A Catered Birthday Party (22 page)

The lines around Melissa’s mouth turned down a little more. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?” Bernie replied.

“I don’t have a clue.”

Now it was Bernie’s turn to look at Melissa as if she was the idiot. “Think about it. He implied—no, he did more then imply—he stated that you had information about Annabel’s death.”

Melissa remained silent.

“He implicated you in her death,” Libby told her.

“I don’t believe you. Richard wouldn’t say anything like that,” Melissa declared. But Bernie could see by the way she was biting her lip that her confidence was slipping away.

“Indeed he did,” Bernie replied.

“You’re making that up.”

Bernie buried her hands in her armpits to warm them up. Why she hadn’t worn her gloves she didn’t know. “Do I look as if I am? What did you think? That sleeping with Richard would give you special treatment? That he would protect you? The only person he really cares about is himself. He’s a classic, textbook narcissist.”

Melissa blinked.

“And yes, to answer your unasked question, he told me that you two were sleeping together,” Bernie lied. “Not that he had to. Everyone knows.” Changing strategy, she said, “He doesn’t seem as if he’s a very nice man. Trying to lay the blame for his wife’s death off on you is pretty tacky.”

Melissa shook herself. Bernie decided she looked as if she’d been slapped.

“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Melissa said.

Bernie didn’t say anything. Neither did Libby.

“Why would I?” Melissa cried.

Libby wound her scarf more tightly around her neck. If she didn’t get back in the car soon, she was going to turn into a Popsicle. “Oldest reason in the world,” she replied. “Because you were jealous and you wanted Richard all to yourself.”

“Oh puh-leez,” Melissa said. “Then why didn’t I kill Joanna?”

Bernie smiled. “Because she’s not sleeping with him anymore.”

Melissa pointed her finger at Bernie. “Hey, I had everything to gain by keeping Annabel alive.”

“Do tell.”

“No. It’s true. If Trudy went to Westminster and won, it would make my reputation as a breeder. My dogs would be worth thousands and thousands of dollars. Why would I do anything to jeopardize that?”

Bernie smiled. “Why would you indeed? Did you think you were doing Annabel a favor sleeping with her husband? Did you think she didn’t care?”

“She didn’t know.”

“Are you so sure?” Bernie said.

“And even if she did know, she didn’t care.”

“If she didn’t care, why did she say what she did at Trudy’s dinner party? I don’t remember you being excluded.”

Melissa opened her mouth and closed it again.

“Exactly,” Bernie said. “Maybe that’s why Annabel was buying this land and having it plowed under and turned into a camp for disabled children. Maybe that was because of you and Richard.”

“So what?” Melissa said, confirming Bernie’s opinion that she’d already known about the deal. “That doesn’t have anything to do with me. I own this house.”

“I know you do,” Bernie said. “But you and I both know that the county would seize it under the eminent domain statute in a heartbeat if the sale went through. They wouldn’t let someone’s house stand in the way of something like this. If I remember correctly, and I think I do, your house happens to be in the middle of where the park is supposed to be.

“Then you wouldn’t have a kennel. I would think it would be difficult to find a new spot. Well, not difficult. Irritating. I know I’d be furious if it was happening to me. It would make me want to kill the person who was doing it. At least that’s what I thought when I read about it in the local paper. But then maybe you’re a calmer person than I am.

“Of course, luckily for you, now that Annabel is dead, she can’t buy the land for the Annabel Colbert Park for Children, or whatever she was going to call it. Sounds like a motive to me,” Bernie said. “What do you think, Libby?”

“You know what Dad says,” Libby replied. “If it sounds like a duck and looks like a duck…”

Bernie finished the sentence for her. “It is a duck.”

“It really was a brilliant strategy, if you think about it,” Libby said. “With one stroke, Annabel becomes a benefactress and punishes her husband and his latest squeeze—meaning you—at the same time.”

“What’s your take on it?” Bernie asked Melissa.

“My take,” Melissa spit out, “is that I don’t have to talk to you. I’m not going to talk to you anymore. I’ve wasted enough time listening to your nonsense, and I think you should go to hell. Now get off my land.”

“Tsk-tsk,” Bernie said. “So rude. Didn’t your mother ever tell you you attract more bees with honey than vinegar?”

“You’ll be sorry if you don’t.” And with that Melissa turned, stomped up the stairs, opened the door to her house, went in, and slammed the door shut. The noise sounded like a shot and set the dogs barking again.

“I have to say she doesn’t have a very good disposition,” Libby said as she and Bernie made their way to their van.

“Libby, what do you think about taking a quick peek at the kennel before we go?” Bernie asked. She jerked her head in the direction of the garagelike structure at the back of the house.

“I think it’s time to go back to the shop, that’s what I think.”

“It’ll just take us a minute.”

“Maybe so, but Melissa is watching us from the front window, and given what she just said, I think she might actually come out with a shotgun if we don’t get out of here pretty soon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bernie replied. “She was just talking.”

“Maybe. But it’s a well-known fact that everyone in the country has some sort of firearm,” Libby said.

“Please. You’ve been watching too many grade B movies. We’re talking about Westchester here. Westchester is not the country.”

Libby indicated the surrounding land. “Well, if this isn’t country, what is it? The city?”

“I meant country country. Like up near the Tug Hill Plateau.”

“Wherever that is.”

“It’s in New York State, for heaven’s sake.”

“Fine,” Libby said, conceding the point. “But realistically what are we going to see peering through the window anyway, except a lot of pugs?”

“True,” Bernie allowed.

“Plus, I’m freezing. This wind is killing me. I need to be somewhere warm.”

Now that, Bernie wasn’t going to argue about. She was freezing too.

“And we can always come back if we need to,” Libby pointed out.

“True, for the third time,” Bernie said, and she smiled and waved at Melissa. “Bye-bye,” she called out.

The window shade went down. Libby and Bernie both got in the van. Bernie started up the engine and turned on the heater, which supplied an anemic blast of warm air. Still, she reflected, it was better than nothing.

“The question is,” Bernie said as she began to back out of the driveway, “is the whole land thing enough of a motive for Melissa to kill Annabel?”

“Losing your house, losing your business,” Libby replied. “I gotta say it would be for me.”

“Me too,” Bernie agreed. “I hope Richard was worth it,” she said as they got onto the back road again. “But somehow I doubt it.”

“I know what Annabel would say, if you could ask her that question,” Libby said. She moved the heat lever up another notch. Not that that was going to help much. The heater had been having issues since the van hit 125,000 miles.

“So do I,” Bernie replied, clicking the radio on.

The sisters spent the rest of the way back talking about a dinner they were about to submit a menu for and about the feasibility of doing Rock Cornish game hens on individual potato pancakes as a main course.

I
t was seven o’clock at night and R.J.’s was empty. The pre-dinner crowd had departed, while the post-dinner crowd hadn’t arrived yet. This was the time Bernie liked the place the best. And it wasn’t only because she could hang out with Brandon now.

It was because the place had a reassuring, old-fashioned quality to it that was apparent when no one was there. Bernie wasn’t sure if it was the peanuts you had to shell, the popcorn machine, the dartboard on the far wall, the faded posters of movie stars hanging on the walls, the comfortably worn seats, or just the fact that she’d been coming to this place for as long as she could legally drink. But whatever it was, it worked for her. She felt calmer here, less agitated.

She and Libby had come home from Melissa’s, checked on the shop, and fed their dad corn chowder and a grilled Black Mountain ham and imported Swiss cheese sandwich on freshly baked olive and rosemary French bread, along with a small salad composed of rocket, endive, and finely chopped walnuts. Then they’d closed the shop and gone over to R.J.’s to meet Marvin and Brandon for a drink. It had been a long and not terribly productive day, and both Bernie and Libby felt in need of one.

“Why don’t you have a drink with us too?” Bernie asked Brandon as he poured a Guinness into her glass. “No one is here.”

Brandon shook his head. He made it a point never to drink on the job. He’d seen too many bartenders take that route and nothing good ever came of it. Drinking could also get him fired. His boss had strict rules about that.

Bernie popped a peanut in her mouth. “I don’t like drinking alone.”

“You’re not drinking alone,” Brandon pointed out. “You’re drinking with Marvin and Libby.”

Bernie batted her eyelashes. “But I want to drink with you.”

Brandon snorted. “You’re just telling me to drink because you’re in a bad mood and you want to cause trouble.”

“Me, do something like that?” Bernie asked. She used her best little-girl voice.

“Yes, you.”

Bernie didn’t say anything, because what Brandon said was true. She was in a bad mood and she did want to cause trouble. It wasn’t nice, but there it was.

“You want to talk about it?” Brandon asked.

“Why I’m in a bad mood?”

“Yes.”

“Not really,” Bernie said.

“Sure you do.”

Bernie took a sip of her Guinness. The beer was good but filling. What had the company advertised it as? A sandwich in a glass? Something like that.

“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” she answered Brandon after she’d swallowed.

“You’d rather brood and be miserable,” Brandon said.

“Exactly,” Bernie said. “I like wallowing in my misery.”

“Well, we don’t allow that at R.J.’s.”

“The wallowing or the misery?”

“Both. So, how are things coming?”

“The phrase is, ‘How are things going?’”

“Fine. How are things going?”

“They’re going nowhere fast,” Bernie replied.

“I take it you’re talking about the Annabel Colbert case?”

“What else would I be talking about?”

“Global warming. Dogs. Business.”

“No. It’s Annabel Colbert. She was a pain in the butt when she was alive and she’s a pain in the butt now that she’s dead.”

“Bernie!” Libby cried.

“Well, it’s true,” Bernie retorted.

Brandon took a sip of hot chocolate and put his cup back by the register. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s depressing,” Libby said.

“Very,” Bernie said. “We’ve talked to everybody and we’re making no progress whatsoever. We’re totally bogged down. Maybe everyone is right. Maybe we should give this up. We have tried. It’s not as if we’re going to have Annabel’s ghost following us around if we call it a day.”

“You never know,” Libby said. “She was pretty demanding when she was alive. Maybe she’s the same way dead.”

Bernie groaned. “An eternity with Annabel Colbert. What an unattractive thought.”

“And you did promise,” Brandon said.

“We swore,” Libby said. “That’s even worse.”

Marvin took a sip of his IPA. “This is not like either of you.”

“It’s probably the weather,” Bernie said.

“I wish,” Libby said. “Basically we’re no further along now than we were when we started this thing.”

“Not at all?” Marvin asked.

“Not really,” Libby said. “We’ve found out a lot of stuff, but nothing leads any place. It turns out that everyone seems to have had an equally good motive for killing Annabel.”

Brandon laughed. “Oh, to be rich and hated.”

“It’s not funny,” Bernie protested.

“Sure it is,” Brandon retorted.

“She was not a well-liked person,” Libby observed.

Bernie snorted. “You think?”

Marvin built a man out of peanuts. “Well, it seems that knowing the motives is a kind of progress,” Marvin said when he was done.

“It is and it isn’t,” Libby replied. “If everybody has a motive, it’s like nobody has a motive—if you get me.”

“Not really,” Marvin admitted.

“I don’t get it either,” Brandon said. “After all, some people’s motives have to be better than other people’s motives. It’s just a matter of ranking them.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Bernie said as she swept the pile of empty peanut shells she’d managed to accumulate onto the floor with the side of her hand.

“Try us and see,” Marvin suggested.

“Yeah,” Brandon said. “It’s not as if we have anything else to do right now.”

Libby put her hand out to Bernie. “You start,” she said.

“Okey dokey.” Bernie ate two more peanuts. Then she began. “Let’s start with the husband, Richard Colbert.”

“It’s always blame the guy,” Brandon interjected.

Bernie shot him a look.

Brandon held up his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Go on.”

“Thank you. He probably has the biggest reason,” Bernie continued. “According to Clyde, Annabel was going to leave him. Unfortunately for Richard, she had all the assets in her name. All the liabilities were in his.”

“My aunt and uncle did something like that for tax purposes,” Brandon said.

“As did the Colberts,” Bernie said.

“So, you’re saying that Annabel owned everything,” Marvin said.

“Exactly,” Libby replied.

“But why not get a divorce?” he asked. “He would still be entitled to a large part of the property. Wouldn’t that be simpler?”

“Evidently not to him. He must have thought this was a more straightforward way of solving his problem,” Bernie answered. “Divorces can be long and messy and very, very expensive. And then there was his string of infidelities. That wouldn’t go over well in court. But poisoning someone…Hey. Problem solved.”

“Not if you get caught,” Marvin pointed out.

“Well, there is that minor inconvenience,” Libby replied. “But so far no one has been. Annabel’s death hasn’t even been declared a homicide. And even if it was, the body was cremated. Basically, there’s no way this is going to come back and bite Richard in the ass.”

“Next,” Bernie went on, “we have Joyce, the best friend, who isn’t really a best friend to Annabel at all. She seems to be consumed with rage and jealousy toward Annabel, because she thinks that Annabel stole her idea for the Puggables and got rich off it.”

“Did she?” Brandon asked.

“I’m not sure. From the way Joyce tells it, yes. Absolutely. I’m sure Annabel would have a different take on the matter, but, unfortunately, I can’t ask her. However, whether Annabel did or didn’t steal Joyce’s idea isn’t really relevant. What is relevant is that Joyce believes that’s the case. She claims that she made the actual models the Puggables are based on as a present to Annabel.

“And now, according to Joyce, Annabel was about to do the same thing to her all over again with the idea for the dog treats that Joyce had come up with. Joyce claims that Annabel promised to sign a contract with her, but never did. Joyce isn’t that well off. And of course Annabel is—was—filthy rich, thanks to Joyce’s ideas.”

“What do they say?” Marvin asked. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

“My mom used to tell us that all the time,” Libby noted. “In any case, you can see where Joyce would be a little bit annoyed at Annabel one way or another.”

“Just a tad,” Brandon said.

“Next,” Libby continued, “we have Ramona, the dog trainer. She was about to lose her shot at mounting Trudy’s campaign for Westminster. Annabel, for reasons we’re still not clear on, had decided to replace her with someone else. Now this is a very big deal for Ramona. Mounting a campaign is serious stuff. If Trudy even got into the show, that would be a big step up for Ramona careerwise. Kind of like riding a horse in the Kentucky Derby. Plus, there’s her house.”

“What about it?” Marvin asked.

“The house comes with the job. If she loses her job, she’ll lose the place she’s living.”

“That’s not such a big deal,” Brandon interjected. “She’ll find a new place. People do it all the time.”

“Ah, yes,” Libby said. “There’s only one problem. The cats.”

“The cats?” Marvin echoed.

“Evidently, she’s a cat person.”

“And?” Marvin said. “So what?”

“Dad said she had twenty—”

“He said more like fifty, maybe more,” Bernie corrected.

“Cats that she cares for inside her house. There are more outside. I’m guessing that leaving them—which she’d have to do if she moved—would be a wrenching experience,” Libby said. “She told my dad that cats were her passion. Given what he saw, that certainly seems to be the case.”

“So she’s one of those scary cat rescue ladies,” Brandon said.

Bernie nodded. “Exactly. And she was about to lose her base of operations, a base that would be difficult to replicate. Next, we have Melissa, Trudy’s breeder. Annabel was about to take her house away, possibly because she was sleeping with Richard. Well, she wasn’t going to take her house away directly, but she was going to buy Forrester’s Way and set up a camp for disabled children called Puggables’ Paradise.”

Brandon made a retching sound.

“Unfortunately for Melissa,” Bernie said, ignoring Brandon’s antics, “her house and kennel are in the middle of the land that Annabel was buying. She’d have to move.”

“So we have four people who are going to either lose their livelihoods, or be severely inconvenienced thanks to Annabel,” Brandon summarized.

Libby nodded. “And then we have Joanna, now Richard’s assistant, who once was Annabel’s assistant. It turns out she had a grudge against Annabel because Annabel seduced her husband, Rick Crouse, for the pure fun of it. And lastly, we come to the aforementioned husband, Rick Crouse, the wannabe actor, who was getting money from Annabel for his ‘art.’”

Brandon turned to Bernie. “How come you’re not giving me money for my ‘art’?”

Bernie rolled her eyes. “You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?”

“Not really,” Brandon said after a moment’s thought.

“Good,” Bernie told him.

“What happened with Rick Crouse?” Marvin asked.

“Annabel cut him off,” Libby said, taking up where she’d left off. “So even though he didn’t gain directly from her death, his ego—and it’s pretty large—might not have been able to take the rejection.”

“Hurt pride?” Brandon said. “That’s a pretty good reason right there.”

“Yes. The male ego is a fragile thing,” Bernie said.

Brandon reached over and got his hot chocolate. “You wound Marvin and me to the quick.”

Bernie laughed. “You both look it. And speaking of male pride, have we mentioned that Richard was sleeping with Melissa, and heaven knows who else while he was married to Annabel?”

“Yes, you have,” Marvin said.

“What happened to Ramona?” Brandon asked. “Did you forget to mention her?”

“I think she may not worship at that altar, if you get my meaning,” Bernie said.

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

“I see what you mean,” Marvin said after he’d drunk some more of his beer.

“Okay on the motive,” Brandon said. “Let’s move on to the means.”

“The means are simple,” Libby said. “Someone put a cocktail of insecticides in a bottle of Annabel’s wine and then sealed it back up. Under ordinary circumstances it might not have proved fatal, but since Annabel had a heart condition it was enough to kick her over to the other side.”

“And everyone knew about her heart thing?” Brandon asked.

Bernie ate another peanut. “Everyone who was at that dinner knew,” she said.

“And Richard poured the wine?” Marvin asked.

Libby nodded. “That would be correct. He was also the one who opened the bottle.”

“Then that seems pretty clear-cut,” Brandon opined.

Libby stifled a yawn. It had been a long day and she was beginning to crash. “Not really. The wine was opened at the table in front of everyone,” she said. “Someone had to have put the insecticides in earlier.”