She’d mixed up four fruitcakes. They’d had the usual ingredients, except this time she’d put in some very expensive imported glacé fruit that she’d gotten from France. The problem was that it wasn’t until after she’d put the cakes in the oven that she realized that she’d left out the shortening. Which was not good. They were dry enough as they were. Somehow the cakes had held together when she’d unmolded them, but she wasn’t sure how they were going to taste.
She’d asked her father to try some and give her his opinion, but when she’d left, the slices were still sitting on the tray next to his chair. He’d never been a big fruitcake lover anyway. He always claimed they made ideal doorstops.
Libby started biting her nails, realized what she was doing, and stopped. She just hated throwing out food, and, anyway, that glacé fruit had cost a fortune. Maybe she should just crumble them up and use them for something else, but what? Possibly as a base for a crust or maybe she could make a steamed pudding with them. Actually, the steamed pudding thing might work. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was a recipe for something similiar in one of her cookbooks. The question was, which one?
She was trying to figure that out when her sister nudged her in the ribs.
“What?” she asked.
“Look at Brittany,” Bernie instructed.
Libby looked. She couldn’t see anything. “So?”
“Well, she’s had that lobster meat in that pan for so long it’s going to be inedible.”
“Her timing’s off,” Libby said.
“Obviously,” Bernie noted. “Maybe she has other things on her mind.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that we’re sitting here in this studio with someone who has killed two people.”
“Why do you keep saying things like that?” Libby chided.
“Makes it kind of exciting, doesn’t it?”
“Not to me,” Libby told her sister.
Bernie leaned closer to her. “One thing I do know about everyone here,” she told her.
“What?” Libby asked.
“We’re the best cooks.”
She’s right, Libby decided as she looked at what La Croix was doing. He was actually boiling the Brussels sprouts. Not blanching them and then sautéing them, but boiling them. Now that was a crime.
They were going to be an ugly grayish green. And they were going to taste like cabbages. He should know better than that. Brussels sprouts were one of those vegetables that you either cooked right or didn’t bother with, unlike carrots, which were a forgiving vegetable. You could pretty much do anything you wanted with them and they’d be fine.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Libby said.
“What’s that?” Bernie asked.
“I’m not looking forward to eating La Croix’s Brussels sprouts.”
“Neither am I,” her sister agreed.
What Libby really wanted was her chocolate. But there was no chance of that now.
Chapter 34
Bernie spotted Marvin and Rob the moment she and Libby walked into R.J.'s. They were down toward the end of the bar where the dartboard was. She was amused as everyone in the place clapped and hooted and hollered as she and Libby walked toward them.
“This is embarrassing,” Libby said to her.
“I think it’s fun,” Bernie replied as she stopped every couple of steps to curtsy and blow kisses.
“You would,” Libby shot back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bernie demanded.
“That you like attention and I don’t.”
“You might if you were a little less uptight.”
“Ah, our local celebs,” Brandon said as Bernie and Libby took their seats next to Rob and Marvin. “Two Brooklyn Browns on the house. Any tips?” he said as he set the beers down in front of them.
“Tips on what?” Libby asked.
Bernie snorted. “What do you think? He’s talking about the board.” She saw Libby’s blank look. “You know. The pool. The betting pool on who killed Hortense and Pearl.”
“Right,” Libby said.
Bernie turned back to Brandon. “No. No tips. We’ve made almost no progress on this investigation.”
“That’s not true,” Libby protested.
“You’re right,” Bernie said. “We’ve managed to eliminate everyone’s motive.” She raised her beer bottle up. “To the holidays.”
Everyone clinked their bottles together and drank.
“You don’t mean that, do you?” Rob asked her.
“I most certainly do. As of this point, no one has a good motive for killing Pearl and Hortense—if they’re to be believed. They’re all little angels.”
“That’s the whole point,” Marvin said. “What if they’re lying?”
“Of course they’re lying. Or omitting something, which is the same thing.” Bernie tapped her fingers on the bottle. “The question is, what are we overlooking?”
Libby coughed. “Not to change the subject, but where’s Dad, Marvin? How come he’s not here? I thought he was supposed to come with you guys.”
“He wanted to stay home,” Rob told Bernie. “I think all that driving around with Marvin wore him out.”
“Hey,” Marvin squawked. “It’s not my fault if her dad it super critical.”
“Calm down,” Rob said. “I was just kidding.”
“Well, you drive him around and see how you like getting yelled at all the time.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Bernie caught Libby’s eye. Libby nodded and started stroking Marvin’s arm.
“Dad couldn’t get along without you. He doesn’t mean what he says.”
“Well, he certainly sounds as if he does.”
“You just have to learn to ignore him,” Bernie said. “Like we do.”
“You do,” Libby corrected. “I never mastered the art.”
“Anyway,” Rob interjected. “Your dad said someone was coming over later.”
Probably Clyde, Bernie decided. Aside from Rob and Marvin, he was the only person who visited her dad. Bernie looked up to see Brandon hovering nearby.
“What?’ she asked him.
“So you really don’t have any suspects?”
“We have lots of them. That’s the problem.”
Bernie closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again. She didn’t want to talk about the case right now. It was too depressing. Especially since they seemed to be going backward. She’d thought Reginald was the killer, but her dad had disabused her of that notion. And she wasn’t feeling any more confident with Brittany as a suspect. She’d called Brittany’s dad and he’d confirmed everything that she’d said—not that he wouldn’t, being her father and all.
Maybe tomorrow she’d ask Clyde if he could check into her father’s bank records. If he actually had hired a lawyer and an investigator, there ought to be checks on file, and of course there was always La Croix. He was still her odds-on favorite. The fact that he’d come at her dad with a cleaver seemed to point to a certain … ah … instability in his character. Maybe she’d have Clyde check him out again too. Maybe he could come up with a new angle. The thought cheered her up slightly.
Rob nudged her. “Hey,” he said, “did you bring me anything back from the city?”
“The Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Seriously.”
“I got you something for your collection.”
“Neat.”
Bernie reached into her tote bag. Where was it? This is what happened when you carried too much stuff around. Bernie took out her cosmetic case, her checkbook, her sunglasses, an extra pair of nylons, a nail file, a bottle of nail polish, her hairbrush, a small bag of cashews, a pack of sugarless gum, a small box of breath mints, her cell phone, the bills she was supposed to mail out, the copy of the New York Post that she’d bought and never gotten around to reading, and the instant flash camera she’d bought so she could take pictures of the studio and show them to her dad, which she’d also never gotten around
to doing.
“It’s amazing you’re not permanently lopsided with everything you carry around,” Rob said as he grabbed the paper off the bar. “I love Page Six,” he explained.
Bernie turned and looked at him. He shrugged. “Guys like gossip too.”
She went back to looking in her bag. She’d just found the key ring—somehow it had found its way into the pocket where she usually kept her cell phone—when he said, “Hey, isn’t Estes the guy who’s producing your show?”
“Yeah,” Bernie replied. “Why?”
“Well, listen to this,” Rob said, and he began to read it out loud.
Bernie grabbed the paper from him before he was half done and read the article herself, then she reread it to Libby.
“According to well-placed sources, Estes, the ex-porn producer who made the climb to TV, may be heading back to his old haunts. Evidently, his cash cow the Hortense Calabash Show isn’t as profitable as it once was. The renowned Heavenly Housewife seems to be taking a nosedive these days.
“Unless something is done quickly, rumor has it that the show is going to be pulled, and the powers that be aren’t even waiting till the end of this season. Unfortunately for Estes, he’s been banking on the money from it to dig himself out of the mighty big hole he’s landed himself in with the Heavenly Housewife when they were an item.”
“I can’t believe they don’t know that Hortense is dead,” Rob said.
“I can’t believe that Estes made porn,” Marvin said.
Rob tossed a peanut into his mouth. “I can’t believe you never saw Jennie and the Jets. It’s a classic.”
Bernie put down the paper. “And I can’t believe he and Hortense were an item.”
“Maybe he wasn’t so fat then,” Libby said.
“That’s a weightest comment,” Rob told her.
Bernie smacked his arm. “There’s no such word.”
“Anyway, we don’t know if the article is true or not,” Libby pointed out.
“No, we don’t,” Bernie agreed.
But some of the members of the crew might. It was worth a shot. Bernie reached for her cell.
“Who are you calling?” Libby asked.
“Eric Royal.” But he wasn’t there. “I guess he’s gone home.” She tried his cell. He didn’t pick up. She left a message on his voice mail and was about to call her dad when she noticed the look on Libby’s face.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Give,” Bernie told her.
“It’s silly.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Libby pointed to the camera on the bar. “Estes had one of those in his backpack, not that that means anything. Lots of people have them. But it was a twin pack, and he’d already used one.”
“So you’re suggesting …” Bernie said, even though she knew exactly what Libby was thinking.
“Maybe he used the other one to blow up the oven,” Libby said. “Not that it matters because there’s no way to prove anything.”
“They have serial numbers,” Marvin said suddenly.
“What has serial numbers?” Bernie asked.
“The cameras. All of those cameras have serial numbers, and the ones in the package both have the same ones.”
Rob leaned forward. “How do you know?”
Marvin shrugged. “My dad told me.”
“Too bad we don’t have the numbers,” Libby mused. “Then we could compare the number of the camera that set off the explosion with the number on Estes’ camera.”
“I think Dad has the number,” Bernie said.
“How could he have the number?” Rob demanded. “Given the circumstances, I’d think the camera would have been destroyed.”
“It wasn’t. I saw it. He got the serial number from Clyde. I saw him write it down in that file he keeps.”
“We could call and ask him,” Libby said.
“We could, but it’s irrelevant if we don’t have the serial number on Estes’ camera,” Rob said.
“Good point,” Bernie said. She started moving her ring up and down her finger.
“We could ask Clyde to do it,” Marvin said.
Libby shook her head. “No, we couldn’t. Clyde would need a warrant, which he couldn’t get because there’s not enough evidence. So Estes wouldn’t have to give up the camera if he didn’t want to. And anyway, the whole thing is ridiculous. It’s probably not the same camera. I mean, why would he keep it?”
Bernie took a sip of her beer, even though she reflected that she’d probably be better off having coffee. “Maybe he doesn’t realize it has a serial number. After all, you didn’t.”
“Possibly,” Libby conceded.
Marvin tapped his fingers on the bar. “I think we should try and find out.”
“How?” Libby demanded. “As far as we know, the camera is in his backpack, and his backpack is with him.”
Rob took a sip of his beer. “Then we’ll just have to figure out a way to separate him from it.”
“And how are we going to do that?” Bernie challenged.
Rob put his bottle of beer down. “Give me a chance. I’m thinking.”
Bernie watched Libby picking at her cuticles.
“Libby, if you have something to say, say it.”
“Well,” Libby began, “maybe we don’t need to separate him from his backpack.”
“How do you figure that?” Rob asked her.
“I saw him cleaning out his backpack when we were filming, so maybe he threw it in the trash. Maybe my seeing it made him nervous all of a sudden, and he decided to get rid of it.”
Everyone was silent for a minute while they thought through the possibilities. Bernie was the first one to speak.
“Let’s assume that Libby’s right,” she said slowly. “If she is, he could have thrown the camera in the trash, or he could have waited till he went outside and thrown it in the Dumpster. If I were him, I’d pick the Dumpster. Especially because tomorrow is trash day. Bernie looked at Libby. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I think it wouldn’t hurt to look.”
“Me neither,” Bernie said, reaching for her jacket.
“Where are you going?” Brandon yelled after them as they headed out the door.
“To solve a crime,” Bernie yelled back.
She and Rob went in Rob’s Taurus while Marvin and Libby followed them in Libby’s van. On the way, Bernie called Estes because, as she explained to Rob, if he was still at the studio, then maybe they should wait. But he wasn’t there, so she left a message on his answering machine about having a question about tomorrow and clicked off.
She was watching the snow drifting off the trees lining the side of the road when Rob started talking. “You know,” he said. “Here we are, four adults, and all of us are still living with our parents.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Bernie said.
Rob grimaced. “Pathetic is more like it.”
“I’m not so sure,” Bernie said slowly. “In the old days, multigenerational households were the norm. I’m not so sure that’s such a bad thing. However, if you want to change, the solution is simple.”
“And what’s that?” Rob asked.
“Easy,” Bernie said. “All we have to do is get my father and your mother together. Then my dad could move in with your mom and you could move in with me.”
“But what about Libby and Marvin?”
Bernie laughed. “Okay. So we need another house.”
“Or we could build an extension onto the store.”
“Hold that thought,” Bernie said as they turned into Hortense’s estate. “What the hell are they doing here?” she asked as she spotted two Longely police cars.
“I’d say unfinished business. You want to go back to the bar?”
Instead of answering, Bernie pointed to a crook in the road. “Pull off here.”
A moment later, Libby rolled up behind them. Bernie got out of the car and approached the van. Libby rolled down h
er window.
“Now what?” Libby asked.
“We could go back to the bar,” Bernie said.
“It’s not an unreasonable suggestion,” Rob said as he came up behind her.
“No, it’s not,” Bernie agreed.
“But you’re not going to follow it,” Rob said.
“This is true. I’m not.”
Bernie rubbed her hands. She was getting cold standing there.
“The police aren’t going to like this,” Rob pointed out.
“If they see us.”
Bernie looked around. If the moon wasn’t out and if there wasn’t snow on the ground, there wouldn’t be a problem. But they were.
“You’re determined to do this?” Rob asked Bernie.
“I am.”
“Of course you are.” Rob tapped his fingers against his thighs. “So what we need is a distraction.”
“I know,” Marvin said. “Libby and I will drive the van to the front door. We’ll say that Libby left something inside and that we need to get in, and while we’re doing that, you guys can go through the Dumpster.”
“Going through a Dumpster is definitely not what I had in mind for this evening,” Rob said.
“Come on,” Bernie told him. “You’re going to love it.”
“No, I won’t, but I’ll do it anyway.”
“Which is why I love you,” Bernie said.
Rob grinned. “One of the reasons.”
“Luck,” Libby said as she put the van in drive.
“Same,” Bernie told her.
“You think this will work?” Rob asked Bernie as they watched Libby drive up to Hortense’s house.
“I certainly hope so.” Bernie started walking. “Why didn’t I wear decent boots?” she lamented out loud as she trudged through the snow. True, there wasn’t a lot of snow on the ground, but since she was wearing light blue wedges, this was not good. Not good for her shoes and not good for her feet. Her toes were going to freeze off by the time she got back to the Taurus, and her fingers weren’t doing very well either.
“I hate winter,” she grumbled. “Hate it, hate it, hate it.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t mind it so much if you dressed for it,” Rob pointed out.
“And succumb. That would be giving in.”
“No. That would be smart.’
“Are you calling me stupid?” Bernie demanded.
A Catered Christmas Page 25