Pudding Up With Murder Read online

  “Fine.” I gathered my purse and my empty pie pan. “I’ll see you around.”

  “We’re going to the gallery tomorrow, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. But I think I’ll go with Britt, so I’ll meet you there. That way if your job interferes, you don’t have to show up at all.” I was already on the driveway and about to close the door when he held up a hand.

  “Lilah, come on. Let’s talk for a minute.”

  “I think I’d rather go in, Parker. I can look at my flowers and read your card and pretend it’s yesterday.” I shut the door and stalked to my house. Parker waited until I had unlocked the door and had turned some lights on. He always did this, and I felt a pang that I had been so obnoxious and yet he didn’t go tearing down the driveway in a huff, but waited to make sure I was safe.

  It was actually a couple more minutes before I saw the car slowly reverse down the drive. I wondered what he had been thinking, or if he had considered coming in for a reconciliation.

  I wondered, too, if I was disappointed that he had not.

  Mick nuzzled my leg, so I let him out the back door. While I waited for him to do his business, I picked up one of the Miss Moxie books I had purchased at the bookstore. They still sat in a little pile on my counter, near the beautiful and fragrant roses. The book I selected was called Miss Moxie Says Sorry.

  I paged through the little book with its sweet illustrations and read the story of Miss Moxie and her friend Miss Dixie, who always sat in the porch swing and ate tapioca pudding together at the end of each day. One day Miss Moxie made fun of Miss Dixie’s hat, and the next night she sat on the porch alone, eating tapioca pudding that didn’t taste the same.

  Mick came to the door, and I let him in, then returned to the book. Miss Moxie had to think of the many reasons why she owed Miss Dixie an apology: she had failed to consider Miss Dixie’s feelings; she had taken a risk with their friendship; and, to be honest, it was a very nice hat.

  Miss Moxie walked to Miss Dixie’s house in the end, holding a sign that said, “I love your hat!!” When Miss Dixie answered the door, she smiled. Then Miss Moxie made a beautiful apology.

  That night they ate pudding together again, wearing their hats. Miss Moxie reflected on apologies and said, “Saying I’m sorry is the best thing you can do when you’ve done wrong to a friend. Sometimes I’m sorry can be beautiful music.”

  I set down the book and went to my phone. I dialed a familiar number and let it ring until, predictably, it went to voice mail. Then I said, “Angelo, it’s Lilah. I am so grateful for all that you’ve done for my career—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. But for reasons I can’t go into now, I need to stop doing the show. I’m sorry to give you only a week’s notice, but I know you can find someone else. So—just to be clear—I quit. Sorry again, and thank you.”

  I hung up and looked at Mick, who nodded. It was done. I think Mick recognized my relief, and he seemed to feel it, too.

  “Mick, I have a sudden craving for tapioca pudding. Do you?”

  He nodded, and we made some from scratch.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In the morning I had no time to contemplate my love life; I had to get some ingredients for a dish I’d be delivering soon, and I had to work at Haven, so I walked Mick at seven thirty and was in the grocery store by eight o’clock. I raced up and down the aisles with my basket, then lugged it to the cashier and waited behind a man who was buying a six-pack of beer. He looked vaguely familiar from the side, and when he turned his head briefly I recognized him as Owen Cantwell. There was still a faint bruise on his face from where Prue’s Damen had punched him.

  He must have felt my stare, because he turned and offered me a smile. “Hey,” he said while the cashier bagged his beer. Then he looked more closely. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

  I nodded. “You’re Owen, aren’t you? I was at your dad’s birthday party. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh yeah.” He nodded at the memory. “You were standing there with that cop. Grimaldi.” His jaw tightened slightly. Clearly Grimaldi had not yet been forgiven, despite the fact that she had wanted justice for the family. “Thanks, anyway. I appreciate it.”

  “How are you doing?”

  He took his bag and moved aside so that the cashier, whose name tag said Martin, could ring me up. “We’re hanging in there. At first I thought this whole thing would cause a permanent rift between us kids, but now—I think it might ultimately bring us together. We’re all adults now, and we need to bury the hatchet for some old grievances. You know how it is in families.”

  “Sort of. Mine isn’t as big as yours—I just have one brother.”

  “Huh.” He scratched at his blond head. “Well, we’re doing as well as can be expected. You know.”

  I didn’t know exactly, but I was curious about what some of the “grievances” might have been. “Are you planning a funeral?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “My dad was a private guy. He has some notes in his will about not wanting a big public affair. We are currently in talks about how to potentially honor him without going against his wishes.”

  I handed the cashier my money and took my receipt. To my surprise, Owen Cantwell picked up a couple of my bags. “Let me walk this out for you,” he said in a rather gallant manner.

  “Thank you! I appreciate that.” We walked out to the parking lot in a companionable silence, but Cantwell seemed to have something on his mind.

  “Listen,” he said halfway to the car. “You were there at the party. And you’re not familiar with the whole family dynamic, so I’m curious to get an objective view. Did you notice anything strange? Anything that seemed weird?”

  I must have looked surprised, because he was quick to add, “I mean, these are the questions the police are asking us, but we don’t have a good answer. Off the top of your head, did anything strike you as strange?”

  Just your father, I thought. “Not really. It seemed like a standard birthday party—it was clear how much you all cared for your dad, with the live music, the great food, the photographer, the lovely gifts. I was impressed.”

  “Huh,” he said.

  We reached my car, and Cantwell helped me tuck things into the back. I thanked him and said, “I understand you were making some cool drinks for everyone that day.”

  He grew slightly pale. “Where did you hear that?”

  Maria had told me, so I lied. “Oh, someone at the party mentioned it.”

  “Yeah. Uh—I don’t know if I should say this, but—the drink is what someone used to poison my dad. The drink I made him. It’s hard to believe.” He stared at his bag of beer with a bemused expression.

  I feigned surprise. “Oh, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry. He was actually drinking it when I talked with him.”

  “You talked to my dad? Like, alone?”

  “Yes, for a few minutes.”

  He got a strange look on his face then, something between envy and amusement. “So what did you talk about? Did he say anything about his kids?”

  “We mostly talked about dogs.”

  Cantwell’s smile disappeared. “Huh,” he said for the third time.

  “He seemed really devoted to you guys, though. He did seem glad to have the party, and grateful that you were all acknowledging him.”

  Cantwell nodded, thinking about this. I remembered that Cash said he was a philosophy major, and he did have the look of a philosopher about him, with his fair hair and wise eyes. “Yeah, I guess when it came right down to it, he was grateful to us. Just as we were to him.”

  “You have a nice family,” I said, thinking of Cash and Prue.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m sorry. What was your name again?”

  “Lilah Drake,” I said.

  “Thanks, Lilah.”

  I gave him a little wave and started to walk towa
rd the driver’s door. “Thanks so much for your help with the groceries.”

  He looked a bit lonely when he said, “Hey, would you ever want to get a drink sometime?”

  Had this been the previous spring, I probably would have been excited about the invitation. I smiled at him. “That is so sweet! But I’m actually in a relationship with your former next-door neighbor, Jay Parker.”

  “With Jay?” He looked truly surprised, his mouth open. Then: “He’s a cop now.”

  “Yes.” I paused, then plunged in. “He’s actually investigating your dad’s murder.”

  “Yeah—I mean, Scott told me. I guess Jay has already questioned him, and he said he’s going to talk to all the siblings. He hasn’t gotten to me yet. I wonder if that means I am a suspect, or I’m not.”

  “Neither, I’m sure. Jay talks to everyone. He likes to be thorough.”

  He looked thoughtful now, and a bit concerned. “Well, tell Jay I said hi. It was nice seeing you, Lilah.”

  He waved and moved farther down the store lot until he reached a blue Dodge. I got into my car, and when I turned around to see if the way was clear to reverse into traffic, I saw that Owen Cantwell was standing next to his own car, seemingly lost in thought, his eyes fixed on me.

  • • •

  I DROVE HOME and hurried inside to make my dish before it was time to go to Haven. I was making a taco fiesta casserole for a friend of Ellie’s (someone, Ellie assured me, who would “be discreet”), and I needed to deliver it on my way to work. As I put the final layer of meat in the dish, I wondered what Cantwell had meant when he asked if his father had said anything. He had specifically said, Did he say anything about his kids? or something to that effect. What exactly had that meant?

  I sighed. I was tired of people and their many layers. I was especially tired of trying to figure out Jay Parker, but at the same time I enjoyed trying to figure out Jay Parker. He was an enigma, and I loved him. “I love him, Mick,” I said to my canine friend as I slid the casserole into the oven. “I love Jacob Ellison Parker. Did you know that was his middle name? But I’m so mad at him. And yet . . .” I looked at the giant vase of roses from Parker, and something twisted in my stomach. Two nights ago he had said many sweet things to me, and I had been convinced that we were perfect, solid, wonderful, forever.

  Mick was staring at me. “I know, buddy. I need to let you out and stop obsessing like a sixteen-year-old. Come on. You go do your business, and then I have to change.”

  Mick nodded and strolled to the door with me. Unlike Jay Parker, Mick did not pick fights. He was a peaceful companion, and our disputes didn’t exist, unless I forgot to feed Mick at mealtime. He took exception to that.

  I gave Mick a few minutes to wander the fragrant yard with his dreamy expression, and to sniff the air currents with his complicated nose. Then I called him in and gave him a dog biscuit, and I ran upstairs. I could still smell roses on my way up the staircase.

  • • •

  I CALLED BRITT that evening and asked if I could go to the gallery with her. “Parker might have to work late, so I figured I’d just tag along with you.”

  “That’s fine, of course, but I’ll be going in a bit earlier than everyone else to get things ready.”

  “No problem. I can help you.”

  “Okay—come down the driveway around six, then.”

  I did so, wearing a slinky black pantsuit and black high heels, along with the diamond earrings from Parker and a long, sparkly necklace made up of silver beads and intermittent Austrian crystals. I had swept my hair into a casual twist that looked elegant enough for an art gallery, and I felt ready to face the ever-stylish Britt.

  She came out, holding her keys, and she did look great, but also a bit tired. She wore a midnight blue dress with matching shoes and what looked like real sapphires in her ears. “Ready? Let’s get going, then. I’m so glad you’re coming tonight! Prue’s latest painting is amazing,” Britt said, steering toward the street where her car was parked. “It’s called Disillusionment, and it’s a compelling visual depiction of a person changing before your eyes.”

  “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “She’s a real talent. It won’t be long before she’s a household name, I’m sure; I can never hold on to her paintings. I have buyers contacting me from all over the world.”

  “That’s amazing. What it must feel like, to have a talent like that!”

  Britt looked at me. “You do, Lilah. I’ve tasted your cooking. And you barely even need to use recipes. It’s almost magical, the way you can make ingredients come together. Climb in; it’s unlocked.”

  We got into her gorgeous sea glass blue Passat, a gift from Terry, and I marveled anew at the way Britt lived life. She was like a woman from a movie—with great looks and expensive toys and an elegant job. I wanted to be Britt when I grew up. In my mind’s ear Nat King Cole was singing “Unforgettable,” because big band–era romance ballads, for me, somehow equaled sophistication.

  “Your car smells nice inside,” I said.

  “That sounds accusing,” she said with a laugh as she started the car.

  “It is. My car smells like chili and Mick. Yours smells like some expensive perfume.”

  Britt giggled and shifted into drive. We merged into traffic on Dickens. “You always crack me up, Lilah. I needed that laugh.”

  I studied her more closely and saw that she looked pale. “Okay, tell me what’s going on! Are you sick?”

  “No, I’m not sick. Neither is Terry. Everything is fine, Lilah.”

  “Except that it’s not.”

  She sighed. We stopped at a red light on Bristol Road, and Britt turned left. “You would laugh. My problem isn’t even a problem, and yet it’s making me so unhappy.”

  “Spill it, Britt. You’ve helped me through all kinds of problems. Now it’s time to let me reciprocate.”

  She pursed her lips for a moment, then stopped at another light and faced me. “I will. Absolutely. But right now I have to focus on gallery things. Maybe if there’s time afterward we can sit down and talk.”

  “Fine. I will not let you leave the gallery until you’ve told me what’s going on.”

  “Fair enough.” She shot me a little smile, then drove to Canfield Street and made a right and another right into the parking lot of the Blackwood Gallery. Blackwood was Britt’s last name, and Terry had insisted that she name the gallery after herself, although she had been tempted to name it something more philosophical like the Artist’s Dream. I had to agree with Terry—it was a great name for the gallery. It sounded professional and sophisticated, and in fact had established a stellar reputation in the five years since Britt had opened it.

  We got out of the car, and Britt opened a little black bag to hunt for her key. It was a chilly night, but the breeze held the scent of spring flowers that made the twilight romantic. I had a sudden yearning for Parker. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and tell him he was the only man for me, which was the truth.

  “How are things in the love department?” Britt asked with a canny expression.

  “I’ll talk when you do,” I said.

  She laughed and opened the door, and we moved into the wide, airy room that was her gallery. The building was gorgeous: a high-ceilinged space with a clear red oak wood floor. There were four different rooms for displays, but the walls were only eight feet high so that the large ceiling was visible overall. Against one wall, outside of the divided “rooms,” was a dais with a microphone where visiting artists could speak and take questions. This was flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows through which the evening light filtered softly in.

  At the back of the gallery was a small employee office where Britt had a freezer and refrigerator so that she could keep food on hand for her evening soirees. I went with her now to unpack some bottles of wine and champagne and to set them out on a marble-toppe
d gallery table, along with a giant tray of French cheeses and fancy crackers.

  Britt arranged things deftly and lit a few little candles to add some ambience to her beautiful table.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Do you mind if I look at the art?”

  “Of course not. Prue’s painting is in room one, which is a local artists’ display. Room two is all Jerome Merault, a recent discovery of mine. I am in love with his use of color. Room three is all sculpture, and room four is being reimagined, so it’s not open this evening.”

  I nodded and went to room one, a large, beautiful space filled with framed works. Somehow I knew immediately which painting was Prudence Cantwell’s. It dominated the area, not only in size, but in dramatic power. It was a giant portrait of a man’s face against a backdrop of clouds, and yet the face was somehow melting, transforming, turning into someone—or something—else. She had used color to great effect, starting with vibrant hues that eventually melted into jejune paleness. It was brilliant; I had been disillusioned before, and the title Disillusionment was perfect for the painting. People could in fact transform before your eyes when you realized they weren’t who you thought they were.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Britt said, appearing beside me with a glass of wine in her hand.

  “It is. What a talented woman. Is this a watercolor?”

  “No—oil. She mostly works in oil, although I’ve seen some of her watercolors. They’re lovely. She did a whole series about Lake Michigan that I’m trying to get her to show here. Can I get you some wine?”

  “Sure. White, please.”

  “Of course.”

  She slipped away, and I continued to study the paintings, amazed by the diversity of the talent in the room and overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. So much feeling, so much passion had gone into these artistic messages. How lucky for them that they all had an outlet for their deepest feelings. I didn’t need my brain to give me musical accompaniment, because Britt had music playing, soft and in the background, but enough to worm its way into my head. Right now it was something that I recognized as one of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, but I couldn’t remember which one it was.