Authors: Isis Crawford

A Catered Murder (16 page)

BOOK: A Catered Murder

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“There's always a chance,” Sean answered. He closed his eyes. Suddenly he felt exhausted.

“We should go,” he heard Libby say.

“No.” He couldn't bear the thought of his daughter going off like this. “Just give me a second.” A moment later, he opened his eyes to see Libby and Bernie staring at him in concern. “I'm fine,” he snapped.

“Like hell you are,” Bernie shot back.

He'd never been able to get the last word in with her, he thought. Not even when she was six years old.

He made a supreme effort to clear away the fuzziness in his mind and focus.

“I was thinking,” he said to Libby. “Most killers, unless they're professionals, use one M.O
.,
modus operandi. So the fact that Tiffany supposedly poisoned one person and shot another might work in our favor.”

“I hope you're right,” Libby said. “I really do.”

“So do I,” Sean said. “So do I.”

Chapter 25

L
ibby was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, when her sister came through the door.

“Don't I get any privacy?” Libby asked with her mouth full of toothpaste.

“If you want privacy, close the door. So how was your date with Orion?”

Libby spat and rinsed.

“It wasn't a date,” she said when she was done. “We had a drink together.”

“And?” Bernie asked as she folded her arms and leaned against the door frame.

“And nothing.”

“Don't nothing me. What happened?”

“We had a beer at R.J.'s and split an order of wings.”

“And . . .” Bernie made a come-on motion with her hands.

“We went back to his house.”

“And?”

“He said, âThis is like old times.' ”

Bernie groaned.

“He actually said that?”

Libby nodded.

“And then?”

“We were sitting in the living room and he put his arm around me and kissed me.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, Bernie,” Libby found herself saying. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I got the worst anxiety attack. Suddenly I had to get out of there.”

Bernie patted Libby's shoulder.

“You were right. My advice, for what it's worth, isâdon't go to bed with him. At least not for a while.”

“I'm not planning on it,” Libby said.

“Stay with that thought. Listen, Orion is in the middle of separating from his wife. For all you know, he could go back to Sukieâguys do that kind of thing all the timeâand then how would you feel?”

“He doesn't sound as if he's going to.”

“You didn't know he was seeing Sukie when he broke off your engagement either,” Bernie reminded Libby. “Just tell yourself, the goalie is in place.”

Libby crinkled up her face.

“The
what
is in place?”

“The goalie.” And Bernie pointed to between her legs. “Get it?”

Libby giggled.

“Don't laugh. I don't want to see you getting hurt twice by the same person. You should be like me and make the same mistake with different people.”

Libby grinned.

“You know Dad offered to have him beaten up.”

“That's comforting in a peculiar kind of way.” Bernie went over to the sink and removed her makeup. Then she reached in the medicine cabinet and took out a jar of moisturizer. “Try this on your face,” she said to Libby. “It's got grape seeds and green tea in it.”

“Nice,” Libby said as she began patting it on her cheeks.

“It should be for what it cost.” Bernie took a dab and began working it into her skin. “By the way, have you ever heard of a Rob Sullivan?”

“Tall? Green eyes?”

“That's the one.”

“He comes in the store about once a month and buys fried chicken, cole slaw, and chocolate chip cookies.”

“What else do you know about him besides his culinary preferences?”

Libby clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth while she searched her memory.

“Okay,” she said when she'd come up with the requisite facts. “He's some kind of writer. He was working on a TV pilot out in L.A., but it got canceled and then his sister got killed in a car crash and he came back to be with his mom. She lives over on Edgemont and sells dolls out of her house. Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

“You're never just curious.”

Bernie grinned as she put the top back on the jar.

“We're just going to have a drink. I met him today at Geoffrey Holder's place.”

Libby rolled her eyes.

“Trust you to discover a corpse and meet a man at the same time.”

“It's a talent. By the way, he liked the ginger muffins.”

“What's not to like?” Libby observed, but her mind was on something else.

“What are you thinking about?” Bernie asked.

“Well, remember when I told you that Rob was a writer . . .”

“Yes . . .”

“That got me thinking about something Lydia said to me at her house.”

Libby stopped and busied herself cleaning out the soap scum in the sink basin. Bernie waited for her sister to continue. A moment later she did.

“Lydia said something about Lionel stealing his idea for his first bookâor words to that effectâand I was thinking about what you told me about the book you found at Nigel Herron's house and about his always wanting to be a writer.”

“Yes.” Bernie leaned forward.

“Well, what if Lionel stole Nigel's idea. What if he stole his character? Think about it,” Libby said, warming to her theme. “All that money. All that fame. And it could have been yours. Wouldn't that make you crazy with envy?”

“Envious enough to kill?”

“People have killed for less.”

“Granting that, why now? Why after all this time?”

Libby bit on her nail.

“Maybe something happened.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know,” Libby said. “But I'm going to find out.”

“How?”

“You're going to talk to Nigel and I'm going to have another conversation with Lydia.”

Bernie began brushing her hair.

“I told you that Nigel was Geoff 's stockbroker, right?”

“Right.”

“And even though Mary Beth didn't say so, I gathered that things weren't going well.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that Nigel has a connection to the two dead people.”

“I don't know. It's hard to see Nigel killing anyone. Maybe boring them to death . . .” Libby looked down at her feet.

Bernie studied her sister.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

Libby began pleating the towel lying on the edge of the sink. A minute later she blurted out, “I keep thinking that this whole thing is my fault.”

“Cut it out.”

“It is,” Libby insisted. “Maybe if I'd talked to Tiffany the first time . . .”

“Stop being like Mom,” Bernie told her. “You're not responsible for the ills of the world.”

“I never said I was.”

“You're right. You didn't. You just act as if you are. And for God's sake, not to mention for the sake of your hips, stop eating all those cookies.”

“I know. I know,” Libby moaned. “I can't help myself.”

“Sure you can,” Bernie replied.

“Every time I get upset, I eat.”

“Drink martinis instead,” Bernie advised. “They have fewer calories.”

“No, they don't.”

“Oh, yes, they do. I've compared calorie counts. Besides,” Bernie continued, “you'll drink fewer martinis than you will eat lemon bars.”

“That's because I like lemon bars better than I like martinis.”

“My point exactly,” Bernie said, stifling a yawn. “Two martinis or a pan of lemon bars. You do the math.”

Chapter 26

O
kay, Libby. Where are you?
Bernie wondered as she reached into the display case and re-centered the sign for the almond croissants. It was a little after eleven, and her sister still wasn't back yet. She hoped Libby had just gone to the Studmeyer farm to get the goat cheese like she'd said she would and hadn't stopped off to talk to Lydia, which she'd promised she wouldn't.

The lunch crowd would be coming in soon, and Bernie didn't feel like dealing with them by herself, although she supposed if worse came to worst, she could drag Amber away from skinning tomatoes out in the kitchen and put her to work waiting on people out front.

Bernie planted her elbows on the top of the display case, never mind that Libby would have a fit if she saw her do it, and watched a woman across the street trying to get a full-grown Newfoundland to heel. Maybe she should get a dog, Bernie mused. A small dog, a very small dog.

Something like a Yorkie maybe, something she could put in a tote bag and carry around with her. She was wondering what her father would sayâhe hated small dogs. Rats, he called themâwhen Rob Sullivan walked through the door.

As Bernie straightened up, she cursed herself for not putting on mascara this morning. Without it, she looked as if she had no lashes.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, cringing inwardly when she heard herself.

Wonderful, Bernie. Could you sound any stupider?
As Rob smiled, she noticed that in the daylight his eyes were an even deeper green.

It's axiomatic that no one with eyes that color is nice,
Bernie warned herself.

And if I'm attracted to him, then he definitely isn't nice even if he seems to be on the surface. I just haven't discovered what's wrong with him yet, is all.

“I came to get another ginger muffin,” Rob told her.

“Really?”

“Yes. Well, not really. I'll take one and some coffee, but I really came to see how you were doing after yesterday.”

“And how'd you know I'd be here?”

Rob grinned.

“I'm brilliant.”

“Besides that.”

“My mom told me.”

“That I believe.”

“Would you believe that I came around to ask you out for that drink and also to tell you something you might be interested in.”

“Such as?”

“Patience. Are you really okay?”

Bernie nodded.

“Because the cops gave you a pretty rough time.”

“I'm tough.”

“No, you're not. You just like people to think that.”

Bernie flushed because what Rob said was true.

“Tell me what you came to say,” she told him trying to get the conversation back on track.

“Well, this might be nothing, but I was going through Geoff 's desk after the police left and I found a note scribbled on the top page of one of those legal tablets. It said âJanet? Eight-fifteen?' I called and told the detective in charge of the case, but he didn't seem too interested. He's probably rightâit's probably just a random scribbleâbut I thought you should know. Anyway it gives me another reason to come and see you.”

“Do you still have the paper?”

Rob leaned on the counter.

“I sure do.”

“Good. I'll relay the information to Tiffany's defense lawyer,” Bernie told him, aware of the smell of his aftershave.

“My muffin?” Rob said.

“Oh, yes.” Bernie realized she'd been staring at him. “I don't know what's the matter with me this morning.” She handed him his ginger muffin and his coffee. “The milk and sugar are over there.”

“Did you really bake this?”

“With my own little hands,” Bernie said making a mental note to get the recipe from Libby.

“Tonight around eight at R.J.'s?” Rob said.

Bernie nodded.
Remember,
she told herself.
The goalie is in place goes for you too.

“Eight it is.”

She was still staring at him walking down the street and telling herself that meeting him would only lead to the kind of trouble she didn't need when Bree Nottingham breezed into the store.

“Where's Libby?” she demanded.

Bernie pulled herself together.

“She's out doing errands. Can I help you?”

Bree put her lips together in an O of disapproval.

“How inconvenient. When will she be back?”

“Soon, I hope.”

Bree indicated the display case.

“Are these cookies all made with butter?”

“Straight from the dairy farm.”

“Which one has the fewest calories?”

Bernie thought for a moment. Fortunately, this was knowledge she had at her fingertips.

“The lemon cookies. They have the least amount of shortening in them.”

“How many calories would you say they had?”

Bernie pulled a number out of the air.

“Fifty.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, we haven't sent them to the lab for testing, if that's what you mean.”

Bernie watched Bree click her tongue against the inside of her cheek while she thought.
Make up your mind,
Bernie wanted to tell her.

“Fine,” Bree finally said after agonizing a little longer. “Give me one and don't bother to put it in a bag. I want it for here.”

Bernie gave Bree the lemon wafer wrapped in a small sheet of wax paper and watched as she took little bites. A vision of a mouse nibbling on a piece of cheese had jumped into Bernie's mind when Bree's cell phone rang. She dug it out of her bag.

“No. No. No,” she said into the receiver. “What's the matter with you? I distinctly remember saying ten, not fifteen. You should listen more carefully.” And she clicked off. “Honestly,” she told Bernie. “Some of the people I have working for me are brain dead.” She took another nibble of her cookie. “Nothing is going right these days, and when I'm upset I eat.”

What? Bernie wondered. Lettuce leaves and the occasional tomato slice?

“This past week and a half, with everything that's been happening, I must have put on five pounds.” Bree took another nibble. “I can't even imagine how much weight Libby's put on, poor dear.”

“Actually, she's lost weight,” Bernie lied.

“How wonderful! Maybe she'll share her secret with me. It's nice to see that she's doing well.”

“Why shouldn't she be?”

“Well, with all that's occurred. She's never been able to handle stress well.”

“That's not true.”

Bree waved her hand in the air. “It's just that I can't get that vision of Libby being carried from Phys Ed class sobbing and screaming out of my mind. It was so traumatic for me. I can't imagine what it must have been like for her.”

“For the last time, she'd taken some of my mother's medicine by mistake and had a bad reaction to it. And she wasn't sobbing and screaming.”

Bree smiled sweetly.

“I love the way you defend your sister.”

A vision of punching Bree in the mouth flashed through Bernie's mind.
Deep breath,
she told herself.
Deep breath.

“You know . . .” she began when Bree interrupted.

“Whatever her problems are, I have to say she did a marvelous job at the reunion.”

“I'm glad you think so.”

Bree took another bite of her cookie.

“And what happened wasn't her fault. I mean how could she know that someone would poison Laird's drinking water? Although in retrospect, perhaps labeling those bottles with his name wasn't the smartest thing she could have done.”

Bernie could feel her temper rising again.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Me?” Bree looked amused. “Absolutely nothing. I'm making an observation. It's just that she's just been so invested in Tiffany. Protecting her and everything.”

“I hardly think trying to get her legal counsel comes under the heading of protecting. And since when is that a crime?”

As Bree took another nibble of her cookie, Bernie wondered if anyone could eat slower.

“It's not. But I think you ought to know that's not what some people are saying.”

“Well, those people are wrong.”

“Whatever you say, dear.” Bree checked her watch. “Here.” She handed the uneaten half of the lemon cookie back to Bernie. “Can you throw this out? It was delicious, but I'm full.” Bree shook her head and adjusted an errant lock of hair. “I'm just glad we can put this thing behind us and begin to heal.”

“What do you mean?”

Bree flicked an invisible crumb off her yellow silk blouse.

“Well, now that we know who the murderer is. I don't mean to be crass, but it's hard to sell real estate when you've got a murderer running loose, especially a murderer who's killed two of Longely's most upstanding citizens.

“Something like this plays hell with property values. People don't want to buy, and I can't say I blame them, when they can purchase in the next town and not be afraid for their lives.”

“Haven't you heard of the old saying about being innocent until proven guilty? The case against Tiffany is circumstantial.”

Bernie watched Bree reach into her black microfiber Prada tote and come out with a tube of lip gloss and a mirror.

“I'm sorry. I thought you heard. Tiffany confessed.”

“What?” Bernie cried.

“Early this morning. Call Paul Pine and check if you want to,” Bree said. “He'll tell you.”

“I'm going to.” And Bernie reached for the phone.

BOOK: A Catered Murder

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