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Authors: Isis Crawford

BOOK: A Catered Murder
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“For openers, it's got a smaller cast of characters to work with.” He took another sip of his Cosmopolitan. This thing packed more of a wallop than he thought it would. He wondered what the hell Bernie had put in it. “Okay.” Sean rested his glass on the table next to him. “What do we know about Geoff?”
“We know he was two-timing his wife,” Libby replied. “And that he was a bad businessman.”
“Besides that.”
“We know he had an appointment with Janet Automotive Parts at eight-fifteen in the morning and he never answered the door,” Bernie replied.
Sean smiled.
“And what time does the place usually open for business?”
Bernie fiddled with her ring.
“I don't know exactly, but don't places like that usually open between seven and eight a.m.?”
Sean nodded.
“Which means . . .”
“Which means,” Bernie continued. “He was dead before eight-fifteen.”
“Exactly.”
“Which also means,” Bernie continued, “we should find out what Mary Beth and Lydia were doing between . . .”
“Let's say, for argument's sake, between six and eight in the morning,” Sean found himself interjecting.
“Why not before?” Bernie objected.
“It could be,” Sean conceded. “I'm just going with the most likely scenario.”
Libby peeled a piece of dough off the tip of her finger.
“It would make life easier if we knew exactly,” Libby said.
“I guess I could call Clyde and find out,” Sean said reluctantly.
Libby smiled at him.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
Sean smiled back.
“And then we could talk to the neighbors and see if anyone noticed anything,” Bernie suggested.
“Yes, you could,” Sean agreed.
Bernie thought for a moment.
“Do we know them?” she asked Libby. “Because that would make it easier.”
“I know the people who live on either side of Lydia's mom,” Libby volunteered. “I catered dinners last year for both of them.”
“Well, that's a start,” Bernie said. “We could also talk to Lydia and Mary Beth.”
“And say what?” Sean watched his daughter take a sip of her drink and consider the answer.
“Here's what we can't say.” She pantomimed tapping someone on the shoulder. “Mary Beth. Excuse me. Did you leave the house early so you could shoot your husband? Inquiring minds want to know.”
“Exactly,” Sean said.
“There is another possibility,” Libby said suddenly.
Sean waited.
“Garbage pickup and newspaper delivery.”
“Excellent,” Sean said as he reached for his drink.
Maybe, Sean reflected, Libby did have some of him in her after all.
Chapter 35
B
ernie wiped a drop of sweat off her cheek as she laid the phone down. She couldn't remember it being this hot in June before. Or humid. This was August weather. And it certainly wasn't doing her hair any good.
“How do you stand being in the kitchen in the summer?” Bernie asked her sister.
“You get used to it. So,” Libby asked her, “what did you find out?”
Bernie pushed her hair back behind her ears. Maybe, she reflected, she should get it all cut off.
“Well?” Libby said.
Bernie took a drink of water and told her what she'd been able to ascertain.
“Garbage pickup on Lydia's street is scheduled for nine-thirty
A.M.
give or take twenty minutes—which doesn't help us—and the development the Holders live in uses a private service called Enterprise Carting. I haven't been able to get them on the phone yet.”
Libby put the chicken she was frying on brown paper to drain.
“Well, that's a start.”
“They're located in Ashford on Clinton Street.”
Libby thought. “Clinton Street is near Sam's Club. I could swing by there when I go and get some more chicken.”
“Since when do you go to Sam's Club?” Bernie asked her sister, who had once called the super-sized chain stores a blot upon the American landscape.
“I've been going for the last couple of years,” Libby replied a tad defensively.
“What made you change your mind?”
Libby mentioned the name of a prominent caterer down in New York City.
“And he's right. It's all a matter of being selective.” Libby wiped her forehead with her forearm. “Anyway, my vendor was out of chickens and I need to get some for tonight. We're doing a small dinner for eight at the Sharp residence.”
Bernie groaned. Great, she thought. She'd been planning on getting a hamburger with Rob.
“It'll be easy,” Libby told her. “We're doing Indonesian chicken, which everyone always likes and is so simple that Amber can make it by herself, as well as the cucumber salad.” Libby looked at the clock on the wall. “When she gets here. Which had better be soon. The jasmine rice with cashews and stir-fried spinach with a hint of balsamic vinegar we're doing there. And Edna Sharp wants something light for dessert, so we're giving her the cassis sorbet, which I made last week.” Bernie could see Libby studying her face. “Unless you're busy.”
“No. Heaven forbid,” Bernie retorted. “Why would I want to do something else when I can be slaving in the kitchen with you? Cook by day, detective by night. What could be better?”
Libby indicated the calendar hanging on the wall.
“It
is
written down.”
“Is that new?”
Libby blotted the cooked chicken, then slid two more pieces into the pan.
“I've been doing it for the last two years.”
“Oh.”
Bernie found herself gazing at the fried chicken. She should have had breakfast, she decided. Her mouth started to water. She herself hated making fried chicken. It splattered fat everywhere, but she loved eating it. Especially when it was perfectly done. Which Libby's always was.
“Don't touch it,” Libby warned as she went to pick off a little bit of crust on the piece of chicken that was draining on the paper.
“I wasn't going to do anything,” Bernie replied with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Yes, you were. You always do. You want a piece, buy it,” Libby told her before continuing, “We should be at the Sharps' at six o'clock . . .”
“. . . Sharp,” Bernie said. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”
Libby didn't even groan, much less look up from the chicken. “What about the newspaper deliveries?”
“Lydia gets the local paper, Mary Beth doesn't get anything.”
Libby pursed her lips. “Do we know who the local paper guy is?”
“Sam Hanlon.”
“That's Googie's older brother.”
Bernie watched Libby adjust the heat under the pan. “How about I talk to him and the Enterprise people and you talk to the neighbors,” she said.
Libby nodded.
“And,” she continued. “Just so you know, Dad talked to Clyde and Clyde said the postmortem put Geoff's death somewhere between seven and eight o'clock in the morning, which tells us nothing we didn't already know. Of course,” Bernie reflected, “time of death isn't as precise as people like to think. It's really an estimation. There are all sorts of factors involved—like heat. Actually liver temperature . . .”
“Enough,” Libby told her sister.
“Okay.” Bernie watched Libby turn the chicken. “I can respect that. What if nothing comes of this?”
Libby finally looked up.
“What do you mean?”
Bernie crossed her arms over her chest.
“Talking to these people. What if it doesn't lead anywhere? Then what?”
“If nothing comes of this,” Libby replied slowly, returning her gaze to the pan, “I guess that'll be that. I can't see any other avenues to explore. Can you?”
Bernie ducked her head.
“No,” she replied. “I can't.”
“And Tiffany will get her wish,” Libby reflected.
“It appears so,” Bernie agreed. Then she walked out into the front of the store. It was a quarter to twelve, and the lunchtime crowd was beginning to trickle in.
Chapter 36
L
ibby studied Enterprise Carting for a minute before she went inside. The building was small and undistinguished and set back on the street. Add two spindly cedars by the door and a raggedy lawn, and you had the sum and substance of the place.
She couldn't remember going by it before, but then, she reflected, Ashford wasn't her town either. Even though it was only a ten-minute drive from Longely, she tended to go through it on her way to other locales.
Its major claim to fame as far as she could tell was that it was home to several large discount chains, stores that people like Bree Nottingham had fought successfully against allowing within Longely's boundaries claiming they'd ruin the atmosphere and hence lower the property values. And for once Libby had to agree with Bree, even if she did go to Sam's Club and Wal-Mart on occasion.
“Yes?” the girl sitting in front of the desk said to Libby.
Except for a small statue of the Venus de Milo sitting on the reception desk, the inside of the building was just as plain as the outside, Libby observed. There weren't even any chairs to sit on in the waiting area.
Then, as she studied the girl, Libby realized that she'd been so busy frying chicken and waiting on people at the store that she hadn't thought about what she was going to say when she got in here.
Good going, Libby,
she told herself. Stellar. The girl cocked her head, and Libby found herself staring at the turquoise stud in the side of her nose.
“Well, I was hoping you could help me,” Libby began.
The girl waited.
“It's like this.” Libby tried to think of a good story and failed.
I am so bad at this,
she told herself. “I need to know . . .” And she stopped again. “Oh, the hell with it,” she said, finally telling the girl the truth.
The girl's eyes widened.
“This is about those murder cases?” she said.
Libby nodded.
“And you wanna help your friend?”
Libby nodded again.
“Way cool.” The girl swiveled in her seat. “Hey, Stan,” she yelled into the back. “Come out here for a second. I got someone who needs to talk to you.”
Stan turned out to be Libby's age.
“So what can I do for you?” he asked as he brushed back the reddest hair Libby had ever seen with the palm of his hand.
But before Libby could answer, the girl behind the counter said, “She's investigating those two murders in Longely, unofficial-like because she doesn't think her friend, Tiffany whatever her name is, did them.”
“Okay, Sis.” Stan held up his hand, and the girl stopped talking. “That right?” he asked Libby.
“That's right.”
“Well, I don't know if I can help you much.”
“I was hoping I could speak to the person who was picking up the trash at Paradise Estates.”
“That would be me,” Stan said.
Libby looked around.
“Maybe we could go somewhere and talk.”
“Here'll be fine.” He nodded out back. “I'm about to start workin' on one of the trucks.”
“Well. Okay. Stan,” Libby began. “I was wondering if you would have noticed if there was a car in the driveway or if it was gone at . . .” and Libby fished in her pocket and read off Geoff Holder's house address.
Stan smoothed his hair down again.
“Doubtful.”
“Wait,” Libby said. “I haven't given you the date.”
“Wouldn't matter,” Stan said. “Those people that live there. They keep their cars in the garage. So I mostly don't know if they're there or not, and frankly, I just come by and pick up the trash. I don't notice much unless someone's left something interesting like a TV or something like that on the side of the road. You'd be surprised what the people up there throw out. Sorry, but I don't think I can help you much.”
Great, Libby thought as she thanked him and told him to call her if he thought of anything. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. It wasn't until she pulled into the parking lot at Sam's Club that she realized she hadn't even gotten Stan's last name.
Things didn't go much better when she spoke to Googie's brother, Sam. She caught up with him on her way back to the store as he was fixing the fence on his parents' house.
He was shorter than Googie, she reflected, but he had more piercings. Looking at the rings through his nipples made Libby want to cringe.
“I've been thinking since you called,” he told her, “and honestly, I can't remember whether Ms. Kissoff's car was there or not when I delivered the paper.”
Libby tried to keep her eyes on Sam's face and off his chest.
“Does Lydia park it in the garage or in the driveway?”
Googie's brother pulled up his shorts and shifted the hammer he was holding from one hand to the other and back again.
“You know, I just get out the car, stuff the papers in the mailboxes and run back as fast as I can. I'm not really looking at anything that time of the morning. Sorry,” he said.
“It's okay.” Libby managed a smile. This was turning into a repeat of her conversation at Enterprise Carting. “I really wasn't expecting you to remember anyway. Hoping but not expecting.”
Sam gave her a blank look.
Libby waved her hand. “Never mind.” And she got back into her van. Well, that was that. So much for playing amateur detective. She had to get the chickens back to the store anyway and put them in the marinade Amber had hopefully prepared. But before she did that, she got her cell phone out of her bag to call Bernie and see what was going on at her end. At which point Libby realized she'd forgotten to charge the phone the night before.
Damn,
she thought, throwing the cell on the seat beside her.
What good are these things anyway? They never work when you want them to.
Well, this is great.
She was batting two-nothing, as her father would have said. As she put the car in gear and pulled out of the driveway, she hoped that Bernie was having better luck than she was, but somehow, the way things were going, Libby doubted it.
 
 
Bernie knocked on the house to the right of Lydia's mom. No one was home. The same thing was true at the house on the left. Bernie reflected that she'd forgotten no one was home during the day anymore. Except, of course, for Lydia, who was coming towards her. The one person she didn't want to talk to. Wasn't that always the way?
“Can I help you?” Lydia asked Bernie.
Bernie looked at what Lydia was wearing—a pair of too-short shorts and a tight T-shirt that did nothing for her figure—and decided that even if you were just mopping the floor or digging in the garden it wouldn't hurt to wear clothes that fit.
“No. No.” Bernie waved her hands around. “I was just letting the neighbors know about our new delivery service.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Bernie said, hoping that Libby wouldn't slay her on the spot if this ever got back to her—although she really had to say, on reflection, she thought it was a good idea.
“Too bad I won't be around to take advantage of it,” Lydia told her.
“You're leaving?”
Lydia brushed some dirt off her hands.
“Well, I'll be back for the memorial service and the dinner, but I've got to go into the city. I have too much to do.”
“When are you going?”
“Right after I put the rest of the tomato plants in for Mom.”
Libby will not be pleased to hear this, Bernie thought as she headed back to the Caddy. But of course it was to be expected. Really, why the hell should Lydia stick around? If Bernie were her, she wouldn't. Think about it. If she were the killer, there'd be the guilt factor, and if she weren't, there'd be too many bad memories.
And then it occurred to Bernie that Mary Beth would be leaving soon too. After all, she had said something about joining her parents in Maine. Bernie tapped her fingers on the car's steering wheel. There didn't seem much point in going over to Paradise Estates now. Probably no one was home. On the other hand, she'd be busy tonight with that damned dinner party and then she was meeting Rob for a drink after she was done and at least this way she could honestly say to Libby that she'd covered all the bases.
 
 
Guess I'm wrong about people not being home these days,
Bernie thought when the woman to the left of Mary Beth Holder's house opened the door.
Bernie didn't recognize her. Not that it mattered, Bernie decided. In some ways it even made things easier.
“Hi,” she said starting in on the spiel she'd settled on. “I'm with A Little Taste of Heaven.”
The older woman nodded. “Good food.”
“We think so.” Bernie indicated the mop and yellow rubber gloves in the woman's hands. “If this is a bad time, I can come back later.”
“This is fine. I could use a break from cleaning out the basement anyway.”
Bernie put on her best smile.
“My sister and I are trying to decide whether or not to expand our breakfast business.”
The woman waited.
“We're trying to gear it specifically to the early crowd. You know, mothers with children. Commuters. Things like that. In fact we're thinking of setting up a little coffee kiosk outside the store. So we're taking a survey to see if it would be worthwhile.”
“Sorry, but I'm the wrong person to talk to. I don't drink coffee.”
Bernie couldn't imagine life without coffee.
“Tea?” she asked.
“Hot water with lemon.”
Bernie managed to keep from wrinkling her nose.
“How about her?” Bernie indicated Mary Beth's house. “Do you think she'd take advantage of our new service?”
“Well.” The woman thought. “Mary Beth's usually out of here by seven-thirty so she can take her kids to school. So maybe she'd like something like that. She does drive by your store. Except in the summer,” she added.
Bernie waited.
“Then she drives her kids to summer camp, and she's gone even earlier. Around seven o'clock.”
Bernie made a face.
“I know. It's terrible isn't it? Camp starts at eight and it's a forty-five minute ride,” the woman said.
“That sounds dreadful,” Bernie agreed, thinking what the woman had told her pretty much let Mary Beth out of the picture as far as she was concerned.
Somehow she couldn't see Mary Beth waking up, running out to her husband's body shop, shooting him, calling Tiffany on the phone and luring her out there, then coming back home, waking up her children, getting them dressed, fed, and off to camp. Just thinking about doing all that before eight o'clock in the morning made Bernie feel exhausted.
On the other hand, maybe Mary Beth was one of those obnoxious people who got up at four-thirty in the morning and started mopping the floors. And maybe the kids hadn't gone to camp the day Geoff had been shot. Maybe they'd been sleeping over at someone else's house.
Bernie would have to find out, but the more she thought about the scenario, the more ludicrous it became and the more she was convinced that Tiffany had shot Geoff Holder. Bernie was thinking that, unfortunately, Libby wouldn't want to hear that, when she became aware that the woman in front of her was talking.
“What can you do?” she was saying. “When my kids were younger, they'd sleep in late and then I'd take them to the beach. That was the nice thing about summer, but now everyone is programmed to within an inch of their lives. Lessons. Sports. Especially sports. My God, all that traveling. Eating dinner in your car. I'm glad I'm not raising my kids anymore, I can tell you that.” The woman gave her a dubious look. “I'm sorry I can't be of more help.”
“No. No. You've been wonderful,” Bernie assured her. “Really.” And she handed her a jar of Libby's homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam. “For your trouble,” she told her. Then she got in the car and drove back to the shop. There was no need to talk to the woman on the other side of Mary Beth. She'd found out what she needed to know.
 
 
When Libby looked up from the potatoes she was slicing, Bernie could tell from the scowl on her face that she was not pleased.
“We're running a delivery service now?” she said before Bernie had time to tell her what she'd found out. “Lydia's mom called up and wanted dinner delivered to her home tonight. I didn't know what the hell she was talking about.”

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