The Big Chili Page 13

  Angelo shrugged. “I don’t know. But I know you use this particular ingredient in chili, don’t you? So you made the food that killed this woman?”

  “That’s a pretty big leap,” I said, keeping my face expressionless. “And it wasn’t the food that killed the woman, it was the poison someone put in the food. The cop in charge even told me. . . .” I paused. Why was Parker being so thorough? Did they do this sort of thing as a matter of course? “Did you tell them I made it, Angelo?”

  He shrugged again, a casual lifting of his big shoulders that was, even now, inexplicably attractive. “I cannot tell them what I do not know. But I suspected, hmm? So I planned to come to you, and before I find a chance, here they are again at my door, because this man who has died—”

  “Bert Spielman?”

  Angelo nodded. “He was eating a sandwich from my restaurant! My eggplant parmigiana sandwich.”

  “I was told he ate a meatball sandwich.”

  Angelo looked annoyed. “No. It was eggplant. And now the police find this little oddity interesting, although I do not. I find it insulting. Anyone can buy that peanut butter. Anyone can buy a sandwich from me. This does not mean that I prepoison things. If this gets out, it will affect my business. Both of my businesses.” His handsome face was genuinely distressed. I felt myself softening.

  “Of course it has nothing to do with you. How ridiculous. I don’t understand . . . but then again, he doesn’t strike me as a man who would leave any stone unturned.”

  “He?”

  “Parker. The detective in charge.”

  “And how is it that you know his name?” asked Angelo, with a little flare of his old jealousy. His eyes were narrowed and his hands went to his hips.

  Now it was I who shrugged. “Because he told it to me, on the night that I myself was questioned. And I’ve run into him a couple more times.” Then I paused—but, heck, why not lie to everyone in town, including my ex-boyfriend? It wouldn’t be good, at this point, to start telling people my chili secret. “Anyway, here’s what you need to know: the woman who made that chili is named Pet Grandy. She belongs to my parish, and she’s famous for her recipe.”

  “And somehow she also uses your secret ingredient?” he said, his dark eyes suspicious.

  “I, um—I told it to her once. In a moment of weakness.”

  “Ah. And so I am not to tell the police your name?”

  “I would prefer not to be questioned again, since it has nothing to do with me.”

  Angelo stopped petting Mick and moved toward me. I thought, for a weird moment, that he intended to kiss me, but he merely wanted to use my sink to wash his hands. I moved away, but not before I smelled his signature scent—some expensive Italian cologne that I had always found enticing.

  Once his hands were clean, he ran them through his dark curls—another habit of his that I had at one time found alluring. Then he set his devil horns in place and said, “Where are you going tonight? Perhaps we are attending the same party.” He flashed me his lovely smile.

  “I don’t think so. I’m walking down the driveway and spending time at Terry’s.”

  “Ah. I am going to downtown Chicago, to the Four Seasons. A friend in the restaurant business who likes to throw costume parties.”

  “Someone famous, I’ll bet. You always did have connections.”

  The shrug again. “He is quite successful. I like to have fun, but also to make some new business acquaintances. Perhaps find more places to market my Angelo’s Gourmet line.”

  “It’s very good, Angelo. I use it all the time—or at least when I can afford it.”

  He looked indignant. “You have a talent. You should be working in a restaurant. Running your own, really. Not toiling in some real estate office.” He said the last words with a fair amount of scorn.

  This had been the one thing in our relationship that I still looked back on with some gratitude: Angelo had been quite supportive of my foodie ambitions, and he had freely shared his European expertise.

  “I’m working on it. Everyone has to start somewhere, Angelo.”

  “You can put my name as a reference on an application—it would get you an interview at any Chicago restaurant.” This sounded egotistical, but I felt fairly certain it was true.

  “But I don’t want to be a chef, Angelo. I don’t want those crazy hours, or to be cooped up in a kitchen all day. I want to run my own business, cater my own carefully chosen events. That way the job is always interesting, always new—and so is the menu.”

  He shook his head. “Hard work, very hard. And how would you get clients? In a restaurant they come to you.”

  “There are ways,” I said. “It’s called advertising.”

  “Ah—I’ve made the cat angry, and now I must fear her claws.” He smiled at me, and I edged a little farther away. He murmured, “Your hair is lovely. Like a waterfall in the sunshine.”

  “You’re very poetic. But I think you’re going to be late for your party.”

  He shook his head, laughing. “Once my poetry inspired you.”

  “Once.”

  Then he sobered again. “You know this cop. This Parker.”

  “Not well.”

  “You should make clear to him that I have nothing to do with these deaths. It is a strange coincidence that my food has appeared in both cases. I cannot control who buys my products.”

  “If I see him, I’ll tell him,” I said.

  He nodded. He leaned in and took a strand of my hair in his hand, sifting it through his fingers. “I miss you sometimes,” he said softly.

  Sometimes I missed him, too. “You should go, Angelo. Have a nice party.”

  “You, too, Lilah mia.” He bent and gave me a quick kiss on the lips, before I could escape it.

  Then he walked out, his devil’s cape flying behind him. The scent of his cologne lingered like an erotic dream.

  The door closed, leaving a deflating silence. I looked at Mick. “He’s like high-calorie food—bad for you in the long run, but so appealing in the moment.”

  Mick nodded. I patted his head. “Keep an eye on the place for me, okay?”

  Then I locked up the house, fluffed up my hair, and strolled down the driveway for Terry’s party.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  My mood lifted as I reached Terry’s porch; my irrepressible love of Halloween had me feeling like a kid again. I climbed the curving stone stairs and reached the impressive wooden door, then rang the bell. The door opened to reveal Britt, dressed as a flapper. Her black hair hung in its usual silky bob, but on this she wore a rhinestone crown (which could well have been an antique from the 1920s) and a bead-encrusted dress that ended with a glittering silver fringe. She swung it back and forth while doing a contained Charleston, and I clapped. “It’s beautiful!”

  Britt leaned in and hugged me. “You look terrific! We’re so glad you’re here.” She turned and yelled over her shoulder, “Terry, the party can start! Lilah’s here.”

  I laughed at her flattery, but the reality was that, for whatever reason, Britt and Terry found me vastly entertaining.

  She turned back to me and squeezed my arms. “You are a lifesaver! That food was a hit, and I think I ate more scones than our visitors! Delicious, Lilah. Thank you so much.”

  “I aim to please,” I said lightly. She hugged me again and I got a pleasing whiff of her perfume, the stuff that smelled like the past. I’d asked her once what it was, and she’d said, “Place Vendôme.” Based on the name and her French pronunciation, I had assumed it was out of my price range.

  Britt pointed now, a diamond ring twinkling on her finger. “Lilah, pick a song and program it into the jukebox; if everyone picks a few we’ll have music all night.” I gazed at the gorgeous Wurlitzer tucked into one corner of their big foyer. It was currently playing a Phil Collins song.

  “Oh, t
he jukebox! You know how I love it. I’ll probably be spending half the party there.”

  Britt grinned. “Pick something good. Oops—there are some trick-or-treaters behind you. Let me just get them some candy.” She whisked past me and gave out some giant Three Musketeers bars to a ghost, a mouse, and a Power Ranger respectively. I looked enviously at the little visitors.

  “Unbelievable, Britt. I grew up in this town, and I never found a house like this. One lady on our block gave out sugar-free granola bars, and another gave out little laminated cards with the Ten Commandments on them.”

  Britt’s laughter tinkled out of her like crystal jingling on a chandelier. “They did not, Lilah. You’re making that up to be amusing.”

  “If only. Ask Cameron—he’ll verify.”

  More guests appeared at the door, and Britt excused herself so that she could welcome them.

  I sidled up to the jukebox, my beautiful neon-glowing friend. The selection of songs was immense, but I had a favorite music style, as everyone knew: show tunes. I selected “We Beseech Thee” from Godspell. Cameron liked that one. Then, just for me, I selected “Honey Bun,” from South Pacific. Few people knew that I, as a high school thespian, had played the role of Nelly Forbush in that same musical. I had given my all to the role and forged a true love for Rodgers and Hammerstein. Mitzi Gaynor and Rossano Brazzi had played the lead roles in the movie version that I, in my self-schooling, had watched again and again. Rossano, in the songs that he sang to me of his lost love, continually broke my heart when I was an impressionable seventeen. I had written to my junior high Italian teacher, Miss Abbandonato, to tell her that I wanted to travel back in time to when Rossano Brazzi was young, find him, and marry him. Miss Abbandonato, always supportive, had written back that this was a good plan, and if I wanted her to come along in my time-travel spaceship, she could be the interpreter.

  I took a photo of the jukebox on my cell phone and then wandered into the main room, where I greeted Terry, who was dressed, appropriately, as a circus ringmaster; my brother, Cameron; and Serafina. Cam had gone for minimal garb; he wore a tuxedo t-shirt and jeans. But Serafina, predictably, was breathtaking in a Cleopatra costume, which included intense, dark eye pencil, a black gown with a gold adder-shaped belt, and a gold headpiece on her amazing dark curls. Several men in the room were staring unabashedly at her.

  Cameron pointed at my outfit and said, “You look cute.”

  I lifted my cat tail, which had been dragging behind me, and flourished it in a bow. “Thanks. Just something I found in the closet.”

  “Good thing Angelo isn’t here,” Cam joked. Then he said, “Why are you making that face? Is he here?” He looked around the room, seemingly as alarmed as if I’d said a wild panther was stalking the guests.

  “No, he’s not here, but he did show up at my place half an hour ago.”

  “What?” Cam’s eyes bulged slightly.

  “Never mind. Long story.”

  Terry, who had been whispering something to Serafina, now joined our conversation.

  “She assured us that Angelo is out of the picture,” he told Cam. “So don’t worry about your little sister—she’s going to meet someone amazing. Britt already has someone in mind whom she wants to introduce to you, Lilah. He couldn’t make it tonight, but we know he would love you.”

  “Great. I can’t wait,” I said, my voice dry.

  Terry laughed, then invited Cam to join him in the dining room, which had been transformed into a bar. “Let’s get some drinks for our fair ladies,” Terry said. Cam nodded, waved at us, and followed Terry, who was also leading a group of people who had just arrived. Serafina and I were left alone.

  “You look great,” I said.

  “You as well,” she responded in her pretty accent.

  I felt like petting her silky hair; she was a life-size doll. “Do you love my brother?” I asked.

  I had expected a spate of Italian and English, a stream of passionate words, and maybe even some tears. Instead she grew dignified. “I think I do,” she said. “I wonder if he feels the same.”

  “I think you can count on that,” I said.

  “I do not mean just sex,” she assured me. “That is very nice, but not forever. I think I have the love that will last when I am old.”

  Despite the rather garish paint and the red lipstick, this made Serafina look young and vulnerable. “Cameron has never looked at a woman the way he looks at you,” I said. “And he’s had plenty of pretty girlfriends.”

  She smiled. “I am hungry. Would you like food?”

  “Always,” I said, and I went to plunder Terry’s amazing buffet with Cam’s Italian girlfriend. We found that we liked some of the same foods, and that we had one other surprising thing in common: a fear of germs.

  “This is a good table,” Serafina said, nodding with approval. “Clean and careful, with heat under hot foods and cold foods kept cold. I do not like to think of what grows in food that is left out. I have studied so many compounds, you know. Many of them are created accidentally, when we fail to keep track of food. But of course people still eat it. Moldy bread is just one example.”

  “That’s why when I cook for other people I’m super cautious about labels and expiration dates and refrigerating what needs refrigerating,” I said. “You can’t be too careful.”

  Serafina raised her kohl eyebrows. “You cook for others? As a business?”

  “Uh—no. I just mean, you know—for gatherings and parties.”

  “Ah yes. I have become so meticulous, too, after my studies.”

  A new jukebox choice popped up: “Ruby Tuesday.” Mick Jagger’s weird and plaintive voice filled the room, as did about seven new party guests. Confident that the noise would drown me out, I leaned toward Serafina and asked, “Do you know anything about poisons?”

  “Of course. You are curious about them?”

  “Did my mother tell you about the murders?”

  Serafina’s eyes gleamed with interest. “No! Where did these happen?”

  We took our plates to a long green divan in the corner of Terry’s living room; it sat in front of some gorgeous maroon velvet curtains that looked like something stolen from the set of a British murder mystery. All we needed was a rope bell pull and we could summon a servant named Jeeves. As we ate, I told her the story of bingo night and Alice Dixon. Of Pet and her fears of being suspected. Of meeting Jay Parker and liking him. Of the death of Bert Spielman.

  “This is unbelievable,” she said. She had a little smudge of lipstick on her cheek, but I didn’t tell her because it made her seem like a real person instead of a magazine ad. “And in both cases, the food was poisoned?”

  “I don’t know any details of the second case. At bingo night, the chili had a sweet smell—and Alice even commented on a sweet taste right before she died.”

  “Did she?” Serafina frowned. “And what does Jay tell you about the poison?”

  “He didn’t tell me anything. He’s super professional, which I respect. But he did tell Pet and me to wash our faces and our hands, and all we did was smell the chili. I looked it up and thought it might be cyanide.”

  She nodded. “It probably is. It can have an almond-like aroma, more bitter than sweet. He feared that you could become ill from the vapor.”

  “I guess.” I took a moment to eat a piece of coconut shrimp. “Oh my. Terry’s caterer is so amazing.”

  “Yes. Delicious.” Serafina had a good appetite—another humanizing detail.

  “So why does cyanide kill so quickly?”

  She ate a tiny meatball and said, “Mmm.” Then she looked at the ceiling and squinted her eyes. “Cyanide poisoning causes what we call histotoxic hypoxia.”

  “Do we call it that?”

  “It means that the cells of an organism are unable to, uh—claim oxygen. Use it, you say.”

  “
So that kills you?”

  “Yes, because the cyanide ion halts the cell respiration when it inhibits cytochrome c. oxidase.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “That sounds like the name of a scientist on a kids’ cartoon.”

  Serafina giggled. “You are so funny, Lilah.”

  I stabbed at some salad drizzled with a fragrant raspberry dressing. “But what does that look like? When it kills you?”

  “Well”—she pursed her lips—“weakness, confusion, dizziness, headache. Sometimes seizures. Or perhaps, if it is ingested in a large dose, just a collapse, from an immediate effect on the heart.”

  “That’s what it looked like, Serafina! She looked confused, and dizzy, and then she touched her head, like maybe it was hurting her. Then—she just keeled over.” Sympathy for Alice Dixon rushed through me once more.

  Terry and Cam appeared in the doorway, looking for us. We waved, and they strolled over. “Extreme Ways” started playing on the jukebox. “I want that machine,” Cameron said. He was holding a beer and looking much more cheerful than he had when I’d mentioned Angelo.

  “Fill your plates and join us,” I said. “Before the line gets long.”

  Cam did what I suggested, but Terry flitted off, saying he had to mingle with his guests. Cam found a chair and set it across from Serafina and me. “You ladies are easily the loveliest in the room,” he said in a fawning way. “What were you two talking about, with your heads bent together?”

  I shrugged. “This and that.”

  “We spoke of poison,” said Serafina. “Lilah told me of these murders, these crimes. I imagine it will be quick work to find the perpetrator.”

  “Why is that?” asked Cam, eating a tiny meatball.

  Serafina shrugged. “Because few people have access to cyanide. So either it is someone who already had it, who has it through their profession, perhaps, or who specially ordered it. The first one is not as easy to trace, but the second one is easy.”