Even Laird Wrenn had had something nice to say. He’d complimented her on the goat cheese salad with blood oranges on a bed of spring greens. Which had been very good, if she did say so herself. Combining the tart taste of the oranges and the crunch of the toasted almonds was inspired.
People had even liked the tomato aspics. They’d found them charming. Now, if they got through dessert and coffee without any disasters, Libby was thinking she could uncross her fingers and toes and count the evening a success, when Bernie came over to her.
“I think Marvin still likes you,” she confided.
“That was in the tenth grade.”
“He was talking to me about you.”
“He’s probably interested in you. Everyone always is.”
“You have to stop thinking like that,” Bernie remonstrated. “He’s a nice guy.”
“He’s helping his father run his funeral home.”
“So what? Someone has to do it. Unless, that is, you’d rather have another go-around with him.” And Bernie gestured to the back of the room.
Libby squinted but she couldn’t see anything.
“Who are you pointing to?”
“Orion. Last table on the left. Third seat in.”
Damn, Libby thought. She swallowed.
“I didn’t see him come in.”
“He came in late. Look, he’s getting up. I think he’s coming this way.”
“He’s probably going to the bathroom.”
“I don’t think so. Libby . . .” Bernie hesitated.
“What?”
“Let it go.”
“That’s funny coming from you. Anyway, I just . . .”
“You are such a bad liar.”
“I’m just going to talk to him,” Libby protested. “Where’s the harm in that?”
Bernie shook her head.
“I give up. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
Libby nodded absentmindedly as she watched Orion approach. Suddenly she was acutely aware of the weight she’d gained. Unlike him. He still had an athlete’s body. And that cleft chin. God. What had her mother said when she’d brought him home? “Handsome is as handsome does.”
Although his hair was thinning slightly on the sides and top, and he did have a few more wrinkles in his face since the last time she’d seen him, but, much as she hated to admit it, he looked better than ever. Which, unfortunately, was more than she could say about herself.
“Hi,” she said. “Long time no see.”
Brilliant, she thought.
Orion smiled.
“About ten years.”
“You’ve gotten your teeth capped,” Libby blurted out. “That little gap is gone.”
She felt like disappearing into the floor.
Orion’s grin grew wider.
“I’m flattered you remembered.” He indicated the room with a sweep of his hand. “Very impressive. The food is great, but then it always is. I still remember the cake you made for our wedding.”
“Coconut,” Libby said mechanically. Everyone had told her how good it was. The odd thing was that she couldn’t remember making it. “How is Sukie?” she asked.
Orion’s smile disappeared.
“We’re separating.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Libby lied.
“Me too. So what’s going on in your life?”
Libby tried for a nonchalant shrug.
“You know. Same old, same old.”
“No Mr. Right yet?”
“Several . . .” Libby let her voice trail off. She hoped she sounded convincing.
Orion planted his hand on the door frame and leaned over her.
“We should have a drink sometime. Catch up on old times.”
“Definitely,” Libby agreed.
“Good then. I’ll give you a call.”
“You’re staying in town?”
“With my parents until this thing with Sukie gets settled.” Orion straightened up. “Got to go catch a smoke outside before dessert.”
Libby tsked-tsked.
“You still smoking those awful cigarettes?”
“Just started again. I need something to get me through this. By the way, loved the chocolate coffins. Where’d you get them?”
“From a funeral museum in Austin. They even have a mail order catalog.”
Orion reached over and squeezed Libby’s hand. “Trust you to find something like that. I’ll give you a ring.”
Libby nodded because she didn’t trust herself to say anything else. Orion was almost at the door when Bernie materialized next to her.
“He is good-looking. I will give you that.”
“He and Sukie are separating.”
“I heard.”
“You were eavesdropping.”
“Oh, don’t look so outraged,” Bernie told her. “You’d be doing the same thing.”
Libby fiddled with the collar of her white shirt.
“You don’t think I should have a drink with him, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because he broke off his engagement with you, for God’s sake, and then got married to someone else two months later, and if that wasn’t bad enough had the nerve to ask you to make the wedding cake.”
“I offered.”
“Well, he should have refused.” Bernie slipped her shoes off and massaged first one foot and then the other. “At least I make the same mistake with different guys.”
“What’s that suppose to mean?” Libby asked.
“Figure it out.”
Libby looked around the room again.
“We have to get the desserts going.”
“Okay,” Bernie said. “But you can’t have my pills when you have a nervous breakdown.”
Libby laughed as Googie came sailing by the two women with a tray piled high with dirty dishes.
“Coming through,” he yelled.
“Hey.” Libby took half a step back to avoid a collision. “Slow down. This isn’t the Indiana 500.”
“You mean the Indianapolis 500,” he threw over his shoulder.
“Whatever.” Libby folded her hands across her chest and frowned. “That kid gives me an ulcer. Oh-oh,” she murmured.
Bernie followed her gaze. Tiffany was coming towards them.
“She’s wobbling,” Bernie said.
“It’s the heels,” Libby answered.
“You wish,” Bernie countered as Tiffany reached them.
Libby reflected that while Tiffany had changed her clothes, her eyes were still red and puffy.
“Nice do,” Tiffany said.
Libby smiled. “So far so good.”
Tiffany took a strand of blond hair that had fallen across her eyes and tucked it back in the mass of curls on the top of her head.
“Sweetie, I’m not feeling very well. Do you have anything I can take?”
“I’ve got some aspirin,” Bernie offered.
“That’s not what I had in mind.” Tiffany leaned in close enough for Libby to smell the alcohol on her breath and indicated the glass she was holding with a nod of her chin. “Do you think maybe I can get another vodka?”
“Shouldn’t you . . .”
“Screw AA,” Tiffany told her.
Libby opened her mouth, closed it, and finally said, “If you give me a minute . . .”
“No, no. I don’t want to bother you.” Tiffany slurred the word bother. “Just tell me where the bottle is and I’ll fix myself a drink.”
“Stan,” Libby yelled. “Where’d you put the bar stuff?”
“In the green cartons by the door.”
“Thanks.” Tiffany patted Libby’s arm and tottered off.
“I don’t think I could walk in four-inch heels sober let alone drunk,” Bernie said as she and Libby watched Tiffany go.
“I never could,” Libby said.
“How bad does she get?” Bernie asked.
“Bad enough.”
“Isn’t she seeing
. . . ?”
Libby shook her head.
“She broke it off.”
“Mike’s a nice guy.”
“Yeah. He is. Unlike Lionel.”
Bernie snorted. “I guess when it comes to men, we’re all a bunch of idiots.”
“You got that right.” Libby readjusted the towel on her shoulder. “It’s not the same with Orion.”
“I never said it was.”
“Lionel keeps stringing her along. It’s painful to watch.”
The two women stood there for a minute, then Libby said, “We need to get the third course going.”
“I’m on it, boss man.”
And Bernie hustled off to finish up the cake. As she walked through the kitchen, she thought of the time when her father had given her the beta fish he’d won at the State Fair. She’d been about eight and enchanted with its iridescent blue and red coloring.
The fish had come in a little glass bowl and she’d insisted on getting a five-gallon fish tank and putting it in there, even though her father had warned her that it was a waste of money. The fish would keep swimming around in its little circle no matter where it was, because that was what it had been conditioned to do. And her father had been right.
Were we like that with men? Bernie wondered as she picked up the mustard bottle filled with raspberry puree and began swirling the puree on the next piece of chocolate cake. Were we conditioned to repeat our mistakes over and over again? Forever swimming around in a tight little circle like that beta fish? God, she hoped not.
Maybe what she needed to do was go out with men she wasn’t attracted to because that way she’d meet someone nice. And after Joe, she was ready for nice. And speaking of nice, there was Marvin. Who’d liked Libby since high school. Who gave his word and kept it. Unlike other people she could name. People whose first names started with O.
Maybe fish couldn’t change, but she was damned if she believed that people couldn’t.
If Bernie was thinking about men, Libby was thinking of everything that still had to be done. She was in the middle of mentally assigning everyone tasks when Googie materialized next to her and pointed to Laird Wrenn.
“The funny-looking guy with the cape said to tell you he wants his bottle of water.”
“It’s in the back with his name on it. Go bring it out to him.” Libby gave his hand a light slap. “And stop twisting that nose ring.”
Googie dropped his hands down to his sides. “Sorry. You want me to get the water or put cookie baskets on the rest of the tables?”
Libby thought for a second. “You do the cookies and I’ll do the water.”
Then she promptly forgot as everyone converged on her for instructions. For the next twenty minutes, Stan, Amber, and Googie ran back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen serving the cake, and distributing coffee cups while Bernie and Libby went around with coffeepots filling the cups up with decaf or regular.
Libby was making her fourth trip back to the kitchen to refill her carafe when Lydia Kissoff appeared before her.
“Laird is waiting for his water,” she said.
Libby put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
Lydia Kissoff sniffed.
“That doesn’t help Laird. This wouldn’t happen in Manhattan, I can tell you that,” she said.
“I’ll be right back,” Libby said and took off for the backroom.
Bernie glanced up from the coffeepot she was filling.
“What are you looking at?” Lydia Kissoff demanded.
“Nothing. You just seem a little tightly wound.”
“What I am is no concern of yours,” Lydia Kissoff snapped.
Bernie screwed the top of the coffeepot back on. “Maybe you should think of taking up yoga. I understand it’s very relaxing.”
Two bright spots of color appeared on Lydia Kissoff ’s cheeks.
“If I want advice, I’ll go to a doctor,” she said to Bernie as Libby appeared at her side with the bottle of water.
“Sorry I took so long,” Libby apologized, handing the bottle to Lydia, who grabbed it and marched off. “She doesn’t look happy, does she?” Libby said to her sister.
“Nope,” Bernie agreed. “She doesn’t, but then, if I worked for Laird Wrenn, I probably wouldn’t be happy either.”
“True,” Libby said. “She really hovers around him. Not something I’d want to do. I wonder what Tiffany sees in Lionel?” she mused. “Because whatever it is, I’m sure not getting it.”
Then she ran off to check on Stan’s whereabouts, since he was supposed to be packing up the glasses and was, at the moment, nowhere to be seen.
Five minutes later, out in the dining room, Nigel Herron, the master of ceremonies, stood up and tapped on the microphone. Everyone in the room turned towards him. He straightened his tie and slicked back his hair with the palm of his hand.
“I’m not going to waste any time introducing my old classmate and friend Laird Wrenn,” he said. “He’s Clarington’s most famous alum, and I’m sure you’re much more interested in hearing what he has to say than in listening to me introduce him.”
Someone in the audience yelled, “Damn right we are,” as Herron extended his hand to indicate Laird Wrenn, who was sitting to his right.
Laird nodded at Nigel Herron, then flicked his cape over his shoulders and stood up as everyone clapped wildly. When the applause died down, he began to speak.
“I can’t tell you how much I owe my dear friend, Nigel Herron.”
More wild applause, although Libby reflected that Nigel Herron had a strange expression on his face. She just couldn’t decide what it was.
“And the school. After all, it is from you”—he indicated the audience—“that I get my inspiration. The events that happened here have given me the stories I’ve written about. Who would think that Longely holds deep, dark secrets? But it does. And I want to thank you for sharing them with me—willingly or not.”
And he brought his lips into an unpleasant grin and laughed.
More clapping, but now it was tentative.
“My friends,” he continued. “As my character, Count Catal Hayucuk, would say to you: Welcome, welcome. You and I have much to experience together and little time to do it in.” Laird Wrenn’s cape spread out as he opened his arms wide. “Being here for the first time in more years than I want to remember awakens old hungers and old memories.
“Did you know that blood has always been seen as the currency of life? There is blood and there are the creatures that feed upon it. Thus it was and thus it shall be. This was true in Mesopotamia and it is true now. We like to think we’ve left all of that behind.” Here Laird leaned forward.
“But we haven’t,” he confided in a stage whisper. “We haven’t at all. There is evil . . .”
“Right here in River City,” Bernie whispered to Libby.
“Shut up,” Libby hissed back while giving Bernie a vicious jab in the ribs.
Laird Wrenn continued. “That is why people read my books. Because they are hungry for the truth. Hungry to know about lives outside of their own stunted existences that consist of mowing lawns and driving children to soccer games.”
People exchanged uneasy looks.
“Hungry to experience the exquisite fulfillment of pure desire. I have been lucky in that sense. I have been lucky that my talents have brought me to this place. I have been lucky to have met Count Catal Hayucuk.”
Laird stopped, picked up the bottle of water Lydia had given him, unscrewed the top, poured some into a glass, and gulped it down. In Libby’s dreams the drinking went on and on. In reality, it just took a few seconds.
Laird put the glass down on the table. An odd expression played over his face. His eyes widened. He put his hand to his throat and opened his mouth. A strangled noise came out.
Libby thought she heard the word, “Oh, no.” Or maybe it was a name. She couldn’t be sure.
Then he toppled over onto the dais.
This is not good, Li
bby thought as she watched Lydia Kissoff and Nigel Herron leaning over Laird’s body. This is not good at all.
“Bernie,” Libby said. “I think he’s dead.”
“At least he brought his own coffin,” her sister replied as she watched Griselda Plotkin, followed by Fred the photographer, run towards the dais.
Chapter 5
“Get the shot, Fred, get the shot,” Libby mimicked Griselda Plotkin as she ran towards the dais at the reunion dinner. “Who the hell invited them anyway?”
Sean Simmons looked at his daughter. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her this upset. It was a little after nine in the morning. Sunday in Longely. Except for the churchgoers, the occasional jogger, and the hum of the lawn mowers, no one was out. Most of the townspeople were eating their breakfasts and reading the morning newspaper and, Sean thought, talking about last night’s event.
He followed the progress of a black and white neighborhood cat that was crossing the side street outside his bedroom window while he considered what he could say that would calm Libby down.
“Lionel probably had a heart attack,” Sean suggested, covertly glancing down at the New York Times crossword puzzle. Given the circumstances, doing it would seem callous, he decided.
Libby rolled the pencil under her palm for a few seconds before speaking.
“I hope so, but he didn’t grab his chest. He grabbed his throat.”
“One thing doesn’t preclude the other.” Sean conveyed a piece of egg to his mouth. “People do strange things in times like that. Believe me. I know. In my job I’ve seen them all. At least they won’t have to buy a coffin for him.”
“That’s what Bernie said.”
Libby and Sean sat in silence for a minute. He reached over and speared a small piece of potato with a shaky hand.
“I understand your old flame was at the reunion.”
“Bernie told you?”
“She mentioned it.” Sean lifted the fork to his mouth. “How is he?”
“Orion’s good,” Libby said.
A Catered Murder Page 4