A Catered Birthday Party

by Crawford, Isis

  “No, I didn’t,” Sean murmured. In truth, he knew not very much about dogs. They’d always been there when he was growing up, but he’d never interacted with them. He’d just given them an absentminded pat on their heads as he’d gone by.

  “The whole hair dye thing has worked out really great,” Ines continued enthusiastically. “I haven’t worried since I did it. I even walked Edna past the police station yesterday. No one glanced at her twice. No thanks to you.”

  “You want us to go?” Sean asked.

  Ines laughed. “Not at all. Now that I’ve had my little tantrum I’m fine. But you should have told me.”

  “I just…”

  “I know. You just didn’t want to put me at risk. I appreciate the sentiment, but you have to tell me what’s going on and allow me to make my own decisions.”

  Sean nodded. That seemed like a fair request. He didn’t know if it would work—his habits were longstanding—but he was willing to try.

  Ines inspected his face. Sean decided she must have liked what she saw, because the next thing she said was, “Hot cider, tea, or coffee?”

  Sean and Samantha both chose coffee. Ten minutes later, the four of them were seated around the coffee table in front of the fire. Sean, Ines, and Trudy/Edna were on the sofa, while Samantha was sitting cross-legged on the floor. The three humans were sipping coffee and everyone was eating pieces of cinnamon toast.

  “Do you have the Longely High School yearbooks or the local community college ones at the Historical Society by any chance?” Sean asked.

  Ines took a sip of coffee before answering. “I believe we do,” she said as she put her cup down. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”

  Sean shrugged. “Samantha’s friend Megan just told us that Richard and Annabel went to high school and college together. I was just curious to see what they looked like. No big deal.”

  “When we’re done with our coffee we can go and look if you want to.”

  “Now?” Sean asked.

  Ines laughed. “Why not?”

  “But aren’t you closed?”

  “We are indeed. But since I have the key that shouldn’t be a problem. After all, I am the person running the place.”

  Half an hour later, Ines, Samantha, Sean, and Edna were at the Historical Society. Ines’s keys jingled as she opened the door. She flipped on the lights and the room sprang into view. It looked oddly forlorn, with its empty tables and chairs, and its neatly stacked reading materials. Sean had the feeling that the building was glad for the company. He shook his head to get those thoughts out of his mind. He had been hanging out with Samantha and Megan too long, he decided as he followed Ines, Edna, and Samantha into the back room. Weirdness was contagious. He’d always suspected as much and now he had proof positive.

  “Here we are,” Ines said as she turned on the lights.

  As she did, it occurred to Sean that Ines hadn’t turned off the burglar alarm. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he pictured patrol cars squealing to a stop in front of the Historical Society and officers emerging with their guns drawn. And finding them. Not a good picture.

  “Isn’t the place alarmed?” Sean asked.

  Ines grinned. “Nope. There’s nothing here anyone would want to steal. No one comes here during the day. I can’t imagine why they’d want to go to the trouble of breaking in here.”

  “But what about fire? Are you hooked up to the fire station?”

  “We’re not hooked up to anyone,” Ines replied as she kept an eye on Edna, who was sniffing the table legs.

  Sean gestured around the room. “But isn’t that kind of risky with all this paper?” he asked.

  “Obviously,” Ines said as she went over to the shelves on the near right and began running her finger over the spines of the books stored there, “you have never dealt with my board of directors. They are a very tightfisted bunch. Ah. Here we go. The Longely Lantern.” She stopped to do the math for a moment, then pulled out a volume, brought it over to the long table, and set it down. “This should be it,” she said to Sean.

  He sat down in front of it and began to flip through the pages. He passed the pictures of the hockey club, the football team, the school newspaper, the French club, and the notes from the Spanish club’s trip to Barcelona. About halfway through he came to what he wanted—the class picture. He stared at it for a moment. Then he read the names underneath the picture. He reread them. And everything came together for him. He closed the book and pushed it away with the tips of his fingers.

  “Well?” Ines said.

  “I think I might know who killed Annabel,” Sean said.

  “Who?” Samantha and Ines cried.

  “I think I might know the who, but I don’t know the why.” He turned to Samantha. “Do you think I can speak to Megan’s parents?” Sean asked.

  “I guess,” Samantha said. “I don’t see why not.”

  “Good,” Sean said. “Because I need to ask them something.”

  Chapter 27

  Brandon made a couple of calls before he found out where Rick Crouse was working. “The brotherhood always comes through,” Brandon said to Bernie as he delivered the news.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Do tell.”

  “You didn’t say that the other night.”

  Bernie’s eyebrows went higher. “Not everything is about sex.”

  “It is for any red-blooded American male.”

  “Leaving that topic aside for the moment.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  Brandon pouted. “Hey,” he said. “I got you your information, didn’t I?”

  Bernie leaned over and kissed him. “And in a very timely manner too.”

  “Which is why you love me.”

  “Yes, it is,” Bernie said and she kissed him again.

  Marvin cleared his throat, and Bernie and Brandon turned to look at him. “I’m not going to talk to him,” Marvin said.

  Libby patted him on the shoulder. She could tell just the idea upset him. “No one is asking you to talk to Rick.”

  “I’m afraid I’d hurt him if I did,” Marvin said.

  Bernie shot Brandon a warning glance. She could tell he was going to say something thoughtless like: Ha. Ha. You’re kidding me, right?

  “Yeah. Maybe you shouldn’t go then,” was the comment Brandon finally settled on after he was quiet for a second too long. “You don’t want to hurt him too bad and send him to the hospital.”

  “I’m afraid I’d break his nose,” Marvin said and he made what passed for a fist. “Or worse.”

  Libby nodded. “Why don’t we go back to my place? We can watch a movie.”

  “I’d like that,” Marvin said.

  Bernie gave Libby the thumbs-up sign as Libby and Marvin headed for the door. After they left, Brandon called his boss to make sure it was all right to leave early if he could get coverage. Then he called one of the other guys who worked at R.J.’s.

  “Fatty owes me,” he explained to Bernie as he waited for Fatty to pick up. When he did, Brandon explained the situation. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes,” Brandon told Bernie once he clicked off.

  Half an hour later, Fatty Armbruster walked through the door. He was five feet ten inches and weighed all of 120 pounds with his clothes on. Which, of course, was why everyone called him Fatty. He and Brandon talked for five minutes or so. Then he took Brandon’s place behind the bar.

  “See what I do for you,” Brandon said to Bernie as they walked out of R.J.’s and toward Brandon’s car. “I give up my livelihood to make sure you’re safe.”

  “So, I take it this means your tank is on empty and you want me to pay for the gas,” Bernie said as they got into Brandon’s vehicle.

  “That’s why I love you,” Brandon said, putting the key in the ignition. “You’re so smart.”

  “No,” Bernie said as they took off. “You admire me because I’m smart, but you love me because I’m a hottie and I do amazing things in be
d.”

  “And because you’re modest,” Brandon said.

  “That too,” Bernie said. “And humble.”

  “Especially that,” Brandon said.

  Bernie didn’t answer because she was too busy thinking about what she was going to say to Rick.

  There was no traffic going down into the city, so it only took them about twenty minutes to drive in from Longely. The bar that Rick was working at was located on Third Avenue between Eighty-first and Eighty-second streets. Brandon found a parking space after driving around for ten minutes.

  “Must be my lucky day,” he commented as he maneuvered his car into the spot.

  “Any day you’re with me is your lucky day,” Bernie said.

  Brandon killed the engine. “That too,” he said.

  The plan was for Bernie to go in and talk to Rick while Brandon hung back and had a drink at the bar. Brandon was assuming nothing untoward was going to happen. After all, this was Rick’s place of work, but he wanted to be there if it did. Or if Rick needed a little extra persuading to answer Bernie’s questions. There were advantages to being big and strong and having a background in the martial arts, not to mention having some contacts on the darker side of life.

  Brandon had parked the car two blocks away. He and Bernie huddled together as they walked over to Little Russia. It always seemed colder in the city, and the wind whipping down Third Avenue was strong enough to make their eyes tear. Both were glad when they finally got to the bar. Brandon pulled the door open, and he and Bernie walked inside.

  The first thing that caught Bernie’s eye was the big Russian flag hanging over the back of the bar. The second thing was a couple of posters of Moscow and St. Petersburg on the walls. But that was it in the Russian department. Whoever had decorated the place had run out of either money or interest and called it a day. Vestiges of Little Russia’s former incarnation as an Irish pub were still visible in the form of Guinness and Harp signs. Looking around, Bernie couldn’t help wondering who the next tenant would be, because except for three men watching the news on TV the place was empty.

  Bernie watched Rick’s head turn as he heard them come through the door. He definitely didn’t look pleased to see them. But considering the way they’d left things, she hadn’t expected that he would. His comment bore that out.

  “You,” he said.

  “Yes,” Bernie replied sweetly. “C’est moi. It is me.” She supplied the translation in case he didn’t know French, which she figured was probably the case.

  Rick sniffed. He looked insulted. “I know what that means,” he said. “I did Camelot.”

  “Who were you?” Bernie asked.

  “One of the extras. It was my first role on stage. Now get out of here.”

  Bernie wrinkled her nose. “But I just got here.”

  Rick put his two hands palm down on the counter and leaned forward. “And now you can leave,” he said in what Bernie judged was his best threatening manner.

  “I don’t think I can do that yet,” Bernie answered. “We need to talk.”

  “We don’t need to do anything. You need to go.” Rick nodded toward Brandon. “And take him with you.”

  Brandon grinned. “And deprive you of the pleasure of my company? No. I don’t think so.”

  Rick’s voice rose a little. “I mean it. Get out. Both of you. Or I’m calling the cops.”

  The three men down at the other end of the bar had stopped watching the television and were now watching Rick, Bernie, and Brandon, the promise of a fight being much more entertaining than anything that was on the screen at the moment.

  Brandon stepped out in front of Bernie and started toward where Rick was standing.

  “Before you do that, you might want to listen to why you’re going to talk to Bernie.”

  “Really,” Rick sneered.

  “Yes, really,” Brandon replied.

  “I can’t imagine anything you could say that would interest me,” Rick said as he reached for his cell.

  Brandon smiled. It was not, Bernie reflected, a nice smile. The corners of his mouth turned up, but his eyes remained steely.

  “Then I’ll tell you,” Brandon said. “Ted. Ted should interest you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rick said. However, Bernie noticed he’d moved his hand off his cell and there was a very slight quaver in his voice.

  “Sure you do,” Brandon answered. “So tell the pretty lady what she wants to know….”

  Bernie kissed Brandon on the cheek. “Thank you. You’re so sweet….”

  “I know I am,” Brandon told her before turning back to Rick. “Nothing goes any further if you talk to her. And if you don’t…” Brandon shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well. Then I’ll call Ted and tell him that you’re…how shall I put this…let’s say reinvesting some of his funds….”

  “But I’m not,” Rick protested. It was a weak protest.

  Brandon smiled again. “Even if you’re not…just the suggestion would be enough. Ted is a paranoid son of a bitch. Hey. In your line of work your face is your fortune.”

  Rick blanched.

  “The choice is up to you,” Brandon said.

  Rick licked his lower lip. “How did you…”

  Brandon held up his hand to stop him. “Find out? Let’s just say you’re not the only one with connections, not that it really matters. Now. Are you going to speak to Bernie or aren’t you?”

  Rick thought for a moment. Bernie could see the defeat in the slump of his shoulders. She almost—almost being the operative word—felt sorry for him. Then Rick straightened up and leaned over the counter. Bernie could see that he’d made his decision.

  “Fine. Now what can I get for you folks?”

  Brandon ordered an IPA and Bernie ordered a Brooklyn Brown. As they waited for their drinks to arrive, Bernie noticed that the three men down at the other end of the bar had turned back to watching television. The show was over.

  “What do you want?” Rick said after he brought the beers over and placed them in front of Bernie and Brandon.

  Bernie took a sip, then put her glass down. “Good,” she said.

  Rick started drumming his fingers on the counter. “Well?” he said.

  “In a hurry?” Bernie asked, then took another sip. “First you didn’t want to talk and now you can’t wait.”

  “I’m curious,” Rick replied.

  Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Really?” she said.

  “Yes. Really.”

  That was one word for what Rick must be feeling at this moment, but not the word Bernie would have chosen. She nodded. “All right. We want to know a good reason why you weren’t the one who killed Annabel.”

  Rick blinked.

  “Seriously,” Bernie said. “You had the motive, you were there, so you had the opportunity, you know how to cork and recork a wine bottle, and you know how to take off the plastic cover without it being noticeable.”

  “Whoa,” Rick said. “Stop right there. Anyone who’s been around liquor knows that trick,” he retorted. “Right, Brandon?”

  “It’s true,” Brandon said. “It’s a trick of the trade.”

  “And who else has worked around liquor in that group?” Bernie demanded. “No one.”

  “Not true,” Rick cried. “For openers, Richard used to tend bar when he was in college, I know Ramona did a stint at R.J.’s when she was younger, and my ex worked at Hooters.”

  “Well, that figures,” Bernie said.

  “No. That was pre-surgery. That’s what inspired Joanna to get them as large as she did.”

  “And you know all of this how?” Brandon asked.

  “Because Joanna told me, of course.”

  “And how did she know?” Bernie asked.

  Rick gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “Because Annabel told her. Remember, they used to be friends.”

  “Pre you,” Bernie said.

  “Yes. Pre me. And I had no reason to kill her. Absolutely none.�
�

  “And how do you figure that?” Bernie asked.

  “Because once she died I didn’t get any money. You can check if you want.”

  “We did,” Bernie lied. “But you have a big ego. I’m figuring that you got really pissed that Annabel was cutting you loose, that your ego couldn’t take it.”

  “And that’s why I killed her,” Rick scoffed. “You’re going to have to do way better than that. I already have a new sponsor….”

  “‘Sponsor?’” Bernie mocked.

  “Yes. Sponsor,” Rick said firmly.

  “What happened to Maggie the Cat?” Bernie asked.

  “She’s on the back burner for a while.”

  “So it’s like the more the merrier,” Brandon said.

  “Something like that,” Rick said.

  “I admire your stamina,” Brandon said.

  “I try to live a healthy life,” Rick said. “In fact, I met my newest sponsor in Whole Foods. She’s hooking me up with a modeling gig, so no more bartending. I’m done with this. In a sense, Annabel did me a favor kicking me loose. Listen, I may have a large ego, I admit that—you can’t be an actor and not have one—but I’m not a killer. A lover, yes. A killer, no.”

  “You have a bad temper,” Bernie pointed out.

  “So I’m a little reactive. So what? If everyone who was like me killed someone, there’d be no one left in the universe.”

  Bernie took another sip of her Brooklyn Brown and put the glass down. A fire engine went by, drowning out the sound of the television. She waited till it was past before she spoke.

  “So who do you think the murderer is?” Bernie asked Rick.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” Rick said.

  “And?” Brandon said.

  “I’ve been trying to decide who hated Annabel the most, and I gotta tell you it’s a tough call, because they all go back a long way, you know?”

  Bernie leaned forward. “Who is ‘they’?” she asked.

  “The whole bunch of them. Joyce, Melissa, Ramona. They were all really tight in high school.”

  “What about Joanna?” Bernie asked.

  “She came in later. Annabel met her through Joyce, actually. My ex and Joyce were in a class together. Some sort of knitting or painting or crap like that. Anyway, as I was saying, they were all really tight. And then they got this hate going.”