A Catered Christmas Cookie Exchange (A Mystery With Recipes) (22 page)

“Jeez,” she said to Libby. “I’m a total moron.”

Libby grinned. “Ah ha. Self-realization at last.”

Bernie playfully punched her sister in the arm. “No. That.”

“What’s that?” Libby asked, rubbing her forearm. For someone who weighed one hundred and ten pounds her sister packed a pretty mean wallop.

“The truck,” Bernie said.

“I
don’t get it,” Libby said to her.

Bernie let out an exasperated sigh. “The truck, Libby. Look at the truck.”

Libby looked. “So?” she said after a moment had gone by. All she saw was an equipment truck. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it that she could see.

“Look at the production company logo,” Bernie instructed.

“I’m looking,” Libby said, and she was. “But I still don’t see anything.”

By now Bernie was practically jumping up and down with excitement. “Look at the picture on the truck.”

Libby looked. It was a picture of two German shepherds standing side by side.

“What is that a picture of?” Bernie demanded.

“Two dogs, obviously,” Libby replied, wondering where this was going.

“Obviously. And what is the name of the company printed on the truck?” Bernie asked.

“Buddy and Muddy Productions. So?” Libby said. And then she got it. She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh my God, that’s Stanley Buckle’s company.”

Bernie beamed. “Exactly. He has two shepherds called Muddy and Buddy, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Libby shuddered. “I thought they were going to eat me.”

Bernie laughed. Her sister was not a dog lover. “They were just jumping up on you to say hello.”

“And steal the rolls.”

“No. You threw the rolls at them. Naturally they grabbed them and ran away.”

“Be that as it may,” Libby said with as much dignity as she could manage. The memory still rankled. “Buckle has been here, what?”

“Almost a year,” Bernie replied, thinking of the house he’d bought.

It had been one of those tear-down-and-rebuild jobbies. She and Bernie had been up there to cater a dinner party right after the new house had been completed, even though in Bernie’s estimation the old one had been perfectly fine. The new house was huge. Aside from eight bedrooms and eight bathrooms, it contained a screening room and a bowling alley.

“And we know who sold him his house,” Bernie said, thinking out loud.

Libby nodded again. “Had to be Bree Nottingham. She’s the only one around here who would handle that kind of sale.”

“Well, they don’t call her real estate agent extraordinaire for nothing.”

“That’s for sure,” Libby said as she zipped up her parka.

“I bet she was the one who suggested using the Christmas Cookie Exchange Club ladies on the show,” Bernie said, continuing with her line of thought. “She must have thought it would be good publicity for Longely.”

“I bet you’re right,” Libby said. “But . . .”

“I know,” Bernie said, interrupting her, “but I can’t see how that helps us with Millie’s death.”

“Me either,” Bernie admitted, picturing Bree Nottingham in her signature pink Chanel suit and Manolos. “But at the very least we should call and find out if we’re right about this.”

“Because,” Bernie and Libby chorused together, repeating their dad’s mantra, “ ‘You never know what’s going to turn out to be important and what’s not.’ ”

As luck would have it, Bree happened to have half an hour free and was willing to meet with them at the Unicorn Nail Salon, where she was getting a pedicure. The salon was located near the strip mall where Amber had left her car.

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.

L
ibby 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.