What was she looking for anyway? Libby took a handful of chocolate chips from the bowl she kept on the counter, “her stash” Bernie called it, put them in her mouth, and let them dissolve under her tongue. Then she got out the flour and her rolling pin. The rolling pin had been her mother’s, and Libby liked its heft and the way it felt in her hands. She sprinkled the counter with the flour, placed a portion of the dough she’d cut in the center, and gently patted it into a circle. She always did better when she was doing something with her hands.
She contemplated Reginald as she applied steady but firm pressure to the dough with her rolling pin. Who knew something about Reginald that she knew? No one came to mind. She gave the dough two strokes, turned it, and gave it another two strokes. It always pleased her to watch a perfect circle form. She lifted the dough up, plopped it into the pie pan, and began to gently press the dough into it. When she’d formed the edge, she started on the second piece.
As she did, her mind drifted back to the problem at hand. Reginald. What did she know about him anyway, besides the fact that he was a pompous ass? The most prominent thing was that he’d been the chief restaurant reviewer for the Food Lover’s Companion magazine for five years before he’d quit to open up his shop last year.
Libby remembered her friend Joanna telling her he’d been forced out. She dusted off her hands and picked up the phone to call her. Joanna wasn’t in, but her business partner was.
“I think he got the boot because he was taking bribes.”
“Are you sure?” Libby asked him.
“I could be wrong,” Mike said. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”
Intriguing. When she’d seen the store she’d thought a lot of money had gone into it. Maybe that’s where he’d gotten it from. It was very chic. All pink and white with high tea served five days a week. A ladies’ delight, her mother would have said. As Libby started on the third piece of dough, she came to a decision.
After she finished up with the three pies, she’d just drive over and talk to Reginald directly. There. That was simple. According to Bernie, she always thought about things too much. Maybe Bernie was right. Maybe she did.
Reginald was manning the counter when Libby walked into his shop. Ladies were sitting at the tables sipping tea and nibbling on what Libby assumed to be watercress sandwiches, a concoction she saw no use for whatsoever. The place looks like a giant bonbon, Libby thought as she made her way toward Reginald.
“Ah,” he said when he saw her. “The little detective coming to detect, or should I say, one of the Jonah girls is here.”
Not a promising beginning, Libby decided. Perhaps she should have had a chat with a couple of the vendors after all.
“Are you ready for tonight’s contest?”
Reginald looked at her and lifted an eyebrow. Then he sneered.
“Obviously I’m more prepared than you are. Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking.”
“I was just trying to be polite,” Libby heard herself saying. She could feel her temper rising. The phrase “loathsome little man” popped into her head.
“So was I.” Reginald put his hands on the counter and leaned forward. “So what can I do for you? Perhaps a scone with some clotted cream and strawberry preserves?”
Libby took a deep breath and let it out. The time for “the niceties” as her mother called them were long past. “Why did you need to speak to Hortense so badly?” she blurted out. And that made her even madder. This wasn’t how she’d intended starting. She just hated that she let herself get so easily rattled.
“I didn’t,” Reginald said.
“Remember, I was there.”
“And your point is?”
“It seemed to me as if you did.”
“Well, what can I say? You’re wrong. Anything else?”
There it was. The dismissal she knew was coming.
“Ah …” Libby found her mind going blank. Finally she came up with, “How long have you known her?”
“Hortense?”
Libby nodded.
“Four or five years.”
“How did you meet her?”
Evidently, Libby decided, Reginald must be more comfortable with that line of questioning because he said, “I met her when I was the editor of the Food Lover’s Companion. We did a piece on her.”
This is getting a little better, Libby thought. Maybe this approach is going to work after all. Maybe the lesson here was just keep going.
“So who do you think is responsible for Hortense’s death?” Libby asked.
Reginald gave her an incredulous look.
“Eric Royal of course.”
“Why of course?”
“Think about it,” Reginald said. “He was her assistant. Now he’s hosting the show. Or what about Consuela?”
“What about her?” Libby asked.
“Well, you’re such a great detective, you figure it out. I’ll give you a hint,” Reginald said after a moment had gone by. “It involves pie crusts.”
Libby shook her head. It wasn’t ringing a bell.
“Think about it,” Reginald said.
“I still don’t get it,” Libby replied.
Reginald gave her a pitying glance. “All I can say is that I hope you’re a better cook than you are a detective, because you’re really bad at this. Pathetic, actually.” And with that, he turned to wait on a customer.
Libby felt her cheeks as she left Reginald’s shop. Even though it was cold out, they were hot. She knew they would be. They were probably bright red. She was so angry she didn’t know what to do with herself. She took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. What she needed was a cookie. No. What she needed was a walk. No. What she needed was to go back in there and bash Reginald in the face.
She took another deep breath and tried to focus on the white breath that was coming out of her mouth. Forget about Reginald Palmer, she told herself. She had to get back to work. There were pies waiting to be baked, roasts waiting to be prepared, and Amber and Googie waiting to be supervised.
She was opening the door of her van when she noticed one of Reginald’s workers coming out of the side door of Reginald’s store. The guy was obviously in a hurry because he practically ran by her. She was turning around when she realized that the kid hadn’t closed the shop door all the way.
Just leave, Libby told herself. But she remained rooted to the spot. Reginald saying she hoped she was a better cook than she was a detective had been the last straw. He’d be sorry. She’d show him. Libby looked around. No one was on the street. No one was driving by. She quietly closed her van door and went down the alleyway.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought as she pulled the side door to Reginald’s store open and stepped inside. She expected to be in one of the storerooms or the back kitchen. Instead she found herself in Reginald’s office. Now, what had that kid been doing in here? Libby wondered. Probably something he shouldn’t have been judging by the speed with which he’d left. Oh well. Libby certainly wasn’t going to say anything that was for sure.
I should leave, Libby thought. Then she considered what Reginald had said to her and decided to stay. I’ll just take a quick look and get out of here, Libby promised herself as she glanced around the office. The room was fairly bare. There was a calendar tacked up on the wall, three chairs, a file cabinet, and a desk. That was it.
“I’ll look through the file cabinet first,” she muttered to herself, but when she tried it, it was locked. Okay. On to the next thing. The desk. She walked over.
The desk had a laptop, a jar containing pens and pencils, and a stack of mail on it. Obviously Reginald was a neat freak, Libby thought, picturing her desk at home, which was currently buried under piles of bills, recipes she’d clipped from assorted magazines, and newspapers, coupons, and heaven knows what else.
Libby reached out and picked up the stack of mail. She began to thumb through it. Most of it was bills—she recognized the vendors—but then there was somethi
ng from the Wexler Wellness Center addressed to Reginald Palmer.
Interesting, Libby thought. The Wexler Center was a rehab center for people with alcohol and drug problems. She was holding the letter up to the light when she heard footsteps. Damn, she thought. If I were Bernie, where would I hide? Nowhere, she decided. There was no closet, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to take a chance crouching under the desk.
“This is why I don’t do things like this,” Libby said to herself as she stuffed the letter in her pocket and ran out the door. “I don’t do things like this because I always get caught.”
She was halfway down the alley when she heard Reginald calling to her.
“Hey,” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
I must have forgotten to close the door all the way, Libby thought. I can’t believe I could have done that. Just keep walking, she told herself. Pretend you don’t hear him. But that obviously wasn’t working because a moment later, her arm got grabbed and she was spun around.
“I asked you a question,” he said to her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear.” For some odd reason having the letter in her pocket made her feel braver.
“What were you doing in my office?” he demanded.
Libby summoned up her most outraged expression.
“I wasn’t in your office.”
“Then why was the door open?”
“One of your guys ran out the door.”
“My guys?”
“Yes. He was wearing a black watch cap.”
Libby could see a flicker of uncertainty in Reginald’s eyes. His grip loosened slightly.
“That doesn’t explain why you were in the alleyway.”
Libby shrugged. “I thought he had dropped something, and I went to look. But he hadn’t.” She pointed to Reginald’s hand. “Now if you don’t mind taking your hand off of me. If you don’t, I’m going to call the police,” Libby told him.
“That’s funny,” Reginald said, but Libby noticed he looked more uncertain than he had before.
He gave her a closer look. She kept her face expressionless. A moment later she could felt his grip loosening. She made herself walk to her car, get in, and drive away as if she had all the time in the world. When she was three blocks away, she pulled into a Home Depot parking lot, opened the envelope she’d taken from Reginald’s desk, and read the contents. I did good, she said to herself as she called Bernie. I did really, really good.
Chapter 14
Sean clicked off his cell and rested it in his lap where he could easily reach it again if he needed to.
“Now that’s interesting,” he reflected out loud.
Marvin turned to look at him. “What’s interesting?” he asked.
Sean couldn’t help himself. Even though he knew he shouldn’t yell, he did. “Don’t look at me, look at the road!”
There was a Ford Explorer in front of them that Sean definitely didn’t want to have a close encounter with.
“Right.”
Sean was relieved to see Marvin refocusing his attention on the vehicles in front of them.
He and Marvin, or was it him and Marvin—he could never get it straight—were now on the FDR Drive heading toward Brooklyn Heights where Jean La Croix’s store was located. Sean just hoped they made it in one piece. Between the traffic and Marvin’s driving ability, he was not confident about their arrival.
“I’m sorry,” Marvin said, turning his head again.
“Look at the road,” Sean repeated. He could hear his voice rising and what Libby described as his run-for-cover tone kicking in. “And stop saying you’re sorry. Sorry doesn’t fix anything. Just keep your eyes facing front. And for God’s sake speed up a little. At this rate we’ll get to the store in two hours.”
He shook his head. He couldn’t believe the sacrifices he made for Libby—like consenting to have Marvin as his driver. He just hoped she appreciated them.
“Yes, sir,” Marvin said.
Sean noticed Marvin had his shoulders hunched over the wheel. His Aunt Martha used to drive like that—right before they made her give up the car.
“Sean,” he automatically corrected.
“Yes, sir, Sean.”
He’s doing this purposely to make me crazy, Sean thought as he remembered Clyde’s words. How could he forget them?
“You can’t injure him,” Clyde had said. “Remember, Marvin could be the father of your grandchildren someday.”
Just the thought made Sean break out in a cold sweat. But what Clyde said was true. He had to get a hold of himself. He snuck a glance at Marvin. The kid looked like a whipped dog. Now on top of everything else, Sean felt guilty.
Yelling at Marvin was like yelling at Rose’s Maltese, Sean reflected. All it did was make that thing—he could never think of it as a dog—pee on the floor, a correlation Rose had never failed to point out.
Of course, in the old days he wouldn’t have needed anyone to drive him. In the old days he always drove himself. He prided himself on his ability to handle his vehicle in any situation. And now he was stuck being chauffeured around by Marvin no less. Whatever it was he had done in his past life he was paying for it now!
Maybe Marvin was a nice guy—okay, he was a nice guy—but the kid couldn’t drive his way out of a paper bag, as his dad used to say. It was as simple as that. How the kid had survived for as long as he had without having someone run him off the road was a mystery. In fact, in the old days, Sean thought he would have been one of the first to do it.
Let’s be honest here, Sean admitted to himself. There was something else as well. He also hated the fact that he and Marvin were driving down to Brooklyn in the only vehicle available—Marvin’s father’s hearse. It creeped him out—Bernie’s expression—even though he would rather die than admit that to anyone.
He couldn’t help thinking of all the lost souls who were floating around in the back. Maybe a few of them were guys he’d sent upstate. In fact, he was staring straight ahead because he wasn’t going to look behind him. Nohow. No way. And this from someone who could look down the barrel of a Glock without a quiver.
And then there was the last thing, probably the biggest thing. Marvin’s father didn’t even know the hearse was gone.
“He’ll never notice,” Marvin had said.
“How could he not?” Sean had demanded.
“Because the one he usually uses is in the garage. This one was out back.”
“What happens if something comes up?” Sean had asked. Meaning, like what happens if two people croak in different locations.
“Don’t worry,” Marvin said. “It’ll be fine.”
“How? What’ll your dad do? Use a taxicab?”
Sean rubbed his chin. Marvin had looked at him as if he were demented. The kid had no sense of humor.
“I still think you should have told him,” Sean had said to try and make his point clear.
“Then he wouldn’t have let me come.”
Which might not have been a bad thing. Sean closed his eyes. He could just see them being stopped by the NYPD on a stolen car beef. Wonderful. Wouldn’t Chief Lucy just love that? He’d never hear the end of it.
“That was Bernie who called,” Sean said after a few minutes had elapsed.
Marvin didn’t say anything.
At first Sean judged this a good thing, but after a few moments the silence started getting to him.
“Don’t you want to know why she called?”
Marvin still didn’t say anything.
“You can talk, you know,” Sean told him.
Sean watched the right side of Marvin’s mouth work itself into a grimace.
“I know I can. But every time I do, you scream at me,” Marvin replied.
“All I’m asking you to do is keep your eyes on the road. That isn’t too much to ask, is it?”
“No,” Marvin allowed. “But people tend to keep a lookout for hearses.”
Sean grunted. This was the first he’d heard of something
like that.
“They think it’s bad luck to hit one,” Marvin continued. “I mean, there might be a body in it or something. I’ll show you.”
“Don’t!” Sean cried.
But it was too late. Marvin was turning the wheel. Sean braced himself for the impact and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch the collision with the Taurus in the right lane.
“See what I mean?” Marvin said.
Sean opened one eye. They were still in one piece.
“I told you. People really do look out for me.”
Sean nodded. That was all he could do. For once he was speechless.
“So what did Bernie have to say?” Marvin asked.
Sean took a deep breath. Then he took another. And another. Get a grip, he told himself.
“Anything important?” Marvin asked.
What had Bernie said? Sean asked himself. Jeez. Marvin’s maneuver had pushed it clean out of his mind. Something about Reginald? No. It was something about her sister.
“She was just telling me about Libby.”
Sean had no intention of sharing the whole story of Libby’s adventure with Marvin. He’d probably drive straight into a ditch if he did, but something in Sean’s tone must have alerted Marvin, because he said, “Libby! Is she all right?”
“Of course she’s all right,” Sean said before Marvin could so much as twitch his neck around. It occurred to Sean that the important thing with Marvin was to keep him calm. “Why shouldn’t she be all right?”
“I was just asking,” Marvin said.
Maybe Bernie’s right, Sean thought. Maybe I am turning into a cranky old man. But too bad. If he didn’t deserve to be cranky, he didn’t know who did.
He grunted and launched into his recitation. Marvin tapped his fingers on the wheel of the car while Sean talked.
“So,” Marvin said when Sean was through. “What do you think that means?”
Sean smiled for the first time since he’d left the house. Maybe he could teach Marvin how to be a better driver. After all, he’d taught Libby.
“It means that both Pearl and Reginald might have a motive for murder.”
“How so?” Marvin asked.
Sean was gratified to note that Marvin’s eyes were still on the road. Who knew? Perhaps if he repeated something enough, Marvin might actually be capable of learning it. After all, the strategy had worked with his children.
A Catered Christmas Page 11