The Big Chili

by Julia Buckley

  “I know, I know. But I have to live. Seriously. This has gone on long enough. I’m reclaiming my territory and my life, and the mad poisoner can just deal with it. I also have a big, brave dog.” I looked at Mick, who was drooling in his sleep. “Big, anyway.”

  I heard some voices in the background on Parker’s side. He spoke to them, his voice muffled. Then he said, “I have to go, Lilah. Some things are . . . happening here. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

  “Geez,” I said. I looked at the phone for a while, just sitting and holding it in my hand. In the other room Cam and Serafina were talking to each other in Italian, something that should have annoyed me but that I found strangely beautiful.

  I stared at the cool blue tile on my kitchen wall and realized something. It was never going to happen with Parker; he was too straightlaced, too uptight, too professional. I was always going to be a case to him. At this moment I couldn’t even imagine Parker as anything but a cop, with that ramrod posture and those narrowed eyes. I wondered if he had ever loved a woman, or if that was something he simply made no time for. I was almost tempted to call Ellie, to ask her discreetly about her son, but I had my pride. I was also halfway tempted to call Angelo, to let him flirt with me in his predictable way so that I’d feel pretty and feminine and desired.

  “Lilah?” It was Cam, peeking around the corner, finished with his own Italian flirtation. “Are you okay?”

  I wiped at my eyes. “Ugh. Yeah. Just a long day, I guess. I called Parker, and he said he doesn’t know how much longer I’ll have the police protection. I don’t care, though—I’m staying.”

  Cam’s face transformed into a look I’d seen before: I called it “protective older brother face.” He had worn it when we went trick-or-treating as kids and someone’s mean dog barked at me; he had worn it when I fell down the stairs at the age of eleven and broke my arm (we were home alone at the time, and Cam had called an ambulance with remarkable calm, then sat at my side and stroked the arm that wasn’t throbbing in pain); and he had worn it when my first boyfriend, circa freshman year of high school, had broken up with me because he said I was boring (Cam had also punched that person the next day, although I didn’t learn that until four years later).

  Now my brother, protective face established, came forward and gave me a hug. “You know what? It’s a really beautiful night. No more rain, and a bright half-moon. Let’s go for a walk.”

  I let him coax me into a jacket and lead me outside. He and Serafina each took one of my arms and walked me down the driveway, where we saw the police car sitting on the street under an elm tree. Cam went to the window and spoke to the officer briefly. Then he returned, his expression cheerful. “I told him we’d be right back,” he said.

  We walked down Dickens and toward Main—the same route Mick and I always took when we went on nocturnal jaunts. The trees were silhouettes against the blue-black sky, and the leaves that fell were dark shapes floating downward, elemental and poetic.

  Serafina told me about her sister Abia, the one who supposedly looked like me. Abia was twenty-four and studying to be a lawyer. She had a fiancé named Paulo who had proposed to her most romantically. After they finished university, they took a trip to Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast. “So lovely,” Serafina said. “The town is so colorful, like multicolored stones beneath the sun, with the sea right there, breathing and sighing.”

  “You’re very poetic, Fina,” I said, trying out the shortened version of her name.

  She kissed my cheek. “You must go there, Lilah. You look like a girl who thrives in the sunshine.”

  “So how did he propose?”

  “Oh yes. The best part is yet to come. They go from Sorrento to Capri, where they take a trip to the Blue Grotto. You have heard of this?”

  “No. But it sounds gorgeous.”

  “Oh, my. Pictures cannot describe. It is a sea cave, you see. You enter in a boat—with your lover, is best—and you are illuminated by light that shines up through the water—light tinted like gemstones, either sapphires or emeralds, you would think. And you are immersed in this beautiful light, like another world. If you put your hand in the water, it glows.”

  We crossed Main Street and started heading home on the opposite sidewalk.

  “Serafina, you should be a travel agent. I’m almost crying from that description,” I said.

  My brother squeezed my arm. “You were kind of sad anyway. But yes, Serafina is a poet. That’s how she won me over.”

  “Oh yeah—that’s how,” I said drily. Serafina’s laugh tinkled in the darkness.

  “Anyway, my sister is in the boat with her Paulo, and they are immersed in the blue light, and he tells her that she has never been more beautiful—like a statue of a goddess—and that he cannot be silent anymore with his passion. He displays a ring, which glows blue but is a diamond. They don’t dare take it out, for fear it will fall into the blue water and be gone forever.”

  “So she said yes?”

  “Oh yes. They are so happy, and she has that story to tell always. That was a gift from Paulo. We all approve of him.”

  “Is he a lawyer, too?”

  “No—Paulo is a builder, very talented. He is a true craftsman. They will have most talented children.”

  “That is so . . .” I stopped, distracted by the sight of a figure walking away from Terry and Britt’s house, still in the distance. The street was illuminated by only streetlights, but there was just enough light to make the figure look recognizable—both in form and movement. It looked like Pet Grandy.

  Had Pet gone to my house and found me gone? Had she been, for some reason, at Terry’s house? Or perhaps it was not Pet at all?

  Then another thought struck me—literally struck me, so that I almost fell down on the sidewalk. “Whoa, Lilah. Did you trip?” Cam asked, steadying me.

  “Just—saw someone I thought I knew.” My mind was racing. What if Pet Grandy had been waiting for me to leave so that she could vandalize my house once again? What if Pet was actually guilty? What if Pet was crazy? Had I been wrong about her all along? If not, what was she doing by my house—which was nowhere near hers—in the middle of the night?

  By the time we reached Terry and Britt’s place the sidewalk was deserted and the police officer sat still in his spot. I studied my house carefully as we approached—no telltale paint marks or offensive scrawled words. Perhaps I was imagining things.

  We went inside. I let Mick into the backyard, and Cam and Fina, with much hilarity, set up their bed in the living room. It looked very cozy. They found a channel on which The Bourne Identity had just started. It happened to be my favorite movie.

  “Watch this with us, Lilah,” my brother said as he snuggled under the covers with his luscious girlfriend.

  “Are you going to be making out all through it? Because if so, I think I’ll just head up to my room and call it a night,” I said.

  Cam shook his head. “We’re not teenagers,” he said with his professorial expression.

  “Fine. I’ll make some popcorn.”

  * * *

  THE BOURNE IDENTITY was a pleasure to watch, as always, but it did nothing to reduce my paranoia. Everyone was after Jason Bourne, and now, lying in my bed and jumping at every shadow that painted itself on my wall in the bright moonlight, I thought again about Pet Grandy. What if she was guilty? What if she had poisoned Alice Dixon and perhaps had considered implicating me? What if my making of the chili was all part of her elaborate murder plan? But then, of course, the police had said they didn’t suspect her, so Pet kept quiet.

  That didn’t quite work as a theory—why would Pet bother to involve me at all? I’d been making that chili for her for more than a year. Then again, Pet had worked with Bert Spielman, and he was poisoned. Was Pet the type to poison people? Did Pet have what it took to end a person’s life? Did she have a valid motive for
killing Bert?

  It still didn’t feel right. Pet’s grief over the deaths was too authentic, assuming she wasn’t some sort of sociopath who could wear any sort of mask.

  I sighed in the darkness. There was something there, right in front of me—some answer that would solve this puzzle once and for all. I couldn’t imagine why Parker wanted to do this for a living. I hated having to wonder who had poisoned people, who had stood on my porch and painted a threat on the pretty white wood siding. I would make a terrible cop.

  Mick snuffled on his pillow, and that was the last thing I heard until morning.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  At Pine Haven Realty, Mrs. Andrews was picked up for lunch by her husband, Alf, who was a true gentleman. He always wore a three-piece suit and a silk tie. He used words like glorious and splendid and spoke politely to everyone. I loved Alf and often fantasized that I could travel back in time to about 1950, which was probably the last time Alf was young, and meet him and fall in love. I had once seen Mrs. Andrews’s wedding picture, and Alf had been a handsome young man.

  I watched Alf park his 1998 Oldsmobile next to the office by putting it in drive and reversing about a hundred times, until he was satisfied that it was truly parallel to the building. A minute later he appeared and walked down the main aisle, greeting my parents and then me. Mrs. Andrews was off powdering her nose. She always acted nervous when he came for her, as though they were on their first date.

  “Hello, young lady,” Alf said. “Are you working hard, or hardly working?” I made a little Roman numeral on a sticky note I had on the bulletin board at the back of my desk. I was at forty-eight, which was how many times Alf had made that joke to me. I needed a new job. Still, Alf was sweet, so I said, “Oh, hardly working, as always.”

  Alf laughed. He was one of the few people I’d ever met who said, Ho, ho, when he laughed. “Ho, ho! Such a funny lady, and a pretty one.”

  “Will you marry me?” I asked, batting my eyes at him.

  “Well, hot dog! A proposal! I’m flattered as can be, but I guess I’d better stick with my bride.”

  Mrs. Andrews came floating toward us on a cloud of lilac scent, her hair shellacked into its usual Dairy Queen cone style. “Alf, you could have waited in the car,” she said, although she loved it when he came in to get her.

  “Nonsense, sweetie.” He took her arm and tucked it under his. “Where shall we go for lunch?”

  “How about Mary’s Diner?” she asked.

  They always went to Mary’s Diner, but they always pretended it was a new idea. I wondered if everyone descended into a sort of oblivion when they married, choosing to share the same illusions and to ignore the same realities.

  “You’re dark as a storm cloud today,” said my mother, perching on the edge of my desk. “Are you coveting Alf again?”

  “Yes. But also I’m just sort of depressed. I don’t know why. I got enough sleep and all that.”

  My mother brushed hair off of my forehead and felt it with her palm, as she had done when I was six. “You seem a little flushed.”

  “I’m physically fine,” I said. “Just a little moody.”

  “My baby Lilah. Things will look up, I know. You’re just still sad about all these terrible things that have happened in town.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What song is in your head right now?”

  I was reluctant to tell her. “‘All By Myself.’”

  “Oh my. Do you want to come over for dinner?”

  “Maybe tomorrow, okay? I want to try out something new tonight, and I haven’t worked in my kitchen in a long time. I need to go shopping, too; I have some deliveries in a couple of days.”

  “Okay. But you let us know when that police officer is no longer outside your house. If need be, Dad and I will hire our own security.”

  “That’s expensive, Mom.”

  “Would the money we saved be a comfort to us if something happened to you?”

  “We’ll talk about it later. I have some filing to do.”

  My mother’s anxious face stayed with me even after she walked away.

  * * *

  WHEN I GOT home I walked Mick, but only within sight of the police vehicle. Then I returned to my place and locked all the doors. I plugged in my iPod and clicked on one of my favorite playlists, a mix from the ’70s to the present—my own version of Terry’s jukebox. Dolly Parton started singing “Jolene” in a plaintive voice. I thought of Detective Grimaldi and her silky black hair.

  I got out my big mixing bowl and started chopping apples. While walking my dog past Terry’s big apple tree and smelling the fruit that had begun to rot sweetly into the ground, I’d had an idea for a sort of apple-cobbler bake. It would start with the traditional biscuit-mix bottom and a sprinkling of butter and brown sugar, but I’d decided to layer in some pecans and cranberries, as well as a touch of Angelo’s Gourmet syrup, which had a rich autumnal taste. My hands got busy without me; I barely recalled making the dish and sliding it into the oven. I was lost in thought, but I wasn’t even clear about what I was thinking. I was just floating there.

  Then my doorbell rang.

  I jumped; Mick rustled on the floor but didn’t bark. I took a deep breath and walked to the front hallway, where I saw Parker’s face through the small diamond-shaped window in the door.

  For some reason I was sure he brought bad news, and my hand was suddenly so clammy that it slipped off the doorknob once before I could finally turn it.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Lilah. May I come in for a moment?”

  He gave me that blue gaze of his and some moths of desire flew around in my stomach. “Sure.”

  We went, by tacit agreement, to the kitchen, and Parker sat down on the stool where he’d enjoyed the one dinner he’d eaten in this house. “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.” I forced a quick smile. “What brings you here?”

  He rubbed his right cheekbone with a weary expression. “Well, good news, actually. We’ve made an arrest.”

  “What?”

  “Hank Dixon was arrested this afternoon.”

  “Oh my God, Hank? Oh, poor Tammy. She was so sure of his innocence—I mean, I was sure, too. How do you know it was him?”

  His face closed off a little. “I can’t go into that. Suffice it to say that evidence was found in his home.”

  “What kind of evidence? You mean cyanide? Was that it?”

  Parker said nothing. His shoes suddenly interested him.

  I leaned against my refrigerator. “Hank Dixon. I can’t believe it. He’s the one who told my dad that he thought Bert Spielman was murdered. That he had wanted to hear what Bert had to say. It’s so strange—”

  Parker didn’t look me in the eye. “In any case, you can breathe a sigh of relief, and we’ll be terminating your police escort.”

  “Oh. Well—if you’re sure. Then I guess I can go back to my old life.” The reality of this dawned on me like a sudden burst of sunshine. “What a relief—thank you!” I said. I lunged forward and gave Parker a spontaneous hug. He had been sitting when I put my arms around him, but suddenly he was standing and I was even closer to him. I realized, moments later, that I’d let the hug last too long and that I’d allowed my nose to tuck itself into Parker’s neck and smell the masculine scent of it, but I also realized that Parker hadn’t seemed to notice because his own nose was buried in my hair.

  Then his hands were busy on the clasp of my braid, and my hair spilled over my back and shoulders and Parker said, “Oh God,” and I looked up in time to see his head bending toward me. It was not a gentle kiss. Parker’s mouth was hard against mine and his hands tugged spasmodically on the tresses he had loosed; I pushed against him until he fell back onto his stool and I straddled his lap, my hands curling around his neck and sliding up into his lovely dark hair.

&nb
sp; I probably never would have stopped kissing him, but he finally pushed me away—just slightly away—and smiled at me. “Lilah. I wanted to do that the first night I was here.”

  “Me, too.”

  “And now that the case is closed, I’m free to—pursue this. Which I want to do.” His smile was such a rarity that I wanted to capture it somehow, the way you long to preserve a blooming flower.

  His face grew solemn again in a moment, and I had a sudden realization. I backed up a little farther. “Except you don’t think the case is really closed.”

  He sighed.

  “You don’t think Hank did it!”

  “I can’t really comment—”

  “Oh, BS! So why did you arrest him if you think he’s innocent?”

  “I didn’t.” He looked regretful that he had spilled even that much.

  I felt a burst of schadenfreude. “Oh, I get it. This was Grimaldi’s collar.”

  “She had evidence. She was obligated to make the arrest.”

  “How did she know there was evidence? Wouldn’t you need a search warrant unless there was some sort of—don’t tell me someone called it in?”

  “Lilah, we can’t talk about this anymore.”

  “So Hank was framed, is what you’re telling me.”

  I got an intense look from his blue eyes before he pulled me to him and kissed me again. Surprised, I melted back against him and realized just how comfortable it was, as though I’d been kissing Parker for years. This time I pulled away and attempted a glare. “You did that to make me be quiet.”

  “It worked. But also I really wanted to kiss you.”

  We looked at each other for a minute, our faces close together. Then Parker sniffed the air around him.

  “Whatever you’re making seems to be done,” Parker said. “Don’t let it burn.”

  “Oh, shoot!” I yelled, climbing awkwardly off his lap and diving toward my oven mitts. I removed my dish, which I was tentatively calling “Harvest Apple Bake,” with great care.