A Catered Fourth of July (19 page)

“S
o what do you think about what Rick said?” Libby asked Bernie as they walked toward their van. The station was all but deserted until the next train came in at 11:10. Overhead, crows were flying in to roost in the big copper beech trees that bordered the parking lot.

Bernie stopped to pick another pebble out of her sandal. “About Juno's husband?”

Libby nodded.

“As in should we talk to him?”

Libby nodded again.

“I don't remember seeing him, do you?”

Libby shook her head. “He must have left before the police came.”

“So,” Bernie mused, “while everyone else ran toward Jack Devlin, Juno's husband ran away.”

“That's what Rick Evans implied.”

“Suggestive, isn't it?”

“Very,” Libby agreed.

Bernie checked the time on her cell. It was a little after eight. “No time like the present. Especially since we're close to their house.”

“If he's home,” Libby said.

“I guess we're going to find that out.”

“Maybe we should call,” she suggested.

“And give him a heads-up?” Bernie shook her head. “I think not. Let's surprise him, see what happens. More fun that way.”

“Your definition of fun, not mine.”

Bernie grinned and got in the van. “Exactly.”

It was eight-fifteen when Bernie and Libby pulled up in front of the Grisham's house. The sun was setting and the sky was an array of soft pinks, oranges, and gray-blues. A jet streaked high overhead, leaving an arching white plume behind it. The air smelled of freshly mown grass and roses.

“This is a perfect summer evening,” Bernie noted.

Libby sighed. “We should be having a barbecue.”

“We will as soon as we get this figured out,” Bernie assured her.

As the sisters got out of the van, they could hear yelling going on inside the house. The noise spilled out, cutting through the evening's tranquility.

“It could be the TV,” Libby said in a hopeful tone. The yelling got louder.

“You wish.”

“It probably is,” Libby persisted.

“Because folks in this zip code don't have domestic disputes?” Bernie asked.

Libby was framing her reply when she heard a scream followed by a crash.

“Definitely a domestic dispute,” Bernie said.

Libby frowned. “The smart thing to do would be to call the police, domestic disputes being unpredictable.”

“But we're not smart,” Bernie noted.

“If Dad were here, he would tell us not to go in,” Libby pointed out.

“He's not. Anyway Libby, we're not going in. We're ringing the bell.”

“True, Bernie. And the cops could take a while to get here.”

“We wouldn't want someone to get hurt in the meantime.”

“No, Bernie. We certainly wouldn't.”

They headed for the front door. Bernie rang the bell. When no one answered, she rang it again. She was just about to press the button for the third time when the door swung open.

A tall, tanned man wearing khakis, a white polo shirt, and loafers without socks peered out at them. He had regular features, including a nose that was a little too perfect to be real, dark hair that was graying slightly at the temples, and a snarl of an expression on his face.

Now that they saw him, Libby and Bernie realized they'd spotted him at the reenactment walking to the park lot.

Except for the expression, Bernie felt as if she was looking at a Ralph Lauren ad. Of course, the smell of whiskey floating off him wasn't something you'd smell in the perfect WASP world the ads evoked. But then again, maybe you would. Perfect worlds tended to have dark undersides.

“Chuck Grisham?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Bernie introduced themselves. “We'd like to speak to you for a second.”

“We're busy at the moment,” he growled. “Go away.”

“We could hear,” Bernie said.

Chuck leaned forward. “What's that supposed to mean?” he demanded, breathing on her.

She wanted to take a step back against the onslaught, but pride demanded she stay put.

“We just wanted to make sure everything was all right.” Libby summoned up her most ingratiating smile. “We heard a crash. We thought maybe someone got hurt. You know, like the television falling on someone . . . or something like that. . . .” Her voice trailed off as her sister shot her a look.

Chuck narrowed his eyes as he tried to process what Libby was saying. “Why would our television fall?”

“It happens,” Bernie told him as she strained to get a peek inside the house. “In fact, it's one of the most common causes of household deaths.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Bernie couldn't see any blood on the hallway floor or the entrance to the living room, so that was good.

“Well, the television hasn't fallen and we're fine,” Chuck told them as he folded his arms across his chest.

“How's your refrigerator? Maybe we should come in and take a look. Make sure it's okay,” Libby chirped, picking up on Bernie's cue. “We do know about that kind of thing.”

“Thanks, but everything is just dandy. So now you can leave. In fact, I insist on it,” he told them.

“Actually—” Libby began.

Chuck snapped his fingers, cutting her off before she could say anything else. A look of recognition passed over his face. He raised his hand and shook his finger at her. “I know you. You were at the reenactment. So was your . . .”

Bernie supplied the word. “Sister.”

“You're the caterers, aren't you? The ones who have that fancy-pants shop on Main Street.”

“I wouldn't call it fancy-pants,” Bernie told him.

“Well, I would.” Chuck pitched forward, then recovered and rocked back on his heels. The smell of whiskey coming off him seemed even stronger than it had before.

Bernie decided he had the smell of someone who'd been drinking long enough to become one with the alcohol.

“What's it called, again?” There was a slight slur to his words.

“A Little Taste of Heaven,” she said.

He scratched his cheek. “Fancy-pants and presumptuous. Not a good combination in my book.”

Bernie wrinkled her forehead. “Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said.”

“How can you say something like that when you've never been in the store?” Libby demanded.

Chuck sniffed. “I've heard comments.”

“From whom?” Bernie asked before she could stop herself.

“Never you mind,” Chuck told them.

“You just made that up,” she said.

Chuck glowered at her. “What are you two doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be behind the counter or closing up or washing dishes or something? Aren't you a long way from Main Street?”

“Geographically speaking, about three miles, which isn't really that far,” Bernie answered.

“We were just wondering if you saw anything odd or out of place at the reenactment,” Libby asked.

He stared at them for a moment, seeming to have trouble focusing, before he turned slightly to the right.

Bernie noticed a bruise on the right side of his chin. It looked new. She thought about the crash she and Libby had just heard. Had Chuck fallen into something? Judging from the alcohol on his breath that was entirely possible. Or had Juno pitched something at him? That was entirely possible, too.

His eyes narrowed. He absentmindedly rubbed his bruise while he studied them. Finally he said, “People have told me about you two.”

“Nothing bad I hope,” Libby said.

“They said you fancy yourselves as detectives. Or should I say dabblers in detection.”

“I would hardly use the word
dabble
,” Libby said indignantly.

“Girl detectives,” Chuck sneered. “What a charming concept. So Nancy Drew-ish.”

Libby was going to say something, but Bernie squeezed her arm. Libby took the hint and remained silent.

“You said you saw us at the reenactment,” Bernie said to Chuck. “We saw your wife there.”

“Being the laughingstock of the town.”

“But we didn't see you,” Bernie said, keeping to the subject at hand.

“I was behind the oak tree.”

“You were?” Juno had come up behind him. “I thought you said you were too busy to go.”

“I changed my mind,” Chuck told her.

“What were you doing there?”

“Watching the reenactment.”

“He's just being modest,” Bernie said. “He just can't let you out of his sight.”

“That'll be the day,” Juno muttered.

“That's what Rick Evans says,” Libby put in.

Chuck tried to stand up straighter. “He doesn't know what he's talking about.”

“Rick also said you were a reenactor,” Bernie said.

Chuck nodded. “I am indeed.”

“So I guess he isn't lying about everything,” she noted.

He didn't say anything.

“How come you weren't in the reenactment in the park?” Libby asked.

Chuck swayed, then regained his balance. “Because I knew this one would be a joke. When I was at Gettysburg, we drilled, we rehearsed. This reenactment was a disgrace. It isn't even based on a real incident! You can't play fast and loose with history.” His voice rose. “People like Rick Evans have no respect for anything. They should be marched outside and shot.”

“He means metaphorically,” Juno clarified. “He's very passionate about history.”

“I can speak for myself,” Chuck told his wife.

“So you didn't want to kill Devlin?” Bernie asked.

Chuck started laughing and ended up having a coughing fit. “Really? Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you were jealous that he was having an affair with your wife,” Libby said.

Chuck pointed to Juno. “Her? Don't be ridiculous. I'm not jealous of her.”

“He doesn't mean that,” Juno said. “He's just a little under the weather.”

Chuck snorted. “Just be glad I didn't say something worse,” he told Juno. Then he turned back to Libby. “Where did you get that from? Rick Evans?”

“No. Sanford Aiken,” Libby answered.

“That jerk,” Chuck muttered. “Always sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong.”

“Or was it Elise Montague, Libby?” Bernie said. “I forget.”

“No. It was definitely Sanford.” Libby paused for a moment and then said, “Or maybe it
was
Rick Evans.”

“Maybe you two should just shut up,” Chuck snarled.

“So,” Libby continued. “I take it that you are going to neither confirm nor deny that you were jealous of your wife and killed Jack Devlin?”

“I think you should be more charitable, Libby. I think you should give old Chucky the benefit of the doubt.” Bernie turned toward him. “Maybe you just meant to teach Devlin a lesson and things went wrong. I don't know. Which one was it? After all, you are a reenactor. You just said so. You were there. And you do know your way around a musket.”

“So what if I do?” Chuck said.

“So that gives you motive and opportunity,” Bernie told him.

He gave her a disdainful look. “That gives lots of people motive and opportunity. All I can say is that I hope your cooking is better than your detecting work.”

“Really?” Libby said.

Chuck sniffed. “Yes, really. You're missing the point.”

“Would you care to enlighten us?”

“Gladly. Jack Devlin's death isn't about love. It isn't about sex. It isn't about jealousy. It's about good old-fashioned money.”

“Because everything always is?” Libby asked.

“Exactly,” Chuck told them. “Always has been, always will be.”

“Could you be a little more specific?” she inquired.

“Not really,” Chuck replied. “You two are supposed to be investigating so go investigate. You come barging in here in the middle of the night—”

“Eight o'clock is hardly the middle of the night,” Bernie pointed out.

“And accuse me of killing Jack Devlin.” Chuck hiccupped. “You got a lotta nerve. That's all I can say.”

Bernie watched his eyelids begin to close.

He opened them again. “I think I need another drink,” he mumbled as he turned and stumbled into the house. Juno closed the door after him.

“So much for finding whether he left before or after Jack Devlin was murdered,” Libby said.

“M
ust be great being married to him,” Bernie said to Libby as they walked toward their van.

“I don't think she's any prize package either,” Libby noted. “I wonder if she hit him with something?”

“He probably deserved it.”

“Possibly.” Libby sighed. “I don't think that talking to them has gotten us any closer to solving this mess.”

“I hope you're wrong,” Bernie told her.

“How do you figure?” Libby asked.

Bernie brushed a fly away. “Maybe we stirred things up. Maybe somebody will do something.”

“That's a whole lot of maybes.”

“It sure is,” Bernie agreed.

The sound of a tugboat horn floated up from the Hudson River. A dog started singing along. Bernie paused and glanced back. The porch light had been turned on. The sisters continued walking to their van. A moment later, the sprinklers came on and Bernie jumped sideways to avoid getting drenched. “I bet they did that on purpose,” she muttered.

Libby frowned. “Do you think Chuck was talking about Monica Lewis when he started talking about money being the motive?”

“Who else?”

“Then why didn't Chuck give us her name?” Libby challenged.

“Or her brother's name. Remember we're talking about David Nancy
and
Monica Lewis.”

“True.”

“Maybe Chuck thought we'd believe him more if he played the reluctant witness instead of giving them up.”

“Maybe,” Libby said. “But Chuck didn't strike me as a subtle kind of guy. He's more of a bull-in-a-china-shop type of fellow.”

“Maybe he was so drunk he blanked on their names.”

“Now that I would believe,” Libby told her.

Bernie clicked her tongue against her teeth while she organized her thoughts. “Nancy is a strong suspect,” she hypothesized. “Unlike Monica, he was near Devlin.”

“And Chuck and Juno were not. I think we can cross them off our list. Juno was busy dancing and Chuck was behind the oak tree, a fact verified by Rick Evans.”

“Or,” Bernie replied. “Maybe Chuck left early because he was bored.”

“Or disgusted by the level of amateurism displayed,” Libby said.

“Or maybe Chuck did hand Devlin the musket and he didn't want to stick around to see what was going to happen.”

Libby made a face. “That's a stretch. The guy whose wife you are boffing comes up and hands you a musket. Would you take it?”

“Well, when you put it that way, it does seem a little unlikely,” Bernie conceded. She was silent for a moment then she said, “I know we've already discussed this, but maybe the musket was meant for someone else. Maybe Jack Devlin getting the musket was an accident. Maybe the musket was meant for Marvin.”

“Because of the shot someone took at him?”

Bernie nodded.

“Yeah. I've thought about that a lot.” Libby's face was grim. “But I can't figure out why anyone would do that. On the other hand . . .”

“Lots of people had reason to want Jack Devlin dead,” Bernie said, finishing Libby's sentence for her.

“Too many people. Too many possibilities.”

Bernie frowned. “Like Dad says, I guess we'll just keep poking around until something turns up.”

Libby sighed. “Hopefully for Marvin's sake that will happen sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, indeed,” Bernie replied as she started up the van. It came to life with a sputter and a cough. She wondered how much longer it would go before they had to replace it.

“Do you think what Chuck Grisham was saying is true?” Libby asked after another moment of silence had passed.

Bernie pulled out onto the road. “You mean about Jack Devlin's death being about money?”

“Yes.”

“You just asked me that.”

“I know. I just wondered if you wanted to revise your opinion?”

Bernie thought for another moment. “It's possible,” she admitted. “Unlikely, but possible. Though I still vote for sex.”

“Me too,” Libby said.

“Sex and money. The two big motivators for human behavior.”

“And revenge,” Libby suggested. “Don't forget that.”

“A dish best eaten cold,” Bernie mused. “Or so they say. Do you believe that?”

“No, I don't,” Libby said as she bounced up and down in her seat. They were going over a stretch of potholed road.

“Me either,” Bernie said, stopping for a herd of deer—seven to be exact—that were crossing the road.

Recently, the deer population had exploded and they were all over the place, eating plants and shrubs, dining out of bird feeders, bounding across roads in the middle of the day. There was a lot of talk about shooting them, but the thought made Bernie sad. She didn't care if the deer had become pests. They were elegant and graceful and she liked watching them. Plus, she didn't garden. Eventually, the last of the deer, a doe and her fawn, ambled across the road and Bernie continued driving.

“Too bad Hilda can't really tell us what happened at the reenactment,” Bernie noted as they pulled up in front of the shop. “She was probably the only impartial observer out there.”

“And she did like Jack Devlin,” Libby noted, flashing back to when he had picked up Hilda. “If pigs could coo, she would have.”

“That's right,” Bernie said, remembering. “Didn't he say something to you and me like, don't worry we're old friends, before he picked her up?”

“Yes, he did,” Libby said.

“So that confirms Brandon's story about Devlin and Juno hooking up.” Bernie looked around. No one was out. Everyone was in for the night. “Or at least it proves that Devlin was at her house.” She began to get out of the van, but Libby put out a hand to stop her.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Let's finish this up before we go inside.”

“Works for me,” Bernie said and she closed the van door and faced her sister.

“I'll tell you one thing,” Libby said, continuing with what she'd been saying, “I bet Devlin wasn't there to fix her toaster.”

“Unless
toaster
is a word for a particular part of the female anatomy,” Bernie suggested.

“Rick might well be right about Juno and Chuck. Maybe Chuck was jealous because of an affair she'd had with Devlin . . . especially if she was doing what she wasn't supposed to be doing in their bed.”

“Maybe Chuck came home and saw them together,” Bernie opined. “That would certainly do it.”

“On the other hand,” Libby said, playing devil's advocate, “we don't know that she did have an affair. Just because he made that comment to Hilda doesn't prove anything.”

Bernie gave her sister an
are-you-out-o f–your-mind
look.

“Okay,” Libby conceded. “So maybe it does.”

“Why should she be different from anyone else?”

“He hasn't slept with everyone in town,” Libby said.

“No. But he's made pretty good in-roads.”

Libby nodded, acknowledging the truth of Bernie's statement. “I'll say one thing for him. He certainly had a lot of energy. Given his extracurricular activities, it's amazing he had time to work.”

The sisters were silent for a moment.

“So maybe Chuck is responsible,” Bernie said.

“How did he give Devlin the gun?” Libby asked.

“I don't know,” Bernie admitted.

“What's his motive?”

“Jealousy. Revenge.”

“Why now?”

“I don't know that answer to that one, either,” Bernie confessed. She stifled a yawn. “I feel as if we're just going around in one enormous circle.”

“That's because we are,” Libby told her.

“Unfortunately,” Bernie said. They both got out of the van. Suddenly Bernie felt an overwhelming desire for some ice cream. The question was what kind? Did she want to go with salted caramel or peach? On the other hand, coffee ice cream also sounded good, especially if she put some salted roasted almonds and a small ribbon of chocolate sauce on top.

There was vanilla in all its pristine purity with its flecks of grated Madagascar vanilla bean sprinkled through it, as well as a few grindings of black pepper. Sweet and spicy. The combination always worked. That would certainly be good plain, or with a few slices of Pennsylvania peaches and some raspberries she'd gotten from the farmer's market sprinkled on top. Or she could always have a little bit of each. So many choices. Fortunately, there was enough time to sample them all. A banana split minus the banana was coming to mind.

She was leaning toward that choice as she studied A Little Taste of Heaven's shop window. They changed it six times a year. She and Libby had decided on a historical theme in keeping with the Fourth of July. They'd decorated it with sepia tinted photos of life in Longely in the 1800s, photos they'd borrowed from the Longely Historical Society and hung from the ceiling on strings. Old wooden milk crates they'd gotten at the grist mill had been placed upside down.

They'd taken old tin and toleware—mostly trays and pie plates—put them on the crates and piled them high with sugar cookies and cupcakes iced in red, white, and blue after which they'd put glass milk bottles filled with sparklers in front of them. Their last touch had been draping old-fashioned red, white, and blue bunting around the window. At first, Bernie had been afraid there'd be too many elements, but somehow the whole thing worked.

“It looks nice,” Libby said.

“It looks very nice.” Bernie bent down, picked up a napkin lying on the sidewalk, and threw it in the garbage can. “I have to say, I think we do a good job.”

“With some things,” a voice behind them said.

Bernie and Libby spun around as a man stepped out of the alley shadows.