A Catered Fourth of July (15 page)

I
t had started to rain in earnest—the kind of summer storm that flooded the cache drains and pummeled the flowers down to the ground.

“It wouldn't surprise me if she were,” Bernie said as she rushed to close the windows. “In fact, we should check out the Musket and Flintlock Club. It's just a fifteen minute drive from here.”

Libby nodded and went to shut the bedroom windows. “Works for me. We'll do it tomorrow,” she said over her shoulder.

“Definitely.” Bernie turned to face everyone. “Okay, let's assume Libby's correct about Monica. It still doesn't answer another question.”

“Which is?” Libby asked, coming back in the room.

“Why should David Nancy or his sister shoot at Marvin ? That makes no sense, no sense at all.”

Sean watched the droplets illuminated under the streetlight. They reminded him of little pinpoints of light. “For that matter,” he said, “why should Samuel Cotton or Rick Evans or Sanford Aiken shoot at Marvin?”

“I know,” Libby said. “I can't come up with an explanation.”

Bernie reached over, got another black raspberry, and sat down on the sofa next to Brandon. “That is the question, isn't it?”

The lights flickered.

“I hope the power doesn't go off,” Libby said. It had a tendency to do that during a storm, especially a bad storm.

“Me too,” Bernie said, thinking about the contents of their coolers. She decided that tomorrow she and Libby would go down to The Home Depot and get a generator. They really couldn't afford not to, especially since storms were becoming more frequent.

“Maybe it's an outlier,” Brandon suggested, breaking the silence.

Sean, Bernie, and Libby turned and looked at him.

“Reading self-improvement books again, are we?” Bernie teased.

Brandon flushed. “I simply meant maybe Marvin's shooting has nothing to do with what happened to Jack Devlin.”

“How could it not?” Libby asked.

“No. He may be right,” Sean said excitedly. He shook his finger at Libby. “Brandon may be on to something here.”

Brandon grinned. “I am?”

“Quite possibly.” Sean ran his thumb over his lip while he organized his thoughts. “Well, we've been treating Marvin's event as part of a pattern. We've been trying to find a pattern that would explain both Jack Devlin's death and Marvin's shooting. At least, I have.”

“So have we,” Bernie and Libby said together.

“But what if it isn't that at all,” Sean went on. “What if Marvin's shooting was just meant to distract us from the main point, which is who shot Jack Devlin and why?”

“But if it isn't about Marvin, then why did whoever shot Devlin frame him?” Libby asked.

“He,” Sean said, “might not have meant to. There's no reason why suspicion should have fallen on Marvin. I know that if I were investigating, I would consider him an unlikely suspect. Maybe the person who engineered this wanted to make what happened look like an accident. No. I think Marvin might just be collateral damage.”

“Charming,” Libby opined.

“But true,” Sean replied.

“But why take a shot at him now?” Libby asked. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Maybe it's a way to muddle the waters,” Sean suggested.

Bernie cocked her head. “Explain.”

“Well, we're running around looking for an explanation for the two events. Maybe that was the whole idea. Maybe whoever shot at Marvin didn't mean to hit him. Maybe it was a diversion.”

“It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a diversion,” Libby said.

“This is true, but it's the only thing that makes sense. Hey, if anyone has another hypothesis, I'd be more than willing to listen to it.” Sean looked around.

No one said anything.

“So what do we do now?” Bernie asked.

“We go back to concentrating on Jack Devlin's death,” Sean said. “I have a feeling that if we find the perpetrator of that crime, we'll find out who took a potshot at Marvin.”

“Makes sense. We should talk to Rick Evans,” Libby said, thinking of Bernie's find in the basement of his house.

Bernie nodded. “He's first on my list, but let's not forget about Elise Montague and Tony Gerard.”

“Or Monica Lewis,” Libby added. “She certainly has a compelling reason to want Devlin out of the picture.”

“At least, according to Sanford Aiken, she does.” Sean turned to Brandon. “Why do you think he told you that story?”

“I think he thinks that Monica Lewis and David Nancy might have something to do with Devlin's death, but he didn't want to go to the police with the story so he told me.”

“Because he knew that you would tell me,” Bernie said.

“Exactly,” Brandon said.

“Either that or he wanted to shift the blame to someone else,” Sean said.

“Also true,” Brandon conceded.

“Which do you think it is?” Sean asked him.

Brandon thought for a minute. “I think Aiken was telling the truth or to rephrase it, I think he believes what he was telling me.”

Sean sat back in his chair. “At least we've made a start.”

Brandon moved a crumb of challah around on his plate. “What I don't get is why these people talk to you. They don't have to.”

Sean explained. “Primarily, I think they'll talk to Libby or Bernie or me because they want to explain their view of what happened. They want to be heard.”

“But why should they say anything, especially if they're guilty? Isn't it better to just keep quiet?” Brandon asked. “I know I'd just keep my mouth shut.”

Sean chuckled. “It is better. But most people think that they're smarter than anyone else—which is a big mistake. It's all a question of ego.”

“So when everyone gets talked to, then what?” Brandon asked.

“Then we compare notes and see what's what,” Sean replied.

“Maybe we need to go shopping for some plumbing supplies and a vacuum cleaner,” Bernie said, looking at Brandon.

“The stores are closed tomorrow,” Sean reminded his daughter.

“Then we can go the day after, if we don't get to Aiken and Gerard before.”

“Count me out. I'm working,” Brandon told her.

“Not in the morning, you're not,” Bernie replied. “Anyway, what's the big deal? I'm just asking you to come along.”

“The big deal,” Brandon answered, “is that whenever I help you with an investigation bad things happen.”

“Like what?” Bernie demanded.

“Like a house blowing up.”

“It wasn't the whole house!” Bernie said indignantly.

“You're right,” Brandon told her. “It was the bottom two rooms.”

“It was just that one time.”

“Or almost getting arrested. What about that?”

“But you didn't,” Bernie reminded him.

“But I could have.”

“Brandon, all I'm talking about is helping Marvin out, but if you don't want to, hey, that's okay by me.”

Brandon shook a finger at Bernie. “Now that is a low blow.”

“It's the truth,” Bernie retorted.

“Excuse me.” Sean clapped his hands.

Brandon and Bernie stopped bickering and turned to him.

“I hate to interrupt this love fest, but what about Juno?” Sean asked.

“What about her?”

“She was on the hill. She had a good view of things, right?”

“Right,” Libby said, seeing where her dad was going.

“We should talk to Holly and Whitney, too,” Bernie suggested.

“You can't,” Brandon said. “They're in the Hamptons.”

“Fine,” Sean said. “We'll speak to them when they get back. In the meantime, Marvin and I will go talk to Juno.”

“Good,” Bernie said. “Then you can meet Hilda.”

“She's really cute, Dad. You'll like her,” Libby told him. “While you do that, Bernie and I will go visit the gun club and see if we can find out who belongs there. It might help clarify some things.”

They'd already tried looking the Musket and Flintlock Club up on the Web. It didn't have a presence there.

“Happy shooting,” Brandon said.

“Ha-ha,” Libby replied. “Like that's going to happen.”

L
ibby looked at Bernie as they drove down County Road 92. They were going to be late for their meeting since they'd missed the turnoff and had to double back.

“You don't look like someone who wants to join a gun club,” Libby commented.

Her sister was wearing a pale pink T-shirt, an A-line skirt in a flowered print that featured cabbage roses, and strappy vintage coral-colored wedges.

“And you do, I suppose.” Bernie was referring to Libby's Bermuda shorts, pale blue, button-down, short sleeved blouse, and Docksiders. “Actually, I take that back. You do.”

Libby grinned. “Yes. For once I am sartorially correct.”

Bernie didn't reply. She was too busy looking for the turnoff.

There was a moment of silence.

Libby thought about Brandon's comment last night when he'd left. She turned to Bernie. “I don't want to shoot. I really don't. I don't like guns. They give me the creeps.”

“Since when?” Bernie asked.

“Since the reenactment. I've never been a big fan, but ever since the musket exploded”—Libby shivered—“I can't get Devlin's face out of my mind. I'm still having nightmares about it.”

Bernie gave her a sideways look. “Chill. We're just asking for a tour of their facilities.”

Libby nibbled on the inside of her cheek. “I know, but what if the guy showing us around asks us if we want to shoot?”

“To quote Nancy Reagan, ‘Just say no.' ”

“It'll look strange if I don't,” Libby protested.

“Not really. We'll tell him we're just thinking of taking target shooting up as a hobby.”

“How are we going to get the membership list?” Libby asked as she kept her eyes peeled for the turnoff. It had to be around there somewhere.

Bernie shrugged. “We'll think of something. We always do. But first we have to get there.”

Libby spotted the sign. “There,” she yelled. “Turn there.”

“Where?”

“You just went past it.”

Bernie slammed on the brakes and backed up. When she had gone a little over a foot, she saw the sign Libby had been yelling about. Tacked to a tree was a small piece of cardboard with the words
GUN CLUB
written on it with Magic Marker. An arrow pointed down a narrow dirt road.

“Wow.” Bernie stopped the van.

“Wow what?”

“The sign looks like something third graders made and the road doesn't look too great either,” Bernie said, thinking of the shocks on their van.

“No, it doesn't,” Libby agreed.

The women sat there for a moment watching a hawk riding the thermals.

“If we get stuck, we'll be in trouble,” Bernie observed.

“On the other hand,” Libby rejoined, “we need the information.”

Bernie nodded. “There is that.”

She started the van and carefully maneuvered it onto the rutted track, dropping her speed down to five miles an hour as the van negotiated the bumps and dips in the road. The fields on either side were full of clover, tall grass, and dried corn stalks. A crumbling barn, vines growing out of its walls, stood off to the left.

Bernie concentrated on keeping the van on the path. A mile later, the road angled right. “Where is this place?” she complained as they entered a copse of trees.

Libby bit her lower lip. “I've got to say, this seems like a strange way to get to the club. Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe we should go back.”

“We can't. We can't turn around.”

“Great,” Libby muttered as her sister steered the van around a tree root. Suddenly she saw something white between the trees. “What's that?” she asked, pointing.

“Hopefully, the Musket and Flintlock Club.”

A few minutes later, they were through the trees and greeted by a shellacked piece of wood with the name of the gun club burned into it. Bernie heaved a sigh of relief. A few feet after that was a white picket fence and another sign that read M
EMBERS
O
NLY
.

“You have to really want to come here,” Bernie noted as she parked in front of the building.

“I'll say.” Libby eyed the place.

It was not what she had expected. The club was housed in a small, shabby blue-trimmed, white colonial. The paint was peeling around the windows and under the roof eaves. Libby thought that the building must have been someone's home once upon a time, but it was evident that no one had loved or cared for the place for a long time.

The same held true for the landscaping, which consisted of a couple of stunted laurel bushes and a lawn that was mostly speedwell and crabgrass. The window boxes on the ground floor were planted with red geraniums barely clinging to life. A sign prominently displayed on the front door instructed people to come on in, so they did.

The sisters found themselves in a wide entranceway. A man sat at an oversized desk. On either side of the hallway were two rooms furnished with a variety of sofas and armchairs. The pink striped wallpaper in the rooms reminded Bernie of the stuff on the walls of her first apartment before she'd stripped it off and repainted. Somehow she had expected something more upscale. A lot more upscale.

The man looked up from his computer. “I see you made it. I'm guessing you're Bernie and Libby Simmons.”

Bernie nodded. “And you're Tim.” She put him at about sixty years old. He had a weather-beaten face, a fighter's nose, and gray hair in a braid that hung below his shoulders.

“Good guess.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “You're twenty minutes late.”

“We had a little trouble finding the place,” Bernie explained.

“Really?” He had a smirk on his face that neither woman fancied.

“The road is pretty bad,” Libby added.

“We figure it weeds out the people who don't really want to come.”

“I can see that,” Bernie said.

Tim rested both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “So what can I do for you ladies?”

“Like I told you on the phone, we're interested in joining your club,” Bernie said.

“So you have an abiding love for old weaponry?” Tim asked.

“We'd like to learn,” Libby said.

He raised an eyebrow. “And what brought about this sudden passion?”

“Watching the reenactment,” Bernie said, not looking at Libby. “The old weapons seemed so interesting.”

“Do tell.” He cocked his head. “Somehow you and your sister don't seem the weapons type, let alone the old weapons type.”

Bernie leaned forward. “Truth?”

Tim crossed his arms over his chest. “By all means.”

Bernie favored him with a big smile. “Well, everyone who is anyone in town seems to be a member here.”

He grunted. “Go on.”

“I mean there's Rick and Gail Evans and Samuel Cotton, not to mention David Nancy and his wife—”

“What's your point?” Tim interrupted.

Bernie did her best smile. “Well, we just thought it would be a good place to join . . . for business and social reasons.”

“We're not the Rotary Club,” he snapped. “People who belong here have to be sponsored.”

“Rick Evans said he would sponsor us,” Bernie lied. “Isn't that right, Libby?”

“Absolutely,” Libby agreed.

“Is that a fact?” Tim's tone was incredulous.

“Indeed it is,” Bernie said, looking him in the eye.

They stared at each other for a minute.

Then Tim picked a speck of something white off his black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. “Interesting. You should also know that all the other members have to vote on you as well. It has to be unanimous.”

“That won't be a problem,” Bernie told him. “Everyone loves us.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Libby decided things were not going well information-retrieval-wise. “You should come down to our shop and try some of our muffins.”

“I'm gluten-free,” Tim replied.

“Is that like being smoke-free?” Bernie asked.

“No one loves a smart-ass,” Tim told her.

“That's what people tell me,” Bernie replied.

Libby decided to try a more direct route. “So Tim, how many members are there?”

“Enough.”

“More than fifty? Less than ten?” Libby inquired.

“Like I said, there are enough.”

“Can we get a list of the members?” Bernie asked.

“Why would you want to do that?” Tim asked.

“So we can ask them what they think of the club,” Libby said. “Why else?”

“I'm not authorized to give that list out. Now, do you want me to show you around or don't you?”

“Definitely,” Bernie said. “After all, that's what we came here for.”

“There really isn't much to see.” Tim waved his hand around to indicate the rooms on either side of the desk. “We have these two rooms, each of which has a TV. Plus, there's a kitchen in the back, and two rooms upstairs where members can stay.”

“And the gun area?” Bernie asked.

“We have our shooting range and gun room out back.”

“I wonder if Libby and I could take a quick peek?” Bernie asked.

“Don't see why not.” Tim came out from behind the desk and gestured for the sisters to follow him. They headed down the hall, went through a nondescript kitchen that looked as if it was stuck in the 1950s, pushed open a scratched up wooden door, and entered a smaller room.

Boxes of cartridges, gunpowder, and shot were stacked on the table by the wall and five muskets were mounted on a wall rack.

Muskets
, Bernie thought,
that look exactly like the ones used in the reenactment. That's interesting. Maybe someone took a gun from here and substituted it for one of the fake ones.
She indicated the wall rack with a nod of her head. “I'm surprised that people still use guns like those.”

“Well, not those. Those particular ones are two hundred years old, but you can get new ones that are pretty similar.” Tim shrugged. “Some people like shooting with them. They claim it makes the hunt more sporting.”

“So if I wanted to try one out?” Bernie asked him.

“We have some we rent out to guests and such, but our members prefer to bring their own firearms.”

“Where do you keep the ones you have?” Libby asked.

“In a gun safe,” Tim told her.

“And if someone wanted to take one?” Bernie asked.

“As in steal? We'd shoot them.”

Bernie laughed.

“Actually, we have a security system.” Tim led the women outside. “This is the gun range.” He indicated the area in front of him.

Libby estimated it was half a football field in length. There were lines marked out and targets placed at various intervals.

“A lot of people come here?” Bernie asked, looking around.

“A fair number,” Tim said.

“I understand this place puts on a reenactment each year,” she said.

“A small one, but I'm not involved with that. If you want to know anything, you'll have to talk to the president of the club.”

“And who would that be?” Libby asked.

“That would be me,” a voice behind them said.