A Catered Murder (15 page)

Authors: Isis Crawford

BOOK: A Catered Murder

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And Libby had to admit the hut creeped her out. The place looked like something out of a Grimm's fairy tale. She'd just decided to head back to the van when she heard a crack behind her. The hairs on Libby's arm stood up. She started to turn, but before she could, something hit her in the back and she fell to the ground. When Libby looked up, Tiffany was standing over her pointing a gun at her head.

“You shouldn't have come,” she said.

“I can leave,” Libby offered.

Tiffany shook her head.

“It's too late for that.”

And then, on top of everything, it started to rain.

Chapter 23

G
eoffrey Holder's place of business was located five and one-quarter miles away from Elm Wood Park and ten miles from his house. A large, square concrete building surrounded by a fenced-in blacktopped parking lot, it was well positioned between the outskirts of the town and a Thruway exit. A big sign proclaiming,
You want it fixed right the first time? Come to us,
was bolted onto the roof.

Unfortunately, it looked as if people weren't getting the message because the lot was mostly empty. In fact, Bernie observed as she pulled up in front of the entrance, there were only four other cars in a lot that could have held fiftyâeasy.

Bernie squared her shoulders, grabbed the basket, and got out of the Caddy. She didn't know what she'd get out of Holder, but hopefully it would be worth the time. One thing she did know, though. Whatever happened, Libby was going to owe her big for this.

“Things not going so well?” Bernie said to the receptionist, a jowly older woman with blond teased hair that Bernie decided had to be a wig.

She gave Bernie a baleful look.

“We're going Chapter Eleven.”

“Everyone seems to be doing it these days. Maybe it'll help.”

The receptionist snorted at the idea.

“My Timmy says it never helps. Just postpones the inevitable. My Timmy says that this is what happens when you get ideas above your station. He says Mr. Holder shoulda stuck with what he knowsâfixing cars instead of fancying himself the next . . .” The woman paused for a moment. “I don't know what . . .

“Who would go to someplace like Dracula Land anyway? Freaks. And I'll tell you one thing about them. Freaks don't got much money. The thing never made sense to me. Didn't make sense to a lot of people. Everyone tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen. It was like he was under a spell or something. They did good work here too.”

The woman shook her head and Bernie was fascinated to see that while her head moved, her hair didn't.

“Good thing I got me grandchildren to occupy my time when this place goes under.” She pointed to a picture sitting on her desk. “Three of them. Two girls and a boy. So, dearie, what brings you here?” she finally asked Bernie. “If your car needs work, take it down the road to Lloyd's. They do a clean, fast job. Use dealer-specified parts too.”

Bernie lifted the gift basket. “Actually, I want to give Mr. Holder this.”

“Nice present.”

“It's muffins from A Little Taste of Heaven. His wife wants me to talk to him about the graduation party for his child. I thought this might help sway his mind.”

“Muffins?” The receptionist snickered. “A couple six-packs a beer woulda done ya better.” The phone rang and the receptionist picked it up. “No. We ain't accepting any new vehicles.” She hung up and got back to Bernie. “And I gotta warn you,” she told her. “The boss ain't the easiest person to talk to these days. But you wanna try, go ahead.” And the receptionist waved her arm towards a door to the left.

“His car was here when I came this morning, but he wasn't in his office. I'm not sure exactly where he is. Maybe you should try the paint room. That's out in the back away from the main building.”

“Could you page him?” Bernie asked.

“Sure I could,” the woman agreed, “if the system worked. But it don't so I can't. It's been down for about a month now, and we ain't had the money to fix it. Or,” the woman went on, “you could leave the basket here and I'll give it to him when he comes out.”

“If you don't mind, I think I'll go find him.”

“Whatever you say. I'll buzz you in.” As the door clicked open, the woman said to Bernie, “When you find him, tell him his wife left a message for him.”

Bernie nodded her agreement and walked through. She found herself in a narrow corridor. The sign on the first door said,
Geoffrey Holder.
She knocked. No one answered. She had her hand on the doorknob and was just about to turn it when a voice behind her said, “Can I help you?”

Bernie jumped and spun around.

“Sorry if I startled you.” The man extended his hand. “I'm Robert Sullivan, but you can call me Rob. Everyone does.”

But Bernie wasn't listening. She was staring at his intensely green eyes. Finally she tore her gaze away and shook his hand.

“Bernadette Simmons.”

“That's a pretty name.”

“It comes from the French.”

Now that was an unnecessary bit of information, Bernie thought as Rob rocked back on his heels.

“So tell me, Bernadette . . .”

“Bernie . . .”

He grinned and Bernie could feel her knees turning to jelly.
You are taking a vacation from men,
Bernie reminded herself as she watched Rob's grin grow wider.
As if he knows what he's doing to me,
she thought angrily.

“I had an uncle named Bernie. So, Bernie, what can I do for you?”

She repeated the explanation she'd given the receptionist. Rob gave a mock bow and extended his hand with a flourish.

“Let's go find the lucky gent. I've been looking for him myself.”

Get a grip,
Bernie told herself as she followed him down the corridor. Then, before she could stop herself, she'd offered him a ginger muffin with lemon icing from her basket.

“God, these are good,” he said as he devoured it. “You make them?”

Bernie lied and said yes. Well, she had chopped the ginger, hadn't she?

She and Rob continued down the hall while Rob peeked into the other four offices.

“Aren't too many of us left,” he observed as they came to the end of the corridor. He held open the last door, which had a sign on it that read,
Work Area. Authorized Personnel Only,
and said, “After you.”

“I don't think I've seen you around,” he said as Bernie stepped inside.

She scanned the area. It had spaces for four cars, but the room was empty.

“That's because I've just moved back to town.”

“Lucky for Longely.”

Bernie started to fiddle with her ring and stopped herself.

“I'm not sure my sister would agree with that.”

Rob chuckled.

“Maybe she's afraid of the competition. Would you be interested in meeting for a drink later?”

“Are you always this quick?”

“Only when I see something I like.”

Bernie could feel herself flush.

“Possibly,” she said, furious with herself for acting as if she were fourteen.

“That's good enough for me.”

Bernie took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what she'd come here for.

“Your boss doesn't seem to be here,” she observed, looking around the room.

“No, he doesn't,” Rob agreed. “Come on. Let's take a peek in the paint room,” he suggested, beckoning for her to follow him. “It's sad really,” Rob said to Bernie as they walked out the side door into the yard. “This used to be a good business.”

“So what are you going to do?” Bernie asked him.

Rob shrugged. “Do computer stuff. Train dogs. Something will turn up. It always does.”

“You really train dogs?”

“I did out in Venice. Venice Beach,” he added. “That's out in L.A.”

“I know where it is. I was living in Brentwood.”

“Fancy that. So what brought you back here?” he asked as he opened the door to the paint room.

Bernie stepped inside.

“Family stuff.” Time enough to get into the real reason later. “And you?”

“Same thing.”

Bernie glanced around. The paint room was divided into three compartments by clear hanging plastic panels that partially obscured the view. So they could do three cars at a time, she supposed.

“He doesn't seem to be here,” Rob said.

“Where else could he be?”

Rob gave a quick shake of his head.

“You got me.”

“Have you seen him today?”

Rob rocked back and forth on his heels. “His car was in the lot when I got here, but in answer to your question, no, I haven't seen him since I got in.”

“Isn't that a little unusual?”

“Not these days. He probably went off to play golf with one of his buddies. He's been doing that a lot lately.”

“But,” Bernie objected, “his car is still here.”

“Someone came and picked him up.”

Bernie folded her arms across her chest.

“I don't know,” she said doubtfully.

A little kernel of unease was growing in her chest. In her experience, Type-A guys like Holder usually drove their own cars to wherever they were going, but maybe she was generalizing.

“Are you always this suspicious?” Rob asked.

“I think the word you want is skeptical,” Bernie replied absentmindedly, “and the answer to that question is yes.”

“Must make relationships hard.”

Bernie didn't answer. Her attention was focused on the room. She scanned the area again, looking more carefully this time.

“What's that?” she asked, pointing to a small black shape by the far wall near one of the big barrels. Actually, it looked like the bottom half of one of A Little Taste of Heaven's takeout containers, she told herself. Nevertheless.

“What?” Rob asked. “I don't see anything.”

“Over there. At two o'clock.”

“I still don't see it.”

“That,” Bernie said, immediately sorry that she sounded so impatient with him.

But Rob didn't seem to notice.

“Oh.” He laughed. “That's what you're pointing at. It looks like a piece of trash to me.”

“Maybe, but I'd still like to check it out.”

Rob bowed.

“Be my guest.”

Bernie put the basket she was carrying down on the floor, pushed the first panel aside and started walking. Then she pushed the second panel aside and the third. A moment later she was staring at a black shoe.

“This is bad,” Rob said as he moved up next to her.

“Definitely,” Bernie agreed, tentatively taking another couple of steps forward.

Despite knowing what was coming, she gasped when she saw what was lying on the floor behind the metal drums.

One thing was for sure, Bernie thought. Geoffrey Holder wasn't going anywhere now, not with a hole the size of a walnut in the middle of his skull.

Chapter 24

A
s Libby stared at the gun in Tiffany's shaking hands, she surprised herself. She knew she should be feeling scared, but instead she was pissed off.

All the time she'd spent worrying about Tiffany, all the calls she'd made, the places she'd looked. Not to mention the fact that her father was angry with her and their store was being watched by the cops and this was the thanks she got. Getting pushed down and sitting here in the rain and getting wet and muddy while Tiffany threatened her. No. She didn't think so.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Libby barked.

Tiffany's eyes filled with tears. Her lips quivered.

“Don't talk to me that way.”

“I'll talk to you any way I want.” Libby got up and wiped her hands off on her jeans before straightening up. “I ought to slap you. Now give me that gun,” she ordered.

“No.” Tiffany took a step back.

“Yes.” And before Libby realized what she was doing, she'd reached over and grabbed the damned thing out of Tiffany's hand. “Is it loaded?” Libby asked as she tried not to think about what her father would have said to her if he could see what she was doing.

“I don't know,” Tiffany confessed. “I've never held a gun before.”

“Me either,” Libby admitted as she realized she was pointing the thing at herself.

She carefully turned it around and placed it on the stump of a tree near her. Even though she'd seen her father clean his service revolver on the kitchen table hundreds of times, she didn't know anything about guns. He'd never explained anything about them to her, and she'd never asked because they'd scared her, maybe because her mother had hated having them in the house so much.

“Where'd you get the weapon?” Libby asked Tiffany, who promptly broke down in tears.

“It was so horrible,” she sobbed.

“What?”

“Geoffrey Holder.”

Libby began to get a bad feeling.

“What about him?”

“He's dead.”

And Tiffany began to cry in earnest.

Libby wiped the raindrops out of her eyes and sneezed.

“I didn't even know I'd taken the thing till I got back here, honest.” Tiffany nodded towards the gun. “You believe me, don't you?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Libby desperately wanted to. She told herself she did as she extracted the small bag with the two cookies in it out of her T-shirt pocket, took one for herself, and offered the other one to Tiffany.

“Thanks,” Tiffany said.

“Don't mention it,” Libby replied.

Eating cookies at a time like this was a strange thing to do, she thought, but the feel of chocolate chips on her tongue did make her feel better. She supposed it was her version of downing a shot of Scotch.

“I'm such an idiot,” Tiffany wailed, taking Libby back to the present.

“Yes, you are,” Libby agreed, then felt immediately guilty for saying that even if it was true.

“I should never have run away. I'm sorry for everything.” Tiffany sniffled. She took a bite of a cookie and asked, “What are we going to do?”

“We're going to walk back to my van and call my father.”

And hope he doesn't bite my head off,
Libby added silently as she rubbed her forehead. This was definitely going to be an eight-aspirin day. But come what may, Libby decided, she
was
having that drink with Orion. And she
was
going to wear her new T-shirt. Then she immediately felt bad for thinking about things like that at a time like this.

Libby looked at Orion. They were sitting on the sofa in his parents' living room. He seemed so quietâno, the word was containedâand she was having a hard time keeping still.

“Just like old times,” he remarked as Libby folded her hands in her lap so she wouldn't pick at her nails.

“The sofa's new.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“I like your T-shirt.”

“Thanks.”

Libby took a deep breath and tried to look casual as Orion moved closer and put his arm around her shoulder. This was like being back in high school, she told herself as she felt her pulse race. They should have stayed at the bar and had another beer. She wasn't ready for this. Not yet. Especially not after today.

“Where are your parents?”

“At Lake George visiting friends.” Then Orion bent over and gently kissed Libby on the lips.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Libby moved back a little.

“I don't know . . .”

“What's to know?” Orion asked.

“This . . .” Libby stood up. “It feels weird.”

“You're still mad at me, aren't you?” Orion asked. “I wouldn't blame you if you were.”

“Well . . . it is hard to trust someone who did what you did,” Libby conceded.

“What can I do to change your mind?”

Libby couldn't think of an answer. She'd blanked out. Orion reached over, took Libby's hand, and patted it when she didn't reply.

“Considering the day you've had, maybe this isn't the time to talk about things like this.”

“It has been horrible,” Libby said.

“Little Tiffany killing two people.” Orion shook his head. “Hard to fathom.”

Libby removed her hand from his and stood up. “She didn't do it.”

Orion got up too and faced Libby. “I really hope she didn't. But then it'll be someone else we know. It's not as if it's a stranger doing this.”

“Maybe it is,” Libby countered.

“Do you really believe that?” Orion asked her.

“I'd like to,” Libby said softly. “But no. I don't.”

She watched Orion straighten and smooth back his hair with the palm of his hand.

“I was speaking to Geoff the other day,” he mused. “And now I'm going to be going to his funeral.” He paused for a moment. “And I thought things were going to be quiet when I moved back.”

Suddenly Libby felt as if she couldn't breathe.

“I have to go,” she told him.

“Can I see you again?” he asked.

“Definitely,” Libby said.

He leaned over and kissed her.

“You taste sweet,” he told her as he escorted her to the door.

Something is wrong with me,
Libby said to herself as she got into her van. She'd fantasized about being with Orion for the past ten years and now, when she had the opportunity, what had she said?
I have to go. Bernie is right,
she thought as put the key in the ignition.
I need professional help.

Sean sat in his wheelchair, sipping Wild Turkey from a jam jar. He knew the jam jar annoyed Libby. They had, as she kept reminding him, perfectly good glasses downstairs, but for mysterious reasons he preferred using this one, maybe because it reminded him of when he was a kid and it was all they'd had.

As he gazed at his two daughters, he wondered what his dear departed wife would have said about what happened today. Nothing good. Of that he was sure.

It was a little before twelve o'clock at nightâpast his bedtime, but neither of his children gave the slightest indication that they were ready to go to bed. Neither was he, for that matter. They were all too wound up from the day's events.

First there had been the call from Bernie and then the call from Libby, not to mention the call he'd made to Paul. He hated asking anyone for favors. Once was bad. Twice was insupportable. No matter what the problem was, he would never have called Paul for himself, but he was the first to admit he'd always been a sucker for his girls.

“You're sure she's not going to run this time,” Paul had asked him.

Sean had looked at the quivering, sodden mess that was Tiffany standing before him and said, “I'm sure.”

“You're positive? Because I don't want . . .”

“Trust me on this.”

“Be there in ten,” Paul had told him before hanging up.

As Sean had studied Tiffany, he doubted that she'd even have the energy to climb back down the stairs to the street again, let alone jump out of another window.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he'd asked her.

But she'd just cried harder.

“Try pulling yourself together,” he'd urged, but that had only led to a fresh bout of sobbing. She'd still been at it when the patrol car arrived to take her into custody.

Sean sighed and turned his attention back to his daughters.

Libby was sitting in the armchair, her legs slung over the side of the chair, methodically eating her way through the plate of lemon bars that she'd brought up from downstairs, while Bernie was perched on the end of his bed alternately eating olives and making serious inroads into the pitcher of vodka martinis she'd mixed herself.

“So.” Libby broke a lemon bar in half. “Paul will represent Tiffany.”

“Someone in his firm will,” Sean corrected.

“And isn't that person lucky,” Bernie observed. “Now he or she can defend Tiffany for two homicides instead of one.”

Libby put the first half of the cookie in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed, leaving a faint dusting of powdered sugar on her lower lip.

“She said she didn't kill Holder and I believe her,” she told Bernie while she cleaned the sugar off her face with the back of her hand. Then she put the plate on the table next to her and swung her legs down.

“So you keep saying,” Bernie observed. “And I'd love to believe you, but she had the weapon that Holder was shot with in her possession.”

“She explained that. She found it near Holder's body and reached down and took it with her.”

“Why? Because she thought it looked nice? The color appealed to her?” Bernie said.

Which was, Sean noted, what he'd been thinking as well, though he wouldn't have phrased it in quite that way.

Libby leaned forward.

“Tiffany was scared,” she shot back. “She grabbed it on impulse and ran away. Haven't you ever done anything like that?”

“No,” Bernie said. “I can't say I have. But then, I've never been in her situation either. Here's another question though. Why was Tiffany in Holder's place of business?”

“I already told you. She said she got a call to come over.”

“From this mysterious woman who she can't identify? Now let me get this straight. Here she is being looked for by the police and she hitches a ride out to Holder's business and walks in the back way? It's something I would definitely not do.”

“She's not you,” Libby snapped.

“Thank God. And how did she get this alleged phone call considering she's in the middle of the woods?”

“On her cell. Everyone has her number. She uses it to book her hair appointments.”

“The call shouldn't be hard to verify,” Sean pointed out. “Paul can get a court order for the phone records.”

“Maybe we should hire a private detective to help with the defense,” Libby suggested to her father.

“I don't think your friend has the money for that,” Sean replied gently.

He started to raise his glass to take another sip of his drink, but it began to slide out of his hand. He hurriedly put it back down on the tray before Bernie and Libby could see what was happening.

God, he hated this. He could feel one of his black moods descending on him when he saw tears rolling down Libby's cheeks.

“What is it?” Sean asked, his problems suddenly forgotten.

“I shouldn't have called you,” she said to her father. “If I hadn't called you, Tiffany wouldn't be in jail now.”

Sean made a soothing noise. “You did the right thing.”

“Not for Tiffany I didn't,” Libby said.

“Bernie and I will do the best we can,” Sean told her. What else could he say in the circumstances? “Right, Bernie?”

“Right, Dad.”

Libby wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You think there's a chance?” she asked.