A Catered Costume Party

by Isis Crawford

  “It has to be. For insurance purposes,” Moran explained. “Now, I think we’re done here.”

  “We’re going,” Bernie said. “But before we do, would you mind telling me where you were when Darius was killed?”

  “Yes, I do mind telling you, because it’s none of your damned business.” Moran glared at them and pointed to the door. “So are you going, or am I calling Chief Broadbent?”

  “Leaving,” Libby said, and she grabbed Bernie’s arm and pulled her out the door.

  Chapter 10

  It was ten thirty at night by the time Sean came home from Michelle’s place. He was surprised to find his daughters sitting on the sofa, sipping tea, eating the few leftover cookies that remained from the day’s sales, and watching a rerun of Project Runway. He’d expected them back somewhere after twelve.

  “Anything happen?” he asked as Cindy the cat leaped off the sofa and began to weave herself around Sean’s legs.

  “You could say that,” Bernie answered.

  Sean grabbed a ghost cookie off the platter and sat down, at which point Cindy jumped in his lap, circled around three times, and plopped herself down.

  “Are you going to tell me?” he asked after a minute had gone by and neither Bernie nor Libby had spoken.

  After another minute of silence, Bernie told him about the evening’s events. Then, when she was done speaking, she handed him the envelope Darius Witherspoon had asked her to put in their safe.

  Sean raised his eyebrows as he read the note and examined the contents of the envelope. “Interesting,” he said. Cindy meowed, and he scratched behind her ears and watched her tail flick back and forth as he tried to reconcile what Darius Witherspoon had done and the note he’d left.

  “Isn’t it, though?” Bernie commented before she took a sip of her ginger tea. Her stomach was acting up. Probably due to the stress of the evening, she reckoned.

  “I wish I could have seen the crime scene,” Sean said, thinking out loud. “It would give me a better sense of things.” But the moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Anything having to do with Michelle and her shop was a minefield in which Sean had no desire to step.

  “So how was Michelle’s shop?” Libby inquired in a steely tone. “Busy?”

  “It was okay,” Sean said, which was the most innocuous comment he could think of to make. Then Sean read Darius Witherspoon’s note again and carefully put it on the table. “And you’re telling me the property developer was there?” he inquired, changing the subject.

  Bernie nodded. “He definitely wants this to be a suicide.”

  “I bet he does,” Sean said. “Given the reputation of that place, the amount of money he’s supposed to have invested, and the fact that it’s still half empty, I’m sure a suicide would be preferable to a murder.”

  “A view Lucy seems to share,” Libby said.

  Sean bit the head off his cookie. “He always was politically astute.”

  “Which is why he’s the chief of police and you’re not anymore,” Libby observed.

  “Exactly,” Sean said, remembering the case that had made him resign, a course of action he still didn’t regret.

  “So what do you think, Dad?” Bernie asked when Sean had finished speaking. “Do you think Darius killed himself, or was he murdered?”

  Sean considered his answer as he watched the light in the jack-o’-lantern in the window across the street flicker on and off. Finally, he said, “Although I don’t usually side with Lucy, I can see his point this time. From what you tell me, everyone saw Darius hang himself. That’s fifty eyewitnesses.”

  Libby corrected him. “Fifty-three.”

  “That makes it hard to call it a murder.”

  “He could have had help going out the window,” Libby suggested.

  “Maybe,” Sean agreed. “But that’s a long shot.”

  “He could have, though,” Libby insisted.

  “Yes, he could have,” Sean agreed. “But let’s not forget that Witherspoon was under a great deal of stress. One could posit that Darius couldn’t deal with his wife’s disappearance, that he figured her for dead, which, in my experience, is how most of these cases play out. And unable to face a future without her, he killed himself in a fit of grief.”

  Bernie leaned forward and pointed to the note. “How can you ignore this letter? Someone who is going to kill themselves doesn’t leave you five thousand dollars and a letter asking you to investigate their death. Obviously, he thought someone was after him.”

  “You’d be surprised. People do strange things in times of stress,” Sean observed. “And I should know. They change their minds all the time, and Darius was nothing if not stressed. Maybe Moran was right. Maybe Darius was going around the bend. Maybe he thought someone was after him. After all, his wife had disappeared out of the blue. That has to be unsettling. Maybe he left you the note in some paranoid fit, then had a change of heart.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Bernie said. But was it? she wondered, thinking back to Darius’s demeanor the last time she’d seen him. She thought he’d seemed nervous, scared even.

  Sean brushed the crumbs off his plaid shirt, a shirt that Michelle detested but he loved, leaned over, and picked up another cookie. He bit into it and sighed with pleasure. God, he was glad that his daughters hadn’t jumped on the “sugar is evil” bandwagon or gone into making kale-quinoa muffins, the way Michelle had. He’d managed to choke one down out of politeness, but that was as far as he was willing to go.

  “I get what you’re saying,” he said after he’d swallowed. “But then tell me this. Why didn’t Darius name someone in his note? He must have had an idea of who was after him.”

  “Obviously, he didn’t, or he would have,” Bernie answered.

  “Okay. Fair enough. Let’s assume you’re right about that. But here’s the other thing,” Sean continued. “Where did the murderer hide? How did he get away? Precisely,” he said when neither Libby nor Bernie replied. “From what you’re telling me, the door to Witherspoon’s apartment was locked, the door to the roof was alarmed, and since there is only one staircase, you would have seen anyone going down the stairs as you ran up. So tell me where your unsub was? You can’t. At best, I think Darius Witherspoon’s death was the result of a practical joke gone catastrophically wrong, and at worst, it was suicide.”

  Bernie took another sip of her tea and watched the rain hitting the windowpane. Then she looked at the note again and remembered Darius’s insistence on her taking the envelope and his relief when she did. Even though she hadn’t explicitly promised, she couldn’t not do something. “I don’t know about Libby, but I’m going to do a bit of poking around.”

  “Why?” Sean asked.

  “Because something’s not right about the whole setup,” his younger daughter answered.

  Sean turned to Libby. “How about you?”

  “I’m in, too. After all, he left us the money to do it. We should follow through.”

  Sean shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I’d be surprised if you found anything.”

  “We have to go back to the Berkshire Arms tomorrow, anyway,” Libby said. “We have to collect our stuff, since Lucy wouldn’t let us take it when we left tonight.”

  Bernie finished her tea. “We might as well ask some questions as long as we’re there.” She looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost midnight. Time to go to bed, since they had to be up tomorrow at five to bake. Halloween was one of their busier days.

  Chapter 11

  But Bernie didn’t go to sleep. She couldn’t. She tried, but after tossing and turning, she got up, went downstairs to the shop, and got herself a big bowl of the pumpkin ice cream she’d made the day before, went back upstairs, fetched her laptop, sat down on the sofa, went online, and began to research Darius Witherspoon. Maybe something she found out online would nudge her in the right direction investigation-wise. A moment later Cindy joined her, and after some plaintive mewing, Bernie conceded
defeat and got up, went downstairs, got a tiny bowl, and came back up.

  “Here,” she said to Cindy as she put three tablespoons of her ice cream in the blue-and-white bowl with a picture of a fish on it and put the bowl on the coffee table. “Satisfied?”

  Cindy leaped on the table and began to eat. Her purring filled the room.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Bernie said, getting back to her digging.

  She didn’t find as much as she hoped for, but after an hour she knew more about Darius Witherspoon than she had when she started. She was just about to go back to bed when Libby stumbled out of her bedroom on the way to the bathroom.

  “What are you doing?” she asked when she saw Bernie sitting on the sofa.

  “Research.”

  “Researching what?”

  “Researching Darius Witherspoon.”

  “Ah.” It was true they didn’t know much about him, Libby reflected as she sat down next to Bernie. It wasn’t as if they’d asked him for his bona fides when he’d hired them. Cindy crawled up on her lap and began to purr. “I don’t suppose there’s any more ice cream left?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “I didn’t need it, anyway,” Libby said. Although she would have liked some.

  She briefly thought about going downstairs and eating the last slice of the pumpkin cheesecake with the gingersnap crust left in the cooler, but then she thought about how tight the waistband on her jeans felt the last time she’d put them on, and decided against it. She knew she’d gained some weight. She just didn’t want to get on the scale and find out how much. It was too depressing. Why was it so easy to gain and so hard to lose? That was what she wanted to know.

  “So what did you find out about our client?” she asked Bernie instead.

  Bernie told her. “Darius Witherspoon is . . . was . . . fifty-seven years old. He was born in Norwich, Connecticut, went to the public schools there, and then went on to Buffalo State for college, where he got a degree in art conservation. He got married to his wife, Penelope, in nineteen eighty-six. She’s a Monroe.”

  Libby looked at Bernie. “Meaning?”

  “The Monroes are a very wealthy family. They’re on the list of the top one hundred richest families in America.”

  “Nice,” Libby remarked. “But just because her family has money doesn’t mean that she does.”

  “Oh no, she does.” Bernie rubbed her eyes. “I found an article on Page Six of the New York Post that talks about the inheritance she received from her aunt Polly.”

  “We could use one of those,” Libby remarked.

  “It would be nice,” Bernie agreed.

  Libby waved her hand in the air. “Never mind. I wonder where Darius and Penelope met,” she said as she looked longingly at Bernie’s ice cream.

  “Here,” Bernie said, pushing the bowl over to her sister. “Take it.”

  “You’re sure?” Libby asked.

  “I’m positive,” Bernie said. “I don’t want the rest, anyway.”

  Libby sighed with pleasure as she took a spoonful. There really wasn’t that much left. A half a cup at most. Which wasn’t enough to make her gain weight. At least that was what she was telling herself.

  “I think Darius and Penelope met at the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Bernie continued while Libby polished off the rest of the ice cream. “He was working there at the same time she had an internship. At that point he was living on the Lower East Side, while she was living on Sutton Place. Then, after the wedding, they moved into a co-op on Park Avenue.”

  “Not bad,” Libby allowed.

  “Not at all,” Bernie agreed. “I’m guessing they didn’t buy the co-op with his money. Then, nine months later, Darius opened up the Caldwell Gallery on Madison Avenue. That was probably with Penelope’s money, too.”

  Libby licked the spoon. Maybe, she thought, they could make pumpkin ice cream cakes for Thanksgiving, along with the usual pies. “That must have set her back a fair chunk of change,” she observed.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. However, there was a partner involved.” Bernie looked up from her laptop. “But I’m willing to bet that even with that, Penelope did part with a lot of cash, but I suppose if you’re swimming in money, it wouldn’t matter. But get this.” Bernie elbowed Libby in the ribs. “You know who Darius’s partner is?”

  “The Loch Ness monster?”

  “Septimus Peabody.”

  “Who would name their kid that? It sounds like a disease. ‘He’s got a bad case of Septimus. We have to operate.’”

  “I’m talking about the last name, Libby.”

  Libby sat up straighter. “What are the chances?”

  “Agreed. But wouldn’t it be something if this Peabody is related to the person who founded the Peabody School?”

  “It certainly would be,” Libby said, leaning back and putting her feet up on the coffee table.

  Both she and her sister paused to think about what a strange place the world could be. A moment later, Bernie picked up her narrative.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “the gallery deals in antiquities.” She stifled a yawn. She was beginning to crash.

  “All this is great,” Libby said. “But it would be nice if we had the guest list for the party,” she observed.

  “It would be very nice,” Bernie agreed. “But we don’t.”

  “What do you think our chances are of getting it?”

  “Slim to none. Lucy isn’t going to give it to us. . . .”

  “I’d say that’s a good bet.”

  “And Clyde is off visiting his new grandson in L.A. and then is attending some conference about community policing in Hawaii with the wife.”

  “Too bad,” Libby remarked. She yawned, too. “Because the person who killed Darius was probably at his party.”

  “It gives lie to the saying ‘Hold your friends close and your enemies closer,’ doesn’t it?” Bernie asked as she closed her laptop. It was time to go to bed. “Even if we did get the guest list,” she went on, “we couldn’t vet all the guests. We don’t have that kind of time.”

  “True,” Libby said. “Which is why we have to be smarter than the average bear.”

  Chapter 12

  Libby yawned again, took another sip of her coffee, and wished she were back in bed instead of in the van. It was only eleven in the morning, but it felt like ten at night. God, she needed a nap. She hadn’t slept well once she’d gone back to bed. Every time she’d drifted off, she’d seen a crow with something in its beak, sitting on the chair next to her. She’d screamed as it spread its wings and flew straight at her, and she’d woken up with her heart pounding.

  She could still see the crow. Shiny black coat. Sharp curved beak. Beady eyes. Hopping around. As if it was looking for something. She thought it was the crow that had been perched on Darius Witherspoon’s head.

  “Are you all right?” Bernie asked her sister as she stopped for a red light.

  “Just tired,” Libby said, closing her eyes for a moment. She didn’t want to talk about her dream. She could hear the honking of geese flying overhead. They’d been leaving for the past week. A harbinger of winter. Why couldn’t the crows go south, as well? she wondered as she opened her eyes and took another sip of her coffee. It wasn’t helping.

  A minute later, Libby and Bernie entered the road that led up to the Berkshire Arms. A ground-level fog had descended overnight, shrouding the trees’ low-hanging branches in a mist and making it difficult to see the road. The skeletons dangling from the trees seemed to be welcoming them, their eyeless sockets following them as they went by.

  “I wish they’d take those things down,” Libby said, repressing a shiver.

  Bernie didn’t reply. She was hunched over the wheel, eyes squinting as she tried to make out the road.

  As they got farther up the hill, Libby could hear the crows. Their din filled the air. There must be hundreds in the trees around the Berkshire Arms, she thought. She shivered again. She knew they shouldn’t b
other her, but she couldn’t get last night’s dream out of her head.

  Three minutes later, Bernie was relieved to be off the road and in the parking lot of the Berkshire Arms. She parked as close to the common room as she could get, grabbed her coffee, and got out of the van. The mist on the ground curled around her legs, shrouded the grass, and caressed the yellow crime-scene tape as if the tape were an old friend come calling.

  Bernie studied the crime-scene tape, then turned her eyes to the window Darius had gone out of. She still found what had happened hard to believe. After a minute, she stepped over the tape and walked to where Darius had lain. Libby followed behind her. The grass was trampled down in all directions. Bernie squatted down to get a better look.

  “What do you think you’re going to find?” Libby asked, standing right behind her.

  Bernie shrugged. “I don’t know,” she confessed as she kept looking.

  A moment later Libby joined her. The grass was damp, and some leaves were strewn across it. Libby was just thinking about how she used to collect leaves in the fall and make designs with them when she noticed something glinting in the grass.

  “Look,” Libby said, picking it up. “I think this is what the crow dropped next to Darius.”

  Bernie took the silver disk and rubbed it with her finger. “It looks like a coin to me. Or maybe it’s some sort of game piece,” she said, handing it back to Libby, who put it in her pants pocket, thinking she’d look at it later.

  “What do you think it means?” Libby asked.

  “I have no idea,” Bernie told her, getting up. She picked a piece of grass off the bottom of her black silk parachute pants and went inside.

  She and her sister went directly into the common room. Everything was exactly as they had left it last night. The food was still in the chafing dishes, plates and glasses were piled up on every available surface, while the food that had been dropped when people saw what was happening was congealed on the floor.

  “What a mess,” Libby said, thinking about how much time it was going to take to clean and pack up. She sighed.

  Bernie was about to say that she figured it was going to take them at least two hours, probably more like three, when the maintenance man who had been working last night came into the common room.