The place was usually jammed on the weekends and after four o’clock on the weekdays, but today it was strangely empty. Given all the Christmas parties this time of year, Bernie had expected the place would be packed, but maybe everyone was out doing their Christmas shopping.
Bree was the only person in the place, except for the manicurists, two ladies who were getting manicures at the far end of the room, and a Korean woman who was reading a magazine at the front desk.
“What you want?” the woman asked, barely looking up. “Pedicure? Manicure? Both?”
Bernie shook her head and pointed to Bree. “I’m here to talk to her.”
The woman shrugged and went back to reading.
“Hi,” Bree called, beckoning Bernie and Libby over.
She put her People magazine down and took a sip of her coffee, which was sitting on the table by her side. Her Chanel bag was carefully placed on the far end of the table, out of harm’s way. Bernie spied Bree’s bright pink suit jacket on the coatrack by the door. The color made her smile. It was like a slap in the face to their dreary Northeastern winters.
Bree held up a bottle of mint-green nail polish. “What do you think?” she asked Bernie and Libby. “Too young? Too weird?”
“Not at all,” Bernie said. “I love the color. Maybe even get your mani in that color with French tips?”
Bree smiled. “Why not? What about you, Libby?”
“It’s great,” she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, since she never got her nails done.
The manicurist gestured for Bree to put her feet into the water bath, then took out the left one, put some lotion on it, and began to massage Bree’s leg and foot.
“Tom gives the best foot massage,” Bree trilled.
“Nice,” Libby said. The idea of a stranger touching her feet was not an idea she was prepared to entertain.
“So,” Bree said, giving Tom her second foot. “I gather from the conversation we had that you want to know if I was the person who suggested the Christmas Cookie Exchange Club brigade to Stanley?”
“We do,” Bernie said.
Bree took another sip of her coffee. “Guilty as charged.”
“May I ask why?” Libby inquired.
“You may,” Bree told her. “The question is: will I tell you?” Then she smiled to show she was making a joke. She looked down at her hands for a moment before going on. “I knew Stanley was looking for a new group of contestants, so I suggested the Christmas Cookie Exchange Club ladies.
“I thought it would be nice for Stanley, because the filming would be convenient for him, it would be nice for Longely, because the town would get a little bit of publicity, and it would be nice for the ladies to get some recognition at this late date in their lives, not to mention giving them something to be excited about. I know that Millie was especially excited. I thought I was doing a good thing.”
“You were. It’s too bad it didn’t work out,” Libby observed.
“One never knows, does one?” Bree said reflectively. She sighed. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that accidents happen and there’s precious little we can do to prevent them. Ask your father. I’m sure he’ll agree with me.”
“Possibly,” Bernie told her. “Only this wasn’t an accident.”
Bree studied her diamond ring, then moved it up and down on her finger before speaking. “The police said it was,” she observed.
“Amber said it wasn’t,” Bernie pointed out.
“So I heard,” Bree said as she watched Tom wipe the lotion off her legs, then reach for the bottle of clear polish for her undercoat. “And you believe her,” she asked Bernie.
“Yes, I do,” Bernie replied.
“So do I,” Libby said.
“Why am I not surprised?” Bree said dryly. “After all, both of you would be biased in her favor.”
“No. We have evidence,” Bernie declared.
“Evidence that the police must feel is not worth pursuing,” Bree pointed out. “Otherwise they’d have been out investigating.”
“We’re hoping to change their mind,” Bernie remarked.
“Interesting,” Bree said. She took another sip of coffee, then carefully put the cup down. “You know,” she said, “accidents happen—it’s a fact of life, and these ladies are old, and some of them don’t have that much time left. Sometimes it’s better to let things go, especially when you can’t change anything back. Remember, our souls and those of others are what we make them.”
“I don’t think I can let go of this,” Libby said.
“That’s too bad,” Bree said as she watched Tom working.
He had finished applying the first coat of mint green nail polish and was just beginning the second coat.
“Bree, what do you know?” Libby demanded.
“What makes you think I know anything?” Bree asked, finally looking up at her.
“Because I can see it in your face,” Libby told her.
“Then you’re seeing something that’s not there,” Bree told her. “The only things I know about are houses and real estate.”
“I don’t believe you,” Bernie told her. “You know everything that goes on in Longely.”
Bree smiled at Bernie, revealing a set of dazzlingly white teeth. “You flatter me, but that’s simply not true.”
Bernie studied Bree’s face for a moment. “You know who did it, don’t you?” Bernie guessed, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying.
A shadow passed over Bree’s face. It was there for just a second, but it was there, and when Bernie saw it, she knew what she’d said was true.
“Don’t be silly,” Bree said. She gave a nervous little laugh. “How could I possibly know something like that?” Then her cell phone rang, and she reached over and looked at the screen. “I have to take this,” she announced to Bernie and Libby, after which she began to talk.
“She knows,” Bernie said to Libby once they were outside. “She definitely knows who killed Millie.”
“She suspects,” Libby said.
“Strongly suspects,” said Bernie, amending her last statement.
“Either way, she’s definitely not going to tell us,” Libby said.
“On this we can agree,” Bernie replied. “And we can’t make her. But then think about it,” Bernie continued. “Why should she? She has everything to lose and nothing to gain by sharing her suspicions with us.”
“Still,” Libby said, “I had the feeling that she wanted to tell us.”
“Why do you say that?” Bernie asked.
“I don’t really know,” Libby said. “I wish I did, but I don’t.” She sighed and decided to call the Minces. Hopefully they’d have better luck with them, because at this rate, she and Bernie were getting nowhere fast, and she really wanted to have something positive to tell Amber when they went back to the shop.
Unfortunately, that didn’t turn out to be the case.
Chapter 30
Libby got off her cell phone and turned to Bernie.
“So?” Bernie said.
“So we’re going to the ice rink,” she announced.
“Why?” Bernie asked.
“Because according to Selma Mince’s babysitter that’s where Selma Mince is. She’s watching her daughter practice.”
“Figure skating?” Bernie asked.
“Ice hockey,” Libby said.
Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Times have certainly changed.” She used to play ice hockey informally with the boys when she was a kid. But on a team? Never.
“That’s for sure.” Libby looked at her watch. “Evidently, Selma will be there for another half to three-quarters of an hour.”
“Let’s go,” Bernie said as she climbed into the driver’s seat. Libby’s driving was just too slow, especially at a time like this. Once Libby was inside, Bernie threw the van into reverse and eased her way out of the parking lot. A moment later they were on the road.
The ice rink was located one town
over from Longely. Situated in a cheap commercial district, dotted with buildings made of cinder blocks, it was flanked by a bowling alley on one side and a diner on the other.
“I haven’t been here in, what?” Bernie paused to silently count. “Fifteen years?”
“Maybe even more,” Libby said. Their dad used to bring them here every Saturday to skate when they were kids.
“It doesn’t look as if it’s changed,” Bernie said, nodding in the direction of the blinking neon sign that read WELCOME SKATERS.
Once they went inside, Bernie and Libby felt as if they’d gone back in time. There was the same hurdy-gurdy music playing, the same bleachers, the same skate shop, the same refreshment stand where they sold greasy hot dogs and microwaved pizza, only now there were girls in uniform on the ice and parents in the bleachers.
“God, I loved those hot dogs,” Libby reminisced.
Bernie laughed. “So did I. But I bet we wouldn’t like them now.”
“I don’t know. I still like Ho Hos,” Libby confided.
“Me too,” Bernie said. “And those fried apple pies. I loved those. They were so good. Do you know what Selma Mince looks like?” she asked Libby, changing the subject.
“She came into the shop once,” Libby said, scanning the bleachers. She never forgot a customer’s face, even if they’d been in A Little Taste of Heaven only once. “There she is,” Libby said, pointing to a plump, dark-haired lady in the fourth row, who was bundled up in a blue parka, a white velour hoodie, and mom jeans, and was pouring herself what looked like a cup of hot chocolate from the thermos she was holding in her gloved hand.
“Yes?” she said when Bernie and Libby approached her. “Are you Lexi’s mom and aunt?”
Bernie laughed and shook her head. “No.”
“Do I know you?” Selma asked.
“Probably not,” Bernie said. “My sister and I run a shop called A Little Taste of Heaven.”
“I was in there once. You guys have great cinnamon rolls.” Selma took a sip of her hot chocolate. “So do you two have someone playing on one of the teams?” she asked, gesturing with her cup.
“No, we don’t,” Libby said. “We have a question about a recent accident.”
Selma looked blank. “What accident?”
“It happened a few days ago. An elderly lady named Millie Piedmont ran into a tree and died,” Bernie said. “You might have seen it on TV.”
Selma bobbed her head. “I remember reading about that. That was terrible. Just terrible. They should put a sign up there.”
“Yes, they should,” Libby agreed.
Selma looked from Libby to Bernie and back again. “But I don’t understand what that has to do with me?” Selma said as she put her cup down and recapped her thermos.
“We’re hoping you can answer a question for us,” Bernie told her.
“About the accident?” Selma asked.
“Yes,” Bernie said.
“I don’t see what I can tell you,” Selma answered, her eyes straying to the rink. “Good assist,” she yelled out to a skinny girl decked out in a blue shirt with stitching that read “The Bobcats.” “My daughter,” she explained.
“I figured,” Bernie said.
“But what does this have to do with me?” Selma asked as she kept her eyes on her daughter, who was battling a larger girl for the puck.
Libby began. “Well, the person who reported the accident had just left your house and we . . .”
Selma frowned and interrupted. “You must have the wrong person.”
“No. She gave the police your name,” Libby told her, “and you guys are the only Minces in the phone book.”
“Then the policeman heard wrong,” Selma declared.
“I’m pretty sure he didn’t,” Libby said.
“Listen,” Selma said to them. “I think I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty we did not have any visitors to our house then. I would have known. I was home making dinner.” Selma put her hand up to her mouth. “It’s okay, honey,” she yelled. “You’ll be fine.”
Bernie and Libby both followed her gaze and saw Selma’s daughter sprawled on the ice.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Selma said to them as she started down the bleachers. “My daughter needs me.”
Bernie and Libby looked at each other.
“Well, this certainly puts things in a whole different light,” Libby said as she watched Selma descend to the rink.
“So the Good Samaritan turns out not to be so good, after all,” Bernie commented. “I wonder what Matt’s going to say?”
“Let’s call him up and find out,” Libby suggested.
Chapter 31
“So you’re telling me that the woman lied to me,” Matt said. He’d been on his way to sign out when Libby and Bernie flagged him down. “And that she was the one who caused the accident?”
“Do you have another explanation?” Libby inquired in turn.
Instead of answering, Matt took a sip of his coffee. “How did you find me, anyway?” he asked Libby.
“Denise,” Libby replied.
“I’m going to have to give her a good talking to,” Matt said.
“It’s not her fault,” Libby said. “Bernie told her it was an emergency.”
Matt scowled. “If she’s going to marry a cop, she’s going to have to learn to be a little more closed-mouthed.”
“So,” Bernie said, “we were wondering . . .”
“The answer is no,” Matt said.
“To what?” Bernie asked, interrupting. “I haven’t asked you anything.”
“Yet. Yet being the operative word here. I’m saving you the trouble. I’m being proactive. I’m not giving you the driver’s name.”
Bernie put her hand to her chest. “I would never ask you to do that. That’s confidential information. You could get in trouble for telling me that.”
“Exactly,” Matt said.
“If anyone found out. But they won’t,” Bernie said.
“You know this how?” Matt demanded.
“Because we won’t tell anyone, will we, Libby?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Libby said.
“Absolutely not,” Matt said.
“Don’t you want to right a wrong?” Libby asked.
“No. I want to get home, change, and go bowling.”
“Millie really was killed, you know,” Bernie said. “Maybe on purpose, maybe not. But the event that caused the accident was engineered.”
“We’ve been over this before. You have not one shred of proof to support your allegations,” Matt replied.
“What about the woman who called in the accident not being where she said she was?”
“What about it?” Matt retorted. “Maybe she was having an assignation with someone. Maybe she’d gone to buy dope. Maybe she was running away from home. There are lots of reasons she could have lied to me.”
“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” Bernie asked.
“Yes. As it happens, I do,” Matt replied.
“I’ll give you three pies,” Bernie cooed.
Matt snorted. “You think I can be bought for a pie?”
“Okay,” Libby said, upping the ante. “Then how about I cater a dinner for you and Denise?” She could see Matt was weakening. “A romantic dinner. She loves our chocolate mousse.”
“So you’re bribing me?” Matt said. “I want to be clear about this.”
“I like to think of it as a mutually beneficial exchange of services,” Bernie said. “And,” she added, “what if Bernie and I are right? What if this person did have something to do with Millie’s death?”
Matt thought that over for a moment. Maybe Bernie was right. “Fine,” he said.
“Fine, what?” Bernie asked.
“You win.” The moment Matt said those words he regretted them, but it was too late to take them back. What have I done, he thought as he gave Bernie and Libby the witness’s name, address, and phone number. “But thi
s information didn’t come from me,” he warned.
“Absolutely not,” Bernie said.
“Never,” Libby said.
“Because if this comes out, I’ll have you arrested,” Matt told them.
“For what?” Bernie demanded.
“I don’t know,” Matt said. “But trust me, I’ll think of something.”
“Roberta T. Hall,” Bernie said, repeating the name Matt had given them. “Does it ring any bells?”
Libby shook her head. “Not with me.”
“Me either. Well, let’s see what Ms. Roberta T. Hall has to say,” Bernie said as she pulled out onto the road and drove in the direction of the address Matt had given her.
Five Weatherford Lane was located close to the Thruway, two miles outside of Longely.
“I feel like I’m back in San Francisco,” Bernie commented, looking at the row of Victorian mansions nestled together. “They look like Painted Ladies.”
The houses all had wreaths on their doors and candles in their windows, and the block blazed with light in the gray afternoon. Bernie parked in front of 5 Weatherford, and she and Libby got out, walked up the carefully shoveled walk, and rang the bell. A few minutes later, a pleasant-looking lady dressed in an obviously hand-knitted sweater answered the door.
“Yes?” the woman said, over the strains of Handel’s Messiah.
Bernie smiled at her. “We’re sorry to bother you, but we’re looking for a Roberta T. Hall.”
The lady looked confused. “Who?”
“Roberta T. Hall. We were told she lived here,” Libby said.
The woman shook her head. “Sorry, but you must have made a mistake. There’s no one here by that name.”
“Are you sure?” Bernie said. “We need to talk to her about a family matter. It’s important.”
The woman smiled. “I’m positive. The only person who’s lived here recently was a boarder, and he moved out five months ago.”
“Is it possible that you took in the woman we need to speak to before that?”
The woman shook her head. “Oh no,” she said. “You see, I never take in girls. They’re just too much trouble. These days they’re wilder than the boys. Now, if there isn’t anything else . . .”
Bernie shook her head, and the woman closed the door. “What do you bet that the cell number that Matt gave us doesn’t work either,” she said to Libby while they walked back down the porch steps.
A Catered Christmas Cookie Exchange (A Mystery With Recipes) Page 25
