“What don’t I know?” Bernie inquired, as she put a carton filled with takeout containers on one of the prep tables, having just come back from a quick trip to BJ’s for paper goods.
“Vicky was saying that you knew where Ada Sinclair was and I was telling her that you didn’t,” Libby answered, recapping the conversation. “She seems pretty intent on finding her,” Libby added.
Bernie turned toward Vicky. “My sister is right. I have no idea where she took off to,” she told her.
“That’s not what I heard,” Vicky said.
“Who did you hear it from?” Bernie asked. “Because whoever you heard it from doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”
“She heard it from Henry Sinclair,” Libby told Bernie.
Vicky shook a finger at Libby. “I can talk for myself.”
Libby held her hands up in front of her and took a step back. “Sorry.”
“He probably wasn’t the most reliable source of information,” Bernie observed, “considering he was the one that spooked Ada in the first place. When did you talk to him?”
Vicky fiddled with her gold chain instead of answering.
“Obviously, it had to be before he died.” Bernie slipped out of her black-and-tan-checked cloth coat and hung it on a hook attached to the wall near the door. “Did he come to your house looking for Ada?” she asked, as she took off her hat and stuffed it in the coat’s pocket.
“None of your business,” Vicky told her.
“Why would he do that?” Bernie asked Vicky, smiling at her. “I’m just curious. It seems like such an odd thing to do, considering.”
“Considering what?” Vicky demanded.
Bernie answered slowly. “Well, it’s just that I didn’t get the impression that you and Ada got along. In fact, I think that’s the last place she’d show up. It’s certainly the last place I’d go if I were looking for her.”
Vicky touched the base of her throat. “Is there a point to this?”
“Yeah,” Bernie replied, “there is. I think you’re making the thing with Henry up.”
A dot of color appeared on Vicky’s cheeks. “You’re making a mistake,” she told Bernie.
“How’s that?” Bernie inquired.
“Taking Ada’s side. Not telling me where I can find her.”
“Why do you want to find her so badly anyway?” Bernie asked. “Tell me and maybe we can help.”
Vicky’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “I think you’ve done enough already.”
“If you feel that way, why are you here?” Bernie asked.
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have come,” Vicky Sinclair told the sisters.
“Then why did you?” Libby asked.
Vicky shrugged. “It was a bad idea.”
Bernie took a step forward. “Maybe you’re looking for Ada’s dad’s notebook.”
Vicky snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” Bernie told her.
Vicky shifted her coat to her other arm. “Ada didn’t like Peggy, you know,” Vicky told her. “They had a big fight.”
“I heard,” Bernie replied.
“Which is why the police are looking for her.”
“How did they find out about the fight?” Bernie asked Vicky.
“Someone told them. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Libby said. “I think my sister is asking who it was.”
“What difference does it make?” Vicky replied.
“It could make quite a bit of difference if what Ada says is true. If someone is trying to frame her,” Bernie said.
Vicky glared at Bernie and Libby. “She’s a congenital liar and troublemaker and if our sale gets derailed because of you and your sister,” she said, “well, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”
“Good to know,” Libby chimed in.
Bernie shook her head. She wasn’t following Vicky Sinclair’s logic. “What do we have to do with your IPO?”
“Think about it,” Vicky answered.
Bernie did. “Bad publicity could derail the sale?”
Vicky Sinclair clapped. “Very good. Now you’re getting it. Ada needs help. She needs to go somewhere she can get it.”
Bernie studied Vicky for a moment, then shook her head. “You want to commit Ada? Is that why you want to find her?”
“That’s none of your business,” Vicky Sinclair replied, her voice rising.
Bernie put her hands on her hips. “I think maybe it is.”
“I’m serious,” Vicky told her.
“So am I,” Bernie replied.
Vicky Sinclair looked from one sister to the other, pivoted on her high-heeled boot, and stalked toward the prep room door without saying anything else.
“That was rather rude,” Libby observed. “You think Vicky Sinclair wants what she said she wants?” Libby asked her sister.
“Yeah, I do,” Bernie replied. “I think she wants Ada out of the way. I think she’s afraid Ada’s going to create some sort of scene, like she did the last time. Investors don’t like to invest in companies with lots of drama.”
“Or maybe Vicky wants that notebook and she thinks Ada has it,” Libby hypothesized.
“The notebook Ada is using for bait?” Bernie said.
“It certainly is effective,” Libby observed. “A little too effective.”
Another thought struck Bernie. “Do you think Ada is lying about that?” she asked her sister. “Do you think the notebook has something in it? Something that proves what Ada’s been saying?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Libby commented as she reached in her pants pocket, took out two squares of chocolate, unwrapped them, and handed a square to Bernie. Then she popped the other one in her mouth while she considered what had happened since New Year’s Eve. “I can definitely understand why Mom severed her ties with the Sinclairs. They really are crazy making.”
Bernie picked a cat hair off her black turtleneck sweater. “What can I say, Dad was right.”
“For sure,” Libby agreed.
“What interests me is the notebook. If there’s nothing in it, why is it of such interest to everyone?”
“Because people think there is something in it, even if there isn’t,” Libby said. “Unless, of course, there is. This whole thing is giving me a headache.”
“I think we’re overthinking this,” Bernie replied.
“Maybe,” Libby replied. “But where is it?”
Bernie clicked her tongue against the front of her teeth while she tried to picture what had happened on the evening that Peggy had died. It was difficult. Everything was muddled. Bernie spoke slowly. “Ada left it on the kitchen table when she went into the living room and it was there when we served the champagne. I remember that.”
“But then afterward, after Peggy was killed and we came back in . . .” Libby said, her voice fading away as she tried to put together a coherent timeline.
Bernie scrunched up her face as she continued willing her memories up. “I don’t remember the notebook being on the table at that point, but it certainly could have been and I didn’t notice it. There was too much going on.”
“Yeah,” Libby said, thinking back to the scene that evening. “Our attention was definitely elsewhere.”
“And by that point Ada had left the house,” Bernie recalled as she spied another cat hair on her other sleeve. She picked it off and deposited it in the trash. The last thing A Little Taste of Heaven needed was for someone to find a cat hair in their chocolate chip cookie. “She didn’t go back in the kitchen. She left through the front door.”
“But she could have doubled back later to get it,” Libby posited.
“That’s true. She could have come in through the garage or the side door. But everyone was there. It would be hard to get in and out without being seen. Not impossible, but definitely difficult. Or,” Bernie raised a hand for emphasis, “another family member could have snuck in and filched the notebook. Tha
t seems more reasonable.”
Libby shook her head. “Too many possibilities and none of them seem to be leading anywhere.” And she pointed to the clock on the wall. “The Sunset Gazette closes at four today. We should go now before something else happens. Who knows? Maybe getting some background information will help us whittle things down.”
“Well, it certainly can’t hurt,” Bernie observed although she wasn’t sure it was going to help that much, either. She’d spoken to the Gazette’s editor last night and the woman had said that offhand she didn’t think they’d run large stories about the events Bernie was asking about, but that she’d pull the relevant issues for them and they were welcome to come and read them if they wanted to.
We’re grasping at straws here, Bernie had thought when she’d hung up. She still thought the same thing now.
Chapter 18
The office of the Sunset Gazette was located on the outskirts of Hollingsworth. Launched twenty-five years ago, the paper was the brainchild of a former ad exec who’d gotten tired of the commute into the city, cashed in his stocks, and taken a chance on his boyhood dream. The Gazette came out twice a month and contained all the local news that was fit to print and some that wasn’t, as the motto on top of the Gazette’s front page proclaimed.
The single-story building the newspaper was housed in had been constructed in 1952, and whenever Bernie passed it on one of her errands she always thought the structure belonged down in Florida. Originally intended as a storage facility for a paper mill, the building had been repurposed when the company had moved down to South Carolina. Now, the flamingo pink cement block structure contained four small businesses, none of which—except for the Sunset Gazette—seemed to stick around for more than six months.
The unplowed parking lot was almost empty when Bernie and Libby drove up, the gray skies making the pink blocks appear forlorn, as if they were pining for sunny skies and warmer temperatures. Bernie carefully maneuvered the van around the mounds of snow, driving in the tracks of previous vehicles, and parked Mathilda next to the entrance.
“It’s gotten colder again,” Libby observed as they got out of the van. She stopped to zip up her jacket.
“It’s the wind,” Bernie answered as she hurried toward the entrance. The door let out a loud creak when Bernie opened it. The linoleum on the four steps down to the hallway, colorless after years of use, was curling up at the steps’ edges, and Bernie and Libby had to be careful not to trip on it as they walked down them. The Gazette’s office was at the end of the hallway.
“I think this would be a perfect setting for a horror movie,” Bernie commented, indicating the flickering fluorescent overhead lights.
Libby didn’t say anything. She just walked faster, picturing a zombie jumping out at her.
Lori Scheu, the woman Bernie had spoken to on the phone yesterday, opened the door when Bernie and Libby were a couple of feet away. Bernie put her at about sixty, which surprised her because Lori Scheu had sounded around forty on the phone. She had a pleasant face framed with curly gray hair. Her glasses were perched on the top of her head and she was wearing her coat and a blue and white scarf wound tightly around her neck.
“I have an electric heater going and it helps, but not enough,” she explained as Libby and Bernie followed her inside the Gazette’s office. While it wasn’t as cold in there as it was outside, it was cold enough. Bernie was surprised her breath wasn’t showing in the air. Maybe it would in another couple of minutes.
“What happened to the heat?” Bernie asked.
“Funny, that’s what I’ve been asking the landlord,” Lori Scheu answered as she led them away from the reception area toward her office. “He keeps telling me he’s going to fix it and doesn’t. Fortunately, we’re moving to the strip mall near the new medical center next week.” She rubbed her hands together to get the circulation going. “They’re demoing this place next month to build a housing complex, so he doesn’t really care.”
She stopped in front of her office. “I guess we stayed too long at the party,” she observed as she led them inside. “Excuse the mess,” she apologized, gesturing to the stacks of books and papers that filled every spare nook and cranny of the small room. “We should have been out of here months ago. Frankly, I don’t come back here at night anymore to finish things up. Too creepy.”
“I can imagine,” Libby said. “I certainly wouldn’t.”
“Thank God for file sharing,” Lori said as she indicated two seats on the other side of the heater. “Sit.”
When Bernie and Libby did, Lori moved the heater closer to them. It was one of those tall columns that blow hot air out and Libby thought it was fighting a valiant fight, but not valiant enough for her to take off her coat and gloves.
“Now then,” Lori said as she reached into her coat pocket, took out a pair of fingerless gloves, and put them on. “After you called last night I tried to remember the incidents you asked about.”
Bernie leaned forward. “And?”
“I’ll be happy to share what I recall, but it isn’t that much,” Lori replied. “You know at the time the deaths occurred they were considered unfortunate, nothing more, and I was having health issues then so I really wasn’t paying close attention.” She pushed the two editions of the Sunset Gazette sitting on her desk toward Bernie and Libby with the tips of her fingers. “Here. Read these first and then we’ll talk.”
“This is it?” Bernie asked, looking at the newspapers. Somehow, she’d expected more.
Lori smiled apologetically. “I told you I didn’t think there’d be all that much,” she said to Bernie. “It’s our publishing cycle,” she explained. “Since we come out every two weeks we tend to focus on the most recent events, and these deaths happened seven and five days before we went to press.”
“So, right in the middle and the beginning,” Libby said.
Lori nodded. “Things that happened earlier tend to get short shrift, unless they’re something major, of course. Like the town librarian running away with the high school coach.”
“That happened?” Bernie asked.
“Nine years ago,” Lori told her. “And to be fair, the news is a small part of the paper. We mostly do a calendar, social events, birth and death announcements, and ads, of course. We’re what you call a throwaway. Did you check the other local papers?”
Bernie nodded. “I did indeed and I didn’t find anything. Evidently, except for you no one else picked the story up.” Then Bernie pulled the paper toward her and began to read.
There was nothing there she didn’t already know. Jeff Sinclair’s and Joel Grover’s deaths hadn’t even made the front page. The article dealing with them was located on the top right-hand side of page five, sandwiched in between a review of the high school production of The Wizard of Oz and a story about the local elementary school chess club.
The story was headlined TRAGEDY STRIKES, the first paragraph of which detailed Ada’s dad’s death and the subsequent fatal auto accident of his partner; the second and third paragraphs went on to mention the roots both men had in the community, talk about the business they’d founded, and mention the charitable organizations they’d been involved in; while the last paragraph featured a number of quotes from surviving family members talking about how much the deceased would be missed.
The article Libby was reading was even shorter and less informative. Published a couple of weeks later and written by Lori, who had also written the first one, it was buried on page fifteen and captioned ACCUSATIONS FOUND BASELESS. The two-paragraph story went on to state that due to an anonymous source the police had opened an investigation into the deaths of Jeff Sinclair and Joel Grover and after a number of interviews they had concluded that the tip they’d received was baseless and that no charges were being filed.
“Can you tell us anything more?” Libby asked as she pushed the paper back in Lori’s direction. “Anything that’s not in the article.”
Lori sighed. “As I said, not too much. I c
an tell you that Ada Sinclair came running in here after she read the second article and screamed at me that the article was a lie and that the police chief was covering things up because he was having an affair with her mother.”
Libby raised an eyebrow. “McCready with Linda Sinclair?”
Lori nodded. “That’s what she said.”
“And did you believe her?” Bernie asked.
“No. Linda and McCready went out after college for a little while,” Lori replied. “They remained friends but they weren’t involved after that.”
“How can you be so sure?” Libby asked.
“It’s a small town; it’s hard to keep secrets here. Anyway, I knew the person he was having an affair with.”
“So, you didn’t believe Ada?” Bernie asked, double checking.
“No, I didn’t,” Lori said. “I thought the deaths were the result, as they would say in a Victorian novel, of a confluence of unfortunate events. It’s what everyone believed.”
“And now?” Libby asked.
“I still don’t think so.”
Bernie leaned forward. “Even with Peggy’s and Henry’s deaths?”
“Even with those,” Lori said as she absentmindedly began rolling the pencil that was sitting on her desk back and forth on the wood with the palm of her hand. It made a rattling noise. That, the ping of the space heater, and the ticking of the clock on the wall were the only sounds in the room. “Despite what Ada said I didn’t think McCready covered anything up back then and I don’t think so now. Why would he? Especially if what Ada said was true about Grover murdering Sinclair. Which, in light of recent events, makes even less sense than it did before.”
“Do you think Ada could have been involved?” Libby asked.
Lori stopped rolling her pencil and started neatening up the stack of papers on her desk. “You mean in Peggy’s and Henry’s deaths?” she asked. “Or her dad’s? Or Joel Grover’s?”
“Either,” Libby said. “Or both. Take your pick.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Lori said slowly. “You’re asking me if Ada, a twelve-year-old girl at the time, killed her dad and then blamed it on his partner, after she caused his death.”
A Catered New Year's Eve Page 13