The Big Chili

by Julia Buckley

  “Well, Alice was elected fair and square,” I said. “I don’t see why Pet doesn’t run for president.”

  My mother nodded, watching Perpetua as she scuttled toward the food table with a basket of rolls. Behind her were two of her seven sisters, Angelica and Harmonia. Pet and these two were the last of the Grandys to stay in Pine Haven, probably because they were the three who had not married. They all looked similar to one another, except Pet’s sisters were light-haired and not yet graying. They tended to follow Pet as a matter of course, supporting her in all of her endeavors and often seemingly reading her mind. Now Angelica marched after Pet with a dish of butter, and Harmonia with a pile of napkins.

  “Oh, those Grandy girls,” my mother said with a sigh. “They’re like a throwback to the sixties with their nun names and their servitude. They need to find a hobby, or travel outside this town.”

  “They’re not girls, Mom. They’re probably in their fifties.”

  “Well, anyway. Oh, good—here’s Alice. I’m starving!”

  Alice Dixon approached the microphone that Father Schmidt had set up a few moments earlier. She looked perfect, as usual, with her dark sweep of hair and her stylish blue-gray dress. I didn’t know Alice Dixon well, but I had never liked her. My feelings were based not on one event but on various things I’d noted over the years: Alice’s tendency to wear a superior expression when she was around Pet or one of the other women who toiled around the church; her usual excessive use of a very unpleasant perfume; her snappish answers when people asked her questions. Once I had seen her give a sarcastic response to two little children who were helping with Christmas decorations around the altar. They’d asked her something, in voices barely audible, and she had snarled at them.

  In public, though, and in front of a microphone, Alice was all smiles and loveliness. Her ex-husband Hank sat in one corner with his bingo cards and his new girlfriend, Tammy, and he barely looked up when Alice began to speak.

  “Good evening, everyone. I’m Alice Dixon, and I’m the president of St. Bart’s Altar and Rosary Guild. Thanks for coming out to support St. Bart’s bingo night!”

  Some scattered applause.

  “Tonight’s big jackpot is two thousand, five hundred dollars!”

  That got bigger applause. People really were greedy, I reflected. But then again, I’d been wondering how many bingo jackpots would allow me to enlarge the kitchen in Terry’s little guesthouse. . . .

  Alice smiled again and picked up a bowl of chili from the table next to her. “Pet has made her delicious chili for us tonight, and many other cooks have brought delicacies to our table so that we won’t go hungry while we listen to those numbers!”

  Applause and some laughter.

  Alice took a big bite of chili. I hoped she hadn’t let it get cold. “Pet’s chili is delicious, as always—and I think you’ve added something new, haven’t you, Pet? Something sweet. It provides an interesting counterpoint to the flavor.” Pet shot a look at me and I shook my head. Nothing new in the chili. Alice took another bite and set the dish down. “Anyway, this officially starts our evening’s festivities; I hope that—oh my!” She swayed slightly before us, looking distressed. Her right hand flew to her forehead, her left to her abdomen. “I think that—something’s wrong. With the chili.”

  Then she fell like a stone, and we heard her head hit the floor.

  A chorus of screams and groans rose in the crowd; several people ran to Alice where she lay unmoving, including my mother, Alice’s ex-husband Hank, and Brad Witherspoon, who was a doctor. I made my way to the front, too, and went to the chili pot. Surely I couldn’t have used bad ingredients? I always checked expiration dates and smelled the food before I cooked it. This had been a fine batch—a delicious batch. I lifted the lid and inhaled. Oh, there was something wrong with the chili, all right. Someone had tampered with it, and it did not smell right.

  I turned to Father Schmidt, who stood near me. “Don’t let anyone eat this,” I said. “And I think you should call the police.”

  “We’ve already called an ambulance,” Father Schmidt said, his face pale.

  “Call the police, too, Father,” I said gently. “Something’s wrong about this.”

  I moved to the doorway, where Pet stood wringing her hands. “What should I do?” she said.

  “Do you want me to tell them? When the police come? Should I tell them I made it?” I whispered.

  Pet looked surprisingly defiant. “Well, no—because after Alice gets better I’m still going to want to make food for events. Everyone loves my food,” she said, tears spiking her eyes.

  “It’s okay, Pet. Maybe one of the ladies thought she was being helpful and added something to it in the kitchen. But it smells strange now.”

  “So if they ask me—?”

  “Just say that someone tampered with your chili. Go lift the lid—you’ll see what I mean.”

  The ambulance arrived, and the attendants rushed in to Alice, who was surrounded now on the floor. Pet went over to the chili and opened the lid; her brows creased in surprise. Then she returned. “I’ll tell them that. So I don’t want you to say anything, Lilah. This is mine and I made it. Okay?”

  “I just don’t want you to be blamed for anything—”

  “I won’t, because I didn’t do anything wrong.” Her plump little body was rigid and stubborn as a child’s. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt that said London in white letters on a black background.

  “I know, Pet.” I tried not to look at the cluster of people around Alice. “How many people had access to that kitchen tonight?” I asked.

  Pet sighed a quivering sigh. “Oh Lord, everyone and her brother. There were some high school kids helping us for a service project. Me and my sisters, of course. Alice and some of the Rosary Guild ladies. Hank and his girlfriend, who made a dessert. Father Schmidt. Trixie and Theresa. Mary, the rectory housekeeper. Bert Spielman came in to sniff things. Some more people, probably.”

  She trembled as they carried Alice out on a stretcher, her arm connected to an IV. The ambulance attendants were running. The brief glimpse I caught of Alice must have been an optical illusion, because her skin looked weirdly pink.

  “Oh God,” I murmured.

  Father Schmidt had started a group prayer, and most of the people in the room had joined in.

  A moment later some uniformed officers showed up at the door and glanced around; they spied Father Schmidt and went to him, their various tools of the trade clicking and jingling on their belts. He stopped praying and conferred with the officers in low tones. Then he went to the microphone and lifted it with shaking hands.

  “The police have just informed me that they would like everyone to stay here for the time being.” He cleared his throat. “They have also informed me that our dear friend Alice Dixon—has just died.”

  A wail of distress and fear rose in the small crowd.

  Father Schmidt wiped away a tear and said, “And the ladies have told me that no one else should eat the chili.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Pet was sitting on a folding chair near a window, taking deep breaths and accepting comfort from her sisters. My mother, who had CPR training and had tried to help Alice, was looking pale and shell-shocked. I was scanning faces, trying to imagine what could have happened, what horrible accident had somehow caused Alice Dixon’s death.

  The police had been questioning people and taking notes; now a new group of police officers appeared in the doorway, and more of them flowed into the scene, including a man in a shirt and tie and a woman in a blue suit. The man looked familiar—my stomach lurched. It was the man from Ellie’s house: the one who had accused me of being a thief. He looked different because he didn’t have his glasses on, but it was the same guy, all right. Now I was at the scene of a death, and I had made the food that might potentially have killed the woman in question.

&n
bsp; As if sensing my fear, the man in the suit looked my way and seemed to recognize me; his brows went up and his body moved forward, toward me. Then he was there, tall and intense, his mouth a serious line. “Hello again.”

  “Hello. Did your mother verify that I was not a criminal?”

  He nodded, smiling briefly as he scanned the room over my head. “What brings you here tonight?”

  “Bingo. I mean, my mom wanted to play, so I came along. We were just waiting for the event to start, and Alice did this thing she always does, which is to eat some food in order to encourage people to start heading toward the buffet. And it seemed to make her sick. Are you a cop, or what?”

  He pulled out a badge. It said Detective Inspector Jacob Parker, Pine Haven PD.

  “Oh boy,” I murmured.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Listen, there’s something you should know. Pet’s chili is always delicious, and—it’s made with great care. I’ve eaten it many times. But tonight, after Alice ate the chili, I went to the pot and smelled the batch, and it’s not right.”

  “So you think she might have gotten food poisoning?”

  I shook my head. “Food poisoning doesn’t manifest itself that quickly. She took a bite and she was almost instantly ill.”

  His brows rose. “Where is this chili?”

  I led him to my big, beautiful Crock-Pot, and he lifted the lid. He leaned in and inhaled, then quickly covered the pot again. “Simmons!” he yelled, and a man jogged over. “I want this taken into evidence.” He turned to me. “Excuse us for a moment, will you?”

  I stepped away, but I kept watching them as they spoke in low voices. Then they wrapped the entire pot in some sort of crime lab cellophane and carried it out of the room.

  The police were ordering that all of the windows be opened.

  Parker came back to me. “Listen—Lilah, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go into the nearest lavatory and wash your face.”

  “What?”

  “Wash your eyes, too. If this is the poison I think it is, then you’ll want to wash off any trace of vapor before it can affect you. Just to be on the safe side. Did anyone else inhale it?”

  I gestured toward Pet, and he sent someone to her with the same message.

  “Did you say poison?” I said.

  He pointed. “Go wash.”

  I ran to the bathroom and washed, suddenly terrified that I was dying. Pet was at the opposite sink, splashing away at her face and crying. “What in the world is happening?” she asked, burbling into the water.

  “I have no idea.” But I did. Parker thought there was poison in that chili. I certainly hadn’t put it there, and I was sure Pet hadn’t either, which meant that someone in this familiar little church hall had put it there—and committed murder. On a sudden impulse I took out my phone and Googled “poison that smells like almonds.” Several links popped up, and they all shared one word in common: cyanide. I stared at the little screen while my stomach did nervous somersaults. Outside of an Agatha Christie novel, who really poisoned people? How could this possibly be happening?

  Pet and I returned to the main room, damp and nervous, and Parker loomed again. I looked at Pet, nodded at her, and then said, “Detective Parker, you need to know—regarding the chili—I mean, if you’re investigating it and how it was made—”

  “Then you can talk to me,” said Pet, extending her hand. “I’m Perpetua Grandy, and I made the chili. I’m kind of famous for it around here.”

  I looked at her, shocked. “Pet, I think—”

  Pet sent me a rather intense look. “I am very proud of my chili, Detective Parker. It’s—it’s quite a tradition here at St. Bart’s.” Her eyes had grown moist. I sighed, staring at the Big Ben image on her London shirt.

  “Lilah? Did you have something to add?” asked Parker.

  “No. Just that Pet is right, and her chili is beloved by all. Hopefully this—event—won’t dissuade people from eating it in the future.” Parker nodded, thanked us, and moved away.

  Pet grabbed my arm in a fierce grip. “Thank you,” she hissed. “It will be fine, I swear.” I nodded without speaking, and she wandered off toward the kitchen.

  I found my mother and explained everything that had happened. “I feel weird not telling them that it’s mine,” I said in a low voice. “But this means everything to Pet. She was crying when she said that people loved her food.”

  My mother touched my hand. “It won’t matter. You’re innocent and so is Pet, and they’ll find whoever did this. God, I can’t believe it.” And then she added, “Your father will never let me go to bingo again.”

  * * *

  THEY FINALLY RELEASED us at about ten that evening, after they had taken a statement from everyone and bagged up all of the food. My mother asked if I wanted to come home with her. “You’ll feel safer with Dad and me,” she said, which was probably true, but I also craved solitude.

  “I’ll be okay. Just drop me off at the gatehouse. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  My mother drove to Terry’s place, a big gray stone building sitting in dignified splendor on the corner of Dickens Street. I kissed her on the cheek, jumped out, and waved as she drove away. Then I made a beeline for the path that led past Terry’s house and straight to mine. I was trying to figure out which Norah Jones song was in my head, but I had only narrowed it down to a bluesy, breathy, sexy something with lots of brushing of the snare drum.

  A car door slammed behind me. “Lilah?” said a man’s voice.

  I turned, frightened, and saw Detective Jacob Parker standing in front of his car.

  “God, you scared me. What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said, warming his hands in his pockets.

  “She wasn’t my friend. I didn’t even like her, but I still feel terrible about what happened to her.”

  He nodded. “I wanted to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re shivering. Can we go in your house?”

  I hesitated and he said, “Perhaps you’d like to invite someone else to join us? I realize it’s an odd thing to ask this late at night.”

  I looked at Terry’s place. I didn’t see lights, which probably meant he wasn’t home. He and Britt often went to Chicago social events until the wee hours.

  This man was Ellie’s son, and a police officer. He looked about as wrung-out as I felt. I decided that it was okay, with Mick by my side. “Sure. I live in the back.” I led the way to my door, which I unlocked to the accompaniment of Mick’s energetic barking.

  “I forgot about your dog. What’s his name?” Parker asked.

  “Mick.” Then we were inside, and Mick was greeting not me but Parker, leaping all over him and licking every available bit of skin. “He’s a great guard dog, as you can see.”

  Parker laughed. “I have a cat. He probably smells Winston.”

  I whisked to the shadowy corners and flicked on the Tiffany lamps I had bought at a garage sale. They lit up my little room with a cozy, multicolored radiance. I turned on my electric fireplace, and faux flames began to dance behind the screen. Then I turned to him; he had sat down in one of my stuffed green chairs and begun to massage Mick’s head. Mick, that traitor, had apparently forgotten my existence. He smiled up at Parker, his eyes slitted with pleasure. “Maybe I should leave you two alone,” I joked.

  Parker laughed. Then he looked at me with those blue eyes. “Listen, I’m here because I owe you an apology.”

  I had not expected this. I dropped into the other chair and said, “What?”

  “This morning. I was rude to you, and I still haven’t heard the end of it from my mother. She insisted that I deliver your payment in person so that I could apologize—which I was going to do before I got called to the church.”

 
“Oh, okay. God, this morning seems like a thousand years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s not a big deal.”

  “It is. I guess I’ve just become so cynical in my job that I tend to be suspicious of everyone, and there you were—”

  I nodded. “When I think about it now, it’s kind of funny. Me there pinching money and then telling you I mowed the lawn.” I laughed, and he did, too, and finally I wiped tears out of my eyes. “Did your mother—uh—”

  “No. She said it was none of my business, and that she owed you fifty dollars. So here I am, with my tail between my legs and my mother’s scolding ringing in my ears.” He took out his wallet and removed the money, which he set on the table beside him. “Again, I apologize.”

  I smiled at him. “Your mom is a good friend of mine. She’s a great lady.”

  “I agree.” We kept eye contact in the silent room, and I found it oddly comfortable to look into his eyes. Normally this would have been beyond awkward.

  I stood up. “I never did get dinner tonight, and I’m starving. Can I persuade you to share a little something with me? Usually I just have Mick as my dining companion. I’m guessing you didn’t eat, either?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did not. I was just going to wait until morning at this point, but now that you’ve mentioned food, my stomach has awakened.”

  I led the way into my tiny kitchen, with its blue tile walls and shining white tile floor. In an alcove above the stove was a picture my parents had enlarged for me as a gift on my last birthday: me at ten years old, wearing a red apron and making dinner for our family. I was grinning at the camera and holding a wooden spoon; my blonde hair, down to my waist back then, was tied into two silky pigtails.