A Catered Fourth of July (10 page)

“That's news.”

“It's true. I do,” Gail protested. “It pains me to say this, but you're acting like a fool. You have to get your head out of the clouds. You're a good baker, but a fool. The rest of the town agrees that Marvin did it. Just read your Facebook postings. He did it because he was angry at Devi.”

“Because of a fender bender? Don't be ridiculous,” Libby snapped. “People don't kill people over things like that.”

Gail shrugged. “Some people do.”

“But not Marvin.”

“Bad things have been known to happen for far less reason,” Gail pointed out. “Perhaps Marvin just wanted to teach Devi a lesson and things got out of hand. Perhaps something else was going on. Maybe Marvin was doing something bad and Devi found out and threatened to go to the police.”

“Like what?” Libby demanded.

Gail shrugged again. “I don't know. Something.”

Libby took a deep breath to keep herself from yelling. “He didn't do anything. Absolutely nothing.”

“I know it's painful, but you have to accept the fact that Marvin is the most likely suspect. There's no arguing with that.”

“Nonsense. Total nonsense. Everyone had the opportunity,” Libby countered. “Anyone could have gone into the storeroom. The lock was broken.”

“So Marvin says. We only have his word for that.”

“I believe him.”

Gail sighed. “Then you and your sister are the only ones who do.”

“He's being railroaded.”

“By whom?”

“By your husband, for one.”

Gail gave Libby a more sorrowful than angry look. “The truth of the matter is that your boyfriend is going to be arrested soon. It's just a matter of time. And I have to say I don't think it's going to be good for your business to be associated with him.” Gail leaned over in Libby's direction. “I'm just offering a friendly piece of advice, for what it's worth,” she confided. “You girls have good food. I'd hate to see you close.”

“Is that a threat?” Libby asked.

Gail tittered. “Oh dear me, no. It's an observation.”

“And you're saying that, why?”

“Well, you know how people are. Especially in small towns like this one.”

“No, I really don't. Why don't you explain it to me?”

“They're always so suspicious. So anxious to affix blame.”

“What are you saying, Gail? Exactly.”

Gail gave Libby a brittle smile. “It should be apparent. I'm trying to do you a favor and give you a few words of wisdom,” she informed Libby in a patronizing tone. “But evidently you're too . . . too . . . blind to listen to them.”

Libby didn't answer because anything she had to say would have been beyond rude. She closed her eyes and took three deep breaths. How had the conversation shifted from Rick to Marvin? Somewhere along the way Gail had gained the upper hand. How it had happened Libby had no idea. What she did know was that it was all Bernie's fault.

If it hadn't been for Bernie, she wouldn't be there. She wouldn't be angry and frustrated. She wouldn't want to strangle Gail or eat a piece of chocolate. Both activities would be equally satisfying. Unfortunately, she couldn't engage in either at the present moment since her nails weren't dry . . . which was probably a good thing.

Another minute went by. And another. Libby couldn't stand it. She felt as if she was going to scream. She had to have a piece of chocolate to calm herself down. Surely her nails were done. She reached into her bag and took out a chocolate kiss. She was just about to unwrap it when Bernie burst into the salon.

She looked hot and disheveled and extremely cranky. “Why the hell don't you answer your phone?” she snarled as she advanced on the nail drying station.

Libby held up her hands and wiggled her fingers back and forth. “I didn't want to ruin these.”

Bernie pointed to a ridge on Libby's thumb where the nail polish had come off when she'd stuck her hand in her bag. “You already have.”

Libby groaned. All that work for nothing.

“Come on,” Bernie told her. “We have to go.”

“Why? What's up?”

Bernie noticed that Gail's ears had perked up—metaphorically speaking.

“My, my,” Gail purred. “What new and exciting developments are happening?”

“Nothing that need concern you,” Bernie told her, which was a big fat lie. If it didn't concern Gail, she didn't know whom it did concern. “Absolutely nothing,” she reiterated then turned to Libby. “We gotta go. Our cooler is on the fritz.”

“That's terrible.” Gail's face was a mask of fake concern.

Bernie didn't reply. She was too busy hustling her sister out of the salon door.

A
s soon as Libby stepped outside she could feel her shirt sticking to her back. “What's wrong with our cooler?” she asked as they headed toward the van. She didn't want to think about how fast everything was going to spoil in the heat.

“Nothing's wrong with it.” Bernie held out her hand. “Give me the keys. I'm driving.”

“Then why did you say it was broken?” Libby asked her sister as she handed them over.

“Because I had to say something in front of Gail.” Bernie opened the van door and rolled down the window to let some of the heat out. It had to be over hundred degrees inside the vehicle. Unfortunately, there wasn't time to let it air out. She touched the seat. It was hot. “You should have parked in the shade.”

“I would have if there had been any shady spots available.” Libby took a rubber band out of her bag, lifted her hair off the nape of her neck, and formed a ponytail. There. That was better. “Are you going to tell me what's going on?” She hopped into the van and rolled down the window.

“In a sec.” Bernie got in on the other side. The moment she sat down she could feel the heat radiating from the seat. It burned the back of her legs. “We need to get one of those reflective folding things for the windshield.”

“The sooner the better,” Libby agreed, wishing she had taken Bernie up on her offer and worn one of her long silk sundresses instead of what she had on. “So tell me. Is this about what you found at the Evans house?”

Bernie started the van up and turned on the air-conditioning. “Nope. It's about Marvin.”

Libby put her hand to her mouth. “What about Marvin? Did they arrest him? Is he in jail?”

Bernie fanned herself. “Someone shot at him.”

“Shot?” Libby echoed.

“That's what I said.” Bernie started backing out of the parking lot. “But he's fine,” she quickly added. “He didn't get hit.”

“At least for that.” Libby blinked the perspiration out of her eyes.

Bernie put her foot down on the pedal and the van lurched forward.

“What happened?” Libby asked.

“From what Marvin said, he'd just parked the Taurus near the back door of the funeral home and was getting out of the car when someone shot at him. He didn't even realize what was happening until he saw the hole in the windshield.”

“Then what did he do?”

“He ran inside and called the police.”

“So he didn't get a look at the shooter?”

Bernie shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“When did this occur?”

“As near as I could tell about an hour ago.”

“And he called you? That's how you know?”

Bernie nodded.

“Why didn't he call me?” Libby asked.

“Maybe because you weren't answering your phone.”

“Good point.” Libby reached into her bag, pulled out her cell, and checked it. Her sister was right. Marvin had called. Twice. She felt embarrassed at the stab of jealousy she'd felt.

“Happy now?” Bernie asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Libby nodded. She was quiet for a moment as she thought about the implications of what Bernie had just told her. Then she said, “Do you think the shooter, whoever he—”

“Or she,” Bernie interrupted.

“Or she . . . was aiming for Marvin? Or do you think this could have been accident of some sort?” Libby asked, repeating Bernie's idea as the air-conditioner wheezed into life and began sending a tepid stream of air into the van's cab.

“I wish it was, but I don't think so. It happened in the back parking lot of Marvin's dad's funeral home.”

“Okay. I'm not getting your point.”

“Think about it. It's not as if there are any shooting ranges around there.”

“True. Or places to hunt,” Libby reflected, thinking of the last case they'd solved. “The area around the funeral home is all commercial retail and private homes.”

“Exactly,” Bernie said, blowing through a stop sign.

“We're not doing traffic signals anymore?”

“It's not as if anyone was at the intersection.” Bernie gestured toward the road. No one was on it. “It's empty and we're in a hurry.”

“Good excuse. I can hear you saying that to a cop.”

“Do the words
backseat driver
mean anything to you?”

“Do the words
safe driver
mean anything to you?” Libby replied.

“Do you want to drive?” Bernie asked Libby.

“No.”

“Okay then.”

“Fine.” Libby brooded for a couple minutes then she went back to thinking about what had happened to Marvin. “Maybe someone was shooting at a target in their backyard and missed,” she suggested.

“That's possible,” Bernie agreed.

“But you don't think that's what happened?” Libby asked, reading the expression on her sister's face.

“No, Libby. Honestly, I don't. It's too much of a long shot.”

“What kind of bullet was it?” Libby asked.

Bernie shrugged. “Marvin mentioned a cartridge so it was from a modern weapon.”

“Not a musket?”

“No, not a musket.”

“So Devlin's death and this shooting might not even be related,” Libby said.

“Maybe not, but it's hard to think they wouldn't be.”

“Yeah. It is, isn't it,” Libby conceded.

“At least Marvin's okay,” Bernie reflected after another moment of silence had gone by.

“That's the important thing.” Libby began tapping her fingers on the van's dashboard.

“Can you please stop that?” Bernie told her after a minute of
rat-tat-tatting
had gone by. “It's making me crazy.”

“I'm thinking, Bernie.”

“Well, could you think a little quieter?”

“I don't think that's a sentence.”

Bernie didn't answer. She refused to be drawn into another quibble with her sister. She leaned over and turned on the radio. The sounds of early Madonna washed through the van.

“There might even be an upside to Marvin's being shot at,” Libby said after they'd driven a couple more blocks.

“I know where you're going with this,” Bernie replied, anticipating what her sister was going to say next as she cut off Libby and a bus at the same time.

Libby gasped and closed her eyes.

“We had room to spare,” Bernie said defensively when Libby opened her eyes again.

“I didn't say anything,” Libby countered.

“You didn't have to say anything. Your expression did it for you. God, you have no appetite for risk.”

“That's not true. I'm just more prudent . . .”

“Wussy.”

“Careful than you are,” Libby said.

“Admit it. You're a backseat driver. You're even worse than Dad.”

“I am not,” Libby protested.

“You most certainly are,” Bernie disputed. “No wonder Marvin let's you do all the driving.”

Libby waved her hand in the air. “Can we just end this conversation?”

“With pleasure.”

The sisters were quiet for another couple minutes.

Libby waved to a man walking down the street with his Jack Russell. “Ted Swanson. A large coffee, double sugar, no cream, and a blueberry scone.” She recited his daily order. “He just got laid off last week.”

“There's a lot of that going around,” Bernie noted.

“Unfortunately. As I was saying . . .”

“It's not true.”

“What?”

“That someone shooting at Marvin proves that Marvin had nothing to do with what happened to Devlin.”

“How can you say that?” Libby protested. “Of course it does. If anything, the shot is a game changer. It shows that Marvin was the intended target, not Devlin.”

“One would think.”

“Yes, one would,” Libby replied.

“Unfortunately, the police, in their infinite wisdom are not taking that view. According to Marvin, the police think he did it himself and then made up a story to explain it.”

“But why would he do something like that?” Libby asked. “What would be the point?”

“Duh. Obviously, to take attention away from himself,” Bernie replied in a sarcastic tone of voice. “At least, that's what the police are thinking.”

“But that's ridiculous,” Libby objected.

“No kidding. I know that and you know that, but the police don't know that.”

“I bet this is Lucy's doing,” Libby said bitterly. Lucy, aka Lucas Broadbent, was the present Longely Chief of Police.

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Bernie agreed. “It's nice to know he hasn't strayed from his usual modus operandi—pick the most obvious solution and stay with it no matter what. He really is a jerk.”

“An ambitious jerk.” Libby slumped in her seat. She felt like a wet dishrag. Or was it a cloth? She didn't remember. “Can't we crank the air-conditioning up any higher?” she complained.

“I wish.”

“I think I'm going to faint.”

“It's not that bad.”

“Yes, it is,” Libby insisted.

“Okay, I won't argue. It is that bad.”

“If it weren't, we wouldn't be selling four iced coffees to every hot one,” Libby replied.

“Maybe we should get that iced-coffee maker,” Bernie mused, going off on a tangent for a moment. “The glass one that looks like a piece of sculpture.” She'd first seen the machine in a restaurant supply place down on the Bowery a couple months ago, then in a café in Dumbo and had been lusting for it ever since.

“For four thousand dollars? I don't think so.”

“But it is so cool in a techno-Japanese kind of way.”

“I didn't say it wasn't, but that's four thousand dollars we should be spending on other things like fixing up this van or getting another cooler before the one we have really does die.”

“I suppose you're right,” Bernie said sadly.

“I know I'm right.”

No doubt about it. A little Taste of Heaven's business had suffered in the heat. No one seemed to have an appetite, although to be fair, their picnic basket business was doing well. Libby turned around and looked out the window. The sunlight was blinding. Cars baked in the sun. Flowers wilted in the yards. The lawns, usually emerald, had taken on a drab olive color. They were at Acre Avenue. In another few minutes, they'd be at the funeral home.

Bernie cleared her throat. Libby turned and looked at her.

“One more thing. The police are about to impound Marvin's Taurus.”

“Oh no,” Libby cried.

“Oh yes. Evidently, they're treating it like a crime scene.”

“Wonderful. Poor Marvin. Not only does he get shot at and called a liar, he gets his vehicle taken away. I'd say he's had a really sucky day.”

“To say the least.” Bernie turned onto Maiden Lane. “I want to see Marvin's Taurus before they tow it away.”

“Why?”

“Maybe it will tell me—us—something.”

Libby looked at her sister. “Like what? That it needs to have its windshield replaced?”

“Among other things,” Bernie replied.

“So now you're a forensic expert.”

“Listen, it can't hurt.”

Libby looked out the window again. Even the crows had settled down for a nap. “I suppose you're right. It can't. So what did you find in the Evans's house?” Libby asked, changing the subject.

“Which do you want first? The good news or the bad?”

“The good news.”

“Rick Evans is a gun collector.”

“And the bad news?”

“He doesn't collect muskets.”