A Catered New Year's Eve

by Isis Crawford

  Libby didn’t say so. She didn’t like driving in this kind of weather. Which her sister knew. Ever since Libby slid off the road into the path of an oncoming minivan five years ago this coming February she’d had a “thing” about driving in the winter. Especially when there was a possibility of black ice on the roadways.

  “Good,” Bernie said in the face of Libby’s silence. She turned onto Croyden Street. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

  “She’s probably at work,” Libby groused, putting her hands over the vent to capture the anemic stream of warm air the heater was now throwing out. “This is going to be a complete waste of time.”

  Bernie sighed. “You know what? You need to eat,” she told Libby. “That’s why you’re so grouchy.”

  “I’m not grouchy,” Libby protested.

  “Really?” Bernie said. “What would you call it?”

  “Cold. I’m just cold,” Libby responded even as she admitted to herself that what Bernie said was true. She did have a tendency to get grouchy when she was hungry.

  “You’re probably cold because you’re hungry.” Bernie pointed to her bag. “I have some dates in there.”

  “I don’t like dates,” Libby complained, even though she did like them. They weren’t chocolate, but they’d do in a pinch.

  “And I don’t care!” Bernie yelled, losing her last shred of patience. “Eat them anyway.”

  “Fine,” Libby replied as she began looking through Bernie’s bag. “You don’t have to yell.”

  Bernie suppressed the urge to strangle her sister, choosing to remain silent and grit her teeth instead.

  Libby ate the dates. “These aren’t so bad,” she allowed when she’d eaten them all.

  Bernie grunted. She wasn’t ready to talk to her sister yet. At least not in a polite way.

  The sisters rode in silence for the next five minutes. Libby was the one who broke it.

  “I can see why Mom did what she did with the Sinclairs,” Libby said, offering Bernie a conversational olive branch as she looked out the window. The sky, the streets, the piles of dirty snow on the ground all looked bleak. It seemed like a long time before spring would come around.

  Bernie caved. “So can I,” she said as she pulled over to let a semi that was riding her tail go by her. Mathilda shook as the truck zoomed by. “You think it was just the money?”

  “I think the twenty-five grand was probably the proverbial last straw,” Libby answered. “According to what Lori said, there was a lot of stuff going on. Knowing Mom, she was probably involved in it one way or another. Trying to help.”

  “And losing that amount of money . . .” Bernie’s voice trailed off. “That was a lot in those days.”

  “Yes, it was,” Libby said as she thought about the amount of work it had taken to get it. “Hell, it’s a fair chunk of change these days.”

  Chapter 21

  The apartment building complex Kate Silverman lived in was located on the edge of Hollingsworth. A developer had built five three-story brick buildings in anticipation of the town growing toward the thruway. But it hadn’t. Instead, it had expanded in the opposite direction, leaving Highbridge Court marooned without nearby services or decent access roads.

  As Bernie drove into the development, she noted that time and deferred maintenance had taken their toll on the buildings. The mortar between the bricks needed pointing, the parking lot was full of potholes, and the paint on the doors and window frames was chipped.

  Instead of catering to the young, single commuters going into the city, Highbridge Court had become home to large herds of deer as well as a miscellaneous blend of students from the local community college, low-income families, and people who needed to rent by the month, although rumor said that was changing. Bernie had heard that a multinational company was negotiating buying the property, tearing it down, and building a large warehouse in its place.

  But that hadn’t happened yet, so hopefully Kate Silverman still lived in an apartment on the second floor of the middle building. As Bernie steered around a pothole, Libby had gone back to grousing about what a waste of time this was probably going to be and listing all the things back in the shop they needed to be doing.

  “I guess we’ll find out if this was a bad idea or not soon enough,” Bernie said as she parked Mathilda as close to the building as she could get. Then she got out and started trudging toward the entrance. Libby followed, trying—and failing—to step around the piles of snow in her path.

  “Whoever plowed this parking lot needs to do a better job,” Libby observed, stopping to brush some snow off the cuffs of her jeans.

  “That’s an understatement,” Bernie replied as she opened the door to the building and stepped inside. There was no intercom system or lobby so she had walked directly into the hallway. The building smelled of disinfectant and fried foods. A couple of lights in the hallway needed new bulbs and the floor needed to be washed. It was white with the salt people had tracked in on the bottom of their shoes. A bulletin board on the far wall was covered with notices and below the bulletin board sat a stack of flyers for the local grocery store. Two strollers and a bike were stored in the alcove by the stairs where the mailboxes were located.

  “At least it’s warm in here,” Bernie commented as she began to climb the stairs.

  “Warmer,” Libby corrected, unwilling to let Bernie have the last word.

  A child started to cry as Bernie reached the second floor, its shrieks rising and falling as they pierced the building’s quiet.

  “Someone’s having a rough day,” Bernie commented as she searched for the apartment number Lori Scheu had given her. Some of the numbers had come off the doors, which made things more challenging.

  “Not as bad as I’m having,” Libby muttered.

  Bernie ignored her sister and concentrated on the number sequence. Kate Silverman’s apartment turned out to be the last one on the far right-hand side of the hallway. Bernie stopped in front of it and rang the bell. When it made no sound, she knocked.

  “Yes?” someone responded a moment later.

  “Kate Silverman?” Bernie asked, while she flashed Libby an I-told-you-so look.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Bernie told her. “Lori Scheu said you might be able to help us. We need to talk to you about Ada Sinclair.”

  The door opened a crack. Bernie could see the outline of a woman standing in the doorway. She was wearing sweatpants and a cami. Her hair was sticking out from her head and she looked as if she’d just gotten up.

  “This isn’t a good time,” Kate Silverman said, slamming the door shut. It closed with a thud that echoed down the hall.

  Libby grinned. “Well, partner, I guess it’s time to mosey on home.”

  Bernie ignored her sister and banged on the door with the palm of her hand. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”

  “Then I suggest you call and make an appointment,” a raspy voice behind Bernie and Libby said.

  Bernie and Libby spun around. Kate Silverman’s next-door neighbor was standing in the hallway, glowering at them. “People have a right to a little peace and quiet,” she spat out as she clutched the ragged, oversized cardigan she was wearing move.

  Bernie was about to reply when she heard Kate Silverman’s door swing open. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bitterman,” Kate said, stepping out onto the carpet.

  Mrs. Bitterman sniffed. Her nose was long and narrow and seemed to quiver with indignation. “I’m trying to watch my TV shows and your friends come banging on the door any time of the day and night.”

  “I think I explained that they weren’t my friends,” Kate Silverman told her in a tone Bernie could only describe as long suffering.

  “Then why were they banging on your door asking for Ada?” Mrs. Bitterman demanded triumphantly. She pointed at Libby and Bernie. “Just like these two are doing now.”

  “As I told you, they made a mistake,” Kate Silverman replied. “The same mistake these two are making now.�
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  “So you say,” Mrs. Bitterman told her.

  Kate Silverman crossed her hands over her chest and planted both feet firmly on the floor. “Yes, I do.”

  Mrs. Bitterman stuck out her chin. “We’ll see what Mr. Forsethy says.”

  “Who is Mr. Forsethy?” Libby asked.

  “The landlord,” Mrs. Bitterman replied, looking down her nose at Libby. “Your friend is about to get her third and final warning from him,” she informed Libby and Bernie. “Then she’s going to get kicked out of the building.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mrs. Bitterman,” Bernie said. “Kate was just letting us in, weren’t you?” she said, turning to Kate.

  “Definitely,” Kate said. “Happy to,” she added through clenched teeth, the expression on her face telling a very different story.

  Chapter 22

  Mrs . Bitterman watched through narrowed eyes as Bernie and Libby followed Kate Silverman into her apartment. “And see that this doesn’t happen again,” she admonished, shaking a finger at them as Kate Silverman closed the door behind her.

  “Friggin’ cow,” Kate muttered. She folded her arms over her chest and turned toward Bernie and Libby. “Thanks a lot,” she said.

  Bernie smiled. “Always happy to oblige. Who is that woman anyway?”

  “She’s the landlord’s aunt.”

  “Lucky you,” Bernie observed.

  “Tell me about it,” Kate said. “Living next to her has turned into an absolute nightmare. The previous tenant moved to Delray Beach down in Florida.” Kate sighed. “God, do I wish she were back.”

  Bernie continued. “So, I can assume from your neighbor’s remarks that you know Ada?” she said.

  Kate didn’t say anything.

  “Please,” Bernie said. “Ada’s in trouble and we’re trying to help.”

  “So you say,” Kate replied, sounding unconvinced.

  “Yes, I do,” Bernie told her. “Call and ask her.”

  “I can’t. I don’t have her number,” Kate told her.

  “Lori Scheu said you were her friend,” Libby informed her as she looked around Silverman’s apartment.

  Libby’s first impression was one of a meticulously kept large studio apartment with a sleeping alcove and a galley kitchen. The walls of the main room were a pale blue, while the kitchen and sleeping alcove were a slightly darker shade of the same color. The sofa and two armchairs were black leather, while a large, embossed, round metal tray sitting on a stand served as a coffee table.

  Bernie pointed to it. “Nice,” she said, referring to the intricate pattern.

  “Thanks,” Kate replied. “I got it in Morocco”—she nodded to the two rugs on the floor and the one tacked up on the far wall—“along with those.”

  “It must be hard to fit everything in,” Libby observed, noting the unpacked cardboard boxes stacked underneath the window on the wall facing them.

  Kate shook her head. “It really is. You know how it is. You have stuff you should throw away, but you can’t part with it.”

  Bernie thought of some of the shoes living in her closet. “I certainly do.” She undid her coat. It was warm in the apartment. “But I don’t believe you.”

  “About keeping stuff?” Kate asked.

  “God, no.” Bernie laughed. “About not having Ada’s phone number,” Bernie said.

  Kate shrugged. “It’s true. I did have it, but she’s using a burner phone these days.”

  “I know,” Bernie said. She’d found that out when she’d tried to call Ada back after her last phone call.

  “And she never gave me the number,” Kate said. “She’s probably got a different phone by now anyway. Despite what Mrs. Scheu may have heard, we haven’t been friends for quite some time.”

  “Then why were people knocking on your door looking for her?” Libby asked.

  Kate shrugged again. “We used to be friends, that’s true, but, like I said, that was a long time ago.”

  “How long?” Bernie asked.

  Kate’s face hardened. “Long enough.”

  “So who were the people knocking on your door?” Libby inquired.

  “Salesmen,” Kate replied. “Mormon missionaries.”

  Bernie took a deep breath and let it out. “Somehow, I doubt that.” Bernie had a pretty good idea who had come knocking, but she wanted to hear what Kate Silverman was going to say.

  “Then I guess it sucks to be you,” Kate told her as she pointed to the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. “I have to get ready to go to work,” she said. “So, if you don’t mind . . .”

  “Actually, I do,” Bernie told her.

  “Too bad,” Kate threw back at her.

  “You know,” Bernie told her, “I can always ask Mrs. Bitterman if she can describe the people who were knocking on your door. I bet she’ll be able to describe them down to the last detail.”

  A vein below Kate’s eye began to pulse. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Fine,” she spat out and she walked into the kitchen.

  Bernie and Libby followed. They watched as Kate took a bottle of Diet Coke off the counter, twisted the top off, and began to drink. “Breakfast,” she explained. “I have to be at work in three-quarters of an hour.”

  “What do you do?” Libby inquired.

  “I waitress at the all-night diner on Pine Street.”

  “Michael still there?” Bernie asked.

  Kate shook her head. “You know him?”

  Bernie nodded. “From when I worked at Freddie’s.”

  “He took off,” Kate informed her, her face softening a little at the mention of Michael. “He’s got a gig down in the city.”

  Bernie had heard he was in jail in Tucson, but she didn’t feel this was the time to share. “We really do want to help Ada,” Bernie said instead.

  Kate rummaged around in her kitchen cabinet, came out with a bag of Oreo cookies, and ate one. Then she offered the bag to Bernie and Libby.

  “Thanks,” Libby said. She and Bernie both took a couple and Libby handed the bag back, even though she could have eaten a few more. Evidently the dates hadn’t been enough.

  “Even if I believed you . . .” Kate continued.

  “Which you have no reason not to . . .” Bernie assured her. “I don’t think Lori Scheu would have given us your address otherwise.”

  “Possibly,” Kate said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I really don’t know where Ada is. And if I’m being honest, I’m just as glad.”

  “Why?” Libby asked as she unzipped her parka. It really was warm in here. Suffocatingly so.

  “Because the truth is I’m tired,” Kate replied.

  “Tired of what?” Bernie inquired.

  “Of being Grand Central Station. Of getting into trouble because of Ada. Of being her friend. You want to know who came looking for her, I’ll tell you. First Ada’s mother bangs on my door, then her aunt and her stepsister and stepbrother turn up, and now you. Frankly, I’m done with all the drama. I have better things to do than get involved in whatever particular brand of crap Ada’s gotten herself into this time. I have bills to pay and a life to lead that doesn’t revolve around Ada.”

  Bernie noted the phrase this time, tucking it away for future reference. “So, was Ada here?” Bernie asked.

  “Yes, she was,” Kate admitted as she took another cookie. “I told everyone she wasn’t because she asked me too, but I lied. She was here. Actually, she’s been here on and off.”

  “When was that?” Libby asked.

  “She was here New Year’s Eve. Late. She stayed for a couple of days. Then she left and came back.” And Kate named the day Ada had run out of the service plaza. “She banged on my door and woke me up. She was hysterical.”

  “What did she say?” Bernie asked.

  “She was babbling something about her family trying to get rid of her any way they could, and then she said she had to hide,” Kate answered.

  “And you believed her?” Libby asked Kate
Silverman.

  “I believed she was really upset.”

  “And you let her in,” Libby observed.

  “Of course I let her in,” Kate snapped. If someone came banging on your door with a story like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” both Libby and Bernie said together.

  “Exactly. I mean Ada obviously needed help.” Kate took a third cookie and nibbled on it while she thought. A moment later she said, “She gets really . . . worked up. Ada and I were neighbors before my mom and dad bought another house and moved off the block. We used to hang out together, and while it’s true that even then Ada tended to blow things up, as in dramatize, it’s also true that her family isn’t very nice.”

  “There’s a difference between not being very nice and doing what Ada was accusing them of doing,” Libby said, pointing out the obvious.

  “Yes, there is,” Kate agreed. “Her mom . . .”

  Libby brushed an Oreo crumb off her parka. “What about Linda?”

  “She was pretty mean to Ada . . . especially after Mr. Sinclair left her for Vicky. It was like she was taking her stuff out on Ada. She was always much nicer to Rick and Rachel,” Kate said. “Of course, now that I’m older I can sorta see why she was.” Then she stopped talking.

  Bernie and Libby remained silent. They’d learned a long time ago that sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all.

  After a moment, Kate started speaking again. “She had a really bad temper.”

  “Linda?” Bernie asked.

  “Ada too,” Kate replied. “Both of them. Only Ada’s mom was worse. She could get very scary when she got mad. It’s like you flipped a switch and she became a whole other person. Like Bonnie and Clyde.”

  Bernie corrected her. “I think you mean Jekyll and Hyde.”

  “Whoever,” Kate said, dismissing Bernie’s correction with a wave of her hand. “Of course, Mrs. Sinclair could be different now,” Kate reflected. She studied her nails for a moment. Bernie noted that she needed a manicure. “She probably is. Maybe she was just going through the change or something like that.”

  “Maybe,” Bernie replied, thinking back to Linda. She’d impressed her as cranky and put upon, but that was about it. Then again, you never really knew what went on in people’s heads, did you?