“I wonder what that was about?” Libby asked as she cleaned off Mathilda’s passenger-side windows for the second time that morning.
“Me too,” Bernie remarked after she’d cleaned off the side windows on the driver’s side and gotten into the van. She started her up. Mathilda’s engine coughed and sputtered and finally caught as Libby climbed into the van and shut the door behind her. It didn’t close and Libby slammed it shut while Bernie turned on the windshield wipers. An inch of snow flew off the window. Libby fastened her seat belt.
“I can’t believe what Ada said about the notebook,” Libby said.
“Well, Ada’s creative,” Bernie observed. “I’ll give her that.”
“Those are not the words I would use,” Libby noted. “This is like one of those puzzles where there’s a box within a box.”
Bernie just grunted. She was thinking about the drive home.
Chapter 15
Two days later, Sean was watching the early morning local news on the television when he called to his daughters. “Get in here,” he cried. “You have to listen to this.” After which he turned the volume up on the television.
“What?” Bernie asked as she came out of the bathroom drying her hair with a towel. Somehow, she’d managed to get butter in it—how, she wasn’t sure.
“Everything okay?” Libby inquired as she joined her sister in the living room.
Both had come up from downstairs a half hour ago, where they’d finished baking banana chocolate chip muffins, cinnamon raisin buns, and ricotta, feta cheese, and spinach galettes for the morning rush; making coffee; restocking coolers; and starting the prep work for the lunch salads.
Sean pointed to the television. “Just listen.” And he made the sound even louder.
An announcer was sitting behind the desk, hands folded in front of him, brow furrowed, every hair shellacked in place, a professionally serious expression on his face, reading off the teleprompter.
He said, “This just in. The body that was found early yesterday morning on Hudson Street by a man out walking his dog has just been officially identified. It appears that Henry Sinclair, a prominent local citizen, was the victim of a hit-and-run accident. The police are looking for any information having to do with this incident. If you have any please call the tip line,” and a number flashed across the screen. “Your information will remain confidential.” When the number finished running, the announcer started on the next story: the missing money from the PTA fund-raiser for resodding the Hollingsworth baseball field.
“Holy cow,” Libby said as Sean turned the sound down.
Bernie shook her head. “Holy cow is right.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Sean said, “although I can think of several others that would apply.” He took a sip of the coffee Libby had brought him earlier in the morning. It was French roast with a touch of cream and two sugars. Just the way he liked it. He sighed in satisfaction and put the mug down on the side table. Then he grinned and said, “Suckers. You shouldn’t have doubled down. Always walk away from the table when you’re ahead,” he added, a smug expression on his face. “Not that you ever were ahead in this case. I told you getting involved with the Sinclairs would be a mistake, and boy was I right.”
“Henry Sinclair’s death could be an accident,” Libby protested.
Sean raised an eyebrow expressing his opinion of Libby’s comment.
“It could be,” Bernie said, taking Libby’s side. She figured it was the least she could do given the circumstances. “It’s possible. Maybe someone didn’t see him walking on the road. It was still snowing yesterday morning and it’s dark out. Maybe whoever hit him didn’t realize what he or she had done. It’s happened before,” she insisted in the face of her dad’s expression of disbelief. Then she conjured a different scenario. “Or maybe the person who did it was drunk or high or was on parole and fled the scene.”
“Or maybe Ada ran him down,” Sean said, thinking about the story his daughters had told him.
“That’s a big leap,” Bernie declared.
“Not to me,” Sean said. “To me it’s the obvious choice given what you guys witnessed.”
“Obvious isn’t always the correct choice,” Bernie told him.
“Most of the time it is,” Sean countered. “In my experience, A usually leads to B, which leads to C, etcetera, etcetera, and so forth and so on.”
“I just don’t see it,” Bernie said, clicking her tongue against her teeth as she considered her dad’s suggestion.
“Why not?” Sean said. “You said Ada and her uncle had a fight. You said she was terrified. It occurs to me that maybe she decided to finish her uncle off before he did her in.”
Libby jumped into the discussion. “Now, that’s assuming a lot. Just because the uncle was angry doesn’t mean he was going to kill Ada.”
“I didn’t say he was. I said maybe Ada thought he was, with the emphasis on the word thought. People make bad decisions when they’re scared,” Sean told Libby. “They do things they shouldn’t. It happens all the time. Especially when they feel alone and cornered, which describes Ada.” Sean picked up his mug, took another sip of coffee, and lowered it again. “On another subject, I’m surprised the police aren’t knocking on our door wanting to talk to you guys.”
“Why should they?” Libby asked her dad.
Bernie answered for him. “Because of the fight in the service area. We were witnesses.”
Sean nodded. “That’s exactly right.”
“How are the police going to know?” Libby asked. “They don’t know we were there.”
“I have one word for you,” Sean said. “Video cams.”
Libby turned to Bernie. “You can never leave anything well enough alone, can you?”
“No risk, no reward,” Bernie shot back.
“What reward?” Libby demanded.
“Doing the right thing. Family unity,” Bernie answered.
“Please,” Libby said, thinking of being on a fishing boat. Just the thought made her nauseous.
Bernie went over and gave her sister a quick hug. “Hey. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. And anyway, there’s another way to look at this,” Bernie said after a moment had elapsed.
Sean cocked his head to one side. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Yes,” Libby added. “Do tell. I’m all ears.”
“Okay then, ye of little faith, how about that this is proof of what Ada said?”
Sean snorted. “How do you get that, Bernie?”
“Simple,” Bernie continued. “You can’t say that the similarities between the crimes that happened ten years ago and the ones that just happened now aren’t striking,” she noted. “Two people hit by cars, two people poisoned.”
“Possibly,” Sean put in. “But we don’t know if Ada’s dad’s death was deliberate or if he took too many painkillers and drank too much. And as for Grover’s death, that could have been an accident. Sometimes, as Freud said, ‘a cigar is just a cigar.’ ”
“True,” Libby argued. “But the timing is very suggestive.”
“However,” Sean said, “following that line of reasoning could make Ada responsible for all four deaths. I thought your object was to prove her innocence.”
“Give me a break,” Bernie objected. “She was twelve when the first two murders—”
“If that’s what they were,” Sean pointed out.
“Were committed,” Bernie said, finishing her sentence.
“Ever heard of The Bad Seed?” Sean shot back.
Bernie rolled her eyes. “That was a movie.”
“Some movies are based on fact.”
“And this is not one of them.”
Sean grinned. “Just playing devil’s advocate,” he said. “I agree. It sounds implausible. The whole thing sounds implausible. What’s the motive for someone killing four people in pairs ten years apart?”
“Something to do with the business?” Libby hypothesized. “They’re about to
go public now, which means everyone involved is going to get lots and lots of money.”
“And ten years ago?” Sean prodded. “What happened then?”
Libby stifled a sneeze. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with a cold. “I think the business was on the verge of going under at that point in time,” she told him.
Bernie shifted her weight from her right to her left foot and started unwrapping her towel turban. “Or Peggy’s and Jeff Sinclair’s deaths could be a copycat killing,” Bernie suggested.
Sean nodded his approval. “So, what are you going to do now?” Sean asked.
Bernie draped the towel over her arm and began combing her hair out with her fingers. “Let me think about it,” she said and went back into the bathroom to finish putting her makeup on.
She came back fifteen minutes later holding up her cell phone.
“What?” Libby said. “Why are you showing me that?”
Bernie tapped the cell phone’s face. “Read the text,” she said, handing the phone to her sister.
Libby did. The message read: I didn’t do it. Help me. It was from Ada.
“Great,” Libby said as she handed the phone back to Bernie.
“We owe her,” Bernie said as she slipped the phone into the pocket of her vintage 1950s poodle applique felt skirt. For some reason, wearing it cheered her up. “She’s family.”
“She isn’t and we don’t,” Libby replied.
“Yes we do,” Bernie argued.
“Owe whom what?” Sean asked even though he had a pretty good idea what his younger daughter was talking about.
“Ada, of course,” Bernie said.
Sean gave her a look of disgust. “I was afraid that’s what you were saying.” He finished the last of his coffee. “Does the phrase ‘There’s a sucker born every minute’ mean anything to you?”
“Not really,” Bernie told him.
“Then it should. See,” Sean said and he waved his finger in the air for emphasis, “this is exactly the type of thing your mother was talking about. This is what I warned you against.”
“And you were right,” Bernie told him.
“That doesn’t help,” Sean replied.
“If we can’t shed some light on this in a couple of days we’ll back off,” Bernie promised, hoping to placate her dad. “How’s that?”
“Don’t lie,” Sean reproved.
“I wasn’t,” Bernie protested.
“Then what were you doing?” he asked.
“Being optimistic,” Bernie answered.
Sean frowned. “Ha. So you say. Because I’ve never known you to back off anything once you get started.”
“Gee, Dad,” Bernie replied. “I wonder where I got that trait from?”
“Your mother,” Sean answered promptly.
“I was thinking more of you,” Bernie said.
“She was way more stubborn than I am,” Sean said.
Libby snorted.
“Well, she was,” Sean insisted.
“You know what you should do,” Libby said, changing the subject.
“Take up golf,” Sean suggested. “Learn bridge. Buy another car. Yes, I’ll do that.”
“I’m not even touching that one,” Libby said, continuing on with what she’d been about to say. “Maybe you could speak to that friend of yours who headed the Hollingsworth PD. Maybe he can tell us what happened the first time around.”
“Are you talking about Bill McCready?” Sean asked as Cindy the cat came out of Sean’s bedroom, where she’d been asleep on his pillow; stretched; and jumped on his lap.
Libby nodded.
Sean corrected her. “He wasn’t my friend.”
“He was your colleague,” Libby said.
Sean began to pet Cindy, his fingers ruffling her fur. “If I recall, he wasn’t a particularly chatty person,” Sean said. “Not to mention the fact that we didn’t always see eye to eye. At all,” he added, remembering the credit union robbery and how McCready had done something totally different than he said he was going to do—he’d called it improvising; Sean had called it screwing up—which had resulted in the robbers getting away.
“He still would be more likely to talk to you than us,” Bernie said, pointing to herself and Libby. “Even if we are more charming.”
“Ha.” Sean put his palms in the air. “Then answer me this. Why would I call him when I don’t think you should be doing this? Tell me that,” he challenged.
Libby smiled and gave the only answer possible. “Because you’re the best dad ever and you’ve always told us that justice counts.”
“I’ll think about it,” Sean grumbled.
“Please, Dad,” Bernie begged.
“I said I’ll see,” Sean told Bernie, playing hard to get.
But he knew that he would. He could never resist his girls.
And Bernie and Libby knew it, too.
Five minutes later, he gave it up, called, and set up a meeting with McCready.
Chapter 16
Libby’s boyfriend, Marvin, pulled the hearse up in front of A Little Taste of Heaven and kept the engine running as he waited for Sean Simmons to come downstairs. It had warmed up since yesterday, the temperature was now a balmy twenty-five degrees, the sun was shining, and it wasn’t snowing out. Thank God for that since the hearse didn’t do well in the snow, Marvin reflected. Snow tires would probably help but his dad was too cheap to buy them.
“Who’s going to get hurt anyway?” he always cackled when Marvin brought the topic up. Marvin was thinking about the implications of his father’s remark when Sean stepped outside.
Marvin watched Sean frown as he carefully picked his way across the sidewalk to the hearse with the aid of a cane. He knew Libby’s dad wouldn’t be happy riding in the hearse; he never was. “I’ll ride in one of these soon enough,” he always said. Marvin had planned on picking up Libby’s dad in his car, but, unfortunately, it wouldn’t start. He’d called and told Libby, but Libby had told him to pick up her dad anyway, so here Marvin was, faced with an even more irritable than usual Mr. Simmons.
“What happened to your car?” Sean demanded as he opened the door to the hearse and got in.
“It’s in the shop.” Marvin nodded toward the cane. “That’s new.”
“Tripped over the damned cat,” Sean growled as he settled himself in his seat, laid his cane beside him, leaned over, and closed the door. It shut with a solid thunk. “Don’t know why we have the rotten animal anyway,” he muttered as he fished his pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket and took one out. “I hate cats.”
“Well, that may be, but you love this one,” Marvin told him.
Sean glared at Marvin. “Did Libby tell you that?” he snapped.
Marvin didn’t reply, having decided no good could come from answering.
Sean lit his cigarette and thought about what was coming. He could hear McCready now. Bad enough to have to be driven around like some old codger, but to show up in this? Sean shook his head. Maybe spending six thousand dollars to get his old car up and running wasn’t such a bad deal after all despite what his daughters thought. So what if it didn’t make financial sense? So what if he could use Uber? Screw that. He was tired of being carted around like a sack of potatoes.
“We can wait till tomorrow if you want,” Marvin offered. “My car will be done by then.” The starter needed to be replaced.
“No,” Sean said after considering the possibility for a moment. “We’ll go now. I could be dead by then.”
“Why do you say things like that?” Marvin asked.
“Because we’re driving in a death mobile,” Sean answered. Then he took a puff of his cigarette and gave Marvin directions.
“I thought this guy lived in Hollingsworth,” Marvin said as he put the hearse in drive.
“He did,” Sean replied, cracking the window and blowing smoke into the cold air. Marvin’s dad complained if the hearse smelled of tobacco, not that the passengers would care. “Evidently he moved.”
Marvin sighed. It was going to take him a lot longer to get to McCready than he’d planned for. Hollingsworth took twenty minutes, Frog Hollow would take at least forty, and he had things to do back out at the funeral home. Actually, it took Marvin a little over an hour. Even though the roads had been plowed, there were still icy spots and Marvin drove below the speed limit, ignoring the vehicles zooming by him, because the last thing he wanted to do was slide into a tree; they’d already passed two fender benders. If he did, his father would never let him hear the end of it.
Frog Hollow was a new development that had been built around a pond that up until a couple of years ago had been in the middle of a cow pasture. A New York City developer had bought the property and now the cows and the pasture were gone, replaced by rows of fourteen-hundred-square-foot two-bedroom, one-bathroom cottages, painted in varying shades of gray. Plopped down in the middle of a bulldozed field that looked a lot better with a layer of snow covering it than it did without it, they were intended for people ready to downsize.
“I wonder if there are any frogs left in the pond?” Sean mused as they stopped at the gate.
“Doubtful,” Marvin replied after he told the guard who they were there to see. The guard shut his window and called it in. A moment later, he opened the window, told them how to get where they were going, and went back to texting.
“I think I’d slit my throat if I had to live here,” Sean commented, taking in the gray houses and the gray sky.
Marvin just grunted. He was too busy trying to figure out where he was going. It took him ten minutes to find 1928. He’d gotten lost because he’d forgotten what the guard had told him and the houses and the roads were mirror images of one another and, to make things worse, some of the street signs hadn’t been installed yet.
McCready was waiting for them on the stoop when they arrived. When Sean had known him, he’d been a dapper dresser who’d worked out at the gym three times a week, worn Hickey Freeman suits, silk ties, and had a buzz cut. Now he had a gut that made him look as if he were into his seventh month and was wearing paint-splattered jeans, a grungy parka over a black stretched-out T-shirt, and needed a shave and a haircut. Retirement had not been kind to McCready, Sean decided, but then he considered how he must look to McCready. It was a depressing thought that he decided not to pursue.
A Catered New Year's Eve Page 11