A Catered Costume Party

by Isis Crawford

  “Is that chocolate on the tops of those quarters?” Bernie asked, studying the money.

  “M&M’s. I can take them back if you want.”

  “No need,” Bernie said as Flynn reached them.

  “I didn’t think it mattered, okay? I didn’t think it was a big deal,” he told Bernie and Libby.

  “I think it may be,” Libby said gently.

  “I thought I was doing a good thing,” Flynn explained, a pleading note in his voice.

  “I’m sure you did,” Bernie said. She reached over and patted his arm reassuringly.

  A flicker of gratitude crossed Flynn’s face and died. He rubbed his hands together and shook his head ruefully. “I wanted to believe him. Maybe I wouldn’t have if my rent were cheaper.”

  “Maybe,” Libby said.

  “It’s just that I really need every cent that I can get.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Libby said.

  Flynn shook his head again. “I can’t believe I fell for his story. I can’t believe I was such an idiot.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I think Darius is—excuse me—was a pretty good liar,” Libby told him.

  “It’s not,” Flynn said. “I lie for a living. I should have spotted it.”

  “I wouldn’t call acting lying,” Bernie said.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Flynn said, rethinking his previous comment. He broke off speaking and tipped his hat to a well-dressed man in a camel’s hair coat and a teenage boy with his pants riding down around his butt as they came out of the building. A moment later, a chauffeur-driven black town car glided up to the curb. Flynn hurried over to the car and opened the door to the backseat. The man and the boy climbed in. Flynn closed the door, and the town car sped away.

  “Stepfather and son. They’re not getting along too well,” Flynn explained as he, Bernie, and Libby watched the town car head toward Madison Avenue. “Having a stepparent must be rough—especially when you’re a teenager.”

  “It can be rough at any age,” Libby said, thinking about Michelle and her dad. “So what did Darius tell you?”

  Flynn took a deep breath, let it out, and began. “He said that Penelope had been involved in a bad business deal and that she was going to disappear for a little while because the person she had done the deal with was really pissed.”

  “And then he gave you some money to keep quiet?” Bernie asked, guessing.

  Flynn nodded.

  “Why did you believe him?” Libby asked.

  “Because a week before there’d been this really angry . . . man . . . who wanted to go up, and I called Mrs. Witherspoon to tell her, and she said I shouldn’t let him up. This . . . guy . . . he had a fit. I mean a real fit. I thought I was going to have to call the cops.”

  “Who was he?” Libby asked.

  Flynn didn’t say anything.

  “You know him, don’t you?” Libby persisted.

  Flynn pressed his lips together and looked away. He seemed embarrassed

  “It was Darius Witherspoon’s partner, wasn’t it?” Libby guessed.

  Flynn looked down at the ground.

  “You should be embarrassed,” Bernie told him. “You took money from Darius not to tell Septimus Peabody where he and Penelope were going, and then you let Septimus into Darius’s apartment.”

  “Hey,” Flynn said, the embarrassment now gone. “Don’t try to guilt me. I kept my word in both cases. I had nothing to do with . . . with . . . whatever happened.”

  “Maybe not with Darius’s death, but I’m not sure you can say the same about his wife’s,” Bernie observed.

  “You can say whatever you want,” Flynn shot back. “You have no idea about what happened, either. You’re guessing.”

  “Maybe we are,” Bernie said. “But that doesn’t mean we’re wrong.” She continued. “So was what you told me about Septimus and Penelope having an affair true?” Bernie asked. “Or was that a lie, too?”

  Flynn corrected her. “I said that’s what people do. I didn’t say whether or not it was true.” Then he turned and went back into the building. A moment later, he popped back out. “Just because A happened doesn’t mean it has anything to do with B. You’re assuming a connection that might not be there.”

  “He’s right, you know,” Libby said after Flynn had gone back inside.

  “I do know,” Bernie answered, thinking about what her dad would say. “But, on the other hand, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck . . .”

  “It’s not a lion,” Libby said, mangling the saying as she and Bernie set off in the direction of the van.

  Bernie burst out laughing as Libby looked at her watch. “We have another hour and a half before we have to meet Justin,” she noted.

  “Maybe if we’re lucky, we can catch up with Septimus at his gallery. I, for one, would be fascinated to hear what he has to say about what Flynn just told us.”

  “Ditto,” Libby replied, picking up the pace.

  As it turned out, they were lucky. Bernie was driving along Madison Avenue when Libby spotted Septimus walking down the street half a block before the gallery.

  “Stop!” she cried.

  Bernie jammed on her brakes. The driver behind her leaned on his horn. So did the one behind him. “What’s wrong?” she asked Libby.

  “There’s Septimus, Bernie. See him?”

  “No. I don’t. Where is he?”

  Libby pointed. “He’s in front of the tree with the bike chained to it. Near the lady with the Irish wolfhound.”

  Bernie looked again. “Okay, now I see him,” she said after a minute had gone by and the honking behind her had risen to a fever pitch. She moved over a lane and double-parked. There was no way she could stay here. “I’ll try to find a parking space,” she told Libby. “You go and talk to Septimus.”

  Libby nodded and jumped out of the van. A moment later, Bernie pulled back into traffic. Libby watched her go, wondering if she was going to find a parking space and thinking about what a pain it was to have a vehicle in Manhattan, before she turned and looked for Septimus. For a second, she thought she’d lost him, but then she saw him again. He’d paused to look in the window of an antique store.

  He was half a block ahead of her. As she watched, Septimus started walking again. A moment later, he turned into a deli. Libby hurried in after him. By the time she entered, Septimus had gotten his coffee and a poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and had stopped to read the headline of the New York Post. Then he looked up and saw her.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, frowning.

  “And hello to you, too,” Libby replied, wishing she had the line of chat that Bernie did.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Maybe I don’t want anything,” she told him. “Maybe I just wandered in here.”

  “Good for you,” Septimus said, heading out the door. Libby stepped to the right to give him room to leave as a man and a woman entered, coming between her and Septimus. “Leave me alone,” Septimus told her once they were back out on the street. “I want nothing to do with you or your sister.”

  “I will leave you alone,” Libby said, “when you tell me what you and Penelope were fighting about.”

  “Who said Penelope and I fought?” Septimus asked as he increased his pace.

  “The doorman,” Libby replied, having decided that there was no longer any reason to lie about her informant. “He said you two had a big row. He said Penelope wouldn’t let you come up to the apartment. Something about a bad business deal.”

  Septimus walked even faster. “He did, did he?”

  “Yes, he did,” Libby told him, trotting to keep up. “He said that he thought he was going to have to call the police to have you removed. You were that out of control,” she added for good measure.

  Septimus came to a dead stop. The man in back of him bumped into him. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Septimus growled at him.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re stopp
ing? You’re in the big city now,” the man growled back before hurrying on.

  “What else did the doorman say?” Septimus asked, turning back to Libby. The venom in his voice made Libby take a step back.

  “He said that Darius told him that you and Penelope had some kind of deal going, and that something happened and she was afraid you were going to hurt her, and that she decided it would be a good time to disappear for a while, which was why they were heading up to Longely. Not exactly the story you told us when we spoke to you before.”

  “Really?” Septimus took a step toward her. “And you believe him?”

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  “No, you shouldn’t, because he’s a liar and a cheat.”

  “Darius?”

  “Darius and the doorman.”

  Libby crossed her arms over her chest. People eddied around them. “Why should they lie?” Libby asked.

  “That’s simple,” Septimus snapped. “Darius lied because, as the Brits would say, he was a bounder and a cad, and the doorman lied because he’ll say anything for money.” Septimus continued. “So tell me, did the doorman actually say this out-of-control person was me?”

  Libby hesitated. Just for a few seconds. But it was long enough.

  “He didn’t, did he?” Septimus demanded.

  “Not exactly,” Libby admitted, now that she thought about it. Because he hadn’t. Or at least he hadn’t come up with the name on his own. She and Bernie had suggested it to him.

  Septimus smiled triumphantly. “I knew it,” he crowed.

  “Maybe not, but he sure as hell implied it,” Libby countered. She sighed. She should have been the one looking for a parking space, and Bernie should have been the one conducting this conversation. Things would have gone better.

  “And even if, hypothetically speaking, it was me being slightly out of control, people tend to get that way when money is involved. It doesn’t mean I killed the Witherspoons, for heaven’s sake,” he told Libby.

  He went on. “I feel sorry for you. You and your sister are running around like chickens with their heads cut off, so I’ll tell you this. Okay. It’s true. Penelope and I were in the middle of having a big row about partnership percentages, and yes, I did yell at the doorman, but he hardly had to call the police. I have to say the boy has a definite flair for the dramatic. Maybe he’ll make it as an actor, after all.

  “But if you want to know who Darius really wasn’t getting along with, you should talk to William Moran. It could prove to be an enlightening conversation. I’m also putting you on notice that I’m going to sue you and your sister for harassment and libel if you keep this up,” he told Libby. Then he turned and stalked away.

  People seemed to be saying that to her a lot lately, Libby reflected as she watched Septimus bulldoze his way down Madison Avenue.

  A moment later, Bernie double-parked Mathilda in front of Libby and honked her horn to get her sister’s attention. It looked as if her sister hadn’t been able to find a parking space, after all, Libby reflected as she jumped into the van and they took off.

  Chapter 46

  “Maybe Septimus is right about William Moran,” Bernie said as they exited the FDR Drive. So far the traffic had been mercifully light, and they were making better time than expected.

  Libby nodded and unzipped Bernie’s old leather jacket. It was true. It did look better than her old barn coat. “We should try to talk to him. Septimus is the third person to have mentioned his name in connection with Darius. Not to mention he was around when both homicides were committed.”

  Bernie stopped for a jaywalker. “We don’t know that.”

  “Well, he appeared pretty quickly, so he couldn’t have been very far away.”

  “True,” Bernie allowed. She’d looked up his office address a while ago. It was close to the place where they were supposed to meet Justin Poland. She glanced at her watch. “Let’s see what the development business is like these days.”

  Libby nodded. “Works for me. The worst that can happen is that he’s not there.”

  Ten minutes later, Bernie started looking for a parking space. She found one three blocks away from William Moran’s office. The office was located on the second floor of a prewar building on the corner of Third Avenue and Twentieth Street. The stairs going up were narrow, steep, and badly lit.

  “Obviously, he doesn’t get too many people up here,” Bernie said when she and her sister reached the second floor.

  Libby sniffed. “I smell bacon.”

  “Not a bad thing,” Bernie commented as she spotted Moran’s office. The sign on the door read BUILDINGS INC. Not exactly an original name, in her estimation. The closer she and her sister got to the door, the stronger the smell of bacon became. “Here goes nothing,” she said to Libby as she put her hand on the doorknob, pushed, and went inside.

  The reason why the hallway smelled of bacon became obvious. Moran was standing over a hot plate set on top of a file cabinet next to the window, spatula in hand, cooking bacon and eggs in a small frying pan.

  Bernie clapped her hands. “Oh, goody. Eggs cooked in bacon fat. My favorite thing,” she said as she took in the unmade airbed in the second, smaller room. “Can I have some?”

  Moran turned around. He wasn’t smiling. “How did you get here?”

  “The usual way. We took the stairs,” Bernie told him.

  “No magic carpet?”

  “Next time,” Libby told him. “We have a few questions.” She was standing by Moran’s desk. It was piled high with stacks of papers and folders.

  “I’m calling the cops,” Moran said, putting the spatula down.

  “Go ahead,” Bernie said. “But you’d better clean up this place first, because I’m betting the landlord of this building doesn’t allow cooking in it, let alone living here.”

  “And how’s he going to know?” Moran demanded. “Not that I am.”

  “I’m going to tell him,” Bernie said sweetly.

  “He won’t believe you,” Moran said.

  Bernie got out her phone and started snapping pictures. “Let’s see, shall we? Considering that this area is in the middle of upscaling, I’m betting your landlord can rent this space out for quite a bit more than you’re paying for it.”

  “This is just temporary,” Moran told her. “I’ve been working night and day. I don’t have time to go home.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be very sympathetic,” Libby said as she read the top paper on the closest stack of files on his desk. The word foreclosure was written in bold letters. She shifted her attention back to Moran. “So let’s make a deal. You answer our questions, and your secret will be safe with us.”

  Moran briefly thought about Libby’s offer and decided it wasn’t worth risking his office space. “You don’t mind if I eat while we talk?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” Bernie answered.

  Moran picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite before putting the rest of the strip on a plate. “That place has been a nightmare since I bought it,” he said as he sat down. Bernie assumed he was referring to the Berkshire Arms. “Nothing has gone right with it, and now it looks as if I’m going to have to declare bankruptcy. Well, if the bank wants the building, let them take it. I, for one, have had enough. The publicity over Penelope Witherspoon’s death was the last straw.” He ate some egg. “So,” he said, looking from Libby to Bernie and back again, “let me guess why you’re here.”

  “I’ll play,” Libby said. “Why?”

  “Because you want to know what the fight I had with Darius was about?”

  “The man wins the prize,” Bernie said.

  “It was stupid.”

  “Tell us, anyway,” Libby instructed.

  Moran finished his eggs and bacon, wiped his hands with a paper napkin, threw it on top of his plate, and sat back in his chair. “Fine. It was about two things. It was about his feeding those damned crows. Having one person doing it was bad enough. Two was impossible. All Manny was doing was cleaning
up bird crap. And the noise. Good God. People come up to a place like that for peace and quiet. When those crows got going, it was worse than being on Third Avenue with the trucks going by.”

  “And the second thing?” Bernie asked.

  Moran got two red dots on his cheeks. “My idiot son. He was becoming involved with that scammer again. After everything that happened the first time. Hundreds of thousands of dollars down the drain. And a lot of that was my money. And he’s running all over the place, digging holes and looking for what? Some kind of cockamamie treasure. I told his mother years ago he needed to go to military school, but she couldn’t bear to part with the little darling.”

  “So why did you sell the place to Darius if you felt that way?” Libby asked.

  Moran pounded his fist on his desk. A file slid off the edge and landed on the floor. He bent over and started picking the papers up. “I didn’t know,” he told Libby when he was through. “If I’d known, you think I would have? I outsource my rentals. They do the security checks, collect the rents, and keep the records for a percentage of the take. Up until now it’s worked really, really well.”

  “It seems to me you had a good reason for killing Witherspoon,” Bernie suggested.

  “Well, I may have wanted to kill him,” Moran said, “but if I’d done it, I wouldn’t have done it in such a public fashion. Why would I do something that would put my investment at risk when I could have done it quietly, away from the Berkshire Arms?”

  Bernie had to admit that what Moran was saying made sense.

  Moran got up. “And now, if we’re through here, I have an appointment with my divorce lawyer.”

  Chapter 47

  “I think Moran’s telling the truth,” Libby said as they walked over to meet Justin Poland.

  “I do, too,” Bernie agreed. Which left them with what? Not much. Hopefully, Justin Poland could supply some answers.

  After all, he was the son of the late Ezra Poland. When Bernie had called up the Explorers Club, looking to talk to Ezra, the person who answered the phone had informed her that Ezra Poland had died last year.

  When Bernie had pressed, the woman had referred her to Justin and had given her his phone number. So she’d called him, and they’d had a chat. When she wanted to meet, he’d agreed. They’d set the time and the place, a coffee shop named King Java, located on Third, between Twenty-Second Street and Twenty-Third Street.