The Big Chili (17 page)

“Listen,” I said. “Did you guys ever hear that Alice Dixon
might have been seeing another man? Like when she was still married to Hank?”

Trixie and Theresa, forgetting that they were on camera, exchanged a significant glance but said nothing.

“I can see you,” I reminded them.

Theresa jumped and Trixie smiled guiltily. “That's right. Well, we did hear rumors. But it wasn't a man from the parish. That's all we knew—that she had been seen out and about with some guy. I'm not sure if Hank found out about it or not, but that's why a lot of people sided with Hank when they announced they were divorcing. We all remembered that little rumor, especially when Alice tried to suggest that it was Hank's girlfriend who broke things up. Hank didn't meet her until later.”

“Yeah—I just heard the story of how they met. Sort of romantic.”

“She's a lady doctor,” said Theresa, sounding like Mrs. Andrews, my file nemesis at the real estate office.

“Or you could just say a doctor. A veterinarian, actually.”

“Yeah. Very impressive,” Trixie said, nodding. “Young people are so accomplished these days. All Alice did was sit around and think of ways to be miserable. Hank is better off, I have to say.”

She didn't have to say, but since I had encouraged the gossip I couldn't really complain about it.

“I should get going,” I said. “But let me ask you this. Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge—against me?”

Both women's eyes opened wide. “Against you?” cried Trixie, her loud voice causing static on the microphone. “Why, hon? Did something happen?”

“Not much. It might not be related. Maybe just a little Halloween mischief, my dad thinks. But who knows? People have been dying.” My throat suddenly hurt. If I wasn't careful I would burst out crying in front of Trixie and Theresa.

“I can't think of anyone who would hold a grudge against you,” said Theresa in a comforting grandma sort of voice. “Your family is kind and generous in the parish, and always willing to lend a hand.”

“Pet and Father Schmidt just love you,” Trixie added. “They're always saying what a fun young person you are.”

“That's nice,” I said. “Hey, I've got to go. I'm having an early dinner with the parents. Have a good day, both of you.”

“See you later, Lilah.”

Just before the screen went dark, I saw the smiles vanish from their faces, as though they thought they were already off camera. I wondered what had suddenly sobered them—the questions I had asked? The reality that I had been victimized? Or was it, perhaps, that they'd been forced to lie to me?

Thanks to the murderer running loose around the city, I was becoming utterly paranoid, and even church ladies had started to seem sinister.

*   *   *

T
HAT EVENING AFTER
dinner I sat watching
Charade
with my mother. We were both partial to Cary Grant; my father said he couldn't see the appeal. Men, my mother assured me, were envious of Grant's effortless masculinity. This offended my father, who huffed into the kitchen to do the dinner dishes. When the phone rang, I heard his muffled hello and then a brief silence. Then he appeared in the doorway, a dish towel
over his shoulder and one hand over the phone. “Lilah. It's your boyfriend from the police station.”

“He's not my boyfriend, Dad,” I said, sounding and feeling about fifteen years old. Then, continuing the theme of immaturity, I ran to my father, yanked the phone out of his hand, and went running up the stairs with it so that my parents couldn't eavesdrop. In a rather traitorous choice, Mick stayed curled up at my mother's feet, snoring slightly even though his eyes were open.

“Hello?” I said, safely in my room and breathing hard.

“What did I interrupt? Were you doing jumping jacks?” Parker joked.

“No. I had to run down from upstairs. What's up? Did you find him?”

“No. Sorry to get your hopes up. I just . . . wanted to thank you for dropping off my jacket.”

“Oh, no problem. Thank you for letting me wear it. It's nice and warm.”

I caught a glimpse of my own dismay in the mirror above my old dresser. What a lame response! For some reason I thought of Mrs. Andrews and her dome of white hair; back in her day they probably taught people how to have proper telephone conversations.

Parker's voice sounded the same, but somehow it seemed sexier to me than before. “I'm sorry I missed you. I mean, I
was
sorry, when I came in and Maria told me you'd been there.”

“Maria?” Jealousy stabbed me in the gut and had me scowling at my reflection. I turned away from the mirror and faced the window across the room.

“Detective Grimaldi, my partner.”

“Oh yes. She's pretty, isn't she?”

“Hmm? Sure. Anyway, I was upset that I missed you. So I thought I'd call.”

“I appreciate it. It's nice to hear from you—although it would be better if you said you'd caught someone.”

“We will catch him, Lilah, and soon.”

“Is that so?” My voice sounded bleak.

“Of course. Try not to worry.” Now Parker's voice was no-nonsense; I pictured that stern teacher face he was making on the day I met him.

“Easier said than done, I'm afraid.”

“This case is our top priority—Maria and I are working twelve-hour days. Few criminals escape a truly disciplined and relentless investigative team.”

“I know you're a hard worker, Jay. And I trust you to get this guy soon.”

“I will.” His voice held a certain intensity—but of course he was just feeling passionate about his job.

“Anyway, thank you for calling, Detective Parker.”

“Lilah, I promise to keep updating you, all right? I'll call again soon,” he said.

I said good-bye and clicked off. Then I turned off the light and went back down the stairs to replace the phone in its charger.

“What's wrong?” asked my eagle-eyed mother from the living room. She had, ever thoughtful, paused the movie for me so that I didn't miss anything.

I returned to my spot on the couch and hugged a pillow against me. “You can both stop staring at me.”

“Why so glum, chum?” asked my father, borrowing a
phrase that I was guessing could be traced back to the Great Depression.

I shrugged. “He just called to talk about police stuff. And to thank me for handing in his jacket.”

My father made a wry face and exchanged a look with my mother. “Lilah, normally I would not get involved in my daughter's love life. But since you really seem to like this guy I have to tell you something from a man's point of view: he didn't need to call you about the jacket. And he could have some clerk call with updates about the case. And he wouldn't have given his jacket to any other person in the first place. Do you see what I'm saying?”

“No.”

“Lilah, he called you at home in the evening, probably from his house.”

“He works long hours.”

“He doesn't need to keep contacting you, Lilah—he just wants to.”

“What?”

“It's obvious,” my father said, rolling his eyes.

“It
is
obvious,” agreed my mother.

“What's so great about this guy, anyway?” my father asked.

“He's very handsome,” my mother told my father, as though I weren't sitting right there. “And so polite. He questioned me on the night Alice died, and I was struck by his polite manner.”

I hugged my pillow. “Let's just watch the movie. But turn it up a little; Mick's snoring is getting kind of loud.”

“Sure, honey,” my mother said.

My father wasn't finished. “And here's another thing,” he
added. “He clearly can't resist getting in touch with you. He probably told you he called for official reasons, but that's a classic gambit. I'll bet he told you that he's going to call back.”

Parker had said that; he'd said he would call back soon.

“
There's
that pretty smile!” my mother said.

I ignored them both. “Let's just watch the movie,” I said.

F
or the next week things fell into a daily rhythm: in the morning I drove with my parents to the realty offices; in the evening I would use their kitchen to keep up with my covered-dish business. With Parker's advance permission, my father accompanied me to my much-missed little house so that I could retrieve my calendar and a variety of kitchen tools and dishes that I needed. Terry had seen to it that the offending writing had been removed and the wall repainted. The front of the cottage looked as good as new.

My life got back to as normal a pattern as it could with me living away from my home. The new sound track of my life included the recurring plaintive songs of Emmylou Harris. I didn't know the words to any of them, but they played some folksy Muzak at the real estate office, and I had absorbed a lot of her haunting melodies. One of them had the words “icy
blue heart,” in it, and that one in particular was rattling around in my head.

On the Thursday after Halloween I delivered another casserole to Danielle Prentiss, my smoky client, who had indeed loved the addition of cumin and had requested that I make “the exact same thing” for her next poker party.

We met at our usual spot and she bounced toward me like a spring to claim the dish. “Lilah, I have to tell you—your food is an addiction! And not just for me. Everyone in my poker party thinks I'm a culinary genius. It's a shame you can't get the credit.” She gave me a sly smile and I laughed.

“I'm getting paid,” I said.

“Still.” She shook her head as though my anonymity were a real shame. After thanking me again, she drove off, and I went back to Mick, my delivery companion.

We drove to our place, which I looked at with wistful longing. Mick, too, seemed ready to walk down the driveway and settle into his regular basket. “Not today, buddy. We're just here to talk with Britt.”

I had made an appointment to speak with Britt about catering. Despite the fact that she was my friend, my hand was clammy on Mick's leash, and my heart was racing as I rapped on the door.

Terry answered, looking calm and rested, as usual. I felt a sudden longing for Terry's lifestyle. I was willing to wager it was full of things like naps and capricious journeys to beautiful places. “Hey, Lilah,” he said. “Great to see you. Did you have fun at the party? I mean, before the whole thing afterward?”

“It was the greatest party ever, and you guys are the best hosts.”

His look held affection and a bit of concern. He waved me after him and we walked toward his big kitchen, where we sat on two copper-legged stools under about five thousand dollars' worth of gleaming pots and pans, hanging from the ceiling on metal hooks. Terry offered me some of his expensive coffee, which I declined; I was wired enough without caffeine. He poured some for himself and took a sip, then patted my hand. “I got your place all cleaned up. Looks good as new.”

“Yeah, Dad and I were in there the other day. Thanks so much, Terry.”

“You're okay, right? I mean, you're not—scared?”

“No, not exactly. I mean, I'm not ready to live in there alone, but I'm not trembling in fear all over town. Mick and I are running errands tonight just like we always have.”

“Good.” He gave my hand another pat. “I don't want anyone taking your independence from you. That's important.” His sincerity left me momentarily speechless. I nodded at him, and he pulled me into a hug.

Britt walked in and sighed theatrically. “I turn around for one moment, and you start an affair with Lilah.”

“She's a temptress,” Terry said, letting me go and winking at me.

I wiped my eyes and Terry hopped off his stool. “You sit, Britt. I have to go pay some bills.” He waved to me and kissed Britt on the lips, then strolled off with the ease of a man on his way to some sort of leisure—perhaps to smell the flowers in his garden or to take a bicycle ride.

Britt stared after him. “He's priceless, isn't he? But he's so sweet.”

“He really is. I've never met anyone like Terry.”

“And you never will again,” Britt joked. We laughed, then she grew serious. “I know Terry probably already said this, but . . . we're here if you need anything. You know that, right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” I took a calming breath and said, “But that's not why I'm here. I want to tell you about a little business I've had for the last year or so.”

Britt raised her eyebrows, and I told her about my covered-dish company—what sorts of foods I'd made, how many clients I had, the various happy responses I'd received. “It's like a catering company, but on a rather limited scale. Still, I have a book full of clients who call me on a regular basis, and I might be able to convince a few of them to provide references, despite the clandestine nature of the thing. And of course you're kind of a reference, too, since I made you some food the other day.”

“Absolutely,” she said.

“And I was wondering if you'd be willing to give me a try for one of your future parties,” I said. “Something small, so that you can get a sense of my cooking without having to risk ruining a giant dinner party.”

Britt laughed. “Lilah, I would never believe you could ruin anything. I think you have a magic touch.”

“Hardly,” I said.

“I would love to hire you. With Haven going out of business, this is a great new option. In fact . . .” Britt's eyes widened.

“What?”

“Well, I know Esther Reynolds pretty well. She's the genius behind Haven of Pine Haven. She hearkens from New England, but she long ago decided that Chicago was her sweet
home, like the song on Terry's jukebox says. Maybe I could introduce you to her.”

I tried not to lunge at Britt, but I didn't quite succeed. I grabbed her wrist and said, “If you could arrange a meeting I would be forever indebted to you. Maybe she wouldn't go out of business if she could find an energetic young worker who knows her way around the kitchen.”

Britt sent me a sparkly smile. “Maybe you're just what she's looking for!”

*   *   *

B
RITT AND
I were both busy in the next week, but she promised to speak with Esther Reynolds and to get back to me in the near future. In return, I promised her eternal devotion.

Feeling like a true professional, I began to suggest to my parents that it was probably time for me to go home. I mentioned it again on Thursday evening while we ate spaghetti together in their kitchen.

“I don't like the idea,” my mother said. “This person is unpredictable and probably insane, and he knows where you live!”

I nodded. “But what if they never catch him? What if I'm forty years old and still living here?”

My father cleared his throat. “Why don't you put a little faith in that cop you like so much? He said he's on it twelve hours a day, right? So give him some time. It's only been a week.”

This was true, and I had no real argument except that I missed my home. “That's a good point, Dad, and I do trust that Parker is working his hardest. But maybe this person is a genius. Maybe he or she is so clever that they'll continue to
elude everyone. Meanwhile, my little house sits empty. Don't you think the cop they assigned me would watch me out there?”

They frowned at me. “Let's think it over and talk again later,” my mother said, her favorite stalling tactic. “You know, your brother thinks you should stay here, too.”

You win this round, family
. “Well, I'll need to kick you out of your kitchen again tonight, because I have a business to run, and I have a delivery tomorrow.”

“No problem,” my dad said. “I have some accounts to look over, and Mom has a sewing project, don't you?”

“Yes, indeedy,” my mother agreed. “I'm making a quilt for Serafina. It will have the Italian flag in the center. It's going to be beautiful.”

“I'm sure it will, Mom.” She was clever at the sewing machine, too. She had endless creative outlets. “And I think I'm next in line for a quilt. Cam got one for his last birthday, remember?”

“Sure, honey. How about if I make one with little Labradors on it?”

“Awesome.” I slipped Mick a piece of meatball where he sat under the table. He took it softly, without baring any teeth, and ate silently. Mick could be stealthy when needed.

We soon left the table and my mother gave Mick some leftovers in his bowl. The secret to getting lots of food, Mick had learned, was to be patient and adorable.

My mother and I cleaned up the kitchen, and I prepared another quiche Lorraine casserole for the Sullivans, who had become renowned in their Scouting circle for their baked contributions. While I worked, I thought of Cam and Fina. I wondered what it had been like when he first looked her up—
just the sister of a friend that he met in Rome. Had it been love at first sight? Had Cam felt some sort of lightning flashing inside him? And if so, how lucky that the feeling had been mutual. Aye, there was the rub. The feeling had to be mutual. I stirred my batter with extra vigor and then spooned it into the dish.

By the time I was finished with everything, it was quite dark outside. I started packing up the food, and my father loomed up behind me. “Hey, Li.”

“Hey, Dad.”

“Not to get all protective on you, but how about if you deliver that one in the morning? You can come in late to the office. I'll cover for you with the boss,” he joked.

I hadn't been looking forward to making the delivery, even with a companion. My paranoia worsened in the darkness. “Okay,” I said. “Provided this fits in your fridge.”

It did.

Once again we gathered in their cozy living room to watch a movie. This time it was
Zorro
. I knew that my parents enjoyed having me back home again, and a part of me enjoyed it, too. I decided to count on Parker to solve things soon, so that my visit ended while we all still enjoyed one another's company and before I became a rather burdensome guest. I sat with Mick's head in my lap and admired Catherine Zeta-Jones's perfect beauty.

“That Antonio Banderas reminds me of Angelo,” my mother said. “So handsome.”

“Not a name to be discussed in this house,” my father said with a rare burst of emotion.

I sighed, finding a certain irony in the fact that my brother and I, who had grown up with a mutual fascination for Italian
culture, had both found Italian loves. His was so popular that my mother was making her a quilt. Mine was so disliked that my father couldn't even bear to hear him mentioned.

*   *   *

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I drove the casserole out to the Sullivans' house. Mike was in the front yard raking leaves, and he waved at me when I drove up. His dark hair had grown a bit long, and it blew into his face in a strong gust of autumn air. He wore only blue jeans and a Notre Dame sweatshirt, and he looked a bit chilled.

I walked toward him, leaving Mick in the car. He seemed happy to stay there; Mick didn't always like cold air.

“Hey, Lilah,” Mike called to me, leaning on his rake. “Looks like you're going to enhance our reputation once again.”

“I'd like to think so,” I said, smiling.

He tossed the rake aside and took the pan from me. “Let me put this inside and get your envelope,” he said. He darted up his stairs and disappeared into his house; a large Dracula still graced the front door, despite the November date.

I glanced down the sidewalk and saw someone walking a dog. I looked away, then looked back. The dog looked familiar, as did the walker. . . . I realized with a start that it was Shelby Jansen, my little teenage friend. I waved at her, surprised, and she jogged toward me with her canine companion.

It was a beautiful dog, a long-haired German shepherd with a remarkably handsome face; his snout was mostly black, but his fur was a mixture of black, buff, and cream. He was panting; he seemed to be smiling at me. I knelt to pet him, and I heard Mick whining his disapproval in the car. Mick
was a gentleman, though—he didn't cause a barking scene the way some dogs might have done.

“Who's this guy, Shelby?” I asked.

“Isn't this funny that I saw you?” she gushed at me. “This is Apollo, Mr. Dixon's dog.”

“Oh? And how do you happen to be walking him?”

“Oh—it's something we do through our animal club at school. The one I told you about? We volunteer as dog walkers for people who work. We take turns—us kids and Miss Grandy.”

“So how did you end up walking here?”

She shrugged. “This is where Mr. Dixon lives.” She pointed at the blue house where Alice Dixon had lived—the house Hank had inherited.

I looked at the house through narrowed eyes. “Hank lives here? I mean, he moved back in? I thought he was going to sell the place.”

She shrugged again. “This is where he told me to come, and he left the key and money and stuff. But, I mean . . . the house looks lived-in. By a guy. It has guy stuff around. I mean, it's his house now, right? So why wouldn't he live in it?”