“How do you know that?”
“Because it stands to reason. Small groups tend to stick together.”
Libby dropped the carrots into the pot and turned on the flame. “I wonder if Leeza’s murder was an economic crime instead of a crime of passion?”
“Can’t it be both? Money breeds passion,” Bernie was saying when her cell rang.
“That was Marvin,” she told Libby after she’d clicked off. “He said Eunice and Gertrude still haven’t shown up at their apartment and that he’s hot, and he’s catching the next train out of Grand Central. He also said to ask you if you want to go out later tonight.”
Libby could feel herself flushing.
Bernie laughed and hoisted herself up on the counter. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You’re getting to like him.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You know you are. You’re blushing. And if you didn’t like him you wouldn’t have stuck up for him in front of Dad. Come on. Admit it.”
Libby ducked her head. “Okay. You’re right. Satisfied?”
“Yes, I am.” Bernie began drumming her heels against the wooden cabinets. “Tell me,” she said to her sister. “Do you think Esmeralda and Jura were sleeping together before Leeza came on the scene or do you think Esmeralda just had a full on crush on him?”
Libby began slicing up the carrots. “It would be interesting to know.”
“Wouldn’t it though,” Bernie agreed. She jumped off the counter and went to look for the phone book. “I wonder if Esmeralda’s neighbors could provide any info.”
Libby kept slicing. “I guess it depends on how nosy they are.”
Chapter 28
Libby cruised down Miles Street looking for Esmeralda’s address. The last time she’d been here, she reflected, the town had pretty much been Irish and Italian. Now judging from the signs it looked as if it was mostly Latino.
If she had time Libby decided maybe she could stop at a few of the bodegas on the way back and see if they had anything interesting in the way of food. She loved doing stuff like that because you never knew what you were going to find. Like some genuine queso blanco. That would be nice. There was a Sonoran chicken recipe she’d been dying to try, but she needed the cheese to make it work.
As she drove by the houses, she couldn’t help reflecting that they looked as if they’d all been cloned. She’d hate to have to come home drunk. They were all four-story brick affairs with concrete stairs with black iron railings affixed to them. Maybe the builder’s brother-in-law had owned a brick factory, Libby reflected as she looked for Four Hundred and Thirteen.
According to Bernie, Avalon had been built as a company town to house the workers from the pharmaceutical plant. But then the plant had left for the South and the town had stayed.
Libby glanced at her watch. It was a little after three and she had to be back at the store in an hour and a half to start work on the dinner party she was catering for Mrs. Burns. That left her not very much time to do what she was going to, especially not if she wanted to do a little food shopping as well.
This was probably going to be a waste anyway, she decided as she scrutinized the numbers on the houses. Most of the people would probably be at work, but when she’d said that her father had pointed out that most investigative work was a waste of time.
You just asked questions, he’d told her and hoped that eventually you got answers that led to something else. Most of the time you didn’t. Which was all very nice and everything. Her dad could afford to be philosophical. He wasn’t running a business like she was.
Finally Libby spotted the number she was looking for and parked the van almost in front of it. At least there wasn’t a parking problem here she thought as she unstuck her blouse from her back. Then she reached into her backpack and brought out a sugar cookie. And this time, thank heavens, she wasn’t going into a tunnel.
She didn’t know if she could do something like that again. Walking through that passageway had been the totally scariest thing she’d done in a long time. As she ate her cookie, Libby studied the house Esmeralda lived in. The place looked like all the others. The only thing that distinguished it was that someone had chained a dirt bike to the stairs.
Come to think of it, what happened to her bike? It had disappeared from the hallway when she’d been in eighth grade. Probably Bernie had taken it and lost it like she’d lost her charm bracelet, Libby thought as she grabbed her stack of A Taste of Heaven menus and her bag of sample muffins.
The faster she got this done, the faster she could get back to what she really needed to do which was wash the sand out of the basil so she could start making pesto for the dinner. She slowly mounted the outside stairs. There was so much humidity in the air it felt soupy. Then she opened the outside door, and stepped into the vestibule.
According to the names on the buzzers, Esmeralda lived on the top floor in apartment one. There were six flats altogether. If this were a movie, Libby reflected, right about now she would be jimmying the door open, going upstairs to Esmeralda’s apartment, picking that lock too, and going inside. As it was, she started ringing bells. No one was home. Or if they were they weren’t answering. So much for Bernie’s brilliant idea.
She turned and weighed her options as she started down the stairs. Go to the van? Try the buildings on either side? Definitely the buildings she decided after a moment. Canvassing them would only take another ten minutes, at the most. Then she could honestly tell her dad and Bernie she’d done as much as she could.
She’d just finished ringing the bells to the building on the left and had started walking towards the building on the right when someone tapped her on the shoulder. Libby spun around.
A youngish girl, complete with multiple piercings and spiked, dyed coal-black hair was staring at her.
“If you’re looking for Laci, she’s not home,” she said.
“I’m not looking for Laci,” Libby told her.
“You’re not her aunt?”
“I’m not even her relative.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Distributing flyers for my restaurant.”
“Really?” The girl took the gum she’d been chewing out of her mouth and dropped it in the street. “Then how come you didn’t leave any just now?”
Good question, Libby thought. Now if she could just think of a good answer.
“Are you the social worker?” the girl asked.
“Do I look like a social worker to you?”
The girl looked her up and down. “Yeah, you do. Especially the shoes.”
“Well, I’m not.” She hated to admit it but maybe Bernie was right about her getting rid of her sandals Libby thought as she opened up her bag of muffins. Perhaps it was time she started wearing heels. “Here. Have one.”
“What kind are they?” the girl asked warily.
“All kinds. Blueberry. Chocolate chip.”
“I like Dunkin’ Donuts blueberry muffins.”
“Mine are better. Really,” Libby told her.
The girl hesitated. Finally she said, “I’ll try the chocolate chip.”
“Here.” Libby handed her one.
“So what are you really doing here?” the girl asked after she’d taken a bite.
Libby sighed. She was so bad at this stuff. Which was why she usually told the truth. It was easier.
“I’m trying to find out something about a woman.”
“Who?”
“No one you know.”
“How do you know who I know?”
The girl was right. “Okay it’s Esmeralda Quinn.”
The girl took another bite of her muffin. “Sure I know her. She’s always complaining that Laci plays her music too loud and getting her into trouble. I mean she was bad before, but now with that weirdo guy she was seeing back again, man she’s impossible. I mean according to her, Laci should just curl up and die. Who goes to bed at eight-thirty at night? She acts as if she’s two hundred years o
ld.”
Libby could feel her heart start beating faster.
“What weirdo guy?”
“I don’t know. He had a funny name.”
“Jura?”
“Yeah.” The girl grinned. “Or something like that.”
“Does he stay over?”
“Yeah. Is he going to get in trouble, if he did?”
“No,” Libby asked. “Why?”
“Too bad. I’d like him to. The guy is a jerk. My mom says people like that get what they deserve anyway, but then she believes in alien abductions too. Can I have another muffin?” the girl asked.
“You can have the bag,” Libby told her.
Bernie had just finished waiting on a customer when her cell rang. “So was I right or was I right?” she said to Libby after she’d finished talking.
“Okay. Okay,” her sister told her.
“Admit it. I won,” Bernie replied.
“You are beyond competitive,” Libby shot back.
“Like you’re not,” Bernie was on the verge of telling her when Jo Ann Quinn marched into the store. “Libby, I gotta go,” she told her sister and hung up.
As Jo Ann approached the counter Bernie reflected that she looked slightly hung over from Bree’s party last night.
“Hi,” Jo Ann said. “I thought I’d take you up on your offer and try your takeout. What do you recommend?”
“The ginger chicken,” Bernie said promptly. She could probably eat it every day of the week.
“I’ll take a pound.” Then she pointed to the string bean salad. “Also half a pound of that if you don’t mind.”
Bernie reached for one of the take-out boxes as Jo Ann leaned in towards the counter.
“About last night,” she said.
“Yes?” Bernie replied as she slipped on her disposable vinyl gloves and looked around for the scoop. Where had Amber put the dratted thing?
“I had a few too many margaritas.”
“Don’t we all at some time or another,” Bernie said.
“When I drink I talk too much.”
Bernie measured out the ginger chicken. “So do I.”
“I never should have said what I did about Esmeralda, especially to you.”
Bernie folded the flaps together and started on the string beans.
“You didn’t say anything.”
Jo Ann bit her lip. “I shouldn’t have talked to you at all. If I’d known what you were doing, I wouldn’t have.”
“Why not?”
“For the same reason you wouldn’t talk about your sister to me if our positions were reversed. I just thought I ought to tell you.”
Man, does she have a guilty conscience, or does she have a guilty conscience, Bernie thought after Jo Ann had left.
Sean looked at Libby while she readjusted the fan. At nine o’clock at night it was still seventy degrees outside—way too warm for him. “Did you get the girl’s name?” he asked her.
Libby hunched her shoulders up which Sean knew meant no. He hated that gesture. It was like wearing a kick me sign.
“I should have, shouldn’t I?” she told him.
He started to say, damned right you should have, but changed it to, “It doesn’t matter anyway.”
Which wasn’t exactly true. It did matter. When you wrote up a report having a name to put in it was a necessary thing—in fact, it was the first requirement—but he had to remember he was dealing with civilians. Anyway if he said that to Libby she’d just go all soppy on him and he’d have to spend twenty minutes picking her up and dusting her off.
How he’d raised a daughter as thin-skinned as Libby was a mystery to him. Look at her the wrong way and she turned to mush. But she was better than she used to be, he reminded himself. At least now she didn’t begin to sob every time you told her she’d done something wrong.
“I’m sorry,” Libby repeated. “I just—”
Sean cut her off. “It’s fine. Let’s go over what we do know.”
Libby’s shoulder’s came down a notch.
“You start,” Sean told her.
“Well, we know that Esmeralda was sleeping with Jura before Leeza came along.”
Sean nodded approvingly.
“And we know that Leeza took her place,” Bernie said as she came in and handed her father a Cosmopolitan.
Sean took a sip. He’d rather have a beer but, hey, he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth as it were.
“And we know that Esmeralda got a raise when Leeza died.” Libby added.
“And we pretty much know from what the girl Libby talked to said that Jura’s back in Esmeralda’s bed again,” Bernie said.
“Maybe he’s just sleeping there,” Sean suggested.
Bernie rolled her eyes. “Yeah. No doubt because Esmeralda’s apartment is so nice that he prefers staying there than in his, what, million-dollar home? Of course he went back to her—she’s there.”
“It’s true. Men always go back to the familiar when they can,” Sean conceded.
“Conservation of effort,” Bernie said.
“Isn’t that a law of physics?”
Bernie laughed while Sean tapped his fingers on the armrest of his wheelchair. “In any case I think it’s safe to say that for Esmeralda nothing but good comes out of Leeza’s death.”
Bernie twirled a lock of hair around her finger.
“And everything bad comes out of Leeza being alive.”
“Sounds like a strong motive to me,” Sean said.
“Me, too,” Libby agreed.
“I wonder if she’s involved in that caviar scam?” Bernie mused. “It would be interesting to find out.”
“But doing that would be hurting Jura, wouldn’t it?” Libby exclaimed.
“Exactly,” Bernie said. “How does the song go? You always hurt the one you love.”
Sean took another sip of his drink, even though it was a little sweet for his taste. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m beginning to like Esmeralda for Leeza’s murder. I’m beginning to like her a lot.”
Chapter 29
Bernie pushed a strand of hair off her cheek as she looked at the store she was about to enter. She just hoped Ernie was correct about this place because her feet were killing her. She didn’t know what she was thinking of wearing her three-inch pink wedges when she was going to be pounding the pavements in New York. Whoever thought that detective work was glamorous or fun obviously hadn’t done any.
But at least this time she’d had enough sense to check the temperature before she’d caught the train down into the city. The forecast had said it was going to be in the nineties so she’d put on her light beige silk-slip dress, which was the closest she could get to not wearing anything without getting herself arrested.
The store was located directly off of Canal Street, a little way out of Chinatown. “Ernie, please be right,” Bernie whispered out loud. Ernie who was one of her ex-boyfriends, now made a living as a professional poker player and moved in the demimonde as the French liked to say. According to him this place sold, what he so euphemistically called “recycled luxury goods” and other people called stolen merchandise.
The store certainly didn’t call attention to itself, Bernie reflected. In fact, the place looked as if it were abandoned. The windows were half-covered with newspaper and the glass that was showing was so dirty Bernie had to squint to make out the words Novelty Items written in gold lettering on the window.
Unopened cardboard cartons were piled next to the door. The door itself had no name or number on it. Unless you knew where you were going you’d never find the place. She just hoped that this scheme would work.
Okay, here we go, she said to herself as she straightened her shoulders and pushed the door open. Hopefully she’d find out who was selling caviar off the books. Her dad hadn’t come up with anything yet. Maybe she could. Anyway, she figured it was worth a shot.
A blast of frigid air greeted her as she stepped inside. The place felt like a meat locker. She didn’t
need a sweater she needed a parka she reflected as she rubbed her shoulders to keep them warm. And a flashlight wouldn’t hurt either.
The guy must have a 10-watt fluorescent bulb in the overhead fixture Bernie decided as she threaded her way through stacks of shipping cartons with Chinese characters on them and around buckets designed to catch drips from the ceiling.
She wondered how much the owner of the place was paying off the building inspectors to keep this place open, as she approached the man standing behind the counter. Tall and gaunt, he was wearing a black turtleneck sweater. Very appropriate for a ninety degree New York summer day. But it wasn’t the sweater that got to Bernie, it was the mutton chop whiskers. She was hoping this wasn’t a new guy facial hair style; goatees were bad enough. He lit a cigarette and took a puff.
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m looking for something,” she said. “Maybe you can help me.”
“Everyone is looking for something,” he replied.
Cute. This guy’s seen way too many French movies, Bernie thought as she watched him take another puff of his cigarette. Then he stubbed it out in a large ashtray that was overflowing with other slightly smoked cigarettes. Piles of what Bernie took to be invoices were stacked up beside it.
“I’m trying to quit,” he explained as he followed her glance.
Bernie watched as he shuffled the papers together and put them under the counter.
“I take two puffs and put it out,” he continued.
“Is it working?” Bernie asked.
“Not very well,” the man admitted. “Now what are you looking for?”
“I’m catering a party next week.”
The man inclined his head. “Mazel tov.”
“And I’m looking to buy some caviar for it.”
“Caviar is always good.”
“And I was told you sell some here.”
“Who told you this?”
“Ernie.”
The man eyed her up and down. “You don’t look like someone Ernie would know.”
“I used to go out with him.”
The man nodded and lit another cigarette. “I guess he hasn’t exactly come up in the world since then.”
A Catered Wedding Page 22