“You have to admit, it is pretty out,” Libby observed.
“It would be even prettier if we were inside looking at the scene through a window,” Bernie replied as she pulled over to let an SUV pass them. “Go and be an idiot!” she yelled at the vehicle as it flew by and vanished into the night. “Your brakes don’t work any better on ice than mine do.”
“We could be inside,” Libby pointed out, continuing with what she’d been saying. “We don’t have to be on the road. In fact, we can still turn around. It’s not too late.”
“We could, but we we’re not going to,” Bernie told her. Libby made a rude noise.
Bernie threw her a quick glance. “Hey, you don’t have to be here. You could have stayed home.”
Libby raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “You’re right, you’re right,” she said to her sister. “Now, tell me again why we’re doing this.”
Bernie pulled over again to let another SUV zoom by. “Moron,” she muttered before answering her sister’s question. “We’re doing this because what happens if something’s really wrong and we aren’t there to help?”
“I take it that’s a rhetorical question?”
“No, Libby, it isn’t. Then we’d feel guilty.”
Libby snorted. “You might, but I won’t,” she told her.
“Really?” Bernie said after she’d got back on the road.
Libby held up her hand and measured out an inch with her thumb and her forefinger. “Okay. You’re right. I’d feel this much guilty. But I’d survive. What do you think is going on with Ada anyway?” Libby said.
“Not something good,” Bernie answered as she leaned forward to better see the road they were on. “That’s for sure.”
“That could be her anthem,” Libby observed.
Bernie grunted. What could she say? Her sister was right. Neither she nor Libby said anything more for the rest of the trip. Bernie concentrated on her driving and Libby occupied herself by composing tomorrow’s to-do list in her head.
They had three sweet potato pies to make for Mrs. Singer’s book club, two apple pan dowdies for Mrs. Sloan’s knitting circle, twenty-four French macaroons for Mrs. Hubbard, a coconut layer cake with chocolate-rum frosting for a dinner party Mr. Bertrum was giving, and a brisket with sweet potato pancakes and roasted vegetables for Mr. Leffert, as well as everything else they had to do, which included but was not limited to filing this quarter’s sales tax. Always a fun couple of hours. If they were lucky. And they could find all the receipts.
Twenty minutes later, the sisters were a block away from Kate Silverman’s apartment when Libby pointed to the dancing lights reflected in the cloudy night sky. They were coming from the direction of Kate Silverman’s housing complex.
“That doesn’t look good,” Libby noted.
“No, it doesn’t,” Bernie agreed.
“Could be fire engines,” Libby guessed.
“Or a zombie apocalypse.”
“Are we still having them?”
“As far as I know, we are.”
“Good to be aware of,” Libby said.
A couple of moments later, Bernie pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex and spied the three cop cars sitting in front of Kate Silverman’s building. Their flashers were on, but the officers were absent.
“Do you think they have something to do with the text Ada sent us?” Libby asked.
“Does a duck quack?” Bernie answered as she parked the van in the fire lane of the building on the far right.
“We’re going to get a ticket,” Libby protested.
“Somehow, I think the police are otherwise engaged at the moment, and if we do get one we’ll just expense it to the business,” Bernie replied as she pocketed the keys, jumped out of Mathilda, and hurried toward Kate Silverman’s building.
“We most certainly will not,” Libby said indignantly as she followed Bernie. Was it her imagination or had it gotten colder out since they’d left the house?
Two minutes later, the sisters were inside Kate Silverman’s building. The hallway seemed the same as the last time they’d been here except for the smell of garlic that dominated the air and the strollers jammed into the stairwell.
Bernie and Libby were halfway up the stairs to the second floor when they heard voices. Men’s voices. Then Ada’s. A moment later, they saw three policemen coming down the stairs. Ada was between two of them with her wrists handcuffed behind her back, while the third policeman brought up the rear.
Bernie thought Ada looked as if she’d been sleeping when the police had come for her. Her hair was sticking out in clumps and she was wearing flannel pajama bottoms, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of duck boots in addition to her parka.
But then, thinking back to when Ada had last communicated with her, Bernie realized she was wrong. Ada hadn’t been sleeping. This was the way she’d been dressed when the police had arrived. Watching Ada coming down the stairs, Bernie couldn’t help thinking how small and lost and young she looked sandwiched between the two beefy cops. All she wanted to do was grab Ada and spirit her away.
Chapter 27
And then there was the guilt. It was baseless. Bernie knew this. But it didn’t help. She still couldn’t help feeling that if she hadn’t waited for Libby to finish eating her cake maybe she would have gotten to Ada before the police did and things would have gone differently.
“Officer, why are you arresting her?” Bernie asked the policeman closest to her. She was careful to use her most respectful voice, being a firm believer in the power of nice—at least to start with. Especially when you weren’t holding any cards.
The policeman looked her up and down. “Who is she to you?” he inquired.
Good question. Bernie thought for a moment. Family? Client? Pain in the butt? She settled on family. “Family.”
“Relation?” the policeman asked.
Ada spoke up. “She’s my sister,” she lied. Neither Bernie nor Libby contradicted her.
“Is she?” the cop asked Bernie. His tone was skeptical. “Because you two don’t look alike. Not even a little bit.”
Now it was Bernie’s turn to lie. “Half sister. Same mother, different fathers.”
“I see,” the cop said. Bernie could tell that he didn’t believe her, but that he was letting it go. “In that case, you’d better go home and start thinking about who you want her lawyer to be because we’re taking her in on suspicion of homicide,” he told Bernie.
“I didn’t do it,” Ada cried out. “I told you that.”
The second cop, the one on the left side of Ada, the one who wasn’t talking to Bernie, turned to Ada and said, “Oh well, now that you’ve told us that that changes everything. We’ll take you right back upstairs and take these cuffs off.”
Ada turned to Bernie. “You have to believe me,” she pleaded.
“I do believe you,” Bernie said.
“So do I,” Libby added quietly.
“Thank you. Someone is framing me,” Ada said in a voice laden with tears. “Please help me. I’m begging you. You have to find out who is doing this to me.”
“We will,” Bernie assured her. She was reaching out to pat Ada’s shoulder when the second cop shook his head.
“No physical contact with the prisoner,” he said.
Ada shrank at the word prisoner.
“Ada, I promise we’ll figure this out,” Bernie said, wishing she could say something more reassuring as she put her hand back down by her side.
“Don’t worry,” Libby added as she flattened herself against the wall so everyone could get by her. “Everything is going to be fine.” But she could tell from the expression on Ada’s face that Ada didn’t believe it and, frankly, Libby wasn’t sure she believed what she’d just said, either.
“Let’s hope what you’re saying is true,” Bernie said to Libby in a low voice as she watched the three policemen convey Ada down the rest of the steps, into the hallway, and out the door into the co
ld winter night.
“I wonder what she wanted us to do?” Libby mused.
“Or what she wanted to tell us,” Bernie said as she started climbing up the rest of the stairs. “Maybe Kate Silverman can tell us. Maybe she knows.”
But Kate Silverman couldn’t tell them because she wasn’t in.
“She’s at work,” Mrs. Bitterman, Kate Silverman’s next-door neighbor, snapped, having opened her door the moment she’d heard footsteps in the hallway.
She must have been waiting by the door, Bernie thought as Mrs. Bitterman started her rant.
“Go talk to her there, and when you do you can tell her for me, this is it. She’s going to have to find another place to live. I’m sick and tired of her friends coming and going at all hours of the night. And this, this is just insupportable.” Mrs. Bitterman’s voice spluttered with indignation. She rested her hand over her heart. “Having the police bang on the door like they did. I never in all my life expected to live someplace where that would happen. Ever. I was terrified. I thought I was going to have a heart attack and the police were going to have to call the EMTs.” And she gave Bernie and Libby a pointed glare.
“Mrs. Bitterman, we’re not Kate Silverman’s friends,” Libby explained. “We came to speak to Ada.”
Mrs. Bitterman’s eyes narrowed. “Is that the girl the police just carted away?”
Bernie groaned. Oh no! Talk about making things worse! Why did you say that, Libby? Bernie thought as she stepped in front of her sister and answered for her. “It’s a case of mistaken identity,” Bernie lied. She seemed to be doing a lot of that lately, she reflected. “They got the wrong person.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true, Mrs. Bitterman. I swear.” I’m going to hell for this one, Bernie decided as she raised her right hand.
“It doesn’t matter. In fact, that just makes my point,” Mrs. Bitterman said, giving the belt on her dark blue terry cloth robe a vicious yank before shaking a finger under Bernie’s nose. “If your friend wasn’t sleeping in Kate Silverman’s apartment, then the police wouldn’t have come pounding on the door and none of this would have happened.” Mrs. Bitterman put her hand to her heart again and repeated what she’d said before, a fact Bernie felt it wiser not to point out.
“They almost frightened me to death. All that noise and commotion. It’s amazing they didn’t have to call an ambulance to take me to the hospital. Giving out the keys so her friends can come over and do heaven knows what,” she spat out.
“Ada wasn’t partying, if that’s what you’re implying,” Libby said from behind Bernie’s back. “She just needed a place to sleep.”
“Why wasn’t she sleeping in her own bed?” Mrs. Bitterman demanded. “That’s where every self-respecting person should be.” She stifled a cough. “I tell you, there’s absolutely no respect for the elderly anymore. None. Everyone around here thinks they can do whatever they want. Things have certainly gone downhill since I was a girl. My mother would be turning over in her grave if she saw what passed for manners these days.” And with that pronouncement, Mrs. Bitterman turned and went back inside her apartment, slamming the door behind her.
“Good job, Libby,” Bernie told her sister.
“Well, it definitely wasn’t my finest hour,” Libby agreed.
“You can say that again,” Bernie replied.
“Well, it definitely wasn’t my finest hour,” Libby repeated.
“Ha. Ha.”
“I wonder if she was the one who called the cops,” Libby said as they started walking away.
“Doubtful,” Bernie replied, “considering what she just said. I suspect that if she was going to call the cops, she’d do it in the morning or afternoon.”
“Yeah,” Libby conceded. “She did look as if she’d been asleep.”
“Exactly.” Bernie took the keys to the van out of her bag. “But here’s another question. How did the cops know that Ada was here?” Bernie asked as she and Libby headed down the hallway.
“Obviously, someone must have told them,” Libby opined.
“Obviously. But who?”
“I’m guessing most likely a family member,” Libby said as she and Bernie started down the stairs.
“Like Rick or Rachel?” Bernie asked, remembering their meeting with Ada’s brother and sister.
“Could be. They were both here.”
“We should talk to them.”
“Them and the rest of the Sinclairs,” Libby said. “After all, everyone else in the family knows about Kate Silverman as well.”
“And then there’s Kate Silverman herself,” Bernie said. “Let’s not forget about her.”
“What about her?” Libby asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe she got tired of Ada crashing in her apartment and dropped a dime on her. Maybe she’d asked Ada to leave already—considering her situation with Mrs. Bitterman I can definitely see that happening—but Ada kept coming back despite Silverman’s request.”
Bernie paused, leaned down, and pulled her left boot up. It had slid down around her ankle. That was the trouble with suede, she reflected. It stretched out. She wondered if a shoemaker could put a zipper in the side as she finished what she’d been saying to her sister.
“After all,” Bernie continued, “she did tell us she wasn’t Ada’s friend anymore. Or words to that effect. She certainly acted that way.”
“Do you think she was telling the truth when she said that?” Libby asked. “Or was she trying to mislead us into believing Ada wasn’t crashing there anymore?”
Bernie clicked her tongue against her teeth while she thought. “Well, she did let her stay there,” she finally said. “It’s not like she changed the lock or anything. If she really didn’t want her coming there she certainly could have. It’s simple enough to do.”
“True,” Libby said, mentally reviewing their conversation with Kate Silverman. “When we first spoke, I thought Kate Silverman was telling the truth about not being Ada’s friend anymore, but now, thinking back, I’m not so certain. Silverman certainly wanted to get us out of her place as fast as possible.”
“Well, there’s one way to find out,” Bernie observed.
“Call her?”
“No. We should go to the diner and ask her.”
“What’s wrong with calling, Bernie?”
“Obviously, because then we won’t be able to see the expression on her face when she answers our questions.”
Libby grimaced. “Because you’re so good at reading people,” she muttered under her breath.
Bernie turned toward her sister. “Look who’s talking. You did really well with Mrs. Bitterman. Talk about throwing gasoline on the fire.”
Libby threw out her hands. “So sue me. This is what happens when you drag me out in the middle of the night.”
“It’s hardly the middle of the night and I didn’t drag you anywhere. You agreed to go.” By now Bernie and her sister had reached the bottom of the stairs.
“True,” Libby admitted grudgingly because she had volunteered. She sighed her long-suffering sigh in case Bernie didn’t realize the sacrifice she, Libby, was making. “She’s not going to tell us the truth.”
“Maybe she will.”
“Why should she?”
“Because I’m going to make her want to.”
“You’re going to lie.”
“Let’s say I’m going to massage the truth.”
“Well, I hope it’s a good one,” Libby told her sister. Then she sighed again. “Sure. What the hell. Of course. Besides, who needs sleep anyway?”
“It’s only five minutes out of our way,” Bernie pointed out as she put her jacket hood up in preparation for going outside. “Here’s another question.”
“Oh, goodie.”
Bernie ignored her sister’s response. “What turned Ada from a person the police wanted to talk to to a full-on murder suspect?”
“Obviously, the police know something we don’t,” Libby said as sh
e followed her sister into the cold. “Which isn’t hard,” Libby observed. “Considering that we know nothing.”
“We know a little,” Bernie said, correcting her.
“Very little,” Libby countered as she wiped a snowflake off her cheek.
The snow was coming down harder now, covering the tops, the windshields, and the hoods of the vehicles in the parking lot, which was why Bernie didn’t see the note right away when she got into Mathilda.
Chapter 28
Libby closed the van door. She was putting on her seat belt when she spied the piece of paper pinned under the windshield wiper. “I told you, Bernie,” she said, a victorious tone in her voice as she pointed to it. “I told you we’d get a ticket.”
“Great,” Bernie groused. The perfect end to the perfect day, she thought as she got back out of the van to get it.
But when she retrieved the piece of paper from under the windshield wiper blade, it was obvious Libby was wrong—unless they were giving out tickets written on pieces of paper ripped from lined, yellow legal pads these days, that is. Someone had left them a note. Odd, Bernie thought as she unfolded it and brushed the snow off. Then she held it up to the street lamp and read it.
“How much?” Libby asked when Bernie climbed back into the van a moment later. “Because the business isn’t paying it. You are.”
“It’s not a ticket,” Bernie informed her.
“Then what is it?” Libby asked. “An invitation to a party?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?” Libby asked as Bernie handed the sodden piece of paper to her sister.
“Just read it,” Bernie said and turned on the van’s overhead light so Libby could see better.
“Okay,” Libby said, squinting. The writer had used a gel pen and the ink had run but it was still possible to make out the words. “Stay out of this. You’ve been warned. But if you want answers you’re looking in the wrong place,” she read aloud. Libby took a deep breath and let it out. This was not what she’d been expecting.
“That’s a weird note,” Bernie said to Libby.
A Catered New Year's Eve Page 18