“Yes, she does,” Sean agreed. He rubbed his thigh to ease the muscle cramp that was beginning to form. “I wonder if Teresa is Amber’s next stop?” he mused.
“Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” Marvin asked.
“I think so, you think so, but I’m not sure that Amber will think so, given the constraints she’s operating under. After all, she’s not going to be making a social call.”
Sean put the paper back down on the coffee table, took out his cell, and called Amber. It went straight to voice mail. Not a big surprise. But he felt he had to try. Then he called Bernie and Libby and alerted them to what was going on.
“What are we going to do?” Marvin asked Sean, once he’d gotten off the phone.
“We’re going to go through the rest of Millie’s house and see what else we can find. Then we’re going to move your hearse out of sight and settle down and wait for Amber to come back. If she comes back,” Sean added. It was a long shot, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.
“For how long?” Marvin asked, a note of panic in his voice. “Because I need to get home. I have a viewing tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Sean said. “The life of a funeral director is not an easy one.” Then Sean looked at the expression on Marvin’s face and felt bad at his comment. “We’ll stay for an hour and then we’ll get out of here.”
Chapter 26
“I want to go home,” Libby said after Bernie had relayed their dad’s message to her. They were on their way back to the apartment, and Libby had been looking forward to a cup of hot chocolate, a bath, and bed—in that order.
Bernie snorted. “Whine. Whine. Whine.”
“Like you don’t feel that way too,” Libby told her.
“I do,” Bernie said. “But I’m ignoring it.”
“I’m serious, Bernie.”
“So am I, Libby. And we will go home. We’ll go home after we check out Teresa’s house and Amber’s place and make sure that Amber isn’t at either one,” Bernie assured her.
“Amber could be anywhere,” Libby pointed out. “This could be a complete waste of time.” She was so tired that her bones ached and she was having trouble keeping her eyes open.
“It could be,” Bernie said. “But that’s not what Dad thinks and . . .”
Libby put up her hand. “I know. I know. He’s usually right about this kind of stuff.”
“Think of it this way,” Bernie told her. “If we find Amber we can catch up on our sleep . . .”
“. . . and our work,” Libby said, getting into the spirit of the thing.
“. . . and get rid of George.”
“That would be a blessing devoutly to be wished,” Libby conceded.
While George was better than nothing as a counter person, he was only slightly better than nothing. Very slightly better. In fact, he had been getting steadily worse since he’d started at the shop. He still hadn’t mastered their credit-card machine for reasons that eluded Libby, and his coffee either tasted like a chicken had walked through it or was so strong it had to be watered down. Most important, there was something wrong with his hearing, so he had a tendency to fill orders with what he thought people would want instead of what they had told him they actually wanted.
“Plus, Penelope will stop calling,” Bernie added, interrupting Libby’s thoughts.
“Also a good thing,” Libby agreed. The producer of Baking for Life had been calling every two hours for updates on Amber’s whereabouts, or “the Amber situation,” as she liked to put it. Okay, that was an exaggeration. It was every three hours. By now Libby was ready to strangle her.
Bernie looked at her watch. “I say we try Teresa’s house first. We’re nearer. Then we see if Amber’s at her place.”
“And then we go home,” Libby said.
Bernie nodded. “And then we go home.”
The streets of Longely were empty at this hour of the night, everyone snugly tucked in their houses, so Bernie and Libby made good time on their way to Teresa’s house. While Bernie drove, Libby looked out the window and admired all the Christmas decorations: the white and colored lights wound around the trees and the houses, the candles in the windows, the nodding reindeer on the lawns, and the blow-up Santas with presents spilling out of their sleds. She decided she would like this time of year if she ever had the time to enjoy it. Because she worked in retail, she was usually just glad when it was over.
Next year, Libby decided she’d get an earlier start. That way things wouldn’t be so nuts. Because the truth was that despite all her moaning and groaning she really did like making the mince pies with real mincemeat, and the bûches de Noël, and the plum puddings served with hard sauce. She loved doing it, in fact. And she liked decorating the shop window, and she liked handing out Christmas cookies to the kids who came into the shop. It’s just that this year, the Baking for Life crew coming to town, Millie’s death, and Amber’s supposed disappearance had put her over the edge.
Libby could feel her heartbeat start to quicken at the thought of what she and Bernie still had to do, and she decided it would be better to think about something else. Like chocolate. Chocolate truffles, to be exact. So far, her chocolate mocha truffles had gotten an extremely good reception, as had her Grand Marnier ones, although Libby decided they had to cut down on the liquor a bit. Maybe A Little Taste of Heaven should add truffles and French macaroons to the shop’s offerings next year. They could package them in fancy cellophane wrappers, six to a roll, and market them as stocking stuffers. Libby was thinking about the kind of packaging she would like, maybe something with green and gold in the design, when she became aware that Bernie was talking to her.
“So what do you think?” Bernie was saying.
“Think about what?” Libby asked her.
“About what Amber knows about Teresa.”
“Aside from the fact that she thinks that Teresa has Millie’s recipes.”
“Yeah,” Bernie said. “And . . .”
“Does she think that means that Teresa killed Millie?”
“I’m guessing it does,” Bernie said. “What about you?”
Libby half unzipped her jacket and unwrapped her scarf from around her neck. The heat in the van had finally kicked in. “No, I don’t,” she said when she was done. “Absolutely not. I’m sorry, but no matter how much I try, I can’t see Teresa lugging that deer target out into the middle of the road.”
“Neither can I,” Bernie admitted. “Unless, of course, she had help.”
“Like who?” Libby challenged.
Bernie shook her head. “You got me.”
“In fact,” Libby went on, “I don’t see her even coming up with an idea like that—I mean what does she know about deer targets . . .”
“. . . Maybe one of her neighbors hunts,” Bernie said, interrupting.
“. . . much less implementing a plan like that,” said Libby, finally finishing her sentence.
Bernie glanced at her. “Implementing,” she said. “Are you doing one of those word-a-day thingies again?”
“Don’t start, Bernie,” Libby warned. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Bernie told her. “I was just asking a question. I think learning new vocabulary is a positive. Why do you always take things I say in a negative fashion?”
“Because I’m a negative person,” Libby promptly answered. “As you never tire of telling me.”
By now Bernie and Libby were five miles from Teresa’s house.
“You’re never at your best when you’re tired,” Bernie observed.
“Oh, and I suppose you are?” Libby shot back as the van went over a bump.
Bernie was about to make a snotty comeback when she spotted the headlights of a car zooming down West Road. She leaned forward to get a better look at the vehicle because it was hard to see it in the dark on a road with no streetlights. She was just about to point it out to Libby when Libby gestured at it.
“Look,” she cried. Su
ddenly she wasn’t tired anymore.
“I see it too,” Bernie told Libby.
“It’s the same model car Amber borrowed.”
“I know.”
“Do you think Amber’s driving it?” Libby asked Bernie. “Could we be that lucky?”
“Boy, I hope so.”
“Well, speed up and let’s find out,” Libby said. She was so excited she was practically bouncing up and down in her seat.
Bernie shook her head. “No can do. If I speed up, whoever is driving will see us.”
“I wish it were daytime,” Libby complained. “Then we could get a look and see what color hair the driver has.”
“Yeah,” Bernie said. “If it’s brown or blond, we would know it’s not our girl.”
Libby sighed. Then she brightened. “On the other hand, if the car turns into Coville Lane, then there’s a chance that it’s Amber on her way to Teresa’s house.”
“Which means we’ll know very soon,” Bernie said.
“In a minute, to be exact,” Libby said.
At which point the car in front of them made the turn.
“Ah-ha,” Bernie said as she slowed down even more and turned in too. “The plot thickens.”
She just hoped that Amber—because she was pretty sure that’s who it was—didn’t notice them and take off. One thing was for sure, though. It was hard to follow anyone when it was nighttime and there were only two cars on a two-lane road. Bernie supposed she could always kill her lights, but Coville Lane was bumpy and full of curves and potholes. It wasn’t worth the risk to the van, so she hung back as far as she could.
“She’s definitely going to Teresa’s,” Libby announced as she watched the car in front of them hang a left onto Westcott.
Bernie grunted her agreement. She was too busy driving to talk. A moment later the car in front of them made a sharp right onto Maiden Lane and pulled into the driveway of the third house on the left.
“Definitely Teresa’s,” Bernie said as she put her foot down on the accelerator. The van made a grinding noise and sprang forward.
By the time they got to Teresa’s house, Amber was out of her vehicle.
Bernie rolled down the van’s window. “Amber,” she cried as she braked. “Hold up a minute.”
Amber spun around and faced the van. “You,” she gasped.
“We want to talk to you,” Bernie said.
“But I don’t want to talk to you,” Amber yelled.
“You’re not helping matters,” Bernie said as she got out of the van. “You’re making them worse.”
“Explain how,” Amber challenged, standing with her legs apart and her hands planted on her hips.
“We told you we would take care of things,” Libby said to Amber after she got out of the van too. “Let us.”
“Well, you’re doing a lousy job,” Amber cried. Her hair was even more a mess than usual, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept for days.
“That’s because we’ve been busy looking for you,” Bernie said.
Amber turned on her. “Now you’re saying this is all my fault,” she yelled, advancing on her.
“No, she’s not,” Libby said, in a soothing tone of voice.
“Yes, I am,” Bernie said. “We’ve been so worried about you that we haven’t been able to think clearly about anything else.”
Libby nodded. “It is true. We’ve been going down one path when perhaps we should have been going down another.”
“Meaning?” Amber said. It had started to snow again, and she brushed a few snowflakes off her face.
Libby was about to explain, when the door to Teresa’s house flew open and Teresa came stomping out. She was wearing big, fuzzy kitten slippers, a flannel nightgown dotted with roses, a black parka, and curlers in her hair.
“What is going on out here?” she demanded.
“Well,” Libby began, but before she could finish her sentence Amber jumped in.
“I want my aunt’s recipes and I want them now,” Amber said.
“Are you crazy?” Teresa asked her. “Because you look like you are.”
“No, you’re the one that’s crazy if you think you can get away with killing my aunt,” Amber cried, balling up her hands into fists and taking a step toward her.
Teresa clutched her parka to her chest and took a step back. “How can you say anything like that?” she cried. “Millie was my best friend.”
“Not according to her, you weren’t,” Amber replied. “You want to know what my aunt called you? She called you a snake in the grass.”
“That’s not true,” Teresa said.
“Oh yes it is,” Amber said. She raised one of her hands. “I swear it.”
Teresa’s eyes narrowed. “If anything she was the snake in the grass. She was the one who spread rumors, hateful ones,” she blurted out. “Your aunt was a mean, mean woman. There. I’ve said it, and I’m glad I did.”
“See,” Amber said, shaking a finger at her. “My aunt was right. You are a liar. All this time you were pretending you liked her and you hated her.” Amber stamped her foot. “I want my aunt’s recipes, and I want them now, or else, trust me on this, you’re going to be very, very sorry.”
Teresa straightened up and glared at Amber. “Are you threatening me?”
“You threatened my aunt,” Amber shot back.
Teresa’s jowls quivered. “I refuse to stand here and be insulted and bulldozed on my own property. I’m calling the police.” She turned and started toward the front door.
“Oh no, you’re not,” Amber cried, taking a step toward her.
Bernie took two quick steps and put herself between Teresa and Amber. “Let it go,” Bernie said to Amber. “Libby and I will take care of this.”
“You haven’t so far,” Amber pointed out.
“Please, Amber. Give us a chance,” Libby begged.
“No. I’m not going anywhere,” Amber told her as she tried to step around Bernie to get to Teresa. “I’m staying right here until she”—she pointed to Teresa—“gives me back my aunt’s recipes and confesses to what she’s done. Do you hear that, Mrs. Ruffino?”
Teresa spun around and faced Amber. “You should be ashamed of yourself, speaking to a woman of my age like that.”
“Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you’re worthy of respect,” Amber shot back.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Libby said to Teresa, thoughts of lost customers and having to bail Amber out of jail dancing in her head.
“I most certainly do,” Amber insisted.
“No, you don’t,” Bernie said. “It’s the drugs she’s taking,” she explained to Teresa. “She’s having a bad reaction.”
“I’m not on anything,” Amber cried.
Bernie grabbed one of Amber’s arms and began dragging her to her car. “My mistake,” she told Teresa. “She’s just crazed with grief.”
“I am not,” Amber yelled.
“You most certainly are,” Libby said.
Amber tried to wrest her arm away, but Bernie held on. Then Libby came around and grabbed Amber’s free arm.
“Calm down,” Libby told her as she held on for all she was worth.
“Let go of me,” Amber shouted.
“Absolutely not,” Bernie told her through gritted teeth. “Not until you come to your senses.”
Amber gave one more yank, and when that didn’t work, all the fight seemed to go out of her. She went limp, which Bernie decided was a good thing because she didn’t know how much longer she and Libby could have held on to her.
“Amber, give Libby your keys,” Bernie ordered.
“Why?” Amber demanded sullenly.
“Because she’s going to drive your car and you’re coming in the van with me,” Bernie told her. She was still holding on to Amber’s arm. Just in case.
“But I don’t want to, Bernie. Why do I have to?”
“Because my sister says so,” Libby told her, channeling her mother.
; “Where are we going?” Amber asked in a small voice.
Bernie decided Amber looked about ten. “We’re going to see if we can figure things out,” Bernie said. And she turned and waved at Teresa, who was standing in her doorway, watching the whole scene unfold. “Go back to sleep,” Bernie yelled in as cheerful a voice as she could muster. “Tomorrow is going to be a big day.”
“I’m still going to call the police,” Teresa said.
“Go ahead,” Bernie said. “But we’ll deny everything.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Teresa said.
Bernie laughed. “Watch me.”
In the end, Teresa contented herself with slamming the door on them and waking up Alma to tell her about the outrage that had just been perpetrated on her.
Chapter 27
The ride back to Libby and Bernie’s apartment was silent. No one said a word. Now everyone was sitting in the living room, drinking hot chocolate made with 72 percent dark chocolate, cream, and a touch of brandy, and eating slices of cinnamon toast, and still no one was talking. Amber was on the sofa, flanked by Bernie and Libby, while Sean was ensconced in his armchair with his leg resting on a footstool. The only audible sounds were the ticking of the clock on the wall and the sounds of everyone eating. Finally, Libby couldn’t stand it anymore.
“What were you thinking?” Libby demanded of Amber as she watched her gobble down a piece of cinnamon toast.
“I guess I wasn’t,” Amber confessed as she reached for another piece of toast.
It was her fourth by Libby’s count. “When was the last time you ate?” Libby asked her.
Amber stopped to think. “Well, I had a couple of handfuls of Cheerios last night.”
“And?” Bernie said.
“A package of M&Ms this morning,” Amber said.
“That’s all?” Libby asked.
“Yeah.” Amber shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been so upset, I guess I just forgot to eat.”
“That should only happen to me,” Bernie observed. She never forgot about food. She spent half her day thinking about what she was going to eat at her next meal.
“Amber, no wonder you’ve been acting the way you have,” Libby said. “You have low blood sugar.” In Libby’s world, as it had been in her mother’s, low blood sugar explained everything. “I’m going to get you some soup,” she announced, and she got up and went downstairs to fetch it. Five minutes later, she was back with a tray on which rested a bowl of lentil soup, four slices of buttered French bread, and a dish of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. “Here,” she said, putting the bowl down in front of Amber. “Eat.”
A Catered Christmas Cookie Exchange (A Mystery With Recipes) Page 22
