The Big Chili (4 page)

I was tempted again to tell him. To beg him to keep Pet's secret, and to let him know that it wasn't quite true. I hadn't really had access to the tampered-with food, but I'd made it. It was on the tip of my tongue.

Then he said, “It's good to know that some people are what they seem to be. You can get a little jaded in my line of work.”

“Ugh,” I said. It was meant to sound like agreement, but came out more like the sound one makes after being punched in the stomach. We had both finished eating, so I got up and took our plates to the sink.

“Lilah?” he said.

“Hmm?”

“Not to beat a dead horse, but would you please tell me now why my mother owes you fifty dollars?”

I whirled around. If he weren't so good-looking I might be tempted to yell at him, the way his mother had.

Then I put on a humble face. “Okay, you asked for it. Sometimes, for a little extra money—I clean people's houses. I think your mom felt sorry for me, actually, and so she hired me even though she's perfectly capable of cleaning her own place. I cleaned her first floor, and that was the price we agreed upon.”

His pale brows lifted. “Well—that seems like a lot of work for only fifty dollars.”

“It was a fair price,” I insisted. Would I ever be able to stop lying to this man?

He shook his head. “That was nice of Mom to think she was helping you out, but I know what house cleaners charge, and you did a great job. I saw how the floors glowed. I'm going to add some money here.” He took some bills out of his wallet and put them on my tiny counter. Who walked around with that much money? I had about three singles in my wallet at all times.

“Jay, really—” It was the first time I had called him by his name; not Jacob, but Jay, which was what he had called himself. He looked surprised.

“No. And I won't say a word to Mom. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Oh boy,” I said.

“Why do you sound so miserable? I should be, because I
treated you so badly this morning. And you were just trying to protect Mom's privacy.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Well, I should get going.”

I walked him to the door, and at the threshold I had a crisis of conscience.

“Jay,” I said.

“Hmm?” He turned, smiling, and I folded my arms against myself.

“Nothing. Have a good night.”

“I'll be seeing you, Lilah.”

He left and I locked the door after him. Then I let Mick out the back to do his evening business; I watched him through the window as he wandered through the cold grass, in search of exciting smells.

After a few minutes he trotted back up to the door, and I let him in, clicking the lock in place. I picked up the money Jay Parker had set on my counter: five twenties. A hundred dollars. Was that really what house cleaners earned? I felt weird about the fact that he'd left piles of money all over my house. I retrieved the other one, too, the fifty dollars I actually deserved. My parents said that I had a tendency to undervalue myself, and that was becoming clear now, as I contemplated the cash. If I could have figured out a way to give it back without exposing my own lie, I would have done so. I would have to tell Ellie tomorrow about the lie I'd had to invent and what her son had done. She could figure out a way to give the money back to him. Yeah—it would be Ellie's problem.

I sighed and went to my little bathroom to get ready for bed. I emerged wearing a pair of long underwear and a Hogwarts T-shirt. I turned off the fire and the lamps, did one
last check of my locks, and said a brief prayer for Alice Dixon. In my mind Alison Krauss was singing “Amazing Grace.”

Then I climbed the circular staircase which led to my bedchamber, Mick pawing carefully behind me; finally, there was my bed, with its big lavender duvet and its multitude of pillows. I threw back the covers and dove inside, and that was the last thing I remembered until morning.

T
he next day,
S
unday,
I
had an open house for one of my parents' listings. It was a huge, beautiful house in the wealthier part of town, offered at four hundred thousand dollars. I pulled into the brick driveway half an hour early, wearing my professional navy Realtor suit with the little green chiffon neck scarf and the pin that said
Pine Haven Realty
. Humming a peppy Hall and Oates tune about dreams coming true, I turned on the lights, slid my store-bought cookie dough squares into the oven, and put out my brochures on the chic kitchen island—a Milanese model in antique white, with soft-close European hinges and hand-painted ceramic knobs. The surface was polished maple. I ran my hand across it and whispered, “Someday, my lovely.”

Then I heard the first knock at the door. “It's open,” I called, and my visitors came in—an older man and woman
who, I could tell from experience, were here out of curiosity, not because they were looking to buy. They probably lived on the same street and had always wanted a peek into their neighbors' place. That happened all the time. “Feel free to look around, and let me know if you have questions,” I said brightly. “I have brochures here with all the pertinent information.”

They each took one, then wandered upstairs.

Another couple came in, and to my surprise, I recognized this one. It was Hank Dixon, Alice's ex-husband, and his girlfriend, Tammy, whose strawberry-blonde hair was pulled into a casual and graceful ponytail and whose shoes looked like they had cost more than my monthly rent. She wore a brown skirt with a little matching jacket, and her gaze was focused not on the house but on her boyfriend's face. She seemed genuinely smitten with Hank.

Dixon himself was a relatively handsome man, although he was clearly too old for Tammy, who couldn't have been more than thirty. Dixon was closer to fifty, and today his face looked lined and tired. I wondered why they were even here while he was still reeling from the shock of his ex-wife's death.

Then again, I had been at the bingo night, and I was here. Perhaps Tammy had her heart set on this house.

“Hello,” I said, moving forward and extending my hand. “I'm Lilah. I'll be happy to answer any questions you have about the house today.”

Tammy looked at me and gasped. “Oh my gosh! Weren't you there last night, at the bingo thing?”

I nodded. “Yes. I'm sorry for your loss.” I directed this at
both of them, although that felt weird. Tammy, despite her little-girl appearance, proved to have good manners.

“Thank you, Lilah. Hank is taking it pretty hard, but he was sweet enough to bring me here today because he knows I've had my eye on this place.”

Trained by my savvy parents, I knew an opportunity when I saw one. “Perhaps a distraction is the best thing, and this place is a beautiful distraction. You have to check out the master bedroom—it has a walk-in closet, a Jacuzzi, and a skylight. And the whole place has far more closet space than the average home around here.”

Hank Dixon nodded, looking around. His hand sat on Tammy's shoulder, and his fingers played nervously with her silky hair. “New roof?” he asked.

“Yes—two years ago. And you'll note the lovely hardwood floors throughout, natural wood trim, art glass windows—it's a piece of art in itself.”

Dixon nodded again. “Go ahead and look at the master bedroom, honey. I'll be up in a minute.”

Tammy went prancing off in her high heels, and Dixon gave me an intense look. “You were there last night. Did anything seem funny to you?”

I stared, not sure how to answer. Of course something had seemed funny.

He shook his head. “I mean,
before
Alice ate the food. Anyone acting weird or skulking around?”

I shook my head. “Not that I recall, Mr. Dixon.”

“Hank.”

“Hank. I got there just before the event was supposed to start—my mother and I did. We looked around the room and
everyone seemed to be in good spirits—including the ladies who were preparing the food and filling the tables. Father Schmidt was cracking his jokes, as always. And Alice—”

His eyes were weary and regretful. “Yes?”

“She seemed happy with the way things were going and—very healthy. That's what I thought later: that she had seemed healthy and strong until she tasted that food.”

He nodded, leaning eagerly forward. “That woman was as strong as an ox. We may not have kept our marriage together, but, well, she was my friend. And I don't believe for a second that she died of natural causes.”

“I don't think the police believe that, either, Hank. I think they're on it, and they'll determine what happened very soon.”

He nodded again, and then asked, manlike, where the circuit box was. I directed him to the finished basement, and he disappeared. Curious, I wandered upstairs to find Tammy looking at herself in a three-way mirror. She was quite pretty; I could see why a man like Dixon would take the plunge with a younger woman if that younger woman was Tammy.

She spied me and said, “Oh God, this place is perfect. It's got such clean lines, such elegance. I want to throw parties in this house!”

I thought of her boyfriend's tired face. Then I noted an engagement ring on her left hand. “Oh, congratulations,” I said, pointing. “I didn't realize you two were engaged.”

She nodded. “For about a month now.” She looked behind me to see if anyone was in hearing distance, then lowered her voice. “Alice was quite a bitch about it when she heard we got engaged. She said Hank was being an old fool and that I was a money-hungry climber.”

Tammy's face still reflected the hurt she had felt at hearing those words. “Which, if you think about it, is an insult to Hank—as if I couldn't find anything appealing about him but his money. Hank is a real catch. He's got a beautiful soul.” She looked back at the mirror for a minute and removed a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth. “Besides, Hank isn't rich. He's just well-to-do. And I didn't know that when I started going out with him. I didn't even know that he was in banking.”

“I'm sure she was just shocked. Speaking out of jealousy or something.”

Tammy sniffed. “She had her chance with him and made his life a living hell. I could tell you stories. . . .”

I sort of wanted to hear them, but I heard the bell jingling downstairs, signaling another arrival. “Oh, shoot,” I said. “I've got more company.”

She shrugged. “Well, another time I'll tell you all about the precious Alice and what she was really like. To be honest, I dreaded the effect she was going to have on our marriage. She was always calling Hank, day and night, to ask advice, or get him to fix something at her house, or chat with him about some moldy old memory.”

“Sounds a little excessive.”

“Thank you!” she said, her green eyes wide. “The woman called practically every day. I told Hank she was trying to get him back, and he laughed and said that was ridiculous. Which it was, because Hank is in love with me.”

And yet relationships could be very, very complicated. I knew from experience. . . .

Tammy read my mind. “Oh, I know they had a history.
But Alice was a witch.” She lowered her voice again and leaned toward me. “I'll tell you, I know it's a sin to be glad that someone dropped dead, but—”

“Miss? Do you work here?” said a young man with a burst of blond hair and tanning-salon skin in telltale orange.

“Yes—oh—I'll catch up with you later, Tammy.”

She waved and headed toward the walk-in closet.

I led the new visitor downstairs to my brochure pile and answered his questions; his companion, whose skin was an even deeper shade of orange, asked me if there was a deck for tanning and if there were tanning salons in the area—clearly the two questions that concern every prospective buyer. I led them out to the deck and left them to pace around, imagining future sunning sessions.

By two o'clock my high heels were starting to pinch my toes, and I could feel some of the hair oozing out of the sweep I'd invented that morning, aiming for elegance. I slipped into one of the four bathrooms (two with bath) to repair my hairdo in front of the mirror. I patted it into place and reclipped it, then smiled at myself for encouragement. Two more hours.

Back in the kitchen I handed out a couple more brochures and placed the cookies that had been cooling on the stove on a serving platter, which I set on the kitchen island. You can always tell the sugar lovers, because no matter where they are, they seem to sense that chocolate is available nearby. A few of them drifted into the kitchen now, pretending to be examining the cabinetry.

“Please, help yourself to a cookie,” I said. They all did, and then they disappeared, validating my theory.

I smiled, and the bell jangled, and there was Jay Parker,
tall and dark, his blue eyes shining under the foyer skylight. My mouth opened in surprise, and I walked toward him.

“Uh—hello,” I said.

He looked surprised, too. “Oh—Lilah. You did say you worked in real estate, didn't you?” His eyes were distracted, scanning the room before they came back to me.

“Yes, I did. What a surprise to find you here.”

A little smile escaped him. “You look good in that outfit. Sort of like a stewardess from the seventies.”

I ignored this, although the heat in my face meant that I was blushing, which made me sort of angry at Jay Parker. “Did you want a brochure?”

His face turned cop-like again. “I want Hank Dixon. Is he here?”

“Oh yes—he and Tammy. He went to look at the circuit board and the finished basement.”

“Point me to the basement, please?”

I pointed, and Parker went, leaving a trace of his scent—soap and sandalwood.

By the time Tammy wandered back downstairs, Jay Parker was leading Hank Dixon toward the door. Dixon called up to her. “Tam—take the keys. I need you to drive the car home, okay? They want to ask me some questions at the station.”

Tammy stomped down the stairs and marched up to Parker, her eyes sparking. “What is this all about? If you have questions for Hank, you can ask them with our attorney present. And I do not believe he has to go with you—unless you are, in fact, charging him with a crime?”

Parker raised his eyebrows at her, as did many of the people milling around the room. “No, ma'am, we are not charging him with a crime. But we would like to speak with him
at the station, and you can certainly have your lawyer there if you wish.”

Tammy's hands trembled with anger—or some other emotion—as she retrieved her wallet from her purse and selected a white business card. “I will be calling her right now. And you can bet your sweet bippy that she will be furious with the way you have conducted yourself here.”

Hank Dixon, to my surprise, was laughing. “Okay, Tam, calm down.” He turned to Parker. “She's a little spitfire.”

“It would seem so,” said Jay Parker. “I'll go start the car.” He sent an intense blue gaze in my direction and then walked out.

Tammy kissed Dixon as though he were being taken to the electric chair, and the moment he was out of the house she burst into tears. I went to her and patted her arm. “Tammy, it's okay. I'm pretty sure they just want to talk to him. I mean, they have to eliminate all of the obvious suspects, and he's the ex-husband.”

I kept my voice calm, and she nodded, wiping at her nose with one well-manicured hand. “I know. I'm sorry I made a scene.” She glared around at the people who were still staring, then sighed raggedly. “I guess I'd better get home. I'll—I'll see you around, Lilah.”

“Okay.”

I watched her walk forlornly to her car, a cell phone pressed against her ear. She certainly seemed devoted to her fiancé. I wondered if that meant that she would kill for him.

Where had that thought come from? How silly to suspect a girl like Tammy—okay, a
woman
like Tammy—would poison someone to death. The whole affair had made me paranoid.

Someone tapped my arm and said, “Is there a washer and dryer?”

“Oh yes—state-of-the-art. Let me show you.”

*   *   *

O
VER FOUR HOURS,
I had twenty-four visitors, at least six of whom seemed truly interested in the house. I'd been humming “Cowboy, Take Me Away” for about three of those hours. I wondered what emotional cues my mother would get from a Dixie Chicks song.

I drove to the office and turned in my yard sign and sign-in sheet to the receptionist. I had marked the names of the people who showed interest in buying—including Hank Dixon and his betrothed.

“Thanks, Lilah. Oh, I see your mom and dad are back, too.”

My parents had been working their own open houses today, and they trudged rather wearily up the steps but brightened when they saw me. “Hey, cupcake!” said my father, the only man who was allowed to call me that. He ran a hand through his thick peppery hair (he was a man who would never go bald) and smoothed his unruly eyebrows. “You look awfully pretty today.”