Pudding Up With Murder

by Julia Buckley

Owen moved forward, still fingering his sore jaw. “No one wants to press charges about the fight, okay? Just let it go.” He turned toward Cash. “Can you deal with sending all these people home, bud? We need to get to the hospital.” He gestured to the four older children.

  Cash looked irritated. “If Dad’s going to die, I want to be there, too. I’m just as much his kid as you are, Owen.”

  Scott edged in, texting on an expensive-looking phone with a self-important expression. “Of course you’re his kid, Cash—we all are. We can go together, right now. Maybe your mom can watch over things here?”

  Cash nodded grudgingly. “Yeah. I’m sure she will. She and Burt can handle the crowd and clean up a little.”

  “I can help with that,” said Ellie.

  Maria Grimaldi held up a hand. “One thing before you go. There is a chance that your father may have ingested something that made him sick. I’m sure you won’t mind that I took samples of the last two things he consumed, just to rule that out.”

  Scott’s head came up; I could swear I saw his lawyer antennae rising out of his scalp. “You did what?”

  Prudence talked for the first time. She was small and dark haired, pretty in a different way from the tall Emma. “You think someone poisoned our dad?”

  Maria shrugged. “There was some suggestion that he looked ill while he was nursing his drink in his study back there.”

  “What drink?” Emma said. “Dad shouldn’t be drinking. His doctor has forbidden it.”

  Maria turned to me. “You saw him consume it, did you not?”

  All the Cantwell children looked at me, their faces surprised, as if I had just appeared in the room through magic. “Uh—it looked like a mojito or something. It had a leaf in it. I figured it was a party drink.”

  “A mojito? Dad doesn’t drink things like that. He drinks tea and club soda and stuff,” Cash said.

  “Maybe it was club soda,” I said.

  Prudence was still looking at Maria. “Why do you think my dad is sick from this?”

  “Miss Drake and Mrs. Parker saw his hands shaking. He was slurring his speech and acting strangely. Then he came into the kitchen and collapsed into the rice pudding casserole that—uh—Mrs. Parker made, but not before he said he had eaten some.”

  The Cantwell children, like kittens following a laser pointer, turned their heads in unison to Ellie, who held up her hands. “I certainly didn’t poison my food. But there were a couple times it was unattended. The children all ate some. . . .”

  Emma gasped. “Oh my God!”

  Scott Cantwell’s eyebrows rose and his pupils dilated. I got the impression he was shocked partly as a protective uncle, but also partly as a lawyer who smelled a class action lawsuit. In that moment I realized I didn’t like him.

  Prudence rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “Emma, no one had time to poison Ellie’s food, and we have no idea if Dad’s drink made him sick, either. Right?” she asked Maria.

  “That’s very true,” said Grimaldi. “But I’d like to have the drink and the food analyzed, just in case.”

  The outburst that followed was a mixture of outrage and grief and general confusion, but Prudence, who seemed the wisest of them all, held up a hand. “Listen! We need to get to the hospital and see how Dad is. I have no problem with the cops analyzing the food. If there’s nothing in it, then who cares? And if there is, we need to know, right?”

  She met the eyes of her siblings, one by one, and they grudgingly nodded in return. “Fine,” Prue said to Grimaldi. “Go nuts. You know where we’ll be.” They moved out of the house en masse. I studied their faces. Emma was looking into the backyard, probably trying to check on her children; Owen looked distracted, perhaps in shock; Scott was texting again. God knew who he needed to contact at this moment. Prudence was also looking in the backyard, her expression worried. I followed her gaze and saw her black-leather-clad boyfriend, eating a hot dog on the outskirts of the group, his expression serene, as though he hadn’t just punched his girlfriend’s stepbrother in the face. She wonders if he did it, my brain said to me. I told my brain to be quiet.

  Cash followed them to the door, and I touched his arm. “I hope everything is all right, Cash.”

  He turned, his expression polite. “It was nice meeting you,” he said. He followed his siblings outside; moments later I heard a car pulling out of the driveway.

  A red-haired woman and her gray-haired companion—perhaps Cash’s mother and her new husband, Burt—were moving up to people in the backyard, their faces concerned, speaking in the low tones of someone at a funeral. People were clearly being asked to leave. Some party.

  Maria whisked past me. “Ellie, if I can have that bag?”

  Ellie handed her the bag in which I’d stowed the casserole; now it held Detective Grimaldi’s evidence. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks. I need to talk to some people before they go. Nice seeing you, Lilah,” she said, and then she, too, went out the door.

  I turned to Ellie. “Not to make this about me, but how is it that people die wherever I go?”

  “Not wherever you go. Just a few places,” Ellie said. “And he might not have died. Don’t be morbid.”

  “This was supposed to be a fun little party. Just some socializing, some enjoying of the party atmosphere, some showing off of Mick— Oh my gosh, where’s Mick?”

  I had lost track of my dog in the craziness, and now I ran to the window, craning for a glimpse of his chocolate brown fur. I spied him sitting by a bench in front of a rose arbor; three children sat in front of him, feeding him a hot dog.

  “Oh no. Kids are feeding him. I need to get out there,” I said.

  Ellie put a hand on my arm. “Lilah. Take a deep breath. Everything is going to be all right.” She had a calming influence, quiet and maternal, but I noticed that her eyes were spiked by tiny tears.

  “I’m sorry about your friend. I hope he’s okay,” I said.

  I jogged out the door, intent only on saving Mick from being force-fed all the food at the party.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the time I reached Mick, he was being offered a red Popsicle by a tiny miscreant named Peach. I sat down on the edge of the bench, next to the little girl. Her siblings squatted in front of us, petting Mick.

  “You know what?” I said, pushing her little arm gently away from Mick’s willing snout. “I think this guy has had a bit too much today. You know, if you feed a dog too much human food, he can get sick.”

  Little Peach studied me. She truly was adorable, with wheat blond curls and round brown eyes that seemed to fill half of her face. “Is this human food?” she asked in a cartoony voice, holding the Popsicle.

  “Yes. It’s also a little cold for him. Doggies shouldn’t eat ice.”

  She studied her Popsicle, then me. “Are you his mom?” she asked.

  “Kind of. He’s my dog, and his name is Mick.”

  “Mick,” Peach giggled. Her tiara had tumbled off her head and sat tangled in her curls.

  “Let me help you, here. Your tiara went sideways.”

  Peach pouted her lips. “It’s not a piara. It’s a crown.”

  Her older sister stood up, looking bossy. She was the spitting image of Emma, but super short. Her chestnut hair was gathered into a neat ponytail that suggested control in the way that Peach’s riot of curls suggested a relaxed attitude. “A tiara and a crown are the same thing, Peach.” Then she looked at me. “Whose girlfriend are you? Are you here with Uncle Owen?”

  Now Timothy Junior rose from his squatting position; he had been patting Mick and also playing some sort of video game on his phone. He looked to be about eleven, while I guessed the older sister was about nine. “That’s rude, Carrie. Stop being so blatant.”

  Carrie sent him a withering look. Wow—she was going to destroy guys in the future. “Stop showing off you
r words from the dictionary, Timmy. We get it—you’re smart.” Her face creased into a sarcastic expression that I was guessing had been mimicked exactly from one of her parents—and I had a feeling I knew which one.

  I held up a hand. “I think you all seem really smart. Where do you go to school?”

  Tim shrugged, going for casual. “John F. Kennedy.”

  “Oh! I have a friend who teaches at John F. Kennedy! Do you know Miss Braidwell?”

  Carrie’s look turned worshipful in an instant, and she moved closer to me. “Miss Braidwell is my teacher,” she breathed. Her skinny little knees were actually pressing against mine. “She’s, like, the best teacher in the school,” she said, tossing her ponytail in a wave of rippling red.

  Tim looked torn between agreeing and wanting to be different from his sister. Hero worship won out. “She is a pretty cool teacher. I had her, too, when I was in third grade.”

  “Well, she happens to be my best friend,” I said.

  They looked at me admiringly, all pretense gone as they studied me with open mouths and curious expressions. Peach, who had been eating the Popsicle, shrugged her little shoulders. “What makes her so special?”

  Carrie spared her a pitying glance. “You won’t understand until you have her class, Peach. Which won’t be for years.”

  Peach tried on her own scornful expression. It was pretty good, except that her face made it cute instead of mocking. In a few years, though, she’d be as good as Carrie. “No teacher is as good as Miss Moxie.”

  “Miss Moxie?” I said, half laughing. “That is a really interesting name, Peach!”

  “It’s not her teacher,” said Carrie with a sniff. “It’s this cartoon character in a book that she likes. It’s a fox who teaches school but also solves mysteries. The first one is called Miss Moxie Is Foxy, and she solves the riddle of who was stealing things from the school cafeteria.”

  “She’s a really smart teacher,” Peach said, her face zealous.

  “I think she sounds awesome,” I said. “Can I find a Miss Moxie book at the store?”

  Peach held out her little hands in a grand gesture. She was eloquent with body language. “Oh yes, you can get them at all the stores.”

  “Also at the library, which is where we get books. My mother always says, ‘How did you get this room full of books when we go to the library?’” Carrie said, mocking Emma’s commanding voice. “But you know, we do have aunts and uncles, and they always like to give us books as gifts.”

  “We have lots of aunts and uncles,” Timothy agreed.

  “It must be nice to have such a big family,” I said. “How lucky for you. It must make every holiday fun.”

  “It’s pretty fun,” Timothy said, looking world-weary. “But there’s a lot of fighting. As you probably saw today.”

  “Sometimes adults act like children,” I said.

  Timothy’s face was vulnerable as he squatted down next to Mick again and played with his silky ears. “Yeah, because if I punched Carrie I would get in so much trouble! But that guy didn’t get in trouble, did he?”

  “No. That’s certainly not fair. Do you know what they were fighting about?”

  “I do,” Peach said. She had finished the Popsicle and now had red-ringed lips and bright red fingers. With a sigh, Carrie produced a napkin from her pocket and began cleaning her sister. “The cowboy said that Uncle Owen was a liar and that Uncle Scott was a feister.”

  “By cowboy she means the guy in the leather,” Tim said. His face said, I am an adult, amused by the silly antics of a child.

  “Huh. And what is a feister?” I asked.

  Tim shrugged. “He said shyster, but I don’t know what that means.”

  Scott did seem like sort of a shyster, but Prue’s boyfriend seemed like the last person who could complain about other people’s ethics. And what, I wondered, did he think Owen had lied about?”

  Carrie edged closer to me. “Does Miss Braidwell like butterscotch?”

  I laughed out loud, realizing too late that it was a serious question. “Oh—uh. Sorry. I just remembered a joke your uncle Cash told me. What were you asking?”

  She played with her pretty ponytail. “I wanted to make Miss Braidwell some butterscotch brownies. They’re my specialty.”

  “Oh—do you like baking? I loved cooking and baking when I was your age.”

  “How old are you now?” Carrie asked.

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  All three children looked somber, as though I’d said I was a thousand.

  I sighed. “Yes, I happen to know Miss Braidwell loves butterscotch, and she will love you for making her brownies. But I know she loves you anyway, because she told me she loves her class very much.”

  “She did?” Carrie breathed.

  “Miss Moxie takes her class on all kinds of aventures,” Peach said, bouncing in place.

  “Adventures,” Tim corrected, looking into Mick’s eyes.

  Carried bristled. “Miss Braidwell took us to the zoo and to the museum all the way downtown. And we might go to the aquarium, too. We went on a superlong bus ride to see Christmas trees from around the world,” she said.

  “I went on that field trip when I was a kid, too. At the Museum of Science and Industry, right?”

  “Yeah.” Now Carrie wore the adult face. “We just go to all kinds of places like that.”

  I had been watching them for any signs of illness, but they all seemed fine, with good color and energy. “Did you all like that rice pudding that Mrs. Parker made?”

  Peach hugged my arm, seemingly enraptured. Were all children this dramatic? “That was so good,” she said. “I would like another bowl, please.”

  “I’m afraid it’s gone,” I said. “But I’m sure Mrs. Parker will make more someday soon. Then she can give it to you next time you’re here.”

  Carrie pointed accusingly at her tiny sister. “You’re not supposed to ask for seconds of sweets, Peach. Mom says.”

  Peach pouted, and I realized that pouting really did work sometimes. I was ready to give her whatever she wanted. “Mom said I could have some. She said so because I’m the best girl and princess.”

  “You’re a liar, too,” said Carrie with a quelling look.

  Peach looked to be on the verge of tears, so I said, “Do you want to know something really funny Mick did?”

  All three children switched their attention to me. “What?” asked Tim, lifting Mick’s ears into alert position.

  I racked my brains for a moment. “Oh, I have one. The other day he was yawning really big, and a burp came out.”

  The children burst into laughter. Peach actually had to hold her tiny abdomen.

  When they started to calm down, I said, “But that wasn’t the funny part. The funny part was that the burp scared him.”

  This sent them off into gales of laughter again, and they all knelt down to hug Mick, who panted and took it as his due. He noted some Popsicle drippings on Peach’s arm and began to gently lick them off.

  A man appeared beside us; he was of medium height, with a handsome face, sandy hair, and a slightly receding hairline. “What in the world is going on here?” he said, looking ready to be amused.

  The children were still giggling, so I said, “I was just telling them funny dog stories. I’m Lilah Drake.” I held out my hand, and he shook it.

  “Timothy Britton. I’m in charge of this group,” he said, feigning sadness. Peach ran to him and hugged his leg, and he laughed. “Just kidding, muffin,” he said, swinging her up into his arms. “Is the dog funny, sweet Peachie?”

  “He is funny. And this lady knows Miss Braidwell and the lady who made the rice pudding, and she is the dog’s mom.”

  Timothy nodded gravely. “A woman of many distinctions.”

  “Which I should add to my résumé,” I joked. “You
have very nice children. They have actually been entertaining me.”

  “They get their theatricality from their mother,” he said with a wink. He was charming, I realized with a jolt, and sort of sexy. I could see how he would be a nice counterpoint to Emma’s stern beauty.

  Peach rested her head on his shoulder; he took off the tiara before it poked him in the eye. “I’m going to put this in my pocket, Princess. It looks like someone needs a nap.”

  “Not me,” said Peach, but she lay listless on her father’s shoulder, as though the scent of him had triggered the memory of sleep.

  Timothy turned toward the other children. “Come on, you two. Say good-bye to the dog; we’re going to head home.”

  “Can we watch a movie tonight before bed?” his son asked.

  Timothy Britton stuck out the hand that wasn’t holding Peach in place. “Shake on it: if you and Carrie can get ready for bed in record time, then we’ll have a movie.”

  Tim Junior shook his hand, and he and his sister exchanged a pleased glance.

  “Go say your good-byes, and I’ll meet you at the car,” he told them.

  First, to my great surprise and pleasure, they came to shake my hand. “Thanks for letting us play with Mick,” Tim said politely.

  “And I’ll tell Miss Braidwell I saw you,” Carrie said. “Don’t tell her about the brownies.”

  “I won’t. That will be a lovely surprise. Nice to meet you, Tim and Carrie.”

  They ran off into the dwindling crowd. Peach had already fallen asleep on her father’s shoulder. “Long day,” I said, pointing and smiling.

  He nodded. “She doesn’t always take naps these days, but a party still wears her out.”

  “Any word on your father-in-law?” I asked.

  He shook his head ruefully. “No. Em hasn’t texted me yet, but she said she would when she knows anything. Do you have any idea what happened?”

  “Just that he collapsed. Right onto the food table. If it helps to comfort your wife, you might want to mention that before he fell unconscious he was actually quite happy. He said that he’d tasted the rice pudding, and it was something he had loved eating as a boy. He was smiling.”