A Catered Birthday Party (14 page)

“My wife was delusional.”

“Well, she seemed pretty sane to me,” Libby noted.

Richard took a deep breath and blew it out again before he spoke. “Not in private. She was an extremely paranoid person who always thought people were out to get her.”

“You know what they say,” Libby said. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Be that as it may,” Richard said. His voice rose as he continued, “The conclusion that my wife died of accidental poisoning is not my conclusion. It is the conclusion the authorities have come to. Annabel’s death has been classified as an accident. The district attorney has declined to prosecute. If you think otherwise, then I suggest you take it up with them.”

“How could they say anything else when you threw out the wine bottle?” Libby demanded.

“You make it sound as if I did it on purpose.”

“You did!”

“No. It was an accident.”

“How could that be an accident?”

“I was cleaning up because it gave me something to do. I wasn’t thinking because I was upset. Surely you can understand that.”

“You didn’t look upset,” Libby countered.

Richard took another deep breath and let it out. “I’m not one of those people who wear their heart on their sleeve. Of course I was upset. What kind of person do you take me for?”

Richard sounded so sincere that for a second Libby believed him. Maybe he didn’t have anything to do with this, she found herself thinking. Maybe the whole thing was an accident. Maybe Annabel was nuts.

Maybe Richard was right. Maybe she had done this to herself in order to get back at everyone. After all, if you were going to kill someone why do it in such a public manner? Libby considered that idea for a moment before discarding it. No. Annabel just didn’t seem like the type. She had impressed Libby as too straightforward for that kind of thing. But when it came down to it, she really hadn’t known Annabel except in the most cursory kind of way.

Richard clasped his hands in front of him. “Listen,” he said to Libby. “We’re getting off on the wrong foot here. This is not the way I intended this conversation to go.”

Again with the supersincere tone, Libby thought. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll bite. How did you intend the conversation to go?”

He favored her with a boyish smile. “I intended to try to make amends for the situation. That is, if you’ll drop your hostile attitude and let me.”

“Really?” Libby said. Now that was interesting. She snuck a peek at her watch. Thirteen minutes. God. Bernie had asked her to keep Richard talking for half an hour at least. “Listen,” she said, stalling for time. “I hate to be a bother, but could you get me a glass of water?” The moment the words were out of her mouth she wanted to take them back. After all, she’d asked the person who might have poisoned his wife to get her something to drink. How dumb could you get! But then she decided she was being nutty. Richard had no reason to kill her. People didn’t kill people for no reason at all. At least, most people didn’t. It was that small percentage that was worrying her.

“Not a problem.” Richard sprang out of his seat and went off to the kitchen.

Libby figured that should buy her another five minutes at least. Libby got up. She’d just crossed the room to study the bookshelves when Richard came bounding back in through the door, glass of water in hand. The whole trip had taken him a minute at the most.

“That was fast,” Libby said in amazement. “Did you run to the kitchen and run back?”

Richard laughed. “No. No. You didn’t see it, but a little way ahead we have a guest suite with three bedrooms and a small kitchen with a refrigerator. I always keep it stocked.”

“What a good idea,” Libby lied as Richard handed her the glass.

“It definitely makes things easier,” Richard said, sitting back down. “Actually, it was Annabel’s idea. When you live in a house like this you have to be efficient.”

Libby took her seat as well. Richard looked at her expectantly. Libby wondered what he was waiting for. Then she realized it was for her to take a drink.

“Thanks,” she said. She raised the glass to her lips and took a sip. It tasted okay. So far so good. She took another sip. Then she put the glass down. No sense in taking chances. “This is excellent,” she said, although she never got the whole artisanal water thing.

Richard beamed at her. “It should be. I get it flown directly here from my own private glacier in Alaska.”

“Very impressive,” Libby murmured as she took a leaf from Bernie’s book on handling the male species, instead of saying what she really wanted to say, which was,
You’re kidding me, right?

Richard’s smile broadened. “I was joking.”

“Good. I was worried for a second.”

“I don’t believe in wasting money. Tap water is good enough for me. I think people who spend two and three dollars on a bottle of water are nuts. But back to what I was saying.”

Libby cocked her head and gave a masterful imitation of hanging on his every word.

“As I was saying,” Richard went on. “You girls have had a terribly stressful time and I’d like to compensate both of you for all the time and trouble you’ve taken in this matter concerning Annabel. I really appreciate your concern. You both are such gifted cooks that I’d hate to see you distracted from your primary task by this witch hunt that Annabel has sent you on.”

“So what are you proposing?” Libby asked.

“A couple of thoughts have occurred to me,” Richard told her. “As you know, I’m the head of Colbert’s, and I would love to have A Little Taste of Heaven cater some of our official functions down in our headquarters in the city. Naturally, you would be generously recompensed for your time. It would be a gold mine for you, a way to showcase your product to a wider audience. That’s one idea.”

“And the other?”

“I was thinking that you might need a sponsor.”

Libby frowned. “A sponsor? Like in stock car racing?”

Richard waved his hands. “Hear me out, because I think you’re going to like this. I would, in my capacity as owner of Colbert Toys, make a sizable contribution to your shop so you could remodel and possibly enlarge it—I have a connection with Hemstead Realty, the people who own…”

“I know who they are,” Libby told him.

Richard clapped his hands together. “Of course you do. How foolish of me. In any case, in return all I would ask is that you display some items from our product line.”

“Like the Puggables?” Libby asked.

“Exactly,” Richard said. He smiled broadly. It was like a lighthouse beacon.

Libby stood up. Richard did as well.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“I think you’re trying to bribe us,” Libby replied.

Richard’s smile died. “Heavens no. What a terrible thing to say.”

“Well, it certainly sounds that way to me.”

Richard crossed his arms over his chest. “The reason I asked for you specifically is that I thought you were the sister with the most common sense. Evidently, I was misinformed.” He took a step closer to her.

“By whom?”

Richard blinked.

“Who informed you?”

“That was a figure of speech. All I can say is that if I were you I would take my proposals back to your sister and I would think about them very carefully. Both of them are extremely generous.”

“I’ll ask her,” Libby told him. “But I can tell you right now that she and I are going to say no.”

“That would be a mistake,” Richard said.

“For you?”

“No. For you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Hardly.” The corners of Richard’s mouth turned up into something that resembled a sneer. “I’m simply pointing out that you’ll be missing an extremely good business opportunity if you proceed along the lines you were talking about.”

“It sounds like a threat to me.”

“Why would I threaten you?” Richard asked.

Libby detected a note of amusement in his voice.

“What would be the point?” he asked.

“To stop what we’re doing. To stop us from poking around.”

Richard threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m trying to be nice to you. I realize both of you are sincere but fundamentally misguided. If I wanted to stop you, I would have my lawyers slap a restraining order on you. But I don’t want to do that. I want to keep this as low-key as possible. Annabel would have loathed the media circus that this kind of thing generates. If you want to waste your time, go right ahead. You won’t find anything. And now I think you’d better go.”

Libby looked at her watch. She was ten minutes short of the thirty that Bernie had requested.

“Could you explain what you said again?” Libby asked. “I think I must have missed something.”

“I think I was perfectly straightforward.”

Then Richard looked at her. It was a calculating look, Libby thought. As if something had just occurred to him. Something having to do with her. She might have overstayed her welcome. No. She had definitely overstayed her welcome. She should never have asked him for an explanation of what he’d just said. She should have left. Bernie would do fine. She always did.

“I’ll let you know what my sister says,” Libby told Richard as she hurriedly gathered up her belongings and headed for the door. But before she could get there, Richard stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

“You keep looking at your watch. The whole time we were talking you were looking at your watch. Why is that?” he demanded.

“I have an appointment after this,” Libby said, putting as much conviction into the lie as possible.

“Is that a fact?”

Libby looked up at him. “Yes. It is. Or perhaps I just found our conversation boring.”

“Maybe yes and maybe no.”

“That I found our conversation boring?”

“That you have an appointment.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” And Richard reached over and grabbed Libby by her shoulder.

“Not to me,” she told him as she tried to twist away and failed.

“Let’s go see if your sister is upstairs. Shall we?”

“What a ridiculous thing to say,” Libby spluttered. “Let me go.”

Richard laughed.

“If you don’t I’ll call the police,” Libby threatened.

“Be my guest.” And Richard dug his cell out of his pocket with his free hand and handed it to her. “Well,” he said when she hesitated to take it. “That’s what I thought.”

“I just don’t want to embarrass you,” Libby told him, remembering her father’s words of wisdom: In situations like this, never explain. Take the offensive. Of course, Libby reflected, if it wasn’t for her father she wouldn’t be in this situation. Maybe she should have followed her mother’s words of wisdom: if it feels wrong, don’t do it.

Richard raised an eyebrow. “Really,” he said. “And here I am thinking that you don’t want to see your sister arrested.”

“Arrested for what?”

“Breaking and entering.”

Now it was Libby’s turn to laugh. “Hardly. If she were here, and I’m not saying she is, the most that would happen to her would be a trespassing charge.”

“Well, we can discuss that when the police arrive.”

“They’re not going to arrive, because she’s not here.”

“Then you’ll have my apologies if I’m wrong and you’ll be facing court action if I’m not.”

“How about at least letting me go? You’re hurting my shoulder.”

Which was true. But only up to a point. Actually Libby was mildly uncomfortable. But that didn’t have the same ring to it.

“You’ll survive,” Richard told her.

“Thanks,” Libby replied. “I have to say I don’t think your wife was the delusional one in this partnership.”

“Let’s go before I lose my temper,” Richard said.

“Is that what happened to Annabel? Did she get you angry?” Libby asked.

“I refuse to have my privacy invaded by the likes of you,” Richard said as he dug his fingers more deeply into Libby’s shoulder and dragged her toward the stairs.

B
ernie heard Richard and Libby coming. The carpet muffled their footsteps, but Libby was doing a pretty good job of talking as loudly as possible. Fortunately, Bernie thought, this was a new house and sound traveled. So maybe there was something good about using wallboard after all.

She’d been through four rooms of the right wing and had at least six more to go that she was aware of, and there were even more rooms than that, because she didn’t know what was in the left wing of the house. This had been a mistake, Bernie decided, as she tried to figure out a way to get out of the house.

A big mistake. And she had no one to blame but herself. Libby had been correct—not that Bernie would ever tell her that. And to top everything off, you’d think that a place this size would have more than one staircase. Talk about chintzy. But it didn’t, so she was pretty much boxed in.

Actually, this had been more than a mistake. It had been a blunder. She hadn’t counted on the fact that there were simply too many rooms and too little time. Most importantly, she didn’t have a clue what she was looking for. Therefore, she couldn’t narrow the field down to drawers or closets. And—surprise—so far she hadn’t found anything that said, “Here. I’m the person who put the poison in the wine bottle. Arrest me.” And she probably wouldn’t either. That was usually the way these things went.

What she had found were more bedrooms than a Mormon polygamist would need. Why had the Colberts built a house this large? Because they could. With the exception of two, most of the bedrooms she’d been in looked uninhabited. One was obviously Richard Colbert’s room, while the second one, which was three doors down from the first, was the sleeping quarters of the late, apparently unlamented Annabel Colbert. Both rooms were surprising in their lack of personal touches. Bernie had the feeling that everything in them, from the bedding to the pictures hanging on the walls, had been chosen by a decorator with an eye to proclaiming the wealth and taste of the inhabitants.

There were no dirty clothes hung over the back of a chair. No shoes on the floor. No pictures of little Annabel or baby Richard on the walls. There were no family photos. No pet photos. No hokey snaps of Richard and Annabel either together or separately in a gondola on a canal in Venice, lying on a tropical beach sipping a rum and Coke, or waving from a cruise ship. The bedrooms were like stage sets, which made Bernie wonder where Richard and Annabel conducted their real lives. If they had real lives. Maybe everything was just for show.

Besides the color schemes and the products in the attached bathrooms, the only real difference between Richard’s and Annabel’s bedrooms lay in the fact that Richard’s room had three Puggables in his closet, while Annabel had two bags of mini Snickers in hers. Must have been her secret vice, Bernie thought as she contemplated taking one but rejected the thought. In fact, it struck Bernie that for a couple who ran a toy company Richard and Annabel’s house was surprisingly devoid of anything that could remotely be construed as fun.

Bernie was in Annabel’s room looking at the handbags in Annabel’s closet. She was thinking that Annabel’s taste was somewhat pedestrian when she heard Libby proclaiming in an indignant voice that she saw no need to go through the bedrooms and that her sister was definitely not in the house. Drats, Bernie thought as she glanced at her watch. Ten more minutes and she would have been out of here. Oh well. No point in thinking about that now.

Now she had to think about what she was going to do. Of course, she could always stay. That was one option. All Richard would do was call the police. But that could be a problem. Especially if they decided to take them into custody. They might be sitting in a jail cell until tomorrow. And that would not be good, because then there would be no one to make the pot roast, the kreplach, the chicken soup, and the rugelach for Mrs. Stein’s dinner party. So that left her with option number two: escape.

Since there was only one stairway and Richard was on it, that precluded that path. And she definitely didn’t want to do something like hide in the attic, or in a closet, or under a bed, because Bernie was 100 percent sure that Richard would go through every nook and cranny in the house looking for her. Richard liked to win and to him this was one big game. Which meant she didn’t have lots of choices. In fact, there was only one good one that she could think of.

Jumping out the window. Wonderful. Thank heavens she was wearing her house-breaking-into outfit—a black, long-sleeved James Perse cotton and spandex T-shirt, black parachute pants, a black quilted vest, and the only sensible shoes she owned, a pair of Gortex hiking boots that she’d gotten because Brandon had made her—instead of something like a pencil skirt, leggings, and stiletto boots. Then she’d really be in trouble.

Bernie went over, pulled the silk drapes back—talk about expensive, the material alone for these had probably cost several hundred dollars—and peered down at the ground. Nothing to it. Piece of cake. Ha. Ha. Luckily there were no foundation plantings, because landing on a cedar branch would be exceedingly uncomfortable. At best. And there
was
about two inches of snow on the ground, which would help cushion the fall—slightly.

She cranked the window open and leaned out. The windowsill was narrow. There was no ledge. Basically she’d have to climb out, hang down, and push off with her feet so she wouldn’t hit the wall. For a brief moment she thought about reconsidering, but then she thought about Mrs. Stein’s pot roast. She’d be very disappointed if she didn’t get it. At ninety-four she couldn’t cook anymore, and her children and grandchildren were coming. How could there not be food on the table? Bernie decided jumping was the only way to go.

She concentrated on Libby’s and Richard’s voices. They sounded closer now. They’d cleared the steps. It was only a matter of time before they’d look in this room and Bernie wanted to be well away before Richard came in here. The last thing she wanted was for him to look outside and see her running away. Well, she wouldn’t run. That would be a mistake. She’d walk. If he yelled at her to stop, she would. And then she’d tell him that she was just taking a stroll around the grounds while Libby went in and talked to him. Let him prove different.

Yes. That would work. No need to panic. Bernie took a deep breath. Richard and Libby were getting closer. She had to stop dithering around and decide what she was going to do. And anyway, how high was twenty feet, really? She was five feet six inches. If she was hanging by her arms, that would add another foot, so now you were talking almost seven feet. If you subtracted that from twenty feet, she was only dropping thirteen feet at the most. That wasn’t bad. Not really. Although, to be honest, she wasn’t that fond of heights. But at least she wasn’t as bad as Libby in that regard. Sometimes, Libby got queasy going over bridges.

Bernie checked her pockets to make sure her wallet, cell phone, and keys were where they should be. She rechecked the buttons on her pockets to make sure they were closed.

“You go, girl,” she whispered as she cranked open the window and began climbing out.

The getting out part proved to be a little trickier than she imagined. The whole turning around business didn’t work very well, mostly because she couldn’t decide what she should do first. But she finally got it figured out. Except for that moment or two where she thought she was going to fall. She managed to keep her grasp, though. Then she hung down and pushed off from the wall with her feet.

The impact on landing was bone rattling. She could feel the shock reverberating up her body as her feet hit the earth. Then she collapsed in the snow. A moment later, she regained her breath. Another moment after that, she managed to sit up. Her left ankle was throbbing slightly.

Probably just a sprain, she thought. She became aware that her behind was cold. That’s what came of sitting in the snow. She got up, brushed her rear end off, and headed toward the van at what she judged to be as good a pace as she could manage with her ankle.

Richard Colbert entered the fourth bedroom with Libby in tow.

“See,” she was saying for the hundredth time. “No one is here. I told you.”

He ignored her as his eyes swept the room. Everything seemed in place. He checked the closet. It was empty. He gave the bathroom a quick once-over. Nothing. He pulled the shower stall panel back. The bathtub was empty. He felt Libby wiggling away from him. This time he let her go, confident that she would stay there to protect her sister, whom he had yet to find. But he would. He promised himself that.

And he would enjoy having Bernie arrested. She was making trouble for him—this whole thing with Annabel could be a potential PR nightmare. He could just see the headlines now: TOY EXEC OFFS WIFE. NO CUDDLES FOR PAPA PUGGABLES. Nope. He paid his people big bucks for damage control. So far they’d done an excellent job. He was damned if their efforts would be undone because of two girl detectives. Girl detectives. His mouth curled up in a sneer. They had obviously read too many Nancy Drews when they were younger.

He got down and checked under the bed—not that he expected Bernie to be there—but he was a methodical man, which is how he’d gotten where he was. In fact, he expected Bernie to be in the crawl space in the attic. There was just enough space there to get into, but there was nowhere to go once you were inside. The space went in about a foot and stopped.

Anyone in there was stuck. For a moment, Richard played with the idea of moving a trunk against the space and trapping her in there. Libby wouldn’t know she was in there and Bernie wouldn’t say anything. And even if Bernie had her cell phone she couldn’t call out. There was no signal up there. Then he’d go on vacation for a couple of weeks. If she was alive when he got back, all well and good. If she wasn’t…oh well. The thought was attractive, delicious really, but it was a fantasy, nothing more, and he had enough to deal with as it was. Opening the door and seeing her in there would be pleasure enough.

“Can we stop this nonsense?” Libby said as Richard got up off his knees.

“When we’re done. And not before,” he told her. “Go if you want to,” he added, testing his hypothesis.

As he suspected, Libby didn’t move. He was right again, he noted with satisfaction. Actually, not that he liked to brag, but he was rarely if ever wrong. He turned to leave and then turned back. There was something here. Something that was bothering him. He stood there for a moment trying to figure out what it was. Everything looked the way it should. And yet…He rubbed his hands together. It was drafty in here. Yes. That was it. He strode over and swept the draperies back. The window was open. The conclusion was obvious.

“She jumped,” he told Libby.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Libby scoffed. She was pretty sure Richard was right, though. What a relief! “She was never here, so how could she jump?”

“Then why is the window open?”

Libby shrugged. “How would I know? Maybe one of your people forgot to close it.”

“My people don’t forget things.”

“Then yours are the only ones,” Libby retorted.

Richard pointed to the snow. “And what are those?”

Libby looked. “What ‘those’? I don’t see anything,” she lied.

“Look harder!” Richard yelled. “Can’t you see those tracks?”

“There’s no need to shout,” Libby told him. She squished up her eyes, pretending she was having trouble seeing. “Footprints?” Libby asked after a moment.

“Exactly,” Richard said. A triumphant smile played around the corners of his mouth. “They’re your sister’s footprints.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Libby scoffed. “She’d never wear shoes that made prints like that.”

“We’ll see,” Richard muttered as he ran out of the room. “Yes indeedy. We certainly will.”

“Where are you going?” Libby cried.

Richard flung the words “To get your sister” over his shoulder as he hit the landing. Libby went after him.

Richard had it all figured out. He’d follow the footprints. Bernie Simmons thought she was smart, but he was way smarter. Leaving a trail like that. Really. He had to admit he was a little disappointed. He’d been looking forward to cornering her in the attic, but he’d settle for intercepting her in the snow.

Bernie was sitting in the driver’s seat of A Little Taste of Heaven’s van sipping a cup of French roast from her thermos, eating half of a crunchy peanut butter and radish sandwich on country bread, and listening to NPR on the radio when Richard Colbert yanked the door open. Libby was right behind him.

“That’s rather rude,” Bernie told him.

“Show me your shoes,” he gasped, because he was winded from running.

“Are you out of your mind?” Bernie answered.

He put his hands on his knees and took a couple of breaths before straightening up. “No. I want to see them.”

“I have lots of shoes. Is there any particular kind you’d like to see? Boots? Sandals? Ballet flats?” Bernie broke off a quarter of her sandwich and carefully rewrapped it in Saran Wrap. “For later,” she explained as she stowed it in her bag. “Although I can’t see why you’re interested in my shoe collection. Unless, of course, you’re one of those men who are into cross-dressing. Because if that’s the case, I don’t think my shoes will fit you. However, there are sites on the Web you can visit. If you’d like I can tell—”

“I’m talking about the shoes on your feet,” Richard growled. Then he whirled around. “What are you laughing at?” he demanded of Libby.