“What’s the matter, Dad?” Libby asked.
Sean looked at her. “Why should anything be the matter?”
“Well, you were sighing. I just thought you might need something,” replied Libby.
“I’m fine,” Sean lied. Drat those cigarettes. Okay. He knew they were really bad for him, but that didn’t help. He could taste them. “I was just thinking about poor Bessie and wondering who buried the journal.”
“I guess she couldn’t have,” Marvin observed.
Sean moved his wheelchair so he could be nearer to the cookies. He particularly liked the lace oatmeal ones. They’d been his wife’s specialty. At one time they’d been popular, but to his knowledge, his daughters’ shop was the only place that made them anymore, mostly as a favor to him, he suspected.
“No. I don’t think Bessie could have,” Sean remarked. “Dead people don’t usually do things like that.”
Brandon grabbed another cookie and took Amber’s place on the floor. “So who do you think did, Mr. Simmons?”
“My first guess would be Felicity Huffer. I think she found the journal and read it and didn’t know what to do with it, so she buried it and drew herself a map so she wouldn’t forget where it was.”
Bernie rubbed her feet. She loved the boots she’d been wearing, but if she wore them for too long, they pinched her toes and gave her blisters. “When I spoke to her, she did say she couldn’t tell anyone what had happened, because she was afraid she’d lose her job. She said that Amethyst’s parents exerted a lot of influence at the school.”
Marvin sneezed. “There’s nothing that incriminating in the journal.”
“There’s enough stuff in there to get Amethyst thrown out of school,” Bernie countered.
“Yeah,” Marvin replied. “That’s true. But I’m talking in the criminal sense.”
“Well,” Clyde said as he wiped cookie crumbs off his leg and into his cupped hand and dumped them in the saucer in front of him, “I’m not so sure about that. If I had what I thought was an accidental death or a suicide and I read that journal, it would definitely get me thinking in a different direction.”
Marvin sneezed again. Whenever he got wet, he got sick. “Then why not just destroy it?” he asked. “That would have been lots easier.”
“Felicity’s conscience probably wouldn’t let her,” Clyde responded. “This way she could always tell herself that when the time was right, she’d show the journal.”
“Which she did,” Bernie said. “Never mind that it’s a little late to do any good.”
“Of course, there’s another possibility,” Sean said. “Someone else could have buried it. Like Amethyst or Ken Marak.”
“And Felicity saw them do it and drew the map,” Brandon said.
Sean nodded. “Exactly.”
Clyde said, “This is all very fascinating in the academic sense, and Bessie’s journal is very sad, but I don’t think it helps us any.”
Bernie looked at her dad. “What do you say, Dad?”
“My gut tells me there’s something here,” said Sean. He pointed to Bessie’s journal, which was now resting on the coffee table, next to the cookies. “I just don’t know what.”
“I don’t see anything that fits with what we already know,” said Clyde.
“Clyde, you don’t know that for a fact,” Sean objected.
“I think I do,” Clyde insisted. “The only facts we know for certain are that we have three people with pretty good motives for killing Amethyst, and each one of them had access to the place where she died. We know that the person that killed her had to have had some facility with tools or been some place where they’d seen a fiber-optic laser cutter at work, which actually isn’t much of a lead, because they’re used at construction sites and in body shops. But most importantly, we know that Amethyst wanted to use Lexus Gardens as the site for a wedding ceremony. Now whether—”
“Excuse me,” Libby interrupted. “How do we know this?”
“I finally got hold of Banks’s personal assistant,” said Clyde.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Bernie demanded.
“We were going to,” her dad said, “but you guys came running in here, and we never got the chance.”
“Wow,” Bernie said. “Married. The ceremony had to be for her.”
“That’s what I figured,” Clyde said. “By the way, Banks refused the request. He didn’t want a ceremony, a reception, or anything at his place. He really did like to keep to himself.”
“And this ties in with his death how?” Libby asked.
“It’s a stretch,” Sean hypothesized, “but the only connection I can see is that Ed Banks was killed because the person who killed her didn’t want it known that Amethyst was getting married.”
“That’s a big stretch,” Libby said.
“It’s a huge stretch,” Sean agreed.
“Which leaves us in the same position we were in before, with Bob Small as our primary suspect,” Clyde said.
“Well, Amethyst certainly wouldn’t be marrying him,” Bernie said. “He has no money.”
“Neither does Inez,” Brandon observed.
“Inez is a woman,” Marvin said.
Brandon just looked at him. “Really? I hadn’t noticed. For your information, Inez goes with whatever moves.”
Marvin blushed again.
“Which leaves Zachery,” Bernie said.
“But he hated her,” Libby protested.
“What better reason to marry and kill her?” Bernie asked.
“Someone would have to be really cold-blooded to do that,” Brandon said.
“Maybe he is. I’ve known some psychopaths in my time. They act like everyone else until you get to know them real well,” said Bernie. She screwed up her face while she thought. “I think I should go have another talk with him.”
“Why? We’d know if they got married,” Libby said. “We would have heard.”
“Not if it was a secret,” Sean said. “Not if they went away and got married somewhere else.”
“But we would have heard that they were living together,” Bernie objected.
“Maybe they weren’t,” Marvin said. “Maybe they were living in separate residences.”
“Then why bother marrying?” Libby asked. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“It makes as much sense as everything else about this case does,” said Bernie as she picked up her cup and put it down again. “Here’s another thought. What if Amethyst was getting married to Ed Banks? What if they got married? Then killing him makes a lot more sense. It means that someone needed to kill them both.”
Clyde snorted. “How do you come up with that?”
“What, exactly, did you ask Banks’s personal assistant?” Bernie inquired.
“First, I asked him if Amethyst Applegate had talked to his employer, and he said she had,” said Clyde. “Then I asked him how he knew, and he said she’d come up to the estate, at which point I asked him what the conversation had been about. He said he heard his employer saying that he didn’t want the reception held here, and then Banks shut the door, and he couldn’t hear anything else.”
Bernie leaned forward and pointed a finger at Clyde. “So Banks and Amethyst could have been talking about holding a reception for their wedding on the estate grounds. I mean, it is a possibility.”
“I guess if you put it that way, then yes,” Clyde conceded.
“Would there be a record of the wedding in the town hall or somewhere like that?” Brandon asked.
“For the fourth time, not if they didn’t get married here,” Sean said. “If we’re following Bernie’s scenario, then it’s just as likely that they hopped on a plane to Reno or Vegas, got hitched, and flew back the next day. What do you think, Clyde?”
“I think Bernie should have been a lawyer, that’s what I think,” said Clyde.
Bernie stood up and took a mock bow.
“But I’m still sticking with what I said before, and all the fancy
logic in the world can’t convince me otherwise,” Clyde told her. “What do you think, Libby?”
“I’m too tired to think,” replied Libby.
“Me, too,” Marvin said.
Libby turned and looked at him. His eyes were like slits. She was just about to tell him he should go home when her father beat her to it.
“Get some sleep,” Sean said to Marvin. “We have a busy day tomorrow, and we need to start bright and early.”
Clyde stood up, too. “That goes for me, too.”
Libby and Bernie walked everyone down the stairs and said good night. After Bernie locked up, she turned to Libby and said, “This is going to sound crazy, but I’m thinking about having a little work done.”
“Work done?” Libby echoed. “What kind of work?”
“Cosmetic surgery kind of work.”
“Are you nuts?” Libby asked.
“But see”—Bernie pointed to her forehead—“I’m beginning to get lines here.” She pointed to the area between her nose and chin. “And here. And look at the circles under my eyes.”
“You are nuts,” Libby told her.
“Look closer.”
Libby did. “I still don’t see anything.”
“That’s because the light down here is bad.”
“You’re having surgery?”
“Well, I’m hoping Botox will take care of everything for awhile. And, anyway, it’s not surgery. It’s maintenance.”
“I don’t care what you call it. It’s still injecting a deadly toxin into your body.”
“It’s not a big deal. Millions of people do it, and I think there’s something new on the market. That’s why I have a consult tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning?” Libby cried. “Why tomorrow morning?”
“Because they had a cancellation. Otherwise, I’d have to wait four months.”
“Maybe you should. It’ll give you time to think about it.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for almost a year,” said Bernie.
“You never mentioned it to me.”
Bernie shrugged. “That’s because I knew what you’d say.”
“Do you know how busy we’re going to be?”
“It’s always about you.”
Libby rolled her eyes. “I have an idea,” she said. “Why don’t we grow a little botulinum here, and you can do it yourself.”
Bernie ignored her. “I’ve got the first appointment. It’s at eight. I’ll be in and out of there in half an hour at the most, and then, if there’s time, I’m going to drop in on Zachery, and if not, I’ll come right back to the shop.”
“Have you told Dad about what you’re going to do?”
“I’m not doing anything. I’m going for a consult,” said Bernie.
“Fine, Miss Have-To-Say-It-Exactly-Right. Let me rephrase. Have you told him about what you’re thinking of doing?”
Bernie snorted. “What, are you crazy? He doesn’t even like it when I change my hairstyle.”
“I bet Brandon won’t be too pleased, either.”
“He’s not going to know. No one is.” Bernie fixed her eyes on Libby. “And you’re not going to tell them, either. Right?”
Libby studied the hallway light fixture.
“Promise me you won’t say anything,” said Bernie.
Libby folded her arms over her chest.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
“Well?” Bernie said after a moment had gone by.
“Fine,” Libby said sullenly. “I swear. Satisfied?”
“Sister swear.”
Libby groaned. Sister swear was an unbreakable oath, the most serious oath there was between them. She might have known Bernie was going to pull this out of the proverbial hat.
“I mean it,” Bernie said.
“All right,” Libby said. “I sister swear it. But I think you’re making a big mistake.”
Bernie gave her a hug. “I know.”
Their dad barely looked up when Bernie and Libby came upstairs. He was too engrossed in reading Bessie’s journal.
“Do you want me to put the Scrabble game away for you?” Libby asked him.
Sean shook his head. “No. Leave it. I’m not done with it yet.”
“Some more tea?” asked Libby.
“No, Libby. I’m fine, honestly,” said Sean.
Bernie leaned over him. “Are you getting any ideas?”
Sean looked up at her and smiled. “Actually, I am.”
“You want to tell us what they are?” asked Libby.
“Not yet. Maybe tomorrow,” said Sean. He went back to reading.
Libby and Bernie stood there and watched him. After a moment, they both gave him good-night pecks on his cheeks and went off to sleep. Even Bernie was tired. The whole thing with finding Bessie’s journal must have taken more out of her than she thought.
Chapter 29
Isn’t this just the way? Libby thought bitterly as she stared at the clock on her nightstand. She desperately needed to go to sleep. She was so tired, she couldn’t keep her eyes open, but now that she was in bed, she couldn’t fall asleep. All she could do was stare at the numbers on the clock face: 2:30, 2:31, 2:33. She was now down to three hours of sleep before she had to get up. At this rate, she might as well get up and go downstairs and start baking. At least she’d be getting something done.
She pulled the comforter up and rearranged her pillow. Maybe she needed to get a new pillow. Then she turned over and stared out the bedroom window. The rain was smearing everything. The street lights outside looked blurry, and the houses across the street had disappeared behind a watery film. A branch of the maple tree she and Bernie used to climb up when they were young had twisted itself into a face.
Funny. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? It had a mouth and eyes. And a nose of sorts. Nostrils, actually. She blinked. It must be a trick of the light. Then she blinked again, because she recognized the face. It was Bessie’s. Bessie was tapping at her window. The strange thing was, she wasn’t even scared. She was just annoyed. Very odd.
“Go away,” Libby told her. “Go bother someone else for a change. I’ve had enough.”
Bessie looked as if she were going to cry. “But I like you.”
“Well, I don’t like you.”
Bessie stamped her foot. “You are so mean.”
Then, before Libby could answer, Bessie was floating above her, around her. She was everywhere Libby looked. Something wet was falling on Libby’s face. Bessie’s tears. They were coming faster and faster. She was getting soaked. She felt as if her bed was floating. She looked down. Water was filling her room. It was carrying the bed up toward the ceiling. She was going to drown.
“I’m sorry,” Libby cried. “I didn’t mean it. I’m tired.”
“You swear?”
“I swear,” Libby said. At least it wasn’t sister swearing. All at once the bed fell, and she was on the floor again.
“We found your journal,” she told Bessie. “We dug it up. Isn’t that what you wanted to happen? Don’t you want everyone to know what’s going on?”
Suddenly, Libby found herself back at the Peabody School. The windows were decorated with cutout witches and pumpkins. Jack-o’-lanterns hung from the trees. Paper skeletons danced on the doors, while students in werewolf masks stalked the hallways. It was the night before Halloween, and she was watching Bessie talk to Ken.
“I don’t understand,” Bessie was saying. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Ken said.
Libby could tell from the way Ken was standing that he was clearly impatient with Bessie. Somehow Libby knew that this discussion had been going on for a half an hour and that Ken was more than ready to leave. And with every word that Bessie said, his interest faded a little bit more.
“But you are,” Bessie insisted. “You’re helping Amethyst cheat.”
“I didn’t know she was going to take the test,
” Ken insisted.
“Then tell your dad.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” asked Bessie.
“Because I can’t, that’s why.”
“You can’t, because you like her.”
“I don’t like her at all.”
“Yes, you do.”
Just let it go, Libby wanted to tell Bessie. Just walk away. He still likes you. He likes you better than Amethyst, even though he doesn’t know it yet. He’ll come back to you. But Libby couldn’t get the words out of her mouth.
“I’m going to tell your dad,” Bessie declared.
“Bessie, don’t,” Ken pleaded.
“I am,” Bessie said.
Why does Ken look so familiar? Libby wondered as she watched letters come out of Bessie’s mouth and form themselves into words above her head. Just like in the cartoons, Libby thought. She was trying to read them, but the rain kept on getting in her eyes. Now the letters had turned into Scrabble tiles and had fallen to the ground. They were forming themselves into two words. A name? A place? Whatever it was, it was important. It was more than important. It was crucial. Libby leaned over to get a better look, and suddenly, she was falling, down, down, down. The ground was coming up fast, but she was still trying to see the words. Then, just before she hit the ground, a name flashed through her mind.
Libby woke up with a start. She was covered in sweat, and her heart was hammering so hard, she couldn’t catch her breath. It took her a second to realize she was in her bedroom. She sat up.
“It was a dream,” Libby said out loud. “Just a dream.”
But it hadn’t felt like that at all. It had felt real. This was what she got for going along with Amber’s nutty schemes and eating too much ice cream. Whenever stuff like this had happened in the past, her mom had always told her it was because of something she’d eaten before bedtime.
She wanted to believe that now, but even then she had known it wasn’t true. Despite what her mom had said, these dreams were different. And Libby thought that her mom had known it, too. She just hadn’t wanted to talk about it, the way she hadn’t wanted to talk about other stuff. Libby still remembered when she’d had the dream about her grandmother dying right before she did, and she’d gone and told her mom. After the funeral, her mom had told her not to say anything to anybody about stuff like that.
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