Death in Dark Blue

by Julia Buckley

  “She’ll be out here within thirty seconds,” I told Mick, and sure enough, he had barely started nodding before Pet burst out of the back door of the church social hall and made a beeline for the adjoining rectory lot. Pet’s full name was Perpetua; her mother had named her for some nun who had once taught at the parish school. Pet basically lived at the church; she was always running one event or another, and Father Schmidt was her gangly other half. They made a hilarious duo: he, tall and thin in his priestly black, and she, short and plump as a tomato and sporting one of her many velour sweat suits—often in offensively bright colors. In fall, you could often spot them tending to the autumnal flower beds outside St. Bart’s. At Christmastime, one of them would hold the ladder while the other swayed in front of the giant pine outside the church, clutching strings of white Christmas lights. Pet was utterly devoted to Father Schmidt; they were like a platonic married couple.

  As she marched toward my car, I studied her. Today’s ensemble, also velour, was a bright orange number that made her look like a calendar-appropriate pumpkin. Her cheeks were rosy in the cold, and her dark silver-flecked hair was cut short and no-nonsense. Pet was not a frilly person.

  She approached my vehicle, as always, with an almost sinister expression, as if she were buying drugs. Pet was very careful that no one should know what we were doing or why. On the rare occasions that someone witnessed the food handoff, Pet pretended that I was just driving it over from her house. Today she had ordered a huge Crock-Pot full of chili for the bingo event in the church hall. Everyone was bringing food, but Pet’s (my) chili had become a favorite.

  I rolled down my window, and Pet looked both ways before leaning in. Her eyes darted constantly, like those of someone marked for assassination. “Hello, Lilah. Is it light enough for me to carry?”

  “It’s pretty heavy, Pet. Do you want me to—”

  “No, no. I have a dolly in the vestibule. I’ll just run and get it. Here’s the money.” She thrust an envelope through the window at me with her left hand, her body turned sideways and her right hand scratching her face in an attempt to look casual. Pet was so practiced at clandestine maneuvers that I thought she might actually make a good criminal. I watched her rapid-walk back to the church and marveled that she wasn’t thin as a reed, since she was always moving. Pet, however, had the Achilles heel of a sweet addiction: she loved it all, she had told me once. Donuts, cookies, cake, pie, ice cream. “I probably have sweets three times a day. My doctor told me I’m lucky I don’t have diabetes. But I crave it all the time!”

  Pet reappeared and I pretended that I was about to get out of my car to help her. I did this every time, just to tease her, and every time she took the bait. “No,” she shouted, her hand up as though to ward off a bullet aimed at her heart. “Stay there! Someone might see you!”

  “Okay, Pet.” She opened my back hatch and I spoke to her over my shoulder. “It’s the big Crock-Pot there. Ignore the box in the corner—that’s for someone else.”

  “Fine, fine. Thank you, Lilah. I’m sure it will be delicious, as always.” She hauled it out of the car, grunting slightly, and placed it on her dolly. Then, loudly, for whatever sprites might be listening, she said, “Thank you so much for driving this from my house! It’s a real time-saver!”

  I rolled my eyes at Mick and he nodded. Mick totally gets it.

  I waved to Pet, who ignored me, and drove away while she was still wheeling her prize back to the church hall. My mother played bingo there sometimes and probably would tonight. We were church members, but we were neither as devout nor as involved as was Pet. My mother called us “lapsed Catholics” and said we would probably have to wait at the back of the line on our way to heaven, at which point my father would snort and say that he could name five perfect Catholics who were having affairs.

  Then they would launch into one of their marital spats and I would tune them out or escape to my own home, which was where I headed now.

  My parents are Realtors, and I work for them during the day. I mostly either answer phones at the office or sit at showings, dreaming of recipes while answering questions about hardwood floors, modernized baths, and stainless steel kitchens. It isn’t a difficult task, but I do lust after those kitchens more than is healthy. I have visions of starting my own catering business, experimenting with spices at one of those amazing marble islands while a tall blue-eyed man occasionally wanders in to taste my concoctions.

  Mick was staring at the side of my face with his intense look. I slapped my forehead. “Oh, buddy! I never gave you your treat, and you had to sit and smell that chili all through the ride!”

  Mick nodded.

  We pulled into the long driveway that led to our little house, which was actually an old caretaker’s cottage behind a much larger residence. My parents had found it for me and gotten me a crazy deal on rent because they had sold the main house to Terry Randall, a rich eccentric who had taken a liking to my parents during the negotiations. Taking advantage of that, my parents had mentioned that their daughter would love to rent a cottage like the one behind his house, and Terry had agreed. My rent, which Terry didn’t need but which my parents had insisted upon, was a steal. I’d been in the cottage for more than two years and Terry and I had become good friends. I was often invited into the big house for the lavish parties that Terry and his girlfriend liked to throw on a regular basis.

  I pulled a Tupperware container out of my tote bag—Mick’s reward whenever he accompanied me on trips. “Who’s my special boy?” I asked him as I popped off the lid.

  Mick started munching, his expression forgiving. He made quick work of the chili inside; I laughed and snapped his picture on my phone. “That’s going on the refrigerator, boy,” I said. It was true, I doted on Mick as if he were my child, but in my defense, Mick was a spectacular dog.

  I belted out a few lines of “Jolly Holiday” before turning off the radio and retrieving Mick’s now-clean container. I checked my phone and found two text messages: one from my friend Jenny, who wanted me to come for dinner soon, and one from my brother, who wanted me to meet his girlfriend. I’d met lots of Cam’s girlfriends over time, but this one was special to him, I could tell, because she was Italian. My brother and I, thanks to a wonderfully enthusiastic junior high Italian teacher, had developed a mutual love of Italian culture before we even got to high school. We immersed ourselves in Italian art, music, sports, and film. We both took Italian in high school, and Cam went on to get his PhD in Italian, which he now taught at Loyola, my alma mater. We were Italophiles from way back, but Cam had never met an Italian woman. It was I who had won the distinction of dating an Italian first, and that hadn’t ended well. But sometimes, even now, when I found myself humming “Danza, danza fanciulla gentile,” I could hear Miss Abbandonato saying, “Ciao, Lilah, splendido!”

  She had told us, in the early days of our classes, that her family name meant “forsaken,” and I had remembered it when I, too, was betrayed. Abbandonato. How forsaken I had felt back then.

  I turned off my phone and smiled at Mick, who was still licking his chops. We climbed out of the car and made our way to the cozy little cottage with its green wood door and berry wreath. Home sweet home.

  I grabbed my mail out of the tin box and unlocked the door, letting Mick and me into our kingdom. We had hardwood floors, too, at least a few feet of them in our little foyer. The living room was carpeted in an unfortunate brown shag, but it was clean, and there was a fireplace that made the whole first floor snug and welcoming.

  My kitchen was tiny and clean, and between my little dining area and the living room was a circular staircase that led up to a loft bedroom. Every night I thanked God for Terry Randall and his generous heart (and for my savvy parents, who had talked him into renting me my dollhouse cottage).

  As I set my things down, my phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey.” It was my mother.
I could hear her doing something in the background—probably putting away groceries. “Are you going to bingo with me tonight?”

  “Mom. Bingo is so loud and annoying, and those crazy women with their multiple cards and highlighters . . .”

  “Are what? Our good friends and fellow parishioners?”

  I groaned. “Don’t judge me, Mom. Just because I get tired of Trixie Frith and Theresa Scardini and their braying voices—”

  “Lilah Veronica! What has gotten into you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sweetie, you have to get out. Dad thinks you have agoraphobia.”

  “I don’t have agoraphobia. I just happen to like my house and my dog.”

  “What song is in your head right now?”

  My mother knew this odd little fact: I always had a song in my head. There was one in there when I woke up each morning—often something really obscure, like a commercial jingle from the nineties, when I was a kid—and one in my head when I went to bed at night. It was not always a conscious thing, but it was always there, like a sound track to my life. My mother had used it as a way to gauge my mood when I was little. If I was happy it was always something like “I Could Have Danced All Night” (I loved musicals) or some fun Raffi song. If she heard me humming “It’s Not Easy Being Green,” she knew I needed cheering up. Nowadays my musical moods could swing from Adele to Abba in a matter of hours. “I don’t know. I think I was humming Simon and Garfunkel a minute ago.”

  “Hmm—that could go either way.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

  “You haven’t spent much time with young people lately. You need to get out on the town with Jenny, like in the old days when you two were in college.”

  “I’m planning just that next week. We’ve been texting about it. But, Mom, I’m not in college anymore. And neither is Jenny. She’s busy with her job, I’m busy with my jobs—plural. And if you are subtly implying that you want me to meet men, I am not ready for that, either.”

  My mother sighed dramatically in my ear. “One bad relationship doesn’t mean you can’t find something good.”

  “No. It just means I’m not interested in finding a man right now. I think I’m a loner. I like being alone.”

  “I think you’re hiding.”

  “Mom, stop the pop psychology. I have a great life: a growing business, a nice house, a loving family, and a devoted dog. People who saw my life would wish they were me.”

  “Except no one sees your life, because you hide away from the world in your little house behind a house.”

  “Right. With my agoraphobia,” I said, choosing to find my mother’s words amusing instead of annoying. She had found me this house, after all.

  “Come with me tonight. I heard that Pet will be making her chili. It’s my favorite,” said my mother, who was one of only three people who knew my secret.

  “I guess I’ll go,” I said. “But only because I’m hoping your crazy luck will rub off on me and I’ll win the jackpot.”

  My mother had won two thousand dollars at bingo six months earlier. She came home beaming, and my father groused about the fact that she went at all. Then she pulled out twenty hundred-dollar bills and set them in his lap. Now he didn’t say much about bingo, especially since they’d used the money to buy him a state-of-the-art recliner.

  What I could do with two thousand dollars. . . .

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