Libby’s head shot up. “We will?”
“Yes,” Bernie firmly declared. “We will.”
Sean rubbed his hands together. “It will be my pleasure to accept,” he said.
“Bernie, are you nuts?” Libby demanded.
“Not at all,” Bernie said.
Libby threw her arms up in the air. “Tell me why we’re doing this?”
Bernie pointed at the sofa. “Because I just really, really, really want to get rid of this sofa.” She paused for a moment and added, “And get Dad a new chair.”
“My chair?” Sean squawked. “Who said anything about my chair?”
Bernie smiled. “Having second thoughts, are we, about doubling down?”
Stung, Sean straightened his back and stuck out his chin. “I most certainly am not,” he declared. Then it was his turn to smile as he thought of the possibilities. “Maybe we’ll go out to Montauk and make a weekend out of it. I always liked deep-sea fishing off the charter boats out there.” He cracked his knuckles. “I look forward to it.”
“What are we betting on anyway?” Libby asked plaintively.
Bernie told her.
Chapter 12
It was snowing when Ada called Bernie at six the next morning and it was still snowing when she and Libby left to meet Ada at ten-thirty. As promised, the storm had arrived at three a.m. and settled itself in for a long visit, bringing with it swirling eddies of flakes that clung to the trees and the lampposts and blanketed the streets and the cars, turning everything clean and white.
Due to the weather, the sisters had expected a light morning turnout at the shop but that hadn’t been the case. At seven o’clock the line had become a scrum as people grabbed their coffee, pastry, and/or breakfast sandwiches and headed for the train station to begin their commute to work. Judging by the number of customers in the store, it looked as if the holidays were officially over.
“I guess people have gotten used to the weather,” Libby observed as she made more coffee. At one point, she and Bernie had considered serving pour-overs as an option, but the logistics didn’t add up. People wanted to get their coffee and get out. Usually they wanted dark roast in the morning and afternoon and a light roast or decaf in the evening when they stopped in to get dinner to take home.
“Either that or they don’t have any more days off,” Bernie replied absentmindedly as she surveyed what was left in the display case, which wasn’t much. They had sold out of most of their pastries and almost all of their muffins. They definitely needed to make double batches this evening. The only thing that hadn’t sold were the bran muffins. As per usual. They had almost a full tray left. Bernie pointed to them and said, “Libby, either we need to play around with this recipe and see if we can come up with something sexier or we need to stop baking them.”
“Mrs. Congel will be sad if we do that,” Libby noted, which was her usual comment when the bran muffin subject was broached.
Bernie made a face. “Come on, you know that’s just an excuse,” she replied. She and her sister had this conversation at least once every two months. “You just don’t want to retire them because they were Mom’s recipe.”
“That’s partially true,” Libby admitted. When she made her mom’s recipes she felt as if Rose was in the kitchen with her.
“Libby, Mom would understand. She would know that there are fashions in food like everything else. Maybe in a couple of years, bran will be the new big thing, eclipsing gluten-free, and we’ll bring the recipe back. With a few tweaks,” Bernie said. “You have to admit the muffins are pretty bland. And heavy.”
“And Mrs. Congel and Mrs. Han and Mr. Schimmer? What about them?” Libby protested. “Because they will not be happy. They’ve been eating those muffins since Mom opened the shop.”
“We’ll bake a special tin for them. How’s that?”
“I’ll think about it,” Libby said grudgingly. She knew Bernie was right, she knew she was being too sentimental, but she just wasn’t ready to stop making the bran muffins quite yet. “Maybe in the spring,” she conceded.
Bernie nodded. Progress, she thought as she went into the back to get the tray of apricot scones to fill in the empty spot that had been occupied by the corn muffins. Now that was her mom’s recipe, too, but the corn muffins hadn’t gone out of fashion.
In fact, just the opposite. They had people calling up to reserve theirs if they were going to be late because they were always gone by eight-thirty. The only reason they had extra today was because Mrs. Randall had canceled her order. Funny how these things worked, Bernie reflected as she took out the empty corn muffin tray and slid in the tray with the scones.
“Maybe we should think about making some savory tarts for breakfast,” Bernie said, straightening up. “You know, galettes.” She’d seen a couple for sale at the coffee shop, The Roaster, two blocks over and been impressed by their looks, messy circles of dough folded around sautéed combinations of gleaming potatoes, carrots, and onions layered with ricotta and feta, and garnished with oil-burnished radicchio leaves. “We could make some with eggs and some without. I think they would be a hit with the vegetarian crowd. Something different.”
“I think you’re right,” Libby said. “And they’d be a good way to use up our dough scraps.”
“And our leftovers,” Bernie noted.
“Waste not, want not,” both sisters chanted together and laughed. The saying had been their mother’s mantra. And it certainly applied in the food business. At least if you wanted to stay in business it did.
Bernie looked at her watch. It was eight-thirty. Given the weather conditions, she and Libby had an hour before they had to leave to meet Ada. Plenty of time to phone in their order to Scilia’s Fruits and Vegetables; do some paperwork; start the barbecue brisket, tonight’s special; make the dough for parsnip pie; and shovel the walk in front of the shop yet again.
Fifty minutes later, the sisters had just finished with their tasks and gone out front to tell Amber and Googie they were taking off when Ada’s uncle, Henry, burst through the shop door and headed straight for Bernie and Libby, colliding with Mrs. Livingston, who was standing in front of the display case trying to decide between an apple cranberry muffin and a cheese Danish. She and Mrs. Paxton and Mrs. Elderberry turned and stared at him.
Sinclair was wearing a jacket that was too light for the weather; a long, maroon wool scarf wrapped around his neck; khaki pants; and regular shoes, which he stamped as he walked, leaving little clots of snow behind him on the floor Googie had just mopped.
This can’t be good, Libby thought, taking in the ugly expression on Henry Sinclair’s face as she asked him if anything was wrong.
Ada’s uncle grunted and disregarded her question. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Where is who?” Bernie asked, genuinely at a loss.
“Ada, of course.”
“I have no idea,” Bernie replied. Which was true. She knew where Ada was going to be, but she didn’t know where she was right now. “Why? What’s going on?”
Ada’s uncle looked from one sister to the other and tapped his nose. “You’re lying!” he shouted. “I can smell it.”
“Ah, ‘the odor of mendacity,’ ” said Bernie, quoting a line from Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. “I know it well.”
Henry Sinclair took a step toward her. “Don’t get smart with me,” he growled. “It’s imperative that I find my niece.”
“Imperative,” Bernie mocked. “Not important, but imperative. Wow. Do you mind telling me why?”
“Yeah, I do mind telling you why,” Sinclair replied, mimicking Bernie’s voice. “I mind because it’s none of your damned business.” And he took another step toward her, made his hands into fists, and brought them up to his sides.
Bernie was just thinking that sometimes it didn’t pay to be a wiseass when Googie stepped out from behind the counter. “Boss, you want me to call the cops?” he asked her.
Bernie shook her head. “That
won’t be necessary,” she told him. “Mr. Sinclair was just leaving.” She turned to Ada’s uncle. “Weren’t you?”
Henry Sinclair moistened his lips. “I need to speak to her,” he said in a more subdued tone of voice.
“We’ll tell her if we see her,” Libby told him.
“Aha.” Sinclair shook a finger at her. His voice rose again. “So, you are seeing Ada,” he exclaimed while Mrs. Paxton’s, Mrs. Livingston’s, and Mrs. Elderberry’s eyes widened at the spectacle that was taking place in front of them.
“I said if, not when,” Libby told him as she reflected that thanks to Mrs. Paxton the entire town of Longely would know about this exchange within an hour or less. “Now,” she continued, “unless you want to buy something, I suggest that you leave or Googie will call the cops.”
Henry opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then opened it again and said, “I need to talk to her. You make sure and tell her that.”
“And how is she going to do that?” Bernie asked as Ada’s uncle spun around on his heel and marched out of A Little Taste of Heaven, slamming the door shut behind him.
“You two lead the most fascinating lives,” Mrs. Paxton trilled once the front door had closed. She put her hand to her heart. “I was afraid that man was going to commit an act of violence against you. My heart is still racing.”
“Mine too,” Mrs. Elderberry said. “This is the most excitement since the washing machine overflowed at the Laundromat.”
“And my shoulder is bruised,” Mrs. Livingston said, pointing to it. “That man certainly doesn’t seem very nice. He didn’t even say excuse me!” she noted indignantly.
“He’s upset,” Bernie said. “Very upset. My apologies, ladies. Whatever you want is on the house.”
“I couldn’t,” Mrs. Paxton twittered.
“That’s unnecessary,” Mrs. Elderberry said.
Mrs. Livingston didn’t say anything.
“It will be our pleasure, won’t it, Libby?” Bernie said.
“Definitely,” Libby agreed.
“What is going on?” Mrs. Livingston asked.
“Truthfully, I have no idea,” Bernie told her as she stared out of the shop’s front window. She couldn’t see Henry Sinclair. The moment he’d stepped out onto the street, he’d vanished into a curtain of white. Bernie turned and looked at the clock on the wall. It was time to get going.
“That was interesting,” Bernie said to Libby on the way up the stairs to say good-bye to their dad.
“Well, the ladies loved it. Food and drama. What could be better? And for free too.”
Bernie laughed because what her sister said was true. “They’ll probably come back tomorrow to see what else is going to happen.”
“They’ll come back anyway. They’re here every day.” Then Libby fell silent. She didn’t say anymore because by that time they were going into their flat and she didn’t want to talk about what had happened in the shop in front of her dad.
They said their good-byes to Sean and put on their parkas and boots and gloves and went outside. Libby brushed the snow off Mathilda while Bernie started the van up. Five minutes later they were on their way.
What they didn’t do was pay any attention to the silver Camry that pulled in behind them after they’d gone half a block.
There was no reason to.
Not that they could have seen anything but the headlights anyway.
Chapter 13
“Isn’t this ever going to stop?” Bernie groused as she drove down Prince Street. They were headed for the first service stop on the thruway going north from New York City. Hopefully, that road would be plowed because the side streets in Longely were pretty bad at the moment.
“Not till tomorrow evening,” Libby informed her sister. “At least that’s what the weatherman is saying. He’s predicting a foot and a half of snow.”
Bernie groaned. “Jeez. You’d think we were living in Upstate New York instead of Westchester,” she complained as she fiddled with the heater, trying to coax a little more hot air out of it and failing. “On the bright side, at least Mathilda’s windshield wipers are working,” she noted as she turned them on to high.
“If they weren’t, we wouldn’t be driving,” Libby replied. “Which might not be a bad thing,” she reflected. “We could always turn around,” she added.
“We will if it gets really bad,” Bernie assured her.
“Define bad,” Libby challenged. Over the years, she’d learned that it paid to specify parameters when dealing with her sister.
“Worse than it is now,” Bernie replied, which, Libby reflected, really wasn’t an answer at all.
Then Libby thought of something else. “Maybe Ada won’t even be there,” she said. “Maybe she started out and turned around.”
Bernie leaned forward so she could see better out of the windshield. “Why don’t you call her and find out.” She certainly didn’t want to be out on the road if she didn’t have to. She nodded toward her bag. “My phone is in the outside pocket.”
Libby leaned over and got it. Then she dialed. The call went straight to voicemail. She left a message telling Ada to call back and hung up.
“What do you think?” she said.
“She’s probably on her way,” Bernie replied, keeping her eyes glued to the road. A moment later she added, “We need to do this. We need to hear what Ada has to say, especially now.”
“Because of her uncle?”
“Because of him and other reasons,” Bernie told Libby. “I wonder what got into him all of a sudden?”
“Peggy Graceson’s death? The notebook?”
“He didn’t seem to react to it when Ada was standing up there reading her excerpt,” Bernie pointed out.
“Maybe he’s a good actor. Maybe there really is something damaging in the notebook. Or maybe he’s upset about something that has nothing to do with what I just said.” Libby frowned. “I can hardly wait till Dad hears about his visit. I can see the smile on his face now.”
“Having second thoughts about the bet?”
“And third and fourth ones,” Libby noted.
Bernie looked at her sister, then turned her eyes back to the road. “You could have said no, but you didn’t.”
“You took me by surprise.”
Bernie made a rude noise.
“I’m sorry, but you should have discussed it with me first.”
“I thought we had,” Bernie said.
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Then you should have told me. I’m not a mind reader.”
Libby bit back her retort and changed the subject. “Why did Ada pick a service area to meet anyway?” she asked Bernie. “Why not meet at the mall? Or a diner?”
“My best guess?”
“Well, Bernie, certainly not your worst one.”
“Possibly because this service area is closer than the mall,” Bernie replied after a moment’s thought. “More convenient for her.” The mall was half an hour away.
“Which means Ada’s staying around here,” Libby hypothesized.
Bernie nodded. “And the service area has some of the same advantages a mall has. Lots of vehicles. Lots of people around. Easy to get in. Easy to get out of.”
“I get it, but so what?” Libby asked. “What does Ada expect to happen? Does she think we’re going to blow her in to the cops?”
Bernie stopped at a red light. “From her actions, I’d say she appears to be entertaining that possibility, but that’s ridiculous.” Her dad had spoken to Clyde, his friend at the Longely PD. According to him, there wasn’t a warrant out for her arrest. The police just wanted to talk to her.
“There isn’t a warrant out yet.” Libby took a sip of hot chocolate and was setting her cup back down in the cup holder when an idea occurred to her. “Unless her mom reported her car stolen. Then there would be.”
“Do you think Linda would do that?” Bernie asked as she took a sip of the coffee she’d brought along. Although she envied L
ibby her hot chocolate, she was trying to lose the three pounds she’d gained over the holidays and somehow hot chocolate made with heavy cream, milk, and good-quality chocolate didn’t seem the way to go.
Libby shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t have a clue.”
“I think Linda would have mentioned it to us if she had,” Bernie noted. “God only knows she’s told us everything else.”
“Don’t remind me,” Libby said, looking out the window at a woman standing on the front steps of her house watching her kids and dog run zigzags in the front yard. She remembered when she and her sister used to build snowmen on the sidewalk in front of the shop. Back then snowstorms had been the best things ever. “At least someone is enjoying this weather,” she observed.
Bernie sighed. “I just wish Ada would come home so we didn’t have to speak to her mom twice a day. That lady never shuts up. Anyway, Linda’s got another car.”
“Well, she is worried.”
“About her daughter or her vehicle?”
“Both, I would say.” Libby turned from the window. “Do you think Dad would report us if we did something like that?” she asked.
“Ran off with his car?” Bernie clarified.
“Yes,” Libby replied.
“No,” Bernie said, slowing down. She had been following the red taillights of the vehicle in front of her, but he had turned off and now, without a guide, she was having trouble seeing the road. Everything was a blanket of white. “He’d wait till we came home and then he’d ground us for the rest of our lives—metaphorically speaking.” Bernie stopped talking as she slowed down to fifteen miles an hour because the last thing she wanted to do was hit the curb and pop a wheel. Then she spotted another pair of taillights in front of Mathilda and picked up speed. Luckily the thruway entrance wasn’t that far away and from there things would hopefully get better. “Anyway,” she continued, “why would Ada call us and ask us to meet if she thinks we’d do something like that in the first place? That makes no sense.”
“Nothing about this makes sense,” Libby reflected gloomily as she finished up her almond croissant, which was excellent, if she had to say so herself. Usually she didn’t like baking with marzipan. Most of the commercial brands she’d tried over the years were too sweet, but this one was quite wonderful. You could taste the almonds.
A Catered New Year's Eve Page 9