A Catered Mother's Day (20 page)

Chapter 39

I
t was a little after three in the afternoon and Bernie and Libby were parked along the side of the road outside Ellen and Bruce Hadley's house. The sisters watched as two does trailed by their fawns trotted down the street, nibbling at the hostas and laurel hedges as they went.

“You'd think we were in the country instead of a housing development,” Bernie remarked as she checked her cell for the time. She reckoned she and Libby had a few more minutes to wait.

She took a sip of her coffee and ate the second half of her sandwich, which consisted of roasted vegetables with aioli on French bread. Then she rolled her window down another couple of inches to let the spring breeze in before turning her attention back to the Hadley residence. It was amazing how quickly, really only a matter of weeks, the greenery was threatening to overrun the house. Not that Bernie needed any more proof that Ellen was the one in the family who gardened or picked anything up.

The grass in the front yard needed mowing and weeds were beginning to run rampant over the flower beds. Bernie knew that by this time Ellen would have had her impatiens, marigolds, and petunias in the ground, but not now. Now Ellen was running around like a crazy person and the only things growing in the flower beds were dandelions, deadly nightshade, and speedwell, plus one lonely pansy.

The flower boxes on the bottom floor, which were usually filled with begonias and trailing ivy, were empty as well. A bike lay across the walkway, a basketball and a couple of empty soda cans sat on the bottom porch step, while two trash cans and a recycling bin sat on the curb, having yet to be returned to the garage.

“Ellen must have had a fit when she saw this,” Libby stated, indicating the house with a sweep of her hand. Ellen was nothing if not house proud, to use one of her mother's favorite phrases, a phrase that did not apply to either herself or her sister, as her mother was fond of pointing out.

“I think she has more important things to worry about for the moment,” Bernie noted, thinking about the conversation she, Libby, and Ellen had just had.

“She should come home,” Libby said.

“She's going to,” Bernie observed as she spied the yellow of the school bus coming down the road.

The bus turned on its flashing lights. A moment later, it glided to a stop, the doors opened, and Ethan got out. Bernie and Libby watched him trudge down the road toward his house. He was slouched over, his T-shirt pulled back by the backpack he was toting. His pants were at least a couple of sizes too big and looked as if they'd been rolled up in a ball and stuffed under the bed. The collar of his polo shirt was torn on the left side, and his socks were mismatched. Ethan's eyes were focused on the roadway and he was kicking a small rock with the side of his sneaker.

“Ethan,” Bernie called out as he headed up the walkway to his front door.

Startled, he jumped, then stopped and looked at them. Bernie and Libby could see that he had deep circles under his eyes and a bug bite on his chin.

“Oh,” he said. “It's you.”

“Sorry to alarm you . . .”

Ethan stuck his chin out. “You didn't,” he lied.

“Okay,” Bernie said. “Then I'm not sorry.”

“Are you here about Mom?”

“In a way,” Bernie said.

Ethan blinked several times and swallowed. “Is she okay?” he asked anxiously. “She ain't in jail or anything like that, is she?”

“Isn't in jail,” Bernie said, automatically correcting his grammar, “and she's fine.” Which wasn't exactly a lie, Bernie decided, but it wasn't exactly the truth either,
fine
being a relative term. She and her sister got out of Mathilda. “But we have to talk.”

Ethan looked down and dug a divot in the ground with the toe of his sneaker. “My dad says I'm not supposed to go to your shop anymore,” he announced when he looked up.

“I know,” Bernie replied.

“He doesn't want me involved.”

“I understand,” Bernie said. “We just need one question answered.”

Libby held out a white paper bag. “We brought you something from the shop.”

Ethan brightened and shifted his backpack around. “Cookies?”

Libby nodded. “Chocolate chip and a couple of brownies.”

Bernie pointed to her tote. “Plus, a pint of chocolate milk.”

Ethan hurried over to where Bernie and Libby were standing, reached out his hand for the bag, then stopped himself as something occurred to him. “If Dad sees the bag, he'll think I've been to the shop.”

“That's a possibility,” Libby conceded. The last thing she wanted to do was get Ethan in trouble with Bruce.

Ethan's shoulders slumped, but then he had an idea and started smiling. “He didn't tell me not to talk to you though. He didn't say I couldn't eat anything outside the shop. He just told me I couldn't go inside your place.”

Bernie laughed and asked him if he was going to be a lawyer when he grew up.

Ethan gave her a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

“She means that's a literal interpretation of what your dad said,” Libby explained.

“Then he should have said what he meant,” Ethan told her.

“You're right,” Bernie replied, pushing aside the small shred of guilt at what she was doing. “He should have.”

Ethan grinned and indicated Mathilda with a nod of his head. “Maybe we can take a ride in the van and I can eat the stuff in there.”

“Works for me,” Bernie said. “What time is your dad supposed to be home?”

“Five thirty, maybe six.”

“This definitely won't take that long,” Bernie assured him. “You'll be back before anyone knows you're gone.”

Ethan nodded. “Can we go to Skylar Park? To the wild part?”

“Indeed we can,” Libby replied.

“I like watching the birds.”

“Your mom does too,” Bernie observed as the three of them got in the van.

“My dad tricked me, you know,” Ethan told Bernie and Libby, his jaw settling into a hard line, as he put on his seat belt.

“Tricked you about what?” Bernie asked.

“Tricked me into telling him where Matt and Ryan were this morning. I bet they're pretty mad at me,” Ethan said as Bernie handed him the white bag.

“Well, I don't think they're exactly happy with you,” Bernie cautiously replied as Libby started up Mathilda.

“It's okay,” Ethan said with the sangfroid of the youngest brother. “They'll only hit me a little bit.” And with that he started eating.

By the time they were halfway to Skylar Park, Ethan had finished off the cookies and the brownies and gulped down the pint of chocolate milk Bernie had gotten for him.

“Didn't you eat any lunch?” Bernie asked him.

Ethan shook his head. “Dad didn't make it.”

“You could have made it yourself,” Bernie pointed out. “A peanut butter and jelly sandwich isn't rocket science.”

“I couldn't. We're out of peanut butter and bread,” Ethan proclaimed, looking woeful. “And milk too.”

Libby turned to Bernie. “The drive-thru? It's on the way.”

“Definitely,” Bernie replied. “You want a hamburger and a shake?” she asked Ethan.

When Ethan said yes, Libby made a sharp left. The drive-thru, officially known as the Liberty In 'n Out, had been in existence since 1962, and though it had changed hands several times, it still looked exactly the same. It also had the best fast food in town. Libby gave her order and five minutes later, with Ethan happily munching away, continued toward Skylar Park. By the time they arrived there, Ethan had finished everything Libby had ordered for him except for two fried onion rings, and those he crammed in his mouth as they got out of Matilda.

Bernie watched Ethan run to the shore, crunching on rocks as he went. The seabirds were wheeling and squawking above him. A stiff breeze was blowing and the smell of the Hudson came to them off the river. Ethan rubbed his arms to warm them, as Bernie and Libby joined him.

“My mom used to take me here all the time when I was little,” Ethan reflected. “We used to bring bread crumbs and feed the birds.”

“It must have been fun,” Bernie told him as she put out her hand and drew Ethan closer to her. He was all skin and bone.

“It was,” Ethan said. “She'd better come home.”

“We're working on it,” Bernie said. “That's why I have to ask you something.”

Ethan tipped his face up and looked up at her. “What?”

“And, Ethan, it's important you tell me the truth.”

He looked alarmed. Bernie gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Did you call the police and tell them your mom had been kidnapped?” she asked him in her gentlest voice.

Ethan didn't answer, but the expression on his face told Bernie that he had indeed done exactly that. He buried his face in her side and Bernie rubbed his back.

“It's okay,” she said.

“Everything. It's all my fault,” Ethan sobbed.

“No, it isn't,” Bernie assured him.

“It is,” Ethan insisted.

“You're wrong,” Bernie told him.

“That's not true,” Ethan replied, the words coming out muffled because he was saying them into Bernie's shirt. He sniffed. “If it weren't for me, Mom wouldn't be going to jail.”

Bernie gave up arguing with him and tried to console him instead. “She's not in jail yet,” she told him. “And I'm going to make sure that doesn't happen.”

Ethan lifted his tearstained face up to Bernie. “Promise?” he asked.

“I promise,” Bernie said, even though she knew better than to give an assurance like that. But she did because she couldn't bear to see the expression on Ethan's face when she had hesitated.

“I didn't know,” Ethan explained, his voice quavering. “I swear I didn't. I came home and saw the note on the table. It was addressed to my dad. I shouldn't have opened it. Ryan says I'm always getting into things that don't concern me, and he's right.”

Bernie stroked his hair. “I know the feeling.”

“I used Matt's trac phone to call the cops anonymously. It was so dumb.”

“No, it wasn't,” Libby said. She moved closer to Ethan and put her hand on his shoulder. “I would have done the same thing.”

“You would?” Ethan asked.

“Absolutely,” Libby answered with as much conviction as she could muster. “Short of being God, there's no way you could have possibly known what was going to happen.”

“It's true,” Bernie said when Ethan didn't respond.

“I suppose it is,” Ethan finally said after a minute had gone by. “Still, I wish I hadn't.”

“Of course you do,” Libby said. “Given what happened, who wouldn't?”

As the three of them stood together watching the waves lap the shore, Bernie reflected that the Hadleys certainly had a lock on guilt. Everyone was taking the blame for what had happened at the Riverview. So if everyone was guilty, did that mean that no one was guilty? That's what Bernie wanted to know.

Chapter 40

“W
ell, that clears up one mystery,” Libby said as they headed for the Roost. “Now we know who called the cops. Not that that piece of information gets us very far.”

“It gets us a little further down the road,” Bernie replied.

“Like a quarter of a mile,” Libby said.

“A little more than that,” Bernie countered. “At least now we know that whoever killed Manny didn't call the police, and we know why Bruce didn't recognize Manny, and we know who Manny is. So that's an improvement.”

“Okay.” Libby stopped at the corner of Main and Front to let a jogger go by. “But here's what we don't know. We don't know why Manny came back to Longely, we don't know who killed him, or why whoever killed him left him on a bed in the Riverview Motel. We don't know why Ellen pretended not to know who Manny was, and let's not even discuss Miss Randall's homicide. We don't have a clue about that.”

Bernie rubbed the back of her neck to try and relieve the crick she'd woken up with. “Yeah, we do. We know that the two murders are related. Solve Manny's and we'll solve Miss Randall's.”

“This is true,” Libby conceded. The jogger nodded her thanks and Libby accelerated. “But that only makes things worse, since we now have two unsolved homicides. Really we don't have a whole lot more to show for the time we've put in than we did before we talked to everyone.”

“A step anywhere is a step everywhere,” Bernie intoned.

Libby snorted. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'm not sure,” Bernie confessed.

“Then why'd you say it?”

“I just like the way it sounds.”

Libby laughed as Bernie bent down and rubbed her ankle. Then she lifted up her leg and rested it on top of the dashboard. Bernie decided she probably should have waited a few more days before she put on her three-inch wedges, because her ankle was bothering her again.

“Okay then,” Bernie said. “Maybe this is a better way to say what I meant. As Mom used to say, we're taking baby steps.”

“If you ask me, we're crawling,” Libby cracked as she parked Mathilda across the street from the Roost.

Ten Harley hogs were parked out in front of the bar.

“Great,” Bernie said, looking at them gleaming under the streetlight. “Just what we need. Major attitude.”

“You want to come back tomorrow afternoon when the place is a little quieter?” Libby asked. “It might be easier to talk to Sandra then.”

Bernie shook her head. Privately, she didn't think it would make any difference. “We're here already. Let's do this.” And she got out of the van and limped inside with Libby trailing her.

Bernie wasn't a great fan of motorcycle gangs in general, but when she and Libby stepped inside she realized that they weren't talking about the Hell's Angels here. She knew most of the guys who were wearing leathers. Half of them were doctors, while the other half was evenly divided between lawyers, dentists, teachers, and accountants. More to the point, Sandra wasn't behind the bar. Bernie cursed under her breath. They couldn't seem to catch a break here.

“We're looking for Sandra,” Bernie said to the bartender once she and Libby had made their way up to the bar.

“Well, I guess you're out of luck,” the bartender replied.

Because of Brandon, Bernie probably knew half of the bartenders who worked in Longely, but she didn't recognize this guy. Bernie put him at around fifty, fifty-five. He was balding with a long, graying ponytail in back and a gut that puffed out his Hawaiian shirt in front. He had a big nose that twisted to one side and a thin line of a mouth. His arms and shoulders were powerful and his hands were huge. She had no doubt that he could take care of whatever came his way.

“Why is that?” Bernie asked. “Why are we out of luck?”

“Because she's not here,” the bartender replied. “Obviously.”

He seemed as surly as Sandra had been, Bernie thought. Maybe that was a requirement of the job. “I can see that. And you're . . . ?” Bernie said.

“Working.”

“Ha-ha. Do you have a name?”

“Yeah.” The bartender planted his hands on the bar and leaned forward. “It's Jack. My name is Jack.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Bernie replied. “Do you know where Sandra is?”

Jack looked around the bar first to make sure that no one needed anything before answering. “She took the night off,” he told Bernie, his face expressionless. “Actually, make that she took the year off. She quit.”

“Why?”

Jack shrugged. “Don't know, don't care. Not my business.”

“I don't suppose you happen to have her address?” Libby asked him.

“Nope,” Jack said.

“Or her telephone number?”

“Don't have that either.”

“How about her last name?” Bernie said. “Do you have that?”

“We were never formally introduced,” Jack said.

“Lovely,” Bernie muttered as Jack walked down to the end of the bar and began to polish the beer glasses with a dirty cloth.

The question was how much did Jack want to pony up the information she needed? Twenty? Fifty? One hundred? Bernie had just decided to start with twenty when Libby began speaking to him.

“It's important,” Libby told him.

Jack stopped polishing for a moment. “Why? Did she inherit a million dollars?”

“And if I said she did?” Libby asked.

Jack grinned. “I'd say you were lying.”

“Could you be any more helpful?” Libby asked before Bernie could stop her.

“Not really,” Jack replied.

“I was being sarcastic,” Libby told him.

“You think I'm a moron,” Jack growled.

“No. I think you're a jerk.”

Jack cupped his hand to his ear. “What was that you said?”

Bernie kicked Libby before she could repeat her comment.

“She said you seem very busy,” Bernie said to Jack.

He nodded and turned back to his polishing.

“That hurt,” Libby complained as she bent down and rubbed her calf.

“It was supposed to. Let me handle this.”

“You think you can do better?” Libby demanded.

“Well, I sure as hell can't do worse.”

“Bet you ten you don't get any further than I did.”

Bernie was just about to tell Libby the bet was on when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Bernie spun around. Stu Hartley was grinning at her. He took one large coffee black, one corn muffin lightly toasted no butter, and an almond Danish. He was so punctual that Amber had his order ready to go when she saw him getting out of his Accord at six forty-five on the dot every Monday through Friday morning. An accountant, he commuted down to Loeb, Spenser & Brown, a high-end firm located on Madison Avenue. Usually, he wore a gray suit, white shirt, and gray-and-black-striped tie; tonight he was decked out in leather.

“I didn't know you rode,” Bernie said, checking out his vest.

Stu gave a deprecating shrug. “I just got Jane.”

Bernie furrowed her brow. “Jane?”

“The Harley next to the streetlight. That's what I'm calling her.”

“Oh,” Bernie said. “Why Jane?”

“She was my first true love, the one who broke my heart.”

“I wouldn't tell my wife that if I were you,” Bernie told him.

Stu shrugged. “I don't think she's going to care.”

“Seriously?” Bernie asked.

A look of panic crossed Stu's face. “I shouldn't tell her?”

“Absolutely not. What does Esther say about the bike anyway?” Bernie asked. Somehow Stu's wife didn't strike her as the Harley-riding sort.

Stu gave Bernie a nervous grin. “Not much. Ha-ha.” He tugged his vest down over his gut. “Actually,” he confessed, “she doesn't know yet.”

Bernie couldn't help herself. She laughed. She knew Stu's wife and she was not going to be amused. “Oh boy.”

“Oh boy, is right,” Stu allowed. “It'll be interesting when she comes back from her conference on Sunday. If you don't see me at the shop on Monday morning, call the police.” He took a sip of his beer and put the can down. “I'll be buried in the backyard.”

“What made you buy it?” Libby asked.

“Impulse,” Stu replied. “I always wanted one and I was driving by the dealership in Eastwood and there she was gleaming in the window. I think I'm having a midlife crisis or something.”

“I think maybe you are,” Bernie agreed.

Stu leaned forward and clapped his hand on Bernie's shoulder. “Listen, I heard you talking to Jack and I might know where Sandy lives.”

“That would be great,” Bernie said.

Stu took his hand off Bernie's shoulder and rubbed his chin. “I'm pretty sure she lives in the purple house with the lavender trim on the corner of Mission and Oak. You can't miss it.”

Bernie raised an eyebrow.
Sandy
, she thought. Not Sandra. Interesting. Stu took another swallow of his beer. Bernie was amused to see he was drinking Budweiser. When she'd run into him at RJ's, it was the microbrews or nothing.

Stu explained. “Sometimes I go that way to get to the train station and I usually see her Civic parked in the driveway.”

“Do you know why she isn't here?” Libby asked.

Stu leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I heard she was fired for being late too many times.”

“That would do it,” Libby said. It would certainly be grounds for letting someone go.

“Thanks for the tip,” Bernie told Stu.

“My pleasure,” Stu responded. “But I think she quit and people are making stuff up.”

“We'll say a prayer for you,” Libby told him. She knew Esther too. He was going to need it.

“To Stu,” Bert Mendalbaum called out. He raised his can of beer. “L'chayim. May his wife not kill him.”

“L'chayim,” everyone bellied up to the bar responded as Bernie and Libby walked out the door.

When they were standing on the pavement, Bernie called Brandon to see if maybe he knew Sandra's address or last name. Or anything. But he didn't.

“Not even her last name?” Bernie asked.

“I have a vague memory of it starting with a
P,
but I could be one hundred percent wrong. She doesn't hang around with anyone I know.”

“Whom does she hang around with?” Bernie asked.

“I think she keeps to herself. Listen, gotta go,” Brandon said. “Tony is a no-show and I'm in some serious weeds here.” Then he hung up before Bernie could say anything else.

“Why do we want to talk to Sandra anyway?” Libby asked Bernie.

“Because,” Bernie said lightly, running the tips of her fingers over the Harleys as she walked by them. Her old boyfriend had had a bike and sometimes she still missed riding on it. “Because she might be a lead, and even if she's not, we don't have anything to lose by talking to her.”

“I guess it's worth a shot,” Libby conceded. Although given her druthers, she'd rather be going home. She was tired and she wanted to go to bed.

Bernie nodded. “Exactly. We might as well try the address Stu gave us, and if that doesn't pan out I can come back to the Roost later by myself”—she emphasized the words
by myself—
“and see if I can get Sandra's info out of Jack.”

“How much are you going to offer him?”

“I was thinking up to one hundred.”

Libby smiled. “So I saved us a hundred bucks.”

Bernie laughed. “Maybe you have.” She looked at the moon overhead and felt the night breeze nibbling her arms. “Anyway, it's a nice night to go for a ride,” she noted. “Maybe on the way back we can stop at Fannon's and pick up some ice cream for Dad and ourselves.”

Libby perked up. Suddenly she didn't feel tired anymore. “Let's get coffee mocha chip. It's their best flavor, although”—she paused for a minute—“their banana chocolate chunk isn't too shabby either.”

“We'll get a pint of each,” Bernie happily said as she got in the van.
It's amazing what ice cream can do
, she thought. Just talking about it was putting her in a better mood already.