The Big Chili (16 page)

“So who was a likely suspect, according to Bert?”

Pet shrugged. “He never told me that. But he loved talking about it. It was a game to him—the strategy of it, comparing potential motives. I didn't understand half the words he used, to be honest. Bert was really smart.”

He had been smart. Pine Haven had been lucky to get Bertrand Spielman as their librarian; he had multiple degrees and was a true connoisseur of literature, history, and Chicago lore. “So what was the last day you saw him?”

Pet sighed. “It was the day before he died. I worked that morning, and Bert kept coming up to me while I was shelving books, asking this or that. He asked me whether or not Hank was going to inherit money from Alice. I said I didn't know. He asked if Alice had ever sued Father Schmidt or the church. I said I didn't know, but I didn't think so, since Father Schmidt probably would have told us that. He asked if we resented Alice for all the things she said to us.”

“What do you mean?”

Pet blushed. “Sometimes I would let off steam to Bert about Alice—when we had to work together at the church. He liked hearing the stories, because he thought Alice sounded kind of crazy, but he also sort of admired her. I think Bert liked eccentric women.”

I sniffed.

“Anyway, I had told him that Alice had said some mean things to us the week before she died. She was frustrated with us—she just seemed to hate it that we always had Father over for dinner. I don't think he ever once went to her house.” Pet looked weirdly proud of that.

“What mean things?”

“Oh, just typical Alice stuff. We've learned to take it in stride. She told me I was too old to be chasing after a priest.”

“What!”

Pet shrugged. “Father Schmidt told me that Alice was like a child, and that when she was hurt, she lashed out. After he said that, it helped me never get too upset by what she said. She seemed so fashionable and mature, but she really was like a spiteful little girl.”

This was pretty sophisticated psychology; I wondered how Father Schmidt had determined that. Perhaps I would visit him next.

“What else did she say?”

“She told Angelica that she intended to sue her. Alice knew that we had some family money that we inherited, and she told Ang, just a week before she died, that she would sue her for all of it. It was kind of crazy, how extreme she got.”

“Uh—sue her over what, Pet?”

Pet jumped up and darted to the circulation desk, where two teens waited to take out books. She checked them out, chatting in a friendly way and handing them library bookmarks before they left. Then she jogged back over to me. She was wearing a sweat suit again, but this was a sort of classy black velour with a white appliqué of the New York Public Library logo on the front of the jacket. I wondered where she shopped.

She sat down, slightly out of breath, and I said, “Sue her over what, Pet?”

She laughed, but rather miserably. “One time Angelica saw Alice out to dinner with a man. Angel and Alice both saw each other, because this was back when Alice and Hank
were still married. Angel never said anything about it, but once recently when Alice was complaining about Hank and his new girlfriend . . .” She leaned in and whispered, “Alice called Hank's girlfriend a slut.”

I sighed. This did not surprise me.

“Anyway, Ang finally had enough and said, ‘What do you care? You were seeing some other guy when you were married!'”

This had me leaning forward. “Get out! What did Alice do?”

“She got crazy. She said that was none of Angelica's business and she had no idea what was going on, and then she said she knew a lawyer who could take us for all the money we had.”

“Oh my God! Do the police know this?”

“Yeah, we told them. But you'd have to know Alice. By the end of the day she was acting all friendly again.”

“Was she insane?”

Pet looked at her hands. “No. I think she was really lonely.”

“Did you like her, Pet?”

Perpetua nodded. “Sometimes. She wasn't always crazy. Sometimes she was nice. And she was always sort of chic and worldly. She gave us beautiful gifts at Christmas—all the members of Altar and Rosary. And my sisters and me, because she said we were so important to the church. Alice was like two different people.”

She pointed at the sweat suit she was wearing. “She knew I liked velour lounge suits, because of how comfortable they are. I'm too old not to dress for comfort, I told her once. And she found this when she was on a trip to New York, and she bought it for me. I think it cost more than a hundred dollars.”

I thought about this.
Alice was like two different people
. So which of Alice's personalities had an enemy—the good one or the bad one?

“Who was the man?” I said.

“What?”

“The man Angelica saw her with. Who was it?”

Pet looked surprised. “I don't know. I assumed he was just some stranger. I'll ask Angelica.”

I would ask her, too. “Did she say anything else? While she was on this mean streak?”

Pet shrugged, her eyes darting to the checkout desk. “She told Harmonia that she was too old for a boyfriend. That she should either marry Ted or move on. She said it was ridiculous that the three of us lived together when we were old enough to be grandmothers.”

I stared, my mouth gaping. “I can't believe—the gall!”

Pet shrugged again, looking not at all embarrassed. “We are old, but so what? I'm the oldest, and I'm fifty. But we're not just sisters, we're friends. We get along, and we love the house we grew up in, so why not live in it? We're a unit. We always have been.”

“Of course.”

“The thing is, my mom had eight kids, but the first five were much older. Then she and my father—I don't know—they had a second wind.” Pet smiled at me with a rather innocent expression. “So then came me, and Angel, and little Harmonia. They always called us “the little ones,” and we did everything together. That's just how it is. Some people don't understand that, but that's our family. Angel and Harm, they like living at home. And the guys are happy with that, too. They just like to come and hang out and watch television.
We're all comfortable. So I couldn't imagine why it made Alice so uncomfortable.”

“Good question.” What had gone through the mind of Alice Dixon in the weeks before her death? I could see how this sort of work would drive Parker crazy. How was one supposed to determine the secrets of a dead person?

I thanked Pet for talking with me and watched while my father checked out his travel books. Two of them were about Italy. “Serafina has been telling us such wonderful stories—about the little towns, and the warm people, and the food that your taste buds can't forget,” he told me.

“I'll bet. She probably wants you to meet her whole giant family.”

My father grinned at me. Pet handed him his books in a little Pine Haven Library bag. My father said, “Thank you, ma'am,” in his charming voice, and Pet blushed. Then my dad slid an arm around my shoulders and we made our way back to the car, where Parker's jacket sat on the passenger seat.

“To the police station?” my father asked.

“I guess. I hope he won't think I'm interrupting him.”

“He'll think you're being thoughtful.”

My father fiddled with his CD player until Paul McCartney's voice filled the car; he was singing “Hey, Jude,” with beautiful sincerity and perfect pitch.

“That man could sing. Still can,” my father said. He had said this a million times in my lifetime—almost as many times as he had assured me that butter pecan was the best ice cream flavor and that my mother was a beautiful woman.

He pulled into the police station parking lot and I got a case of the butterflies. I saw my father looking at me out of
the corner of his eye, so I feigned nonchalance. “Come on, then,” I said. “Since you want to meet him so badly.”

We walked into the drab lobby and a receptionist asked our names. I told her and said that I needed to speak with Detective Parker.

“Just a moment,” she said. She lifted a phone and spoke into it; then she said, “Detective Grimaldi will be with you in a moment.”

Sure enough, Parker's partner emerged in a blue suit and some attractive low-heeled shoes and smiled at us. “How may I help you? You're Miss Drake, are you not?”

I found my voice. “This is my father, Daniel Drake. Dad, this is Detective Grimaldi. Mom and I met her on bingo night.”

“And I saw you with Miss Grandy the other night,” said Detective Grimaldi with a wide smile.

“Yes. Pet is my friend.”

My father nodded. “We were here to see Detective Parker?”

She was still smiling. “I'm afraid he is not here at the moment. Did you have a question or comment regarding the case?”

My hands tightened on the jacket. I didn't want to give it to her, and I tried to imply as much in an urgent look that I sent to my father, who immediately misinterpreted it. “My daughter wanted to leave his jacket here. He left it at the investigation scene last night.”

Detective Grimaldi tucked a strand of her glossy black hair behind her ear. “Thank you very much for bringing it by. I'll see that he gets it.” She held out one well-manicured hand, and I relinquished Parker's jacket, trying to surreptitiously sniff it once more before I gave it away.

“Is he pursuing a lead?” my father asked.

Detective Grimaldi gave him her expressionless cop face. “I'm afraid I can't comment on that. I can assure you that we're doing all we can to find this person.”

“Who?” I asked. “The poisoner, or the graffiti artist who painted my house? Do you really think they are one and the same?”

“We don't know. But finding that out is our primary goal. Our only focus, right now. Please believe that, Lilah.” She touched my arm. Her gesture said
I am a trustworthy public servant who cares about you
.

I nodded, wondering if she ever touched Parker's arm when they rode around together, fighting crime. “Thanks. Meanwhile my parents are worried about every bite that I eat.”

Grimaldi looked a little miserable then. “We are advising the entire community to take precautions, of course. Just eat homemade food for the time being, and always lock your doors. Since you in particular seem to have been targeted, we have an officer assigned to your house and you'll be protected. Believe me—no one's getting near you.”

I saw then that even though Grimaldi was rather pretty, her eyes looked like Parker's—weary and dejected.

*   *   *

B
EREFT OF
P
ARKER'S
jacket, I pouted in the car while my father drove me home; an old Eurythmics song called “Who's That Girl?” was floating around in my head, until my companion turned on the car radio and Train drowned it out with their insistent positivity. My father sent me a couple of sidelong glances, seemingly ready to have a chat, as though I were sixteen and wanting to confide. To head him off, I started
talking about Mick and something funny he'd done the week before. My dad took the hint and didn't say a word about our short trip to the police station.

He pulled into our driveway five minutes later. The house smelled like pumpkin bread, and we were confronted with even more music: my mother was strumming her guitar while looking at tabs online. I marveled anew at her easy talent; she played the guitar quite well but had never taken a single lesson. She taught herself, she told me once, so that she could sing to Cameron and me when we were little. It had paid off. Back then, a few refrains strummed softly, and Cam and I conked out like we were under sedation.

“I made a snack,” she told us, and then went back to humming “Here, There and Everywhere” while she played along. I was on the verge of musical overload.

My father made an approving sound. “One of the best songs ever written.” He took my jacket and removed his own, then went to hang them up in the hall closet.

Since my mother was busy, I went into the kitchen, jammed a piece of warm pumpkin bread in my mouth, and then climbed upstairs to my father's office, where I sat in his black faux-leather chair and dialed Trixie Frith. Then I held the phone about a foot away from my ear.

“Hello?” Trixie boomed.

“Trixie, it's Lilah.”

“Hey, sweetheart! What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to ask you a question—”

“Lilah! Are you by a computer?”

“Yeah, but why—”

“Lilah! Go on Skype.”

“What?”

“Theresa and I are trying to learn how to Skype. Our kids are always bugging us about it. So we're practicing.”

“Go on Skype!” I heard Theresa yell in the background.

With a sigh, I logged on to the computer and signed in to my father's Skype account. “I have to hang up this line, Trixie, so I can call you on the other one. Okay?”

“Okay!” Trixie boomed. Theresa, apparently still in persuasion mode, yelled, “Go on Skype, Lilah!”

I hung up the phone and then dialed Trixie's number online. Soon enough we were connected, and there was Trixie with a different neon lipstick, her blonde hair slightly mussed. She was, predictably, looking away from the camera, as was tiny little Theresa, who peered over Trixie's shoulder at something unknown.

“You guys. Look into the camera. Look at me, in other words.”

They shifted their gaze and then both burst into appreciative speech, drowning each other out. Trixie stopped first, so I caught the end of Theresa's sentence, which was “always telling us to Skype, so . . .”

“Hi, ladies.”

“Hi, Lilah. You look pretty today,” Trixie said. “I wonder if your mom's hair was that blonde when she was young.”

“I think it was. She still has some blonde, mixed in with the silver.”

“It's a beautiful color,” said Theresa brightly. She was wearing some sort of little blue-jean overall outfit that looked as if it had come from the Kohl's girls' department, but it looked good on her.