A Catered Fourth of July (14 page)

B
y nine o'clock that evening, the heat of the past days had broken. Within a matter of hours, the temperature had dropped twenty degrees to the low seventies. A breeze was coming out of the west, bringing with it the smell of honeysuckle, which lingered in the night air. The wind had kicked up, and Bernie could tell from the way it was blowing, it wouldn't be long before the rain the weather forecaster had been promising would arrive. It was a good thing since the trees and the plants could definitely use it.

After she and Libby had closed the shop at eight, they'd gone upstairs, turned off the air-conditioners, and opened all the windows so that the evening breeze could come in. It had felt good to air out the house.

Bernie, Libby, Sean, and Brandon were sitting around in the living room sipping iced coffee and eating the wild black raspberries that Sean had picked when she and Bernie had gotten back from talking to Samuel Cotton. The plants had self-seeded in the small patch of land in the rear of A Little Taste of Heaven three years ago.

At first, the bushes had yielded just a few berries, but they must have liked it in that spot because they'd taken over the entire patch of land. This year, the bushes had yielded a bumper crop. The berries were so good, sweet and tart, that the girls couldn't bear to let them go to waste, even though picking them could be a painful affair. The bushes were armored with large thorns.

“Worth every scratch,” Brandon said as he picked a berry out of the bowl, dunked it in cream, and then in sugar before putting it in his mouth. “God, these are good.” He reached over and ate another one.

“Agreed,” Sean said as he took a sip of his iced coffee. Before he took a bite of the challah Libby had baked the other day, he slathered the bread with sweet butter that Bernie had gotten from a farm on the outskirts of the town. “I could live on this stuff forever,” he commented.

Bernie didn't say anything. It had been a long frustrating day and she was enjoying sitting on the sofa next to Brandon with her feet tucked under her. She watched the curtains dance in the swirls of breeze that eddied in and out of the flat and listened to the silence broken only by the sound of the occasional car driving by.

She sighed and snuggled up against her sweetie. Brandon rarely had an evening off but RJ's was closed for a private party and the people who were giving it had brought their own staff along. That being the case, she was determined to enjoy his time off to the fullest extent possible.

Looking at Bernie and Brandon sitting on the sofa together made Libby feel sad. She wanted Marvin there, too. She'd invited him. After all, the discussion they were about to have centered around his situation. But he'd begged off, telling her he was too tired. She sighed.

“Are you okay?” Bernie asked her.

“Why?”

“You don't seem happy.”

“I'm not.”

“Thinking about Marvin?”

Libby nodded. “He's so depressed. All he wants to do is sleep. I'm worried about him.”

“Don't be,” Bernie reassured her. “We'll figure this out.”

“Getting shot at put him right over the edge,” Libby observed.

“He'll be fine,” Brandon said. “He just needs a few days.”

“God, I hope so.” Libby snagged a chocolate kiss out of the bowl in the center of the table, unwrapped it, and let it dissolve in her mouth. Then she sat back in the armchair and waited to hear the story Brandon had to tell.

“You're going to enjoy this,” Brandon had told Bernie when he'd called.

“So tell us what you heard,” Sean urged him, before taking another sip of iced coffee.

Unlike the kind that was hot brewed and refrigerated, this coffee was cold brewed, and Sean liked it a tad better than the iced coffee done by more traditional brewing methods. It was a tiny bit smoother, although he couldn't taste the notes of chocolate and cinnamon Bernie claimed she could. Probably all those years of drinking police station coffee had ruined his palate, he reflected.

“It may be nothing,” Brandon said.

Bernie sat up and stretched her legs out. “Or it may be something. We won't know if we don't hear it.”

Brandon bowed his head in acknowledgment of what Bernie had said and began his tale. “Do you remember Monica Lewis?”

Sean, Libby, and Bernie shook their heads.

“Nope,” Bernie said. “Should I?”

“She used to hang out at RJ's. I think you played darts with her once or twice.”

Bernie shook her head again. “I've played darts with lots of people.”

“She won.”

Bernie shrugged. “Most do.” She was a lousy dart player. “I'm sorry. The name still doesn't ring any bells.”

Brandon ate another berry. He found the combination of berry, sugar, and cream irresistible. “What I'm talking about happened almost two years ago.”

“What does Monica look like?” Bernie asked.

Brandon thought for a moment. “Back then she had dyed red hair on the orangey side. She was kind of heavyset. Given to wearing lots of bracelets and rings. Had a tat of a butterfly on her right shoulder.”

“Sorry. I still can't place her.”

“She usually came in on Mondays and Thursdays around eight, had three or four beers, an order of super hot chicken wings, played a couple games of darts, and left the same way she'd come in. By herself.”

“I don't remember her, either,” Libby said. “Maybe if I saw her.”

Brandon popped another black raspberry into his mouth. “Last night, Sanford Aiken came in and about twenty minutes later Monica Lewis sauntered in and they downed a couple beers. Monica left and Sanford started telling me her story. It's an interesting story. I figured you might want to hear it.”

“Why?” Bernie asked.

“Because it's relevant.”

B
ernie wrinkled her nose. She didn't see where Brandon's story was leading, but knew better than to interrupt him. He enjoyed talking. Eventually, he would get to the point he wanted to make.

“She's living with her brother right now, David Nancy,” Brandon said.

“I didn't know he had a sister,” Libby said.
But then, why should I know?
David Nancy was a relative newcomer and neither he nor his wife patronized their shop.

“Same mother, different fathers,” Brandon explained.

Bernie took a sip of her coffee and put the glass down on the table. One of the window curtains billowed out and she watched it for a moment. Then she spoke. “When you were describing Monica's appearance you said, ‘back then.' Has she changed her look?”

“Good guess,” Brandon told her.

Bernie grinned. “That's what makes me a detective extraordinaire.”

Libby snorted. “So you say.”

Sean leaned forward. “Let the man speak,” he ordered.

Brandon nodded his gratitude. “I almost didn't recognize her. In fact, I wouldn't have if she hadn't said hello to me.”

“Is she very skinny now?” Bernie asked, thinking of the woman she and Libby had seen getting out of the Miata and going into David Nancy's house. “Does she have long blonde hair?”

“That's the one. Correct on both counts.”

Bernie tapped her fingers on her leg. “You know, I saw a green Miata when I was coming back from Rick Evans's house. Now I'm wondering if that was Monica's.”

“Can't tell you,” Brandon said.

“Go on with what you can tell us,” Sean said, urging Brandon along.

“Like I said Sanford and I got to talking. I don't think he would have been so chatty if he hadn't had so much to drink and if he wasn't so upset about what happened to Devlin.”

“He was?” Bernie asked.

“Well, he certainly seemed that way to me. Or maybe it was the fact that I asked him about what had happened to Monica. One moment she's a regular, the next minute I don't see her anymore. I figured she'd joined AA or something like that.”

“But she hadn't,” Sean said.

“Nope. She's just come back from living in some ashram in India.” Brandon leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

“So what did Sanford say?” Bernie asked.

They could hear the rumble of thunder off in the distance.

“For openers, Sanford said Monica was really upset that Jack Devlin is dead.”

“Interesting.” Bernie reached over, took a piece of challah, and buttered it. “Did she want to go out with him?”

Brandon laughed. “Hardly. Actually, she wanted to talk to him. Or maybe
talk
isn't the right word,” he mused.

A flash of lightning illuminated the sky.

“The storm's coming,” Libby noted.

“About time,” Sean observed. “Hopefully the lawns will stop looking as if it's the end of August.”

“That would be nice.” Bernie took a bite of her challah. “So if Monica didn't want to speak to Jack Devlin, what did she want to do?”

“From the way she was talking, Sanford said he got the impression that she wanted to hurt him. Hurt him real bad.”

“I guess she wasn't at the head of the line for that one. Or maybe she was,” Bernie commented.

“Did Sanford say why?” Sean asked.

“Yes, he did.” Brandon ate another berry. “Okay. Monica Lewis got involved with Jack Devlin two years ago.”

“Now there's a shocker,” Libby observed. “Who in this town hasn't been?”

“Us,” Bernie said.

“True,” Libby replied.

“Yes,” Brandon said. “But he and Monica got secretly engaged.”

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Obviously a woman who was not clear on the tomcat concept.”

“He gave her a ring, but told her she couldn't show it to anyone until the time was right.”

“And why was that?” Libby asked. “Did Sanford tell you?”

“Yeah. He did. Because Devlin told Monica he wanted to break his relationship off with Gail Evans first. He didn't want to create undo psychic angst. He was afraid that unless he did it just right, Gail might kill herself and he didn't want that on his conscience.”

Bernie snorted. “Very noble. Somehow Gail doesn't strike me as the going-to-pieces-over-a-guy type. What do you think, Libby?”

“Not even remotely,” Libby replied. “But it's nice to know that Devlin was such a kind considerate soul.”

It was Bernie's turn to lean forward. “Was the ring real?” If she had to bet, she'd have bet that it wasn't.

“Surprisingly, it was. After the whole Devlin thing blew up, Monica took the ring to a jeweler and had it appraised. It was real, but not worth nearly as much as he had said it was.”

“So where did Devlin get the ring?” Sean asked. “Did he go out and buy it?”

“Sanford didn't know,” Brandon told him, “but my best guess is from Juno Grisham. If I remember right, her ring turned up missing around that time. Or so she said. She told me she lost it. And maybe she did, but now I'm wondering.”

“She told me the same thing she told you. Interesting. The rumor I heard didn't have anything to do with her ring. I heard Juno and Devlin had a little thing going when her husband went off to Thailand on a business trip.” Bernie thought for a moment. “The timing would be right.”

“Maybe Devlin told her he needed money really bad,” Libby reflected. “You know, like the loan sharks were after him and if he didn't pay them, they'd kill him so she gave him her ring. Or maybe, he stole it.”

Brandon shook his head. “I don't think so, Libby. I think he was more of a con man than a thief. In fact, I'm willing to bet if he wanted to buy a ring for Monica he could have. He had that boat that he docked in Alex Bay and he drove an Audi.”

“Then why didn't he?” Libby asked.

“Maybe he did,” Bernie said. “We don't know.”

“Or maybe he was just cash poor,” Brandon suggested.

Sean interrupted. “For the moment, let's just assume Devlin did what Aiken said he did and go on from there.”

“All I can say,” Bernie told Brandon, “is that if you did something like that I'd be beyond livid.”

“If you found out,” Brandon said.

“Oh, I'd find out all right,” Bernie retorted.

Libby turned toward her. “Would you be livid enough to kill?”

“Wounded pride can be a powerful motive,” Sean observed.

Brandon took a sip of his iced coffee. “We don't even know that any of this happened,” he protested. “I just said I had an inkling that's what occurred.”

“Well, we do know one thing,” Libby noted. “We know that Devlin's definitely a busy boy.”

“
Was
a busy boy,” Bernie corrected. “There are going to be a lot of very unhappy ladies in this town.”

“And a lot of happy husbands and boyfriends,” Brandon observed as he leaned over, snagged another couple berries, and popped them in his mouth.

“Go on,” Sean instructed.

Brandon nodded and continued. “Here comes the part that's really interesting. According to Sanford, right before Devlin and Monica got engaged”—he bracketed the word
engaged
with his fingers—“she came into some money.”

“What a coincidence,” Sean said dryly.

“Isn't it, though,” Brandon replied.

“Let me guess,” Sean said. “She lent this money to Jack Devlin.”

Brandon clapped. “The man wins the prize.”

“I've always been known for my psychic abilities,” Sean told him. “Get on with it.”

“What did he do with the money, you ask?” said Brandon.

“I do,” Sean said.

“He put it into some cockamamie business scheme. If I understood Sanford correctly—he was a little bit loaded at the time—Devlin invested it in a gold mine.”

“Salted, no doubt,” Sean muttered, shaking his head. How people could be so gullible was beyond him. But one thing his tenure as chief of police in Longely had taught him was that they were.

Brandon buttered another slab of challah and ate it. Pretty soon the entire loaf would be gone. “Anyway, the investment tanked and Devlin lost the one hundred thousand dollars. No big surprise there.”

“Nice chunk of change,” Sean noted. “I know that I wouldn't be happy if that had happened to me.”

“I wouldn't either,” Brandon agreed. “It turns out that part of that money belonged to David Nancy. He had been counting on it for a real estate deal he was involved in. So when the money wasn't there, he lost his shirt.”

“Fascinating,” Bernie murmured. “So he can't have liked Jack Devlin on several different levels.”

“That's understating it by quite a lot,” Brandon agreed.

“Sounds like a motive to me,” Libby said.

“Me, too,” Sean said.

“There's more. According to Sanford, right after the deal went south, Devlin told Monica that he'd had a change of heart, the engagement was off, and he asked for the ring back.”

“Talk about chutzpa,” Libby said. “Did he get it?”

“Yes, he did,” Brandon answered. “She went to her jewelry box and threw it at him, at which point, he left.” Brandon paused for a moment to build up the suspense. “Then she went nutso.”

Sean interrupted. “Such a scientific term.”

“Well, she tried to kill herself. She swallowed some pills. David Nancy was the one who found her.”

“That can't have made him like Jack Devlin any better,” Libby noted.

Brandon nodded. “That's what I figured. According to Sanford, Nancy dropped Monica at the hospital, went back to his house, got his shotgun, and went looking for Devlin.”

“He has a shotgun?” Bernie asked, remembering what Nancy's wife had said about him not liking guns, much less having one. Maybe she didn't know. Or maybe she was lying. Bernie wondered what else Cora was lying about.

“According to Sanford, Nancy has his dad's,” Brandon replied. “The thing is old, but it shoots pretty good. Fortunately, he didn't find Devlin. He went home a couple hours later. He picked Monica up from the hospital the next day. She told Sanford they probably would have kept her for a couple weeks if she'd had insurance, but she didn't so they released her with a prescription for some heavy duty tranqs.”

“And Devlin?” Sean asked. “What about him?”

Brandon shook his head. “I don't know, but I'm guessing that eventually Nancy and Devlin reached some kind of agreement.”

“And you know this, how?” Sean asked Brandon.

“Because Devlin was still walking around.”

“Okay, I have a problem,” Bernie said. “Brandon, let's say you're right about everything. Let's say Devlin and Nancy had gotten around what he did to Nancy's sister. Would you take a musket from Nancy if you were Devlin?” she asked, thinking of the reenactment.

“He might,” Libby interjected. “After all, Devlin thought they were going to be props.”

Sean rubbed his chin with his thumb while he took in everything that Brandon was telling them. “What happened to Monica? Get back to the story.” He raised his voice slightly so he could be heard over the thunder and the rain drumming on the roof.

“Well, she told Sanford that the tranqs weren't working well for her. At that point, to use her own words, she ‘saw the light' and went off to India to meditate in an ashram. She's been gone for a little over a year. She just got back.”

“So her year in the ashram made her want to forgive Jack Devlin?” Bernie asked. “She was sorry he'd died, because she wanted to tell him she forgave him?”

Brandon laughed. “Not exactly,” he said. “According to Sanford, she said she wanted to kill the son of a bitch and was sorry she'd missed her chance.”

“Maybe she didn't miss her chance,” Libby said. “Maybe she was the one responsible for the over-primed musket.”

“I don't think she was there,” Bernie said. “At least, I didn't see her if she was.”

“Even if she wasn't, it doesn't mean she didn't do it,” Libby said. “Monica could have booby-trapped the musket and her brother could have handed it to Devlin.”

“But then why didn't he do anything before?” Brandon objected. “Why would he wait till now to try and kill Devlin?”

“Maybe he didn't get a chance to before,” Bernie said. “Or maybe he didn't feel the need to. Then his sister comes back and does a Lady Macbeth number on him. Wakes up all the guilt and the anger that's been festering, and Bob's your uncle. Plus, it's an easy thing to do.”

“I can see that,” Sean allowed. “It's a definite possibility. The timing is certainly right. The only thing I can't see is Monica doing it. This is more of a guy crime.”

“I think we've had this discussion before about it being a guy or a gal kind of crime,” Libby said.

“And what did we decide?” Brandon asked.

“I don't think we did,” Bernie answered.

“We didn't,” Sean said.

“Maybe you should just call it a gender neutral kind of crime,” Brandon suggested.

“Maybe we should just call it a violent crime,” Sean replied. The phrase
gender neutral
stuck in his craw.

“Yeah,” chimed in Bernie. “For all we know, Monica Lewis might have belonged to a gun club. She might be an excellent shot.”