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Authors: Isis Crawford

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BOOK: A Catered Wedding
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Chapter 9
T
wenty minutes later, Sean and Clyde were at the back kitchen door watching Amber, Libby, and Bernie working. There had been a few minutes there Sean reflected when it looked as if the police weren't going to let them through the gate, but good old Clyde had played the concerned parent card and ended up convincing them to let them in. Sean was just thinking about how lucky he was to have a friend like that when Libby turned around and spotted him.
She ran over. “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded.
Sean threw his arms out and put on his biggest smile. Always take the offensive when possible. When it wasn't, play dumb. “Hey, what's this? I thought you'd be pleased to see me.”
“Pleased to see you? Pleased to see you?” Libby cried. “We've been worried sick. Ina called and told us you weren't there.”
Clyde sighed. “Told you we should have waited around, Cap. Guess she didn't get the message on her answering machine.”
“Evidently.” Bernie took the kitchen towel she had slung over her shoulder and wiped her hands. “Ina was very upset.”
“She said that?” Sean asked.
“No. But I could tell from her voice.”
“That's too bad.” Sean hoped he looked properly contrite. “She's a nice lady.”
“Yes, she is,” Bernie replied. “What am I going to tell Rob?”
“Tell your boyfriend the truth. He'll understand.”
“I'm not sure he will.” Bernie took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest. It was weird but she felt like the parent. “Now what are you doing here?”
Sean looked his daughter straight in the eyes and lied.
“I came to make sure you girls were okay. Your dad was worried about you.”
“Really?”
Sean looked in Clyde's direction. “Isn't that so?”
“Sure is, Cap.”
Sean decided that Bernie looked unimpressed. When Bernie put her hands on her hips and leaned towards him he realized he should have tried something else.
“That is a load of BS, and you know it,” she told him. “At least if you're going to lie put some effort into it. You're Irish for heaven's sake. You ought to be able to do better than this.”
“Now you're maligning your ancestors.” Sometimes doing indignant worked, but Sean could see from the expression on Bernie's face that it was having no effect on her, either. Not that he was surprised. Of the three women in his life, she was the one who was hardest to fake out, the one least likely to defer to him, the one—unfortunately—most like him.
“Don't try and change the subject,” she told him.
“I'm not.”
“Oh yes, you are. You always do.”
“How can you say that?” Sean protested.
“Because it's true. If you didn't want to have lunch with Ina that badly why didn't you tell Libby or me when we made the arrangements?”
Sean decided he'd rather have his teeth pulled without Novocain than continue with this discussion.
“Look,” he said. “I thought that you'd be glad I finally got out of the house, but if you want me to go back home . . . .”
Bernie lifted her hands in the air and dropped them. “Don't do your poor me, humble pie act with me,” she told him.”
Sean turned and appealed to his eldest. “Libby,” he said.
Libby sighed and went over and planted a kiss on his forehead. Sean grinned. Libby could never stay mad at him for long. Just like his wife. “So tell me what's going on?”
Bernie glared at him, but Sean could tell she was thawing.
“Come on,” he told her. “You know that you want to.”
Bernie wavered for another second, but it was obvious to Sean that was just for show.
“Fine,” Bernie said and she and Libby filled him in.
“Alex Fisher?” Sean said when Libby and Bernie were through with their recital.
“You mean Officer Fisher?” Bernie asked.
Sean nodded. He and Clyde exchanged glances.
“What about him?” Bernie said.
Clyde stroked his chin. “Let's just say he's not real fond of your dad.”
Libby looked towards the living room. She really had to get another pot of coffee going so she could refill the coffee urn. “Why's that?” she asked.
“Because your dad ticketed him for indecent exposure.”
“He was taking a leak outside of R.J.'s,” Sean said, chuckling as he recalled the incident. “As he'd just given your uncle a speeding ticket in West Vale, I decided to return the favor.”
Bernie tapped her ring against her teeth. “Well, that explains a lot,” she said.
“It certainly does,” Sean agreed. Things, he decided, were on the upturn.
“Dad,” Bernie began, “as long as you're here, I was thinking. . .”
Never a good sign, Sean knew. “Yes?” he said in a cautious voice.
“I was just thinking that you might want to see the arms room and kinda check things out.”
“Don't listen to her,” Libby told him. “You shouldn't be going there.”
“Sure he should,” Bernie replied.
“And why would I want to do that?” Sean asked.
“Hum.” Bernie laid a finger on her cheek. “Let's think. Because you owe me for standing Ina up. She's a very nice lady.”
“I'm not sure I agree about owing you.”
“Really?” Bernie said.
“Yes, really,” Sean replied although he wasn't sure that he liked the smile playing around his daughter's lips.
“Fine then. If you want to stay here I'll just nip into the living room and tell the Walker sisters you've arrived. I'm sure they'll want to speak to you.”
Sean looked at his daughter in horror. He'd known they were here; but, in his haste to get away from Ina's ministrations, they'd slipped his mind.
“That's blackmail.”
“No. It's creative motivation,” Bernie replied complacently.
“You wouldn't.”
“You know I would.”
“Don't I get a say in this?” Clyde asked.
“No, you don't,” Bernie told him. “You shouldn't have helped him run away from Ina. That was rude.”
“But . . .” Clyde began but before he'd gotten the next word out of his mouth Sean interrupted him.
“I'll do it,” he told Bernie.
Libby looked dismayed. Sean was sorry he was upsetting her, but he knew there was no appealing to Bernie once she an idea in her head. She would tell the Walker sisters he was here, and the idea of listening to a polemic on Marxism and the evils of the capitalist West, not to mention a cross-examination of his personal life, was more than he could bear right now, even for Libby's sake.
“All right,” he told her. “What am I looking for?”
“Crossbows and arrows.” And Bernie described the arrow embedded in Leeza Sharp's chest.
“Sounds like a carbon one to me,” Sean said.
“Whatever. You're looking to see if there are any there that match that one.”
“And why do you care?”
“Because I'm curious,” Bernie said. “Isn't that enough of a reason?”
Sean had to allow as how it was. Certainly that motivation had operated in his professional life more than he would like to admit.
“And, oh yes,” Bernie said flashing a defiant look at Libby. “I'm coming along with you.”
 
 
“Can you tell me where the room is that they keep the weapons in?” Bernie asked the burly man hurrying down the corridor. She'd gotten her and her dad lost, which given the way the mansion was laid out was fairly easy to do.
The man made a miniscule adjustment to his uniform jacket before replying. “The arms room is in the second corridor, third door to the left.”
“You work here?” Bernie asked him.
The man gave a slight bow. “Yes, Madam. I am Mr. Jura's personal assistant. Are you one of the hunting party?”
“Yes,” Bernie lied thinking as she did that this guy could bench press lots of pounds.
“Because you're quite early. In fact, Mr. Ditas did not expect anyone until tomorrow after the ceremony.”
“Our transportation arrangements got confused,” Sean told him. “Ditas knows. I e-mailed him.”
The man looked at Sean but didn't say anything. It was the look of a person used to assessing people, Sean decided. A cop look.
“What's your name?” Bernie asked him.
“Vladimir, Vladimir Meyers.”
“Well, Vladimir, you've been very helpful, but I think we can manage on our own from here on out.”
Vladimir bowed his head to indicate he'd heard, then turned and hurried off in the direction he'd been going.
“You think he believed us?” Bernie asked her dad after Vladimir had rounded the corner.
“No. I think we should pick up the pace.”
Bernie nodded her agreement. “Hunting, huh?”
“You ask me, someone's gotten an early start.”
“True enough,” Bernie replied. She moved her ring up and down her finger. “What I want to know is why would an Estonian have a Russian working for him considering what Russia did to Estonia?”
“From what you told me about Jura that might be the point,” Sean told her.
“You might be right,” Bernie conceded as they moved in the direction Vladimir had indicated. She pointed to the portraits lining the walls as they went by. “Do you think there's a Decorate a Castle company in the phone book? You know, you just call and they bring over all the family portraits, crests, everything a social climber needs?”
Sean laughed. “I can't imagine living in a place like this.”
“Me either,” Bernie agreed.
Five minutes later they had finally located the arms room.
“This room is like something out an English country house,” Sean said looking around.
He hadn't spent time watching Public Television for nothing. There were plaster busts dotted around the room and trophies hanging on the wall that ranged from deer to tiger heads.
“Well these people definitely hunt,” Bernie observed.
“They most certainly do,” her father agreed as his eyes took in the rest of the room.
The windows were flanked by heavy drapes and the walls were painted a dark green and hung with weapons, both new and old. These people had everything from old silver-plated Remington rifles, antique Smith & Wessons to AK-47s, Glock 9mms, and .22s.
“The hell with hunting. These people are serious weapon collectors,” Sean observed. “You could arm a small military force out of this room. I'm surprised they don't have rocket launchers around some place.”
Bernie pointed off to the far wall on the right. “I think what we want is over there, beyond Homer's bust.”
Sean headed off in that direction on his motorized wheelchair.
He stopped when he was about a foot away and gazed up at the wall. The cross and compound bows were neatly arranged in a horizontal line. There were no gaps, which meant none of them were missing, although that didn't mean that someone hadn't used one from here and replaced it with a similar one. Unfortunately there was no way to tell by eyeballing. The arrows might be a better bet.
“You know, Bernie . . .” he was saying when he heard footsteps. He turned around just as Officer Fisher entered the room.
“Well, well,” he told Sean when he saw him. “You've definitely made my day.”
That was fast,
Sean thought as he took in the gleam in Alex Fisher's eyes.
Vladimir must have gone straight to the cops.
Chapter 10
L
ibby glanced at the clock on the wall. She couldn't believe it was only ten o'clock. It felt like two in the afternoon, possibly because this was the first break she'd had since she'd opened the doors at seven-thirty this morning. The store had already sold out of scones, and they were nearly out of muffins. Nothing like a little murder to bring in customers, she reflected. At least this time she'd known enough to bake extra.
Boy, she would have given anything if she could have closed up shop and gone back to bed. But that was not going to happen. Libby looked at the clock again. The minute hand had scarcely moved. She had nine more hours to go. It was going to be a long, long day.
And on top of everything else—thanks to Bernie—her eyes felt as if they had grit in them. Libby began rubbing them, then stopped herself. It felt so good, but she knew it would only make them worse. What she needed were some eye drops, which, unfortunately, were in the bathroom upstairs, meaning she'd have to climb a flight of steps to get them.
Libby took another sip of her coffee while she debated whether or not it was worth the trouble. After a moment, she decided it wasn't. Her eyes would just have to go on stinging. What with everything that had happened yesterday it was a little after midnight by the time she'd left the West Vale police station. Clyde had told her to go home, but she couldn't. The only good thing was that one of Clyde's buddies was a judge and he'd come out to the courtroom.
When she'd gotten home she'd gone straight to bed, but she was still so angry all she'd done was toss and turn. Then, just when she was drifting off to sleep her alarm had rung.
Somehow she'd managed to drag herself out of bed and stumble down to the kitchen to do what she'd been too tired to do the night before: put the chickens up for the chicken salad and grill the tuna for the salad nicoise. Then she'd started in on the homemade mayonnaise but for some reason the eggs and oil had refused to emulsify and after remixing it, she'd been forced to throw out the batch and whip up a new one.
Next she'd cooked and peeled the new potatoes for the potato salad, blanched the string beans for the bean and tomato salad, and baked the quail originally intended for the wedding dinner, and after that she'd tackled the raspberry and blueberry scones and baked the lemon ginger, carrot, and chocolate chip muffins. By the time she was done she would have given anything to have crawled back into bed.
Libby added another spoonful of sugar to her coffee and stirred. Her sister could go without much sleep, but she'd always needed at least seven hours, ten was even better, and yet between last night and staying up the night before to finish the wedding cake she hadn't gotten more than two hours sleep in the last two days.
When she thought about it, it was a miracle she hadn't cut or scalded herself this morning. Of course, she could have woken Bernie up and gotten her to help. But then she would have had to have talked to her and Libby hadn't been ready to do that yet. By seven o'clock this morning though, she'd been forced to concede she would have to—not that her sister knew that Libby wasn't speaking to her since Libby hadn't informed her of that fact, which was good because it relieved Libby of the humiliation of asking Bernie for her help.
Libby took a bite out of one of the peanut butter cookies that had just come out of the oven, noting, as she washed it down with another swig of coffee, that it had been baked about two minutes too long. No doubt about it: Family relations were a bitch. But she'd have to ask Bernie. She didn't have a choice.
That was the problem with having a shop like this, Libby reflected. It was impossible to do it on your own. You needed at least one other person to cover for you. Because it didn't matter what you felt like or how little sleep you had, short of a death in the family, or a catastrophic illness you had to open the shop on time the next morning, and you had to have an adequate amount of product to sell.
And the product had better be good. Her mother had impressed that fact on her. If it weren't, people would stop coming. And once they got out of the habit of patronizing your store, they didn't come back. That's why everything at
A Taste of Heaven
always had to be perfect. Always.
Actually, Libby decided as she rearranged the almond croissants in the display case, if you thought about it, owning this store was almost like being married. If you weren't fully committed to the relationship, it wouldn't work out. And even after putting years into the relationship you never knew. Look at what had happened to her and Orion. She'd never have thought he'd end up marrying someone else. Hopefully she and the store would do better.
Libby sighed and looked at the clock again. Bernie had gone to the farm to get the free-range eggs about an hour ago. She was wondering when her sister would get back so she could start in on the curried egg salad when she saw Bree Nottingham, real estate agent extraordinaire, coming through the shop door.
As Libby watched her advancing to the counter she became painfully aware of the fact that she'd been too tired to go back upstairs and put her make-up on and that she was wearing a T-shirt that showed off the roll of fat around her middle. But then Bree had been making her feel fat and unattractive since the fourth grade. Maybe it was because even back then Bree had worn the equivalent of a size four and she had worn closer to a size fourteen.
“So,” Bree cooed when she got close enough, “I understand the Simmons family had some excitement yesterday.”
Here we go again,
Libby thought. “You could say that,” she replied.
Bree got her wallet out of her bag, which Libby couldn't help notice thanks to Bernie's fashion tutelage, was the new Louis Vuitton.
“You can't imagine what I felt like when I got to the estate gate and heard the news about Leeza. It must have been so much worse for you and your sister finding her like that,” she said. “
I
would have fainted.”
“Fortunately,
I
didn't,” Libby replied. In her book, almost didn't count.
Anyway, her father always said never to show weakness in the face of the enemy. All she wanted to do was forget about yesterday; and, even if she did want to talk about it with somebody, Bree Nottingham was the last person she'd want to talk about it with.
Bree extracted a five-dollar bill from her wallet then put the wallet back in her bag. “I hear the sandwiches you served were very good, although the coffee left something to be desired.”
Libby sighed. Screw up once and you never stopped hearing about it. She hated to admit it, but Bernie had been right about getting their coffee from the garage instead of using the swill in Jura's house.
“I hope you're not using the same type here in the store,” Bree continued.
“Not at all,” Libby told her pleasantly. “Jura asked us to use his.” When cornered, lie. “Would you like some of ours? We just got a new shipment in on Friday.”
Bree formed her lips into an O while she thought. “I suppose,” she said after a moment of reflection. “Make it one third French decaf, one third French regular, and one third hazelnut if you don't mind.” Then she leaned forward and concentrated her gaze on Libby's shirt. “Is that a spot?”
Libby looked down to where Bree was pointing. Sure enough. She had a blue dot on her white T-shirt. She must have gotten that when she made the blueberry scones. Unbelievable.
“Do you have any hard boiled eggs?” Bree asked.
“In the back,” Libby replied. She had exactly two, the yolks of which she'd been planning to use for her mother's short bread cookies.
“Good. Because I'd like one.” Bree patted what in Libby's opinion were nonexistent hips. “I'm on Atkins now and I've already lost five pounds.”
Where? From your skeleton
, Libby thought.
Bree tapped an immaculately manicured nail against her tooth for a moment. Then she said, “And can you cut it in half, and sprinkle on some
fleur de sel
and a little cracked fresh pepper. You should try Atkins. It's a miracle.”
Libby hoped she was smiling not gritting her teeth. “I am,” she replied although she had to admit she was honoring it more in the breach these days. Well, really she wasn't doing it at all.
“Good. Because it would be perfect for you. You really don't need any will power for this.”
Libby took a deep breath and pictured throwing Bree through the plate glass window. But then she reminded herself that despite the pleasure it would be bad for business, not to mention that getting the window replaced would cost a small fortune. And then there would be the lawyer's fees. So instead Libby went to get Bree her coffee.
As she did Bree added, “I'm surprised the reporters aren't here after yesterday.”
“They've already called,” Libby conceded. She'd told them neither she, her sister, or her father had anything to say. She'd said the same thing to the media people swarming around the estate last night.
“They were reporting the story on CNN.”
“I've been too busy to have the TV on,” Libby lied.
Bree sighed. “Bride killed on her wedding day. Shot through the heart. My dear, the story is simply too good to resist.”
Libby handed Bree her coffee.
“I have to say,” Bree said after she'd taken a sip. “Bad luck seems to follow you and your sister around. At least the murder is in West Vale instead of Longely this time,” Bree went on. “Although it would have been better if it wasn't in this geographical locale.”
“I agree,” Bernie told Bree as she came sailing through the door. “It was so inconsiderate of Leeza to get herself murdered in the town next door.” Bernie took off her sunglasses and hung them from the neck of her T-shirt. “Next time I arrange a homicide, I'll be sure and have it somewhere in Alaska. After all, we wouldn't want you to lose any commissions.”
“That's not what I meant,” Bree protested.
“Then what did you mean?” Bernie asked her as she handed Libby the three-dozen eggs she'd just gotten from the farm.
Nothing ever fazed her younger sister, Libby thought as she put the eggs on the counter. She always managed to have the right comeback. And she always look so pulled together no matter what. She didn't have a stain on
her
shirt. And if she did, she would have made it into a fashion statement. Sometimes Libby just hated her.
Bree emptied a packet of Splenda into her coffee and stirred. “I'm just making the factual observation that there's been trouble in town ever since you got here.”
“You can't blame her,” Libby blurted out.
Both Bree and Bernie looked at her. Libby felt herself shrinking into her T-shirt. Why was she trying to defend her sister anyway?
Bree said to Libby, “I wasn't blaming your sister for anything. As I said, I was merely making an observation.” Then Bree turned back to Bernie. “I was just about to say to Libby that I understand you and your father ran into a little problem last night.”
Bernie smiled back. “Not at all.”
“Oh. That's funny. I'd heard you two were arrested.”
“No. It was just a mix-up,” Bernie assured her.
“So Marvin didn't have to come up with bail money? That's what he told me when he was pounding on the door at ten o'clock at night. I mean really. I can't believe he doesn't have an ATM card?”
Bernie had two thoughts. The first one was: what was Marvin thinking of choosing Bree to ask for money. The second was: given the expression on Libby's face the sooner she changed the topic of conversation the better.
“You know how overly dramatic Marvin can get,” Bernie told Bree. “But of course that's why we love him.”
“Dramatic would hardly be the adjective I'd use to describe Marvin,” Bree replied.
Bernie plowed on. “That's because you don't know him the way we do. Nice bag by the way.”
Bree patted it the way you would a puppy. “I got it when I was in Paris two weeks ago,” she informed her.
Right,
Bernie thought. Maybe it was a real Louis Vuitton, but if she had to bet, she'd lay money that Bree had picked it up from a street vendor outside of Bloomies. The woman was notoriously cheap. She was always haggling over the price of everything. “So how do you know the Raids anyway?” she said instead.
Bree took a sip of her coffee and put her cup down on the counter. “I sold them the house they're living in. Or I should say estate.”
“I've never been in a place that big,” Libby observed.
“I've sold bigger, but it is large, isn't it?” Bree agreed. “It was originally built by an Anglophile who wanted to live on an estate modeled on one built by a Lord Chesterton-Wilkes that he'd seen when he was over in Devon. Hence the layout.
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