The Big Chili

by Julia Buckley

  “I made a snack,” she told us, and then went back to humming “Here, There and Everywhere” while she played along. I was on the verge of musical overload.

  My father made an approving sound. “One of the best songs ever written.” He took my jacket and removed his own, then went to hang them up in the hall closet.

  Since my mother was busy, I went into the kitchen, jammed a piece of warm pumpkin bread in my mouth, and then climbed upstairs to my father’s office, where I sat in his black faux-leather chair and dialed Trixie Frith. Then I held the phone about a foot away from my ear.

  “Hello?” Trixie boomed.

  “Trixie, it’s Lilah.”

  “Hey, sweetheart! What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask you a question—”

  “Lilah! Are you by a computer?”

  “Yeah, but why—”

  “Lilah! Go on Skype.”

  “What?”

  “Theresa and I are trying to learn how to Skype. Our kids are always bugging us about it. So we’re practicing.”

  “Go on Skype!” I heard Theresa yell in the background.

  With a sigh, I logged on to the computer and signed in to my father’s Skype account. “I have to hang up this line, Trixie, so I can call you on the other one. Okay?”

  “Okay!” Trixie boomed. Theresa, apparently still in persuasion mode, yelled, “Go on Skype, Lilah!”

  I hung up the phone and then dialed Trixie’s number online. Soon enough we were connected, and there was Trixie with a different neon lipstick, her blonde hair slightly mussed. She was, predictably, looking away from the camera, as was tiny little Theresa, who peered over Trixie’s shoulder at something unknown.

  “You guys. Look into the camera. Look at me, in other words.”

  They shifted their gaze and then both burst into appreciative speech, drowning each other out. Trixie stopped first, so I caught the end of Theresa’s sentence, which was “always telling us to Skype, so . . .”

  “Hi, ladies.”

  “Hi, Lilah. You look pretty today,” Trixie said. “I wonder if your mom’s hair was that blonde when she was young.”

  “I think it was. She still has some blonde, mixed in with the silver.”

  “It’s a beautiful color,” said Theresa brightly. She was wearing some sort of little blue-jean overall outfit that looked as if it had come from the Kohl’s girls’ department, but it looked good on her.

  “Listen,” I said. “Did you guys ever hear that Alice Dixon might have been seeing another man? Like when she was still married to Hank?”

  Trixie and Theresa, forgetting that they were on camera, exchanged a significant glance but said nothing.

  “I can see you,” I reminded them.

  Theresa jumped and Trixie smiled guiltily. “That’s right. Well, we did hear rumors. But it wasn’t a man from the parish. That’s all we knew—that she had been seen out and about with some guy. I’m not sure if Hank found out about it or not, but that’s why a lot of people sided with Hank when they announced they were divorcing. We all remembered that little rumor, especially when Alice tried to suggest that it was Hank’s girlfriend who broke things up. Hank didn’t meet her until later.”

  “Yeah—I just heard the story of how they met. Sort of romantic.”

  “She’s a lady doctor,” said Theresa, sounding like Mrs. Andrews, my file nemesis at the real estate office.

  “Or you could just say a doctor. A veterinarian, actually.”

  “Yeah. Very impressive,” Trixie said, nodding. “Young people are so accomplished these days. All Alice did was sit around and think of ways to be miserable. Hank is better off, I have to say.”

  She didn’t have to say, but since I had encouraged the gossip I couldn’t really complain about it.

  “I should get going,” I said. “But let me ask you this. Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge—against me?”

  Both women’s eyes opened wide. “Against you?” cried Trixie, her loud voice causing static on the microphone. “Why, hon? Did something happen?”

  “Not much. It might not be related. Maybe just a little Halloween mischief, my dad thinks. But who knows? People have been dying.” My throat suddenly hurt. If I wasn’t careful I would burst out crying in front of Trixie and Theresa.

  “I can’t think of anyone who would hold a grudge against you,” said Theresa in a comforting grandma sort of voice. “Your family is kind and generous in the parish, and always willing to lend a hand.”

  “Pet and Father Schmidt just love you,” Trixie added. “They’re always saying what a fun young person you are.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. “Hey, I’ve got to go. I’m having an early dinner with the parents. Have a good day, both of you.”

  “See you later, Lilah.”

  Just before the screen went dark, I saw the smiles vanish from their faces, as though they thought they were already off camera. I wondered what had suddenly sobered them—the questions I had asked? The reality that I had been victimized? Or was it, perhaps, that they’d been forced to lie to me?

  Thanks to the murderer running loose around the city, I was becoming utterly paranoid, and even church ladies had started to seem sinister.

  * * *

  THAT EVENING AFTER dinner I sat watching Charade with my mother. We were both partial to Cary Grant; my father said he couldn’t see the appeal. Men, my mother assured me, were envious of Grant’s effortless masculinity. This offended my father, who huffed into the kitchen to do the dinner dishes. When the phone rang, I heard his muffled hello and then a brief silence. Then he appeared in the doorway, a dish towel over his shoulder and one hand over the phone. “Lilah. It’s your boyfriend from the police station.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Dad,” I said, sounding and feeling about fifteen years old. Then, continuing the theme of immaturity, I ran to my father, yanked the phone out of his hand, and went running up the stairs with it so that my parents couldn’t eavesdrop. In a rather traitorous choice, Mick stayed curled up at my mother’s feet, snoring slightly even though his eyes were open.

  “Hello?” I said, safely in my room and breathing hard.

  “What did I interrupt? Were you doing jumping jacks?” Parker joked.

  “No. I had to run down from upstairs. What’s up? Did you find him?”

  “No. Sorry to get your hopes up. I just . . . wanted to thank you for dropping off my jacket.”

  “Oh, no problem. Thank you for letting me wear it. It’s nice and warm.”

  I caught a glimpse of my own dismay in the mirror above my old dresser. What a lame response! For some reason I thought of Mrs. Andrews and her dome of white hair; back in her day they probably taught people how to have proper telephone conversations.

  Parker’s voice sounded the same, but somehow it seemed sexier to me than before. “I’m sorry I missed you. I mean, I was sorry, when I came in and Maria told me you’d been there.”

  “Maria?” Jealousy stabbed me in the gut and had me scowling at my reflection. I turned away from the mirror and faced the window across the room.

  “Detective Grimaldi, my partner.”

  “Oh yes. She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

  “Hmm? Sure. Anyway, I was upset that I missed you. So I thought I’d call.”

  “I appreciate it. It’s nice to hear from you—although it would be better if you said you’d caught someone.”

  “We will catch him, Lilah, and soon.”

  “Is that so?” My voice sounded bleak.

  “Of course. Try not to worry.” Now Parker’s voice was no-nonsense; I pictured that stern teacher face he was making on the day I met him.

  “Easier said than done, I’m afraid.”

  “This case is our top priority—Maria and I are working twelve-hour days. Few criminals escape a truly disc
iplined and relentless investigative team.”

  “I know you’re a hard worker, Jay. And I trust you to get this guy soon.”

  “I will.” His voice held a certain intensity—but of course he was just feeling passionate about his job.

  “Anyway, thank you for calling, Detective Parker.”

  “Lilah, I promise to keep updating you, all right? I’ll call again soon,” he said.

  I said good-bye and clicked off. Then I turned off the light and went back down the stairs to replace the phone in its charger.

  “What’s wrong?” asked my eagle-eyed mother from the living room. She had, ever thoughtful, paused the movie for me so that I didn’t miss anything.

  I returned to my spot on the couch and hugged a pillow against me. “You can both stop staring at me.”

  “Why so glum, chum?” asked my father, borrowing a phrase that I was guessing could be traced back to the Great Depression.

  I shrugged. “He just called to talk about police stuff. And to thank me for handing in his jacket.”

  My father made a wry face and exchanged a look with my mother. “Lilah, normally I would not get involved in my daughter’s love life. But since you really seem to like this guy I have to tell you something from a man’s point of view: he didn’t need to call you about the jacket. And he could have some clerk call with updates about the case. And he wouldn’t have given his jacket to any other person in the first place. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “No.”

  “Lilah, he called you at home in the evening, probably from his house.”

  “He works long hours.”

  “He doesn’t need to keep contacting you, Lilah—he just wants to.”

  “What?”

  “It’s obvious,” my father said, rolling his eyes.

  “It is obvious,” agreed my mother.

  “What’s so great about this guy, anyway?” my father asked.

  “He’s very handsome,” my mother told my father, as though I weren’t sitting right there. “And so polite. He questioned me on the night Alice died, and I was struck by his polite manner.”

  I hugged my pillow. “Let’s just watch the movie. But turn it up a little; Mick’s snoring is getting kind of loud.”

  “Sure, honey,” my mother said.

  My father wasn’t finished. “And here’s another thing,” he added. “He clearly can’t resist getting in touch with you. He probably told you he called for official reasons, but that’s a classic gambit. I’ll bet he told you that he’s going to call back.”

  Parker had said that; he’d said he would call back soon.

  “There’s that pretty smile!” my mother said.

  I ignored them both. “Let’s just watch the movie,” I said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  For the next week things fell into a daily rhythm: in the morning I drove with my parents to the realty offices; in the evening I would use their kitchen to keep up with my covered-dish business. With Parker’s advance permission, my father accompanied me to my much-missed little house so that I could retrieve my calendar and a variety of kitchen tools and dishes that I needed. Terry had seen to it that the offending writing had been removed and the wall repainted. The front of the cottage looked as good as new.

  My life got back to as normal a pattern as it could with me living away from my home. The new sound track of my life included the recurring plaintive songs of Emmylou Harris. I didn’t know the words to any of them, but they played some folksy Muzak at the real estate office, and I had absorbed a lot of her haunting melodies. One of them had the words “icy blue heart,” in it, and that one in particular was rattling around in my head.

  On the Thursday after Halloween I delivered another casserole to Danielle Prentiss, my smoky client, who had indeed loved the addition of cumin and had requested that I make “the exact same thing” for her next poker party.

  We met at our usual spot and she bounced toward me like a spring to claim the dish. “Lilah, I have to tell you—your food is an addiction! And not just for me. Everyone in my poker party thinks I’m a culinary genius. It’s a shame you can’t get the credit.” She gave me a sly smile and I laughed.

  “I’m getting paid,” I said.

  “Still.” She shook her head as though my anonymity were a real shame. After thanking me again, she drove off, and I went back to Mick, my delivery companion.

  We drove to our place, which I looked at with wistful longing. Mick, too, seemed ready to walk down the driveway and settle into his regular basket. “Not today, buddy. We’re just here to talk with Britt.”

  I had made an appointment to speak with Britt about catering. Despite the fact that she was my friend, my hand was clammy on Mick’s leash, and my heart was racing as I rapped on the door.

  Terry answered, looking calm and rested, as usual. I felt a sudden longing for Terry’s lifestyle. I was willing to wager it was full of things like naps and capricious journeys to beautiful places. “Hey, Lilah,” he said. “Great to see you. Did you have fun at the party? I mean, before the whole thing afterward?”

  “It was the greatest party ever, and you guys are the best hosts.”

  His look held affection and a bit of concern. He waved me after him and we walked toward his big kitchen, where we sat on two copper-legged stools under about five thousand dollars’ worth of gleaming pots and pans, hanging from the ceiling on metal hooks. Terry offered me some of his expensive coffee, which I declined; I was wired enough without caffeine. He poured some for himself and took a sip, then patted my hand. “I got your place all cleaned up. Looks good as new.”

  “Yeah, Dad and I were in there the other day. Thanks so much, Terry.”

  “You’re okay, right? I mean, you’re not—scared?”

  “No, not exactly. I mean, I’m not ready to live in there alone, but I’m not trembling in fear all over town. Mick and I are running errands tonight just like we always have.”

  “Good.” He gave my hand another pat. “I don’t want anyone taking your independence from you. That’s important.” His sincerity left me momentarily speechless. I nodded at him, and he pulled me into a hug.

  Britt walked in and sighed theatrically. “I turn around for one moment, and you start an affair with Lilah.”

  “She’s a temptress,” Terry said, letting me go and winking at me.

  I wiped my eyes and Terry hopped off his stool. “You sit, Britt. I have to go pay some bills.” He waved to me and kissed Britt on the lips, then strolled off with the ease of a man on his way to some sort of leisure—perhaps to smell the flowers in his garden or to take a bicycle ride.

  Britt stared after him. “He’s priceless, isn’t he? But he’s so sweet.”

  “He really is. I’ve never met anyone like Terry.”

  “And you never will again,” Britt joked. We laughed, then she grew serious. “I know Terry probably already said this, but . . . we’re here if you need anything. You know that, right?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I took a calming breath and said, “But that’s not why I’m here. I want to tell you about a little business I’ve had for the last year or so.”

  Britt raised her eyebrows, and I told her about my covered-dish company—what sorts of foods I’d made, how many clients I had, the various happy responses I’d received. “It’s like a catering company, but on a rather limited scale. Still, I have a book full of clients who call me on a regular basis, and I might be able to convince a few of them to provide references, despite the clandestine nature of the thing. And of course you’re kind of a reference, too, since I made you some food the other day.”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  “And I was wondering if you’d be willing to give me a try for one of your future parties,” I said. “Something small, so that you can get a sense of my cooking without having to risk ruining a giant dinn
er party.”

  Britt laughed. “Lilah, I would never believe you could ruin anything. I think you have a magic touch.”

  “Hardly,” I said.

  “I would love to hire you. With Haven going out of business, this is a great new option. In fact . . .” Britt’s eyes widened.

  “What?”

  “Well, I know Esther Reynolds pretty well. She’s the genius behind Haven of Pine Haven. She hearkens from New England, but she long ago decided that Chicago was her sweet home, like the song on Terry’s jukebox says. Maybe I could introduce you to her.”

  I tried not to lunge at Britt, but I didn’t quite succeed. I grabbed her wrist and said, “If you could arrange a meeting I would be forever indebted to you. Maybe she wouldn’t go out of business if she could find an energetic young worker who knows her way around the kitchen.”

  Britt sent me a sparkly smile. “Maybe you’re just what she’s looking for!”

  * * *

  BRITT AND I were both busy in the next week, but she promised to speak with Esther Reynolds and to get back to me in the near future. In return, I promised her eternal devotion.

  Feeling like a true professional, I began to suggest to my parents that it was probably time for me to go home. I mentioned it again on Thursday evening while we ate spaghetti together in their kitchen.

  “I don’t like the idea,” my mother said. “This person is unpredictable and probably insane, and he knows where you live!”

  I nodded. “But what if they never catch him? What if I’m forty years old and still living here?”

  My father cleared his throat. “Why don’t you put a little faith in that cop you like so much? He said he’s on it twelve hours a day, right? So give him some time. It’s only been a week.”

  This was true, and I had no real argument except that I missed my home. “That’s a good point, Dad, and I do trust that Parker is working his hardest. But maybe this person is a genius. Maybe he or she is so clever that they’ll continue to elude everyone. Meanwhile, my little house sits empty. Don’t you think the cop they assigned me would watch me out there?”