“I can only imagine,” Libby murmured.
“So, you didn’t tell her what you thought beforehand?” Bernie asked, thinking of the implications of Ada’s action. “You went straight to the police?”
“I didn’t think she’d believe me.” Ada gave a wry smile. “She always told me I had an overactive imagination. My brother and sister were pissed at me, too. They said I’d imagined the whole thing, that I’d called the cops because I always had to be the center of attention. My stepmom was pretty angry as well.” Ada sighed. “So were her kids. Everyone said they didn’t see anything weird. The psychiatrist my mom took me to said this was my way of coping with the shock of my dad’s death.”
“So, everyone was there?”
Ada fell silent and fiddled with the buttons on her navy cardigan. Then she said, “My dad insisted on it. He said he had some kind of business announcement to make and he wanted everyone to hear it at the same time.”
“Any idea what it was?” Bernie asked, exchanging another look with her sister.
Ada shook her head. “No. He died before he could tell us. But he said it was a surprise.”
“A good surprise?” Bernie asked.
Ada held out her hands, palms up. “I have no idea.”
Libby finished the last of her coffee. “Do you think what the psychiatrist said was true about your wanting to be the center of attention?” she asked, reverting to the subject Ada had introduced a minute ago.
“No, I don’t, although I began to believe that,” Ada answered. “Hearing the same thing over and over again will do that to you after a while. Only, here’s the thing. My father didn’t take pain medicine. Not the serious kind. He took Tylenol once in a while if his back got really bad, but that was it. And as for his partner, something was going on. Two days before he died, I heard my dad and Mr. Grover arguing.”
Bernie glanced at the clock on the wall. “What about?”
“I couldn’t make out most of the words,” Ada told her. “But at the end they were shouting at each other and I heard Mr. Grover tell my dad he was going to kill him.”
“People say that all the time,” Libby pointed out. “That doesn’t mean your dad’s business partner actually did it.”
“That’s what the psychiatrist said,” Ada allowed. “So did the police. And Linda. And my stepmom, Vicky, for that matter. And my brother and sister.” Ada shook her head ruefully. “No one believed me. After a while I thought they were right. I figured I’d made the whole thing up so I just forgot about it and went on with my life.”
“And then?” Bernie asked, because obviously there was a then.
“And then last week, I was looking up in my mother’s attic looking for something and I came across this box. It turned out my dad’s diary was in it,” Ada told her. “Or maybe not diary. Maybe more like a notebook. Anyway, I read it and I’ve been turning things over in my head ever since because you know what? As it turns out, I wasn’t crazy.” There was a note of triumph in her voice. “I wasn’t crazy at all.” Ada took a sip of coffee, put her cup down, and asked them what she’d come there to ask.
Normally Bernie and Libby would have said no to her request—they didn’t work on New Year’s Eve—but their dad was going off to a party with his fiancée, and Brandon, Bernie’s boyfriend, had to take a coworker’s shift at RJ’s, while Marvin, after discussing it with Libby, was going to a family wedding.
“What do you think?” Bernie asked her sister.
Libby shrugged. Ada’s request sounded simple enough and it seemed to mean a great deal to her.
“Sure. Why not?” Libby replied. It wouldn’t hurt to start off the New Year with a good deed, and even though she wasn’t as anxious as Bernie to meet a new branch of her family, it couldn’t be—despite what her dad said—a bad thing.
“Thank you. Thank you,” Ada cried as she got up and hugged them both. “I knew I could count on you guys. You’re the best.”
Chapter 2
Sean emerged from his bedroom as soon as he heard Ada’s footsteps going down the stairs to the street below.
“You were pretty rude,” Bernie observed as Sean sat back down in his chair.
“I was direct,” Sean countered as the cat jumped back up on his lap. “I’m just telling you, don’t come crying to me when things go south.”
“How about if they go north?” Bernie asked.
Sean tried to keep from smiling and failed.
“Don’t you think you’re being a tad dramatic?” Libby asked her dad.
“No, I don’t. Not even a little bit.” Sean nodded in the direction of the stairs. “That girl is trouble.”
“Woman,” Bernie corrected.
Sean waved his hand in the air to signal his annoyance. “Call her what you want, the result will be the same.”
“I don’t know why you’re saying that,” Bernie objected as she watched Ada Sinclair get into a nondescript Toyota Camry. A moment later, the Camry’s headlights came on, a bright beacon in the early dark of the winter afternoon, and the windshield wipers started going from side to side, clearing the accumulated snow off the glass. Bernie kept watching until Ada had backed out of A Taste of Heaven’s parking lot and was halfway down Main Street. Then she turned to her father and said, “She seems like a perfectly nice person to me.”
“Appearances can be deceptive,” Sean replied.
“It’s not like Ada Sinclair wants us to rob a bank,” Libby said and she stood up, brushed cinnamon bun crumbs off her lap onto the tray sitting on the table, and began collecting the dirty plates and coffee mugs to take down to the kitchen. “Or murder someone.”
“So, what does she want you to do?” Sean asked. “Since you banished me from the room, I don’t know.” He’d turned on the radio in his room, and that and a slight hearing loss had ensured he wouldn’t hear the conversation in the living room. Otherwise, he might have been tempted to come back out and comment on the proceedings.
Bernie explained.
“Ridiculous,” Sean muttered when she was done.
Bernie raised an eyebrow. “So what was the skinny about what happened to Ada’s dad and her dad’s partner?”
“Nothing,” Sean replied. “Absolutely nothing.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” Libby said. “There’s always a story behind the story.”
“Not in this case,” Sean replied. “If there was a story, it was Ada, whom everyone thought was nuts.”
“Truly?” Bernie asked.
“Yes, truly,” Sean replied, remembering. “The deaths weren’t a big story back then. The Gazette ran a couple of articles about them in the papers—you know, unfortunate coincidence, family tragedy, blah, blah, blah—but that was about it,” Sean told her. “Don’t forget, the deaths you’re referring to weren’t seen as homicides. They were seen as a hit-and-run and a possible suicide or accidental overdose. Sometimes, to coin your phrase, things are what they are. And anyway,” Sean concluded, “the deaths happened in Hollingsworth.”
“Hollingsworth is two towns over,” Libby objected. “You’re talking like this happened in Cali.”
Sean shrugged. “To point out the obvious, Hollingsworth was outside of my jurisdiction. And anyway, at the time I had my hands full with the Long Branch bank robbery.” He sighed, remembering how that had gone down. Nothing like having the son of one of Longely’s most prominent citizens involved. “And as for being a mess”—Sean shook his head—“wait and see, this is going to turn into a first-rate one,” he predicted.
“Mr. Optimism,” Bernie retorted.
“You don’t get it,” Sean replied as Cindy butted her head against his hands.
“Then tell me,” Bernie said.
“It’s simple.” Sean began rubbing Cindy’s ears. “The Sinclairs are a bad luck family and everyone who gets involved with them catches it.”
Libby raised an eyebrow. “Bad luck? Catches it?” Libby repeated.
“Yes,” Sean replied, a defensive tone
in his voice.
Bernie rolled her eyes. “Seriously? I can’t believe those words are coming out of your mouth. Aren’t you the one who says everyone makes their own luck?”
Sean got even more defensive. “To be exact, your mother was the one who called the Sinclairs a bad luck family, but in this instance I think she was correct. Call them whatever you want, though. Bad news would work, too.”
“Which is quite a bit different,” Libby pointed out. “Since when have you become superstitious?” she asked.
“I’m not, but sometimes superstitions are based on reality,” Sean replied. “For instance, if you walk under a ladder, you’re more likely to get hit on the head with something. Breaking a mirror was considered bad luck because glass was extremely expensive back in the old days and there are bad luck places.”
“Which are?” Bernie asked.
“Places where things don’t thrive,” Sean replied.
Bernie and Libby looked at each other.
Sean pointed at his daughters. “You two are superstitious,” he said. “And don’t tell me you aren’t because I know that you are.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Bernie told him.
“Yes,” Libby said. “Where do you get that from?”
“What about the kitchen witch,” Sean demanded. He knew he was grasping at straws but he went ahead anyway. “You haven’t moved that.” His wife had insisted that moving the stuffed doll from its perch on the window behind the sink would bring bad luck.
“That’s out of sentiment, not superstition,” Bernie told him.
“So you say,” Sean said.
“Yes, I do,” Bernie retorted.
Sean kept rubbing the tips of Cindy’s ears. She began to purr. “Okay. Let me rephrase this. Your mom was family first all the way.”
“Agreed,” Libby said.
“So, things had to be pretty bad to make her cut ties with the Sinclairs. Totaling cars, not repaying money. These are not people you want to hang around with.”
“Yeah, but that stuff happened a long time ago.”
“Not that long,” Sean pointed out.
“Long enough,” Bernie told him. “People change. People change all the time. So do families.”
Sean leaned forward. “Not in my experience they don’t,” he told Bernie. “Okay,” he conceded. “Once in a great while, but it’s as rare as a blue moon. It may look as if people have changed, but inside, where it counts”—he hit his chest with the flat of his hand—“everything is still the same.”
Libby made a face. She’d heard this all the time growing up. “That’s you being a cop and thinking the worst of everyone.”
“And it’s usually true.” Sean threw up his hands. “Hey, don’t believe me,” he said. Then he repeated what he’d told them earlier. “That’s fine with me. All I’m saying is that when things go wrong”—he reached for the remote and turned on the television—“and they will, don’t come crying to me.”
“Don’t worry, we wouldn’t,” Libby informed him.
Bernie picked a strand of cat hair off her black turtleneck sweater and flicked it away. “I think you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
Sean shook his head and stared at the screen in front of him. “Have it your way.”
For a moment Bernie watched the snow fall and thought that she or Libby was going to have to shovel the sidewalk in front of the shop if it didn’t let up soon. And they’d be smart to pick up the chickens they’d ordered from Odel’s farm sooner rather than later because the road leading up to it was bad enough in good weather, let alone in this. She sighed. Sometimes she wondered why she’d left California.
She was thinking about her time there when her dad transferred his attention from the program guide appearing on the TV screen—as per usual, there was nothing much he wanted to watch—to his youngest daughter. “Tell me the truth,” he said to her. “Are you taking this job on because I’m going to that New Year’s Eve party with Michele?” Michele was his fiancée and his daughters disliked her. “Is that why you’re doing this?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Bernie scoffed, although her dad was partially correct in his assessment. If he’d stayed home, she and Libby would have stayed home with him. Not that she was about to tell him that.
“You could come if you want,” Sean told her. “You know that.”
“I know,” Bernie replied as she finished her coffee. What she didn’t say was she’d rather do her laundry than go to that party and she guessed that Libby felt the same way. She looked at her sister expecting her to say something, but Libby didn’t. Libby was glancing at the clock on the wall and thinking that it was almost five and that it was time to get downstairs. Libby could hear the voices from the shop percolating up through the floor as customers came through the door.
“Pretty confident of yourself vis-à-vis the Sinclairs, aren’t you, Dad?” Bernie observed.
Sean nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?” Bernie asked him.
Sean cocked his head. “Are you saying you wanna bet?”
“You got it,” Bernie replied.
“What do you have in mind?” Sean asked.
“How about the usual,” Libby said.
“A dollar? Let’s make it more interesting,” Bernie suggested.
Sean put the remote down. He was intrigued. “I’m listening.”
“Me too,” Libby said.
Bernie told them. “If the Armageddon you’re predicting doesn’t occur we buy a new sofa.” Their present one was twenty years old and Bernie had been after her dad to replace it for the last five years.
“But I love this sofa,” Sean protested.
“Aha,” Bernie cried. “So, you’re not so sure of yourself after all!”
“I am,” Sean retorted. “I’ll take your bet on the condition that if you lose we go out fishing for the day.”
Bernie and Libby both wrinkled their noses. They hated fishing. They hated everything about fishing.
“Afraid you’re going to lose,” Sean taunted when Bernie didn’t answer immediately. “Want to back out?”
Bernie stood up straighter. “Not at all,” she replied. “We’ll take the bet, right, Libby?”
“Wait a minute. What are we betting on, exactly?”
“Good point,” Bernie said. “Let’s define the parameters.”
“Things get really messy at the Sinclairs’,” Sean answered immediately.
“That’s too general. Define messy,” Libby challenged.
“All right, then.” Sean stroked his chin while he thought. A minute later he said, “The police get involved, Ada throws a major temper tantrum that becomes some sort of physical altercation, she fights with you and/or her family, refuses to pay her bill, or otherwise sabotages the event she’s contracted. Is that good enough?”
Bernie nodded and looked at Libby.
“Works for me,” Libby said.
“Okay,” Sean said as he and his daughters shook hands. “It’s a deal.” Then he laughed. “I’m going to enjoy watching you girls bait those hooks.”
“And Libby and I are going to enjoy furniture shopping,” Bernie threw back at him.
“Not going to happen,” Sean told Bernie, picking up the remote and turning up the sound on the TV. As he did he thought about the old saying about a leopard not being able to change its spots. He guessed his daughters would just have to find that out the hard way. Heaven only knows, he’d done everything in his power to warn them.
Chapter 3
Two weeks later
It was a clear, windless night when Bernie and Libby set out for Ada Sinclair’s house. They’d warmed up the van first, because Mathilda didn’t like it when the temperature hovered in the single digits. Bernie and Libby didn’t like it, either, but no one was warming them up—not tonight, anyway.
“At least it’s not snowing out,” Libby observed, rubbing her hands together to get her circulation going.
She had gloves on, but it didn’t seem to matter. The tips of her fingers were burning from the cold.
“Not yet anyway,” Bernie replied, pointing to the sky. A sliver of a moon was half hidden behind one of the clouds drifting in.
“I thought it didn’t snow when it got this cold,” Libby said as she watched her breath make clouds in the air.
“Evidently, you thought wrong,” her sister replied. The weatherman had predicted another four to six inches of snow later this evening.
“Maybe the weatherman is mistaken,” Libby said.
Bernie sighed. “Maybe.” But she doubted it. Winter had officially just started and she was ready for it to be over. “Hopefully, we’ll make it back before the snow starts.” Mathilda didn’t do well in the snow, even with snow tires, which was why they carried bags of cat litter in the back of the van this time of year. “At least we don’t have to get up early tomorrow morning,” Bernie said, trying to look on the bright side.
Libby grunted as she stowed the last of the cartons of groceries into the van and shut the door. The shop had closed at two today—a tradition their mother had started and they’d carried on—and wouldn’t reopen until the third of January. “I hate driving on New Year’s Eve,” Libby grumbled as she walked around to the driver’s side. “You never know who’s going to be out on the road.” Which was why they’d started their tradition of staying in.
Bernie got into the van’s passenger side and fastened her seat belt. “Personally, I’m looking forward to this. We’re going to meet a side of the family we didn’t know we had. How exciting is that?”
“Maybe we don’t want to meet them,” Libby retorted, thinking about her father’s grimaces whenever the Sinclair name had come up. What did he know that she and her sister didn’t? “Maybe Mom was right when she cut off contact. She usually was.”
“But she could hold a grudge like no one’s business,” Bernie reminded her sister.
“That’s true,” Libby conceded, thinking back to the battle with their next-door neighbor over a missing garbage can cover.
A Catered New Year's Eve Page 2