The anger in Barry’s voice changed to something else. Maybe frustration that he couldn’t fix this, but Mason could, and worry about all the time I might spend with Mason discussing it. The picture of them trying to outdo each other barbecuing at my house came to mind.
“No, don’t call him. At least, not yet,” Barry commanded. “Just please tell me, is that the only thing you had?”
When I said yes, Barry sounded relieved and made me promise never to keep anything like that from him again.
“I hope I never have anything like that to keep from you,” I said.
His voice softened and he thanked me for having Jeffrey over. Then he made a big deal about making plans for an actual advanced planned date.
It wasn’t until later, when Dinah and I were ensconced at Caitlin’s Cupcakes, that I thought about Pixie and the soup. Could Pixie have been involved in her husband’s death?
Dinah had insisted on treating for drinks and cupcakes, which, after what I’d gone through, almost counted as medicinal. Dinah seemed more relaxed. She said she’d worked things out with Jeremy and he was taking over the care of his children, so she hoped all of them would be leaving soon. “I want my old life back.”
I brought up my phone call with Kevin, and Dinah’s smile faded and her eyes widened. “Oh dear. Pixie got the soup.”
I told Dinah I’d already come up with a plan. “I’m going to call her, give her my sympathy about Arnold and offer to bring over some food. Then while she’s eating I’ll tell her I know she got the corn chowder for Arnold.” Another hint from
“I’d come with you, but I need to pack up the kids’ things. I don’t want to give Jeremy any excuse to delay their departure.”
“It’s probably better if I go alone anyway. That way I can just concentrate on her.” Dinah told me to be careful, and I assured her I wasn’t going to eat anything there or let Pixie hang around behind me with anything heavy in her hand.
I finished up my afternoon at the bookstore. I spent most of the time finishing the preparations for Milton Mindell’s book fiesta. Adele kept strongly suggesting changes, and I kept explaining that this was how Milton wanted it.
“Pink, that’s old thinking. I’m sure Milton would appreciate some fresh ideas,” Adele said, interrupting me.
I sighed with frustration. “I don’t think so. He’s very specific about how he wants his events handled, and that’s how we’re going to do it.”
Adele stormed off with a “humph.”
Returning home, I decided to make up for the fact that I hadn’t done much cooking lately. After putting a big pan of vegetable and cheese lasagna in the oven, I made a nice salad of baby lettuce with paper-thin cucumber slices, shredded carrots and a buttery avocado, ready to be topped with homemade dressing and a sprinkling of blue cheese and walnuts. I mixed up a batch of cookie bars and put them in the bottom oven. Then, while everything was cooking, I called Pixie.
I told Pixie I knew the kind of state she was in and explained about Charlie. Instead of asking whether I could come over, I simply announced I was. She seemed grateful, particularly when I mentioned bringing home-cooked food.
I cut a big hunk of lasagna and put it in a disposable pan. A plastic bowl with a cover became the receptable for some of the salad; I kept the dressing and toppings on the side. The serving of cookie bars was generous, too. There would be some for now and some for later. The rest I put in the refrigerator and then left a note on the counter for Barry—in case he showed up to do his doggie-dad thing.
To get to Pixie’s I drove up the winding streets I’d been through once before. The cul-de-sac seemed quiet and dark compared to the last time I’d been there. Inside the house the lights were on, but the curtains were drawn on the big window that faced the street. I loaded up the containers of food and crossed the street. It took a while for Pixie to open the door. I almost thought she wasn’t going to answer. When she did, she looked drained and numb. Even her Princess Di hairstyle looked flat.
“Come in,” she said in a worn voice. I started to walk in, but she nodded toward my shoes. There was a mat by the entrance with several pairs of shoes on it. I understood the reason for the no-shoe policy when I went inside. It reminded me of the Arctic—everything was white, from the thick white carpet to the white brocade sofa covered with furry white throw pillows. Even the glass coffee table didn’t interfere with the blinding brightness. Pixie looked like a bit of clear water in her baggy royal blue sweats.
The scent of the food reached her, and I heard her stomach gurgle. She probably hadn’t been eating and was starving even though she didn’t feel it. I suggested making her a plate of food. She started to say no, but her stomach gurgled again and she agreed. We passed through the dining room, which looked as though it was probably used only on Thanksgiving. The kitchen was a little less white, and there was a table with a lone coffee cup. I set down the food and without asking for permission found a plate and silverware.
Pixie was on autopilot; she sat when I told her to and began to eat when I suggested it. The food must have hit a nerve because she began to eat in earnest, as though she was starving. Color came back to her face and she looked up. I had already decided to let her get comfortable with me before I confronted her with the soup issue.
“This is really good. Where’d you get it?” She named several groceries in the area known for their hot-food counters. When I said I’d made it, she stopped midbite, amazed. “You even made the lasgana?” I nodded, and she went back to eating.
I put the rest of the food on the counter. No reason to put it away yet. I thought she might be going for seconds.
I sat across from her and told her again how sorry I was for her loss.
“You didn’t really know him, but he was a good man.” Once she’d started talking the words tumbled out. I knew the drill. She was staying strong for her family, but now with me she let it all out.
She finally got to the present, and I was just about to bring up the soup when she brought up Detective Heather. “She’s acting like she thinks I could have done it. Don’t you think that is ridiculous?” I didn’t say anything, but I’d picked up enough from Barry and
Pixie sighed and then repeated what she’d told Detective Heather—that Arnold had made a few enemies with his temper. “I told her about Arnold punching Captain Blackhart, though I couldn’t give her his real name.” By now, she’d almost finished with the plate of food. It seemed to be making her feel better. She thanked me again.
“I’m sorry I lied to you before,” she said, picking at the last of the lasagna.
Her comment certainly got my attention, but I didn’t say anything. It was something else I’d picked up from
“I’m sure Arnold was at the Cottage Shoppe the day you thought you saw him.” She put her head down. “I was just trying to protect him. I thought he might have killed Drew Brooks. He was certainly mad enough.”
Even if it was against the book’s advice I couldn’t help myself. I asked why he was so angry.
“Who wouldn’t be after what happened? Imagine not wanting to give him a refund.”
She was speaking out of context and I wanted the whole story. “What exactly happened?”
Pixie had gotten up on her own and gone to check the package of food. She closed the aluminum foil around the lasagna and put it in the refrigerator, but took two cookie bars and came back to the table.
It had all started with her devotion to Princess Di. “Someone had brought in some family heirlooms and when Arnold read the brochure and saw that the items had belonged to a distant relative of Princess Di’s, he wanted to get something for me.”
The something turned out to be two somethings and hearing what one of them was made my mouth fall open. Arnold had bought a decorative hanky with a lacy crochet trim and a large Irish crochet collar. When I looked perplexed at the second item, Pixie explained that the word
