“Did you see her before or after you got your welfare check cashed?” Brandon asked him.
Phil thought for a minute. “Before.”
Brandon turned to Bernie. “You just have to know the right way to ask a question,” he told her.
“She came out of the water, all wet and slimy. She was dripping.” Phil’s voice rose. “I thought she was going to kill and eat me.”
“Only if she liked pickled meat,” Bernie couldn’t resist saying.
Brandon shot her a dirty look as he reached across the bar and laid a restraining hand on Phil. “Easy does it.”
“But I did see her. I did,” Phil insisted, his voice getting louder.
“No one said you didn’t,” Brandon told him in a soothing voice. He poured him another drink.
Phil picked it up and downed it. His hand was shaking so badly, he had trouble connecting the glass to his mouth.
“So where did this happen?” Libby asked.
“On the riverbank. Down below the haunted place. Near the old house. The brick one.”
“You mean the house below the Berkshire Arms?” Bernie asked. “The one that’s falling down?”
Phil nodded, his eyes wide with terror. “I saw her,” Phil said again. He hiccuped. “I did. She was dead before they say she was.”
“What did you do when you saw her?” Bernie asked. She had a feeling there was more to the story than Phil was telling.
“I passed out,” Phil said. “I don’t know what time it was, but it was light when I woke up.”
“And then?” Bernie prompted.
Phil lowered his voice. “I heard this noise.”
Bernie nodded.
“And I saw this guy going into the house.”
“The one that’s falling apart?” Libby said.
Phil nodded again.
“And then what did you do?” Libby asked.
“I ran,” Phil said. “I ran as fast as I could.”
“What did this man look like?” Bernie asked.
“He looked scary, and he was carrying something.”
“What?” asked Bernie.
“One of those shopping bag kind of things.”
“A tote?” Bernie asked.
But Phil didn’t answer. He had put his head down on the bar and gone to sleep. A faint snore escaped his lips.
“Interesting,” Bernie said, taking another sip of her beer. “We should investigate.”
And that was the reason that she, Libby, and Marvin were mucking around near the Hudson.
Chapter 43
“I don’t know what we’re looking for,” Libby complained as she played her flashlight over the dirt. She could hear the sound of rushing water below.
“Neither do I,” Bernie confessed.
“That seems to be the leitmotif of this case,” Libby noted.
“Then why are we here?” Marvin asked. “Remind me.”
“Because,” Bernie said, speaking to him while she kept her eyes to the ground, “I think Phil saw something that scared the crap out of him, and I want to know what it was.”
At the moment what she saw were beer bottles and cans and fast-food wrappers that people had left behind, pieces of plastic that had washed up from the river, fishing lures, a couple of old lifesavers, a couple of tires, charred pieces of wood from campfires, and a moldy old sleeping bag as she slowly made her way to the house Phil had mentioned.
It wasn’t a house, actually. It was a cottage, and it had been there as long as Bernie could remember. Legend had it that a man from New York City had built it for his wife because she loved to paint the Hudson River. They’d come up often, but five years after he built it, his wife had taken their boat out on a summer’s day. An unexpected storm had come up, the boat had capsized, and the wife had drowned, her body claimed by the river, never to be found. The husband, unhinged by grief, had never come back to the house, abandoning it to the mercy of the weather and the vines.
Later, when Bernie was in college, she’d learned the true story. A contractor down in New York City had actually built the house as an investment property, but the contractor had gone broke, and the property had lingered in bankruptcy hell until it was too late to salvage. It was still up for sale, but because of its proximity to the river, no one wanted it. In truth, though, Bernie preferred the first version of the story, so that was the one that she told.
Bernie and her friends had hung out there a fair amount when she’d been in high school and on her college vacations. They’d drunk beer and built fires, eaten hot dogs and told ghost stories. From the look of the garbage on the floor when Bernie stepped inside, she figured that the tradition was continuing. Libby and Marvin followed her in a moment later.
“You never came down here, did you?” Bernie asked Libby.
Libby shook her head. “I never saw the point.”
“It was fun.”
“Not to me,” Libby replied.
“Is it safe?” Marvin asked as he took in the sloping floor, the leaning walls, and the hole in the roof where the shingles had rotted out.
“Just watch out for the rats,” Bernie told him.
“She’s teasing,” Libby told Marvin.
“Actually, I’m not,” Bernie said. “And the floor.”
“What’s wrong with the floor?” Marvin asked.
“Some of the boards are rotten.”
“So I could fall through?” Marvin demanded.
“Yup,” Bernie replied. “To the tunnels down below. Hopefully, the vampires won’t get you.”
“Har. Har. Har,” Marvin replied. He took a step, and a floorboard groaned. He jumped.
“I was kidding,” Bernie told him as she got busy looking around. “The floor is fine in here. The vampires are a little more problematic.”
“Good to know,” Marvin said, having resolved to stick to the room’s outer perimeter. He was just here for moral support, anyway.
“It’ll be fine as long as we keep to this room,” Bernie told him. The floors in the rest of the house were pretty much gone, as she and her friends had found out when they’d gone exploring and one of them had fallen through to the basement.
“I’m surprised some developer hasn’t torn this place down yet and built something else,” Marvin observed as he moved an abandoned bird’s nest aside with his foot.
“The asking price must be really high,” Libby noted.
“But still,” Marvin said.
Libby said, “And then there’s flood insurance, which doesn’t come cheap these days.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Marvin conceded.
Bernie ignored their chatter while she played her flashlight over what had once been the living room. The middle of the space was occupied by a sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table, all of them contorted, mildewed reminders of what they had once been. The carpet had disintegrated into a remnant of its former self, as had the wicker rocker and table over by a glassless window through which a small weed tree was beginning to sprout.
The walls were covered with dusty cobwebs, while beer cans and food wrappers, bird droppings, and a sprinkling of cigarette butts littered the floor. Over in the far right-hand corner, Bernie spied what looked like a pile of something—she wasn’t sure what—sitting on the floor. She went over to investigate. As she squatted down beside it to get a better look, she heard a sharp crack. Oh no, Bernie thought. I should never have teased Marvin. He’s right. The floor is about to give way. But then she realized she was still where she had been, and she continued her investigation.
“What is it?” Libby asked, coming up behind her.
Bernie reached over, picked up a piece of fabric, and held it up. As she did, a large spider dropped off and scuttled across the floor.
Libby screamed. She hated spiders.
“At least it wasn’t a rat,” Bernie observed.
Libby took a deep breath. Focus, she told herself. The sooner they looked through everything, the sooner they’d get out of there. “A dress?
” Libby said, guessing, as she played her flashlight over it. It smelled of river water and mold.
“Definitely a dress,” Bernie said, straightening up. She held the dress out in front of her with both hands. She couldn’t tell what color it was now, but it was a knit, and she could see outlines of a zigzag pattern in the fabric. Patches of gray mold dotted the front of the dress. “You know,” she said, thinking out loud, “you can get phosphorescence from the ocean. I wonder if it occurs in the river, as well.”
“Why do you want to know?” Marvin asked.
“I was thinking about Phil’s story,” Bernie answered. “He said Penelope’s boobs were glowing. Maybe they were.”
“I think that’s a stretch,” Marvin said.
“Maybe,” Bernie said as she turned the neckline inside out to look for a dress label. “I think it’s Missoni,” she said. “See,” she said, pointing out the m, the s, and the i at the end of the name, the rest of the letters having disappeared, covered over with muck.
“What’s a Missoni?” Marvin asked.
“An expensive Italian brand,” Bernie replied. She thought about the clothes in Penelope’s closet. There had been two Missoni dresses hanging in there.
She squatted back down to see what else was in the pile. She came up with a bra, a pair of panties, and a shopping bag from Gristedes. There was a Gristedes close to the Witherspoons’ New York City apartment, as well as one on the other side of Longely, and that one was near Old Navy. Bernie picked up the remaining items and stood up.
“You know what I think?” she asked.
“Enlighten us, O great one,” Libby responded.
Bernie raised the dress. “I think this dress belonged to Penelope. I think you guys might owe Phil an apology.”
“And why is that?” Libby asked.
“Because I think he was telling the truth,” Bernie answered.
“I don’t understand,” Marvin said.
“I do,” Libby replied as her sister took her cell out of her pocket and dialed Brandon.
“Phil is still there,” she told Libby and Marvin when she was through talking. “Brandon’s going to try to wake him up so we can talk to him.” She turned to Marvin. “I’ll explain everything on the way over.” Then she turned to Libby. “We need to go back down to the city tomorrow.”
Libby didn’t argue. She had come to the same conclusion herself.
Chapter 44
It was a dreary, blustery Wednesday afternoon when Bernie and Libby drove into Manhattan, the kind of afternoon that made you think about the winter to come. Libby found a parking space on Seventy-Third Street, between Lexington and Park, and pulled into it.
Bernie got out and buttoned up her coat against the wind—the coat was Italian, mohair, light blue, and she’d gotten it at Barneys on sale last spring—then bought an hour’s worth of time on the meter. She didn’t think her and Libby’s conversation with Flynn would take that long. Either he would tell them what they wanted to know or he wouldn’t, but it wasn’t worth risking a parking ticket and having to shell out the fine.
The sisters spotted Flynn half a block down. He was standing in the street in front of his building, hailing a cab for two women. By the time Bernie and Libby reached him, he’d succeeded in flagging a taxi and settling the two women inside it. He was stepping back onto the sidewalk when he saw Bernie and Libby. He smiled. They didn’t smile back.
“And what can I do for you two beautiful ladies today?” he asked when they got within hailing distance. This time there wasn’t a trace of a brogue in his speech.
“We have a question for you,” Bernie said.
Flynn gave a quick bow. “Always happy to be of service.”
“I don’t think you’ve been entirely forthcoming with us,” Libby said.
Flynn pointed to himself. “Me? You cut me to the quick. I am utterly desolate at your accusation.”
Libby put her hands on her hips. “I just bet you are.”
“But I am,” Flynn protested.
“He is, Libby,” Bernie said. “Can’t you see the expression on his face?”
Libby mimed studying it. “You’re right, Bernie. He does look penitent.”
Flynn smiled another smile. “Penitent is my middle name. It comes from being raised Catholic. Now, what have I done to offend you two?” he said.
“It’s what you haven’t done that offends us,” Bernie countered.
Flynn cocked his head. “Which is?”
“Tell the truth.”
Flynn crossed himself with his right hand. “Cross my heart and hope to die if I haven’t.”
Bernie rolled her eyes.
“Ask me,” Flynn said. “Ask me anything at all.”
“Fine,” Bernie said. “Your shift begins at five a.m., doesn’t it?”
Flynn fiddled with a button on his coat. “May I ask why you want to know?” he inquired.
Bernie thought he looked alarmed, but she wasn’t sure if she was reading him correctly. “So I take it that’s a yes?”
“I didn’t say that,” Flynn said.
“You didn’t not say it, either,” Bernie pointed out.
“Why do you want to know?” Flynn shot back, all traces of good humor gone.
“What happened to ‘Ask me, ask me anything at all’?” Libby demanded.
Flynn didn’t reply.
“I didn’t know it was a state secret,” Libby observed.
“It’s none of your business is what it is,” Flynn told her.
Libby turned her collar up against the wind that was tunneling down the street. “Is that even an English sentence?”
Flynn snorted. “Stop with the shtick. You’re not that good at it.”
“I thought we were,” Bernie said.
“Well, you’re not,” Flynn replied. “Now, tell me what this is about.”
Bernie looked at Libby. “Do you want to explain, or should I?” she asked her sister.
“I will,” Libby said. “In essence,” she began, “this is what we think. We think that contrary to what you told us, you saw the Witherspoons leaving their apartment through the service entrance together early on the day Penelope supposedly disappeared.”
“Supposedly?” Flynn said. “There’s no supposedly about it. She was gone.”
“Yes and no,” Libby told him.
“Which is it?” Flynn demanded.
“A little of both,” Libby said.
“What we’re fairly certain of,” said Bernie, taking over the narrative, “is that contrary to what Darius said, he and his wife both left here together, and the thing is, we think that you saw them going out.”
“Because you have that shift,” Libby put in.
“How do you know what my shift is?” Flynn inquired.
Bernie explained. “We have a friend called Eric who works as a doorman in a building down the street. I called him yesterday. Evidently, he knows you, and to the best of his memory, you had coffee with him on that particular day.”
“He could be mistaken,” Flynn countered.
“Yes, he could be,” Libby replied. “But given the way you’re acting, I don’t think he is.”
“And even if I was here,” Flynn added, “that doesn’t mean I saw them. This is a big place.”
“I also think,” Bernie continued, ignoring Flynn’s protests, “that Darius paid you not to say anything to anyone.”
“I resent that,” Flynn cried.
“Well, given the circumstances, it certainly doesn’t put you in a very good light,” Bernie allowed.
Flynn looked from one sister to the other and back again. “You’re just guessing. You have no proof. No proof at all.”
“That’s true,” Bernie told him. “We don’t. But here’s what we do have. We found Penelope’s dress in an old house down by the river.”
“So what?” Flynn demanded. “That has nothing to do with me.”
“You know,” Libby told him, changing the subject, “underneath everything, I th
ink you’re a pretty nice guy. I would think your conscience has been bothering you since Penelope Witherspoon disappeared. I’d think you’d want to know what happened to her.”
“I know what happened to her,” Flynn retorted. “Someone put a rope around her neck and hung her from a tree.”
“Let me clarify,” Libby said. “I’d think you’d want to know what happened to her between the time that she left here and the time of her death.”
Flynn raised an eyebrow. “And you can tell me that?”
“We can guess at some of it,” Libby answered. “We think we know part of the puzzle.”
“Good for you,” Flynn said. “I think you should leave now.” And he turned to go inside.
“It’s not your fault,” Bernie called after him. “I’m sure Darius told you a convincing story.”
Flynn disappeared into the lobby. Bernie watched the revolving door turn.
Chapter 45
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Libby observed as she stuck her hands into her coat pockets. One day it was warm and sunny; the next day it was just plain nasty. It made both menu planning and dressing difficult because it was impossible to predict what to expect.
“Not really,” Bernie said. “Given Flynn’s reaction, we know that our guess is correct.”
Libby shook her head. “We know no such thing.”
“He practically confessed, Libby.”
“Then you and I were listening to two different conversations.” Libby turned to go, but Bernie laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Give him a couple of minutes,” she told her sister. “I think he’s going to come back.”
Libby snorted. “A dollar says he doesn’t, Bernie.”
“Make it two, and you’re on.”
“Done,” Libby said. She looked at her watch. “Two minutes.”
The minute hand on her watch was just making its second round when the side door opened and Flynn came out.
“Damn,” Libby said, cursing under her breath.
“You never learn,” Bernie said, holding out her hand.
“You’re one to talk,” Libby replied as she dug into her pocket and came up with a crumpled dollar bill and another dollar in change. “Here,” she said, slapping the money onto Bernie’s outstretched palm.
A Catered Costume Party Page 21