The Big Chili (8 page)

Theresa nodded. “Yeah, 'cause we've got the ladies' social coming up Friday, and I know they want Pet to make something. They all want her to go for the chili, to get right back on the horse, ya know. They're afraid she'll never make it again because of what happened, and the ladies don't want that. Pet is such a good cook, and so. Ya know.”

“Yes,” I said. “Well, that's nice of the ladies to show encouragement. Have they told Pet they wanted her to make the chili for this Friday? Because I think she needs time to shop and prepare.” And some of us have plans this weekend.

“Oh, I'm not sure. They'll probably call her today, ya know.”

I paused for a moment, looking at the women who had spent so much time in this kitchen and who had been right in
the thick of things on Saturday night. “What do you guys think happened?”

They exchanged what seemed, to my imagination, like a secretive glance. “Obviously someone got to the chili,” Trixie said in a normal voice. She probably thought she was whispering. “But it's hard to track down. I mean, there were upward of twelve women in here, and a few men, and people were lifting pot lids all over the place, sniffing and admiring. We always do that. So . . .” Trixie leaned in, and I winced. “So it seems to T and me like whoever did it knew exactly what would happen. They would kill Alice Dixon, and in the process try to implicate Pet. That's what we think.”

“But Pet hasn't been implicated. It seems like she's the one person people
don't
suspect, because it would be too obvious for her to do it to her own food. So could this person have had some other intention?”

Theresa sniffed, as though she were smelling the idea. Then she said, “Weeeeelllllll . . . I think that's a good point. Maybe someone just hated Alice Dixon, and they wanted her dead, and Pet's chili was just an easy way to make that happen.” She lifted an arm full of jingly bracelets and scratched her cheek.

“Well, if they're looking for someone who hated Alice, they'll have to start making a list. God bless her soul,” Trixie boomed.

I set the box down. “Who hated Alice Dixon?”

Trixie and Theresa exchanged another glance. “Well, start with her ex-husband. God knows he had good reason, but he was pretty fed up with that woman. Then his little girl toy, Pammy.”

“Tammy.”

“Right. You can probably put Pet on the list, because Alice was always kind of witchy to her. Heck, you can put me and Ang on the list, too. We got into it with her all the time.”

“About what?”

“Oh, just her constant power plays. She was always making rules and saying it was church policy, except it wasn't. It was just Alice policy. She was a control-a-holic. We'd go to Father Schmidt and say we didn't know about such-and-such new rule, and he'd tell us there wasn't one, and then he'd go and have a word with Alice. But a week or two later she'd be doing it again, making that little tight-mouthed face of hers.”

Trixie imitated her and did, to her credit, look remarkably like Alice Dixon when she was in judgmental mode.

Theresa laughed, then covered her mouth. “Sorry. That was just so funny, Trix. But you should also add Barb and Mel Hadley. They got into it with Alice all the time about the way she ran bingo night. They're kind of insane.”

I couldn't disagree with that, either.

“And then there're those neighbors of hers. The Sullivans.”

This surprised me. I pictured Alice's stern blue house. “Why didn't the Sullivans like her?”

“I guess she was always calling the cops on them. They would have Scout events sometimes in their yard—they have that nice big backyard, ya know—and Alice didn't like noise or kids. She said a neighborhood should be silent. That's what Maura Sullivan told me.”

I remembered Maura's face when she asked me about Alice Dixon's death. She hadn't looked very sorry. In fact, she had almost looked cheerful.

I picked the pot back up. “I can't even believe that one of those people is responsible. I keep thinking it must have been
an accident. I can't accommodate the idea that someone in our community intentionally committed murder.”

Trixie shrugged. “I knew a murderer once. A lady in my knitting group. She killed her husband because he was cheating on her. She was just a kid at the time. She served twenty-five years, and then she came to live here in Pine Haven. I asked her once if she was sorry she did it, and she said no.” Trixie plunged her cloth back into the soapy water and started scrubbing again.

Theresa, far from looking scandalized, chimed in. “I knew a murderer, too. Tony Portillo, from our neighborhood. He killed his dad, remember I told you, Trix? Shot him in the chest. He was such a nice boy,” she finished on a disturbing non sequitur.

“Then why did he kill his dad?” I asked, shocked.

“Oh, they were fighting. You know how it is.”

But I didn't. Was it true that murderers just walked among us, sitting in knitting groups and being nice boys? “What happened to him?” I asked.

“Tony? Oh, he went to jail. He's still there, but he's getting out soon. He has a fiancée that he met while he was in jail. I guess she used to come and read to them or sing with them or something? I can't remember. Anyway, they're getting married when he gets out.”

“And has his family—forgiven him?”

Theresa shrugged. “They never really held it against him. He's such a nice kid, and the dad had his issues.”

I didn't know what this meant, but they were depressing me. “I'd better get this to Pet,” I said. “Thanks for the chat.”

“Bye, sweetheart,” yelled Trixie.

“Bye, Lilah,” said Theresa.

Mick had been wandering around, sniffing for mice, and he didn't seem eager to leave when I called him. Still, he padded at my side happily enough once we got outside. Mick loved running errands.

I drove home and stowed the gorgeous Crock-Pot in my house. If I liked it, I would put it on my Christmas list—my parents bought me one nice thing for my kitchen every Christmas and on every birthday. I was building up a fine pantry full of tools and dishes.

My phone rang while I was puttering around my tiny kitchen, humming a Harry Connick tune.

“Hello?”

“Hey, kid.” It was my brother, sounding both lazy and busy at the same time. He was probably at the desk of his cool office at Loyola, which had one big window that looked right out onto Lake Michigan. “Are you going to this Halloween party of Terry's?”

“Yes! Are you actually coming out for it? I haven't seen you in ages.”

“Yeah. I'm bringing someone, too.”

“That's good. I'll be glad to meet your Italian love.”

“You heard?”

“Yes—from Mom.”

“You bringing anyone?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Bringing no one is preferable to bringing Angelo.”

“Geez! I wish everyone would stop mentioning him to me.”

“No problem. Consider him wiped out of my memory banks. So how important is it that I wear a costume to this crazy thing?”

“Terry and Britt would love it. Just find something easy.
Remember how much fun we had dressing up? Hey, do you want to do a buddy costume again?”

“I would, Lilo, but there's going to be this lady that I want to impress, and if you and I are dressed as Sonny and Cher or some other dorky thing—”

“Sonny and Cher would be awesome!”

“And yet, no.”

“Fine. So you want to impress this woman, huh? Unlike the other poor things you drag around who beg for the crumbs of your affection?”

“This one's different,” said my brother.

The hair stood up on my arms. “Oh my gosh, she's the one! Will I like her? She's not bitchy, is she? You tend to find bitchy women, Cam.”

He laughed. “No, she's not bitchy. You'll love her.”

“Great. I can't wait to meet her.”

“So, what else is new?”

“I have sort of a crush on someone. But he really doesn't know I'm alive, so it's a pretty safe thing.”

“Oh? Who is this?”

I sighed. “Did Mom tell you that a lady at our church got murdered at bingo on Saturday?”

“
What?!
No, Mom did not mention that!”

“Well, anyway, she dropped dead right in front of us—poisoned. And I think—”

“I'm still trying to absorb this. Someone died in front of you? At a church event?”

“Yes. I think it was cyanide, but they haven't confirmed that.”

“Oh, you do? And what makes you the great detective?”

“The cop who came out seemed to suspect that the chili
had been poisoned, and I went up and smelled it, and it smelled like almonds. That's what cyanide smells like, according to my Web sources.”

Silence for a while. Then Cam said, “And how does this woman's cyanide murder, which happened before your eyes, relate to the person you have a crush on?”

“In that he's the investigating detective.”

“Holy cannoli! Your stories are always better than mine.”

“There's actually a lot more to it, but I'm not going to get into it over the phone.”

I could hear him crunching something into the receiver—probably chips. Cam tended to eat during phone calls, which annoyed everyone. “My God, I really do need to visit more often.”

“Yes, you do. And sometimes you should just come to my humble home for dinner. I miss you, you jerk.”

“I know. I'll be better about it now that summer's over and I'm not traveling as much.”

“Great. And I don't recall getting a souvenir from your trip to Italy.”

“I still have it, greedy. It's a necklace that I got at a museum gift shop. Beautiful.”

“Then all is forgiven. I guess I'll see you Friday?”

“Yes, you will. Bye, Lilo.”

“Bye.”

I hung up, smiling, and in that instant the phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Um—Lilah?”

I recognized the voice, and the
um
, instantly. It was Shelby Jansen, a girl from Pine Haven High who was also a sort of protégée of mine. She'd been there on bingo night, as well.
Before I'd started my secret food business, I'd done all sorts of odd jobs for money, one of which had been tutoring Shelby in English. Even after that gig ended, Shelby and I had kept in touch, sporadically messaging each other on Facebook or occasionally calling each other to say hi.

“Hey, Shelby! Long time no see.”

“You saw me on Saturday night.”

“True—but I never even had a chance to say hello.”

“I know.” Her voice sounded a little bit quavery.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm okay. I mean, I'm not freaked out about Saturday or anything, but there is something bugging me.”

“Okay. What's that?”

“Do you have time for me to come over? I have fresh cookies. I was going to bring you some anyway. They're Halloween cookies that me and my mom made.”

“My mom and I,” I said, slipping back into tutor mode.

“Whatever,” said Shelby.

“Sure, come on over. Mick misses you.”

“Okay. And can I bring Jake?”

Jake was Shelby's boyfriend—he was big and sort of dumb, but nice enough. “Sure—the more, the merrier.”

“Thanks, Lilah. We'll be right over,” Shelby said.

I rooted around in my refrigerator to see if I had beverages to offer to the cookie-wielding teens. I spied a quart of skim milk and sniffed it: still okay. I always had some Diet Coke because it was something of an addiction for me. Even though various Internet sources assured me I would die very soon from its contents, I couldn't seem to give it up.

I looked at Mick, who sat resting by the stove (one of his
favorite spots, especially when meat was cooking in it). “Crazy day, huh, buddy?”

Mick didn't nod because his chin was resting on his paws, but his eyes seemed to agree with me when they were open. He was indulging in some long blinks, which meant he would soon be asleep. Sometimes I envied Mick his gentle lifestyle. He was well fed and had two cozy beds, many fun walking routes, his own backyard for rooting out scents in any season, and a fairly attractive owner who loved him. He gave the phrase “a dog's life” a whole new meaning.

With a sigh I snapped open a Diet Coke, took a swig, and looked out at the gold
leaves.

S
helby's cookies were wonderful: pumpkin-shaped and pumpkin-flavored, with cream cheese frosting. “I might gain five pounds eating these,” I said, shoving a second one into my mouth.

“Aren't they great? It's a family recipe,” Shelby said, and Jake nodded his appreciation. He was at least six feet tall and broad-shouldered, but his face was young and half-obscured by gold-brown hair that hung over one eye. The part of his countenance that was visible looked worried.

I decided not to rush whatever it was they wanted to tell me. Shelby carefully poured herself some milk and Jake concentrated on massaging Mick's back, much to Mick's pleasure.

“How's English going this year?” I asked Shelby, wiping frosting from the corner of my mouth.

“It's going good. I mean, it's going
well
,” she corrected, rolling her eyes. Shelby didn't like the arbitrariness of grammar rules. “I'm getting a B right now. I promised my mom I'd keep it there or higher. Mr. Branson is pretty good about meeting with people if they have questions.”

“Ah. Always a good thing in a teacher.”

“Yeah.” Shelby reached out to rearrange the cookies on the plate. Jake watched her do it as though the fate of Pine Haven hung on her actions. It was as tense as those “red wire or blue wire” scenes in suspense movies, where the hero has to snip one to defuse the bomb.

“Okay, what's going on?” I said, my voice snapping into the tense silence.

Shelby looked up with wide brown-eyed surprise. “What? How can you tell something's going on?”

“Well, for one thing, you're here. We haven't really talked since your last tutoring session. For another, you both look like you killed someone and are worried about where to bury the body.”

This macabre joke did not have the desired effect; both of them looked downright guilty.

“What's going on, Shelby?” I said again.

She held up her little hand. “Nothing. Nothing like you're thinking. It's just—we were both there on bingo night. You saw us.”

“Yes.”

“And we saw that you're friends with that cop who was asking all the questions.”

“Detective Parker? Actually we only met that day. We're not friends,” I said.

“Well, anyway, you seem to know him, and he seems to
like you. You're the only one he smiled at the whole night. He has sort of a scary face.”

Jake nodded at this, one eye still obscured by his hair.

“He was just doing his job, Shelby. A woman had been murdered.”

Shelby and Jake exchange a glance. “Well—we were wondering if you could tell him—the cop—that we didn't have anything to do with it.”

This silenced me for about a minute. Various thoughts darted through my head. Why were sixteen-year-old kids worried that they'd be suspected of murder? Was it because they were somehow guilty? Did they know something about Alice Dixon's death? But how would two teenagers have the wherewithal to poison someone?

“Now you look suspicious, too!” Shelby cried. “I told Jake that the cop looked suspicious of us.”

I folded my hands. “Let's start at the beginning. Are you telling me that you're innocent, or that you're guilty? Because you're both making really guilty faces.”

“We're not guilty of
murder
!” Shelby said, her eyes so large they seemed to fill her face.

“We just
feel
guilty,” Jake said, his expression helpful.

“Okay. And why do you feel guilty?”

They exchanged another glance.

I sighed. “Here's another question. Why were you even there?”

Jake decided to field that one. “We need service hours for school, and for college applications. Father Schmidt is pretty nice about signing our service hour sheets when we help with activities at the church. We've helped at the St. Bart's homeless sheltering events, and at the fall festival, and at bingo.
Even though it's not strictly service, since the people at bingo aren't a community in need, Father Schmidt said it was okay, because we were working for our faith community.”

That was a long speech for Jake, and I realized that he had more depth than I'd previously realized.

“So you were doing it as a service.”

“Yes,” Shelby said, nodding and smiling.

“Okay. I'm failing to see the reason you feel guilty. I assume this has something to do with Alice Dixon?”

Again they exchanged a glance. I was getting tired of this. It felt as obvious as a soap opera, although they seemed oblivious to the fact that I could see their dramatic reactions.

“Why do you think it's related to Alice Dixon?” asked Jake. He had been petting Mick, and now his hands froze, keeping Mick's floppy ears sticking up like strange antennae.

“Again, because you're
here
and she was just murdered, and you are concerned about the investigating detective.”

“Right,” Jake conceded, nodding. To my relief, he let go of Mick's ears and finally pushed the hair out of his eyes, giving me a view of his whole face. He was a handsome boy with a high, pale forehead and almond-shaped hazel eyes. “The thing is, we talked with Mrs. Dixon on that night. We sort of fought with her.”

This was interesting. “I need a third cookie for this.” I took one and bit into it, letting the cream cheese and butter disintegrate on my tongue. “You argued with Alice?”

Jake opened his mouth to explain, but Shelby cut in. “It's not like we were looking to fight with her. Jake and I were doing dishes in the kitchen, and she came in to put some sort of decoration on a cake she made. She was there with this bag of nuts and arranging the nuts on the frosting. And we
were talking about animals, because Jake and I are both members of the Pine Haven High Animal Protection Club. Miss Grandy is our moderator.”

I sighed. Of course she was. On the list of their many volunteer activities, the Grandy sisters worked in the local schools. Angelica coached soccer at St. Bart's, and Harmonia and Pet donated their time at the high school. I hadn't known about the animal club, though.

“So?”

“So Mrs. Dixon was talking about this dog she had. His name is Apollo.”

This surprised me. I hadn't pegged Alice as a dog person, and I had never heard of Apollo.

“He was really Mr. Dixon's dog,” Jake added.

“Okay.” That made more sense.

“Mrs. Dixon said that she had the dog after their divorce, because Mr. Dixon's apartment building didn't allow them. But she didn't like how much Apollo barked; she said it was bothering their neighbors.” Shelby's eyes looked indignant now. “She said she was going to have him debarked.”

I laughed. Shelby had such hilarious terms sometimes.

“No, it's a real thing,” Jake said. “It's a surgery vets perform on dogs when their owners don't want them to bark. They anesthetize them and go in through their throat and cut their vocal cords. After that, the dogs can never bark loudly again.”

“What?”

Shelby nodded. “We learned about it in our animal defense club. Lots of people have it done to their dogs—people whose neighbors don't like barking, people who have their dogs in shows, or even drug dealers who don't want their attack dogs
to make noise.” She and Jake looked outraged, as they probably had that night. “And sometimes there are terrible complications to the surgery. Dogs can get excess scar tissue, which can interfere with their breathing. They can die.”

I rubbed my arms where the hair stood up on my skin. “Well, that's not a very nice thing,” I said inadequately.

“We didn't think so, either. And we had heard things about her and dogs before. She didn't like them. One time a little dog bit her on the ankle—it didn't even break the skin—and she demanded that the owners put it to sleep. They had to give the dog away to avoid it.”

Shelby's eyes flashed with the special fervor of teen ire. “We started telling Mrs. Dixon all the reasons we thought it was inhumane and she shouldn't debark Apollo. She got all snooty and said we should stay out of it and shut up. That's when Jake got mad.” Shelby turned to her boyfriend with a mixture of awe and pride. “He yelled at her.”

Jake shook his head. “I didn't yell, exactly. I just said her dog couldn't speak up for himself, so we were speaking for him. I said that it was a cruel and unnecessary procedure that deprived her dog of his voice and identity, and it was selfish. Her face got all red, and she said I should mind my own business.”

They were quiet for a minute, neither of them meeting my eyes.

“I'm guessing you didn't mind your own business.”

Jake's brown eyes met mine. “I said that someone should hurt her the way that she was planning to hurt her dog, and then maybe she'd think twice about doing it.”

“Oy.”

“Yeah. And, like, an hour later she was dead.”

I sighed. “So I'm guessing you didn't share this story with Detective Parker.”

Shelby shook her head fiercely. “No! Because then he might think Jake was a violent person, or that he killed Mrs. Dixon!!”

I turned to Jake. “Did you kill Mrs. Dixon? Did you put poison in that chili?”

His face was white with shock. “No! I barely could believe I stood up to her. I would never hurt anyone, and I would never normally talk like that to an adult. I just—I was picturing her dog, and feeling so mad. . . .”

My glance moved to Mick, who was looking at me with his wise gold eyes and smiling while Jake massaged his neck. Mick loved barking, especially when he saw other dogs. I always thought of it as a kind of greeting, as though he were calling out to friends (or enemies). He had a few different vocalizations: a big, throaty bark for those who seemed threatening; a playful bark that he reserved for the dog park and various people he met on our walks; a little yip that sometimes escaped him if I took too long to feed him; and then his “eating sound,” which was an appreciative little moan he sometimes made into his bowl. Cam called it his “nom-nom noise.” Mick's voice was a key part of his personality, and I couldn't imagine taking it from him.

“It's good that you have things you believe in, Jake. You don't have to suppress those just because an older person tells you to do so. I think it's noble that you stood up for animals, and for Apollo.”

They both smiled at me, their faces relieved.

“But,” I continued, “I also think you should tell this to Detective Parker.”

“Why?” Shelby moaned.

“Because. Think of it this way. He's trying to put together a big puzzle, which means he needs all the pieces. What if someone overheard your conversation and it made them angry, too? Whoever did this was, let's face it, not quite right. So what if you provided a motive and you didn't even know it?”

This shocked them; they hadn't considered it, but they did so now. Meanwhile I recognized my own hypocrisy. Wasn't I suppressing a very big puzzle piece by not coming forward as the chili maker?

“Lilah, you look nervous,” Shelby said.

“Well, your story has me a little on edge. Did you tell this to your parents?”

They looked guilty again. “No,” Jake admitted.

“Guys,” I said. “No one is going to put you in jail, because you are clearly not guilty of anything beyond speaking your mind. But I think you will feel better, and it will be the right thing, if you and your parents go to the police and tell them what you told me.”

“You don't think they'll be convinced we poisoned her?”

“Because you just happened to have the poison with you in your pocket, in case someone offended your animal-rights sensibilities?”

Shelby laughed, covering her mouth. Then she dropped her hand and turned to her boyfriend. “She's right, Jake. We don't have to be afraid of anything.”

Now that they both felt relieved, their faces looked younger and more vulnerable, and I felt a moment of longing for my own teenage days, when things had seemed complicated but were really far less so. . . .

Shelby got up and hugged me. “Thank you, Lilah. I knew you would help us.”

“Thank you for the cookies. But please take them away so that I do not eat them all. Call or text me after you talk to the police, okay?”

Jake shook my hand, seeming suddenly adult, and then the two of them wandered out, Shelby clutching her cookies (in an enviable vintage Tupperware cake and cookie carrier with a removable transportation handle), and Jake with a casual arm dangled over Shelby's shoulders. They were well suited, I thought, watching them. Some people just met the right companions early.

*   *   *

M
ICK AND
I went for an afternoon walk and I inhaled deeply, appreciating once again the scent of someone's outdoor fireplace, making me long for days of yore, when my parents took Cam and me on camping trips and we roasted hot dogs over open fires.