The Big Chili

by Julia Buckley

  I kept my voice calm, and she nodded, wiping at her nose with one well-manicured hand. “I know. I’m sorry I made a scene.” She glared around at the people who were still staring, then sighed raggedly. “I guess I’d better get home. I’ll—I’ll see you around, Lilah.”

  “Okay.”

  I watched her walk forlornly to her car, a cell phone pressed against her ear. She certainly seemed devoted to her fiancé. I wondered if that meant that she would kill for him.

  Where had that thought come from? How silly to suspect a girl like Tammy—okay, a woman like Tammy—would poison someone to death. The whole affair had made me paranoid.

  Someone tapped my arm and said, “Is there a washer and dryer?”

  “Oh yes—state-of-the-art. Let me show you.”

  * * *

  OVER FOUR HOURS, I had twenty-four visitors, at least six of whom seemed truly interested in the house. I’d been humming “Cowboy, Take Me Away” for about three of those hours. I wondered what emotional cues my mother would get from a Dixie Chicks song.

  I drove to the office and turned in my yard sign and sign-in sheet to the receptionist. I had marked the names of the people who showed interest in buying—including Hank Dixon and his betrothed.

  “Thanks, Lilah. Oh, I see your mom and dad are back, too.”

  My parents had been working their own open houses today, and they trudged rather wearily up the steps but brightened when they saw me. “Hey, cupcake!” said my father, the only man who was allowed to call me that. He ran a hand through his thick peppery hair (he was a man who would never go bald) and smoothed his unruly eyebrows. “You look awfully pretty today.”

  I gave him a hug, then offered one to my mom. We are a huggy family. At holidays and birthdays, when we can lure my brother, Cam, away from his city job and his string of sexy girlfriends, greetings sometimes take five full minutes, as we all stand at the door and take turns embracing one another.

  “How did it go today?” my mom asked.

  “I gave the sheet to Becca. Lots of visitors, six prospectives.”

  “Great! I’ll make some calls,” my mother said. She was a good and conscientious Realtor, and she had more of a nose for fresh blood than my father did. My father was the glad-hander. He loved meeting people and chatting with them, but my mother liked to whisk through introductions and get out the paperwork.

  “You want to go have dinner somewhere, honey?” my father asked. I could hear his stomach growling from two feet away.

  “No, thanks, I have to take Mick for a walk and ask Terry something. But you two go—feed him, Mom. He’s obviously starving.”

  My mother pursed her lips. “He’s always starving.” Then she patted my father’s belly. It wasn’t huge, but it was there, and my mother was always patting it.

  My father scowled at her. “And I’m not having a salad, either!”

  I gave them each a quick peck on the cheek and waved, since they were warming up to one of their favorite arguments. It would be good-natured, and my father, this time, would win, because my mother, despite all her talk about being healthy and working out and eating salads, was a secret feeder. Cam had once confessed to me that he had been relieved to finally move out of the family home because he feared our mother would fatten him up beyond the point of luring girlfriends.

  Homeward bound at last, I turned on the radio in time to hear a Beatles song. My father was a huge Beatles fan, and so Cam and I had grown up being Beatles fans, as well. Now I sang along with “Eleanor Rigby” at the top of my lungs, appreciating the sunny fall day.

  When I finally pulled into the long driveway, I stopped near Terry’s entrance door and hopped out. I moved down his cement walkway, lined with pots of marigolds and little pumpkins that had words scrawled on them in dramatic black. As you walked, the pumpkin-revealed message said “Beware . . . of . . . ghouls . . . and . . . goblins . . . and . . . witches . . . and . . . salesmen!”

  This was typical of Terry’s sense of humor, and his girlfriend, Britt, had probably done all the artwork, since she was an actual artist, with her own gallery on Breville Road. She sold prints of her work in the shop and online and made scads of money at it. She and Terry, although both artistic in temperament, were also unexpectedly good businesspeople. Terry had started out in Internet sales, then developed his own company, called Sterling Stars, which sold, as he put it, “quality sterling silver jewelry and collectibles for unbelievable prices.” This business had done so well that Terry eventually sold it for a profit. Now he worked his own hours, functioning as a “broker,” which he told me meant “helping rich people find things to waste their money on.” Terry, of course, got a percentage of every wasted penny.

  I rang Terry’s bell and peeked through the window into his foyer. He and Britt had wonderful taste, and their house was sophisticated yet fun, packed with all sorts of interesting pieces that somehow went together because of the stylish arrangement. It looked as if a Hammacher Schlemmer catalogue had exploded all over the lovely pinewood floors.

  My favorite piece was right there in the foyer, and I could see it glowing on the nights when I came home in the dark. It was a Wurlitzer jukebox—a big one—fully functional and filled with an amazing array of songs. It glowed with blue, green, and yellow lights that chased one another around the rectangular surface. One of the greatest things about Terry’s parties—aside from the hilarious stories told by Terry and Britt about one of their many, many adventures—was the fact that you could wander over to the jukebox and choose any song from the 1960s to the present. Many a jocular battle had been fought in Terry’s foyer, as people loudly defended their choice of music to someone else who thought it was horrible.

  I was still gazing at the lovely jukebox when Terry wandered into sight, holding a beer. He was of medium height, but fit and healthy-looking, with a perpetually optimistic expression and a well-trimmed blond beard about which he was incredibly vain. He had a shock of blond hair, too, which made him look like a stereotypical surfer dude. Britt, by contrast, was cool and dark, with silky black hair that hung in sheets on either side of her face in a perfect ’20s-style bob. Britt admired the ’20s and the art deco style, and she would have fit right into the jazz age. She favored long skirts and long necklaces against low necklines (scandalously low, my mother insisted), which I thought all combined to make her look beautiful.

  The door opened, and Terry waved. “Hey, Lilah. What’s up? You want to come in and join us for some dinner?”

  “No, thanks, Terry. But that’s so sweet of you to offer. I have to take Mick for a walk, and I owe him a kind of long one.”

  “That’s cool.” He stroked his beard with one hand, looking pleased with life.

  “I was just wondering—regarding the party this Friday—”

  His expression grew dark. “Do NOT tell me you’re not coming! I wanted to have an eighties singing-fest with you!”

  Terry and I liked ’80s music, and sometimes, with a bit of wine-inspired courage, we would sing together on his karaoke machine. We both loved singing and were good enough that we’d gotten requests from returning party guests.

  “No, I’ll be there. I just wondered if I should bring something.”

  Terry shook his head. “Nah—got it covered. Britt hired that caterer she loves.”

  “Ah.” Britt’s caterer was wonderful. In my dreams I worked for someone like them—but I had heard they were a family operation.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you then.”

  “You bringing a date?” asked Terry with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Nope. Not this time. Dates cramp my style,” I joked.

  “Good. I’m glad you’re not still with that guy from last year. He was bad news.”

  “We’ve already had this discussion.” I could feel myself blushing. I did not like to think of my history with Angelo.

  Terry bright
ened and leaned toward me. “Can you stay long enough to sing a song? Britt loves to hear you sing.”

  “No—maybe Friday,” I said. “Now I have a reproachful dog to walk.”

  “You got it. I’ve already got a song picked out for a duet. You and me!” Terry yelled, smacking his chest like an ape.

  “Weird, Terry.”

  “You’ll love it. See you Friday!”

  He was still laughing when he closed his big oaken door.

  I went back to my car, feeling depressed. Terry had made me think, if only briefly, of the worst failure of a relationship I’d ever had. It had been tempestuous and exciting, yes, but ultimately ugly and demoralizing. Love affairs could devolve that way.

  As I predicted, Mick was ready for me with his baleful look. I usually got this one if I was gone for more than about three hours.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said. “You do know I have to work for a living, right? It keeps you in dog food.”

  This did not please him.

  “You want a walk?” I asked.

  Mick could not hold out against this particular bribe. His chocolate tail pumped back and forth, and he gave me a toothy smile.

  “Okay, that’s my boy. Go get your leash.”

  He did, dragging it back to me within seconds. I grabbed a couple of plastic bags for the necessary pickup job, and we went back into the night. There were even more Halloween decorations now, putting me in a holiday mood. The big event was on Friday night, and I couldn’t wait to see what Terry and Britt would do for Halloween decor. They wanted people to come in costume, but I planned to cop out and just put some silver glitter in my hair, maybe do some crazy eye makeup and call myself Elvira.

  We walked down to Main Street and once again admired the store window displays, all Halloweeny and glowing with holiday fun. I liked Halloween, as a rule, and Cam and I had come up with amazing costumes every year, often dressing as a duo (my brother was cool that way). The best was probably when we were Luke and Leia from Star Wars, although I’d also been fond of our retro Starsky and Hutch costumes, which had required me to wear a wig of tight black curls that was not flattering but looked good with the multipatterned Starsky sweater.

  We crossed the street and came down the other side of the block, pausing often so that Mick could sniff and I could look in the windows of the florist (lots of pumpkins and autumnal garlands), the dry cleaner (with a surprisingly cool haunted-house display), and Bettina’s Hair Palace, which sported a skeleton holding its own head. “Fun, Mick,” I said. Mick looked up and nodded.

  We also passed an Italian restaurant owned by my former boyfriend. I avoided looking into this window.

  Then we ambled back home, taking deep healthy breaths of cool air. I started humming “Hazy Shade of Winter,” and Mick’s paws seemed to keep rhythm to my beat.

  When we finally strolled down Terry’s driveway, Mick slowed down. I saw the hackles rising on his neck before I heard him growling. I went for the keys in my pocket, weaving them between my fingers in eyeball-stabbing position.

  “Who’s there?” I yelled.

  Pet Grandy stepped out of the shadows, and she didn’t look happy.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Perpetua, you scared me,” I said sternly. “What are you doing here this late, anyway?”

  Pet looked at her watch. “It’s only six o’clock,” she said. “We were taking a walk, and I said I wanted to come and talk to you.”

  Then I realized that her sisters were there, too, standing in the shadow of my porch and looking at a phone that one of them carried. “Hi, Angelica. Hi, Harmonia.”

  Angelica looked up and nodded; she wore little black reading glasses, and her reddish-blonde hair was covered by a red babushka. “Pet was really eager to talk to you, Lilah. We’ve been trying to calm her down, and we thought a walk would help, but then she got it into her head that she had to see you. You’ll have to forgive her—she’s obviously still upset.”

  Harmonia stepped forward, the phone still in her hand. She was dressed for winter in a shapeless green parka with a fake-fur-trimmed hood. “I was trying to see if there was a movie playing tonight at the Old-Time Theater. Something fun that would take her mind off things. But—it’s not—quite what we were looking for. Oh, look at the sweetheart!” She knelt and began to pet Mick with enthusiasm.

  I knew what was playing at the Old-Time Theater: Dial M for Murder.

  “Well—do you guys want to come in? I can make some hot chocolate or something.”

  Pet looked at her sisters. “Could you two just walk once around the block? I want to talk to Lilah—it’s about real estate—some questions about Mom and Dad’s house. Just give me five minutes, okay?”

  Harmonia stood up and exchanged a glance with Angelica. The sisters looked like they’d had just about enough of Pet’s weirdness for one day, but they sighed and marched back down the sidewalk, like cute little salt-and-pepper-shaker people. I remembered something my father had once said, in a moment of rudeness, while observing the Grandy family at a church function. “There’s something weirdly big about each of them,” he’d whispered to me. “Angelica’s got big feet, Harmonia has huge hands, and Pet has a big head.”

  It was true. Pet’s head was large and round, although it had seemed proportional to the rest of her body until my father made me realize it was a bit—extra. My mother had once said that most celebrities had larger-than-average heads, which ended up looking just right on movie and television screens. I didn’t know if that was true, but I had always vaguely wondered if Pet would end up being a celebrity. In any case, the Grandy girls had clearly inherited their large features from their father, Morton Grandy, who was six foot eight and had the largest Adam’s apple I had ever seen on a man. He had always frightened me in church, while he belted out hymns and swayed in his pew, as though he were an uprooted tree about to fall with a mighty crash onto some unsuspecting parishioner. Morton and his wife, Peggy, had retired to Florida two years ago, but I still recalled them both clearly.

  “What’s going on, Pet?”

  Pet waited until her sisters reached the bottom of the driveway. Then she turned to me, her face crumpling with agitation. “You’re the only one I can talk to. The only one who knows the truth! Did you say anything to the police?”

  “No. And I’m having second thoughts about that, Pet—”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to say anything. They told me that they believe my story and they haven’t determined any reason why I might want to hurt Alice Dixon. They also don’t think that if I were going to poison her I would poison my own chili. But . . . they told me to be available for further questioning.”

  “Okay . . . so we probably won’t have to worry about this much longer. They brought Hank Dixon in for questioning today.”

  Pet froze. “What?”

  “Hank. Her ex. He was looking at the house I was showing, and the police came and got him. Tammy drove home alone.”

  “That is ridiculous. Hank is a good person and a loyal parishioner. He gave one thousand dollars to the Retired Sisters Fund last year!” Her face was indignant on his behalf. Women really seemed protective of Hank Dixon.

  I shrugged. “I know it’s hard to believe—but as far as we knew, everyone in that basement was a good person. So it’s up to the police to look beneath the veneers and find the truth. Find a motive, I guess.”

  Pet sighed. “This is what upsets me, Lilah.”

  “What?”

  “I— Well, I’m afraid people will say I had a motive.”

  “Come on!”

  “No, it’s true. People probably don’t realize this, but I was—jealous of Alice. I sometimes felt as if she—showed off at church functions. To the point that the rest of us were left in her shadow.”

  “Well, that’s not fair. You work very hard for the church, Pet.”

  �
��I know. And I’ll admit I like my fair share of the attention. Well, you know that better than anyone.” She gave me a humble look, and I realized this was a Perpetua I had never seen before. “But it wasn’t just that. You know that I spend time with Father Schmidt. We have him over for dinner every Friday night, and he often comes over to play cards, or on Friday nights to watch Bones.”

  I giggled. “He likes the those gory special effects, does he?”

  “Oh yes. We’re all big fans.” Pet’s face was sweet and childlike. Then it grew hard. “But Alice had started suggesting that it wasn’t appropriate for Father to come to our house. She suggested to me—and to Father—that he should stop coming over. This upset Father very much; he’s sensitive to any accusations of impropriety, you understand.”

  “Of course.” Poor Father Schmidt. It was hard to be a priest these days, even if you were a good and decent person.

  Pet looked near tears; her eyes glinted in the dark. Mick rubbed against her leg and she patted his head absently. “The thing is—the Grandys have always hosted the priests at their home—going all the way back to the 1960s, when my mother was the first to invite Father Eisenbart for Thanksgiving dinner. After that all the ladies vied to have the priest over for dinner, but it was always sort of a Grandy tradition. And in the meantime, we’ve become good friends. We enjoy Father Schmidt’s company, and he enjoys ours. I think it would be a very lonely life if he had to sit in the rectory all the time and never fraternize with his parishioners.”

  “Of course it would. And it’s ridiculous to say it’s inappropriate for him to have dinner with you or anyone else.”

  Pet sounded relieved. “Well, I thought that, too. Alice—in the last few days—was really campaigning about it, talking to other people in the community. And the thing is, I felt she did it not because she thought it was wrong but because she wanted to ruin something for me. Alice Dixon always wanted to ruin things. I don’t know why.”