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Authors: Isis Crawford

BOOK: A Catered St. Patrick's Day
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Chapter 17
 
M
ike Sweeney’s house wasn’t a very prepossessing structure as far as houses in Longely went. It was a plain, two-thousand foot, two-story colonial with a picture window that fronted the street, a brown double-shingle roof, a long driveway, and an unattached garage out in the back. The house had been painted all white and the backyard was half grass, half blacktop. From where Brandon was standing, he couldn’t see any shrubs or flower beds, which surprised him. Somehow he’d expected something a little jazzier from a man who had spent five hundred dollars on a pair of shoes for himself.
This was also bad news because there were no trees or shrubs to hide what he was planning to do. On the other hand, the house was bordered by two vacant lots on either side, which was good news because that meant that there was less chance of being seen by the neighbors.
“They changed the zoning regs after they tore down the houses,” Bernie explained before Brandon could ask. “And now those lots are too small to build on.”
“Weird.”
“I know.”
Brandon held out his hand. It had started to drizzle. Great. Now he was going to be cold, wet, and tired. The perfect trifecta. He crossed his arms over his chest and went back to studying the rear of Mike Sweeney’s house. “So they just left them like that?”
Bernie shrugged. “Sometimes I don’t get the planning board at all.”
“Why’d they tear them down?”
“They weren’t up to code. At least that’s what they said.”
Brandon waited for Bernie to continue. After a moment she did. “But I heard that Pat Dwyer ...”
“... Your dad’s friend?”
“More of an acquaintance really ... I heard that he was the person who was instrumental in getting the buildings torn down, that he had a thing going with resenorethe owners of the houses.”
“Lovely,” Brandon said. “Real estate as a blood sport.”
“It might not be true,” Bernie said. “It’s just a story I heard.”
“It probably isn’t,” Brandon agreed, although he wouldn’t be surprised if it were. What Bernie had described sounded like a small town kind of thing and Longely was nothing if not a small town.
Bernie shivered. The cold was cutting right through her. She should have worn her leather bomber jacket instead of the EMS nylon shell she had on. “So, Brandon, how do you want to do this?” she asked, changing the subject.
But Brandon didn’t answer her. He was busy looking at the Jeep. He bit his lip as something occurred to him.
“What?” Bernie asked.
“I was just thinking that I don’t like leaving the Jeep in the lot,” Brandon told her. “We’re the only vehicle here.”
Bernie hugged herself tighter. “So?”
“So if the cops come by they might wonder what the Jeep is doing there. I’m going to move it somewhere where it will be less noticeable. I’ll be back in a sec.”
“I’m going with you,” Bernie told him. It was too cold to stand around and wait.
Brandon shrugged and headed for the Jeep, with Bernie in tow. A couple of minutes later Brandon had parked the Jeep around the block from Sweeney’s house.
“I’m not sure this is better,” Bernie said before they got out of the Jeep.
“Neither am I,” Brandon confessed. “But at least we don’t stick out like a sore thumb.”
“On the other hand, anyone who’s looking out the window can see us going by.”
“Unlikely,” Brandon told her. “You said it yourself. No one is going to see us because everyone is still asleep.”
“I hope so,” Bernie murmured as she got out of the Jeep and gently closed the door.
Now that they were going to do this, she was having second thoughts. She crossed to the sidewalk and began to walk toward Mike Sweeney’s house. Her head was down and her hoodie hid her face. She decided she looked like someone who had been out too late the night before and was doing the walk of shame. Brandon joined her.
“Ready?” he asked.
Bernie nodded, glad for the fact that she was wearing leather gloves and a scarf. When they reached Mike Sweeney’s house, they followed the driveway, which curved around to the back of the house. No vehicles were parked in the driveway or in the garage. Brandon went over to the door, climbed the two steps, and knocked.
No one answered.
Brandon knocked again. “It’s the Fuller Brush Man,” he called out.
Again no one answered. Bernie noticed that the blinds on the upstairs windows didn’t move, which meant no one was peeking out of them. Okay. Maybe she’d watched a few too many late night movies.
“The Fuller Brush Man?” Bernie echoed.
“Yeah. The Fuller Brush Man.”
“You’re kidding, right? The Fuller Brush Man hasn’t come around for thirty years. Maybe more.”
“Oops. I guess I should tell everyone I’m a Jehovah’s Witness, then.”
Bernie rolled her eyes. “Yeah. You definitely look like one,” she told Brandon as he moved closer to the doorer n.. She sniffed. “Do you smell something?”
“Nope,” Brandon said, while he scrutinized the lock.
Bernie wrinkled her nose and sniffed again. “Well, I do. I could swear I smell gas.”
Brandon stopped, lifted his head, and took a sniff. “I don’t.”
Bernie shrugged. Maybe she was imagining it, although she did have an excellent sense of smell. Unlike Brandon, who had been known to eat deli meat that was way past its expiration date. Or maybe the smell was coming from somewhere else. That happened sometimes. Yes, she told herself. That’s probably what it was, she decided as she watched Brandon take the set of lock picks out of his pocket. She’d been there the night he’d won them from a guy called Mark the Thief in an all night poker game down on the Lower East Side.
Brandon studied the lock. It was an older model, which was good. Fortunately, it wasn’t one of those double-cylinder dead-bolt jobbies, the kind people put in when they wanted an extra layer of security. Now everyone used them, but back in the day they were fairly uncommon.
One of those would demand more skill than he had. But the one in front of him was definitely pickable. Brandon knew this because when he’d won the picks, he’d spent weeks practicing with them on locks like these. But that had been a while ago. And like any other skill, picking locks demanded constant practice. It was a use it or lose it kind of thing.
Brandon stretched his fingers out several times and then rubbed his palms together to warm up his hands and limber up his fingers as he studied the lock. He chose the second pick from the left and inserted it into the opening. It was too loose. He went up to the next size. This one fit.
Brandon closed his eyes and wiggled the pick. He felt it catch. He leaned forward and applied a little pressure and turned. He could feel the cylinders moving. He applied a little more pressure. Then he turned the doorknob and opened the door.
“After you, my lady,” he said, bowing low.
Bernie scanned the driveway and the side lots. No one was visible. She just hoped it stayed that way and that no one had caught sight of them. Hesitating at the open door, she questioned what she and Brandon were about to do. Because if anyone came over and asked, she didn’t know what she was going to say. For once she was at a loss for words.
Oh well. She’d deal with that if it happened. Bernie took a deep breath and stepped inside. As she studied the interior, she realized that the smell of gas was even stronger in the small room they were standing in than it had been outside.
“Don’t you smell it?” she asked Brandon.
Brandon shook his head.
“You have to,” Bernie insisted.
“Well, I don’t. I have a cold and I can’t smell anything.”
“Well, I do,” Bernie told him.
“Fine,” Brandon said as he looked around.
The room he and Bernie were standing in had four jackets hanging on pegs, five pairs of boots neatly lined up on a rubber mat, and three garbage recycling cans, all of which looked full.
“It looks as if no one has been here since Sweeney died,” Brandon commented. “I wonder where his parents are.” But as soon as Brandon said that he remembered that Sweeney had no family. He was an only child and his dad had died when he was ten and his mom had died three years ago.
Bernie didn’t comment. She was too busy sniffioo that wang the air. Although the gas wasn’t making her gag, it definitely was pervading everything.
“I think we should get out of here and call the utility company,” Bernie said.
“I think you’re overreacting, but if you want to we will.”
“Overreacting?” Bernie repeated indignantly. “A gas leak is really dangerous.”
“It can be,” Brandon said. He nodded toward the door in front of them. “I bet that’s the kitchen. Maybe Mike left the oven on.”
“Maybe,” Bernie said. “Though I can’t imagine Sweeney cooking anything.”
“Neither can I,” Brandon agreed. “But he must have. He had his kitchen done. It cost him a lot too.”
Bernie thought of Bree’s kitchen. “That doesn’t mean he was going to use it. Libby and I have cooked in some one-hundred-thousand-dollar kitchens and the only thing that’s been used in them is the microwave to heat up coffee.”
Brandon turned to face her. “So are we going in or not?”
Bernie was torn. On the one hand, she desperately wanted to go in and check out Mike Sweeney’s house and this could be her last chance. On the other hand, she wasn’t looking forward to stepping into a room full of gas. “Maybe, if we aired the place out and came back later,” she suggested.
Brandon shook his head. “Probably not. By that time everyone will be up and about.”
Bernie ran her hand through her hair. “I know, I know,” she said. “Give me another minute to think.” As she was trying to decide what she should do she spotted a button on the wall about three inches off the floor. “What’s that?” she asked Brandon as she pointed to it.
Brandon laughed. “That’s Sweeney’s doggie doorbell.”
Bernie shook her head. “His what?”
“His doggie doorbell. I remember him telling the guys about it. It’s a joke. Here. Let me show you.” And Brandon used the point of his shoe to press the buzzer. Nothing happened. “That’s odd,” Brandon said. “It’s supposed to go woof, woof, woof.”
“But what’s the point?” Bernie asked.
Brandon shrugged. “What can I say? Sweeney had an odd sense of humor.”
And Brandon pressed the buzzer with his toe again.
Again nothing happened.
Then Bernie felt, rather than heard a whoosh. It was like all the air was being sucked out of the room.
The next thing she knew she was lying flat on her back on the tarmac of the driveway outside Mike Sweeney’s house.
Or what was left of it.
She turned her head and caught a glimpse of Brandon. He was lying a short ways away. His mouth was moving but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Chapter 18
 
S
ean Simmons and Marvin were a little over a block away when they heard the explosion. They’d been on their way to Sam’s Club to pick up some supplies for the shop and had just passed what looked like Brandon’s vehicle. Sean pointed to it.
“Is that Brandon’s Jeep?” he asked Marvin as they drove by it.
Identifying people through their cars was not Marvin’s strong suit. “I donyea h’t know. It looks like it.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so, Mr. Simmons.” Marvin had other thoughts on his mind, like what to get Libby for her upcoming birthday.
Sean clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Back up a minute,” he ordered Marvin.
“Why?” Marvin asked, doing as he was told.
“So I can see if that is Brandon’s Jeep.” They’d gone by so quickly, he hadn’t had a chance to catch the license plate number.
“It is,” Sean said after he’d read it.
Marvin looked at his watch. “Libby wanted us back right away,” he reminded Sean.
Sean grunted. “Five minutes one way or another isn’t going to make any difference.”
“It will to Libby,” Marvin pointed out.
Sean ignored him and rubbed his chin. “I wonder what Brandon is doing here.”
“Visiting someone?” Marvin said.
Sean didn’t say anything.
“Can we go now, Mr. Simmons?” Marvin asked. Aside from wanting to get to Sam’s Club and back, he was blocking traffic.
“In a minute ... Mike Sweeney lives around here, doesn’t he?” Sean asked.
“Around the corner,” Marvin replied. “Why?”
“Well,” Sean said. “Brandon is here and Bernie isn’t at home and Mike Sweeney’s house is on the next block, so what do you think? What conclusions do you draw from that?”
“That I think we should go to Sam’s Club,” Marvin said.
“And I think we should drive around the block and check out Mike Sweeney’s house and see if Bernie and Brandon are up to something.”
“And if they are?” Marvin asked.
Sean had just been about to answer when he heard the blast.
“What was that?” Marvin cried.
“An explosion.” Sean pointed to a plume of smoke coming from around the corner. “Isn’t that where you said Sweeney’s house was?”
“Yes,” Marvin whispered.
He and Sean looked at each other.
“Move,” Sean said.
Marvin put his foot on the accelerator and raced around the corner. As they rounded the bend both men could see flames shooting up out of the back of Sweeney’s house. Marvin screeched to a stop, threw his door open, and ran out of the car. It took Sean a little longer. As he was getting out of the car, another vehicle pulled up next to Marvin’s.
Pat Dwyer rolled down the window on his vehicle. “What happened?” he asked Sean.
“Some sort of explosion,” Sean said. “Bernie and Brandon may be in there. I’m going to check.”
Dwyer’s complexion got a shade paler. “That’s terrible. What can I do?”
“Call nine-one-one,” Sean told him.
As he hurried toward Sweeney’s house Sean was dimly aware that people on either side of the street were emerging from their houses. They were wearing pajamas, raincoats, slippers, and looks of shock on their faces. Sean’s heart was beating rapidly as he hurried toward the backyard. He was going as fast as he could, but nevertheless the walk to the backyard seemed to be taking forever. And all the time he was walking he was praying thats pe w Bernie and Brandon hadn’t been inside the house when it had gone up.
When he rounded the driveway he saw his daughter and Brandon on the grass. Marvin was with them. They both looked dazed and covered with soot, but they were standing and that was the important thing. Thank you, God, he said silently as he rushed toward them.
He hugged Bernie. “Thank heavens you’re not hurt,” he cried.
Bernie was cheered to realize that even though her ears were ringing, she could hear what her dad was saying. Then Sean held Bernie at arm’s length and asked her what the hell she was doing there.
“I might say the same to you and Marvin,” Bernie replied.
“We were on our way over to Sam’s Club to get some stuff for your sister,” Marvin told her.
“And we were investigating,” Bernie said.
Brandon limped over to Sean. He’d done something to his ankle, which hurt every time he put weight on it. “It was my idea, Mr. Simmons.”
Sean snorted. “Very noble, but very unlikely. Now what happened?”
Bernie explained. As she did, the four of them watched the fire. It was shooting through the second floor of the house. A plume of black smoke hovered in the air. Sean couldn’t help thinking that whatever was in that house—if there was anything in the house that pertained to the murder—was now gone. This case had been nothing but a series of dead ends since he and the girls had started on it.
“Didn’t a gas line blow up somewhere in California a couple of months ago and take out a whole block?” Marvin said.
Sean nodded.
Bernie looked at his face and read the expression on it. “You don’t think that’s the case here, do you?” she asked.
“I think it could be,” Sean said slowly. “It probably is. But I think it’s awfully convenient given what’s been going on, and you know I’m not a big one for coincidence.”
“So you think the house may have been booby-trapped?” Brandon asked him.
“Let’s say it wouldn’t surprise me.” Sean regarded him. “Tell me exactly what happened,” he instructed.
“We smelled gas ...” Brandon began.
“I smelled gas,” Bernie corrected.
“Fine. Bernie smelled gas and I rang the bell and”—Brandon gestured toward the fire—“and then there was that.”
“You were lucky, Brandon,” Sean said.
“Tell me something I don’t know, Mr. Simmons.”
Sean was just about to answer him when Dwyer rounded the bend. “I called nine-one-one and the firemen are on their way,” he announced. He stopped when he saw Bernie and Brandon. “Jeez,” he said.
“I know,” Brandon said.
Bernie nodded. She reached over and took Brandon’s hand. “Let’s go,” she said.
In the distance she could hear the fire engines approaching. The last thing she felt like doing now was staying and answering questions. What she wanted was a bath and a drink, in that order.
“If they want us they know where to find us,” she told her dad.
 
“So much for Mike Sweeney’s house,” Brandon said as he fished his car keys out of his pocket. “You gotta figure by the time they put the fire out therez,″out goings not going to be much left to look at.”
“I still don’t understand what happened,” Bernie said. “You pressed the buzzer and then whoosh. There was the blast.”
Brandon dodged a man and a woman going toward Sweeney’s house. By now Brandon figured that most of the people on the block were either there or on their way. “I think what happened,” Brandon told her, “was that the house was filled with gas fumes and the bell sent out a charge that set the gas off.”
“So what do you think?” Bernie asked him. “Do you think my dad is right about this being on purpose?”
“I’m not sure,” Brandon answered. “There could have been a gas leak. On the other hand, wouldn’t someone have smelled it?”
“I would think so,” Bernie said. “People smelled the gas in California. They even reported it, but no one from the utility company came out.”
“At least the house is far away from the other ones.” Brandon took a deep breath. The adrenaline that had kicked in after the explosion was beginning to fade and he knew from prior experience that he and Bernie were going to crash soon.
“Sweeney could have left the oven on,” Bernie postulated.
“He could have,” Brandon replied. “If Mike ever cooked at home. Which he didn’t. He didn’t even make coffee for himself. He used to buy it on his way to the train station.”
“You said that Sweeney had had his kitchen remodeled. Maybe there was a leak in the gas pipe.”
“He got his kitchen remodeled six months ago,” Brandon said.
“Maybe there was a crack in the gas line.”
Brandon raised an eyebrow. “Remember, you smelled gas coming from inside the house, not outside.”
Brandon unlocked his Jeep and Bernie got in. She leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. Suddenly she was exhausted.
“It makes no sense,” she said when Brandon got in the Jeep. Her lips felt so heavy it was an effort to move them. “Why would anyone go to all that trouble?”
Brandon shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe because there was something in there that whoever did it didn’t want anyone to find.”
“But then why not break in and steal it? This seems way over the top. No. I think it was an unfortunate accident. Nothing else makes any sense.”
Brandon didn’t reply. Suddenly he was too tired to talk. He knew it would take every last ounce of his energy to drive over to Bernie’s place.

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