A Catered Fourth of July (18 page)

“So it's not true?”

“Absolutely not,” Juno declared. “I found the ring a couple weeks later in my washing machine. It had slipped off my finger and I hadn't noticed.”

“You must have been glad to get it back,” Sean said gravely.

“Oh yes.” Juno touched the base of her throat lightly then brought her hand down.

“But you're not wearing it,” Sean observed.

“Now I only wear it on special occasions,” she explained. “I wouldn't want something like that to happen again.”

“Understandable Though I have to say, my wife always found it inconvenient to have to go to the bank every time she needed a piece of jewelry.” A lie, since the only piece of jewelry Rose had ever worn was her wedding band, which she'd never taken off.

“Fortunately, we have a safe in the house,” Juno told him.

Sean nodded. “I'm puzzled though.”

She cocked her head and waited.

“Why would Monica say something like that?”

Juno ran her fingers through her hair. “Because she's jealous of me. She's always been jealous of me.”

“And why was that?”

“Simple. I got all the boys and she never did.”

“You both got Jack Devlin,” Sean pointed out.

“What an infelicitous phrase,” Juno remarked.

“Killing him would be even more infelicitous,” Sean said.

“What are you implying?”

“What do you think I'm implying?”

“You're accusing me?” Juno's voice rose in disbelief.

Sean nodded.

She clutched her breasts. “What a terrible, terrible thing to say. I would never do something like that. Ever.”

“And why is that?”

Her eyes widened. “Because I believe that when someone does something bad it comes back to them sevenfold.”

“Fair enough,” Sean said. “In that case, did you happen to see anything that could help me out?”

She shook her head. “I was in the rose garden along with everyone else helping manifest an Aga.”

“The stove?”

“That's right.”

“The stove that costs twenty thousand dollars?”

“Yes. That one.”

“What happened to the spiritual side of things?”

Juno drew herself up. “Everyone is entitled to both.”

Sean managed not to laugh. “Perhaps Hilda saw something?”

“Perhaps that's what she wants to speak to you about.”

“S
o let me get this straight,” Bernie said to Libby as she swatted a mosquito away. They were waiting for the 7:15 Metro North to get in from New York so they could talk to Rick Evans. “According to Hilda the pig, either Tony Gerard or Rick Evans handed Jack Devlin the musket, but she's not quite sure which one it was.”

“That's what Dad said that Juno said that Hilda said.” Libby leaned back against the van. She decided she liked this time of day. Everything became softer in the waning light.

“I know what he said. I was there when he said it.”

“I know you were. I was there, too.”

Bernie shook her head. “You know, I always thought Juno was nuts, but now I'm sure of it.” She bent down and removed a pebble from her sandal. “I've heard the expression
when pigs fly,
but
when pigs talk?
” She straightened up. “I don't get why Juno can't come out and just say what she has to say.”

“Maybe she's afraid to, like Dad suggested.”

“Afraid of who?”

“Either Rick Evans or Tony Gerard or both.”

Libby pictured both men in her mind. Neither seemed particularly threatening to her. Rick Evans was annoying, pompous, egotistical, and ambitious. But scary? Hardly. As for Tony Gerard, the adjective that came to mind when she thought of him was
nondescript
. He was average height, average weight, brown eyes, brown hair. The only thing that distinguished him was that he was a diehard 49ers fan.

“I wonder what Tony Gerard will say?” Bernie mused. She was planning on talking to him tomorrow morning with or without Brandon.

“About vacuum cleaner bags?”

“Ha-ha. No. About what Hilda said.” Bernie grinned. “I'll be interested to see his reaction.”

“And Rick's,” Libby said.

“Yes. Rick's too,” Bernie agreed.

Libby watched two teenage boys doing ollies on the platform with their skateboards. “I don't think I could ever have done that.” She nodded in their direction. “Not even in high school.”

“You definitely take after Mother's side of the family when it comes to klutziness.”

“I know. But, at least I didn't get her cankles.”

“Thank God for that.”

A moment later, the stationmaster came out and chased the boys away. They were laughing and catcalling as they skated down the road. Libby stretched. It had been a long day and she was tired.

Bernie hitched up her bra strap. “You know—” she began then stopped.

Libby turned to her. “What?”

“I'm worried about Marvin,” Bernie blurted out.

“Me too.” Libby's lips started to tremble. “But we're not going to let anything happen to him, right?”

“Right,” Bernie said. “One way or another we will get to the bottom of this. This whole thing is just weird.”

“Are you referring to Hilda?” Libby asked.

“Yes. Who has a pig for a pet?”

“They're supposed to be very smart.”

“I think I'd prefer a golden retriever.” Bernie waved away another mosquito. The smell of newly cut grass perfumed the air. “What does Marvin think?”

Libby laughed. “He thinks Juno is nuts.”

“Nobody is going to argue about that. But what does he think about her accusations? Did they jog his memory?”

Libby shook her head. “No. He still says he can't remember who handed Devlin the musket. If anyone did.”

“Well, someone had to have handed it to Devlin. You don't rig a musket to explode and just let anyone take it.”

“Unless you're a sociopath.”

“A theory we're not pursuing at the moment.” Bernie closed her eyes and pictured the scene. “Whoever handed Devlin the gun had to have primed it with shot.”

“That's the assumption we're going on,” Libby said.

“So whoever did this must have had the musket with them so they could hand it to Devlin, or they marked the musket so they could pick it out of the pile and hand it to him when the time was right.”

“That is the more logical hypothesis. Too bad we can't look at the muskets to see if that's the case.” Libby took a drink of lemonade from her water bottle.

“I bet the muskets are still in the evidence room.”

“Maybe Craig could take a peek at them.”

“He might if Dad asks him to.” Bernie shook her head. “I should have tried harder to see them after Devlin was killed.”

“You did try, but Rick Evans wasn't having it.”

“I should have been more forceful.” Bernie flicked a gnat away.

“You were in shock.”

“We all were, but that's no excuse.” Bernie watched a blue jay fly by.

Libby took another sip of her lemonade while Bernie consulted her watch. Five more minutes to go.

“Did you know that Juno was a bond trader?” Bernie said suddenly. “A good one.”

“Bond trader to Wiccan. That's a big switch,” Libby observed.

“Maybe she got bored. Maybe she had a vision.”

“It must have been quite a vision.”

T
he Metro-North was fifteen minutes late, pulling into the Longely Station at seven-thirty. Libby and Bernie watched the commuters descend from the train and walk past the station house, which had recently been renovated at a fairly substantial cost to resemble the original one from the early 1900s.

Men and women stepped off the platform, briefcases in hand, and slowly trudged toward the cars they'd left in the parking lot earlier in the day. They all looked tired and rumpled from their long day at work.

Watching them, Libby was glad that she worked and lived in the same place. She felt a rush of gratitude that she worked with her sister instead of sitting behind a desk in some big impersonal office in the city, and that best of all, she did something she loved.

Rick Evans turned out to be one of the last people to walk off the platform and into the parking lot. He was walking slowly, seemingly on auto-pilot, with his eyes to the ground. A ring of sweat beaded his hairline, his white shirt was creased, and he was carrying his suit jacket in the crook in his arm. Libby and Bernie moved away from their van and went toward him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Libby said.

Rick Evans startled and looked up.

“We'd like to speak to you for a moment,” she said.

A bead of perspiration ran down Rick's cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “This is about Devlin, isn't it?”

Libby nodded.

“I've already told the police everything I know.”

“We would just like you to comment on something that Hilda the Pig said,” Bernie replied.

“Hilda?” Rick started laughing. “You want me to comment on something a pig said?”

“Yeah, we do,” Bernie replied.

“Juno is a lunatic. She should be medicated.”

“That seems a little harsh,” Bernie told him.

“So what would you call someone who pretends a pig is talking to her?” Rick challenged.

“Eccentric.”

“You know, it really doesn't matter what you call that nut job. I've had a long day and I'm anxious to get home.”

“To your loving wife?” Libby asked.

“No. To my basset hound. Of course, to my wife. The last thing I want to do right now is have a conversation about something that Juno—”

“Hilda,” Libby corrected.

Rick groaned. “That moron said about me. She hates me. She hates everyone. She spreads lies.”

“Why does she hate you?” Libby asked.

“Because she wanted to use the old Hinkleman House as a Wiccan Institute and I voted no on a zoning code variance.” He shook his head. “First of all, it's in a residential area and people were worried about the parking; second of all, we don't need more crazies running around, conducting ceremonies in the middle of the night.”

Bernie cocked her head. “When was this? I don't remember reading about it.”

“A couple years ago.” Rick shifted his weight from one leg to another. “Juno's never forgiven me for that. She'll do anything to block my becoming mayor, but that's not going to happen.” He shook his head. “She was nice before she got into this Wiccan stuff. Unlike her husband. But now she's off on another planet.”

“What's wrong with her husband?” Libby asked.

“Three words.
Possessive, controlling,
and
jealous.
”

“So he wasn't relaxed with the Juno-Devlin situation?” Bernie asked.

“To say the least,” Rick replied.

“Like you were with your wife and Devlin?” Bernie asked.

Rick shrugged. “Believe what you want. My wife and I have an open marriage. We've had one for years.”

“What about Juno's marriage?” Libby asked.

He shrugged again. “It isn't my business.”

“But if you had to say,” Bernie pressed.

“It's good if you like blood sports,” Rick replied.

“Do you?” Libby asked, changing the topic.

“I hunt, if that's what you mean. But then you already know that.”

Bernie leaned forward. “Are you a good shot?”

He preened. “As a matter of fact I am. I shoot competitively.”

“We've heard you also know a lot about guns.”

He glanced at his watch. “It's no big secret. I'm a collector.”

“We've heard that too,” Bernie put in. “What does your wife think of your hobby?”

“Not much. She doesn't like weapons. Sees no reason to have firearms in the house. Mine are in the basement. It's easier that way.”

So that explains it,
Bernie thought. “My dad always says marriage is the art of compromise.”

“But she's a member of the Musket and Flintlock Club,” Libby pointed out.

“She goes when they're having a potluck, but that's about it. It's strictly a social thing with her.”

“I'm with her,” Libby said, thinking of her one and only experience with a firearm. Her shoulder still hurt like hell.

“Most women are,” Rick said. “Except Elise, of course.”

“You know what I find odd,” Libby said, changing the subject. “What I find odd is that you gave Bernie and me the distinct impression that you didn't know anything about firearms.”

Rick looked at Libby blankly. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“The way you acted when Jack Devlin was killed,” Libby answered.

“What should I have said?”

“I'm not sure,” Libby admitted. “Why did you put Marvin in charge of the muskets, anyway?”

“He volunteered to take care of the costumes, and the muskets were part of the costumes. After all, we're talking about props here.”

“True,” Libby conceded. She took a sip of her lemonade. “Did you take a shot at Marvin?” she blurted out.

Rick shook his head in disbelief. “Why would I do something like that?”

“If I knew, I wouldn't be asking,” Libby replied.

“Well, I didn't,” Rick asserted.

“Then who did?” Libby challenged.

“How the hell should I know?” Rick cried. “I'm not the Magic Answer Machine.” He shifted his jacket back to his other arm. “If you want to talk to someone who had a reason to kill Devlin, talk to Juno's husband.”

“He wasn't there,” Libby pointed out.

“Yes, he was.”

Bernie perked up. “Where? I didn't see him.”

“Neither did I,” Libby added.

“He came late. He was behind the big oak tree in back of the gazebo.”

“What the hell was he doing there?” Libby demanded.

“I'm guessing he was watching Juno. You get a clear view of the rose garden from there.”

“Why would he being doing that?” Bernie asked.

“Why do you think? I already told you. He's pathologically jealous of her. And by the way, FYI, Chuck is a reenactor. He knows all about muskets. He did a couple stints at Gettysburg.”

Libby started to bite her cuticle, realized what she was doing, and stopped.

“You want answers, go talk to him.” Having said that, Rick turned on his heel, marched over to his BMW, and got in. It was one of the only cars left on the lot.

“I wouldn't mind having a car like that.” Bernie sighed as he roared out of the parking lot, leaving a fine cloud of dust in his wake.

“Maybe in your next life,” Libby said.

“Well, it sure ain't gonna be in this one.”