A Catered New Year's Eve

by Isis Crawford

  “According to this, it looks as if Peggy was going to Australia on February twenty-eighth,” Bernie noted. “She was landing in Sydney and then going on to Perth. Do you know who her boyfriend was?” she asked.

  Linda Sinclair turned from the stove, a bemused expression on her face. “If she had one, it was news to me. What makes you think she did?”

  Bernie reached into her pocket and took out the note that had been on the refrigerator. “This.”

  “Wow,” Linda said as she read it. “I remember writing ‘Jimmy’s the Best’ all over my notebook and drawing hearts all around his name when I was in sixth grade. I had such a crush on him.”

  Bernie smiled, remembering her first crush. “So, she never said anything to you about her trip or who she was going with?”

  Linda shook her head. “But then I’m not surprised. She and I . . . kept strictly to business stuff. We didn’t get along too well.”

  “How come?” Libby asked as Bernie leafed through the third item in the envelope: a bunch of papers that had been paper clipped together.

  “She wasn’t nice to my kids,” Linda replied. “She called the cops on them a couple of times. I got really mad and probably said some things I shouldn’t have.”

  Bernie lifted her head. “Did you know Peggy sold her house?” Bernie asked Linda Sinclair.

  Linda shook her head. “She told me she was remodeling her kitchen.”

  Bernie held up a sheaf of papers. “According to these she was living there on a postpossession agreement.”

  “Then where was she going to put all of her stuff?” Linda asked.

  Bernie shook her head. “Maybe in storage.”

  “So, she really was getting out of town,” Libby said.

  “It would appear that she was,” Bernie replied.

  The teakettle whistled and Linda Sinclair poured some of the water into the teapot, swished it around, poured it out, measured out the tea into the pot, and poured in the water. Then she brought the pot to the table, along with three cups and a plate of biscuits, and went back for the sugar and the milk and set those down on the table as well.

  “Do you like your tea strong?” she asked Bernie and Libby.

  Both of them nodded.

  “You know, it was your mother who taught me about brewed tea,” Linda Sinclair reminisced. “Until then I’d only drunk tea from tea bags.” She sighed. “I’m sorry about what happened,” she continued. “I reached out a couple of times and tried to explain that Ada’s dad was desperate for money at the time. But your mom didn’t want to listen.”

  Bernie nodded. “She could be like that. Why do you think Peggy Graceson was killed?” she asked Linda Sinclair, changing the subject.

  Linda Sinclair shook her head. Her expression gave nothing away.

  “Surely you must have some idea,” Bernie insisted.

  Linda Sinclair sat down, poured a little tea into her cup, tasted it, and said, “It needs a little more time, and in answer to your question, I really don’t know.”

  Bernie took a biscuit off the plate in front of her and ate it, deciding as she did that it really wasn’t worth the calories. “Not even an inkling of an idea?” she insisted.

  “Over the years, I’ve found it best to stick to my business and not mind other people’s. We’re not exactly a close-knit family,” Linda Sinclair explained.

  “So it would seem,” Bernie replied. “But even so, perhaps you know why Vicky Sinclair’s car is parked in Peggy Graceson’s garage.”

  Linda Sinclair brightened. “That I do know.” Bernie and Libby waited for her answer as Linda Sinclair poured herself a little more tea and tasted it. Then she nodded and poured some into Bernie’s and Libby’s cups before filling her own. “Even though the SUV is registered to Vicky it’s really a company car in the sense that anyone can use it. Probably Peggy had to use it for something and left it in her garage,” she said as she added a lump of sugar and poured a little milk into her tea.

  Libby leaned forward. “I don’t think that’s the case,” she said. “The timing’s all wrong. And anyway, she had her Civic.”

  “Well, Vicky’s kids borrowed the SUV a lot even though they weren’t supposed to,” Linda said, a malicious smile on her face. “Perhaps you should talk to them.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Bernie said as she finished her tea. “That’s very helpful. Now, what about yours?”

  Linda took a biscuit and ate it. “My what?” she asked after she swallowed.

  “Your kids,” Bernie explained, even though she was sure Linda Sinclair knew whom she was referring to. “Did they use the SUV, too?”

  Linda Sinclair took a sip of her tea. “Why would they? They have their own vehicles,” she replied.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Bernie and Libby were out the door.

  “Do you believe her?” Libby asked her sister as they walked down the front steps.

  Bernie considered her answer. “I think I do,” Bernie said, heading toward Mathilda. Bernie had just gotten into the van and inserted her key in the ignition when her dad called. A minute into the conversation, Bernie put the phone on speaker so Libby could hear what their dad was saying.

  “You think Eckleburger is right?” Libby asked Bernie after their dad had hung up.

  “Yeah,” Bernie said as she got out of the van and walked back to Linda Sinclair’s house. “He was an expert witness before he retired. He testified all over the country. I don’t think he’s likely to make a mistake.” She rang the bell. Linda Sinclair answered the door a minute later.

  “What do you want now?” she demanded, looking annoyed.

  “This.” And Bernie relayed the question her father had told her to ask.

  Linda Sinclair’s eyebrows shot up. “Funny you should ask,” she said when Bernie was done talking. “I’ve been wondering about the notebook since Ada found it.”

  Chapter 39

  It was almost four-thirty when Libby and Bernie arrived at Sinclair Enterprises. Located a couple of miles off the thruway, the building was low and squat, made of preformed concrete panels with a sign on the top spelling out the company’s name in blocky, bright blue letters that stood out in the afternoon dusk. There were few windows in the building and those were oblong instead of rectangular.

  The building was surrounded by a parking lot that was mostly empty, and as Bernie and Libby walked in they couldn’t help wondering whether the parking lot had been built with an excess of enthusiasm or if the place was being run with a bare-bones crew. Since there was no receptionist at the window clearly marked “Reception,” they walked down a short hallway until they couldn’t go any farther.

  “Right or left?” Libby asked.

  “Right,” Bernie said, hearing voices coming from that direction.

  The first two offices were empty but the third one was occupied by Vicky Sinclair and her two children, Lance and Erin. The three were gathered around a large metal table in the center of the room when Bernie and Libby walked in.

  “Hi there,” Bernie said.

  The three Sinclairs stopped and stared.

  “What do you want?” Erin demanded.

  “Who let you in?” Lance said, walking toward the sisters.

  Bernie put on her best smile. “We let ourselves in. No one was at the reception desk so we followed your voices and here we are.”

  “That certainly makes my day,” Erin sneered. Unlike Rachel, Erin was wearing a designer dress more suitable for cocktail hour than work.

  Vicky straightened up. “Why are you here?”

  “We’ve come to talk about the car,” Bernie said as she reflected that Vicky looked wearier than the last time she’d seen her. Her face was drawn and she had circles under her eyes that her makeup wasn’t hiding.

  “What car?” Lance asked.

  “The SUV in Peggy Graceson’s garage,” Libby replied.

  “An SUV isn’t a car,” Erin asserted. “It’s a light truck.”

  Vicky Si
nclair shot a warning glance in her daughter’s direction before speaking to Libby. “And what, pray tell, does that have to do with us?” Vicky Sinclair asked.

  “Linda told me your children drove it from time to time,” Bernie answered.

  “Everyone drives it from time to time,” Lance told her. “You should talk to Rick and Rachel. They were in it all the time,” he asserted.

  “Funny. That’s what Linda Sinclair said about you,” Libby observed.

  “Why do you care?” Vicky Sinclair asked.

  “Yeah, why?” Lance echoed. “It’s none of your business.”

  “It is if the people driving it were the people who put a tracker on our vehicle,” Libby said.

  “And the note,” Bernie added. “Not to mention probably being the ones who called the cops on Ada.”

  Vicky’s eyebrows shot up. She looked surprised. “You’re accusing my kids?”

  “Not accusing. Asking,” Libby said.

  “Why would we do that?” Erin demanded.

  “That’s what we want to know,” Libby said.

  “You should ask Rick and Rachel,” Lance said.

  “We did,” Bernie told him. “They said to ask you.”

  Lance snorted. “What’s your problem?” he demanded of Bernie, taking another step toward her.

  “I don’t have one. What’s yours?” she replied.

  Lance opened his mouth to say something but before he could Vicky Sinclair intervened. “You’ll have to excuse my children,” she said. “Everyone’s on edge these days, what with Henry’s and Peggy’s deaths and the company going public and all.”

  “It’s a simple question,” Bernie said. “We’re just looking for a simple answer.”

  “Right.” Vicky snorted. “First of all, they didn’t have anything to do with Peggy Graceson’s SUV; second of all, we’re done talking here; and third of all, I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave.”

  “On what grounds?” Bernie challenged.

  “Trespassing,” Vicky Sinclair shot back.

  “This is a business,” Libby protested. “I can walk in here if I like.”

  “And now I’m asking you to leave,” Vicky Sinclair said, and she reached for the phone sitting on her desk.

  “Fine,” Bernie said, and she motioned to her sister. “Come on, Libby, let’s go.”

  “My pleasure,” Libby replied, turning toward the door.

  Vicky joined Bernie and Libby as they walked down the corridor.

  “What?” Libby said. “You don’t trust us to walk out by ourselves?”

  “Not really,” said Vicky Sinclair.

  “What are we going to find that you’re so worried about?” Bernie asked.

  “I’m not worried,” Vicky Sinclair told her. “We’re busy and you’re taking up time.”

  “So, tell us what you know and we’ll go away,” Libby promised.

  “I don’t know anything,” Vicky Sinclair said exasperatedly. “How many times do I have to tell you that!”

  “But you suspect,” Bernie said softly.

  By now they were at the reception desk. A plump woman in her forties was sitting behind it.

  Bernie pointed to the woman. “She wasn’t here before.” The woman looked sheepish. “I had to pee.”

  “It’s okay, Maggie,” Vicky said to her. Then she gestured to Libby and Bernie. “These two are just leaving.” And with that she turned and marched away.

  “Have a good day,” Bernie called after her.

  Vicky Sinclair didn’t answer.

  “No manners,” Bernie commented as she was getting her gloves out of her jacket pocket. That’s when she noticed the large framed color photo hanging on the wall opposite the reception area. She must have missed it when she and Libby had come in. Bernie stepped closer and studied it. An oval plaque on the bottom read, SINCLAIR ENTERPRISES. Everyone in the photo was young and smiling.

  “I think I know who Red is,” Bernie said, turning to Libby.

  Chapter 40

  Two days later, at three in the afternoon Bernie and Libby knocked on Sheryl Sinclair’s door. Her house, a modest cape, was set in the middle of a cul-de-sac off Winton Road. As the crow flies, it was three blocks away from Linda Sinclair’s house, but due to the street patterns considerably more if you walked or drove.

  “Here goes nothing,” Bernie said as she waited for Sheryl to answer the door. She and Libby had spent the last couple of days talking to Ada, Vicky Sinclair and her children, as well as the rest of the people at the party on New Year’s Eve, and now they were hoping to fit the last piece of the puzzle into place. At the very least.

  “Are you sure she’s home?” Libby asked.

  “That’s where Maggie said she was,” Bernie answered, thinking about their dad and what he’d said about vanity.

  “And your phone is fully charged?” Libby asked.

  “For the third time, yes,” Bernie told her sister as she knocked on the door again.

  “And we have a good fifteen minutes on it?”

  Bernie snorted. “How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

  “I was just making sure,” Libby said as she studied the statues of the three LED reindeer standing in the front yard. She was deciding they must be pretty at night, all lit up, when Sheryl opened the door.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, looking surprised to see them.

  Bernie handed her a box of shortbread cookies dipped in dark chocolate that they’d made this morning. “We just wanted to give you this and tell you how sorry we are for your loss.”

  “It’s a little late, but thank you,” Sheryl said, taken aback.

  “I wonder if we can come in,” Libby continued.

  “This really isn’t a good time,” Sheryl demurred and began to close the door.

  “It’ll just take a minute,” Bernie said quickly.

  “We just want to put the last pieces together. To try to understand why Ada did what she did,” Libby added.

  Sheryl’s eyes widened. She opened the door back up. “That’s interesting. I thought you were on her side,” she said.

  “We were. We thought she was innocent,” Libby replied, “but after talking to everyone we realized that we were wrong. We just want to know what she and Peggy Graceson fought about. For our own peace of mind, you understand. My sister and I are just trying to grasp why Ada did what she did. It’s so hard to believe.”

  Sheryl fingered the top buttonhole of the red cardigan she was wearing. “Well . . . I don’t know. . . .”

  “Please,” Bernie begged in the face of Sheryl’s dubiousness. “I know my father would be very grateful. He doesn’t understand, either.”

  Sheryl relented. “I suppose I owe you that much,” she allowed, stepping away from the door and beckoning the sisters in. “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Just some water please,” Libby replied.

  “Me too,” Bernie replied. “I think I’ve had my quota for the day.”

  As she and Libby passed through to the kitchen, Bernie could see that the inside of the house was as modest as the outside was. It was smaller on the inside than the outside had led Bernie to believe, or maybe it just looked that way because all the furniture belonged in a bigger space. The living room was cluttered with mismatched sofas, settees, and coffee tables, while the dining room had a large table, a cabinet, a desk, and twelve chairs crammed into it.

  “My husband liked to buy things,” Sheryl explained, correctly reading the expression on Bernie’s face.

  “You must miss him,” Bernie said, nodding to the framed photo of her husband sitting on top of the cabinet.

  Sheryl let out a sigh. “Yes, we were together for a long time. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive Ada for what she did to my Henry.”

  “So you don’t think it was a hit-and-run?” Libby asked.

  Sheryl gave her a how-stupid-are-you look.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Why did Ada kill him, if you don’t mind
my asking?” Bernie inquired as she took the seat Sheryl had indicated at the kitchen table.

  “No, I don’t mind at all,” Sheryl replied. “Obviously, because he knew that Ada had killed Peggy and she was afraid he was going to go to the police.”

  “When do you think he knew?” Libby asked as Sheryl, ignoring what Libby and Bernie had both said, poured them coffee from the coffeemaker on the counter. Then she took the box of cookies they had brought, opened the top, and put those on the table.

  “I’m not sure. I did tell him about the fight Peggy and Ada had. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. But it was terrible.” Sheryl sighed, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down. “Really frightening to watch. They almost came to blows.”

  “That must have been scary,” Bernie said as she took a cookie and bit into it. It practically melted in her mouth. That was one of the joys of these cookies. Their “mouth feel.”

  “It was,” Sheryl said. “I thought I was going to have to call the police.”

  “So, what now?” Libby asked.

  “In what sense?” Sheryl asked.

  “Now that your husband has . . . passed.”

  Sheryl put on a sad face. “It’s going to be hard, but I suppose I’ll just have to carry on. For everyone’s sake. Henry would have wanted me to.”

  “That’s so brave of you,” Bernie said. She leaned over. “I’m told he was quite the ladies’ man,” she confided. She watched Sheryl flinch, then recover. “You know, really good in bed.”

  “How dare you,” Sheryl snapped.

  “Easy.” Bernie rummaged around in her bag. “Here it is,” she said, coming up with a Kleenex. “I think I’m getting a cold.”

  “Who said that?” Sheryl demanded, her voice getting louder.

  Libby jumped in. “I’m sorry if what my sister said upset you. She didn’t mean to.”

  “No, I certainly didn’t,” Bernie agreed. “But to answer your question,” she lied, “Kate Silverman said something. So did Vicky and Linda, for that matter. I mean to look at him you wouldn’t think he was such a Casanova, but what do they say about never judging a book by its cover? I guess it’s true.”

  “No it’s not,” Sheryl said, her face getting paler.