A Catered Costume Party

by Isis Crawford

  “I think we have forty-eight,” she told Bernie when she was done. “More or less.” It was hard to count with everyone moving around the way they were.

  “And we’re supposed to have between fifty and fifty-three.”

  Libby nodded. “So almost everyone is here.”

  Bernie made the obvious comment. “Except for our host.”

  She glanced down at her watch. It was time to serve dinner. Bernie stepped over to the side, away from the groups of chattering, laughing people, got out her phone, and called Darius. He didn’t answer. An uneasy feeling began to settle into the pit of Bernie’s stomach as she walked over to Libby.

  “He isn’t answering his phone,” she told her sister.

  “I hope everything’s all right,” Libby said in an aside as she smiled at a tall blond woman sweeping by her in a jaguar mask and a strapless red velvet gown and offered her a tray filled with mini crab cakes.

  “You and me both,” Bernie told her sister as the woman took a crab cake and a napkin and moved on. “My message went straight to voice mail.”

  “How about texting?” Libby suggested as she watched the woman in red velvet sip her champagne and wondered what it would be like to be on the other side of the equation. “Maybe he’s on the phone,” she said, remembering what Darius had told her about making an important call.

  “Maybe,” Bernie said, sticking her cell back in her bag. “You know what? I think I’ll just nip up there and make sure everything’s okay.”

  Libby nodded as she offered her tray to a tall man in a silver mask with a long pointed nose. After this tray was gone, there was only one more tray left. She’d underestimated the crab cakes’ popularity.

  “Good,” she told her sister. “Because the potatoes have to come out soon, otherwise they’re going to be too dry.”

  “I know,” Bernie said as she made for the staircase. She hurried up the steps. “Darius,” she cried as she rapped on his door. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine,” Darius replied. “Absolutely fine.” Later Bernie would think she’d heard a catch in his voice, but she wasn’t sure. Given what happened next, she might have been reimagining how he sounded.

  “Because we’re about to serve dinner,” Bernie continued.

  “Go ahead,” Darius told her.

  “Everyone is asking for you.”

  “I’ll be right down,” Darius assured her. “Five minutes. No more.”

  “Okay,” Bernie said. Then she turned and hurried back down the stairs, not thinking about the fact that Darius hadn’t opened the door.

  Ten minutes later the food was out on the buffet and everyone was lined up in front of the table, serving themselves, as Libby and Bernie made sure that everything was proceeding smoothly. The room was filled with the pleasant hum of people having a good time. Libby was refilling a chafing dish with scalloped potatoes and congratulating herself on how smoothly things were going when she heard the sound of something heavy hitting one of the French windows.

  Chapter 8

  Bernie heard the noise, too. There was a thud, then a pause, then another thud, another pause, and then another thud.

  A woman wearing a black lace mask and a silver lamé ball gown screamed and dropped her plate. It crashed to the ground, spewing its contents on the wood floor.

  There was a fourth thud.

  Another woman, her eyes wide with terror, screamed and pointed.

  Bernie and Libby whirled around.

  Darius was dangling in front of the French windows, swaying in the breeze.

  Libby put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she said. For a moment, she and Bernie were rooted to the spot.

  “Talk about entrances,” Libby heard a woman behind her say, while a man said, “It’s not funny. He could give someone a heart attack.”

  “He’s dead!” someone else cried.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Edmund,” snapped a woman in a cat’s mask and an electric-blue taffeta gown. “He’s wearing one of those harnesses, you know, like the ones they wear in circuses, although I have to say this is in very poor taste.”

  “He always had a sick sense of humor,” a man wearing a satyr’s mask said. He pushed the mask up on the top of his head. “Look at the crows,” he said, indicating the two birds that had just landed on each of Darius’s shoulders. “That’s odd. Don’t birds sleep at night?”

  “They’re messengers come to take his soul down to hell,” a woman said as the crows opened their beaks and cawed.

  Libby half expected to see fire coming out of their mouths.

  “Don’t be a moron, Betty,” someone snapped at her. “I don’t know where you get this kind of stuff from.”

  “It’s true, Allison. Everyone knows that.”

  “I don’t know that,” Allison replied. “Neither does anyone else. You’re spending too much time watching those trashy horror movies you like.”

  “Can’t you see it’s a joke?” said a woman in a pale chiffon evening dress and matching half mask.

  “Well, the joke’s gone on for long enough,” the man standing next to her observed, looking thoroughly put out. “Someone should go out and tell him to stop it. It’s really not funny. Not funny at all.”

  “Look at the way he’s hanging,” the man next to Libby cried. “Can’t any of you see? His neck is broken.”

  The woman called Betty put her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God. Jack is right,” she said as the two crows cawed again.

  Another one lit on the top of Darius’s head. Libby could have sworn the crow was holding something shiny in his beak, which it dropped on the ground. She heard someone else say something, but she couldn’t make out what it was, because suddenly she realized she was moving. She looked up to see that Bernie was in front of her. They elbowed their way through the people crowding around the French windows, exited the common room, and ran into the hallway and up the stairs.

  Bernie got to Darius’s door first. She tried it, but it was locked. “We need the key,” she yelled down to Libby.

  Libby turned and ran back down the stairs. As she was heading for the management office, she saw the maintenance man. “We need the key to two-G,” she cried. “Hurry!” she added. “It’s an emergency.”

  He nodded, turned, and ducked into the office. A moment later he was out, with a key in his hand.

  “Hurry!” Libby cried again as he came toward her.

  They both ran up the stairs. Bernie stepped aside as the maintenance man put the key in the lock and turned it. The door swung open, and the three of them rushed inside and headed toward the open window. Darius was hanging from a rope that had been looped around a hook sticking out of the upper window sash. As Bernie looked out, she could see four men lifting Darius’s body up to take the weight off his neck.

  “We need a knife,” she yelled to Libby.

  “Got one,” the maintenance man said. Bernie watched him take out a pocketknife from his front pocket and open it up. She moved aside, and he went over to the window and began to saw on the rope with the blade. She watched the strands untwist themselves. A minute later, he’d cut the rope, and the men below laid Darius’s body on the ground.

  Chapter 9

  Bernie took out her cell, punched in 911, and told the operator what had happened. After she got off, she said, “We should get them back inside,” referring to the guests converging on the spot where Darius lay. “They shouldn’t be out there. Our police chief will have a fit.”

  “I don’t think they’ll listen to us,” Libby replied as she watched the crows gather. The two birches in the garden were black with them. She shivered. “Those birds give me the creeps.”

  “Maybe they’re saying adios,” the maintenance man reflected. “After all, they did like him.”

  Bernie looked at him. It was an odd thing to say.

  The maintenance man explained. “He fed them. I told him not to, but he and Mrs. Randall, the old lady who lives across from him, kept doing it. Every day.
Regular as clockwork.” He shrugged. “Go figure. Me, I don’t like birds. Especially crows. They’re bad luck. I put baited food out for them, but after a couple died, they never came back.”

  “They’re supposed to be smart,” Bernie replied. She snapped her fingers. She remembered the envelope. “The envelope,” she said. “I need to get the envelope.”

  Libby gave her a blank look.

  “The envelope that Darius had me put in the safe,” Bernie explained. “The one I wasn’t supposed to open unless something happened to him.”

  “Oh yes,” Libby said. “How could I forget?”

  “Well, I think it’s safe to say something’s happened to him,” Bernie observed.

  “You should wait for the police,” Libby advised.

  “No,” Bernie answered. “I want to see what’s in that thing first.”

  “Why?” Libby asked.

  Bernie gave her a look. “Obviously, in case there’s anything in there we don’t want the cops to see.”

  “Like what, Bernie?”

  “I don’t know, Libby. That’s why I want to look. I’ll be back with it as soon as I can.”

  Then she was gone before Libby could say anything else.

  “What envelope?” the maintenance man asked.

  Libby shook her head. She was too tired to explain. One thing she did know, though. The chief of police was not going to be pleased when he got here and Bernie was gone. And Libby was right. He wasn’t.

  * * *

  Bernie returned to the Berkshire Arms three-quarters of an hour after she left. She parked the van in the lot, now crowded with police cars, an ambulance, and the CID vehicle, and trotted over to where her sister and Lucas Broadbent, the chief of police, were standing, waiting for her. She knew this because her sister had sent her three texts that read: Where are you? When will you get here? Lucy’s really pissed.

  A fog was rolling in, and wisps of mist floated above the ground. It made the air smell of dried leaves, haloed the lights inside the common room, made the grass slippery, and outlined the CID vehicle and the ambulance that was waiting to take Darius Witherspoon’s body away.

  Bernie paused for a moment and watched the four members of the CID unit working as the two ambulance drivers talked to each other and Darius Witherspoon’s guests watched the proceeding from the common room windows, having been corralled back in by the police, while they waited to give their statements to two patrolmen.

  “It’s about time,” Lucy, aka Lucas Broadbent, said to Bernie as she approached him. “I should have you arrested for leaving the scene of a crime.”

  “Do you want to see the envelope or not?” Bernie asked, ignoring his threat.

  Lucy stuck out his hand. “Show me.”

  Bernie handed him the envelope Darius had asked her to put in the safe, having already read the contents.

  “You opened it,” Lucy said.

  “Very perceptive,” Bernie said as she watched Lucy take out the note, read it, put the note back, and take out one of the bills. “A hundred-dollar bill,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Five thousand altogether,” Bernie told him. “I counted it.”

  Lucy grunted. “For you and your sister.”

  Bernie nodded. “So it would seem.”

  “Waste of good money, hiring you, if you ask me,” Lucy observed as he put the bill back in the envelope and returned it to Bernie.

  “That’s all you have to say?” Bernie asked him as she passed the envelope to her sister, who proceeded to study its contents.

  “What else do you want me to say?” Lucy asked her.

  “Something along the lines of . . . ‘Gee. I guess we’re looking at a homicide investigation instead of a—’”

  “Suicide,” Lucy said, interrupting. “Or a practical joke gone wrong.”

  Libby read the note Darius had written out loud. “ ‘Please take this money and find the people responsible for what happened.’” Then she said, “Sounds to me as if he knew someone wanted to kill him.”

  “Not to me,” Lucy snapped. “Maybe he was talking about something else entirely.”

  Bernie snorted. “Like what?”

  Lucy glared at her. “How the hell should I know? Maybe he’s asking you to make a year’s worth of meals for a friend of his. Did you see someone kill him?”

  “No,” Bernie admitted, “but something wasn’t kosher.” And she told Lucy about Darius’s behavior.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Lucy retorted.

  “How can you say that?” Bernie demanded.

  Lucy stuck out his belly, which only made it look bigger and his bald head smaller. “Hey, missy, for all I know, you or your sister could have written the note. I only have your word that Darius left this for you.” He pointed to the envelope. “The note is printed out. It’s unsigned.”

  Bernie felt her face flush. “Why would Libby or I do something like that?” she demanded, taking a step forward.

  Lucy shrugged. “For publicity. Bring people into your store. After all, whenever you have a case, you get more customers.... And your business has been going down.”

  “You’re nuts,” Bernie said.

  Lucy looked her up and down. “Am I?”

  “What about the five thousand dollars?” Libby demanded. “What about that?”

  “Maybe it’s yours,” Lucy said.

  “You really are . . . ,” Bernie began.

  Lucy smirked. “I’m what?”

  Don’t do it, Bernie warned herself. Don’t lose it. Don’t give him the pleasure. “Nothing,” Bernie told him. “Nothing at all.”

  Lucy pointed to himself. “Did you call me nothing?”

  “No. You called you nothing,” Bernie told him. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Lucy was searching around for a sufficiently cutting comment as Bernie watched a middle-aged man approaching. He was wearing a trench coat with its collar turned up and moved with the ease of someone accustomed to commanding.

  “How’s it going, Chief?” he asked Lucas.

  Lucas nodded. “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.”

  “You think you’ll have this cleaned up soon?” the man asked, his tone indicating that sooner would be much better than later.

  “We’re moving as fast as we can, Mr. Moran,” Lucy told him, looking at him, then looking away.

  The man who was Mr. Moran turned to Libby and Bernie and extended his hand. “William Moran.” He nodded toward the Berkshire Arms. “Developer of the property. And you are?”

  “Libby and Bernie Simmons,” Lucy answered for them. “They own a catering business called A Little Taste of Heaven.”

  “Ah,” Moran said, “the ones who are catering this unfortunate event.”

  Lucy nodded. “But they fancy themselves private detectives.”

  “And are they?” William Moran asked Lucy.

  “No,” Lucy growled. “What they are is a real thorn in my side.”

  William Moran turned and smiled at Libby and Bernie. It was a smile without warmth, Libby reflected. A professional smile deployed to buy time. “And what’s your take on this matter?” he asked the sisters.

  “We think Darius Witherspoon was murdered,” Libby said.

  Moran’s smile got colder. “That’s quite a statement.”

  Libby handed him Witherspoon’s note.

  “That could refer to anything,” Moran said, echoing Lucy’s statement after he’d read the note and handed it back.

  “We don’t think so,” Libby countered. “He left us five thousand dollars to investigate.”

  Moran buttoned his trench coat. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” he said, “but I’ve had some reports of . . . let’s say . . . some odd behavior on Mr. Witherspoon’s part, which suggests he was—I’m being polite here—having issues.”

  “What kind of issues?” Libby asked.

  “I believe he was becoming quite paranoid.”

  “Perhaps he was correct
in his assumptions,” Bernie observed. “Given what happened, I don’t think you can dismiss his note so easily.”

  Moran looked as if he could. “Well,” he said, “I’m certainly not the person to make that call, but I’m sure that our chief of police will conduct an investigation that takes in all the relevant factors.”

  Lucy nodded. “You can be certain of that.”

  “Right,” Bernie muttered.

  It began to drizzle.

  “I think it would be better if we concluded our business inside,” Moran suggested. “Perhaps in the media room?”

  Bernie nodded, and she and Libby followed Moran into the Berkshire Arms. She could hear people talking, but that stopped when Moran led her and her sister into the common room. Darius’s guests looked at the three of them as they went by, waiting for answers.

  Then, when they realized none were forthcoming, they went back to doing what they had been doing before. Everyone had removed their masks. They all looked ill at ease. They’d come for a party and ended up at a wake. As Bernie studied their faces, she wondered if Darius’s killer was among the group, if he or she was pretending to be shocked but was secretly rejoicing.

  Once they entered the media room, Moran closed the door, unbuttoned his coat, took it off, and carefully hung it on a coat tree in the far corner of the room. Then he said, “I have enough to deal with. I don’t need to entertain some ridiculous fantasy on your part. The man hanged himself. Take the money and go on a vacation. Or buy yourself new clothes. Or something. I don’t care what you do as long as you stay away from this property. Are we clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Libby said.

  “Excellent,” Moran said.

  “As soon as we go up on the roof,” Bernie said.

  “And you want to do this why?” Moran asked, his voice crackling with exasperation.

  “Because the killer might have escaped that way.”

  “There is no killer.”

  Bernie persisted. “If there was.”

  “He couldn’t have. If he’d opened the door to the roof, he would have set off the alarm. Which you would have heard, because it’s very, very loud.”

  Bernie raised an eyebrow.