A Catered Costume Party

by Isis Crawford

  “Is that what Astrid was talking about?” Libby asked.

  Septimus nodded. “You might think I’m ridiculous, but I didn’t want that kind of stuff around the gallery. I felt it brought bad luck. And I was right. Look what happened to Darius and Penelope.”

  “So where did Darius keep this stuff?” Libby asked. She hadn’t seen anything like that in his apartment.

  “To my knowledge, he’d sold off all his inventory and was concentrating on his next big thing—whatever that was. At least, that’s what I heard, but I’m not sure whether it’s true or not.”

  “So there’d be nothing that anyone would want in his house?” Bernie asked.

  Septimus shrugged. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. We each kept track of our own inventory.”

  Bernie nodded. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I guess the neighbor was wrong.”

  Septimus cocked his head. It made him look like a robin, Bernie decided. There definitely was something birdish about him.

  “Darius’s next-door neighbor,” Bernie explained. No reason, she decided, to get Flynn in trouble. They might need him again soon. “She thought she saw you getting off the elevator and going into your partner’s apartment right before Penelope went missing.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?” Septimus inquired in a tone that seemed more amused than angry.

  “Not at all,” Bernie replied, even though she was implying it.

  Septimus nodded. “Good. It’s true I have been in there from time to time,” he told Bernie. “But not recently. This neighbor of yours must have gotten her dates mixed up.” He ran a finger around the edge of the water bottle. Bernie noticed that he had freakishly big hands for his size, hands that looked as if they were made to chop down trees, not wield small brushes. “Now, let me ask you and your sister a question,” Septimus continued. “Why are you really here?” When Libby started to explain, he added, “And don’t bother to tell me the story about the missing package again, because it makes no sense.”

  “I thought it was rather good on short notice,” Bernie answered.

  “Well, it wasn’t,” Septimus told her.

  Bernie and Libby exchanged glances.

  “Go ahead,” Libby told Bernie. “You might as well tell him.”

  “Actually,” Bernie said, “we heard you and Astrid were looking for a package that Darius had supposedly left you.”

  “So?”

  “So we were wondering what was in it.”

  “First of all, we weren’t, and even if we were, it’s none of your business.”

  “Suit yourself.” Bernie leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what is my business. You and Astrid were at the Berkshire Arms the nights that the Witherspoons were killed.”

  Septimus raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you using the wrong word?”

  “No, my sister is not,” Libby replied. “And we think you might have had something to do with it.”

  “Really?” Septimus chuckled. “I’ve never heard anything sillier in my life.”

  Chapter 41

  Bernie adjusted her dress, sat back in her chair, and studied Septimus. This wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. Or hoped for. “I’m glad you find it funny.”

  “I don’t find your accusations funny. I find them ludicrous,” Septimus said.

  “And why is that, pray tell?” Bernie asked.

  “Because according to the news, while Penelope’s death was a homicide, Darius committed suicide.”

  “We don’t think it was,” Libby replied.

  “Because?” Septimus inquired.

  “Because Darius asked us to look into his death,” Libby told him.

  Septimus knit his brows together. “Funny, but you and your sister don’t strike me as the type of people who attend séances.”

  Bernie sneezed. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with a cold, especially since she and Libby were entering their busiest time of the year. “We’re not.”

  “Then how could my erstwhile partner have asked you to look into his death when he’s already dead? Unless, of course, he did a Lazarus and rose from the grave.”

  “Not quite,” Libby told Septimus. “I guess I wasn’t clear enough.”

  “I guess you weren’t,” Septimus said.

  “Darius left us an envelope to be opened in the event of his death.”

  “How very Agatha Christie of him,” Septimus sniped.

  Libby ignored him and continued on. “After he died, my sister opened it, per his request. She found five thousand dollars and a typed note asking us to investigate his demise. In other words, he saw what happened coming.”

  “So you say,” Septimus said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Indeed I do,” Libby replied.

  Septimus shook his head and studied his water bottle for a moment. “Ah. Leave it to my partner to cause trouble even when he’s dead,” he muttered to himself. Then he looked up. “But I still don’t understand what there is to investigate. He killed himself.”

  “His note said he expected to be murdered,” Bernie said.

  “Murdered? Don’t be ridiculous,” Septimus scoffed. Then he went off on a rant. “He killed himself. I saw it, God help me. I only wish I could unsee it, and I’m sure that everyone who was there feels the same way I do. I mean, why he couldn’t have had the decency to go off in the woods and shoot himself is beyond me. That would have been the right thing to do. But, of course, Darius wouldn’t do that. Of course, he had to kill himself in a way that caused the maximum amount of trouble to his nearest and dearest, which is the way . . . was the way . . . he usually did things. No. I think he gathered everyone together so he could have an audience. So he could have his fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “It’s hard to enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame when you’re dead,” Libby observed.

  “Some people have more of a sense of history than others,” Septimus replied.

  “Be that as it may,” Libby shot back, “given what you said, I’m surprised he invited you to his party and even more surprised that you accepted his invitation and brought Astrid along.”

  “It’s important to keep up a facade,” Septimus told her. “Anyway, I really came to see what Moran had done with the building.”

  “Are you by chance related to the Peabody who founded the Peabody School?” Libby asked. The possibility had intrigued her when she’d first thought of it.

  “Very distantly. My mom said he was a shirttail relative.”

  “Did you go to school there?”

  Septimus shook his head. “Good Lord, no. There was always . . . strange stuff happening there. Or maybe I just thought that because I was young. But I always thought the place was creepy. I think Moran did an excellent job rehabbing it.” He took another drink of water. “So you two really don’t think Darius committed suicide?” he asked, changing the subject back to his partner.

  “No, we don’t,” Bernie answered. “My sister and I,” Bernie said, pointing to Libby and herself, “think he had help hanging himself.”

  Septimus snorted. “The police declared Darius’s death a suicide.”

  “The presence of Darius’s note seems to indicate otherwise,” Bernie said blandly.

  “Of course it would. You have no idea who you’re dealing with. None.”

  “Then why don’t you tell us?” Libby said.

  Septimus checked the time on his watch, then looked back up at Bernie and Libby. “Indeed, I shall, because I don’t want you or your sister under any illusions.” He cleared his throat. “Hanging himself the way he did has all the earmarks of something Darius would do. He was all drama, all the time. He never had any regard for how other people fit into the equation. That’s probably why Penelope ran off the way she did, poor thing. She couldn’t take it anymore. She was thinking of getting a divorce from Darius, and I was advising her about the business aspect of things.”

  “Such as?” Bernie asked.

  “She was a partner in Caldwell—act
ually, she had put up the capital—and I was trying to convince her to remove Darius from our partnership. Before she disappeared, we were discussing the legalities and ramifications of that course of action.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Libby asked.

  Septimus frowned. “Because my partner was getting worse and worse. In a business where your word is your bond, to lie is to court disaster, both literally and figuratively.”

  “What was Darius lying about?” Libby asked.

  Septimus’s frown threatened to bisect his face. “As I said, he was a treasure hunter, and he was very, very convincing about his projects. He even had his wife convinced that his next big trip—whatever that was—was going to be successful.” He pointed to himself. “I was trying to convince her that this one would be no different than the others.” Septimus leaned forward and tapped the desk with his index finger for emphasis. “Even though he led those trips under another name, their failures impacted the gallery.”

  “Gus Moran seems to think the expedition would have been a success.”

  Septimus shook his head. “I will never understand people. This was the person who marched in here in a homicidal rage and threatened to kill Darius, and now he’s going on another trip with him? Unbelievable.”

  “And you couldn’t get him to stop?” Libby asked.

  “Don’t you think I would have if I could? He was absolutely intransigent on the subject. Said I was just jealous. Truth be told, we hadn’t talked to each other in ten years. I just couldn’t deal with his shenanigans.”

  “Then how did you do business?” Libby asked.

  “Simple,” Septimus replied. “We alternated weeks. One week I was here, and the following week he was here. For all intents and purposes, we ran different businesses out of one store. We overlapped as little as possible. It was easier that way, although in retrospect, it wasn’t such a good idea.” He looked at his watch again. “My appointment will be here soon.”

  “One last thing,” Bernie said, taking one of the notebooks she’d found in the chest drawer in Darius’s apartment out of her tote. “Darius sent us this,” she lied. “Do you know what it is?”

  Septimus reached over and took it. It nearly vanished in his large hand. “No, I don’t,” he said, paging through it. “It’s definitely his handwriting, though. I’d say he was taking notes of some sort. It has all the earmarks of his lack of a system.” Septimus handed the notebook back. “Was there anything else with it?”

  Libby shook her head. “Just more of the same.”

  * * *

  “I wonder what happens to the business now that Darius is dead?” Bernie mused when she and Libby were back out on the sidewalk.

  “And Penelope. Don’t forget about her.”

  “I wasn’t,” Bernie said.

  “Septimus must get it,” Libby said. “After all, there’s no one else left, which is very convenient,” she observed. “New wife, new business—metaphorically speaking.”

  “Do you think he was having an affair with Penelope?” Bernie asked.

  Libby shook her head. “No. I did, but I don’t now,” she said as they headed for the van.

  Bernie skirted a lady with a double stroller. “Well, he didn’t seem too broken up about Penelope’s death.”

  “That’s for sure.” Libby looked at the sky. The clouds had moved in. “So do you think he’s our perp, to coin a phrase? Do you think he killed the Witherspoons?”

  “I wouldn’t rule him out,” Bernie replied. “After all, he was in both places when each of the Witherspoons died, he has a motive, and Darius probably would have let Septimus into his apartment.” She paused. “And then there’s Astrid,” she added.

  “Indeed there is,” Libby agreed. “After all, she was there, too, and if Septimus is to be believed, she had a good reason for hating him.”

  “Maybe Astrid and Septimus did it together,” Bernie posited. “You know, the couple that slays together stays together.”

  “Although, I can’t see her making that kind of effort,” Libby observed. “That would be so uncool.”

  “Maybe she has hidden depths of emotion,” Bernie said.

  “Maybe,” Libby said, although she didn’t think so.

  Bernie stifled a yawn. “We did stir the pot a little. Now let’s see what happens.” Bernie looked at her watch. If they hurried, they could get some pizza at Esther’s. And a couple of beers. Definitely a couple of beers. “We’re missing something.”

  “I know,” Libby replied. She just had no idea what it was.

  Chapter 42

  “I don’t see why we’re out here in the middle of the night,” Libby complained as she stumbled over a tree root and nearly fell. It was the following evening, and she, Marvin, and Bernie were down by the edge of the Hudson River. Although it was fifty degrees out, the wind blowing off the water made it feel a lot colder.

  “It’s not the middle of the night,” Bernie pointed out, wishing that she had a warmer jacket on. “It’s eight o’clock.”

  “Well, it feels like the middle of the night to me,” Libby carped. “We could have waited until the morning. We could be back at RJ’s, shooting a game of pool.”

  “You don’t like pool, Libby.”

  “Well, I like it better than freezing my tush off out here.”

  “Look at me,” Bernie told her sister. “I’m wearing a silk shirtdress and a sweater, and you don’t hear me complaining.”

  “If you want to dress inappropriately, that’s your business,” Libby snapped.

  Bernie didn’t reply, but she wondered if her sister was right—not about dressing inappropriately, but about being here now. What Libby had said was true. This could have waited until the morning, when they would actually be able to see what they were doing, instead of stumbling around in the dark with nothing but a couple of flashlights, and not great ones, either.

  On the other hand, who knew what tomorrow would bring? There could be another crisis at the shop, and they might not get the chance to come out here again for a day or two. And Bernie had a feeling that they were going to find something down here, something that was going to help explain who had killed the Witherspoons and why. She was about to tell Libby that, but her sister spoke first.

  “And Phil even admitted he was drunk. He was probably seeing things,” Libby added for good measure. “I mean, he’s, like, the official town drunk.”

  “Phil Craven is the official town drunk,” Marvin said.

  “What if he wasn’t seeing things?” Bernie asked as she moved her flashlight over the ground. “What then?”

  “But he probably was,” Libby told her. “We’re on a wild-goose chase.”

  “What does that expression mean, anyway?” Bernie asked. “Why a wild-goose chase? Why not a wild-rabbit or wild-bunny chase?”

  Libby thought for a moment. “I have no idea, but that doesn’t change the fact that Phil hallucinates.”

  “Not all the time.”

  “But sometimes.”

  “Okay. He does,” Bernie replied. “I admit that. But again I ask, what if what he was seeing was real? Then what?”

  “All I’m sayin’ is that it’s bad enough to be here during the day,” Libby said, indicating the Berkshire Arms with a wave of her hand, “but at night . . .” She shivered.

  “Don’t wimp out on me now,” Bernie told her. “We got down off the roof, didn’t we?”

  “What does that have to do with this?” Libby asked.

  “Nothing. I’m just trying to bolster your self-esteem.”

  “My self-esteem doesn’t need bolstering, thank you very much. All I’m saying is that this place is creepy.”

  “Libby’s right. It is,” Marvin agreed, jumping into the fray.

  “I didn’t think you believed in ghosts, Marvin,” Bernie said.

  “I don’t,” Marvin said. “I’ve never seen one, and neither has my dad, but that doesn’t mean I like it down here. It’s dark, and you can’t see where you’r
e going.” There was something else, as well, but he couldn’t put it into words. He rubbed his arms. The jacket he was wearing wasn’t warm enough. “Can we get on with this before we catch pneumonia?”

  He had been at RJ’s, having a beer and listening to Bernie and Libby tell Brandon about yesterday’s talk with Septimus Peabody and Astrid. They’d just finished their story when a host from one of those TV talk shows that dealt with the latest crime story had started yammering on about the strange circumstances of Penelope Witherspoon’s death. That was how the commentator had put it. The strange circumstances. Libby had been about to comment on it when Phil Craven turned to them.

  “I saw her, you know,” he’d said, pointing at the TV.

  “The commentator?” Libby had asked, turning her head away so she wouldn’t have to smell Phil’s breath.

  “No. Penelope Witherspoon.” Phil had crossed himself twice. “She was dead.”

  “She certainly is,” Bernie said, remembering what Penelope had looked like when they’d last seen her. “No doubt about that.”

  Phil drained his glass and held it out for another shot of rye. Brandon filled it up. He’d learned a while ago that there was no point in cutting Phil off. If he did, Phil would just head over to another bar. At least this way Brandon had his keys and would drive him home at the end of his shift.

  “No,” Phil told her after he’d drained his glass again and wiped his mouth off with his sleeve. “This was before she was dead dead. I saw her at night. I saw her coming out of the water and going into the old place. She was glowing.”

  “Glowing?” Libby asked.

  Phil nodded his head vigorously. “Her boobs. Like a zombie.”

  “Zombie boobs don’t glow,” Marvin told him. “It’s a well-known fact,” he said in answer to Libby’s raised eyebrow.

  Phil grimaced. “This one’s did.”

  “When did you see her?” Bernie asked, although she knew her chances of getting an answer were remote.

  Phil just stared at her, his eyes blinking.