A Catered Christmas

by Isis Crawford

  “Think about it,” Sean said. “Pearl having no sense of taste.”

  “Huh?” he said.

  Sean realized he hadn’t filled Marvin in on Bernie’s latest findings.

  “Interesting,” Marvin said when he had.

  “Very,” Sean agreed. “Pearl probably has no sense of smell either because usually those things go together. One of those would be enough to sink her, let alone both. If it got out, it would be the end of Pearl’s career.”

  “Was Hortense blackmailing her?” Marvin asked.

  Sean thought about what he knew about her. The words avaricious, unscrupulous, and greedy seemed to apply. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

  “Do you think she was blackmailing anyone else?”

  “Reginald comes to mind. According to Libby, he might have a drug problem.”

  It seemed a fair assumption to make. After all, you don’t check yourself into rehab because you want to relax for a couple of days.

  Marvin sped up and then slowed down.

  “Lots of people do that kind of thing.”

  “Agreed,” Sean said. “But the thing with caterers is you let them into your house. Some people wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that with someone who has a drug problem.”

  “Okay. But even if what you say is true,” Marvin said. “It doesn’t follow that Hortense was blackmailing him.”

  “But we don’t know that she wasn’t,” Sean replied.

  “She could have been blackmailing other people as well.”

  “She could be blackmailing the whole bloody lot of them for all we know,” Sean retorted. He slouched down in his seat. And maybe she was. He hoped not because the point of this exercise was to eliminate suspects, not widen the suspect pool.

  Marvin digested that for a few moments. Then he said, “How are you going to find out?”

  “I’m going to do what I always do. I’m going to ask questions.”

  Of course, Sean reflected, he wasn’t sure what kind of questions he was going to ask. But that would come later. Right now he was going to concentrate all his energy on his upcoming interview with Jean La Croix, aka John “Boomer” LaMonte, a graduate of the Attica State cooking school.

  Sean realized he was smiling. Good ole Clyde. He’d sure come up with some good information this time. He was glad he still had him in his corner. Too bad he wasn’t driving with him anymore. They used to have fun going around. And speaking of driving …

  “Slow down!” he yelled at Marvin, who had just sped up as the Lexus in front of them was slowing down.

  “Sorry,” Marvin said.

  “It’s okay.”

  Marvin looked surprised.

  “Really,” Sean said.

  Remain positive, Sean told himself. Positive energy was the ticket with Marvin. As Marvin turned onto the exit that would take them onto the Brooklyn Bridge, Sean looked at a tugboat chugging down the East River. It made him remember how much he liked the water. Maybe he and Libby and Bernie could take a drive over to the beach this summer. Make a day trip out of it. Then his mind started drifting back to the problem at hand. Yes, he was definitely looking forward to talking to La Croix—that is, if Marvin didn’t kill them both before they got to Brooklyn. Although, Sean supposed that if you were going to croak, a hearse was as good a place as any to do it.

  And, of course, if they did make it into Brooklyn, they’d have to find La Croix’s place, which in Brooklyn was always a challenge.

  Chapter 15

  Sean took a deep breath and let it out. He’d been doing a lot of deep breathing this past hour or so, enough so he was beginning to feel as if he was in a scuba diving class. Or a Lamaze class. He couldn’t decide which.

  It had taken Marvin almost three-quarters of an hour to locate La Croix’s shop. Before that, they’d driven around Brooklyn, discovering a slew of places that Sean would have preferred not to be in. Anytime he saw a fence with the words ARMED RESPONSE painted on it, it was a good indication to him that he was in the wrong part of town.

  This had happened because in addition to everything else, it seemed as if Marvin’s map-reading skills were not exactly up to snuff, and when Sean had taken over the map-reading duties, it turned out that Marvin had a certain amount of problems taking directions. If he told Marvin to go right, he went left. If he told him to go left, he went right. And if Marvin got the direction right, he overshot the turn, which meant they had to go around the block, which in certain parts of Brooklyn meant they ended up in who knew where because people had stolen the street signs.

  I’m not going to complain to Libby though, Sean thought. No, siree. He wasn’t going to mention Marvin’s driving. The last time he’d done that, he’d had to listen to a twenty-minute speech peppered with words like understanding and compassion, self-control, and acronyms like ADD or AHAD or CST or whatever new condition the doctors were pushing pills for these days. If you asked him, those were just code words for not paying attention, but no one was asking him.

  Sean opened the door and began getting out of the hearse, a process, he bitterly reflected, that took him far longer than it should.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Marvin asked.

  “I’m positive,” Sean said. “I need you to stay here and mind the car.”

  Which was true. The block La Croix’s shop was on was extremely narrow, and there was no place to put the hearse. Marvin was now double parked in front of La Croix’s store. Sean hoped La Croix was looking. He hoped he was superstitious. Maybe seeing the vehicle would shake him up a little. And anyway, he wanted Marvin close at hand if he needed him. Although he didn’t think it would come to that.

  Marvin pointed to the cars he was blocking.

  “What if someone needs to pull out? What do I do then?”

  “What do you think you should do?” Sean wanted to snap. But he didn’t.

  Instead he said, “Then you have to just keep circling around the block.”

  Then he pulled himself out of the car, straightened up, and slowly headed toward the back where Marvin had, over his objections, stowed his wheelchair.

  At first he hadn’t been going to use the dratted thing—he really didn’t need it; well, sometimes he did—but then he decided that he should. First off, people in wheelchairs weren’t considered a danger; in fact, they weren’t considered anything at all, which in this case was good because he wanted to catch La Croix off guard.

  Secondly, used the right way, a wheelchair, especially a motorized one, could inflict a substantial amount of damage to a man’s feet and ankles. Not that he expected things to get to that point, but it never hurt to expect the worst. That way you were never disappointed.

  “I can do that,” he snapped at Marvin, who was lifting the wheelchair out of the hearse and onto the sidewalk by the time he got around to the back. “I’m not a complete cripple yet.”

  Marvin put on his whipped-dog expression, which annoyed Sean even more. He distracted himself by studying La Croix’s shop. It looked good. He had to give the man that. Very tasteful with the front painted in various shades of golds and the fresh blue spruce boughs intertwined with white lights strung around the store’s entrance. The window decorations were good too.

  Actually they were clever. Someone had made cardboard cutouts of various chickens and ducks, had dressed them up as elves and Santas, and had them dancing around a table piled high with presents. It was nice, but, Sean noted with pride, the display in A Little Taste of Heaven looked better.

  “Here we go,” he said to Marvin as he plunked himself down in the wheelchair and headed for the door.

  “Luck,” Marvin said.

  Sean didn’t answer. He was too busy focusing on what was about to happen. Anyway, he didn’t believe in luck. Never had. Luck was something you made for yourself.

  A lady who was going into the store just ahead of him opened the door and held it for him. Even though it pained him to do it, he nodded his thanks to her and wen
t inside. The store was crowded. People were three deep in front of the counter. They were acting as if La Croix was giving away gold.

  A Little Taste of Heaven was busy, but it wasn’t as busy as this—unless, of course, you counted the time Laird Wrenn had died and everyone wanted the straight scoop from Libby and Bernie.

  Not that Sean minded the crowd. Far from it. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the more people in here the better. And best of all, the man calling himself Jean La Croix was waiting on customers. Sean decided it couldn’t be better if he had ordered it this way.

  Sean moved forward a little. Everyone in the crowd parted to let him through. This, Sean decided, was one of the only benefits of being—what was the expression—vertically challenged? Or was it some other hornswoggle term? He could never keep track of all the PC-speak.

  “It’s showtime,” Sean muttered to himself. He straightened his back, leaned forward in the chair, and yelled out, “Hey, Boomer. John Boomer. I can’t believe you’re out, man.”

  La Croix’s head snapped up. For a second his jaw dropped. Then he caught himself, and his face worked itself into a mask.

  Gotcha, John, Sean thought with satisfaction. I gotcha good. He’d send over one of Libby’s apple pies to Clyde when he got home.

  “I’d heard you were in the slammer for another five years,” Sean continued. “Guess Sparky got it wrong.”

  Sean watched as La Croix’s eyes worked the crowd and finally landed on him.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” La Croix said.

  His voice was flat. But then, Sean reflected, ex-cons always knew how to control themselves.

  “Sure ya do,” Sean went on. “Don’t you remember I was right next to you on Block B? I was two cells down. Assault with a deadly weapon. You were in on a burglary beef.”

  Sean was amused to see that everyone was moving away from his chair, not so much as to give offense, but enough so that they weren’t right next to him. As if he were contagious.

  “Who the hell are you?” La Croix demanded.

  Sean leaned forward a little more. “I’m Wooky. Don’t you remember me, man?” Then before La Croix could reply, Sean gestured to his wheelchair and said, “I’m down on my luck, and I figured that since I graduated from the same cooking school you did, good old Château Attica,”—Sean made sure to pronounce Attica clearly—"maybe you could hook me up with something.” He looked around appreciatively. “This is one sweet setup you got here. It must have cost you beaucoup bucks.”

  La Croix pointed to the door. “Get out of my place,” he ordered.

  Sean put both his hands up in the air. “Hey, man, I woulda done what you do—you know, served an internship with that old lady, but she bit the dust, so you’re my next in line.”

  “Out,” La Croix repeated.

  Sean laughed. “What’s the matter? You gonna forget about your old buddy? After everything I done for you?”

  “He’s no buddy of mine,” La Croix told everyone. “I never saw this man in my life. He is a, how you say, a lunatic.”

  Sean did outraged. It was something Clyde told him that he did well.

  “Hey, I ain’t no nutcase. My PO said you done worked for that Hortense dame. In fact, he’s the one who suggested I look you up. He says she likes guys like us.” Sean made his voice go low and breathy. “You know, guys with tool belts.”

  I guess my suspicions were right, Sean told himself as he watched La Croix fly around the counter and come racing toward him.

  “Don’t hurt me, man,” Sean whined as La Croix stood towering over him.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” La Croix said. “But I want you out of here. I want you out of here now. Otherwise I’m calling the cops.”

  Sean noted that although La Croix’s tone of voice was calm, a vein was twitching under his right eye.

  “You don’t got to be like that,” Sean said, and he turned and began motoring out. “I was just asking you to help out an old buddy is all.”

  La Croix followed him. Sean was interested to see that the hearse wasn’t there. But then why would Marvin be where he needed him? The kid had probably gone off to get a latte or something.

  When the store door closed behind him, La Croix leaned down and grabbed Sean by his shoulders and squeezed. Sean could feel the strength in the man’s fingers.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” La Croix hissed, “but if you do this crap again, I’ll rip your vocal cords out.”

  “How about if you just make my stove explode like Hortense’s?” Sean asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Guess.”

  “You’re accusing me of murder now?”

  Sean shrugged, even though La Croix’s fingers were boring into his shoulders.

  “You know what they say about if the shoe fits.”

  La Croix cut him off. “Listen, crip,” he snarled, “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. You can mouth off all you want as long as you don’t do it in front of my store.”

  “So you didn’t work for Hortense Calabash?”

  “What did I just tell you?”

  “Well, actually, I lied in there,” Sean confessed. “I’m not an ex-con, even though you are. What I am is a journalist, and I’m writing an article about you; you know, something like ‘From Attica to Brooklyn Heights—A Caterer’s Journey'—and I just want to get my facts straight.”

  Now La Croix was so close to him Sean could feel the man’s breath on his face.

  “You do that and you’ll regret it.”

  “That would be interfering with freedom of the press. And by the way, take your hands off my shoulders.”

  La Croix leered. “You know, if I press a little harder, I can make it so you can’t use your arm anymore. That way you’ll be minus two legs and an arm. In fact, let me demonstrate.”

  “What about your customers? They might not like that.”

  “They won’t know.”

  “Well, before you do that, let me show you what a wheelchair can do.”

  And Sean ran his chair over La Croix’s feet. He could feel La Croix let go of his shoulder. As Sean did it again, out of the corner of his eye he could see Marvin pulling up to the curb.

  “By the way, Boomer,” he said as he headed toward the hearse, “you should work on that French accent of yours. It tends to vanish under stress.”

  La Croix started hobbling toward him.

  “I think you broke my little toe,” he cried.

  Sean tsk-tsked as he watched Marvin getting out of the hearse. He was now by the curb.

  “What’s happening?” Marvin said.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Sean said as he got out of his chair. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Marvin didn’t move. He seemed transfixed.

  “Now,” Sean said.

  “I’m going back and getting my knife,” La Croix growled.

  Marvin sprang into action. In fact, Sean reflected, he’d never seen him move so fast. Marvin grabbed the wheelchair, threw it in the back, ran back, and helped Sean into his seat.

  “Relax,” Sean told him as Marvin was frantically trying to get the car key in the ignition. “The guy isn’t going to do anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  Sean buckled his seat belt. “Years of experience.”

  “Really?” Marvin pointed.

  Sean followed his finger. La Croix was coming out of the shop door waving a cleaver over his head.

  “I guess I pissed him off,” Sean observed.

  “I guess you did,” Marvin said as he finally got the key in the ignition and turned it.

  “Maybe we should leave,” Sean suggested as La Croix stalked toward their vehicle. “I wouldn’t want him to mark up your dad’s vehicle.”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Marvin replied.

  The next thing Sean knew, they had peeled out, leaving a dazed UPS man in their wake. Sean turned and waved at La Croix. He knew it w
as childish, but at this stage of life he saw no reason to resist an available pleasure.

  “Well, I think we’ve established one thing,” Sean said as Marvin made a wrong turn and went onto Seventh Avenue. “Actually we’ve established two things. We’ve established that Jean La Croix is a man with a secret to hide and that he is someone who is capable of doing something like booby-trapping the oven.” Sean looked at Marvin. “What? You don’t agree?”

  “No, I agree,” Marvin said quickly. “It just doesn’t seem like a lot to go on.”

  “Oh, it’s enough,” Sean told him. “Believe me, people have been convicted on less evidence than that.” Sean rubbed his hands together. “Turn left. We have to go left,” Sean cried as Marvin took a right.

  Sean sighed. They were never going to get back to Longely. They were going to be lost in Brooklyn forever.

  Chapter 16

  Libby looked down at her dad. He was sitting in his wheelchair alternately taking bites from one of her lemon bars and sipping from his cup of tea. Maybe she shouldn’t say anything to him. Maybe she should just let it go…. Her mom would have, but she wasn’t her mom.

  But maybe her mom’s approach was right. Why does everything have to be such a big deal with me? Libby wondered as she caught sight of her nails. God. She was peeling them, and she hadn’t even realized it. Now they looked a mess. She could just hear everyone out in TVland saying, “What does that woman do to her hands?”

  Libby was wondering if it was too late to do anything about them when she realized her father was speaking to her.

  “I like the shirt you’re wearing.”

  Of course he liked it. It was one of Bernie’s. Not that she was going to say that.

  “Thanks,” Libby told him. “I just got off the phone with Marvin.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She watched her dad take another bite of the lemon bar—it was one of the store’s best-sellers. She was convinced it was the zest and fresh lemon juice that did it. Then he brushed some of the powdered sugar off the corners of his mouth, after which he stirred his tea and took another sip.