“That he does,” Libby agreed.
Chapter 25
It had started to rain hard now, the drops pelting the windshield, and as Bernie drove toward the guest house where Duncan was staying she was struck by the lack of security. Bree had said she’d had to hire round the clock guards, but if they were there, Bernie sure didn’t see them. But then Bree tended to exaggerate. Not that Bernie was complaining.
“Ready?” Bernie said to Libby after she’d parked the van as close to the guest house as she could get.
Libby nodded and they got out of the van.
The light was on in the guest house and as Libby and Bernie drew nearer they could hear a TV pitchman nattering on about the wonders of Viagra.
Bernie pulled up her hood. “Then let’s do it.”
Libby did likewise and she and Bernie ran to the door and banged on it. Duncan answered it a moment later.
“What?” he said.
Clumps of his hair were sticking up in the back of his head and Libby decideRock or Die on it, and no shoes.
“What do you want?” he asked, waving the bottle of beer around.
Bernie noted that his speech was slightly slurred. He’s probably drunk, she thought. “We want to talk to you,” she said, pushing her way inside before Duncan could say no. It was too nasty to stay outside arguing.
Libby followed. As she and Bernie looked around the inside of the cottage, it was obvious to Libby that the place looked a lot worse than the last time she and Bernie had been there. All visible surfaces were covered with garbage. Apparently Duncan wasn’t doing well with captivity, even captivity-lite.
There were pizza boxes and KFC buckets and empty bags of take-out food on the dining room table, and open Styrofoam containers half full of old, uneaten, greasy Chinese food strewn over the coffee table. The floor was littered with empty beer and soda bottles, Starbucks coffee cups, and energy drink cans. Piles of socks, pants, and shirts lay crumpled around the perimeter of the living room floor. A faint smell of garbage and must pervaded the air.
“What’s the matter?” Bernie asked after she’d looked around. “The maid hasn’t been in here recently?”
Duncan shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve been sick.”
Libby studied Duncan for a moment, then said, “You don’t look as if you’ve got anything that a shower and a shave won’t cure.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Duncan said. “Very funny. I’m depressed. Okay? You would be too if you were under house arrest.”
“I probably would be,” Libby agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be picking up after myself.”
“Aren’t you going to invite us to sit down?” Bernie asked, trying for a friendlier tone.
Duncan shrugged. “Sure. Go ahead if you can find the space.”
“Not a problem,” Libby said. She went over to the sofa, gathered up the junk mail, newspapers, and magazines that were strewn all over the cushions and dumped everything on the floor. “There we go. Now it’s clean. Well, clear.”
“Hey,” Duncan protested as Libby sat down. “There was no call to do that. Be more respectful of my stuff, if you don’t mind. I knew where everything was. I had a filing system going on there and now everything is on the floor.”
“Filing and piling. I like it. I never realized that the two words are just a letter apart,” Bernie said as she joined her sister on the sofa. “Kind of like lying and dying.”
Duncan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Bernie told him. “It’s just a random observation.”
“You’re nuts,” Duncan told her. “This is what you came to my house to tell me?”
“Nope. But I can tell you that I think I know what you have,” Bernie replied.
“And what’s that?” Duncan replied.
Bernie smiled and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “I think you have a bad case of the self-pities. That’s what I think you have.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Duncan told her. He took a long gulp from his beer bottle. “Now that I have a diagnosis I feel so much better. So agabete.”
“Tch-tch,” Bernie said. “So rude.”
“But so true,” Duncan replied.
Bernie pointed to the beer in his hand. “Get me and my sister one of those and I’ll tell you.”
“Fine,” Duncan grumped, and he half walked, half stumbled into the kitchen.
“Hey, be careful you don’t trip over anything,” Libby called after him.
Duncan didn’t reply. Libby and Bernie heard the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing and then the sound of a cabinet drawer doing the same thing. A moment later Duncan was back juggling two open India Pale Ales in one hand and his in the other.
“I hope you like this because it’s all I have,” he said as he concentrated on walking slowly and carefully across the room, which was not an easy task considering everything strewn all over the floor.
“Not bad,” Bernie said after she’d taken a sip of the IPA. She looked at the label. “Not bad at all. Do you think India Pale Ale was developed in India?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. All I do know,” Duncan said, “is that Sweeney liked them. He turned me on to them. Before that I was strictly a Blue Label kind of guy.” Duncan lifted his beer bottle. “A toast to Sweeney.”
Libby and Bernie followed suit. “To Sweeney,” they both said in unison.
Duncan perched himself on the edge of the armchair that faced the sofa. As Libby studied him, she reflected that not only had his hygiene gone south, but that he’d lost at least ten pounds since she’d last seen him. The perfect prep look that he’d sported was gone and Libby decided that she liked him way better scruffy. This time Libby was the one who started the conversation.
“So,” she said, getting straight to the point, “how come you got fired?”
Duncan belched. “I didn’t get fired,” he said. “I quit.”
“That’s not what Priscilla said,” Libby told him.
Duncan belched again.
“Is that your answer?” Libby asked.
Duncan stared at her for a moment as if he were collecting his thoughts. Then he said, “Priscilla is a stupid cow and I have no idea what the hell Connor sees—or has ever seen—in her.”
“One of Priscilla’s friends said Mike Sweeney got you fired,” Libby told him, seeing no reason to get into the manicurist thing.
Duncan took another slug from his bottle, realized it was empty, and got up to get another one. “She’s a lying cow too,” he threw over his shoulder as he stumbled toward the kitchen. “Whoever she is.” A moment later he was back in the living room with another opened bottle of beer. “You’re all lying cows.”
“You mean all women?” Bernie said, asking for clarification.
“Absolutely. Every single one of you is a cow. It’s a well-known fact.”
“Does that classification include Liza?” Bernie asked Duncan.
“Especially Liza.” Duncan flung the two pairs of jeans that were on the armchair onto the floor with his free hand and plopped himself down. “She was the biggest cow of all. Only she wasn’t a cow, because she milked everyone else. Get it? Ha. Ha. Ha.” And he slapped his knee. “Well, I think it’s funny,” he told Bernie and Libby when they didn’t laugh, “even if you donvense.’t.”
Libby took a sip of her beer and put it down. “Are you saying that Liza blackmailed people?” she asked, thinking of the photos they’d found on Liza’s laptop.
“What I’m saying,” Duncan told her, “is that Liza was real good at getting things out of people and not giving anything back. With her it was all me, me, me.”
“So if that was the case, why were you with her?” Libby asked.
“Because she had a nice ass,” Duncan said. “And she wasn’t half bad in bed either.”
“So high minded,” Bernie said.
“Hey,” Duncan retorted. “It is what it is.”
“Whatever that
means,” Bernie said.
“You want me to lie?” Duncan demanded of Bernie.
“Not at all,” Libby said, jumping into the conversation. “But, Duncan, didn’t it bother you when she was with your friends?”
Duncan glared at her. “I don’t want to talk about that. That topic is off limits.”
“Okay.” Bernie held up her hands. “We can talk about something else then.”
Duncan took another drink. “Like what?”
“Like what we were talking about before.”
Duncan belched. “And what was that?”
“We were talking about why you were fired,” Libby reminded him helpfully.
Duncan scowled. “I already told you I wasn’t fired.” He took another gulp of beer. “I was asked to quit. There’s a difference.”
“You care to elucidate on that topic?” Bernie asked.
Duncan frowned. “Elucidate? Is that like educate or something?”
“Elucidate as in explain,” Bernie said.
“I already did,” Duncan told her.
Bernie turned to Libby. “Do you think he did?”
“I didn’t hear it, Bernie. Did you?”
“Absolutely not, Libby.”
Duncan’s scowl deepened. “Then you two should have been listening more carefully.”
Bernie leaned slightly forward and looked Duncan in the eye. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”
“Let’s not,” Duncan said.
Bernie continued anyway. “Did Mike Sweeney have anything to do with your getting let go?”
Instead of answering, Duncan took another gulp of his beer.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Bernie asked.
“So what if you are,” Duncan said sullenly.
“How much did he have to do with it?” Libby asked.
Duncan turned to her. “He had everything to do with it, the low-life son-of-a-bitch.”
“How so?” Bernie asked.
Duncan raised the hand that wasn’t holding the beer. “I am sworn to secrecy.” He gave her a big, sloppy grin.
“Meaning you signed a confidentiality agreement?” Bernie asked.
“Meaning bad things will happen if I talk.”
“Rubbish,” Bernie said. “Bad things have already happened.”
Duncan shrugged his shoulders and sat back in the chair. “The fates will decide,” he said rather grandly.
Bernie rolled her eyes. “Spare me.”
“Did you take the fall for Sweeney?” Libby asked, continuing to press him.
Duncan gave her a wounded glance. “I thought you were my friend. You’re supposed to be helping me.”
“I am your friend,” Libby said. “And so is Bernie.”
Duncan flared his nostrils, crossed his arms over his chest, and hunched himself forward. Libby decided he looked like a small child.
“No, you’re not,” he told them.
“Yes, we are,” Bernie snapped. “This is ridiculous.”
Duncan slid down in his chair. “Well, you guys certainly don’t act as if you are.”
“We are,” Bernie said, fighting her rising desire to place her hands around Duncan’s neck and throttle him. “Honestly. That’s why we need you to tell us what happened.”
Duncan put his hand up again. “That I can not do since I am sworn to secrecy. If I did I would have to kill you.”
“Me or Bernie?” Libby asked.
“Everyone,” Duncan said.
“Okay.” Bernie made a space on the coffee table and set her beer down. “Maybe you can tell us this then. Why did you lie about it? Why did you pretend to be going to work when you weren’t?”
Duncan looked at her through bleary eyes. “Truth?”
“Truth,” Bernie said, although by this time she wasn’t sure that Duncan was capable of recognizing it, let alone saying it.
“Obviously because I didn’t want anyone to know about it.”
“And why was that?” Bernie asked.
Duncan looked around to make sure no one else was in the room. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “You want the truth?”
Bernie took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, I want the truth,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“The truth is I lied because I didn’t want my mother to find out because she would have flipped,” Duncan confided. “And that is not a good thing because she’s one seriously crazy lady.” Duncan lowered his voice even more and leaned farther forward to the point where Libby was afraid he was going to fall. “She even has a diagnosis,” he confided to Bernie before sitting back in the chair. His eyelids dropped slowly, as if he had expended his last bit of strength.
“And Liza. What would she have said?” Libby asked, trying to extract a few shreds of useful information out of the conversation.
Duncan let out a sigh, the beer bottle in his hand precariously close to slipping and spilling its contents. Libby extracted it and put it on the table beside his chair. “Duncan?” she said.
But Duncan didn’t answer her. He couldn’t. He was totally and completely passed out. Bernie looked at him, with his head lolling on the pillow and decided he was down for the count. Or at least until tomorrow morning. Then she looked at Libby. “You know,” she said, “as long as we’re here, I think we should have a look around this place.”
“I thought we agreed not to do that,” Libby replied.
Bernie brushed a piece of lint off her designer denim shirt and rebuttoned a button that had come open before answering. “No. We agreed not to break into the guest cottage, but since we’re already here, it’s not the same thing.”
“That’s parsingat no it rather finely,” Libby observed.
Bernie grinned. “That’s why Mom used to say I should be a lawyer.”
“She didn’t mean that in a nice way, Bernie.”
Bernie grin grew. “Seriously? I always took it as a compliment.”
Libby rolled her eyes.
“Listen,” Bernie continued. “We’re here. Duncan’s out cold. We didn’t get a chance to ask him about the Oxi.”
“What if he wakes up?”
“He won’t, but just to make sure, you watch Duncan and I’ll do the looking. If he wakes u
p call me.”
“Fine,” Libby said. “But don’t take too long.”
“Me?” Bernie pointed to herself. “Miss Speedy Gonzalez.”
“You know,” Libby said as Bernie headed for the bathroom, “even if you do find them, that doesn’t mean Duncan’s story isn’t true. Lots of people get off on Oxis.”
“This is true,” Bernie replied. “But it would be good to know.”
“I guess it would,” Libby agreed.
The sisters walked out of the guest house thirty-five minutes later. Duncan was snoring.
“Maybe Duncan has Oxi,” Bernie told Libby as they headed to the van, “but if he does I’ll be damned if I know where it is. The guy doesn’t even take aspirin, for heaven’s sake. Just lots and lots of supplements.”
Chapter 26
It was gray and drizzly out at six the next morning and according to the weatherman it was going to stay that way for the next two days. As Sean happily inhaled the odors of coffee and yeast and butter and garlic swirling around the kitchen of A Little Taste of Heaven, he thought about how it would soon be light at this time of the day and about how the birds would be singing.
Sean had spotted his first robin yesterday morning. It had been hopping around on the pavement outside the shop, pecking at a piece of corn muffin someone had dropped as he’d been sweeping up. Spring was definitely on its way. He could smell it when he stood outside. He liked getting up when it was lighter outside, although he got up when it was dark too. In fact, he got up at the same time every day. Between his job and Rose’s, he’d been rising early for so long that he probably couldn’t sleep in even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.
As far as he was concerned early morning was one of the nicest parts of the day. When h
is wife was alive he’d loved coming downstairs and watching her get ready for the day before he went off to work. And the same held true for his daughters. He loved watching them work. It was so quiet and peaceful down in the shop before the store opened.
No traffic. No customers. No delivery guys stacking cartons in the backroom. No sales reps trying to get his daughters to buy something they didn’t want. No linen guy changing mop heads and counting out aprons. No Amber. No Googie. Just nice smells and the hum of the washing machine and the clank of the mixer and the sound of wooden spoons against sauce pans. And, of course, the sounds of his daughters talking. Sean liked those sounds best of all.
Sean sipped his coffee, a fresh roasted mocha-java made in a press pot, sat on a stool by the counter, and watched as Libby and Bernie finished making the featured soups of the day—a minestrone with almond pesto, and at n poa French-style fish soup featuring haddock, clams, mussels, anise, garlic, fennel, tomatoes, and white wine. He enjoyed watching his daughters chop and sauté while he inhaled the aromas of the onions and the fennel and the basil and the rosemary as they hit the warm olive oil and released their fragrances.
When Libby and Bernie were done and the soups were on the cook tops, they moved on to the new bread they were trying out. They’d started last night before they’d gone to bed because the dough needed two risings. First they’d proofed the yeast, then they’d added a bit more sugar, the whole wheat and white flour, butter, salt, chopped walnuts, and yellow raisins to the bowl.
When they were finished mixing the ingredients together, they cut and weighed the dough, kneaded each piece, and laid them down on the white, plastic dough trays. They got eight dough balls to a tray. Then they’d stacked the trays in the cooler and left the dough to rise overnight. Now they were taking the trays out of the cooler. Next they’d knead the dough again, form it into loaves, and put the loaves in pans for their second rising, after which they’d put them in the oven to bake.
Watching Libby and Bernie, Sean was once again filled with amazement at the grace both his daughters exhibited as they moved around the kitchen. Every movement they made had a purpose. They didn’t dither. They worked like their mother had. With style and grace and economy.
A Catered St. Patrick's Day Page 20