A Catered Mother's Day (8 page)

Chapter 15

O
ld Lady Randall lived in a classic old Victorian painted lady. The house, Bernie thought, belonged in San Francisco with the other ladies of a certain age. It was in great shape. Every ten years or so, Old Lady Randall gave it the equivalent of a face-lift and repainted it. Bernie particularly liked its latest incarnation featuring shades of green, dark green, and coral. Even though it had been nine years since the last paint job and the paint was alligatoring a little on the dormers and the weather side of the house, it still looked good.

The deep-set front porch had rocking chairs that were made to while away a summer afternoon and the flower boxes on the windows were overflowing with pink geraniums. The three large ferns hanging from the porch ceiling swung slowly in the breeze. It was the kind of house that had been built in the days when one had a staff. To say it required an enormous amount of upkeep would be a massive understatement, but the house was Old Lady Randall's baby and she found a way to do what needed to be done. Bernie and Libby used to catch glimpses of her in her housedress mowing the lawn with her push mower or clipping the hedges with a pair of large metal pruning shears.

“She's got to be eighty,” Bernie said to Libby as she turned into Seymour Street.

“At the very least,” Libby said, slowing down to avoid hitting a squirrel.

“Maybe she's gotten better with age,” Bernie posited hopefully.

“Doubtful,” Libby said as she turned into Old Lady Randall's driveway. “In my experience, people never get better with age, they just get more of whatever they are.”

Bernie sighed. It was not an encouraging thought. “Well, it would be hard for her to get any grumpier.”

“We'll see,” Libby said. She was not optimistic.

The last time she and Bernie had been at the house they'd been selling Girl Scout cookies and Old Lady Randall had threatened to call the police on them if they didn't get off her porch. When they'd told their mother, Rose had sighed and said she was a lady with problems and they'd do best to steer clear of her. Which they had.

Libby was remembering that as she parked Mathilda next to the garage. She and Bernie got out of the van and walked up the path to the porch. As she did, she noticed that the grass needed cutting and the laurel hedges needed pruning.

“This house is huge,” Bernie commented, slowly mounting the four steps to the porch. She'd forgotten how big it was. A family of ten could probably live in there comfortably. She looked around. The grass might be a little too long, but the porch was pristine. There wasn't a speck of dust on the floor, all the chairs were neatly aligned, and none of the plants had a leaf out of place.
They probably wouldn't dare
, Bernie thought.

The sisters stopped at the door.

“Go on,” Libby said to Bernie. “Ring the bell.”

“No. You.”

“Flip you for it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive.”

“Well, don't sulk when you lose.”

“I'm not going to sulk and I'm not going to lose.”

“Works for me,” Bernie said. She reached into her pocket and brought out a nickel. Then she flipped the coin up in the air and caught it. “Call it.”

“Heads.”

Bernie placed the coin on the top of her hand and uncovered it. “Tails. You lose.”

“But it's your case,” Libby protested.

“It's our case and you're sulking.”

Libby sniffed. “I wouldn't go that far.”

“I would,” Bernie told her.

“I can't believe you're scared of a little old lady.”

“And you're not?”

“No,” Libby lied.

“Then ring the bell.”

“I will.”
This is ridiculous
, Libby thought, walking up to the door. It was ornately carved oak, with a mail slot in the middle. Two etched glass windows took up the upper half. After a thirty-second pause, she lifted her finger and rang the bell. As she did, a fat, ginger kitten scampered up the porch, ran between Libby's feet, and started meowing. Libby bent down and petted it while she waited for Old Lady Randall to come to the door.

“Ring it again,” Bernie instructed after a minute had gone by without any results.

“Why don't you?” Libby retorted, still petting the cat.

“Because I didn't lose the bet.”

“Jeez,” Libby muttered. She rang the bell again. She could hear it echoing inside the house. Another minute went by. The cat started meowing again. An uneasy feeling began to settle in Libby's stomach. She turned to Bernie. “I think something's wrong.”

“She's old. It might take her a while to come to the door,” Bernie said.

“It shouldn't take this long,” Libby observed.

“You don't know,” Bernie answered. “Maybe she broke her leg and she's in a cast, or maybe she's gone deaf, or maybe she's not home.”

“No, she's home,” Libby replied. “She's definitely home. I saw her car in the garage.”

Bernie shrugged. “That doesn't mean anything. She could still be out. Maybe someone came and picked her up and took her to the grocery store or she had a doctor's appointment.”

“Maybe,” Libby said, unconvinced. The cat was still meowing. “Boy, she really wants to go in,” Libby noted as she bent over to pet her some more. Her fur was glossy and she looked well taken care of.

“She?” Bernie said.

Libby picked the cat up and took a look. “She. I guess you'll just have to wait,” she said to the cat, putting her down. The cat's tail twitched, she meowed and rubbed against Libby's ankles. “We should probably talk to the neighbors and see if they know where Old Lady Randall is.”

“Hold up a sec.” Bernie walked over and peered in through the window. Even though it was covered with a crocheted curtain, she could still see inside. “There's a pile of mail on the floor,” she told Libby. Then she moved aside so Libby could have a look.

“Maybe Old Lady Randall has gone away on vacation,” Libby suggested.

“Or she could have fallen,” Bernie said.

Libby looked at the neighbors' houses again. “Hopefully one of them has a key for the house. I think I'll go ask.”

But before she could do that, Bernie reached over and turned the doorknob. It was heavy brass, the kind they don't make anymore, and felt warm in Bernie's hand. The door swung open, hitting the wall with a smack. The noise broke the quiet and Libby jumped. Bernie watched the cat run into the house and down the hallway. Bernie frowned.

“I'll tell you one thing,” she said. “Old Lady Randall wouldn't have gone away and left her place open.”

“No, she wouldn't,” Libby agreed. “Unless, of course, she forgot. Maybe she forgot,” she said, trying to be positive. “After all, she is eighty.”

“Maybe,” Bernie said, but she didn't believe it and she could tell from Libby's expression that Libby really didn't believe what she was saying either. After all, not six months ago Alice Finkelstein had complained that Miss Randall was after her for the twenty-five cents she owed her from last year.

Bernie and Libby stepped into the entryway. The house was cool and dark, stranded in a perpetual autumn. A large, ornate, gilded mirror sat on the wall opposite the door. Underneath it was what looked to Bernie's eyes like a marble-topped seventeenth-century chest of drawers. There was an expensive oriental on the tile floor.

“Miss Randall,” Bernie called out.

Miss Randall didn't answer. Bernie felt as if the house had swallowed up her voice. The only sound she could hear was the cat meowing and the ticking of a clock somewhere inside. She and her sister exchanged glances.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Libby asked Bernie.

“Unfortunately, I think I am,” Bernie replied. She bent down, scooped up the mail, and went through it. It was all flyers. No letters.

She carefully put the mail back where she'd found it. Then she and Libby walked into the kitchen. The cat was sitting in front of a cabinet, meowing.

“I bet that's where her food is,” Libby said, opening the door. There was a big bag of dry cat food inside. Libby got a bowl out of another cabinet and put a little food in. “Don't worry,” she said to Bernie as the cat ran over. “I'll put everything back.”

“You'd better,” Bernie said absentmindedly as she surveyed the kitchen. She loved it. She could cook here. The kitchen was old, but in impeccable condition. The light blue stove, fridge, and dishwasher all looked as if they'd come straight out of the fifties, as did the white cabinets.

Bernie went over and touched the fridge. “I bet this is the real deal.”

“I bet you're right,” Libby replied.

“Boy, I'd love to have one of these, but with all the mod cons.”

“When we win the lottery,” Libby replied, putting the cat food back where it belonged.

Retro was in again and fridges with retro styling on the outside and modern conveniences on the inside were going for four to six thousand dollars a pop.

Bernie began opening and closing drawers. They were all neatly lined with lavender-scented paper.

“That's a bit much,” Libby said, taking a step back.

“What?” Bernie asked.

“The lavender.”

“I don't smell it,” Bernie said.

“Well, I do,” Libby replied. The fact that Libby's sense of smell was keener than Bernie's had always been a point of contention between the sisters.

“If you say so,” Bernie said, opening and closing another drawer.

The silverware drawer, the drawer with the kitchen utensils, the drawer that held pot holders and kitchen towels, and the drawer that contained coupons, all of which were clipped and filed, were immaculate.

“Just like ours,” Bernie said.

“Heh-heh,” Libby commented. “I wish.”

“I bet she doesn't cook much,” Bernie observed as she opened the last drawer. There was neat and there was crazy OCD neat. This drawer was filled with twine and scissors and a bunch of loose keys in a plastic container. All of the keys were neatly tagged. “Look at this,” Bernie said, holding up a small key in a plastic bag. Inside was a note that read,
In case you need salmon, Isaac.
“I guess Old Lady Randall knows Isaac.”

“That's nice of him,” Libby observed.

“He's a nice guy,” Bernie said.

“Yes he is. So are we done here?” Libby asked. She was feeling increasingly uneasy about being in the house.

Bernie dropped the plastic bag with the key back in the drawer and closed it. “Yes. We are.”

The
crunch
of the cat eating followed Libby and Bernie as they left the kitchen. Walking through the dining and living rooms, Libby couldn't help but think of her mom's dictum of “a place for everything and everything in its place.” If ever a place exemplified it, this one did. It was even neater than their flat when Mom was alive. But, whereas Rose had always liked light, Old Lady Randall had a different sensibility. The windows in the living and dining rooms were covered with a heavy damask that muted the light and absorbed noise.

The floors were polished, the furniture gleamed, the orientals looked like the real deal, and Bernie was almost positive the lamp on the dining room sideboard was a Tiffany, and the pictures in the dining room were Edward Hopper drawings. The only signs of disarray she could spot were a couple of crumpled up tissues and an ashtray full of pistachio shells on the coffee table in the den.

The cat joined them as Libby was commenting on the fifty-two-inch HD TV on the opposite wall. “It looks brand new.”

“Newer than ours,” Bernie replied.

She was beginning to think that Old Lady Randall had gone to visit a neighbor after all. There was certainly nothing except the mail to indicate that anything had happened to her. Bernie almost suggested that she and Libby leave—she didn't even want to think about what would happen if Old Lady Randall came in and found them standing in her house—but by that time Libby was heading toward the stairs and Bernie figured what the hell, they might as well take a quick look-see as long as they were already inside. At least this way, they'd know whether or not Manny had been living here. If he was, they'd tell Clyde and one of his minions could deal with Old Lady Randall.

The cat bounded up after them. The ginger tabby kept twining herself around Bernie's and Libby's ankles until midway up the stairs Libby scooped her up, carried her the rest of the way, and put her down on the top step. The cat looked at her for a moment, then dashed off into the first room on the left. Unlike the others on the second floor, this door was open.

Chapter 16

T
he tabby started meowing loudly.

“God she's noisy,” Libby said as she followed the cat into the room.

Bernie corrected her. “Verbal. She's verbal.”

“Whatever.” Then Libby gasped.

“What's the matter?” Bernie asked, alarmed at Libby's expression.

Libby pointed. One more step and she would have planted her foot squarely on Old Lady Randall's stomach. She was splayed out on an oriental rug in the middle of her bedroom, wearing a housedress. One slipper was on and the other one was lying a short distance away. Her eyes were wide open, as was her mouth; she was staring at the ceiling, a circle of blood pooled around her head. Libby put her hand to her mouth.

“Oh no,” Bernie said, stepping inside.

Both sisters looked down at Old Lady Randall. She was smaller than either Libby or Bernie remembered her. She looked fragile, but most of all, with her white hair and wrinkled, age-spotted skin, she looked old. Libby couldn't believe she'd been terrified of her all this time. She felt ashamed of herself.

“Do you know what her first name was?” Libby asked.

Bernie thought for a moment. “I think I remember Mom calling her Clara.”

“Did she ever get married?”

Bernie thought for another moment. “I'd have to ask Dad, but no, I don't think so. Why are you asking?”

Libby shrugged. “No reason. No reason at all, really. I think we should start calling her by her name. Clara, Clara Randall. Somehow given the circumstances, Old Lady Randall seems disrespectful.”

Bernie wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of old age, lavender, and death. “I don't think she's going to care.”

“Maybe not,” Libby said. “But I do.”

Bernie shrugged. “Sure, why not. If it'll make you happy it's fine with me.” She pointed to the towel lying next to Clara Randall's outstretched hand. “She must have been getting ready to take a bath.”

“Maybe this was an accident,” Libby suggested as she watched the tabby butt her head against Clara Randall's outstretched hand. “She could have fallen and hit her head. It's possible.”

Bernie gestured around the room. “Hit her head on what?”

Libby nibbled on her lip again. “The bed post? The dresser?”

“They're too far away.”

“She could have hit her head on one of them and staggered over here and collapsed,” Libby answered. She went over and examined the four carved cherrywood bedposts and the matching dresser. She pointed to the right-hand post at the end of the bed. “There's blood on this. So it was an accident.”

“Maybe,” Bernie said. “But I can't see Clara Randall leaving the front door open.”

Libby contemplated the implications of Bernie's statement. “So,” she said after a moment, “what we're saying is that someone came up here and killed her. Someone with a key to the house.”

“I suppose I am.” Bernie automatically readjusted the belt on her dress. It kept sliding off to the side. She could hear rain starting to fall outside. “Especially if Manny was staying here. That's certainly a link.”

The cat gave up on Clara Randall and began rubbing her head on Bernie's ankles.

“That's certainly a big red flag,” Libby agreed. “On the other hand, she could have been expecting a neighbor or a delivery. She could have left the door open for them.”

Bernie looked down at the cat. “What do you think?” she asked her.

The cat looked up at her and meowed.

“I think that's unlikely too,” Bernie told her. Given what she knew of Old Lady—sorry, Clara Randall's personality—she seemed like the kind of person who would have kept her door locked at all times.

Libby sighed. “I know.”

Bernie shifted her weight onto her good foot. “Everything up here and downstairs looks in order, so I think we can rule out a burglary gone wrong.”

Libby closed her eyes for a minute and pictured the possible train of events. “Unless whoever was responsible came upstairs and Clara Randall surprised them so they killed her and fled without taking what they were looking for.”

“Possible,” Bernie conceded. She thought of the Hoppers downstairs and the Tiffany lamp and the oriental rugs, all of which were worth a sizable amount of money. Most people, though, wouldn't take those; they'd take cash, jewelry, and electronics. “Let's take another look,” she suggested.

Which they did, but there was no evidence of a TV in the bedroom, and as for jewelry, the only thing the sisters found was a jewelry box full of fake pearls and Timex watches.

“Maybe there's a safe here somewhere,” Bernie said.

But if there had been, it wasn't there now. At least, it wasn't anyplace in the bedroom that Bernie or Libby could see.

Libby thought about the small safe her mom had kept to store her marriage certificate in. It was still in her dad's bedroom. It was so light she or Bernie could pick it up and carry it down the stairs. “The attacker could have taken it.”

“I don't know,” Bernie said. “Clara Randall strikes me as more of a safety deposit box person.”

Libby nibbled on her cuticle, realized what she was doing, and stopped. “It looks as if Clara Randall died after Manny. I don't think she's been dead that long.” She rubbed her temples. She could feel a headache coming on. One murder was bad, two was worse. “But I guess we'll have to wait for the autopsies to find out for sure.”

Bernie bent down and scratched the ginger tabby underneath her chin. She began to purr. The sound filled the room.

“Do you want to call the cops or should I?” Libby asked.

“You can after we finish looking around.”

“I think we should call them now.”

“And not finish what we started?”

Libby shook her head. “I don't know, Bernie . . . given last time.”

“This is different. We're not going to run into the police this time.”

“I think Dad would disown us if he had to bail us out again.”

“He didn't bail us out. We didn't get ourselves arrested.”

“Don't be so literal. I was talking figuratively.”

“He's not going to have to. No one is coming through the door.”

“And you're sure of that?”

“Reasonably.”

Libby glanced down at Clara Randall. She fought an impulse to close her eyes and cross her arms over her chest.

“Listen,” Bernie said, “we need to know if Manny lived here or if he didn't, and the sooner we find out, the better. If he did live here maybe there's something in his room that will shed light on what's going on.” Bernie picked the cat up. The tabby leaned her head on Bernie's shoulder. “Besides, we owe it to Ellen to follow through on this. Mom would have wanted us to.”

Libby frowned. She swatted at a fly that was hovering around her face. “Raising the ugly specter of guilt, are we?”

Bernie grinned. “Absolutely.”

“Well, just because you feel guilty doesn't mean that I have to.”

“Sisters share. Remember?”

“Ha-ha-ha. Funny lady,” Libby retorted.

“That's what Mom always said. Anyway, Mom liked Ellen. You know she did. We also owe it to Ellen's kids,” Bernie continued. “They paid us. We agreed to take the case. We're morally obligated to follow through.”

“That's true,” Libby reluctantly agreed. She couldn't argue with that. A vision of Ethan, tears trickling down his cheeks, floated through her mind, and she caved. “Okay,” she said, “but let's get in and out of here fast.”

Bernie curtsied. “Your wish is my command.”

“Yeah, right,” Libby muttered.

“We will,” Bernie promised as she and Libby stepped out into the hallway.