Bernie nodded. “Yes. They’re indigenous to that country, but they were introduced to Hawaii, and the crop was so successful there that now Hawaii is responsible for something like ninety percent of the macadamia nuts sold in this country.”
Sean sighed. The trouble with his oldest daughter, Sean decided, was that she never knew when to stop. Of course, his wife used to say the same thing about him. In fact, she’d said it quite often.
“Do you think we can get back to the matter at hand?” Sean heard himself saying.
He could tell from the expression on his daughters’ faces that his tone wasn’t very pleasant, but frankly at this point he didn’t really care. At all.
“Calm down, Dad,” Bernie said.
“I am calm,” he yelled.
“Okay, Dad,” Libby said in a tone Sean thought was appropriate to use on a three-year-old. “What do you want us to do?”
Marvin leaned forward. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m in.”
“We all are,” Rob added.
“No, you’re not,” Sean snapped. “I’m not turning this into some damn circus.”
“Dad doesn’t mean that,” Bernie said.
“Yes, I do,” he reiterated.
“We could use some help,” Libby said. “I’ve got a lot of baking and orders to fill for the shop. In case you’ve forgotten, this is A Little Taste of Heaven’s busiest time of the year.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Sean retorted. He looked at Clyde.
Clyde gave a little shrug. “It wouldn’t be bad to have some people you could call on, Cap,” he said.
Sean mulled over what Clyde had just said for a moment. Marvin was a walking disaster. There was no disputing that. But what was it Rose used to say about making the best of what you’ve got?
“All right,” he finally said. “But only if you guys follow my directions. And I mean exactly.”
“Oh, we will,” Marvin said. He raised his hand. “I swear.”
God help us all, Sean thought. But given the circumstances, he didn’t feel as if he had any other choice.
Anyway, if he didn’t agree, Libby would kill him.
Or not speak to him for a week.
Which was worse.
He straightened up in his wheelchair.
Enough whining.
It was time to get the show on the road and figure out who was going to do what.
Chapter 11
Libby poured herself a cup of coffee from the Chemex, turned off the light under the teakettle on the Viking, and went out to the front of the store. She snuggled into her robe as she took a deep breath and inhaled the smells of vanilla and cinnamon and freshly baking bread. She looked out of the windows.
At five o’clock in the morning the street was quiet. The Christmas decorations on the lampposts—this year the town had gone with stars—gave off a vague tinselly glimmer. The only things moving were a few snowflakes gently blowing under the streetlights.
As she watched them floating down, she savored a taste of her own private stash of Blue Mountain Jamaican coffee. Normally she reserved the coffee for special occasions—at a little over thirty dollars a pound, she should—but given last night and what was coming up today, she figured she deserved it.
This was her favorite time of the day, she decided as she took another sip. Even though she liked people, she liked being alone in her kitchen among all of her cookbooks. Browsing through them relaxed her.
She liked being here before Googie and Amber started working. There was something soothing about getting things ready for the day. She liked listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the way the pipes clanked when she turned on the water. She liked the smell of yeast, the smooth feel of the bread dough under her fingers as she formed it into Parker House rolls, the way the muffin batter poured into the tins, the sweet sharp smell of cardamom and raisins.
As she surveyed the window display cases, she felt a rush of pride. She decided that despite what she’d thought earlier, she’d done a good job decorating the store for Christmas. As good as Hortense. Better, actually. Her mom would have been proud of her.
This year she’d made a gingerbread replica of the street that A Little Taste of Heaven was on. It had taken her weeks to figure out how to do it and to make the patterns. There was the shoe store and the fish purveyor and the drug store, the bookstore and the butcher, as well as A Little Taste of Heaven, of course.
All the stores had windows outlined in white icing and roofs made out of flat red licorice. Their marquees were composed out of pound cake, and she’d written the names of the stores in purple frosting. She’d made lampposts out of sugar cookie dough and frosted them with dark green icing.
But the pièce de résistance, as far as she was concerned, were the two dogs she’d made. They each had chocolate kisses for eyes and white frosting with tan patches on their backs. She’d even made leashes out of spun sugar and put spun sugar collars around their necks. Their owner was wearing a light green shirt and yellow pants and was leaning next to a bench Libby had constructed out of chocolate chip cookies and sugar glue. It had been a work of love.
“Getting ready for the day?”
Libby jumped. She put her hand to her heart.
“Oh my heavens,” she said after she’d turned around and realized who it was. “You scared me. I didn’t even hear you.”
“Sorry,” Bernie said.
“It’s okay.”
“Thinking about today?” Bernie asked.
“Yes,” Libby lied.
Actually she’d been thinking that she should have made a gingerbread car as well and sprinkled some powdered sugar on the roof for snow. Maybe she’d still do that. She looked at Bernie as she took a sip of coffee. Her sister even slept in something sexy. It was demoralizing, Libby thought as she looked down at her long T-shirt and the ratty, terry-cloth robe she’d had since she was twenty-one.
“The coffee’s good, isn’t it?” she asked.
“The best,” Bernie said. “Absolutely the best.”
Libby nodded. “How come you’re up so early?”
Bernie shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” Libby confessed.
“I kept on trying to figure out what to get Dad for Christmas.”
Libby sighed. She and her sister went through this every year. Her dad was the worst person to shop for bar none.
“And,” Bernie continued, “I couldn’t keep what happened yesterday out of my mind.”
“I’m worried about tonight,” Libby found herself blurting out.
Bernie patted her on the back. “You’ll do fine.”
“But what if we can’t think of anything to make?” Libby wailed.
“We will.”
“What if what we’re making isn’t done in time?”
“It will be.”
Libby looked at her sister. “Doesn’t anything ever worry you?”
“Of course things worry me.”
“But you don’t seem as if they do.”
“I just handle it differently than you do.”
“I wish I could be more like you,” Libby confessed.
Bernie took another sip of coffee. “You take after Mom, I take after Dad.”
Libby sighed again. “I know. And I wish I didn’t.” She took another sip of coffee and contemplated the gingerbread street. It would be nice if she could spend more time doing window displays. It would probably help boost sales. She caught Bernie looking at her.
“What?” Libby asked.
“I was just thinking about what we’re supposed to do this afternoon.”
Libby could feel her stomach knot up at Bernie’s words. “I’ve been trying not to.” She had so much to do at the store that the prospect of going out and talking to people on top of everything else was not making her a happy camper.
“Why do I have to take Reginald’s place?” Libby demanded.
Bernie put her hands on her hips. “Because you asked for it. Because you said
it was the closest.”
“I meant, why are we doing this at all?”
“You know why,” Bernie replied.
Libby leaned against one of the counters. She did know why. She just resented it.
“Anyway,” Bernie said, “maybe the people in the new development that Bree is trying to build will shop here.”
“I hope so,” Libby replied. “I really do.”
Perhaps what Bernie was saying was true, but it still didn’t help her mood any. Libby clicked her tongue against her teeth.
“You can take Pearl if you want to,” Bernie offered.
“That’s okay,” Libby told her.
Libby shook her head. Reginald’s place was nearer, and given the circumstances, she had to be practical. She took another sip of her coffee. “I think Consuela did it.”
Bernie shook her head.
“Why?” Libby asked. “She was the only one there ahead of us.”
“True,” Bernie said. “But anyone could have come and gone without being seen. There really isn’t any security to speak of.”
“We caught her looking through the files.”
“Just because Consuela’s a cheat doesn’t mean she’s a killer.”
Libby put her cup down. “Why don’t you like her for this?”
“Because this strikes me as a guy kind of crime. Guys like to make things explode. Maybe it’s a sex thing.”
“So who is your money on?” Libby asked.
“Eric,” Bernie said. “He has the best motive. He’s taking Hortense’s place.”
Libby shook her head. “I just don’t see him as being able to do this. He’s too emotional.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Libby sniffed. “I just don’t see him as having … the background to think something like that up. I know I certainly wouldn’t. Would you?”
“No. I have to admit that using a camera as a triggering device would never even occur to me.” Bernie started moving her ring up and down her finger. “Good point. So what kind of background are we talking about here?”
“Someone with a background in demolition,” Libby postulated.
“Or maybe they got the idea from TV or a movie. Or found it on the Internet. It’s amazing what’s on there.”
Libby conceded that that was true. “Hortense was a very annoying lady.”
“Extremely. But you don’t usually kill someone because they’re annoying,” Bernie pointed out. “At least not usually.”
“But if they’re annoying and they’re keeping you from getting what you want …”
Bernie finished the sentence. “You might feel entitled to do them in.”
Libby nodded. “Exactly the word I was looking for. I wonder how much Hortense drank?”
“That should be easy enough to find out,” Bernie said. “I think I’ll visit Harold’s liquor store on my way home this afternoon and see what he has to say.”
“Good idea, but remember we have to make three batches of jam cookies this afternoon.” Libby drained the last of her coffee from the cup, put the cup in the sink, and washed it. She was drying it when all of a sudden she heard the sentence, “Why doesn’t Dad like Marvin?” coming out of her mouth.
“Of course he does,” Bernie told her. “He just doesn’t like driving with him.”
“Well Dad makes Marvin nervous.”
“I know. But this time I’m sure Marvin will do better. I’m sure of it.” Bernie put her hand up. “Girl Scout’s honor.”
“You never were a Girl Scout. You got thrown out, remember?”
“I got thrown out of the Brownies.”
“Same thing.”
“Did anyone every tell you you’re incredibly literal minded?” Bernie asked her.
“Look who’s talking,” Libby shot back.
She walked out front, went over to the display, took a chocolate chip cookie out, and ate it. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“It’ll be fine,” Bernie said.
“I’m not so sure. Dad might kill Marvin.”
Libby stopped herself from reaching for another cookie.
“No, he won’t,” Bernie said.
“Or order him out of the car.”
“Why do you always think worst-case scenario?” Bernie demanded, but Libby could tell from the expression on Bernie’s face that she thought that scenario was a distinct possibility as well.
Libby decided she was going to eat the chocolate chip cookie after all. The hell with television. The hell with her clothes fitting. She needed it. She savored a piece of Lindt chocolate dissolving on her tongue.
“I’m not sure that talking to everyone’s staff is the way to go.”
“Well, I suggested that we break into everyone’s apartments and businesses and rifle through their files, but I was outvoted.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Libby replied.
“I know,” Bernie told. “It seemed like a perfectly sensible tactic to me.”
“Efficient too,” Libby said.
“My point exactly,” Bernie said. “However, since I was voted down, talking is the only thing left to do.”
Libby sighed. “What do you think would happen if we didn’t do this?”
“I think we’d have a very pissed off Bree Nottingham.”
“Which would not be a good thing,” Libby said.
“No, it wouldn’t,” Bernie agreed.
“We could probably get by without her,” Libby observed.
Bernie tapped her thumbnail against her front teeth. “Well we wouldn’t lose our walk-ins, but some of our bigger catering jobs …” Bernie’s voice trailed off.
“I know.”
Libby got her third cookie. Piss off the social arbiter of Longely and there would go half of their business. It was times like this that Libby really missed her mom. What would she have done in this situation?
Libby didn’t know, but she was pretty sure Rose would have found a way to maneuver through it. She always did. Too bad she wasn’t around to ask. Oh well. She was about to take a bite of her cookie when she saw Amber parking her car in front of the store. Libby went over and unlocked the front door.
“What are you doing here this early?” she asked Amber once she’d walked inside.
Amber started unwrapping her scarf from around her head. “Brandon told me what happened, so I figured you’d need some extra help baking this morning.”
“In his past life he was probably the town crier,” Bernie observed.
Libby nodded. Brandon was the bartender at R.J.'s. Her dad called him “a major informational conduit.” Which was another way of saying he had a big mouth.
“I’m guessing that it won’t be that long before this hits the newspaper,” Bernie said.
Libby bit her cuticle. “I’m guessing you’re right,” she said as she watched Googie’s car pull up in front of the store.
“What is he doing here?” Libby asked. He wasn’t supposed to be on till two in the afternoon.
“Oh, I asked him to come,” Amber said. “I figured that you could use as many hands as possible. Remember what happened the last time you were involved in an investigation?”
Indeed Libby did. They’d been swamped with people anxious to hear the latest word on what was going on. They’d run out of muffins and scones and cookies by ten o’clock in the morning.
Libby bit her thumb.
“Okay,” she said, “let’s get to work.”
Chapter 12
Ah, Christmastime in New York City. It was pretty, Bernie allowed as she hurried down Lexington Avenue, although festive might be an even better word. All the gingko trees wrapped in white lights. Displays in the shop windows. Everything scrubbed and glowing. All those people shoving and pushing in the stores so they could cash out and hurry home.
Yes, holiday time in retail, the time when normally nice people turned into raving lunatics. Maybe she was just feeling a bit grumpy, Bernie reflected, because she’d almost bee
n trampled down by a large woman toting an enormous gilt-wrapped package that was effectively blocking her vision while she, Bernie, was just walking along minding her own business.
And the woman hadn’t even apologized! She’d just snarled at her and kept on going. Bernie rubbed her shoulder. It still hurt from the impact. Oh well. Time to concentrate on other things, Bernie thought as she hugged her leather jacket to her chest. Man, it was cold. Why hadn’t she worn her boatneck, black cashmere sweater instead of her Krista Larson white cotton blouse? Actually, she knew why. Because the rounded inset collar looked really hot peeping out from under her jacket. Very mixed message. A combo schoolgirl and biker chick. Rob was going to love it when he saw it. Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to be seeing it till this evening. By then she was going to have turned into a Popsicle.
The paper had said it was going to be thirty degrees today, which really wasn’t very cold, but she’d forgotten to add the wind factor into the equation. Down in the city, the skyscrapers turned the streets into wind tunnels so it always felt ten to fifteen degrees colder than it actually was.
Bernie blew on her fingers as she stopped in front of Pearl’s store and peered in the window. Wearing gloves wouldn’t have hurt either. Maybe she could pick up a pair from one of the vendors on the street. The shop was crowded with beautiful people and the maids who served them, buying things like corn bread, meat loaf sandwiches on squishy white bread, pot roast and mashed potatoes, or potato and leek soup to consume in their offices or their posh apartments.
Bernie knew that these were things that they would normally never give a second look to. But somehow the fact that they were paying twenty dollars for it made meat loaf chic, thus bearing out her mother’s contention that reverse snobbery was a potent merchandising force.
As Bernie raised her eyes, she noticed that off to one side of the window, displayed in a tasteful way but placed so that it was impossible to miss, was the article the New York Times had written about Pearl last year. The lead-in read, “Caterer to the social set has her taste buds insured by Lloyd’s of London for five million dollars.”
Bernie rewound her scarf around her neck. What a gimmick. And why hadn’t she thought of it? Didn’t most people realize that Lloyd’s would insure absolutely anything? That’s what they were famous for. How could I have forgotten about this? Bernie asked herself as she reread the article.
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