The Big Chili (19 page)

B
ritt called me at work on
M
onday. “
H
ey,
L
ilah. Can I pick you up from work today? I've set up a little meeting with Esther Reynolds.”

“What? Oh my gosh. I don't know if I'm wearing something nice enough—”

Britt laughed. “We're not meeting the queen. Esther is down-to-earth. But you have to see her kitchen.”

“I do, I really do. Oh, Britt, you are my best friend.”

Britt giggled. “I'll be there at—what time—four?”

“Yeah, that's great. Thanks so much.”

I was so thrilled at the thought of meeting the Haven creator that I didn't get angry when Mrs. Andrews cornered me and started telling a boring story about her dot matrix printer and how it used to be the norm in offices. I eyed her giant white hairdo and wondered if I could hide a pencil in there.

My father appeared with some file folders. “Celia, could you file these with the recent closings?”

Mrs. Andrews took them with a flourish, leaving a trace of lilac perfume in her wake.

“Lilah, I need you to make some calls, see if these people are still interested. If anyone sounds ready to make an offer, transfer them to me.”

“You got it, Donald Trump.”

My father scowled. “Never compare me to him again.”

“Just kidding, Dad. Why are you so grumpy?”

He yawned. “I didn't sleep well last night. Your mother wanted the window slightly open, and it was freezing! Sharing a bed with that woman is a constant challenge.”

“
That woman
got up early to make you coffee. And fresh air is good for you.”

“That's what she said. It was forty-eight degrees last night, Lilah.”

I laughed and ruffled his hair, which also made him scowl. Then I got to work on the phone calls, which were mostly failures, but my last try generated enough interest that I patched the guy through to my father. Maybe he'd get a sale out of it—that would cheer him up.

*   *   *

B
RITT PICKED ME
up in her sea glass–blue Passat, which had been a gift from Terry. Yeah, that was how people like Britt and Terry rolled—giving each other cars and throwing lavish parties. Since they were both particularly kind and down-to-earth, I couldn't even resent them for their luxuries; I simply admired them as one would admire royalty from another world.

“Hey, Lilah! Oh, don't you look cute, with that pretty knitted sweater!”

My mother had made it. I tended to wear it when I felt nostalgic for my childhood, when much of my clothing (and Cam's) had been mother-made. Today's sweater had been knitted with a multihued yarn in autumn tones. It was lovely, and people always commented on it. I wore it with brown corduroys and flat brown Aerosoles. I had thought it was an attractive outfit, although it didn't hold a candle to Britt's elegant brushed-suede jacket in an unusual shade of purple, worn over an understated blue pantsuit. Her dark hair hung in a glossy, fragrant sheet on either side of her pretty face.

“Thanks. You look amazing.”

“You're too kind.” She fiddled with the windshield wiper switch; a cold drizzle was falling.

“I'm actually having second thoughts about meeting her today,” I said.

Britt laughed. “That's called cold feet, and I will not allow it. Esther is expecting us, and she said she was making gingerbread cake.”

“Oh,” I said. One couldn't argue with Britt, no matter how nervous one might feel.

Moments later we pulled up in front of Haven, a darling little storefront right next to the Village Hall, with a hand-painted sign of white letters on a green background, and a simple graphic of a fork and knife with smiling faces. The sign read
HAVEN OF PINE HAVEN: CATERING FOR EVERY OCCASION
.

The moment we crossed the threshold I knew that we were in the presence of greatness; the aroma alone told me that. This wasn't just the smell of gingerbread—buttery tones over
cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg with a slight vanilla base—but some extra, indefinable ingredient that made me feel nostalgic, happy, and sad all at once. Nothing can elicit emotion—and memory—like the scent of food, and this came home to me in an instant in Esther Reynolds's kitchen.

We were in a little green-tiled lobby, and before us was a long white counter that held a cash register and a big sample book full of photographs of food. I opened this and began to page through it, but my eyes kept straying past the counter to the giant kitchen beyond. Everything was stainless steel and spotless. I felt a burst of envy for the giant island in the center of the room—how easy it would be to prepare multiple dishes on that work space! Pots, pans, and bowls were tucked under the island on a variety of wooden shelves; it was clear that the furniture had been designed with their profession in mind.

I returned to the book in front of me and flipped to a page with the heading “High Tea.” Beneath a picture of a long wooden table filled with food were various menu options, including things like sun-dried tomato–asparagus muffins, spiced blueberry scones, olive and cream cheese sandwiches on pretzel bread, caramelized puff pastry with hazelnut praline mousseline cream . . .

“Oh my! You're here. I thought I heard the bell. Hello, Britt.” Esther Reynolds appeared before us, placid and bespectacled, white-haired but not old. She embraced my companion with a warm smile. Then she turned to me. “And you must be Lilah. Britt told me you're quite a cook.”

“Oh—well—I like to think so. I've enjoyed your food at many events, and it's all been fantastic. I'm a bit in awe—you've always been the go-to catering company of this town.”

She smiled at me. “That's nice of you, dear. We have held our own, I'll say that, and we have a loyal client base. But my husband and I are the main chefs these days. My daughter Marian and her husband used to work with us, but they had a great opportunity to relocate to Philadelphia. And our sons have no interest in cooking—Mark's a computer whiz and Luke's a teacher. So here we are. We're considering retirement; maybe finding out what it's like to live in Florida or California.”

“Or maybe you can just find someone who's experienced and a great helper, like Lilah,” Britt said. She really was selling me, which I appreciated.

“Why don't we all sit down,” Esther said.

We moved past her front counter and into a side room where she'd set a table with a white linen cloth and delicate china teacups. The teapot looked at least fifty years old, and it bore a pattern of pale pink tea roses. “That's lovely,” I said.

“Thanks. Sit down, sit down. Help yourself to some gingerbread cake and tea. I always like to talk over a meal, don't you?”

“Yes,” Britt and I said in unison. We did as Esther urged and helped ourselves; soon I was tasting the wonder that the lovely aroma had promised.

“This is amazing,” I said. “I think I can pinpoint all the ingredients except one. I can taste the ginger, the nutmeg—vanilla, butter, cinnamon—”

“Cloves,” said Esther with a smile. “And molasses. And some of my husband Rick's homemade applesauce. And some almond paste.”

“Almonds! That's it. I never would have paired almonds with those other things, but somehow—God, this is good.”

We ate for a moment in silence, Britt groaning her agreement as she sampled her own cake from the tiny rose-patterned plate.

“Thank you so much, Esther,” Britt said. “The tea and cake—such a soul-warming treat after that cold rain outside.”

“Food warms the soul, indeed,” Esther said, smiling. Then she turned to me. “What sort of things do you like to make, Lilah?”

I stared at her, awestruck, and then, as I had done with Britt days before, I told her about my undercover business. How I had expanded from my first few clients; how I had to keep people's secrets as a part of my service; how I had invented various new covered dishes to meet the demand of school events, bingo suppers, Scout meetings.

Esther stirred some sugar into her tea and nodded. “That is clever,” she said. “Very innovative. You found your niche clientele. But obviously you'd like to be able to come out of the cooking closet, as it were. Establish a name for yourself.”

“Yes, that's the goal,” I said. “Although whatever I did, I'd keep a lot of my clients, since I generally make their food on my own time—evenings and weekends.”

“Hmm.” She cut some more pieces of cake and offered one to both Britt and me; we accepted. “I wonder if you might like to try working at Haven. We could call it a trial period for you and for us. Jim and I still aren't sure that we don't want to retire. On the other hand, if we had some capable help around here, we might not have to think about closing our doors quite so soon.”

“I would love it!” I said, my mouth full of the cake I couldn't resist. “Esther, I would love that! Just tell me when to start. And give me some time to break it gently to my
parents, who like having me work with them at their real estate office. But they'll be happy for me, believe me, once they get used to the idea.”

Esther nodded. “We have a lot of requests at the holidays. It's going to get busy soon. What if you started in two weeks?”

“I'll be here. Just tell me the day. I have my own car, so I can help with deliveries. Oh, and I have a dog, Mick, who is usually my security when I deliver things, if that's okay—”

She giggled. “We love dogs,” she said. “Cats, too. If you went through that door”—she pointed at a cheerful, red-painted door behind our table—“and went into our living quarters back there, you'd find a whole menagerie. I'm surprised the canines aren't barking away right now. They must be napping.”

I stared. “You live on the premises?”

“Oh yes. This building was quite a find. Roomy living quarters with a view of Crandall Creek out back. And the seller happened to be very motivated, so it was affordable. He had gotten a job in Sacramento.”

“Wow,” I said.

“This building has great bones,” said Britt, looking around with a sculptor's eye. “And that brick wall at the back—gorgeous!”

Esther nodded. “I admit it, we've been lucky. We've got a good place here. We wouldn't mind staying.”

We continued our little tea party, but more than once I caught Esther looking at me with what seemed a measuring expression; I probably looked at her, and my surroundings, in the same way. Haven, for me, might live up to its name.

*   *   *

B
RITT DROPPED ME
off at my parents' house, her face smug. Mick was waiting for me at the door, even though my mother assured me he had been walked and watered. “Hey, boy,” I said, sitting next to him in the foyer. A fragrant bowl of potpourri beside us scented the air with pumpkin and spice.

Mick allowed me to pet him for a while, until his seemingly hurt feelings mellowed.

“Is that better?” I asked, admiring the sincerity of his chocolate eyes.

Mick waited a minute, but he couldn't resist. He nodded.

“That's my boy,” I said, hugging him.

Mick sat under my chair when we ate dinner, and I slipped him the occasional piece of my hamburger. Eventually, after we watched some television together and my parents both dozed off in front of the books they were reading, I called my dog and made my way up to bed. Somehow, despite the comfort of a loyal canine friend, a mother-made sweater, and the promise of a bright new career, I was haunted by the memory of words scrawled across my house, and of Alice Dixon saying there was something wrong with the chili.

I lay in the dark, my eyes on the blue-white crescent moon, which sat on a pile of gray clouds. How could I pursue my future when something dark obscured my present? When in the world would this murderer be exposed?

O
n our way home from work the next day, we stopped at St. Bart's. My mother had agreed to be one of the planners of the Christmas boutique, and she had to drop some things off with the parish secretary, whose name was Erin Hartley. “Let me just run this envelope to Erin,” my mother said and bolted out of the car in her brisk way. My father and I both knew that she was going to talk with Erin, as well, and that we might be looking at a ten-minute wait. His hand went to the radio dial and started roaming stations. I spied Father Schmidt on the side lawn of the church, kneeling in front of a flower bed.

“Hey, since Mom's going to be gone for a few minutes, I'm going to talk to Father Schmidt,” I said. My father grunted, and I left the car and made my way toward our parish priest. He was wearing jeans, a Notre Dame sweatshirt, and
gardening gloves, and he was busy pulling weeds that poked out between some purple mums. Even in early November, the hardy mums were still alive, as were some of the determined plant intruders that insinuated their way into his garden.

“Hello, Lilah,” he said.

“Hello, Father. A priest's job is never done, huh?”

“Oh, I suppose not. Although this is less of a chore and more like therapy. I've always needed to get my hands in the earth now and then. It's like a prayer, don't you think?”

I had never considered this before. “That's a lovely way of putting it.” I squatted down and said, “Father, I've been thinking about Alice Dixon.”

He nodded sadly. “I'm sure we all have. She's been in my daily prayers. Alice was devoted to God, and I trust that she is with him.”

“Yes.” I paused. “I've been thinking more of her life on Earth, and who might have wanted to poison her.”

He looked up at me. “Could you push my glasses up on my nose, Lilah? My hands are covered with dirt.”

I did so, and he smiled. “There. Now I can see you properly. I need to get those fitted better. They're always sliding off.” He sat back on his heels and wiped his dirty hands on the grass. “Pet told me that you are friendly with the police officer who is investigating Alice's murder.”

I sighed, not bothering to deny it. This was the power of the St. Bart's rumor mill. “Do you have any ideas, Father? Can you think of anyone who wished Alice harm?”

He shook his head. “No. Alice was not an easy person, we all know that. She was rather like a rose—elegant and lovely, but quite prickly when handled. So yes, she created some conflicts in the church community. But I wouldn't go
so far as to say she made enemies. You knew Alice. She was . . . complicated. In many ways she was like the girl I remember—she and I both grew up in Chicago, did you know? On the same street, right near Cumberland and Foster. I was just starting seminary school when Alice was still a little girl, perhaps a first grader, and I remember visiting home and seeing her on the block, running and playing. Even then she was quite particular. She didn't like to get dirty when she played. She would take her little dolls out in a wagon, but she would put a blanket between the metal of the wagon and her dolls' dresses because she didn't want to soil them.”

He wiped his hands some more on the grass, then took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes with his forearm. Only then did I realize he was brushing away tears. I felt in my pockets for a tissue; I usually carried one in case I had a sneeze attack. I found one and handed it to him.

He thanked me and wiped his eyes. “It's hard not to feel sad, even though I know Alice is with God. But to die that way, without last rites, without a chance to say good-bye or perhaps to say sorry . . .” He shook his head.

“And to whom do you think she might want to apologize?”

He nodded. “You want to know this for your friend. He wants answers, right?”

“I think I just want to know for myself. I don't know if you're aware, Father, but someone threatened me recently. After Bert died. They painted the words ‘You're Next' on my house.”

Father Schmidt's eyes grew wide, and he grasped my hands with his dirty ones. Then he remembered the dirt and dropped my hands. “Oh—I got dirt on you.”

“It will wash off.”

“Lilah, this is terrible! I had no idea. You must be frightened and angry.”

“Both of those.”

He nodded. “So you want to know who I think resented Alice Dixon. The answer is, everyone. There were some women who resented her for having a higher rank than they in the women's club. Yes, some resentments are just that basic. Then there were those who were angry at her for perceived slights, real or imagined. As I said, Alice was not a cuddly person. I wouldn't even say she was a
nice
person. But she was a woman with feelings, and those feelings could be hurt. She knew that people didn't always like her, but she couldn't understand why. She was one of those people who didn't see herself the way others saw her; she didn't understand that she seemed cold. More than once she came to me crying, saying, “Father, why don't they like me?”

“Oh my.”

“Yes. And I would sit down with her and counsel her, and ask her to make more of an effort to empathize with others. She tried, I know she did. But her nature worked against her; she was not an empathetic person. Poor Alice. I so often saw the child in her.”

I nodded. “Who else resented her, Father?”

“Well, her husband, of course. Their marriage was tempestuous and largely unhappy. In their case, I think separation was the healthiest thing.”

“I didn't know priests could say that.”

He shrugged. “I'm speaking more as a psychologist. That was my minor in school. Hank had many resentments, some of which were quite justified. But he wasn't perfect, either. Marriage is such a difficult challenge, really. I think of it as
two boats, sailing side by side. But how difficult is it to remain side by side when the storms come? Boats can become separated.”

This was like trying to get answers out of Confucius, although I did admire this philosophical side of Father Kurt Schmidt. “What about the church ladies? The Grandy sisters, or Trixie or Theresa, or Mrs. Breen, your housekeeper?”

Father Schmidt grinned. “Mrs. Breen disliked her intensely. They are both strong women who like to take charge. You can imagine how those interactions went, especially if Alice tried to take control over something in the rectory.”

I giggled. Then I said, “Why would anyone do that? I mean, don't these people have lives of their own?”

His eyes were wise. “No, not always.”

“Huh. And what about the other women?”

He sighed and stretched his long arms. “Alice had a strange relationship to the Grandys. I think, in an odd way, she envied their sisterhood, their connection to one another. Alice was an only child.”

“Ah.”

“But she considered them her friends, as well, and often they would work side by side without conflict, mostly peacefully. They would joke with one another, and Alice would lavish them with presents. That was one thing about Alice: she was a woman of some means, and she was always generous. To the church, to the poor, to her friends. No one could call her stingy. Once she gave Perpetua a lovely ring that she said had been a family heirloom. But you know Pet—she's not the ring type. I think it hurt Alice's feelings that Pet never wore it.”

“Did they fight about it?”

“Not exactly. Alice was more of a cold freeze kind of person. You had to wait out her anger the way you would wait for a glacier to melt.”

“Did she ever give you the cold freeze?”

“Oh my, yes. All the time. But I wouldn't play her game. I would say, ‘Alice, I will be happy to speak with you after you've gotten over your feelings.' It was best on those occasions just to leave her alone and let her stew.”

I stared at him. “Don't you ever just get totally sick of people? Don't you just get tired of their weird personalities and their nonsense and their shallowness?”

His expression was cheerful. “Of course. All the time. And then I get out here and dig my hands in the earth and recite Psalms, and I am nourished anew.”

“You're kind of saintly,” I said accusingly.

He laughed. “No, I'm not. But it's my job to be good, so I try to be good. At least in public. Ask Mrs. Breen—I have my moods and my tantrums.”

I tried to picture calm Father Schmidt throwing a tantrum. I failed.

“So if you had to investigate Alice's death, who is the one person that you would talk to first? The one person you felt might have had something to do with it?”

He sighed. “To be quite honest with you, Lilah, I have given some thought to the idea that Alice did this to herself. That it was one last act of spite against Perpetua for some perceived slight that Alice couldn't forgive. I mean, her last words were to suggest that Pet's chili wasn't right. She knew how proud Pet was of her chili.”

“Oh my gosh.” My legs were starting to cramp in their squatted position. I stood up and jogged in place for a
moment, trying to come to terms with the bombshell Father Schmidt had just dropped on me. What if Alice was depressed, suicidal? What if Alice had poisoned herself? She had access to the chili, certainly, and she would have been able to engineer the whole situation. And yet—I had seen her face when the poison began to affect her. Either Alice had been the best actress in the world, or that had been genuine panic.

I looked down on Father Schmidt, who contemplated the dirt on his hands. “But, Father,” I said, “if that's true, then who killed Bert Spielman?”

“I have no idea, unless it was an unrelated thing. A copycat crime, perhaps.”

“Did you share this idea with the police?”

“No. Not in so many words. I hinted that Alice had been unhappy.”

“Do you mind if I mention it?”

“Of course not. We all want to get to the truth. This is something that I've only been considering lately.”

I saw my mother come darting out of the parish office; my father pulled the car into a recently vacated spot so that she wouldn't have to walk as far. “Looks like my ride is ready,” I said. “Thanks for talking with me, Father.”

Father Schmidt bowed his head in acknowledgment. “You're welcome, Lilah. Be safe. I'll keep you in my prayers.”

I got back in the car and we pulled away from the curb. I watched Father Schmidt as he knelt there in the flower bed; his eyes seemed to be closed. I wondered how many people he prayed for each day, and whether his frail petitions had any impact on the juggernaut of fate.

*   *   *

D
ESPITE MY MOTHER'S
worried noises, I moved back into my little house one week later. Mid-November had brought ice-cold air and a few windstorms, which batted the last of the leaves off of the trees. My block was bereft of color when we drove down the street, and the skeletal trees offered stark welcome.

Cam and Serafina had insisted upon moving me back, and they'd also insisted (probably after being strong-armed by my parents) upon staying the first night, on the pull-out couch in my living room. It was always rather close when I had a visitor staying in my “spare room,” almost as if we were sailors in our respective ship's cabins, but I was glad they were there.

Mick seemed the happiest to be back. He marched straight to his basket by the fireplace and made some smacking noises with his mouth—the kind that signal contentment—and went to sleep. I was tempted to do the same thing, but Cam and Serafina were there, nosing around my house and commenting on various things—the art on my walls, the rag rug in my hallway, the well-stocked pantry in the corner of my kitchen. “This is a great place, Lilo,” Cam said, his arm around Serafina. “You've made it really homey.”

“I love it,” I said. “You two sit down and I'll make some dinner. What sounds good?”

“How about that thing you make with the veal?” Cam asked. “It's got that sort of tomato sauce and the crusty topping. . . .”

“Veal pie?” I asked. “I don't have the right ingredients. Let me go see—”

“No, no,” said Serafina. “We will order Italian—Cam will pay. You sit and relax, Lilah.”

Serafina was growing on me; sitting and relaxing made sense. I was happy to let her take charge, and, forty minutes later, it was as she had willed it. We sat down with pasta and wine and I told them about my new job opportunity.

“You like to cook this much?” Serafina asked. “To make food constantly for others?”

“Yes. It's an art. Food is my medium.”

Cam stroked Serafina's hair. “Lilah does have a flair for cooking. She always did. She used to make my birthday dinners, and Mom made the cakes.”

Serafina nodded. “Maybe you will make a birthday dinner for me someday. I am a terrible cook. Everyone thinks I should not be, because I am Italian, but I only like to mix ingredients in the test tubes.”