“He’s that upset?” Libby said.
“He’s upset. The chief of police is upset,” Manny told her.
“Why the chief of police?” Bernie asked.
Manny gave her a “Don’t you know anything?” look. “He’s an investor.”
“Ah,” Bernie said. Now she understood why Lucy was pressing to arrest them. An arrest would put the story to bed—at least for a while.
Libby took a sip of her beer and made a face. It was like drinking dishwater. “How did Moran and Darius Witherspoon get along?” she asked.
Manny killed his beer and ate another peanut. “They didn’t. Moran was on Mr. Witherspoon about feeding the crows. . . .”
“Why would Moran care about that?” Libby asked.
Manny held up two fingers. “Noise and poop. And then Witherspoon was always walking around the grounds, muttering to himself and stopping and staring off into space. It gave everyone the creeps.” He paused. “So,” he said, changing the subject, “are you two going to tell me why you’re here? It certainly can’t be for the lovely atmosphere.”
“Hey, watch what you’re saying,” the barkeep growled as he slammed a new bowl filled with peanuts down on the bar.
“I didn’t realize you were such a delicate flower,” Manny replied.
The bartender glared at Manny, and Manny glared back at him. But then the moment passed, and the bartender turned and walked back to the other end of the bar.
“We have a question we were hoping you could answer,” Bernie said as she picked up the peanuts that had spilled on the bar and made a little pile of them next to her beer. “There was a couple that came out of the building when we were going in. Do you know who they are?”
“That was Darius Witherspoon’s partner,” Manny said.
“And the lady?” Libby asked.
Manny shook his head. “No idea.”
Bernie leaned forward. “What did he want?”
“He said Mr. Witherspoon had left a package for him, but when I looked and told him it wasn’t there, he apologized and told me that he’d forgotten that Witherspoon had said he’d leave it for him in his house.” Manny shook his head. “But I don’t know. . . .”
Libby reached over and took a peanut. “You don’t know what?” she asked.
“I had the idea that he was fishing, that he didn’t know where the package was.”
“Why do you say that?” Bernie asked.
Manny shrugged. “Just the way he and the woman he was with looked at each other.” He spread his fingers out. “It was kind of a knowing glance. You think they had anything to do with what happened to Mr. Witherspoon?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Bernie said. “But I’d certainly like to ask them.”
“I think I saw them milling around the ballroom after . . . you know. . . .”
“Darius’s death?” Bernie asked.
Manny nodded. “But it’s hard to be sure, given . . . everything.”
“I understand,” Libby said. When she thought about that evening, disconnected scenes flashed through her mind.
Manny didn’t reply. He was looking over Bernie’s and Libby’s shoulders.
Bernie and Libby turned to see what he was looking at. A man was standing in the doorway. Bernie put him in his thirties, medium height, medium weight. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, a polar fleece, and a baseball cap. Mr. Average.
“My cousin,” Manny explained as the man came toward them.
Manny’s cousin put out his hand and introduced himself. “Hi. I’m Eduardo Rico-Perez. Manny’s first cousin.”
“Nice to meet you,” Libby and Bernie said together. Then they shook hands, after which they excused themselves, got up, and left. It had been a long night, and they were anxious to get home, take hot showers, and get to bed.
Chapter 33
Three days later, Bernie and Libby drove into Manhattan. They’d planned on going in two days earlier, but that hadn’t happened, because Amber had been out sick with a sinus infection and the sisters had had to cover. Now Amber was back, and they were taking off at two o’clock, right after the shop’s lunch rush was over. Bernie was dressed in her vintage Pucci dress, stilettos, and a purple leather moto jacket, while Libby was decked out in a plain black knit sheath, her mother’s pearls, and two-inch black heels.
“I feel like Mom,” Libby complained as she fussed with the French knot her sister had put her hair into.
“That’s the whole idea,” Bernie told her, briefly taking her eyes off the car in front of her to look at Libby. She’d done well outfitting her sister, if she had to say so herself. She looked . . . What was the term her mother used? Well bred. Although, Bernie had always thought that adjective applied to horses.
“How is this going to help us?” Libby asked. Like her father, she hadn’t inquired into how Bernie was going to get them into Darius Witherspoon’s apartment, because she didn’t want to know. She’d come to realize it was better that way. Less stressful. Fewer arguments.
“It’s all in how you look. That’s the key,” Bernie remarked cryptically as the car in back of her honked. “I’m going. I’m going,” she yelled at the driver as she sped down Second Avenue. But she was smiling as she yelled. She didn’t mind the traffic. She enjoyed jockeying for position with the cabbies. Even better, it was one of those magical fall days in New York City, when the air was crisp, but not cold, and the whole world was out and about.
Originally, Bernie and Libby had planned to go to Darius’s gallery first and then to his apartment, but the gallery didn’t open until four today—at least that was what the message on the phone had said when Libby had called—so they’d decided to reverse their order of business.
“Maybe we could have an early dinner at Esther’s if we have time,” Bernie suggested, braking as a taxi cut her off. “Hey, watch what you’re doing!” she screamed.
“If the line isn’t too long,” Libby said, looking at the shop windows. Esther’s was a new kosher Italian restaurant that was supposed to serve fantastic pizza. Usually, the line was out the door, with a minimum of a forty-five-minute wait, although today it might be kind of fun to stand in line and people watch.
Bernie nodded and looked at her watch. So far they were making good time. Coming down from Longely had taken half an hour, and the traffic was moving in the city. When she got to Seventy-Fourth Street, she turned in and started looking for a parking space. Ten minutes later, she found one between Madison and Park Avenues.
“This is starting well,” Bernie said to Libby as she got out of the van and stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Let’s just hope it continues that way,” Libby observed darkly as she watched Bernie walk over to the parking station.
“Ah, always the optimist,” Bernie noted as she paid. “I figure an hour at the most.”
Libby nodded absentmindedly. She went back to studying the three-hundred-year-old antique rug hanging in the window of a shop located on the ground floor of a five-story brownstone. “I wouldn’t mind having one of those,” she mused.
“When we win the lottery,” Bernie said.
“I can’t imagine putting something like that on the floor.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to be your problem,” Bernie retorted, and she started walking. Three minutes later she and her sister had arrived at their destination, 800 Park Avenue. The entrance to the building was on Park Avenue and the doorman, decked out in his uniform, was standing under the green canopy, looking very official.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a thick Irish brogue as the sisters approached him.
Libby stepped back and watched Bernie give the doorman her most charming smile. “Possibly.”
The doorman, a man Bernie judged to be in his mid-twenties, waited for Bernie to continue speaking.
“I know this is a little irregular,” she confided, lowering her voice so the doorman was forced to lean forward to hear her. “I hope you won’t think badly of me when you hear what I have to sa
y.”
“Now, how could I ever think that of a lassie as attractive as you are?” he asked, smiling.
“Thank you,” Bernie said, taking a step closer. “That’s very sweet of you.” She waited for a fire truck on Park Avenue, siren blaring, to pass by. “You see,” Bernie explained, “my sister is about to get married.” She pointed at Libby. The doorman nodded encouragingly. “And she needs to find a place to live for her and her hubby, a place that her mother-in-law will deem acceptable.” Bernie rolled her eyes. “Only certain buildings will do. She’s very picky.”
“Ach. Aren’t they all?” the doorman replied, thinking of his mother-in-law-to-be.
“Well, a family friend told us about what happened to poor Mr. Witherspoon,” Bernie went on.
The doorman shook his head. “Terrible. Terrible, that was. A real tragedy. Such a nice man, too.”
“Yes, it was. He must have been so in love with his wife to not be able to live without her.” The newspapers had reported Darius’s death as a suicide, although Bernie had a feeling that was going to change soon.
“He must have been in love to risk his immortal soul.” The doorman shook his head at Darius’s folly. “And Mrs. Witherspoon, poor thing,” the doorman solemnly intoned. “What a horrible way to go.” Word of her death had made the news yesterday afternoon. “Who knows where she was all this time?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Bernie said.
“Maybe she got a knock on the noggin that took her memory clean away,” the doorman posited. “If only Mr. Witherspoon had waited. Maybe if God is merciful, they’ll be reunited in heaven for all eternity.”
“Amen to that,” Bernie replied, trying for sincere. “I only hope I can find someone I love that much someday,” she said.
The doorman sighed. “True love is a wonderful thing, t’isnt it?”
Bernie nodded. “Indeed, it is.” She paused for a moment to give them both time to contemplate true love with a capital T and a capital L before continuing. “I know it’s early, but my sister was wondering . . .”
“If you could have a peek at their apartment?” the doorman asked, finishing Bernie’s sentence for her. This wasn’t the first request like this he’d had since he’d taken the job last year, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last.
“Exactly so,” Bernie said. “Just a quick one. What, with the occupancy rate in the city being so high these days, finding a place to live has become quite the ordeal.”
“Ninety-eight percent,” the doorman replied.
Bernie shot him a look.
“I take a wee peek at the Wall Street Journal before delivering it,” he explained. “It helps when talking to the owners.”
Bernie understood. She kept up with all of Longely’s local news for that reason. She nodded in her sister’s direction. “She’s already been outbid twice. The whole thing is becoming such a nightmare. And she’s a little on the shy side.”
“Indeed, apartments are going like that.” The doorman snapped his fingers.
“And this is such a good building,” Bernie said.
“Ay. That it is. One of the best,” the doorman said. “Not many like it left.”
“So I was wondering if you could let us up to take a quick look-see. We won’t be that long.”
The doorman put his hand to his chest. “It would be my job if anyone found out.”
“No one will,” Bernie assured him.
“But what if one of the co-op board members wants to come in and take a walk-through? Or an agent? What do I say then?”
“Do you have a cell phone?” Bernie asked.
“What kind of a question is that?” the doorman asked indignantly.
“I’ll give you my number and one hundred—”
“Two hundred . . .”
“Fine. Two hundred dollars. Just call and we’ll be out the back door in an instant.” Bernie raised her hand. “I promise. Please. We’ve driven all the way down from Westchester.”
The doorman thought for a minute. “Ach. What’s the harm? I’d hate to disappoint two pretty ladies.”
Bernie thanked him, sent him her phone number, then reached in her pocket, palmed four fifty-dollar bills that she’d taken out of the register, and put them in the doorman’s hand. He briefly glanced at them before depositing the money in his coat pocket. He opened the door and held it for Bernie and Libby.
“Fritz,” he called out to the man standing by the elevator, “will you please show these young ladies apartment 2C? They need to get something out of there.” And he winked at Bernie and Libby.
“Not a problem. It will be my pleasure.” Fritz went to a box located in the side hall, opened the door, removed a key, and returned to the elevator. “This way, ladies,” Fritz said, giving a little bow as he stepped inside. When Libby and Bernie got in, he closed the gate with a flourish, and they took off. Bernie spent the short ride studying her reflection in the mirror mounted on the back wall and looking at the leather bench sitting in front of the mirror.
When they arrived at the second floor, Fritz stopped the elevator, opened the gate, and got out. “Here we go,” he said as he opened the door to 2C. “Just ring if you want anything,” he instructed as a bell inside the elevator started going off. A minute later, Fritz was gone, and Libby and Bernie were standing in the entranceway to the Witherspoons’ apartment.
Chapter 34
The apartment was one of two on the floor. The entrance hall walls were covered with light green flocked wallpaper, a large mirror encased in a silver frame hung on the wall facing the elevator, and each apartment had a receptacle for umbrellas sitting by its respective door. Other than that, apart from two large etchings of Roman ruins on the walls, the area was bare. The sisters quickly stepped inside the apartment. The place smelled stale, the way places did when no one had been in them for a while.
“How much did you give the doorman?” Libby asked as Bernie closed the door behind them.
“Two hundred,” Bernie said.
“Nothing like overpaying,” Libby observed.
“It’s Witherspoon’s money,” Bernie reminded her. “You know what they say. Easy come, easy go.”
“I think in this case it’s easy go,” Libby said, pointing to the open drawers of the chest that stood in the middle of the hallway and the opened closet door and the coats lying on the floor. “I think it’s fair to say someone has been here before us.”
Bernie sighed. “Indeed it is. I’m putting my money on Darius’s partner.”
“Me too.” Libby stepped out of her shoes and wiggled her toes. Ah, sweet relief. Her feet were killing her, and she’d walked what? Maybe five blocks. How Bernie could wear the heels she did was beyond her. “After all,” she continued, “he was asking Manny for a package at the Berkshire Arms. So maybe he came here first, and when he couldn’t find what he was looking for, he went up to the Berkshire Arms and asked, hoping it would be there.”
“Or,” Bernie said, a new idea having occurred to her, “maybe Darius’s wife was doing the looking. We don’t know what she was doing during the time she was missing. After all, she’d been missing for a while, and I presume she had a key, so getting in here wouldn’t be a problem.”
“But then one of the doormen would have seen her,” Libby protested.
“Maybe one did,” Bernie told her as she looked around. “Maybe he chose not to say anything. Maybe Penelope paid him not to say anything. Maybe she went in the back way at night and used the service elevator. Usually, the delivery entrance is locked after nine o’clock because no one is on duty in buildings like these. You can’t get in unless you’re a resident.”
“But the doorman would have seen Darius’s partner come up,” Libby pointed out.
“Assuming he didn’t have a key, most definitely.”
“Maybe they’ve both been up here.”
Bernie nodded. “Along with God knows who else.” She decided she had a few more questions to ask the doorman when they went
back downstairs. She had a feeling he hadn’t been as forthcoming as he might have been.
Libby bit at her cuticle. “The bigger question, though, one that the doorman won’t be able to answer, is, what was in the package?”
“If there was a package.”
“Why wouldn’t there be a package?”
Bernie shrugged. “There probably was.”
Libby gestured toward the mess in the hallway. “Because someone was obviously looking for something. But did they find it? That’s the question.”
“Since we don’t know what whoever it was, was looking for, we don’t know.”
“We know whoever it was, was looking for a package.”
“Not really.”
“Of course we do,” Libby said indignantly. “Let’s not make things even more complicated than they already are.”
Bernie held up her hand. “I’m not. We’re assuming they’re looking for a package on the basis of what Manny said, but whoever was up here could have been looking for something else.”
Libby rubbed her forehead. She was getting a headache. “Like the answer to world peace?”
“You know what Dad says.”
“I know,” Libby answered, repeating her dad’s mantra with Bernie. “Never assume. Assuming makes an ass out of you and me.”
They both looked at each other and laughed.
“We have no idea what we’re looking for, do we?” Libby said.
“No. None,” Bernie replied as she retied her dress. She’d forgotten why she didn’t wear the dress a lot. It always came loose.
“So how are we going to know if we find it?” Libby asked.
Bernie shrugged. “We might not.”
“Nice to know we’re on top of the situation,” Libby observed.
“I think so, too,” Bernie replied, turning toward the hall closet. It was as good a place to start as any.
Chapter 35
Bernie and Libby went through the closet. They picked up the coats, went through their pockets in case there was something of interest in them, then dropped them back on the floor. One thing was undeniable, Bernie decided: The Witherspoons owned a lot of outer garments. Especially Penelope. Bernie counted three mink coats, two Burberry trench coats, and a couple of expensive ski parkas, not to mention seven leather jackets and a variety of in-between coats of one kind or another, as well as a multitude of high-end scarves and boots.
A Catered Costume Party Page 16