“And this is legal?” Bernie asked.
“Let’s just say this company operates in the gray area.” Evan raised a finger in the air to emphasize what he was going to say next. “But what this company doesn’t tell you is that they frequently bundle the deeds together and sell them to another company for pennies on the dollar, and then these companies do what they want with the debt, usually foreclosing on the property that is in their possession.” Evan stopped, patted his tie again, and gave Bernie and Libby a meaningful look.
Libby got it first. “So,” she said, “Susie Katz bought the debt.”
Evan corrected her. “One of her shell companies did.”
“And she had a lot of those?” Bernie asked.
“I don’t know about that, but I know that she definitely had one.”
Libby clarified. “And this house . . .”
Evan held up two fingers.
Libby corrected herself. “Right. You said two houses.” Then she guessed the names of their owners.
Evan nodded again. “That is correct.”
“And being Susie, she probably didn’t do that as a charitable act,” Libby postulated. “Like, she wasn’t giving their houses back to them.”
“Not quite,” Evan agreed. “But they thought she was, because she told them she was helping them out.”
“That sucks,” Libby observed. “To think someone is helping you and then to find out they’re kicking you in the teeth. That could make you really, really mad.”
“Homicidally so,” Bernie noted. “When was Susie going to foreclose on their homes and kick them out?”
“Soon,” Evan said.
“How soon?” Bernie asked.
“Very soon, according to my sources,” Evan said.
“Who are your sources?” Libby asked.
“Sorry,” Evan said. “I can’t reveal those.”
“Because you’re FBI?” Libby asked.
“No,” Evan snapped. “Because it would be bad for business.”
Bernie decided it was time to run interference. “How accurate is their information?”
“I wouldn’t take it to the bank,” Evan replied, “but they’ve been right a bunch of times.”
“Could you be a little more specific?” Bernie asked.
“The sales were supposed to be finalized around the time of the wedding.”
“Interesting,” Bernie said. She thought for a minute. “Suppose Susie was going to sign the final papers at the wedding, and suppose she’d told everyone that she was going to give their houses back to them, but she was really going to do the opposite, and suppose one or both women found that out ahead of time.”
“That certainly would piss me off,” Libby commented. Despite herself, she took another sip of coffee. It was even worse cold than it had been warm.
“Me too.” Bernie brushed her hair off her face with the flat of her hand. “Evan, tell me something. What happens when the holder of the deeds to those properties dies before the foreclosures can be executed?”
Evan balled up his napkin and stuffed it and the coffee stirrer into his empty coffee cup. “Then the deal is null and void. The phrase ‘No harm, no foul,’ or whatever the saying is, seems to cover it.”
“Well, that’s certainly a motive,” Libby observed.
“Indeed, it is,” Bernie agreed.
“This is all speculation,” Libby observed.
“But it is very suggestive,” Bernie said. Then she asked Evan a question. “Do you know what Susie was planning to do with the houses?”
“I heard she was going to raze them,” Evan promptly replied.
“Wow. That’s like rubbing salt in the wound,” Bernie said.
“And do what with the land?” Libby asked.
Evan readjusted his glasses. “Nothing. Just keep it.”
Libby frowned. “But why would she do that? That’s such a waste.”
“Given what I know about Susie, I would say she was going to do it as an object lesson,” Evan replied. “She was using the houses to show people what happens if you cross her.” He stifled a cough. “From what I heard, the whole thing started with some sort of cat-related thing.”
He looked at his watch. “Gotta go,” he told them. “My client awaits.” He put out his hand. Bernie and Libby shook it. “Happy hunting, and don’t forget to look at the property I told you about.” Then he left.
Bernie and Libby followed him out the door shortly afterward.
Chapter 19
“I didn’t think Charlene and Marie were in that bad shape finance-wise,” Libby said as she and Bernie walked back to the van. It had stopped raining, the sun had come out, and the air had the fresh grassy smell that spring rains brought.
“Me either,” Bernie agreed. “I know Marie is still working at the library part-time.”
“Yeah, but that wouldn’t be enough to pay the bills.” Libby thought some more. “Maybe whoever they invested their money with didn’t do such a good job.”
“Or maybe they’re just living above their means,” Bernie suggested. “Charlene did take that four-month cruise around the world, and Marie redid her kitchen and bathroom.”
“Not small-ticket items.” Libby started to bite one of her cuticles, realized what she was doing, and quit.
“Not at all,” Bernie agreed.
“Well, if what Evan says is true, and Susie did that to me, I’d want to kill her, too. Your friend comes and says she’s going to help you, and then she stabs you in the back instead. That’s just plain bad.”
“But the three of them weren’t friends,” Bernie objected. “Anything but. That’s what I don’t understand. Why would they believe her?”
Libby sidestepped a puddle. “Maybe they didn’t.”
Bernie took off her raincoat and slung it over her arm. It had gotten warmer while they were inside. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Marie and Charlene came there armed with a countermove.”
“Like what?” Libby asked.
“I don’t know,” Bernie told her. She could see the scene, though. One of the women telling Susie what she was going to do, and Susie laughing at them, and Marie or Charlene grabbing the letter opener and stabbing Susie with it. She shook her head and changed the subject. “So, do you want to see Evan’s place or not?”
“Sure. What the hell,” Libby said. Despite herself, she had to agree with Evan about one thing. It would be nice to have more space for customers.
Counting the detour—Evan’s place turned out to be fifteen, not five, minutes away—it took the sisters a little under two hours to finish their errands. They got back to the shop just before the predinner rush started. They had just finished unloading their supplies and had walked into the front of the store to check the register and see what needed to be done when Amber finished with her customer and came up to them.
“We’re low on sugar, and we had a run on the chocolate gingersnaps. They’re all gone,” she announced.
Libby groaned. “All of them?” She’d baked five dozen this morning. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Amber replied. “I sold the last five, ten minutes before you walked through the door. Evidently, they’re our new big hit,” Amber told her. “Plus, Mrs. Small ordered five dozen for tomorrow afternoon for her mah-jongg club.”
“Great,” Libby said. She poured herself a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and took the last slice of spinach and mushroom quiche out of the display case. Dinner was a couple of hours away, and she was too hungry to wait.
Libby was pleased that the cookies had taken off—she’d played around with the recipe and added a bit more ginger, a dash more black pepper, and a lot more chocolate—but she’d been counting on their supply lasting for three days. Now she or Bernie would have to go back to the store and get more gingerroot, sugar, and candied ginger before tomorrow morning.
“Two more things,” Amber added as Libby swallowed. “A lady came in looking for you.”
“What did she want?�
� Bernie asked.
“She didn’t say. She just said she’d be back. Also, you guys got a present.”
“A present?” Libby repeated as she took in Amber’s hair. She could have sworn Amber was wearing blond braids this morning. Now Amber’s hair was black and short.
“It’s a wig,” Amber explained, noting the look of puzzlement on Libby’s face. “I’m trying it out for a Walking Dead party I’m going to on Saturday. What do you think?”
“I like it,” Libby said. “I like it a lot.”
Libby remembered how Amber’s constant shifts in appearance—she could go from Goth girl to Walt Disney’s Belle overnight—had bothered her at first. It was like living with a shape-shifter. She never knew who was coming through the door. But the customers had liked it, and now she did, too. It added a note of excitement to the day, and, more importantly, it brought customers through the door because they wanted to see Amber’s latest iteration.
“What present?” Bernie asked as she finished eating a banana and started restocking the napkin holders and the straw dispenser sitting on the side of the counter.
Amber shrugged. “I don’t know. Some guy brought it in. Said it was for you.”
“Did he say it was a present?” Bernie asked as she walked over to the coffee station and began tidying it up.
Amber shook her head. “No. But it’s wrapped up like one. Shiny paper. It’s such a waste.” She tut-tutted her disapproval. “I can’t believe trees have to die to make that kind of stuff. What’s wrong with using newspaper?”
The sisters didn’t answer. Instead, Bernie looked at Libby, and Libby looked at Bernie. They both had the same thought at the same time.
“Where’s the present?” Libby asked, trying to keep her voice even.
“I put it in your office. Why? Is something wrong?”
“Maybe,” Bernie said as she turned and headed toward the back. She hoped she was mistaken, but she had a bad feeling in her gut.
Libby told Amber to brew some decaf French roast—it was a big seller in the afternoon—and put some of the blond brownies where the gingersnaps had been, before joining her sister in the office.
The package Amber had mentioned was sitting on the desk, atop this month’s bills. The box was a little larger than the one at the wedding had been, but it, too, was wrapped in several layers of gold paper and had a blue bow on top.
Libby frowned. “It looks like the present Susie got,” she observed. “Same size, same type of wrapping paper.”
“Same blue bow,” Bernie said. “Definitely not from UPS or FedEx.”
Libby picked the package up. She thought she could feel something moving inside.
Bernie put her ear closer to it. “I think I hear scratching.”
“This is so not good,” Libby noted.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?” Bernie asked her sister after she’d lifted her head up.
“Is there anything else to think?” Libby asked.
Bernie was about to answer when their other counter person came in. Googie had been working for them for five years now and played in a band at night. He was the yang to Amber’s yin, the rock to Amber’s river. His pants and his shirts and T-shirts all looked the same. He always shaved. He never surprised. He never lost his cool.
“Hey,” Googie said. “Aren’t you going to open it and see what’s in it?”
“No,” Libby said. “We are most definitely not. At least not here.”
Googie scratched his ear and scrunched down to get a closer look at the package. At six-four, he scrunched a lot. “Why? Is it, like, an explosive or something? Should we evacuate the building? You know, like, call the bomb squad.”
“The exterminator would be more like it,” Bernie said grimly. And she explained.
“That is so uncool,” Googie said.
“I don’t suppose you happened to see who delivered it as well, by any chance?” Libby asked, hoping that Googie could supply more details.
“Naw,” Googie said. “Sorry. I was in the back getting the bread out of the oven. The guy was gone by the time I came back out.”
“That’s what Amber said,” Libby noted.
Googie scratched his chest. “I mean we were getting slammed. It was nuts here.”
Bernie sighed. That was the way things always went. They were either crazy busy or there was no one in the shop. Then she shuddered as she had a sudden vision of mice bursting out of the package and running all over their shop while their customers stampeded out the door. They’d have to close the place down and then reopen.
She shut her eyes as she thought about the publicity! What a nightmare that would be. With their luck, someone would probably post a video on Facebook, and it would go viral. There’d be no coming back from that. Maybe she was being paranoid, she told herself. Then she lifted the package up. She definitely felt something moving inside. Nope. She wasn’t being paranoid at all. The only thing that would be worse was roaches. They had to get the package out of the store now, before the worst happened.
“What are you going to do with it?” Googie asked as Bernie started walking toward the door, package in hand.
“We’re going to open the package by the river,” Bernie said.
“And drown the mice?” Googie asked. “Because if you are—”
Libby put up a hand to stop him. “No. We’re letting them go.” She didn’t like killing things if she didn’t have to.
Googie smiled. “Good. Because otherwise I would have.”
Chapter 20
“ Why the river?” Libby asked once they were in the van. She’d carefully stowed the package in the back, wedging it in with a couple of cartons of recyclables so it wouldn’t slip around.
“Because there are no houses down there,” Bernie explained. She began to slowly back out of their driveway. “I hope we’re wrong,” she said as she waited for a car to pass.
“I hope so, too,” Libby said. “But I don’t think we are.”
“Unfortunately, neither do I,” Bernie replied as she leaned over and turned on the radio.
They didn’t talk. Instead, they spent the rest of the ride thinking about the implications of what was in the box.
It took five minutes to get down to the park bordering the Hudson and fifteen minutes of circling to find a place for the van. The parking lots were full, now that it had stopped raining. It seemed as if everyone in town had driven down to the river to go for a run or a walk on the towpath. Libby finally found a spot in the farthest lot, parked, and got out.
Bernie climbed out and went around to the back of Mathilda, took the box out of the van and, holding it as far away from her as she could, walked with Libby toward an outcropping of rocks that was well away from the jogging path. She didn’t want anyone to see her and Libby releasing a box of mice into the grass. They might think the mice came from their shop. She cursed quietly as her heels sank into the soft dirt.
“Far enough?” Bernie asked when she had gotten near the rocks. They rose out of the grass in a pyramid shape, a reminder of the times when glaciers had moved across the area.
Libby looked around. No one was in sight. There were only the rocks, the grass, and the slope of the shoreline to the river. People’s voices drifted in on the wind. “Perfect,” she said.
Bernie set the box on the grass, crouched down, took off the blue bow, and tore the wrapping off the package. Libby watched the pieces of gold paper sparkle among the wet blades of grass. The top of the box was sealed with six pieces of Scotch tape.
“Considerate of whoever did this,” Bernie noted as she peeled the pieces off with the tips of her fingernails, “not wanting to let them loose in A Little Taste of Heaven.”
“So, this is a warning,” Libby opined.
“I’d say. Because if the top wasn’t taped down, the mice would have pushed it up and eaten through the paper in a couple of minutes,” Bernie said. Then she remembered the three white mice she’d brought home for school vacation and t
he fate of the yellow raincoat she’d draped over their cage to keep them quiet at night. She’d woken up the next morning to perfect circles of yellow nylon in their nest. “But come to think of it, it wouldn’t take too long for them to chew through the box, either.”
By now there were squeaks coming from the inside of the box, not that they needed confirmation.
“Ready?” Bernie asked.
Libby nodded, and Bernie stood up and pulled off the top.
Suddenly there were mice everywhere. The sisters instinctively jumped back as the mice ran this way and that, looking for shelter.
“They’re really kinda cute,” Bernie said as she watched them scurry around. “I don’t know why they scare people.”
“All I know,” Libby said as one ran over her shoe, “is they don’t belong in our shop. Imagine what would happen if they were running around in there now?”
Bernie shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about. “How many mice do you think were in the package?” Bernie asked, changing the subject as she watched the mice disappear under rocks and behind tree roots and bushes.
“Too many,” Libby said. “At least as many as were in the box at Susie’s wedding. Maybe more.”
“I wonder where whoever is doing this is getting them,” Bernie mused, the question just occurring to her.
Libby looked at her. “The pet store?”
“No. They’re field mice.” Bernie pointed to a mouse over by the rocks that was sniffing around. “You don’t buy them in pet stores.”
“Someone is breeding them?”
“Possibly,” Bernie said. “I guess that makes more sense than collecting them.”
“Problem solved,” Libby said. “Now all we have to do is find someone breeding field mice and we’ll be all set.”
“Absolutely,” Bernie said absentmindedly, her attention now focused on the torn pieces of white paper lying in the grass, intermingled with the pieces of gold wrapping paper. She realized they hadn’t been there before. Ergo, there must have been a note hidden in the layers of gold paper that she’d ripped up. Damn. She went over and picked up one of the larger pieces of white paper. It was damp from the rain on the grass. The word greeting printed on it had begun to run.
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