Then he went carefully up the porch steps, used his shirt to cover his hand so that he could turn the doorknob without leaving prints, and retrieved Mick, who came bounding over to meet me.

“Thank you,” I said. Parker handed me Mick's leash, and I clipped it on. Mick leaped all over Parker as though he was a long-lost friend, which in a way he was. Finally Mick settled down and wandered over to sniff Terry's linden tree.

“I wish I could go into my house,” I said. “I wish this person had never done this and ruined my evening, and that I could just invite you in for dinner again, like the last time. That was nice,” I said.

Parker looked surprised. “It was. And this will be over soon, and you can invite me again. Lilah—”

We heard Cam and Serafina's voices in the distance, and I remembered something. “Listen—you should know that Hank Dixon thinks Bert Spielman was murdered because of him.”

“What?” Parker stiffened.

“He told my dad, when they were looking at a house Hank bought. Hank said that Bert told him he had figured something out about Alice's death, and he wanted to talk it over with him. Hank said he'd come by that night, and then Bert was dead.”

Parker's mouth was a straight, unsmiling line. “Was he planning to share this information with the police?”

“I don't know; my dad said he felt like if he sought you out it might turn into another big interrogation.”

“That's a risk you run in a murder investigation,” Parker said, his voice cold.

“Hey, don't blame the messenger. I just thought you should know.”

My brother called from mid-driveway. “Lilo, Fina and I are going to get the car and drive it back. See you in a couple of minutes.”

They disappeared again, and I was left with Parker in the cold, cold dark. I looked up at him and got a whiff of his minty gum. He said, “Listen, Lilah—” just as I said, “Do you have any idea who killed Alice?”

He looked at me; even in the dark, his eyes were blue as moonstones. “No. We don't. But I'm going to find out, very soon. Do you still need this on?” he said, touching my mask. I had forgotten it was there.

“No. Geez, I probably look ridiculous.” I yanked the mask and the cat ears off my head and shoved them into the pocket of Parker's jacket.

“You don't look ridiculous,” Parker said. Again, his eyes did a quick assessment of me, from top to toe. “Your hair—”

Mick started barking and Parker grew tense. “My team will be here any moment. You should go, Lilah. Go to your parents' house, and I'll be in touch.”

“I can't,” I said, miserable.

“Why not?”

“Because you're standing on my tail.”

For a moment he looked at me, his expression blank. Then he stepped back, almost embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said.

Headlights illuminated us briefly, and I saw the tired lines around his eyes.

Serafina jumped out of Cam's car and walked to us, tucking her arm into mine. She still smelled lovely. “We will take her now, Detective.” Then, looking closely at Parker, she said, “I'm sure you know this—but if this person left prints, you should study them for traces of the poison. They would have been wise to administer the cyanide with gloves, but this”—she pointed at the weirdly scrawled letters—“this is reckless. And cyanide can linger on the skin.”

Parker turned toward her, stiff and surprised. “What makes you think it was cyanide?”

Serafina shrugged. “It seems likely.”

Parker glared, looking from Serafina in her Cleopatra getup to me in my cat attire. I was sure he was sick of civilians telling him how to do his job, especially knowledgeable people like Serafina. I called Mick and grabbed his leash,
and we started walking toward Cam's car. I heard Parker's voice calling after me. “I'll be in touch, Lilah.”

By the time our car pulled onto Dickens Street, the first police cars had already arrived.

*   *   *

I
N MY OLD
bedroom, which my mother used now as a guest room and a storage area for her scrapbooks, I sat on the bed, my Catwoman outfit gone and replaced by a pair of my mother's pajamas. They smelled like lavender and were as comforting as a hug. My glittering cat trophy sat on the bedside table, its little orange collar glinting.

I lifted Parker's jacket and retrieved my mask and ears, putting them with the outfit on a chair beside the bed. Mick, already asleep on the plush carpet, made a snuffling sound in his dreams. Then, curious, I went through Parker's pockets. It was a nice jacket, a brown leather thing with a masculine scent. In the left-hand pocket were a roll of breath mints and two quarters, along with a receipt from the gas station on Dickens. Parker had bought forty-two dollars' worth. It probably hadn't even filled his tank. I also found one solitary Milk Dud. I disposed of this for him; if it melted it would damage the pocket lining.

In the right-hand pocket was a small appointment book with a leather-look cover, a single dollar bill, a pen, and a business card from Cardelini's. Angelo's restaurant. Of course—Angelo said Parker had been there recently. I knew that I shouldn't look through the appointment book, but my hands were already doing it. I certainly wasn't in danger of learning any police secrets. Parker had terrible handwriting, and most of the things he had scrawled were illegible,
although I could pick out the occasional word or phrase, like “St. Bartholomew's,” or “P. H. Library.”

I turned to the last page, which had nothing on it except one name: Lilah Drake. Beside it was my phone number. I dropped the book back into Parker's pocket. Had I given him my phone number? Had he asked for it? Or had he looked it up on his own? I did not recall giving him the information. And Parker had never called me on the phone. Perhaps he had written the number in recently? Perhaps he had been planning to call me? If so, was it for the case, or for personal reasons?

I didn't know. I set Parker's jacket on the chair and climbed under the covers. I didn't want to think about the way my house had been vandalized, or whose hand might have been wielding the can of paint.

My name in Parker's appointment book provided a nice distraction. What had he said, when we were standing there in the dark and I'd felt his blue eyes looking at me with that careful, Parker-like scrutiny? He'd said I could invite him for dinner again soon.

I turned out the light and lay back against the pillows, planning an elaborate menu for a fantasy evening with Parker. We would eat fondue with long, slender forks, feeding each other instead of ourselves, and moonlight would pour in the window to illuminate his eyes.

Parker was not like Angelo; he was stiff and stern and sometimes awkward. He wasn't a smooth talker, and he had none of Angelo's easy charm.

And that was precisely why I liked him.

I
was up early the next morning, preparing
T
oby Atwater's French toast casserole in my pajamas. In my head the Plain White T's were singing a love song to Delilah.

My father appeared, looking slightly disheveled and searching for coffee. “You're up early,” he croaked.

“I'm working. Doesn't this smell good?”

He agreed that it did. “Where are you headed with that?”

I hesitated. “Well, this will sound weird, but Toby and I always meet under the viaduct by the expressway. He's a little paranoid.”

My father scratched at his mussy hair. “Well, I'm a little paranoid, too. Especially because someone recently threatened my daughter. So give me a minute to take a shower, and then I'll go with you.”

“Dad, it's not necessary. Toby's a regular customer,
and . . .” It was too late; he was already jogging out of the room.

“Give me five minutes. I'll even ride shotgun,” he called, suddenly much more alert, even without his coffee.

He needn't have rushed, since the casserole took another fifteen minutes to prepare, after which I had to attend to my own morning routine, taking what my parents had always called “an army shower” (due to its brevity), and then rushing out to pack the car, my hair still damp and my shoes untied. Mick hopped into the backseat, determined not to be left behind.

Finally we drove to our clandestine viaduct location, where Toby lurked in the shadows like a parking-garage mole. He eased into the sun to claim the large pan, and he thanked me profusely. “It smells like heaven,” he said. “It's one of the few things my kids appreciate me for, which is sad, since I don't make it.”

“You arrange it,” I said. “Which still makes you a great dad.”

He grinned and handed me the money, and I climbed back into my father's car. “Kind of weird, meeting people in these out-of-the-way locations,” my dad said, gazing out his window at the bright sun, which had been steadily ascending as we drove.

“Keeps things top secret,” I said.

“But it could be dangerous. Don't arrange any more of these meetings until things settle down, okay?”

I sighed. “I make good money, Dad. I'll just be sure to have a bodyguard with me.”

“Hmm,” he said. Mick leaned up from the backseat and licked his ear.

We returned to their house and I went back to the stove. My parents knew that I cooked when I was upset; I liked to lose myself in the process, and eventually it calmed me and helped me think clearly. They turned their kitchen over to me, then sat in the living room and read their Sunday papers, watching me with anxious eyes. My mother hated to contemplate the thought that I had an enemy, and she was actually relieved when the PHPD car pulled up outside and settled in for the long haul. I peered out the window, wondering if this was Parker, but of course it wasn't. It was a lowly beat officer—a young woman, it looked like—and she was just following orders.

I sniffed and returned to my canvas—a counter spread with all sorts of delectable things. At the center, a fancy rice made by Angelo's Gourmet, flavored with herbs. Two fat, firm peppers, one green and one red. A big white onion with a luminescent peel. Some fresh chicken breasts, still tucked into their packaging. Some Angelo's Gourmet tomato sauce (my mother had his food in her cupboards, too, but she tended to hide it from my father, who did not want to support Angelo's business) and a bottle of red wine for a finishing touch.

I got to work with my mother's sharpest knife, slicing the onion, then the peppers, into thin strips. I flicked a pat of butter into a large pan, scraped the vegetables off of my cutting board and into the heat, and enjoyed the aroma that almost instantly permeated the air. I was working on a new covered-dish recipe that I thought would have appeal for many of my clients. Often people asked me for something original, and I liked to continually expand my repertoire.

I went through my mother's spice cabinet, pulling out
likely bottles and sprinkling them on my sautéeing vegetables. I poured in a dollop of wine and Angelo's fragrant sauce.

“Smells great in there!” my dad called.

“Good! This is your lunch.”

I found a glass casserole dish and started layering rice, vegetables, chicken, and some shredded Swiss cheese. Then I slid it all into my parents' oven and set the timer for thirty minutes. Casseroles were so easy to make; it was the inspiration that was sometimes difficult. I had once read about a great author—Flaubert, maybe—who agonized for hours over the selection of one word. I sometimes felt that way about spices; it was always about finding the perfect blend, and that took time and imagination.

I sat in the kitchen and watched some yellow leaves blow across the lawn. I'd started the day just like this when I made the chili that killed Alice Dixon. I had set out my ingredients with love and care; then I had sliced and diced and scooped it all together in one cooking pot, creating a delicious smell that had caused Mick to whine with appreciation. Mick had loved the chili I'd saved for him; in fact, I realized with a start, I had taken a picture of him eating it. If Parker ever ended up suspecting me of colluding with a murderer, I could show him the photo. But, of course, that wouldn't really be evidence, since Mick could have been eating any chili.

I sighed. Someone had added a toxic ingredient to what should have been wholesome, delicious food. How strange it was that in this world there were plants that could heal us and plants that could kill us. Even cyanide originated in a plant. And what sort of person could actually bring him- or herself to put poison in food, knowing someone would eat it? Knowing someone might die? Did that feed some terrible hunger
in them, some longing for destruction? Or was it an act of desperation by someone who really needed to silence Alice Dixon and Bert Spielman? If so, why? What had Alice or Bert ever done?

My father appeared and put his hand on my shoulder. “You know, I realized something,” he said, patting me and then sitting down across from me at the table. “Whoever vandalized your house could have been some little kid doing a trick-or-treat dare. It doesn't necessarily relate to the poisonings at all.”

I had thought of this the night before, but then rejected it. I brightened slightly.

“Still, Mom and I don't want you eating anything unless it's prepared by you or us. Nothing from a restaurant or anything—until the police get to the bottom of it.”

My spirits plunged again. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

“On the other hand, we don't want you to feel trapped in here. So just tell me where you want to go today, and I'll go with. Your personal bodyguard. Just like this morning.”

I reached across and took his hand. “You're so sweet. But how long can we possibly do that? You guys have to work.”

“Luckily, you work with us, so we can all go in together.”

“But—”

“We'll take it one day at a time, Lilah. They might solve this thing today.”

“And they might not.”

“Your brother tells me this guy seems sharp.”

“Parker? Yeah, he is.”

“What does that little smile mean?” my father asked, looking suspicious.

“Nothing. Just that I realized I have his jacket, and I should probably give it back to him today.”

“Great. When we go out, we'll stop at the police station and drop it off. I'll check this guy out for myself.”

“Dad.”

“Hmm?”

“I'm a big girl now.”

“Still my only daughter,” he said, brushing some imaginary crumbs off his shirt. “When is this food going to be ready, anyway?”

I laughed and checked on the casserole, which had baked to a lovely gold. I served it to my appreciative parents, and we carefully talked around the subject of murder while we shared our noon meal.

My mother volunteered to wash up, so my father went with me when I walked Mick around the block, golden with leaves and full of attractive scents for Mick's questing nose.

We came home, dropped off my Labrador, and climbed back into my dad's car. Suddenly I felt eighteen again, a passenger with my father at the wheel, as I'd been every day of high school when my father drove me to Pine Haven HS on his way to work. He still had all the same habits that had driven me crazy then: the constant fiddling with his dashboard—the radio, the heater, the change compartment—which he probably did without realizing it; the aggressive driving, which had him pulling far too close for comfort to the car in front of him; and the penchant for talk radio, something I despised because I felt there was not one likeable radio personality. My father claimed he learned a lot from the various shows he favored.

Our first stop was the library. My father liked books about travel (he and my mother were contemplating a trip) and wanted to find some picture books for them to peruse together.
I told him that I wanted to speak to Pet, who worked the afternoon shift.

The library wasn't crowded, and I saw Pet leaning moodily on the front desk, her elbows on the wood as she stared down at a book. As I got closer I could see, even upside down, that it was a picture-heavy biography of Princess Diana.

“Hey, Pet,” I said.

She looked up, surprised, and then beamed at me. “Hey, Lilah! What brings you here?”

“I want to look for a couple of books. But I also wanted to talk to you—about Bert.”

Her face fell again and she looked near tears. “The police asked me about him. I know it looks bad, how I made the chili that killed Alice, and I just happened to work with the other person who died.”

“But maybe the police will realize that almost seems too obvious—something a murderer would never do for fear of detection.”

“I don't know. It's just terrible—about Bert, and Alice, and being questioned all the time. It's really upsetting my whole family.”

“Of course. That's understandable. And I know you're sick of being questioned, but I wanted to ask you a couple of things, too. Just so I can work it out in my own head. You're not the only one who has a connection here,” I said.

Pet nodded gravely. She closed the Princess Diana book and said, “What do you want to know?”

“Well—why would anyone want to kill Bert? Was there any link between him and Alice?”

Pet shook her head. “I don't think they really knew each other. But you know Bert—he was sort of a gossip, and he
loved mystery novels. So he was asking me all sorts of things about the night Alice died. He joked that he was going to solve it just like Sherlock Holmes, using deductive reasoning.”

This was chilling. What if Bert had solved the mystery? What if someone found that out, and killed him before he could talk to Hank Dixon? Or what if Hank Dixon was the one who silenced Bert, but then told my father a different story to take suspicion off himself?

I pointed at some red leather chairs in the cooking section. “Since no one's around, can we go over there? If we talk quietly?”

Pet thought about it. “I guess so. I can keep an eye on the checkout desk from there.”

We went to the chairs and sat down; my father wandered past on a quest for books.

Pet sighed. “It's so funny. I still expect Bert to walk out of the back room, kind of hunched over like he always was, with his face all squinched up because he was thinking hard. We were all used to that sight. I wasn't here on the day he died, and I'm glad I wasn't.”

“Have the police examined all the checkouts, and the camera and everything?”

“Oh yeah. They went over this place with a pine-tooth comb.”

“Fine-tooth,” I corrected automatically.

“What?”

“Never mind. Go ahead.”

“They shut us down for two days. I don't know what all they did. And they took the little refrigerator that we had in the back room—the one where Bert had put his sandwich.
Once a week he got an Angelo's lunch, and he always looked forward to it.”

Two giant tears gushed out of Pet's eyes, surprising both of us. I touched her small, plump hand. “I'm sorry, Pet.”

“Who would do this? To Bert—or anyone?”

I nodded. We had all been asking the same questions, it seemed. Murder, I was finding, held a whole town hostage to uncertainty and fear.

“Pet—tell me what sorts of things Bert wanted to know. What was he asking that potentially got him so close to the truth?”

Pet sighed, then stiffened, about to run to the desk, but the person who had approached it walked right past into the children's section. She relaxed again. “Well, of course he asked me who all had been there. He said it was like a locked-room mystery. And that once you knew all the suspects, you just had to find out the things no one knew about them—and their links to the dead person. He said that was the plot of every Agatha Christie novel.”

It was true. I'd already learned more than I'd expected—about Alice and Hank's marriage, about everyone's resentment of Alice, about Tammy's profession, about Alice's dog and her plans for a cruel operation, about Hank's inheritance, about Alice's resentment of the Grandys and their relationship with Father Schmidt, about Alice's bad relationship with many of the bingo patrons. Even Theresa and Trixie, according to their accounts, had viable motives for wanting Alice dead. If I knew that much through casual conversations, how much more must the police know? Shouldn't they have been close to solving it by now?