Authors: Isis Crawford
A Catered Wedding (14 page)
“They weren't very friendly when we were there before,” Libby reminded her. “In fact they were fairly awful.”
“Except for the cook,” Bernie said. “She seemed a little on the disaffected side.”
“Maybe we should try the shopkeepers instead,” Libby suggested. “Sometimes they hear things.”
Sean nodded his approval. “Good thinking, but before you do that why don't you find out what Marvin has to say about the funeral.”
“There wasn't one, remember.”
“That in itself is significant. Find out if anyone showed up at the crematorium. Who took possession of the remains. That kind of thing.”
Libby frowned at her dad. “You think you're clever don't you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know.”
“No, I don't,” Sean protested. And he didn't.
“Then why did you suggest I talk to Marvin?”
“I suggested you talk to Marvin because you know him and he might have seen something of interest.” Sean scrutinized his daughter's face. She was wearing an expression he couldn't quite read. “Is there something here I'm missing?”
“Forget it,” Libby said. “Just forget it.”
“Seriously,” Sean said.
Working with his daughters, he was beginning to realize was going to be way more difficult then working with his men had been.
“She thought you were trying to fix her up,” Bernie explained.
“Why would I do that?” Sean asked, totally mystified. He didn't even like Marvin. At all. He was also not pleased to see Bernie was looking at him the same way Rose had from time to time when she was alive. “You know what?” Sean said. “Can we forget the personal stuff and please stay on task here.”
Libby didn't reply which Sean thought was a good thing. He was feeling pretty pleased with himself at having regained the conversational upper hand when Bernie started in.
“Stay on task?” Bernie repeated. “Boy, that's a guy phrase if I ever heard one.”
“Really?” Sean said. “That's interesting. Because the phrase was invented by a woman.”
“Name her,” Bernie challenged.
Sean grabbed the first name that swam into his head. “Bess Peterson.” There had to be hundreds of thousands of Bess Petersons out there. For all he knew, maybe one of them had coined the phrase.
Bernie stared at him and he stared back. If I can't face off my youngest daughter he thought, it's time someone put me out of my misery.
“All right,” Bernie finally conceded.
“Good,” Sean replied. He always believed in being magnanimous in victory.
Bernie grinned. “Even though I don't believe a word of what you said.”
Sean grinned back. “Any more suggestions?”
“I was thinking that someone at the golf club might know something,” Bernie said. “After all they are right next door to the estate. Maybe someone saw something. Maybe the brothers are members.”
“Could be.” Sean gnawed on his cheek for a moment. Did he know anyone who was a member there? No. But Paul did. Maybe he'd be willing to arrange a meeting.
“Libby,” he asked, “do you have any of that ginger cake left?”
“I have two in the freezer, why?”
“I need them to soften up Paul.”
“I thought he liked my brownies.”
“He does, but he loves your ginger cake.” Sean looked at his daughters. It almost felt like old times. “Okay gang,” he told them, “let's get to bed. Tomorrow we're going to hit the streetsâmetaphorically speaking.”
Chapter 14
L
ibby looked at Marvin from across the bench.
ibby looked at Marvin from across the bench.
“Take a picnic lunch,” Bernie had told her. “And don't pack anything too exotic or show-offy,” she'd warned Libby. “Marvin likes simple.”
“How do you know?” Libby had demanded.
“Because he's a guy and most guys like simple food,” Bernie had answered her. “And while we're on the subject, don't you dare go out of the house wearing those sandals. The rest of what you're wearing is bad enough.”
Libby had looked down at her feet. “What's wrong with my shoes?” she'd objected. “They're comfortable.”
She'd had them for three years now. She loved them even if the color had changed to a nondescript mud color and the soles were close to nonexistent.
“Exactly. Just wait a minute.” And Bernie had rushed up the stairs and come down a moment later with a pair of her shoes. They were orange-suede wedges. Not something Libby would ordinarily wear. Well, ever wear.
“Try these on,” Bernie had ordered.
At first Libby had resisted, but then she'd caved in the way she always did when Bernie insisted. As she'd studied herself in the mirror even she had to agree that the wedges made her legs look longer and thinner.
“It's just Marvin,” she'd protested as she'd bent down to unfasten Bernie's shoes.
“I know. But I want you to wear them anyway.”
“Why?” Libby had asked.
“Because change is good,” Bernie had told her.
“That's not an answer.”
“Then do it for me. And remember your questions,” Bernie had told her as she pushed her out the door.
Well, the shoes definitely made her walk differently, Libby had thought as she'd caught glimpses of herself in the shop windows as she walked down Oak Street with picnic basket in hand. They slowed her down. She wasn't sure that she liked the way wearing these shoes made her hips swing from side to side. She'd couldn't stride. It felt . . . well it felt . . . weird.
But Libby did have to admit that she had liked the way Marvin's eyes had lit up when he'd seen her coming down the path to the swan pond. She also had to admit that Bernie had been right about keeping the food simple because Marvin was really loving her cooking, which made her feel good. There was nothing better in her opinion than having someone enjoy what you made for them. It was like being an author and getting a good book review.
After a lot of going back and forth, she'd finally decided on chicken salad sandwiches. The base was egg bread, which she'd made that morning and lightly spread with French mustard. The chicken salad, one of her favorite recipes, was composed of fresh poached chicken, homemade mayonnaise, finely chopped celery, just a hint of minced red onion, and a few walnuts thrown in for contrast. Then she'd added just a pinch of kosher salt, so you got little bursts of flavor. It was a simple recipe, but boy was it good. The ingredients were the key.
She'd also brought along a Chinese cucumber salad, which she'd composed out of the seedless, edible-skin kind of cukes. She'd used a small paring knife to strip alternate stripes of skin off the cucumbers. Then she'd sliced them moderately thickly. When she was done each slice looked like a pinwheel. To those she'd added a touch of sugar, a little fresh ground pepper, a small amount of rice wine vinegar, a little sesame oil, and a few frozen peas for sweetness. The contrast with the chicken saladâthe smooth versus the crispyâalways worked well.
She knew Marvin liked dessert so she'd brought along two brownies, which were still warm from the oven, and two coconut cookies that had chocolate kisses in the middle, plus a fruit salad composed of fresh-picked berries and mangoes. She'd also packed two thermoses in her basket. One was filled with fresh-squeezed lemonade and the other with coffee. The meal wasn't bad if she didn't say so herself.
“Have another half a sandwich,” she told Marvin.
“I'd love to but I couldn't.” He patted his stomach, which pooched over his belt “I'm trying to lose some weight.”
“More lemonade?” she asked while she thought,
Damn. I should have said, âMarvin, you don't need to lose any weight. You look fine just the way you are.'
Damn. I should have said, âMarvin, you don't need to lose any weight. You look fine just the way you are.'
Marvin shook his head. “I'm great.”
While Libby was trying to decide whether or not, given his diet status, she should offer him dessert she watched Marvin fiddle with his glasses, then smooth down the creases in his khakis. His nose was peeling.
“I couldn't believe it when you called me,” he finally said.
“Well,” Libby told him, “I wanted to do something nice for you after what you did for me.”
Marvin blushed slightly and started fiddling with his glasses again. “It was nothing. I would have done it for anyone.”
As Libby watched him she thought that maybe Bernie was right. There was something endearing about Marvin. He was sweet in a little boy kind of way. The thing was she was used to Orion, her last boyfriend. He'd always taken charge. She'd never had to worry, but Marvin was so quiet. Libby never knew what to say. Or do.
Ever since seventh grade Marvin had always just been there. Around her. Waiting. Looking at her. Expecting her to do something. But she never knew what.
It was unnerving. She and Marvin sat in silence for a while. It was just beginning to get awkward when Libby remembered one of the questions Bernie had told her about when you get stuck on a date with nothing to say.
“I have a question for you,” she said.
“Yes?” Marvin looked slightly scared.
Libby found that she was unaccountably beginning to enjoy herself. “Okay. This is it. If you could have one of these super powers, which would you pick: Would you want to fly? Have super-strength? Read people's minds? Or have X-ray vision?”
“Read people's minds,” Marvin said promptly.
“Why?”
“Because then I'd know what you were thinking.”
“Marvin,” Libby wailed.
Marvin's forehead turned red. “I'm sorry if I embarrassed you,” he told her.
“You didn't,” Libby lied. This wasn't going the way she'd planned. Not at all. Bernie would have come up with some clever retort, and she was such a dweeb. She could never think of what to say. “Here.” She pushed the brownies and the coconut cookies over to him. “Have some. I baked these just for you.”
Marvin brightened. “Coconut and chocolate are one of my favorite combinations.”
“Mine too,” Libby said.
“I'm not supposed to, but I will if you will.”
“Deal.”
Marvin reached over and took a coconut cookie. Libby watched him take a bite. He smiled.
“These are wonderful,” he told her.
“They're not bad,” she admitted as she ate half of hers. “It's the cream cheese in the dough.”
“My dad says I have to lose weight,” Marvin said as he ate the rest. “He says I don't present a very good image to the public. Of course, he still runs ten miles a week.”
“You look fine,” Libby surprised herself by saying. She'd never liked Marvin's dad anyway. Not since he'd yelled at her at lacrosse practice in eighth grade. She'd gotten so flustered she hadn't played since then. “Everyone deserves a treat now and then.” Then she surprised herself even further by saying. “I'm making this low-cal, whole wheat, corn muffin at the store. You should come by and try one. They're really very good.”
“I'd love to,” Marvin said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“That would be great.” Well she
had
been thinking about making those muffins. She guessed now would be as good a time as any to try them out. The question was whether she should make them with low-fat buttermilk or low-fat yogurt. Maybe she'd try both and see which came out better.
had
been thinking about making those muffins. She guessed now would be as good a time as any to try them out. The question was whether she should make them with low-fat buttermilk or low-fat yogurt. Maybe she'd try both and see which came out better.
“You know,” Marvin said, “my dad said he'd heard that your dad had been hired to help investigate Leeza Sharp's murder and that you two were helping him and that's why you invited me out to this lunch.”
Suddenly Libby felt terrible.
No. She felt worse than terrible.
She wanted to crawl under a rock.
“He told me not to come,” Marvin said.
“Marvin . . .” Libby began but before she could say anything else Marvin interrupted her.
“He said if people knew I was helping you we'd lose business. And I told him he was wrong so we got into a big fight.”
“Oh Marvin, I'm so sorry,” Libby told him as he watched two swans glide across the pond.
“It's okay.” Marvin turned to face her. “We fight about everything anyway these days. He says he wants me to take over the business but every time I suggest something he doesn't like it.”
“My mother was like that too,” Libby confided.
“Was she?” Marvin asked. “I didn't know that.”
Libby nodded. “I don't like to talk about it much. Everyone says, âOh it must have been so nice working with your mom. You were so lucky.' But it wasn't all nice.”
Now it was Marvin's turn to nod. “I guess it's hard. Somebody runs something for a long time they don't want to give anything up. Maybe,” he reflected. “I should have gone off like my brothers.”
“Sometimes I think that, too,” Libby said thinking of Bernie.
Marvin slapped his hands on his thighs. “But we didn't.”
“No, we stayed,” Libby agreed.
“So there you go. Now what do you want to know?”
Libby picked up a brownie, broke it in half, and gave one of the pieces to Marvin.
“Maybe your dad is right,” Libby told him. “Maybe you shouldn't talk to me.”
Bernie will kill me if she could hear what I'm saying, Libby thought but she didn't care. She didn't want Marvin to lose business because of her or hurt him in any way. If it came down to it, somehow or another she'd find another way to get what she needed to know.
“No. No. I want to,” Marvin protested. “I think my dad is dead wrong about this. And anyway, maybe this sounds awful, but I think what you're doing is a good thing and I'd like to help if I can.”
“It is a good thing,” Libby agreed. Suddenly she was glad she was assisting.
“Not that I have anything that interesting to tell you.”
Libby divided the next brownie in half and handed a piece to Marvin.
“So who was at the service?” she asked him.
“There really wasn't one,” Marvin said as he ate the brownie.
Libby poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him.
“Really?” Libby said.
“Yes, really,” Marvin said. He took a sip. “You know you make the best coffee, Libby. But then everything you do is good.”
Libby felt herself beaming.
“It was very sad, really,” Marvin said. “I collected Leeza Sharp's remains. And Jura had already brought over her wedding dress, so I put it on her. I mean I tried to make her look as good as possible. I thought she would have wanted that.”
Libby nodded.
“You know,” Marvin reflected. “I got the feeling that if Jura could have gotten away with just wrapping her in a shroud he would have. He kept on talking about what a waste of money it was buying something that was just going to burn up. But it really is a mark of respect, you know.”
Marvin took another sip of his coffee.
“Jura kept looking at his watch the whole time we were getting the casket ready to be placed in the crematorium. He was talking to this woman next to him, who kept on patting him on the arm . . .”
“Esmeralda Quinn?”
Marvin nodded. “I think that was her name. He even took a couple of calls on his cell. I mean he couldn't wait to get out of there. As if the whole thing were an imposition on him. The only person there that seemed remotely upset was that brother of his with the short hair.”
“You mean Ditas?”
“I think.”
“The middle-sized one?”
“Yeah. That's him,” Marvin said. “In fact he was the one that took delivery of the cremains. Jura didn't want to have anything to do with them. How's that for cold?”
“Pretty good,” Libby said as she divided up the last coconut cookie and dished out the fruit salad.
“You know,” Marvin said as he took the dish of fruit salad out of Libby's hand. “There is one other thing.”
Libby waited.
“This is going to sound weirder than it actually is.” Marvin speared a piece of mango and ate it. “People bury things with their loved ones. Like favorite golf clubs, photos. That kind of stuff.”
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