For a few minutes, no one spoke. The only sounds in the room were the sounds of rain hitting the windowpane, the hum of the customers downstairs, and the tick of the clock on the wall. Then Libby began.
“Let’s just say that Lucy wasn’t impressed with the plaque and the caviar tins as evidence,” Libby told her dad before she took another bite of her brioche.
“He’s not going to arrest Charlene and Marie, I take it?” Sean asked.
Bernie shook her head and finished the last of her egg. “No. He’s still talking about arresting us.”
“He won’t,” Sean reassured them.
“Well, he’s certainly talking as if he will,” Bernie said.
“Did you show him the video, Bernie?” Sean asked.
“Yeah, I did, and he wasn’t impressed, Dad. Far from.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“He said that Charlene having the caviar and the plaque doesn’t prove that she killed Susie. Except he didn’t say it as politely.”
“I can only imagine,” Sean said. “Unfortunately, Lucy’s correct. It doesn’t.”
“It does put her at the scene, though,” Libby said.
“But she was already at the scene,” Bernie objected. “What it doesn’t do is put her hand on the knife.”
“Letter opener,” Libby said, correcting her.
“Whatever,” Bernie snapped. “We’re going to have to face the fact that Charlene’s story might be true. Given the circumstances, I might have taken the caviar, as well. And even if it isn’t true, even if she’s lying, it doesn’t matter, because we can’t prove anything different. We’re no closer to finding out who killed Susie than we were before.”
“What now?” Sean asked, looking from one daughter to the other. “What’s your plan?”
“Good question,” Bernie said.
“We don’t have one,” Libby admitted. “We’re just running around in circles like a chicken without a head.” She turned to her father. “What would you do, Dad?”
Sean replied promptly. “Who haven’t you spoken to yet?”
Libby and Bernie both thought for a moment. Then they both said at the same time, “Charlene’s nephew.”
“Then I’d try to find him and hear what he has to say. Maybe he has something to contribute, and even if he doesn’t”—Sean shrugged—“at least you’ll have tried. What do you know about him?”
“Not much,” Bernie replied. “We don’t even know his first name.”
“Makes finding him a little challenging,” Sean observed.
“Yes, it does,” Bernie agreed. She thought for a moment. Then it came to her. “I do believe it’s time to wake up Brandon,” Bernie said. “If anyone would know, Brandon would. After all, everyone goes to RJ’s.”
“Let’s hope so,” Sean said as his daughters went downstairs to start their day. He reached over, picked up the TV Guide, and thumbed through it. Two of his favorite movies were on this afternoon. Excellent, he thought as he sat back in his chair and began the day’s crossword puzzle.
Chapter 40
Bernie came armed for her encounter with Brandon. She’d filled a tote with a large thermos of coffee with cream; a sausage, egg, and avocado sandwich on a toasted, buttered piece of sourdough bread; a pint of freshly made fruit salad with mint and rosemary; and a half of a blueberry pie. Then, after making a quick stop at the bank, Bernie had driven over to Brandon’s flat and banged on his door.
She would have used the bell except it wasn’t working. It hadn’t since Brandon moved in, and it didn’t look as if that was going to change in the near future. When Brandon didn’t answer, Bernie banged on the door again.
She was lifting her arm to knock on the door for the third time, when it swung open. “Third times the charm,” she muttered to herself. A tired-looking Brandon was standing in the doorway in his boxers and T-shirt, rubbing his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Brandon asked, stifling a yawn. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Bernie said as she walked by him into the kitchen and put the food she’d brought down on the kitchen table.
Brandon trailed behind her. “Then what are you doing here?” he demanded, yawning again. “Do you know what time it is?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I have a question for you.”
“Good for you,” Brandon growled, now pissed. “I’m going back to bed. I didn’t get to sleep until five.”
“You really need to find a normal job with normal hours,” Bernie told him as he headed for his bedroom.
“Thanks.” For emphasis, Brandon slammed his bedroom door.
Given the circumstances, that had probably not been the best thing to say, Bernie reflected as she got the coffee out of her tote, poured it into one of Brandon’s mugs, added a generous amount of sugar, took out the egg and sausage sandwich, and carried the coffee and the sandwich into the bedroom.
“Go away,” Brandon said as Bernie approached the bed. “I’m not talking to you.” And to make his point, he pulled the covers over his head.
“I have coffee and your favorite breakfast sandwich,” Bernie sang. “And I brought some fresh fruit salad and a half of a blueberry pie, as well.”
“When was it made?” Brandon asked, his voice muffled by the covers.
“The pie?”
“Yes. The pie.”
“This morning,” Bernie told him.
“All right.” Brandon pulled the covers back and sat up. Bernie handed him the coffee and the sandwich. “Couldn’t this have waited?” he asked after he’d drained the mug.
“I wouldn’t be here if it could.” Bernie took Brandon’s mug from him, went into the kitchen to refill it, and brought it back.
“What do you want to know?” he asked, taking a sip.
“The name of Charlene’s nephew and where he lives.”
Brandon wrinkled his nose. “Who?”
“Charlene’s nephew. His last name is Eberhart.”
Brandon shook his head. “It doesn’t ring any bells. Describe him to me.”
Bernie did. “He’s about six feet tall. Skinny. Close-cut cropped hair. Brown eyes. Brown hair. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge on it.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Brandon said right before he tore into the sandwich Bernie had brought.
“He has a tattoo around his wrist. A really bad tattoo of Mickey Mouse. It looks as if he tried to get it removed, but someone didn’t finish the job.”
“Oh, him,” Brandon said. “That’s Ricky.”
Bernie cocked her head. “Ricky?”
“Yeah. Why the look?”
“It’s just an old-fashioned name.”
“Maybe his parents are old-fashioned people.”
“Maybe,” Bernie said. “Do you know where I can find him?”
Brandon shook his head. “I know he does errands for Andy Dupont on occasion.”
“Great,” Bernie muttered.
“I expect payment,” Brandon said.
“I brought you half a pie.”
Brandon leered and twirled an imaginary mustache. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
Bernie grinned. “I figured.”
* * *
Bernie pulled up to Andy Dupont’s father’s car lot an hour and a half later. She parked Mathilda and used the rearview mirror to put on some lipstick and make sure all her shirt buttons were buttoned before she got out of the van. Then she walked to the trailer and opened the door.
Andy Dupont stopped playing Call of Duty, took his feet off the desk, and put them down on the floor when Bernie stepped inside.
“Come to trade in your van?” he asked her.
Bernie shook her head and closed the door behind her. The bell jingled again.
“Then what?” Andy wanted to know.
“I’m looking for Ricky, Ricky Eberhart.”
“Don’t know him,” Andy Dupont told her, his eyes drifting back to
his game.
“Brandon says you do. He said Ricky works for you sometimes.”
Andy shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands, palms up. “What can I say? Your boyfriend is wrong.”
“Not about this kind of stuff.”
Andy shrugged. “He is this time.”
Bernie persisted. “The guy I’m trying to find has a tattoo of Mickey Mouse on his wrist, a bad tattoo.”
Andy laughed. “Oh. You mean Speedo.”
Bernie wrinkled her nose. “Speedo?”
“Yeah. That’s what we call him.”
“Why? Because Ricky wears Speedos?”
“No. Because he’s so damn slow. Does this have to do with the Susie thing?” Andy asked.
Bernie walked over, perched herself on the edge of Andy’s desk, leaned over, and glanced at the papers on it. “Will my answer make a difference?”
“Not really,” Andy said. He picked up the papers Bernie was looking at, opened a desk drawer, put them inside it, and then closed the drawer, slamming it shut for emphasis, after which he picked up his gaming console. “He’s not working for me anymore.”
“How come?”
“Let’s say we had a difference of opinion.”
Bernie tugged at her skirt hem. “Over what?”
“How much money was in the till.”
“I see. Do you know where I can find him?”
“The hospital.”
Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
Andy smiled. “Nah. I’m kidding. He just took a quick trip to the ER.”
Bernie smiled back. “That was generous of you.”
Andy blew on the knuckles of his right hand and rubbed them on his chest. “I told you, I’m a sweetie pie.”
“That’s not exactly the word I would use.” Bernie shifted her weight and leaned forward a little. “So, Andy, are you telling me you don’t know where Ricky . . .”
“Speedo . . .”
“Speedo is?”
“Not at all, Bernie. Far from. The last I heard, he was bunking in with Fred.”
“Fred who?”
“Fred ‘the Hand’ Alberti.”
“The one who used to run the strip club down in Piedmont before it got busted?”
“Yes. That one.”
“And do you happen to know where Fred is living?” Bernie asked, wondering if this conversation could go any slower.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Andy Dupont replied. “He lives in the run-down house next to the cement factory.”
Bernie knew the one. The cement factory had ceased operation, but the house had remained. “That’s quite the comedown,” she observed as she stood up.
Andy Dupont snorted. “He’s lucky he’s not in a shallow grave after what he did.”
“Can I ask why you’re being so helpful?” Bernie asked.
“Because he deserves whatever he’s got coming to him,” Andy replied, turning his attention back to his video game.
He didn’t look up as Bernie left. The sounds of the game followed her out the door.
Chapter 41
The house Andy Dupont had mentioned had always given Bernie the willies. It had been built by the owner of the cement factory so that he could keep an eye on his property, but it had been abandoned a long time ago, consigned to a slow, inexorable decline.
Located on a one-way dead-end street on the edge of town, the house and the cement factory were the only structures for a square block. The two-story house was dark green with white trim, the green paint made lighter by the fine layer of concrete dust that seemed to have permanently settled on it. The place looked deserted, with its two upstairs windows boarded up with plywood, the mailbox that leaned to the left, the garage that was in the process of toppling over, the blue tarp that covered half of the roof, and the moldering telephone directories on the doorstep.
Bernie passed by the place when she went to and from the farmers’ market. Sometimes there were cars in the driveway, and sometimes there weren’t. Sometimes she saw lights in there; sometimes she didn’t. Squatters, she figured. Now she could put a name to two of them.
She arrived at the house after leaving the car lot. Three turkey buzzards perched on the roof flew off when they heard Mathilda coming. Bernie parked out on the street, because it made her feel better, and walked to the house, avoiding what had once been a flagstone walkway and was now a jumble of heaved-up pavers and weeds. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she called Libby and told her where she was—just in case something happened—before she got to the door.
When she got there, she looked for a bell, but there wasn’t any, so she knocked. The door was a hollow-core one, and she could feel the flimsiness against her knuckles. A moment later Fred Alberti answered.
“What do you want?” he asked through the closed door.
“To speak to Ricky.”
“Who?”
“Speedo.”
“Yeah.” Alberti’s voice was gruff. “Well, he’s not talking to anyone right now.”
“He’ll want to talk to me.”
“And why is that?” Alberti demanded.
Why was that? Bernie asked herself. Good question, she thought.
“Hey. You going to answer or what?” Fred Alberti asked when Bernie didn’t reply immediately. “I got better things to do than stand around all day.”
“Tell him I’ll give him fifty bucks to answer a couple of questions,” Bernie replied after a momentary pause. After all, it was Susie’s money she was spending.
“Wait here,” Alberti said. “I’ll get him. The bum owes me twenty.”
While Bernie waited, she watched the buzzards resume their perches. Then a fourth one landed, and a fifth one was about to when Alberti opened the door and pushed Speedo, aka Ricky, aka Charlene’s nephew, out onto the stoop.
“Here he is,” he said to Bernie. “And you,” he said, turning to Ricky, “better tell this lady what she wants to know.” Then he closed the door, leaving Ricky standing there with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. The smell of weed wafted through the air, reminding Bernie of her younger days.
“What?” he demanded as Bernie took in the black eye and the cast on his left hand.
“Did Andy do that to you?” Bernie asked.
“Is that one of the questions?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’ll cost you an extra fifty to find out.”
“I don’t care that much,” Bernie told him.
“Then what do you want to know?” Ricky asked.
Bernie told him.
“Let me see the money first,” Ricky said.
Bernie got out five ten-dollar bills and showed them to him. Ricky took a gulp of beer, crumpled up the can, threw it on the ground, and reached for the money.
“Not yet.” Bernie pulled her hand back. “After you answer my questions,” she told him. “Did Marie or Charlene ask you to deliver the mice?”
Ricky shrugged. “They were both there.”
“Yeah. But which one asked you?”
As Ricky took a hit off his joint, the door to the house opened, and Alberti emerged.
“Answer her,” he growled at Ricky.
He must have been listening at the door, Bernie decided.
“Give me a moment,” Ricky whined. “I’m thinking.”
Bernie didn’t make the obvious comment.
“My aunt,” Ricky said after another minute had gone by.
“You’re sure?” Bernie asked.
“Kinda. Like I said, they were both there.”
Bernie frowned. This was leading nowhere. “How stoned were you?”
Ricky grinned. “Really stoned. Really, really stoned. I was smoking some good stuff.”
Alberti stepped forward. “Speedo answered your questions,” Alberti said to Bernie. “Now give him his money.”
“He didn’t really,” Bernie objected.
Alberti glared at her. Bernie thought about arguing with him, then decided
against it. There didn’t seem to be much point, what with Ricky’s power of recollection being what it was. One of the turkey buzzards sitting on the roof probably remembered more than Ricky did.
“Fine,” Bernie said, holding out the money, but before Ricky could take it, Alberti grabbed it.
“Hey,” Ricky protested. “You said you were just going to take twenty.”
“I changed my mind,” Alberti told him as he pocketed the tens. “Sue me.” Then he walked back inside the house.
Ricky looked as if he was going to cry. Then he brightened and leaned toward Bernie. His breath, a combination of beer, weed, and tobacco, washed over her. “Hey,” he whispered. “You got a twenty?”
“That depends,” Bernie said.
“Will you give it to me if I tell you something?” Ricky asked in a voice full of hope.
“Like what?”
“Like something important?”
Bernie nodded. She wasn’t expecting much, but she felt sorry for the guy. She decided he was going to be her good deed for the day.
Ricky blinked and took another hit off his joint. “But you can’t tell anyone it came from me.”
“I promise,” Bernie said as she watched Ricky snuff the joint out with his fingers and carefully put the roach in his T-shirt pocket.
“You gotta swear,” Ricky told her when he was done. “ ’Cause they’re going to be pissed.”
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
“Not exactly informative, but fair enough.” Bernie held up her hand. “I swear. Satisfied?”
Ricky nodded. Then he looked at the house and looked back. “He’s probably watching,” Ricky said.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Bernie agreed, figuring Ricky meant Alberti.
“Can you give me a lift to Nice N Easy?” Ricky asked.
“I can do that,” Bernie told him. The convenience store was five blocks away.
“Good,” Ricky said, and he walked over to Mathilda and got in the passenger side. “I’m gonna go back to school and get my GED,” he told Bernie as she started the van up.
She nodded. “Sounds like a good idea.” As Bernie pulled into the road, the turkey buzzards on the roof rose in the air, wheeled around, and resettled themselves. Their eyes followed the van until it turned the corner.
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