A Catered Fourth of July (9 page)

L
ibby was sitting at the nail drying station trying to keep from scratching an itch that she'd suddenly developed when her cell started playing
Bernadette
. It was her sister's ring.
Drats and double drats
, she thought, wondering what Bernie had found or if she'd found anything at all in Rick and Gail's house. For a moment, Libby considered digging her cell out of her purse and finding out, but then she decided she going to have to wait to hear the news until after her nails dried.

The phone rang again. She had second thoughts about not answering it, but quashed them. She was sure that whatever Bernie wanted to tell her could wait another fifteen minutes. She was always given to the dramatic. Libby knew if she got her phone out, she'd ruin her nails and she wasn't about to do that given the time and the money the mani-pedi had cost. Also, she was loath to admit it, especially to Bernie, but she kind of liked the way her nails looked. Pink was not such a bad color after all! Libby groaned to herself. She'd always made fun of women who couldn't do anything that would ruin their nails and now she was becoming one of them. Go figure.

She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. Bernie would be there shortly. More to the point, Gail Evans was sitting right next to her. She'd finally started talking about something other than how hot it was and Libby wasn't going to do anything to stem the conversational flow. Otherwise, the torture she'd put herself through for Marvin's sake for the last three-quarters of an hour would all be in vain. One thing was for certain. She was never ever going to do it again, even though she did like the way her hands looked.

For openers, she didn't like someone she didn't know touching her feet. For some reason, getting a manicure wasn't as bad, but that was balanced by the fact that she couldn't stand the idea of not being able to reach into her bag and get a piece of chocolate out if she wanted to. Or answer the phone. The process made her feel claustrophobic. She was wondering why that should be when she realized Gail was talking again.

“You know,” Gail confided in her chirpy voice, a voice that always made Libby want to put on a pair of noise canceling headphones, “I envy your talent.”

Libby turned and looked at her. “For what?”

“For cooking, of course. I'm a complete klutz in the kitchen.”

“I'm sure you're not that bad,” Libby told her, although she thought that maybe Gail was.

It had been her experience that really skinny people, people who were that way not by nature but because they didn't like to eat, generally sucked in the kitchen. They were always in a hurry to get in and out. Understandable if one didn't like what one was doing. Cooking and baking took time and patience. Each step, no matter how trivial, contributed to the final result. If you didn't like to eat, you didn't want to be bothered.

Gail's cell began to ring. She ignored it. “I am a klutz,” she insisted. “Every time I'm in the kitchen I either cut or burn myself.” She gestured toward her left arm with her chin. “Look at those.”

Libby squinted. She couldn't see anything. “What?”

“The scars, of course.”

Libby studied Gail's arm again. It was suntanned and muscled and looked as if Gail hit the gym frequently.

“See them? I'm thinking of having plastic surgery.”

It took Libby a moment, but she finally made out three thin raised lines radiating up from Gail's wrist. “But they're tiny,” she objected.

“Not to me. I see them in the mirror every time I put on a short-sleeved shirt, which I'm doing a lot this summer.”

Libby wanted to say
it must be hard being perfect,
but she didn't. Instead, she asked Gail how she'd gotten the scars.

Gail put on a rueful expression. “I got too close to a roasting pan that was coming out of the oven.”

“Ouch. That must have hurt.”

“Oh. Believe me, it did.” Gail was quiet for a moment.

Her phone rang again. “My husband,” she explained. “I guess he forgot where I am.” She was quiet for another moment then she said, “I still can't believe what happened at the reenactment.” Her voice got shaky. “I just can't get that picture out of my mind.”

“Neither can I,” Libby said. It was true. She still couldn't.

“I keep dreaming about it,” Gail confided.

“Me too,” Libby said, which was also true. Her glance fell on Gail's toes. They were painted a dark shade of purple. Almost black. So were her fingernails. In Libby's opinion, Goth was not a good look on teenage girls, let alone on middle-aged ladies, especially middle-aged ladies who wore thigh-high skirts because they were trying to look like teenage girls.

Libby shook her head to clear it. Where had that come from? She was getting as hypercritical as Bernie. Maybe being in the nail salon had infected her in some way with Bernie-itis. Who knew where something like that would lead? Libby might have to get her hair colored and styled or go clothes shopping or even, God help her, go to the gym and take spin classes. She felt a frisson of fear as visions of hours spent on self-improvement wafted through her head.
Get a grip
, she told herself
. Deal with the matter at hand.

Gail leaned over. “You must feel so bad.” She lowered her voice so none of the other patrons could hear her, not that there were many people in the place. It was why she always went to the nail salon at that particular time of the day.

Libby frowned. “Why should I feel bad?”

Gail's eyes widened. “Well . . . you know . . . being . . . with Marvin. It must be terrible.”

Libby cocked her head. “Why?”

Gail gave her a pitying look and pointedly changed the subject. “Is this really your first time getting a mani-pedi?”

Libby nodded. She'd unwisely confided that fact to Gail when she'd sat down next to her.

“That's so sweet,” Gail cooed. “Rick had his first pedicure last week. He found it very relaxing.”

“That's wonderful,” Libby said. She couldn't imagine Marvin doing something like that. “What did you mean about Marvin?” she asked, getting back to the topic at hand.

Gail tittered. “Oh, you know.”

“No. I don't. I don't know at all.”

Gail ducked her head, but not fast enough to hide the smirk on her face. “His being . . . involved . . . in what happened . . . and you seeing it. Being there. It just must be very upsetting. I know how upset I am. I can't imagine what I would be feeling if I were you. I mean, I'd be on Prozac or something like that.”

“Seeing what?” Libby demanded even though she knew exactly what Gail was referring to.

Gail shifted in her seat and faced Libby. “What happened to Devi, of course.”

Libby raised an eyebrow. “Devi? Who is Devi?”

“I'm sorry.” Two red spots appeared on Gail's cheeks. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I meant Jack Devlin. Devi is, excuse me,
was
his nickname. It's what everyone who knew him called him.”

“I knew him and I didn't call him that. No one else I know did, either.”

“Well, his good friends did.”

“Which you number yourself among?” Libby asked politely.

Gail sniffed. “He had a lot of good friends and yes, I was among them.”

“It must have been interesting.”

“What?” Gail asked.

“Being friends with him.”

“It was, but why do you care?”

Libby gave an elaborate shrug. “I don't. I'm just trying to make conversation.”

“I see.” Gail looked at Libby, sussing her out. “I get it,” she said after a moment. “You're here investigating.” She gave the word
investigating
an ironic twist by stretching it out to three syllables. “You're investigating me! I find that hilarious. Well, investigate away. Not that it's going to help your boyfriend any. To use a current phrase, he's going down. At least according to Rick, he is. And Rick should know. After all, he does have the ear of the mayor and the chief of police.”

“He's not going down if I have anything to do with it,” Libby said grimly.

“Good luck.”

“I'm not the one who's going to need it,” Libby replied.

“Really.” Gail smiled unpleasantly. “Then who is?”

“Whoever did it.”

Gail shrugged and studied the board propped up next to the cash register that announced the salon's prices.

Libby continued. “I heard you were one of Devi's . . . ahem . . . closer friends.”

Gail sniffed again then she smiled. “It's not a secret. Devi and I were close, as long as we're using euphemisms here.”

“Should I have said
screwing
?”

“You can say whatever you want. It doesn't bother me. Anyway, as I was saying we were friends for a while and then we weren't.”

“That must have been tough,” Libby said, trying to sound sympathetic and failing.

Gail shrugged. “Not really. It's all a matter of expectations. When you take in a tomcat, you feed him, and play with him, and then you let him go. It's the nature of the beast, so to speak.”

“What if he gallivants next door and gets more food?” Libby mused out loud. “Maybe even better food—”

“That I highly doubt.” Gail cut Libby off.

“Fine then.”
I've struck a nerve
, Libby noted.

“It's true.” Gail's voice rose.

“If you say so,” Libby answered, sticking the needle in a little deeper.

“I do,” Gail said in a superior tone of voice.

“All I know is that I would find that chain of events upsetting.”

“You probably would. But then, you're not me.” Gail chortled at the idea. “If you must know, I was the one that told Devi to go.”

“Oh.” Libby gave Gail her sweetest smile. “How stupid of me. I thought it would have been your husband who did that. Shows you what I know.”

“Not much,” Gail said coldly. “No one tells me what to do. Anyway, Rick understands. I love my husband. Devi was merely a . . . diversion. Something to pass the time. Diversions are nice while they last, but then it's time to give them up and get back to the real world.”

She looked at the TV screen on the other side of the salon. The sound was off, but the weathergirl was pointing to the weather map. It looked as if a storm was still on its way. That would be a good thing since they could use the rain.

“I hear Devi found”—Libby paused for a moment as if searching for the right word—“a more . . . youthful friend.”

“Really. Is that what you heard?”

“Yes. It really is,” Libby replied.

Gail bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. “Well, that didn't last for long. Devi wanted to come back. In fact, he was begging me to take him back. I guess he knew where the good stuff was.”

“Do tell,” Libby said.

Gail turned back and faced her. “Do tell yourself. In some things, experience does matter. It matters a lot.”

“I guess you'd know,” Libby sniped.

“Yes, I would.” Gail's tone of voice was nothing if not smug. “I'm lucky to have found a man who understands . . . my needs. Some wouldn't.”

“I take it you're referring to your husband?”

Gail didn't say anything.

“So Rick really didn't care?” Libby persisted.

“No. He didn't. We're soul mates. When you're soul mates, there are more important things than the merely physical.”

Libby couldn't help it. She rolled her eyes. “He wasn't jealous?”

Gail gave a dismissive sigh. “Jealousy is a childish emotion. Adults have learned to overcome it. Nonattachment is the key.”

“I didn't know Rick was a Buddhist,” Libby said. If anyone was the antithesis of being a Buddhist, Rick was it. He was one big ball of
I wants
.

Gail smiled thinly. “He's not. He's an evolved human being.”

“Well, so is Marvin, but that doesn't mean that he wouldn't be jealous if I was going around with someone else,” Libby blurted out.

“I guess that's not going to be an issue for you,” Gail told her sweetly.

Libby stared at her. She didn't understand. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, my dear, he's going to be in jail soon, so he'll hardly be in a position to object to whatever you decided to do. Jail does tend to put a damper on one's love life, though I do hear they allow conjugal visits . . . but maybe that's just in Mexico. I'm not sure. Oh. Excuse me. That's in the minimum security places.”

Libby's eyes narrowed. “Marvin had nothing to do with what happened at the reenactment. Absolutely nothing and you know it.”

Gail tossed her head and sat up a little straighter. “No, dear. I know nothing of the kind,” she huffed. “Don't be ridiculous. Of course Marvin is responsible. Everyone knows that.”

“That's not true,” Libby protested.

“Just because you want something to be true, doesn't mean that it's going to be,” Gail shot back.

“In this case, it is.”

“The police don't think so,” Gail retorted. “I know that for a fact.”

“They've gotten things wrong before,” Libby replied.

“Not in this case. You and your sister were both there. You saw what happened.”

“Yes, we were—which is why I'm saying what I'm saying. Marvin had nothing to do with that musket misfiring. Someone else did. It could have been anyone.”

Gail raised her carefully tweezed eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“Yes, anyone,” Libby replied.

“That, my dear, is a triumph of wishful thinking. I feel badly for you. I know this is hard, but you have to learn to face reality.”

“I think I'm doing a pretty good job of that.”

Gail snorted as she tilted back her head and looked at the ceiling. “You're not. I'm only saying this to you because I like you.”