The Big Chili (3 page)

P
et was sitting on a folding chair near a window, taking deep breaths and accepting comfort from her sisters. My mother, who had CPR training and had tried to help Alice, was looking pale and shell-shocked. I was scanning faces, trying to imagine what could have happened, what horrible accident had somehow caused Alice Dixon's death.

The police had been questioning people and taking notes; now a new group of police officers appeared in the doorway, and more of them flowed into the scene, including a man in a shirt and tie and a woman in a blue suit. The man looked familiar—my stomach lurched. It was the man from Ellie's house: the one who had accused me of being a thief. He looked different because he didn't have his glasses on, but it was the same guy, all right. Now I was at the scene of a death,
and I had made the food that might potentially have killed the woman in question.

As if sensing my fear, the man in the suit looked my way and seemed to recognize me; his brows went up and his body moved forward, toward me. Then he was there, tall and intense, his mouth a serious line. “Hello again.”

“Hello. Did your mother verify that I was not a criminal?”

He nodded, smiling briefly as he scanned the room over my head. “What brings you here tonight?”

“Bingo. I mean, my mom wanted to play, so I came along. We were just waiting for the event to start, and Alice did this thing she always does, which is to eat some food in order to encourage people to start heading toward the buffet. And it seemed to make her sick. Are you a cop, or what?”

He pulled out a badge. It said
Detective Inspector Jacob Parker, Pine Haven PD
.

“Oh boy,” I murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“Listen, there's something you should know. Pet's chili is always delicious, and—it's made with great care. I've eaten it many times. But tonight, after Alice ate the chili, I went to the pot and smelled the batch, and it's not right.”

“So you think she might have gotten food poisoning?”

I shook my head. “Food poisoning doesn't manifest itself that quickly. She took a bite and she was almost instantly ill.”

His brows rose. “Where is this chili?”

I led him to my big, beautiful Crock-Pot, and he lifted the lid. He leaned in and inhaled, then quickly covered the pot again. “Simmons!” he yelled, and a man jogged over. “I want this taken into evidence.” He turned to me. “Excuse us for a moment, will you?”

I stepped away, but I kept watching them as they spoke in low voices. Then they wrapped the entire pot in some sort of crime lab cellophane and carried it out of the room.

The police were ordering that all of the windows be opened.

Parker came back to me. “Listen—Lilah, right?”

“Yes.”

“Go into the nearest lavatory and wash your face.”

“What?”

“Wash your eyes, too. If this is the poison I think it is, then you'll want to wash off any trace of vapor before it can affect you. Just to be on the safe side. Did anyone else inhale it?”

I gestured toward Pet, and he sent someone to her with the same message.

“Did you say
poison
?” I said.

He pointed. “Go wash.”

I ran to the bathroom and washed, suddenly terrified that I was dying. Pet was at the opposite sink, splashing away at her face and crying. “What in the world is happening?” she asked, burbling into the water.

“I have no idea.” But I did. Parker thought there was poison in that chili. I certainly hadn't put it there, and I was sure Pet hadn't either, which meant that someone in this familiar little church hall had put it there—and committed murder. On a sudden impulse I took out my phone and Googled “poison that smells like almonds.” Several links popped up, and they all shared one word in common: cyanide. I stared at the little screen while my stomach did nervous somersaults. Outside of an Agatha Christie novel, who really poisoned people? How could this possibly be happening?

Pet and I returned to the main room, damp and nervous,
and Parker loomed again. I looked at Pet, nodded at her, and then said, “Detective Parker, you need to know—regarding the chili—I mean, if you're investigating it and how it was made—”

“Then you can talk to me,” said Pet, extending her hand. “I'm Perpetua Grandy, and I made the chili. I'm kind of famous for it around here.”

I looked at her, shocked. “Pet, I think—”

Pet sent me a rather intense look. “I am very proud of my chili, Detective Parker. It's—it's quite a tradition here at St. Bart's.” Her eyes had grown moist. I sighed, staring at the Big Ben image on her London shirt.

“Lilah? Did you have something to add?” asked Parker.

“No. Just that Pet is right, and her chili is beloved by all. Hopefully this—event—won't dissuade people from eating it in the future.” Parker nodded, thanked us, and moved away.

Pet grabbed my arm in a fierce grip. “Thank you,” she hissed. “It will be fine, I swear.” I nodded without speaking, and she wandered off toward the kitchen.

I found my mother and explained everything that had happened. “I feel weird not telling them that it's mine,” I said in a low voice. “But this means everything to Pet. She was crying when she said that people loved her food.”

My mother touched my hand. “It won't matter. You're innocent and so is Pet, and they'll find whoever did this. God, I can't believe it.” And then she added, “Your father will never let me go to bingo again.”

*   *   *

T
HEY FINALLY RELEASED
us at about ten that evening, after they had taken a statement from everyone and bagged up all
of the food. My mother asked if I wanted to come home with her. “You'll feel safer with Dad and me,” she said, which was probably true, but I also craved solitude.

“I'll be okay. Just drop me off at the gatehouse. Thanks for the offer, though.”

My mother drove to Terry's place, a big gray stone building sitting in dignified splendor on the corner of Dickens Street. I kissed her on the cheek, jumped out, and waved as she drove away. Then I made a beeline for the path that led past Terry's house and straight to mine. I was trying to figure out which Norah Jones song was in my head, but I had only narrowed it down to a bluesy, breathy, sexy something with lots of brushing of the snare drum.

A car door slammed behind me. “Lilah?” said a man's voice.

I turned, frightened, and saw Detective Jacob Parker standing in front of his car.

“God, you scared me. What's going on?”

“I'm sorry about your friend,” he said, warming his hands in his pockets.

“She wasn't my friend. I didn't even like her, but I still feel terrible about what happened to her.”

He nodded. “I wanted to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.”

“You're shivering. Can we go in your house?”

I hesitated and he said, “Perhaps you'd like to invite someone else to join us? I realize it's an odd thing to ask this late at night.”

I looked at Terry's place. I didn't see lights, which probably meant he wasn't home. He and Britt often went to Chicago social events until the wee hours.

This man was Ellie's son, and a police officer. He looked about as wrung-out as I felt. I decided that it was okay, with Mick by my side. “Sure. I live in the back.” I led the way to my door, which I unlocked to the accompaniment of Mick's energetic barking.

“I forgot about your dog. What's his name?” Parker asked.

“Mick.” Then we were inside, and Mick was greeting not me but Parker, leaping all over him and licking every available bit of skin. “He's a great guard dog, as you can see.”

Parker laughed. “I have a cat. He probably smells Winston.”

I whisked to the shadowy corners and flicked on the Tiffany lamps I had bought at a garage sale. They lit up my little room with a cozy, multicolored radiance. I turned on my electric fireplace, and faux flames began to dance behind the screen. Then I turned to him; he had sat down in one of my stuffed green chairs and begun to massage Mick's head. Mick, that traitor, had apparently forgotten my existence. He smiled up at Parker, his eyes slitted with pleasure. “Maybe I should leave you two alone,” I joked.

Parker laughed. Then he looked at me with those blue eyes. “Listen, I'm here because I owe you an apology.”

I had not expected this. I dropped into the other chair and said, “What?”

“This morning. I was rude to you, and I still haven't heard the end of it from my mother. She insisted that I deliver your payment in person so that I could apologize—which I was going to do before I got called to the church.”

“Oh, okay. God, this morning seems like a thousand years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it's not a big deal.”

“It is. I guess I've just become so cynical in my job that I tend to be suspicious of everyone, and there you were—”

I nodded. “When I think about it now, it's kind of funny. Me there pinching money and then telling you I mowed the lawn.” I laughed, and he did, too, and finally I wiped tears out of my eyes. “Did your mother—uh—”

“No. She said it was none of my business, and that she owed you fifty dollars. So here I am, with my tail between my legs and my mother's scolding ringing in my ears.” He took out his wallet and removed the money, which he set on the table beside him. “Again, I apologize.”

I smiled at him. “Your mom is a good friend of mine. She's a great lady.”

“I agree.” We kept eye contact in the silent room, and I found it oddly comfortable to look into his eyes. Normally this would have been beyond awkward.

I stood up. “I never did get dinner tonight, and I'm starving. Can I persuade you to share a little something with me? Usually I just have Mick as my dining companion. I'm guessing you didn't eat, either?”

“As a matter of fact, I did not. I was just going to wait until morning at this point, but now that you've mentioned food, my stomach has awakened.”

I led the way into my tiny kitchen, with its blue tile walls and shining white tile floor. In an alcove above the stove was a picture my parents had enlarged for me as a gift on my last birthday: me at ten years old, wearing a red apron and making dinner for our family. I was grinning at the camera and holding a wooden spoon; my blonde hair, down to my waist back then, was tied into two silky pigtails.

“This is you?” asked Parker, peering at it while I went to the refrigerator.

“Yes. I love to cook.”

“And is that what you do? Is that your job?”

This was getting a little too close to his mother's secret. “Oh no. I work at the Pine Haven Realty offices by day. At night I weave fantasies of one day being a caterer while I make dinner for myself and Mick.”

“Sounds lonely,” he said, shooting me a blue gaze that was intense even in my dim kitchen. I had the sudden sense that if this man ever looked at me in bright sunshine I would faint.

“Sometimes. But I'm okay with alone-ness, for the most part.” I had saved a small pan of Dani's Mexican casserole; I did this with most of the things that I made, so that I could taste them and determine what I would change or add the next time. I put the dish into the microwave and set the timer for three minutes.

Then I got out two plates. “Can I offer you something to drink? I have Diet Coke, water, and one bottle of red wine.”

“What are we eating?”

“It's a little casserole I invented. I call it Fiesta.”

“Ahh. That sounds like a good red wine meal, but I should probably stick with Diet Coke so I can drive myself home. As you pointed out, it's been a long day.”

“Yes.” Again, a moment of eye contact. Then the timer beeped and I turned to retrieve our meal and serve it out onto plates. The kitchen was too small to hold a table, but it did have a little counter built into the wall separating it from the living room. In front of this counter I had placed two high bar stools, and we perched on these now with our sodas and our hot meals, and neither of us stood on ceremony before
digging in. The stools were necessarily close together, and our arms bumped now and then.

“God, this is good,” he said, staring at his food.

“Thanks. I like to experiment. Uh—after a long day at the realty office,” I added.

“You're a Realtor?”

“My parents are. I just help out with office work and showings. It pays fairly well.”

He smiled at me and ate some more.

Then something dawned on me. “Hey—isn't it like, illegal for you to talk to me? Because of Alice and everything?”

He shook his head. “You're not on my list. You are not in the pool of suspects.”

“Why is that?”

“We've noted everyone who had access to the kitchen this evening. Several of the people we spoke to admitted to tasting the chili before Alice Dixon did—some of them hours earlier. At that point the chili was fine, which means there was only a short window of time—and a finite number of suspects. You are not a part of that group, according to several witnesses, so that rules you out.”