Читать книгу A Catered Christmas - Isis Crawford - Страница 14

Libby rinsed her mouth out with tap water again, then looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She still looked green. Why did she have such a weak stomach? No one else had puked at the crime scene but her. No one else had made a spectacle of themselves, that was for sure.

She should have gotten some air when she felt herself going queasy, not tried to tough it out. But oh no. Now she was going to owe Bernie for a new pair of shoes. Why couldn’t she have thrown up on the floor, for heaven’s sake? It would have been cheaper—both financially and emotionally, Libby reflected. She patted her hair in place and went outside.

As she stepped into the hallway, something that Bernie had said to her when she’d been working in L.A. struck her.

“Never underestimate the power of stardust on civilians,” Bernie had said. “Proximity to television and movies makes people do nutty things.”

Libby had told her she was the one who was nuts, but given what was happening, she was beginning to think her sister had been right. Or maybe it was the power of Bree Nottingham, real estate agent extraordinaire, who was responsible for the fact that they were going on the air in a little over an hour. Bree. Just the idea that she was waiting for her made Libby cringe. The only good thing was that Bree hadn’t seen her throwing up.

“There you are,” Bree said as Libby reentered the room. “Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“She’s fine,” Bernie said. “Aren’t you, Libby?”

“Yes,” Libby said in as positive a voice as she could manage.

Looking at Bree now, resplendent in her black and white tweed Chanel suit and black Manolo Blahnik stiletto boots, Libby was once again struck by her ability to engineer any situation with the aid of those indispensable aids to modern life—her BlackBerry and her cell phone. It was why she was who she was.

From her experience, Libby would have bet anything that once the police were called, a predictable sequence of events would follow. The police would arrive, the rooms would be taped shut until the forensic team had completed their investigation, people would be interviewed, and the station would be showing a rerun of the Hortense Calabash Show this evening.

But that’s not what had occurred, no sirree bob, not by a long shot, as her mother had liked to say. Bree had taken one look at Hortense’s body, briskly stepped back out of the test kitchen, whipped out her cell, and summoned the Longely chief of police, Lucas Broad, to Hortense’s estate.

Libby didn’t know what Bree had said to him, because after she’d said something about “my people,” Bree had walked away, and Libby hadn’t been able to hear the rest of the conversation, although not from want of trying, she had to admit. But whatever Bree had said, she and Bernie agreed it had certainly been effective.

Fifteen minutes later, there was Old Lucy, as her father called him, studying the scene of the “tragic misfortune,” as Estes kept insisting on calling it. Then he and Estes and Bree had huddled together for a ten-minute confab, while everyone else milled around the green room. At that point, Libby was all set to have Estes tell everyone the taping was off. Which was more than fine with her.

“No way, Sherlock,” Bernie had whispered when Libby had told her. “Bet you ten bucks.”

“You’re on,” Libby had whispered back.

She’d really wanted Bernie to be wrong. All she wanted to do was go home, take a bath, down some aspirin for her headache, and get to work on her soup for the next day. Was that too much to ask? Evidently it was, because two minutes later, Lucy had walked over and announced to everyone that the show was going to go on as planned. The police would work around the shooting schedule.

Bernie had just smiled and stuck out her hand, palm upward.

“Told you,” she said.

“The trouble with people today is that they don’t have any respect for the dead,” Libby had grumped as she slapped two five-dollar bills into Bernie’s palm.

“You sound like Mom,” Bernie had told her as Bree materialized beside them.

How does she do that? Libby wondered as Bree looked at the money in Bernie’s hand, then looked back up at Libby.

“I forgot to pay Bernie for the eggs she picked up this morning,” Libby stammered. She didn’t know why she was lying to Bree. There was no reason to, but Bree always made her feel crass.

“Actually it was the snails,” Bernie added. “Haven’t you heard? We’re raising our own. Kind of a test run. Did you know that some archaeologists think that snails were the first animal that man domesticated? And that the Mesopotamians ate them as did the Romans and that a French recipe for their use appeared in a 1390 cookbook, although they didn’t become popular until the beginning of the sixteenth century.”

Bree raised an eyebrow. “Really. How fascinating.”

She idly touched her French knot. Libby noted that it was perfect as per usual. Then she wondered if there was anything about Bree that wasn’t perfect.

“I need to talk to the two of you for a minute,” she informed them.

“Wonderful,” Libby muttered under her breath as Bree motioned for her and Bernie to follow her into the hallway.

Knowing Bree, she probably wanted her to cater a sit-down dinner for twenty-five by tomorrow night for under two hundred dollars, Libby thought, as well as arrange for the flowers.

“Now, my dears,” Bree said once she, Bernie, and Libby were standing outside the green room, “I have a teeny, tiny little favor to ask of you.”

Here we go, Libby thought. Then she realized from the expression on Bree’s face that she must have groaned out loud.

Bree had raised her eyebrow again. “Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me in this time of need.”

“Of course not,” Bernie replied for Libby. “She was just groaning because her feet hurt, right, Libby?”

“Right, Bernie.”

What else could she say? Not something along the lines of, “You don’t ask for tiny favors.” They’re all either expensive, time-consuming, or both.

Bree looked at Libby’s feet and said, “I feel for you, my dear. Bad feet can be such a trial. It’s so sad to go shopping and not be able to wear the cute shoes. I would die if that happened to me. But I understand they’re doing wonderful things with surgery these days.”

“I don’t need surgery,” Libby said.

She realized she was gritting her teeth so hard her jaw was aching. She looked down at her feet. She was wearing perfectly respectable black leather ballet flats. Even Bernie had said they weren’t bad.

“I never said you did.” Bree sighed. “You always have been overly sensitive. I just gave you a fact.” Then she changed the subject before Libby could reply. “Poor, poor Hortense. She was going to have her bunions removed. Not that she has to worry about that now.”

“Guess not,” Bernie said. “Though she might have to worry about a pedicure. I understand people’s nails keep growing after they’re dead. Maybe that could be a new service for funeral homes. Postmortem pedicures.”

“Really,” Bree shrilled. “Sometimes I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Bernie.”

This, Libby decided, might be the only subject that she and Bree agreed upon.

“Sorry,” Bernie replied, although Libby noted that she didn’t look at all contrite.

After a moment of silence, Bree beckoned for Libby and Bernie to come closer.

“Well, the police are telling me"—here Bree lowered her voice even more—"that they suspect a homicide.”

“What a surprise,” Bernie muttered at the same time that Libby said, “Great.”

Why couldn’t Hortense’s death have been an accident? Libby didn’t have time for a crime, not now, not before Christmas and New Year’s Eve. This was party season, for heaven’s sake. Hortense should have been more considerate.

Bree shot her a dirty look, and Libby shut up, but she couldn’t stop running her to-do list in her head. Maybe she was more like Pearl Wilde than she wanted to admit, she decided.

“Did they say why?” Bernie asked.

“They found the gas line disabled and the remains of a disposable flash camera in the oven.”

“Disposable camera?” Bernie said. She moved her silver and onyx ring up and down her finger, which Libby knew meant that she was thinking. “Interesting.”

Libby said. “I don’t understand.”

Bree fiddled with the gold buttons on her jacket. “Frankly, my dear, I’m not sure that I do either, but the homicide people are hypothesizing that someone"—Bree lowered her voice again to the point that Libby had to strain to hear her—"booby-trapped the oven. Chief Broad mentioned something about disabling the flash so when the camera went off it sparked and ignited the gas when Hortense opened the oven door. The chief will explain it to you.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Bernie said.

She, Libby, and her father were not on the chief of police’s favored-persons list. If they were on a list at all, it would be labeled “troublemakers.”

“No, he will,” Bree said, her tone leaving no doubt that this was not a matter the chief had any say in.

This is going to be interesting, Libby thought as another question popped into her head. “But what about the Christmas tree ornaments? What were they doing in the oven?” For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what Hortense could possibly be using them for.

Bree shrugged. “Chief Broad thinks the murderer put them in there.”

“Obviously the murderer is someone who doesn’t like Christmas,” Bernie noted.

“Or Hortense,” Libby felt bound to point out. “But how come the ornaments didn’t melt?” she asked.

“Because glass doesn’t melt before two thousand degrees,” Bernie informed her.

Bree shuddered.

“Poor Hortense. She was my bunk mate in camp,” Bree added.

“At least she died doing the thing she loved,” Bernie said. “How many of us can say that?”

“True. Very true.” Bree dabbed at her eyes. Then she straightened up. “Now, about that favor.”

“Yes,” Libby said, a sense of foreboding growing in her stomach. She just couldn’t cater a dinner. Not now. Not with what they had to do.

Bree looked around again. Then she leaned in. “Well,” she confided, “the police think someone here might be responsible, and I’d like you to see if you can find out who it is.”

“Us?” Libby squeaked, although in retrospect she realized she shouldn’t have been surprised. “You want us to investigate?”

She didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried by this turn of events. She was glad she didn’t have to cook, but investigating another homicide? Things always turned weird with those. At least with cooking if you followed the recipe, you knew what you were getting, which was more than she could say about investigating a homicide.

“Well, yes,” Bree replied. “After all, it’s not as if you haven’t done this before, because you certainly have. Twice, to be exact.”

“Lucy won’t like it,” Libby said. “He won’t like that at all.”

“He certainly won’t,” Bernie chimed in.

Bree flicked a mote of dust off her suit jacket before replying. “Ordinarily you’d be correct in your assessment, but I’ve persuaded him for the good of the town to set aside his normal way of doing things.”

“Doing what?” a voice boomed.

Libby looked up. Chief Lucas Broad had joined them. He was wearing his uniform, but then he always wore his uniform.

Bree smiled sweetly. “Ah, Chief Broad. I was just saying that you’ve graciously decided to accept Bernie and Libby’s help with our little problem.”

“And my father’s,” Bernie said. “We come as a package.”

Libby watched Lucas Broad open his mouth, then close it again. It was no secret that the chief and her father hated each other.

“Isn’t that right, Chief?” Bree said.

The chief struggled with the word for a second. Finally he managed to get a yes out. “That is correct,” he said.

Libby was interested to note that a look of what seemed like genuine pain was crossing the chief’s face as he uttered those words. What does she have on him? Libby wondered as Bree turned to Libby and Bernie and gave them one of her brilliant smiles.

“See,” she said, “I told you things would be fine.” She waved a hand in their direction. “Now you three arrange things among yourselves. I have some other problems I have to settle.” And she walked away.

Libby watched her as she rounded the corner and entered the green room. Then she turned her gaze back to the chief. He was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his foot tapping, and a scowl on his face.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get something straight here. I’m doing this for the good of the town. Understand?”

Libby nodded. Somehow she managed to keep from looking at Bernie. If she had, they both would have started laughing.

“That is the only reason this is happening.”

“Boy, Bree must have something on you,” Bernie observed. “Or your wife.”

Why does she have to say things like that? Libby thought as she observed the chief’s eyes becoming little slits. Why does she always have to make things worse? Her sister could never seem to grasp the fact that what she said had real consequences, as in who would take care of her father and run the store if Bernie got herself arrested? Libby, that’s who.

“That is libel,” the chief huffed.

“Sorry,” Bernie said. “I was just kidding.”

“Libeling a public official is a felony,” the chief continued.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Bernie asked.

“She didn’t mean it,” Libby said, stepping between her sister and the chief of police. “She’s upset.”

The chief considered Libby’s words for a moment. Then he said, “We’re all upset by Hortense’s untimely demise. She was a well-loved member of the community and will be missed.”

Libby caught a look from her sister. If there was anything less true, she couldn’t imagine it.

The chief continued on. “Given the nature of everything, I’ve agreed to conduct things a little differently than I usually would.” He coughed into his fist. “We’ve decided to try to delay publicizing this tragic event. At least as much as we can. Bree has persuaded me that, given the nature of the outrage, it would be better, public-relations-wise, if we had a suspect in custody when we do, which is where you come in.”

“Why us?” Bernie asked.

“Obviously,” the chief said, “because you’re here. Because you know these people.”

“We don’t know them,” Libby objected.

“Of course you do,” Lucy said. “You’re caterers, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Libby said.

“So there you go,” the chief said.

Bernie tapped her foot on the floor.

“That’s a little like saying that just because I’m Irish, I go to mass every Sunday.”

“You mean you don’t?” the chief said.

“We’re Protestant.”

“I don’t care. What I care about is that there will be no nonsense from either one of you, understand?”

“What do you mean by nonsense?” Bernie asked.

As Libby watched, the chief’s eyes got even smaller.

“I mean the kind of things you and your sister do,” he snarled.

“I don’t suppose you could be more specific?” Bernie asked, goading him on.

Judging from the expression on Lucy’s face, Libby decided this was not a good question.

Lucy raised one of his hands and ticked things off as he spoke.

“No breaking and entering, no misrepresenting yourselves, no illegal entries, no stealing vehicles. In fact, no illegal activities of any kind. Is that good enough for you?”

“Shucks, and I was so looking forward to doing all of that,” Bernie said.

Libby noted that Lucy’s eyes seemed to be disappearing all together.

“Do we at least get badges?” Bernie asked.

Bernie, just shut up, Libby thought as the chief stuck his face about an inch away from her sister’s.

“I’d rather go to hell.”

“Well, that’s a fairly clear response,” Bernie said. “Can we at least see the case file?”

“There is no case file at the present moment, but if there was, the answer would be no,” the chief told her.

“Then how are we supposed to work?” Libby demanded.

“The way you always do,” the chief said. “By blundering along.”

“What if we don’t want to do this?” Libby asked him.

He looked at her for a moment before replying. Then he said, “I don’t think that’s an option.”

Bernie put her hands on her hips. “What are you going to do, arrest us?” she demanded.

The chief stroked his chin.

“You know,” he said, “it’s amazing how many little rules and regulations towns like ours accumulate over the years. Code enforcement, especially in food establishments, is a tricky thing.”

“Are you threatening us?” Libby asked.

The chief put his hand over his heart.

“I never threaten,” the chief said. “Your father will tell you that. I was merely pointing out the obvious. By the way, the missus would love it if we could have one of your mince pies for Christmas.”

Libby forced herself to smile. “No problem,” she said.

“And we’d like a double portion of hard sauce.”

“Of course,” Libby said.

“But skip the rum and brandy.”

Interesting, Libby thought. Maybe what she’d heard about Mrs. Lucy going into rehab to dry out was true.

“I guess we can use orange and vanilla flavoring,” Libby said.

The chief nodded. Bernie coughed. The chief turned his gaze to her.

“Are you at least going to tell us how Hortense was killed?” Bernie asked.

The chief nodded. “I can do that.”

He was almost done explaining when the production assistant came by. “Five minutes to airtime,” he said.

“Oh my God,” Libby squealed. “I have to put my make-up on.”

One thing you could say about Hortense’s homicide, she thought as she ran to get her purse, it had certainly taken her mind off of being on television.