The Big Chili

by Julia Buckley

  “I would love it!” I said, my mouth full of the cake I couldn’t resist. “Esther, I would love that! Just tell me when to start. And give me some time to break it gently to my parents, who like having me work with them at their real estate office. But they’ll be happy for me, believe me, once they get used to the idea.”

  Esther nodded. “We have a lot of requests at the holidays. It’s going to get busy soon. What if you started in two weeks?”

  “I’ll be here. Just tell me the day. I have my own car, so I can help with deliveries. Oh, and I have a dog, Mick, who is usually my security when I deliver things, if that’s okay—”

  She giggled. “We love dogs,” she said. “Cats, too. If you went through that door”—she pointed at a cheerful, red-painted door behind our table—“and went into our living quarters back there, you’d find a whole menagerie. I’m surprised the canines aren’t barking away right now. They must be napping.”

  I stared. “You live on the premises?”

  “Oh yes. This building was quite a find. Roomy living quarters with a view of Crandall Creek out back. And the seller happened to be very motivated, so it was affordable. He had gotten a job in Sacramento.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “This building has great bones,” said Britt, looking around with a sculptor’s eye. “And that brick wall at the back—gorgeous!”

  Esther nodded. “I admit it, we’ve been lucky. We’ve got a good place here. We wouldn’t mind staying.”

  We continued our little tea party, but more than once I caught Esther looking at me with what seemed a measuring expression; I probably looked at her, and my surroundings, in the same way. Haven, for me, might live up to its name.

  * * *

  BRITT DROPPED ME off at my parents’ house, her face smug. Mick was waiting for me at the door, even though my mother assured me he had been walked and watered. “Hey, boy,” I said, sitting next to him in the foyer. A fragrant bowl of potpourri beside us scented the air with pumpkin and spice.

  Mick allowed me to pet him for a while, until his seemingly hurt feelings mellowed.

  “Is that better?” I asked, admiring the sincerity of his chocolate eyes.

  Mick waited a minute, but he couldn’t resist. He nodded.

  “That’s my boy,” I said, hugging him.

  Mick sat under my chair when we ate dinner, and I slipped him the occasional piece of my hamburger. Eventually, after we watched some television together and my parents both dozed off in front of the books they were reading, I called my dog and made my way up to bed. Somehow, despite the comfort of a loyal canine friend, a mother-made sweater, and the promise of a bright new career, I was haunted by the memory of words scrawled across my house, and of Alice Dixon saying there was something wrong with the chili.

  I lay in the dark, my eyes on the blue-white crescent moon, which sat on a pile of gray clouds. How could I pursue my future when something dark obscured my present? When in the world would this murderer be exposed?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On our way home from work the next day, we stopped at St. Bart’s. My mother had agreed to be one of the planners of the Christmas boutique, and she had to drop some things off with the parish secretary, whose name was Erin Hartley. “Let me just run this envelope to Erin,” my mother said and bolted out of the car in her brisk way. My father and I both knew that she was going to talk with Erin, as well, and that we might be looking at a ten-minute wait. His hand went to the radio dial and started roaming stations. I spied Father Schmidt on the side lawn of the church, kneeling in front of a flower bed.

  “Hey, since Mom’s going to be gone for a few minutes, I’m going to talk to Father Schmidt,” I said. My father grunted, and I left the car and made my way toward our parish priest. He was wearing jeans, a Notre Dame sweatshirt, and gardening gloves, and he was busy pulling weeds that poked out between some purple mums. Even in early November, the hardy mums were still alive, as were some of the determined plant intruders that insinuated their way into his garden.

  “Hello, Lilah,” he said.

  “Hello, Father. A priest’s job is never done, huh?”

  “Oh, I suppose not. Although this is less of a chore and more like therapy. I’ve always needed to get my hands in the earth now and then. It’s like a prayer, don’t you think?”

  I had never considered this before. “That’s a lovely way of putting it.” I squatted down and said, “Father, I’ve been thinking about Alice Dixon.”

  He nodded sadly. “I’m sure we all have. She’s been in my daily prayers. Alice was devoted to God, and I trust that she is with him.”

  “Yes.” I paused. “I’ve been thinking more of her life on Earth, and who might have wanted to poison her.”

  He looked up at me. “Could you push my glasses up on my nose, Lilah? My hands are covered with dirt.”

  I did so, and he smiled. “There. Now I can see you properly. I need to get those fitted better. They’re always sliding off.” He sat back on his heels and wiped his dirty hands on the grass. “Pet told me that you are friendly with the police officer who is investigating Alice’s murder.”

  I sighed, not bothering to deny it. This was the power of the St. Bart’s rumor mill. “Do you have any ideas, Father? Can you think of anyone who wished Alice harm?”

  He shook his head. “No. Alice was not an easy person, we all know that. She was rather like a rose—elegant and lovely, but quite prickly when handled. So yes, she created some conflicts in the church community. But I wouldn’t go so far as to say she made enemies. You knew Alice. She was . . . complicated. In many ways she was like the girl I remember—she and I both grew up in Chicago, did you know? On the same street, right near Cumberland and Foster. I was just starting seminary school when Alice was still a little girl, perhaps a first grader, and I remember visiting home and seeing her on the block, running and playing. Even then she was quite particular. She didn’t like to get dirty when she played. She would take her little dolls out in a wagon, but she would put a blanket between the metal of the wagon and her dolls’ dresses because she didn’t want to soil them.”

  He wiped his hands some more on the grass, then took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes with his forearm. Only then did I realize he was brushing away tears. I felt in my pockets for a tissue; I usually carried one in case I had a sneeze attack. I found one and handed it to him.

  He thanked me and wiped his eyes. “It’s hard not to feel sad, even though I know Alice is with God. But to die that way, without last rites, without a chance to say good-bye or perhaps to say sorry . . .” He shook his head.

  “And to whom do you think she might want to apologize?”

  He nodded. “You want to know this for your friend. He wants answers, right?”

  “I think I just want to know for myself. I don’t know if you’re aware, Father, but someone threatened me recently. After Bert died. They painted the words ‘You’re Next’ on my house.”

  Father Schmidt’s eyes grew wide, and he grasped my hands with his dirty ones. Then he remembered the dirt and dropped my hands. “Oh—I got dirt on you.”

  “It will wash off.”

  “Lilah, this is terrible! I had no idea. You must be frightened and angry.”

  “Both of those.”

  He nodded. “So you want to know who I think resented Alice Dixon. The answer is, everyone. There were some women who resented her for having a higher rank than they in the women’s club. Yes, some resentments are just that basic. Then there were those who were angry at her for perceived slights, real or imagined. As I said, Alice was not a cuddly person. I wouldn’t even say she was a nice person. But she was a woman with feelings, and those feelings could be hurt. She knew that people didn’t always like her, but she couldn’t understand why. She was one of those people who didn’t see herself the way others saw her; she didn’t understand that she
seemed cold. More than once she came to me crying, saying, “Father, why don’t they like me?”

  “Oh my.”

  “Yes. And I would sit down with her and counsel her, and ask her to make more of an effort to empathize with others. She tried, I know she did. But her nature worked against her; she was not an empathetic person. Poor Alice. I so often saw the child in her.”

  I nodded. “Who else resented her, Father?”

  “Well, her husband, of course. Their marriage was tempestuous and largely unhappy. In their case, I think separation was the healthiest thing.”

  “I didn’t know priests could say that.”

  He shrugged. “I’m speaking more as a psychologist. That was my minor in school. Hank had many resentments, some of which were quite justified. But he wasn’t perfect, either. Marriage is such a difficult challenge, really. I think of it as two boats, sailing side by side. But how difficult is it to remain side by side when the storms come? Boats can become separated.”

  This was like trying to get answers out of Confucius, although I did admire this philosophical side of Father Kurt Schmidt. “What about the church ladies? The Grandy sisters, or Trixie or Theresa, or Mrs. Breen, your housekeeper?”

  Father Schmidt grinned. “Mrs. Breen disliked her intensely. They are both strong women who like to take charge. You can imagine how those interactions went, especially if Alice tried to take control over something in the rectory.”

  I giggled. Then I said, “Why would anyone do that? I mean, don’t these people have lives of their own?”

  His eyes were wise. “No, not always.”

  “Huh. And what about the other women?”

  He sighed and stretched his long arms. “Alice had a strange relationship to the Grandys. I think, in an odd way, she envied their sisterhood, their connection to one another. Alice was an only child.”

  “Ah.”

  “But she considered them her friends, as well, and often they would work side by side without conflict, mostly peacefully. They would joke with one another, and Alice would lavish them with presents. That was one thing about Alice: she was a woman of some means, and she was always generous. To the church, to the poor, to her friends. No one could call her stingy. Once she gave Perpetua a lovely ring that she said had been a family heirloom. But you know Pet—she’s not the ring type. I think it hurt Alice’s feelings that Pet never wore it.”

  “Did they fight about it?”

  “Not exactly. Alice was more of a cold freeze kind of person. You had to wait out her anger the way you would wait for a glacier to melt.”

  “Did she ever give you the cold freeze?”

  “Oh my, yes. All the time. But I wouldn’t play her game. I would say, ‘Alice, I will be happy to speak with you after you’ve gotten over your feelings.’ It was best on those occasions just to leave her alone and let her stew.”

  I stared at him. “Don’t you ever just get totally sick of people? Don’t you just get tired of their weird personalities and their nonsense and their shallowness?”

  His expression was cheerful. “Of course. All the time. And then I get out here and dig my hands in the earth and recite Psalms, and I am nourished anew.”

  “You’re kind of saintly,” I said accusingly.

  He laughed. “No, I’m not. But it’s my job to be good, so I try to be good. At least in public. Ask Mrs. Breen—I have my moods and my tantrums.”

  I tried to picture calm Father Schmidt throwing a tantrum. I failed.

  “So if you had to investigate Alice’s death, who is the one person that you would talk to first? The one person you felt might have had something to do with it?”

  He sighed. “To be quite honest with you, Lilah, I have given some thought to the idea that Alice did this to herself. That it was one last act of spite against Perpetua for some perceived slight that Alice couldn’t forgive. I mean, her last words were to suggest that Pet’s chili wasn’t right. She knew how proud Pet was of her chili.”

  “Oh my gosh.” My legs were starting to cramp in their squatted position. I stood up and jogged in place for a moment, trying to come to terms with the bombshell Father Schmidt had just dropped on me. What if Alice was depressed, suicidal? What if Alice had poisoned herself? She had access to the chili, certainly, and she would have been able to engineer the whole situation. And yet—I had seen her face when the poison began to affect her. Either Alice had been the best actress in the world, or that had been genuine panic.

  I looked down on Father Schmidt, who contemplated the dirt on his hands. “But, Father,” I said, “if that’s true, then who killed Bert Spielman?”

  “I have no idea, unless it was an unrelated thing. A copycat crime, perhaps.”

  “Did you share this idea with the police?”

  “No. Not in so many words. I hinted that Alice had been unhappy.”

  “Do you mind if I mention it?”

  “Of course not. We all want to get to the truth. This is something that I’ve only been considering lately.”

  I saw my mother come darting out of the parish office; my father pulled the car into a recently vacated spot so that she wouldn’t have to walk as far. “Looks like my ride is ready,” I said. “Thanks for talking with me, Father.”

  Father Schmidt bowed his head in acknowledgment. “You’re welcome, Lilah. Be safe. I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

  I got back in the car and we pulled away from the curb. I watched Father Schmidt as he knelt there in the flower bed; his eyes seemed to be closed. I wondered how many people he prayed for each day, and whether his frail petitions had any impact on the juggernaut of fate.

  * * *

  DESPITE MY MOTHER’S worried noises, I moved back into my little house one week later. Mid-November had brought ice-cold air and a few windstorms, which batted the last of the leaves off of the trees. My block was bereft of color when we drove down the street, and the skeletal trees offered stark welcome.

  Cam and Serafina had insisted upon moving me back, and they’d also insisted (probably after being strong-armed by my parents) upon staying the first night, on the pull-out couch in my living room. It was always rather close when I had a visitor staying in my “spare room,” almost as if we were sailors in our respective ship’s cabins, but I was glad they were there.

  Mick seemed the happiest to be back. He marched straight to his basket by the fireplace and made some smacking noises with his mouth—the kind that signal contentment—and went to sleep. I was tempted to do the same thing, but Cam and Serafina were there, nosing around my house and commenting on various things—the art on my walls, the rag rug in my hallway, the well-stocked pantry in the corner of my kitchen. “This is a great place, Lilo,” Cam said, his arm around Serafina. “You’ve made it really homey.”

  “I love it,” I said. “You two sit down and I’ll make some dinner. What sounds good?”

  “How about that thing you make with the veal?” Cam asked. “It’s got that sort of tomato sauce and the crusty topping. . . .”

  “Veal pie?” I asked. “I don’t have the right ingredients. Let me go see—”

  “No, no,” said Serafina. “We will order Italian—Cam will pay. You sit and relax, Lilah.”

  Serafina was growing on me; sitting and relaxing made sense. I was happy to let her take charge, and, forty minutes later, it was as she had willed it. We sat down with pasta and wine and I told them about my new job opportunity.

  “You like to cook this much?” Serafina asked. “To make food constantly for others?”

  “Yes. It’s an art. Food is my medium.”

  Cam stroked Serafina’s hair. “Lilah does have a flair for cooking. She always did. She used to make my birthday dinners, and Mom made the cakes.”

  Serafina nodded. “Maybe you will make a birthday dinner for me someday. I am a terrible cook. Everyone thinks I should not be,
because I am Italian, but I only like to mix ingredients in the test tubes.”

  We laughed, and Cam poured some more wine for everyone. “Good thing we’re not driving,” I said.

  Cam looked out my living room window, though only darkness was visible. “Li, aren’t you supposed to tell that guard cop about your new location?”

  I choked on my wine. “Oh God, I forgot! I was supposed to call Parker.” I looked at my watch. “Seven o’clock. I don’t know if he’ll even be there. . . .” I ran into my kitchen and dialed the number for the police. A bored operator told me that Parker was there, and that she would “connect me through.”

  “Parker,” said Parker. His voice was clipped, distracted.

  “Uh—hi, Jay. It’s Lilah.”

  “Lilah.” His voice was significantly warmer. “Is everything all right?”

  “Well—yes. In fact, things seem back to normal, so I’ve moved back home. To my little house.”

  Parker sighed. “Lilah, I wish you had consulted me. Us. I would have advised against it.”

  “Well, no offense, but this could be unsolved forever, and I have a life to live and a business to run.”

  “You mean the real estate business?” he asked, sounding confused.

  “Yes, okay. I mean, I have to go to my job every day, and it got a little crowded at my parents’ house. My brother and his girlfriend are here, and they’ll be spending the night. So I should be fine. But I don’t know if your police person is still doing night duty—”

  His voice was clipped again. “I’ll inform them. But I’m not sure how much longer you’ll have that protection, Lilah. I have to get clearance from the chief of police, and he is not fond of overtime hours.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll lock up tight, and I have Terry and Britt in the house next door. If anything scares me, I can call them.”

  There was a brief silence; I tried in vain to imagine what Parker was thinking. When he spoke, he sounded tired. “Lilah, there’s not just a danger of someone scaring you.”