She stepped in front of Eric and began talking. Someone had to host, and it looked as if it was going to be her by default.
Sean turned his gaze away from the television. What a giant cock-up tonight’s show had been.
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” he said to Clyde while he watched Marvin make his way out of the men’s room and walk back to his seat.
“You can say that again,” one of the guys down the bar called out. “This is better than America’s Funniest Home Videos.”
“I’m sure Bernie and Libby aren’t laughing,” Sean said to Clyde as Brandon slapped another beer down in front of him.
“You could probably use this,” he told him.
“I probably could,” Sean agreed. After tonight’s episode of the Hortense Calabash Show, he could probably use two more beers.
“What I want to know,” Brandon asked Sean, “is what happened to that Pearl dame? Why isn’t she there with the other contestants? She’s supposed to be cooking, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is,” Marvin said.
Sean turned to look at him as he slipped into his seat.
Marvin pushed his glasses up his nose with his finger. “One thing about beer,” he observed, “it makes you want to pee.” Sean realized he had to be frowning at him because the next thing Marvin said was, “Did I say something wrong?”
Sean sighed. He certainly couldn’t tell him that his presence was annoying him. Instead he said, “You know, Marvin, you can get kits in the convenience stores to fix your glasses with. That way they won’t keep sliding down.”
Marvin nodded. “I know. But I keep on dropping the screws. They’re so small.”
Sean took a sip of beer. He didn’t even know why he’d bothered to make the suggestion. The kid was a whackadoo. That was all there was to it.
“So what did I miss?” Marvin asked.
“A lot.”
Sean could see Marvin was waiting for him to explain, but in his opinion if you want to know something, you don’t go off and take a piss at the time it’s happening. You stayed and watched. But that was just him. Instead of answering Marvin, he took another a sip of his beer and considered Bernie’s attempts to restore some semblance of order to the program. Bernie was giving it a valiant effort, but considering what was going on, he wasn’t sure that anything short of a couple of shots fired into the ceiling would do.
“So where do you think Pearl is?” Brandon repeated.
Sean looked up at him. “I take it this has to do with the board?”
Brandon grinned. “Something like that,” he allowed.
Sean took another sip of his brew before speaking. His wife had always accused him of liking to know things that other people didn’t. He had to admit it was true. It was one of the things he missed about not being chief of police.
“She isn’t there because I think she got herself arrested,” Sean told Brandon.
“You’re kidding,” Brandon said.
“Nope, I’m not.”
“For Hortense’s murder?”
“It would appear so.”
Sean had to say the kid looked suitably impressed.
“Pearl was arrested?” Marvin repeated.
“That’s what I just said,” Sean told him. Maybe the kid needed a hearing aid too.
Brandon scratched his chin. “Damn,” he said. “Who would have thought it was her? I was betting on that French fellow. I was sure he was the one.”
“Personally, I had my sights on that Reginald Palmer,” Clyde said.
“I liked him for this too,” Sean said.
Brandon slapped the bar. “I’m out fifty bucks.” He cupped his hands and brought them to his mouth. “Hey, guys,” he yelled, “guess who the murderer is? It’s Pearl.”
Sean shrugged as Clyde lifted an eyebrow. “They’re going to read about it in tomorrow’s paper anyway,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything,” Clyde retorted.
“No. But I know what you’re thinking.”
And he did too, Sean thought as he grabbed a handful of peanuts and settled back into watching the cooking show. Eric Royal was now saying that due to the unfortunate events that had transpired that evening, they were thinking of doing another run tomorrow night with the same contestants but with a different surprise ingredient, and this time steps would be taken—he emphasized the phrase “steps would be taken”—to ensure that everyone remained in their seats.
“Pearl? Give me a break,” one of the guys down at the other end of the bar was yelling.
“Why? Because she’s a woman?” his date retorted.
He snorted. “Oh, save me from this feminist crap.”
“It’s not crap,” his date was shrieking when Marvin’s cell phone rang.
Sean could hear Marvin talking, but he wasn’t paying much attention to what he was saying, because he was trying to watch the end of the show, which was proving to be extremely difficult with everything that was going on at the bar.
“Hey,” he yelled. “Can we have it quiet in here?”
Guess he hadn’t lost the old magic, he thought as everyone settled down. He went back to watching the show. Eric Royal was talking about the meaning of the Christmas feast when Marvin started tugging on his sleeve. Sean moved his arm away. Not that he’d say anything, but he didn’t like having his personal space invaded.
“Mr. Simmons. Mr. Simmons.”
“Sean,” Sean automatically corrected. How many times did he have to tell the kid not to call him that? It made him feel like his father.
“Okay, Sean,” Marvin said.
“What?” Sean said, not even bothering to try and keep the irritation out of his voice.
“It’s about Pearl.”
“I already told you about Pearl,” Sean said. Jeez, all he wanted to do was watch Bernie. Was that too much to ask?
“She’s dead,” Marvin said.
Sean kept both eyes fastened on the screen. “Who’s dead?” he asked.
“Pearl.”
Sean half turned to face him. “What do you mean dead?” he asked him.
Marvin gave him an apologetic smile. “You know. Dead.”
“There was an accident?”
“No. I think someone murdered her.”
“Murdered her?” Brandon echoed.
Marvin nodded. “At least that’s what my dad said.”
Sean took another gulp of his beer. If Pearl hadn’t killed Hortense, who had? Unless of course Pearl had killed Hortense and someone had killed her? That seemed like an unlikely scenario. No. One person had killed both women. Had to be.
“What do you think?” Clyde asked him.
“I think we have a mess on our hands, that’s what I think,” Sean said.
Chapter 29
Bernie looked at Bree Nottingham and sighed. Then she sighed again.
Bree was pacing back and forth on the white tile floor in front of the counter, the floor Bernie had just mopped. Now she was going to have to clean the darn thing again, because there were spots of salt and dirty snow all over it. Why her mother had ever picked the kind of floor that showed every speck of dirt was something Bernie had yet to fathom. But she had and given Libby’s resistance to change, they were stuck with it.
“Would you like a scone?” she asked Bree. “Perhaps a cup of coffee?”
Heaven only knew she could sure use one. Just looking at Bree pacing the way she was made her feel tired and out of sorts and sloppy. It was a little after seven in the morning and Bree was perfectly dressed in her perfect black ski jacket with ruching on the sleeves, black pants, and matching blue and white striped cashmere hat and scarf. Not to mention that her nail polish was perfect. The woman was inhuman.
Thank heavens I put on some mascara and my hair is up, Bernie thought. Otherwise I’d look like total crap. What with the police and all, she and Libby hadn’t gotten back from the studio until well after midnight, and they’d had what their dad liked to call a debriefing, which in her opi
nion was an odious word, and then they’d had to go down to the kitchen and start in on the cooking and baking for today. That was the problem with murder, Bernie reflected.
Well, one of the problems. Murder ate up time—and resources. Not the act per se, but all the attendant stuff that went on after it. And now, on top of everything else, in an hour or so they were going to have a line out the door as everyone in town came to get the “real story.” The fact that Pearl’s death hadn’t hit the papers yet didn’t matter. Everyone would have heard some version of what had happened. Somehow everyone always did.
The question was, how much longer could Bree keep it out of the local paper, let alone the national ones? Personally, Bernie expected to see a spread in the tabloids by tomorrow morning at the latest, and it wouldn’t surprise her if she saw something in the papers today.
“I just can’t believe it,” Bree said again.
“Neither can I,” Bernie replied.
She rested her forearms on the counter and watched Bree continue to pace. I’m getting old, she reflected. When she was in her twenties, she used to be able to stay up five nights in a row on two or three hours of sleep a night, but not anymore. Now she needed her sleep. Even worse, when she didn’t get it, her eyes looked as if they were sinking into her head.
“There goes millions of dollars down the drain,” Bree said. “My investors will never build on the Randall Estate.”
“Well look on the bright side—”
“There is no bright side. I was this close to closing the deal”—Bree put her thumb and her forefinger together—“and now I’m going to have to start all over again.” She tapped her finger against her chin. “Although maybe not. Maybe I can still salvage this mess.”
“At least Pearl didn’t die on camera. Now that would have been really bad.”
“True.” Bree picked an invisible speck off her jacket. “I just hope there’s no television in heaven,” she said. “Because Hortense would have a fit if she saw what happened on her show last night.”
“You really think Hortense went to heaven?”
Bree glared at her.
“Sorry,” Bernie murmured. “I forgot she was your friend.” She stifled a yawn. “Well, I think everyone did very well considering; except for Brittany, of course. I mean, it’s hard to be at your best cookingwise when someone has just gotten fried in front of you.”
Bree stopped pacing, faced Bernie, and extended her arms into the air. “Why do things always happen to me?” Bree lamented.
Bernie straightened up. She was getting a kink in her back. “Funny, but that’s what Estes said when Hortense died.”
“I don’t care what that grotesque man said,” Bree replied.
“I’m not sure that’s a good word for Estes,” Bernie reflected. “Morbidly obese would probably be more accurate. The word odious might also be applicable. The word grotesque originally comes from the Italian word for grotto and refers to an art style where people and animals intermingle with animals and plants to take on fantastical shapes. It also—”
Bree held up her hand. “Stop,” she told Bernie.
“Fine.”
If Bree wished to remain ignorant, that was her problem. Bernie walked over to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup. She had to have some, she decided as she stirred in a teaspoon of raw sugar and a little bit of heavy cream into her cup. Otherwise she’d fall asleep standing up on her feet. She took a sip. Sumatran. God, it was good. Coffee and chocolate. Where would the world be without them? Well, actually the world had been without them for a long time. Bernie was glad she hadn’t lived back then.
“Sure I can’t get you some?” she asked Bree, indicating her cup with a nod of her chin.
“I’m positive,” Bree replied. “Coffee creates wrinkles.”
“I didn’t know that,” Bernie replied. “I thought wrinkles were created by genetics combined with interaction with the environment.”
Bree shot her a dirty look. Bernie shut up. She was too tired to do anything else.
“When I hired you and your sister to solve Hortense’s death, poor Pearl’s unfortunate demise was not what I had in mind.”
“If it’s any consolation, neither did we,” Bernie said. She felt like pointing out to Bree that her use of the word hire connoted payment of some kind and that Libby and she were doing this as a favor. But she didn’t since that would only prolong the conversation.
Bree glared at her. “I expected better,” she told her.
Bernie half turned as she heard Libby coming out from the back. She was carrying a tray of cranberry-orange muffins.
“So you’re firing us?” Libby asked.
Bernie couldn’t help but note the hopeful tone in her voice.
“Of course I’m not firing you,” Bree said. “But I warn you, if you don’t get it right this time, there will be consequences to pay.”
“Such as?” Bernie asked her.
Instead of answering, Bree Nottingham stormed out the door.
“Like we’re not paying the consequences already,” Bernie said as she watched Bree getting into her BMW.
“What do you think she meant?” Libby asked her sister.
Bernie shrugged. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
She followed Libby into the back. Libby was taking the chocolate chip muffins out of the oven. The smell of butter and chocolate and cinnamon overwhelmed her.
“Don’t,” Libby said as she reached for one. “I don’t think we have enough. Have one of these instead.” And she handed her a mint chocolate brownie with a chocolate glaze on the top.
They were warm too. Not as good as a muffin, but good enough. Bernie took a bite.
“What kind of chocolate did you use?”
“Valhorna.”
“Very good. Very good indeed.”
Libby smiled at the praise, but her smile only underlined the circles under her eyes. She looks the way I feel, Bernie thought as she studied her sister’s face. Actually, she probably looked that way too.
“It would have been nice if someone had left a fingerprint on the wire,” Libby said.
“Yes, it would have been.”
Actually, Bernie thought, it had been a question of having too many fingerprints. According to Clyde, everyone in the place had handled the cord. She glanced at her watch. If she wanted to catch the 9:05 into the city, she’d better get a move on, because she still had to roll out the dough for the sugar cookies and make the sausage and lentil soup.
Libby looked at her. “By the way, did you ever find out how Brittany got that glowing review in the Times?”
Bernie put her hand over her mouth. “I forgot. I’ll take care of it,” she promised. She took another bite of her brownie and washed it down with a swig of coffee. She licked some of the chocolate glaze off the tips of her fingers.
Libby frowned. “It’s embarrassing. We were there for both murders and neither of us saw anything.”
“That’s because there was nothing for us to see. Both murders were set up before we came in.”
Bernie watched Libby think about that for a while.
Finally she said, “But what if Estes is right? What if Pearl’s death was an accident?”
“Libby, you saw the wire and the puddle of water. How could that be an accident?”
Libby was silent for another moment. Then she said, “But how did whoever did this know that Pearl was going to touch the wire?”
“Think about that.”
“I am thinking,” Libby said.
“And …” Bernie prompted.
“And …” Libby said.
Bernie could see from the expression on Libby’s face that she had gotten it.
“The lights weren’t evenly spaced,” Libby said.
Bernie nodded. “Exactly.”
“No one else would have noticed—”
“Or, more to the point, if they did, they wouldn’t be compelled to fix them.”
“Because they don’t have OCD.”
Bernie nodded again. “But Pearl would.”
“In fact,” Libby mused, “she wouldn’t have been able to help herself.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Bernie agreed.
“So all the murderer had to do was pour some water on the floor and wait.”
“Right again.”
Libby reached over and broke off a corner of Bernie’s brownie and ate it. “But what if someone had noticed the water and mopped it up?” she said.
“Then I suppose whoever the killer is would have tried another time.”
“Why not just shoot her?” Libby asked.
Bernie ate the last of the brownie and wiped her fingers off on the dish towel lying on the cutting board.
“For that matter, why not shoot Hortense?” Libby continued. “Why go to such elaborate lengths to pull off this crime?”
“Maybe because whoever did it couldn’t get near Hortense or Pearl?”
“If it’s the same person.”
“Libby, of course it’s the same person. Probability alone would indicate that they’re linked together in some way. I mean, what are the chances of two people being killed in a short period of time, in a small group of people, and not be connected? We’re not talking about Manhattan here.”
“True,” Libby said. “I can see people wanting to kill Hortense. I mean, she wasn’t a nice person.”
Bernie laughed. “I don’t know why you’re saying that. Just because she blackmailed people and got them fired and had a foul temper. What’s not to like?”
“Exactly,” Libby continued. “But Pearl was merely annoying. She was scared of her own shadow. Why would anyone kill her?”
“I don’t know,” Bernie said.
“Maybe she found something out she wasn’t supposed to know,” Libby suggested.
“That’s as good a reason as any,” Bernie allowed.
“Do you think there’ll be anyone else?” Libby asked.
“You mean as in another victim?”
Libby nodded. “Maybe even one of us.”
“That would suck,” Bernie said.
“Suck big time,” Libby agreed.
Chapter 30
A Catered Christmas Page 21