A Catered Birthday Party

by Crawford, Isis

  “He didn’t really say that?” Libby asked.

  Rita put her hand up. “Swear to God that he did. And even if they were here it wouldn’t do you no good anyway. Everyone had to sign the same agreement I did.”

  Bernie stared at Rita for a moment. The look. The shifts in speech patterns. The different accents. The body language. She should have gotten it before. “You’re quite the little actress, aren’t you?”

  The girl grinned.

  “Do you have a SAG card?” Bernie asked.

  The girl’s grin broadened. “I’m working on it.”

  “Is anything you told us the truth?” Bernie demanded.

  The girl’s grin grew even bigger. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’d like to strangle you, that’s what I think,” Bernie said. “Where did Richard get you from?”

  “A mutual friend. I was between jobs and I needed a gig.” And with that she reached up and pulled off the wig she was wearing.

  “Does the wig work?” she asked as she fluffed out her spiky bright green hair.

  “No,” Bernie said. “It’s too distracting.”

  The girl shrugged. “That’s what I told Angel.” And she stuffed the wig in the backpack that was on the counter before she turned and started out the door.

  Trudy, who had been silent up till now, let out a loud belch.

  “Told you not to feed her bread,” the girl said. “If she poops on the floor Richard is going to be wicked pissed.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Bernie said.

  “In case you’re interested, I’m the Spanish maid in Seems Like Old Times by Neil Simon at Syracuse Stage.”

  “Well, it seems like something, but it isn’t old times,” Bernie cracked.

  Libby gave her sister an interrogatory look as the girl formerly known as Rita flipped them both the bird and walked out the door.

  “Seems Like Old Times is a movie,” Bernie called after her. “It never was a play. If you’re going to lie, at least get your facts straight.”

  The girl popped her head back in. “Whatever. Play. Movie. Who cares?”

  “Neil Simon would probably care, for one, and so should you if you’re serious about your craft,” Bernie told her.

  “You’re saying I’m not?”

  “I’m saying I don’t know what you are,” Bernie said.

  The girl put her hands on her hips. “I’ll tell you. I’m going to be a great actress one day. That’s what I’m going to be.” The girl squared up her shoulders. “And for your information, I have a bit part in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the Longely Playhouse.” She wiggled her fingers. “Ta ta,” she trilled. “I’m off.”

  “I don’t think there are any bit parts in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” Bernie mused after the girl left. “She certainly can’t play one of the children.”

  “All I know,” Libby opined, “is that she is a truly exasperating person.”

  “Yup,” Bernie said as Trudy puked on the floor. Maybe feeding her the bread hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

  “Do you think anything the girl said was true?” Libby asked as Bernie went to get some paper towels off the counter.

  “Dad always says there’s a kernel of truth in every lie.”

  Libby tapped her fingers on the counter. “I wonder if Richard did let everyone go. That would certainly be interesting if it’s true.”

  Bernie grinned. “I was thinking of the cats in heat part myself.”

  “Well,” Libby said, thinking back to their other cases, “it always seems to come down to sex or money, doesn’t it?”

  “Or revenge,” Bernie said. “Don’t forget revenge as a motive for murder.”

  “I wonder which one it’s going to turn out to be in this case?” Libby said.

  “I guess we’re going to have to wait to find out, aren’t we?” Bernie replied. “Although what about fashion as a motive? There are shoes I would die for.”

  Libby opened her mouth and closed it again. On this subject she had nothing to say.

  Chapter 8

  Trudy watched Bernie with a great deal of interest as Bernie cleaned the floor.

  “You’re a bad girl,” Bernie told her.

  Trudy wagged her tail. Bernie laughed. She really was hard to resist.

  “You know what I’m betting?” Libby said as Bernie straightened up and dropped the towels in the wastepaper basket. “I’m betting that Rita, or whatever her name is, is referring to Joanna and Richard. It’s the classic man meets secretary, man falls for secretary, man kills wife so he can have the money and the secretary.”

  “Personal assistant,” Bernie interjected. “People don’t have secretaries anymore. They have personal assistants.”

  “Whatever,” Libby said. “We could ask Bree.”

  Bernie shook her head. “I don’t think she knows. I think if she did, she would have told us.”

  Libby nodded. Her sister was right. “She must be losing her touch.”

  “It would seem so,” Bernie continued. “However, we could ask Kevin O’Malley. He might know.”

  Kevin O’Malley was the owner of Smithfield and O’Malley, an upscale grocery store that most of the wealthy households in Longely patronized. He pretty much knew everything about everybody in those circles. Even better, Libby and Bernie knew just where to find him.

  “What would Kevin know?” a man’s voice behind them demanded.

  Libby and Bernie spun around. Richard was standing behind them. They’d been so intent on their conversation they hadn’t heard him come in. Trudy scratched Libby’s leg and she bent down and picked her up.

  “He’d know whether we could get peaches that are decent tasting this time of year,” Bernie ad-libbed, wondering as she did how much of their conversation Richard had heard.

  Evidently judging from his expression he’d heard only the last part, which, given the circumstances, was a good thing. Richard grunted. Then a puzzled expression crept over his face as he looked around the kitchen.

  “Where’s Sam?” he asked.

  “Sam?” Libby and Bernie repeated.

  Richard gave an impatient wave of his hand. “Sam. Samantha. She was supposed to help with the dishes and the serving. I know she was here a moment ago.”

  “She left,” Libby said.

  “Left?” Richard echoed.

  “Yes, left. As in walked out the door. She said you didn’t have any food,” Bernie said.

  Richard gave a sigh indicating suffering on a par with Job. “Of course I have food. O’Malley delivered the platters this morning.”

  Good call, Bernie, Libby silently thought.

  “It serves me right for hiring her,” Richard grumbled. “By now I should know better. She’s a total nut job. Comes from living with that mother of hers. No basis in reality whatsoever. No. If you want something done professionally, hire a professional.”

  “Who is she?” Libby asked.

  “Sam’s one of my friend’s kids. She’s living at home while she studies acting. Her father is trying to teach her the value of work, but he’s not having much success.”

  “Seems to be going around,” Bernie said as she recalled the array of college kids they’d employed over the years at A Little Taste of Heaven. “So where’s the rest of the staff?” she asked, thinking that it would be interesting to be able to talk to them and hear what they had to say. “I would think that a house like this would require six live-in help—at least.”

  Richard favored her with a wintry smile. “Perhaps in the nineteenth century that was the case, but since we’re in the twenty-first, and there are a multitude of labor-saving devices at one’s disposal, that is not true. Surely even you recognize that?”

  “That’s funny,” Bernie said. “Because I distinctly remember Annabel telling me she’d given the staff the day off for Trudy’s birthday party.”

  Richard gave a snort of disgust. “Annabel likes…liked to play the part of the English country lady. She was fixated on the
idea actually. Not that it’s any of your business, but we don’t have any staff. We have people coming in as needed.”

  “Like the tooth brusher for Trudy,” Libby said.

  Richard frowned and rubbed his hands together. It was obvious from the expression on his face that he found the topic of Trudy and the tooth brusher distasteful.

  “I came in to see whether you two are all right. I thought maybe you were having trouble finding your way back,” he told the girls, ignoring Libby’s last comment.

  “You have such a magnificent house,” Bernie gushed. “I’d love to see it.”

  Richard gave her a look that suggested she had a better chance of seeing the inside of the private vault of the queen of England. Instead of replying he just grunted and stood there with his arms crossed over his chest while Libby and Bernie unwrapped the food they’d brought and set it up on platters. When they were done he escorted them into the sunroom, where everyone else was sitting.

  Interesting, Bernie thought. Most people would have taken five minutes and given them a quick house tour. Clearly he found the idea distasteful. Why? Was it them? Was there something he wanted to hide? Or did he just have an overdeveloped sense of privacy? Or all three?

  “I found them,” he announced to the room as the other pugs ran over to sniff Bernie’s and Libby’s feet.

  Libby put Trudy down. She expected her to run over to the other dogs, but she stayed at Libby’s side.

  “Good,” Joyce said. “We were afraid you’d lost your way.”

  “Spiritually or spatially?” Bernie quipped.

  No one replied, which, Libby reflected, might be a good thing, considering the possibilities. Then she lost her train of thought as she contemplated the room she was standing in. It was truly spectacular. The walls and the ceiling were made of glass panels joined together with copper strips. It was like being outside, only better because the center of the room was filled with five extremely large potted palms that towered over everything.

  Various types of ferns lined the periphery. The floor was ornately laid in a complex pattern of blue and white mosaic tiles, while the furniture was wicker with sky blue cushions. She felt as if she’d been transported to a solarium in an English country estate.

  “This is wonderful,” Libby commented as she thought of all the English mysteries she’d read as a girl. All that was missing was a white-gloved butler serving tea and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

  Richard shrugged. “Annabel insisted we build this after we came back from England. I don’t know why. She called it her folly, and it certainly is. It takes an enormous amount of gas to heat this thing.”

  Bree picked up Rudolph. “She certainly had a vision of how she wanted things to be.”

  Bernie unbuttoned her cardigan. It was almost oppressively warm in here, but she supposed it had to be for the palms.

  “I wouldn’t know I was in Longely being here,” Bernie said.

  “I believe that was the general idea,” Joyce said dryly. “Anyway, you’re here and that’s the important thing.”

  “Yes,” Joanna agreed. “It’s easy to lose your way in a house like this.”

  “Not if you’re careful,” Ramona chimed in.

  Joyce lifted an eyebrow.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Melissa demanded.

  “Nothing,” Ramona said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  I’m missing something here, Bernie thought as she listened to the conversation. She didn’t know what these people were talking about, but it definitely wasn’t about the house’s floor plan. She could see from the expressions on Bree’s and Libby’s faces that they didn’t think so either.

  “Now that you’re both here,” Richard said, “and since Sam’s departed, I wonder if I could possibly impose on you to serve some tea.”

  “Not at all,” Bernie said, thinking that that would allow her a little time for a quick examination of the house.

  But that didn’t happen. For all intents and purposes, Richard never let them out of his sight all the time they were there.

  And neither did Trudy, who followed the girls around as if she were glued to them.

  Maybe Sam was right, Bernie thought. Maybe she shouldn’t have fed her the piece of bread after all, but not for the reasons that Sam thought.

  Chapter 9

  Libby took a sip of her Guinness and settled in on her bar stool. She didn’t know why she was drinking this—she really didn’t like beer, and she wasn’t keen on being here either. She’d rather be home baking bread and watching television. It had been a long day and she wanted to go to bed early, an unlikely possibility the way things were turning out.

  It was nine o’clock on a Wednesday night at R.J.’s and she, Bernie, Brandon, and Kevin O’Malley, the person they’d come to talk to, were the only souls in the place. Usually the place was packed, even during the week, but a winter storm advisory had kept anyone with any sense snugged up in his or her house. She and Bernie would be at home watching TV with their dad if Brandon hadn’t alerted them to Kevin O’Malley’s presence.

  Kevin O’Malley was a man of regular habits. Even the promise of a nor’easter wasn’t enough to interrupt his midweek stint at R.J.’s. At first Libby hadn’t minded going because Marvin was going to meet up with them. She hadn’t seen him in three days. Unfortunately, on the way over he’d called, said he had an emergency, and would be there later if he could. Which, in a word, sucked. Libby took another sip of beer and pondered how a funeral director could have an emergency, but then she decided she didn’t want to think about that and ate a peanut instead.

  For the life of her she could never understand how people, specifically Brandon, could say stout had a chocolate undertaste. Beer tasted like beer, and chocolate had nothing, absolutely nothing in common with beer whatsoever.

  “Try it,” Brandon said for the third time as he pushed a bottle of the stout across the bar with the tips of his fingers. “If you like chocolate you’ll like this.”

  “I already told you I won’t.”

  “How do you know if you don’t try it?”

  “I just know,” Libby snapped.

  Brandon shrugged and left the bottle where it was. “In case you change your mind,” he said.

  “God, you’re persistent,” Bernie told him.

  Brandon smiled. “That’s how I got where I am.”

  “Which is?” Bernie prompted.

  “Being the sexy red-haired bartender every girl wants, but you are lucky enough to have.”

  Bernie laughed. “I believe sexy men are described as tall, dark, and handsome, not tall, redheaded, freckled, and handsome.”

  Brandon pounded his chest with his fist. “You have cut me to the quick.”

  “I figured.”

  “Fortunately, I have a robust ego.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  Brandon leaned over and gave Bernie a quick kiss. “I can get off early tonight. Mick’s coming in to close. Unless the storm gets here first. Then I get to close early.”

  “He would actually close because of a storm. He’s getting soft in his old age.”

  Brandon patted his gut. “It happens to all of us.”

  “What time were you thinking?” Bernie asked.

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  Bernie checked her watch. That was a little under two hours from now. “That’s the veritable shank of the evening.”

  Brandon picked up a glass and started wiping it. “What does that mean?”

  “Haven’t got a clue,” Bernie admitted. “I just like the way it sounds.”

  Brandon put the glass down and picked up another one. “So eleven is good?”

  “Eleven is perfect,” Bernie allowed. “Unless the storm blows in.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “I must be getting old too. Getting in at three and getting up at five to shovel a path to the store just doesn’t excite me as much as it used to.”

&
nbsp; “You mean I’m not worth it?”

  Bernie gave him The Look.

  “How about if I helped shovel?”

  “That might be feasible,” Bernie conceded. “Not that you will.”

  Brandon wiggled his eyebrows up and down. Bernie couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

  Brandon plunked his elbows on the bar. “See, Libby,” he said. “I’m just an irresistible force of nature.”

  “You’re something,” Bernie told him. “That’s for sure.”

  Libby smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. Marvin could at least call.

  “Don’t you worry,” Brandon said, reading her mind. “He’ll be here soon. Go on and have a sip of the stout. It’s the sovereign cure for what ails you.”

  “I thought that was chocolate.”

  Brandon pushed the bottle closer to her.

  This time Libby took a sip.

  “Not bad,” she said grudgingly.

  “Not bad?” Brandon yelped.

  “Okay,” Libby conceded. “It’s good. But it still doesn’t taste like chocolate.”

  “How can you say that?” Brandon protested.

  Before Libby could answer, Bernie held up her hand. “Enough,” she said. “It’s time to do what we came here for—talk to Kevin O’Malley.”

  Brandon shrugged. “You can try, but as I told you on the phone, he likes to drink alone.”

  Bernie fluttered her eyelashes. “I’m hoping to change his mind.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work, babe,” Brandon said. “Not that you don’t have…um…great lashes, but Kevin used to run a strip club and has become immune to feminine wiles. Unlike me.”

  “Hmm,” Bernie replied. “Strip club to a fancy food store. That’s an interesting leap. I wonder how he did it.”

  Brandon shrugged. “I heard that his dad died and left him some money and he did this because it was as far away from a strip club as he could possibly get. But I don’t know for sure. He isn’t a real chatty kind of guy. He likes to be left alone and have his three shots of Black Label. So that’s what I do. I don’t think you’re going to have much luck getting him to talk about the Colbert household.”