Bernie gave Bree the lemon wafer wrapped in a small sheet of wax paper and watched as she took little bites. A vision of a mouse nibbling on a piece of cheese had jumped into Bernie’s mind when Bree’s cell phone rang. She dug it out of her bag.
“No. No. No,” she said into the receiver. “What’s the matter with you? I distinctly remember saying ten, not fifteen. You should listen more carefully.” And she clicked off. “Honestly,” she told Bernie. “Some of the people I have working for me are brain dead.” She took another nibble of her cookie. “Nothing is going right these days, and when I’m upset I eat.”
What? Bernie wondered. Lettuce leaves and the occasional tomato slice?
“This past week and a half, with everything that’s been happening, I must have put on five pounds.” Bree took another nibble. “I can’t even imagine how much weight Libby’s put on, poor dear.”
“Actually, she’s lost weight,” Bernie lied.
“How wonderful! Maybe she’ll share her secret with me. It’s nice to see that she’s doing well.”
“Why shouldn’t she be?”
“Well, with all that’s occurred. She’s never been able to handle stress well.”
“That’s not true.”
Bree waved her hand in the air. “It’s just that I can’t get that vision of Libby being carried from Phys Ed class sobbing and screaming out of my mind. It was so traumatic for me. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her.”
“For the last time, she’d taken some of my mother’s medicine by mistake and had a bad reaction to it. And she wasn’t sobbing and screaming.”
Bree smiled sweetly.
“I love the way you defend your sister.”
A vision of punching Bree in the mouth flashed through Bernie’s mind. Deep breath, she told herself. Deep breath.
“You know . . .” she began when Bree interrupted.
“Whatever her problems are, I have to say she did a marvelous job at the reunion.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Bree took another bite of her cookie.
“And what happened wasn’t her fault. I mean how could she know that someone would poison Laird’s drinking water? Although in retrospect, perhaps labeling those bottles with his name wasn’t the smartest thing she could have done.”
Bernie could feel her temper rising again.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Me?” Bree looked amused. “Absolutely nothing. I’m making an observation. It’s just that she’s just been so invested in Tiffany. Protecting her and everything.”
“I hardly think trying to get her legal counsel comes under the heading of protecting. And since when is that a crime?”
As Bree took another nibble of her cookie, Bernie wondered if anyone could eat slower.
“It’s not. But I think you ought to know that’s not what some people are saying.”
“Well, those people are wrong.”
“Whatever you say, dear.” Bree checked her watch. “Here.” She handed the uneaten half of the lemon cookie back to Bernie. “Can you throw this out? It was delicious, but I’m full.” Bree shook her head and adjusted an errant lock of hair. “I’m just glad we can put this thing behind us and begin to heal.”
“What do you mean?”
Bree flicked an invisible crumb off her yellow silk blouse.
“Well, now that we know who the murderer is. I don’t mean to be crass, but it’s hard to sell real estate when you’ve got a murderer running loose, especially a murderer who’s killed two of Longely’s most upstanding citizens.
“Something like this plays hell with property values. People don’t want to buy, and I can’t say I blame them, when they can purchase in the next town and not be afraid for their lives.”
“Haven’t you heard of the old saying about being innocent until proven guilty? The case against Tiffany is circumstantial.”
Bernie watched Bree reach into her black microfiber Prada tote and come out with a tube of lip gloss and a mirror.
“I’m sorry. I thought you heard. Tiffany confessed.”
“What?” Bernie cried.
“Early this morning. Call Paul Pine and check if you want to,” Bree said. “He’ll tell you.”
“I’m going to.” And Bernie reached for the phone.
Chapter 27
“Just a minute.” Libby pulled the van over to the side of the road and put it in park. She was too upset by what her sister was telling her to drive and talk. “Bree Nottingham is lying,” she said into her cell.
“Unfortunately, she isn’t,” Bernie told her.
“But Tiffany couldn’t have confessed. I don’t believe you.”
“I didn’t believe it either, but she did.”
“Then Lucy forced her to.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know for sure.”
“Paul said she looked okay—well, as okay as she was going to look given the circumstances. He got a call from Tiffany around nine-thirty this morning asking him to come down to the jail. When he got there, she told him she wanted him to negotiate a deal.”
“There has to be some kind of mistake,” Libby cried.
“Mistake or not, I just thought you should know before you hear it on the news.”
“The news?” Libby repeated stupidly.
“It was on the radio already. By tomorrow it’ll be everywhere. This is a big story.”
Libby could hear the impatience in Bernie’s voice. She lowered the phone and clutched it to her chest. She could hear her sister saying, “Libby, Libby. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, and she pressed the off button and dropped the phone into her bag.
She knew that would make Bernie mad, but she didn’t want to talk to her right now. She didn’t want to talk to anyone—anyone except Tiffany, that is.
“Why did she do it?” she asked out loud. She rubbed the corners of her mouth with two of her fingers and shook her head. “Great. Now I’m talking to myself.”
Without thinking she reached over and took one of the brown sugar snaps she was bringing to Lydia and ate it. The taste of brown sugar melting on her tongue helped clear the fog in her head, and after a second cookie she knew what she had to do. Libby drove over to the police station with her foot on the gas pedal, ignoring the van’s shimmying.
“Tough,” she said to the vehicle. “It won’t hurt you to go over fifty miles an hour for once.”
Libby wanted an explanation for Tiffany’s action and she wanted one now. Ten minutes later, she was at the police station. She parked in front of the Do Not Park. Offical Business Only sign and ran inside the building. The place had been an old feed store that the town had converted to a police station fifty years ago. Normally, Libby liked its rustic air, but today she didn’t notice. She charged through the doors and went straight over to Clyde.
“I want to speak to Tiffany,” she demanded.
Clyde looked up from the paper lying on his desk.
“Now, Libby,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you know I can’t do that. She can only see her lawyer or members of her family.”
“She doesn’t have any family members here. They’re down in Arkansas someplace.”
“Then she needs to have a delegate appointed.”
“Come on, Clyde,” Libby pleaded. “You’ve known me all my life.”
“If it were just me, I would. You know that.” Clyde grinned apologetically and fiddled with his shoestring tie. “But the boss . . .”
“Screw the boss.”
“Libby, I have to follow my orders. You of all people should realize that. Please don’t make a scene.”
At which point Libby became aware that an officer, someone she didn’t know, had magically appeared and taken up residence by the door that led to the cells.
“But she didn’t do it.”
“She says she did, and even if she didn’t, I still can’t let you see her. This one is going by the numb
ers.”
“I need to talk to her. Please.”
Clyde put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.
“If I were you, I’d go talk to her lawyer and see if he can arrange something for you ’cause that’s the only way you’re getting in the back.”
“So you’re not going to let me speak to her.”
“I think that’s safe to assume,” Clyde replied as the other officer moved forward. “You’re a smart girl. Why don’t you leave and let us go on with our business.”
“Fine.”
Libby turned on heels and marched towards the door.
“Give my regards to your dad,” Clyde called after her.
“Give them to him yourself,” Libby tossed over her shoulder as she went out the door.
She shouldn’t have gone charging in there like that, she told herself as she got in the van and slammed the door. If she were Bernie, she would have charmed her way in and could be talking to Tiffany right now. But not her. Oh, no. She always had to do things the hard way. And on that note, Libby picked up the phone, dialed Paul Pine’s office, and asked for his secretary.
Libby paused at the entrance to the lounge of the Longely Country Club and studied the interior. It looked the same as it had the last time she’d been there seven years ago, all knotty pine and colonial furniture. Even though it was sunny outside, it was dark in the lounge, so it took Libby a minute to spot Paul Pine. He was sitting at the far end of the room looking out the window.
Okay, Libby said to herself as she strode towards him. Channel Bernie. Be nice. Be charming. Bat your eyelashes and say something like, Oh Paul, I’m so upset. Can you help me? I don’t know what to do.
“How could you?” Libby blurted out instead when she reached him.
What is wrong with me? Why can’t I ever say the right thing? Libby wondered as Paul looked up. He took a sip of beer from the stein he was holding and put it down on the table.
“I take it you’re talking about Tiffany?” he asked.
“Why else would I be here?”
Paul gestured to the seat next to him.
“Sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”
Libby took a deep breath and let it out.
“Thank you, but I prefer to stand.”
“Please,” Paul said, indicating the chair on his right.
Libby reluctantly sat in it.
“Soda?” Paul asked. “A beer? Tea? Coffee?”
Libby balled her hands into fists to keep herself from saying something awful.
“I just want to know what happened.”
She watched Paul take another sip of his beer and grab a handful of peanuts from the dish on the table and pop them in his mouth one at a time.
“I can see that you’re very upset.”
“That doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Libby replied.
Paul sighed and rubbed his chin with his knuckle.
“Tiffany called me up this morning and asked me to come down, so I did, even though technically someone else in my firm has been assigned to her case. When I walked into her cell, she told me she wanted to confess to both murders.” He held up his hand before Libby could speak. “Let me finish before you say anything.
“Naturally, I asked her if she’d been coerced into doing this, and she stated that she hadn’t been, that she was doing it of her own free will. And, I’m going to add, that I didn’t see any bruises on her. We discussed it for a while, but she was pretty resolute.” Paul took another sip of his beer. “And, frankly, I have to say, in my professional opinion, she would be better pleading out. The evidence against her is largely circumstantial, but there’s a lot of it and it’s pretty damning.”
He ticked it off on his fingers. “Tiffany’s fight with Laird Wrenn in front of the Dairy Queen, her showing up in the cafeteria kitchen the night of the reunion dinner, her running away from the police. None of that looks good, and I’m not even mentioning her possession of the gun that killed Geoffrey Holder, let alone her lack of an alibi for that event.”
“But all of that can be explained,” Libby cried.
Paul folded his arms over his chest.
“Maybe it can be. But personally I wouldn’t want to have to face the jury with her case.” Paul looked at his watch. “Anyway, I called up the prosecutor at home and asked him what he could do for her if she pled out and he said he’d talk to his people and let me know. He came back with twenty-to-life, which is pretty good considering that she’s up for murder one on two homicides. I relayed the offer to Tiffany. She asked me what I thought, and I told her she should take it and she agreed.”
“But she didn’t do it.”
Paul leaned over, took another peanut out of the bowl, and ate it.
“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the old chestnut of not confusing justice with the law. What I do want to ask you is, if she’s innocent, why did she confess? She wasn’t beaten. She wasn’t questioned for twenty-four hours straight. What motive would she have?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I want to talk to her.”
Paul leaned back. Libby watched him study her face.
“Would you feel better if you could?” he finally asked.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“All right then.”
Paul took out his cell.
“Who you going to call?”
“Your father’s arch enemy.”
“He’ll never let me in.”
“Trust me. He will.” Paul popped another peanut in his mouth and punched in the numbers.
“Why would he do that?”
“Quid pro quo, dear. Quid pro quo.” Then he gestured to Libby to be quiet. “I’m doing this as a favor to your dad,” he said after he clicked off. “Lucy will let you have ten minutes with her.”
Libby got out of the chair and impulsively went over and hugged Paul.
“Thanks so much.”
Paul waved his hand in the air.
“Forget it. It’s nothing. But now you can do me a favor. I’m having a surprise birthday for my wife next month. Could you cater it? I really love those little crab cakes of yours.”
Libby nodded distractedly.
“Just give me a call and we’ll discuss the menu.”
“Thanks.” Paul took another sip of his beer. “You know,” he told her, “it’s none of my business, but you’d be a lot happier if you’d stop taking everything to heart.”
“Tell me how to do that and I will,” Libby shot back. Then she got up and left.
The parking lot had filled up in the twenty minutes Libby had been talking to Paul, but she didn’t have any trouble spotting her van. It stood out like a poor relation in the sea of Beamers, Saabs, Ford Explorers, and Range Rovers.
“I love you anyway,” she told it, patting the dashboard, “even if you are old and rusty and dented.” She was turning the key in the ignition when she realized she’d better call Bernie and fill her in on what was happening.
“Nice of you to let me know,” Bernie commented after Libby was done.
“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re not the only one who gets upset.”
“We need you back at the store.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“You’d better be.”
“I said I will. Don’t you care about Tiffany?” Libby demanded.
“Of course I do. But she’s not going anywhere, and I have people lining up five deep in front of the counter. I hope you got the goat cheese because I’m running out.”
“Don’t worry,” Libby said looking at the package on the front seat of her van and wondering how long the cheese could stay there without being refrigerated. “I picked it up.”
“Can you at least come by and drop it off?”
“No. I can’t. I have to go see Tiffany. They’re transferring her to the county lockup. This is going to be my last chance.”
“Libby,” Bernie said. “It’ll take you five minutes. I need it.”
>
“Use the mozzarella or the cheddar.”
“How can you say that? They’re not at all alike.”
“The hallmark of a great cook is making do.”
“Screw that. Bring the cheese by.”
“Sorry. No can do,” Libby responded and she clicked her cell off before Bernie could say anything else. All she wanted to do was talk to Tiffany.
Chapter 28
It had taken Libby thirty minutes to get to the Longely Country Club from the town jail. It took her fifteen minutes to get back.
Cyde jerked his head towards the back when Libby came in.
“She’s in there. Go on through. You’ve got ten minutes. Tops.”
Libby opened the door leading to the jail cells and stepped inside. The space had been added on when the town council had decided to use the feed store for the police station. The three cells looked the way they had when her father had brought her here when he used to baby-sit her before her mother found out and put a stop to it.
Actually, she’d rather enjoyed playing in the cells with her dolls, although she’d never told her horrified mother that. She’d pretend she was locked away in a tower waiting for her prince to come rescue her. Anyway, it wasn’t as if she was playing next to murderers and robbers. The cells were usually empty except for the occasional drunk or speeder and even that was pretty rare. As she walked towards Tiffany, she couldn’t help thinking about what her father used to say to her mother from time to time over dinner.
“I’ll tell you one thing, Rose,” he’d say as he cut himself a piece of pot roast. “Justice may be blind, but it can tell who has money and who doesn’t. At least it can in this town.”
Libby wondered if that was what had happened here as she took Tiffany’s hands through the bars of the cell. They felt cold, even though it was as warm in the building as it was outside. Libby noticed that Tiffany had washed and combed her hair and was wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt, but she had deep circles under her eyes and blotches of red around her nose and on her cheeks. It looked as if her roseacea was acting up.
“I’m sorry,” Tiffany told her. “You shouldn’t have come.”
A Catered Murder Page 16