A Catered Fourth of July (21 page)

I
t was a little before nine in the morning. The sun had just come out and was burning through the morning haze. Brandon and Bernie were on their way to Sanford Aiken's shop when Bernie spotted Monica Lewis's green Miata tootling along Main Street on the opposite side of the road.

“Looky, looky who I see,” Bernie said, pointing in the Miata's direction.

Brandon squinted. “Ah, Monica out for an early morning spin. Must be something important. If I remember rightly, she's still a night person.”

Bernie tapped her fingers on the dashboard.

“What's up?” Brandon asked her.

“I've changed my mind. Let's go talk to Miss Monica now.”

“And leave poor Sanford Aiken in the lurch?”

“You know what they say. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.”

“Yeah, but this little rosebud wasn't at the reenactment,” Brandon pointed out.

“True, but her brother was.”

“You've already talked to him.”

“Also true,” Bernie replied. “Now I want to speak to her and see if their stories agree.”

“Okeydokey.” Brandon took one hand off the wheel and touched it to his head. “
Oui, mon capitaine.
I am here but to serve.”

Bernie grinned. “Exactly.”

“I was being sarcastic.” Brandon executed a quick U-turn on Main Street.

“Really? Fancy that. I would never have known.” Bernie watched Monica Lewis glancing in her rearview mirror. The next thing she knew the Miata put on a burst of speed.

“I think she saw us,” Brandon said.

“I think she doesn't want to speak to us,” Bernie added.

“Good guess, Sherlock.”

“That makes me want to speak to her even more.”

“I got to admit, her reaction is suggestive.”

“But of what?” Bernie mused. “That's the question.”

“How about guilt?”

“I suppose she could have rigged the rifle,” Bernie said.

“Or maybe she has errands to do and doesn't feel like talking to you now,” Brandon suggested, proposing an alternate scenario.

“She doesn't know I want to talk to her,” Bernie objected.

“Of course, she knows. How could she not? You talked to her brother and her sister-in-law, didn't you?”

Bernie allowed that she had.

“Or maybe she just doesn't like you.”

“She doesn't know me,” Bernie shot back. “Anyway, what's there not to love?”

Brandon laughed. “True. You are a paragon of virtue.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Bernie told him.

The Miata was putting more distance between them.

Bernie groaned. “Go faster. We're going to lose her.”

“I'm going as fast as I can,” Brandon snapped. The speed limit was twenty miles an hour and they were already going thirty-eight. “Unless you'd like me to hit someone, that is.”

Bernie bit her lip, hunched forward, and concentrated on keeping the Miata in sight. The next moment, a minivan switched lanes, pulling out in front of them and blocking the view of the Miata. When the minivan changed lanes again, the Miata was gone.

Bernie cursed. “Where did she go?”

“Well, she's got to be around here someplace,” Brandon answered. “There are just two possibilities. She turned off on Ash or Gifford. I'll just circle around and we'll see if we can spot her. At least, she doesn't have a Honda Civic.”

Bernie nodded. Brandon went down Gifford while she kept a careful lookout.

“Nothing,” she said when they'd come to the end of the street.

Brandon started up Ash next. He'd gone three blocks when Bernie spotted the Miata in the parking lot of Good Eats, a health food store.

“There,” she said, pointing to it.

“I know. I see.” Brandon pulled into the lot, parked in back of the Miata, and turned off the motor, but left the key in the ignition. “We are here, my lady.”

Bernie opened the truck door. “This is going to be an interesting chat.”

“If Monica talks to you.”

“She will.”

“Why should she?”

Bernie smiled. “My innate charm. Coming in?”

Brandon shook his head. “You go ahead. I'm going to sit here and take a little nap.” At which point, he put his seat back. “Call me if you need me,” he said as he closed his eyes.

“I will,” Bernie promised as she got out of the truck. Not that she thought she would. After all, what could happen in a fancy-schmancy grocery store like Good Eats where everyone thought pure and peaceful thoughts and only put healthy, organic foods into their bodies?

Usually the store was crowded, but it was still early enough in the day to be fairly empty. The place was large. It had been a sporting goods store previously, and was laid out with lots of space between the aisles, which were set on a diagonal, making it easy to see between them.

Bernie spotted Monica in the gluten-free aisle studying boxes of gluten-free crackers. She supposed that eventually she and Libby would have to offer some sort of gluten-free cupcake, although she'd been resisting the fad, hoping that it would die down before too long. It's not that she and Libby couldn't make gluten-free stuff, she just thought it was mostly a load of hokum.

“Are you really gluten-intolerant?” she asked Monica when she was about a foot away from her.

Monica spun around. When she saw who it was, she started to say something then caught herself and stopped.

“Were you, by any chance, going to say, ‘I thought I lost you?' ” Bernie asked as she advanced on her.

“Go away,” Monica told her.

“I must say you look very fetching. Your year in India has done wonders for your weight, and I like the hair. You're a good blonde. I almost didn't recognize you. Tell me, do blondes really have more fun?”

“I said go away,” Monica repeated as she replaced the box of crackers on the shelf. She turned and started to walk away.

Bernie followed her. “Oh, dear. Did your brother tell you not to talk to me? I bet he did, didn't he?”

Monica kept walking.

Bernie, undeterred, followed. “Hey, my sister and I have a dollar bet. She says Jack Devlin didn't recognize you, but you know what I think? I think he did. I bet he was surprised to see you.”

Monica spun around. “I don't care what you think. You're not the police, which means I don't have to talk to you, and I'm not going to.”

“Of course you're not,” Bernie said in her most soothing voice as she drew closer. “This must be very stressful for you.” She pointed to the filigree silver earrings that were dangling from Monica's earlobes. “Nice. Did you get those in India?”

Monica reached up and touched them. “So?”

“So I like them. They frame your face very nicely. How much weight did you lose?”

“About fifty pounds,” Monica couldn't prevent herself from saying.

Bernie nodded approvingly. “Good job.”

“It was easier there,” Monica explained.

“I bet,” Bernie replied. “You know, I understand completely why you don't want to speak to me. If I were you, I'd want to protect my brother, too, especially after what he did for me.”

Monica furrowed her brow. “Like what?”

“Surely you know.”

Monica licked her lips. “No, I don't. What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the fact that your brother rigged the rifle that killed Jack Devlin.”

“You really are absurd,” Monica protested with a flutter of her hands. “Why would he do that?”

Bernie's smile was compassionate. “Obviously, because of what Jack Devlin did to you. It must be nice to have a sibling that cares that much. I'm not sure that my sister does. She certainly would never do something like that for my sake. I can't even get her to exchange a pair of shoes for me at Barney's when she's going to be in the city.”

Monica gave a strangled laugh. “Now that's funny. Do you think my brother actually cares about that?”

“I was under that impression, yes.”

“My brother doesn't care about anyone or anything except himself. He certainly never cared about me. He hated me from the moment my mother married his father and that hasn't changed at all. He resented any attention I got.”

“But you're staying at his house now,” Bernie said.

“No,” Monica corrected her. “I'm renting a room in my brother's house for a couple months before I start my job in New York.”

“I see.”

“No. I don't think you do.”

“Then tell me.”

Monica shrugged. “There's nothing to tell.”

Bernie tried again. “I guess he cared about the money he lost.”

“What money?” Monica demanded, folding her arms across her chest.

“The money you loaned Jack Devlin that he lost in a bad business deal.”

“So what? I was stupid, but it was my money and it had nothing to do with my brother.”

“The way I heard it your brother was supposed to get some of it and he didn't. As a consequence, he lost a great deal of money in a business he was supposed to go into.”

Monica started laughing and kept on laughing. Finally she stopped and got her breath back. She put her hand to her chest. “That is the funniest thing I've heard. I bet you got that story from Sanford.”

Bernie didn't say anything.

“You did, didn't you?”

Bernie nodded.

“He's lying, you know.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Simple. Because he hates my brother and he wants to get him in trouble.”

“And the reason for that would be?” Bernie asked.

“Because David's wife Cora was stepping out with Sanford. When my brother found out, he flipped out. Sanford was supposed to do a refi and David made sure that didn't happen.”

“How could he do that?”

“Simple,” Monica said. “He's good friends with people at the bank.”

Bernie clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head. She needed a cheat sheet to keep track of everyone's activities. She wanted to know where these people found the time, let alone the energy, to do what they were doing. “I thought Sanford was going out with Juno for a while too.”

“So what if he was? Devlin wasn't the only player in town, you know.”

“Obviously,” Bernie answered. “But none of the others have ended up dead.”

Monica didn't say anything.

Bernie looked her in the eyes. “Then we come back to you. I can see you wanting Devlin dead.”

Monica snorted. “After all these years? Give me a break.”

“Two years isn't that long. I know people who have held grudges for twenty years,” Bernie said, thinking of her dad.

“It's long enough. If I'd wanted to do anything, I would have done it at the time. I would have slit Devlin's throat and watched him bleed out.”

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Charming visual.”

Monica took a deep breath and let it out. “You wanted to hear the truth. That's the truth. But I didn't do that then and I certainly haven't done it now.”

“How do I know you didn't?” challenged Bernie.

“Simple. For openers, I wasn't at the reenactment. I was looking at a sublet in Williamsburg. Then there's the question of motive. Why would I kill Jack Devlin now? I mean look at me.” She indicated herself with her hands. “You said it yourself—I look better than I ever have. I feel fantastic, and I owe it all to Jack Devlin.

“If he hadn't done what he had, I never would have gone to India and found a new life. In retrospect, his doing what he did to me was the best thing that ever happened. No. I wanted to thank him.” Monica made a mournful face. “Alas, it was not to be. And you know what? Juno told me she feels the same way. If it wasn't for Devlin, she never would have found her spiritual side. She would have continued along the material path until her soul withered away.”

“That's certainly a very generous interpretation of events,” Bernie said.

“I'm serious.” Monica's tone was fierce. “You want to know who killed Jack Devlin, talk to Sanford Aiken and Gerard. Those guys had a long history with Devlin and it wasn't a good one.” Monica paused for a minute then continued, “There's always Elise Montague. I've got to say, she's a real piece of work.”

“Meaning?” Bernie happened to share her opinion, but she was curious to hear what Monica was going to say.

“Meaning exactly what I said.” Monica looked at her watch. “I have a massage in half an hour so if you'll excuse me, I have to finish shopping.”

“Call me if you think of anything else,” Bernie told her even though she was pretty positive the likelihood of that ranged from slim to none.

S
anford Aiken's plumbing supply store was located at the shabbier end of Main Street. The stores were smaller, the windows dirtier, and the trees were scrawnier. Bernie and Brandon were sitting in his truck drinking coffee and eating bagels with cream cheese while they waited for Aiken to come back. The sign on the shop door read W
ILL
R
ETURN IN
T
EN
M
INUTES
. By Bernie's watch that meant they had nine more minutes to go.

“These bagels are too soft on the inside,” she complained after she'd taken her third bite.

“Picky, picky, picky.” As far as Brandon was concerned, they were fine.

“I'm not being picky,” Bernie countered. “I'm just saying that they're not New York City style bagels.”

“Maybe that's because we're in Westchester not New York City.”

“Yes, but the store is called New York City Bagels, which means that's what they're supposed to be.” Bernie tore off a piece of crust and waved it in Brandon's face. “In fact, these bagels suck. They should be denser and the crust should be chewier. And the flavors? Pomegranate bagels? Please. Also, I can taste the agar in the cream cheese. Given the rent these guys are paying and the quality of their merchandise, I'm betting they're not going to be in business long.”

Brandon gave a noncommittal grunt. He took another bite and chewed. Okay. So maybe they were a little soft. Maybe peanut butter flavored bagels weren't the best idea in the world, but they weren't horrible. They certainly weren't worth the indignation Bernie was expending on them.

“Do you believe what Monica told you?” he asked after he'd swallowed.

Bernie wrapped up the rest of her bagel and put it back in the bag they'd come in. She was still hungry, but she wasn't that hungry. “Yeah, I think I do.”

“So that whole tale that Aiken was telling me at the bar was just bull?”

“Not all of it. Not the Monica and Devlin part. That was apparently accurate, the rest maybe not so much.”

Brandon rubbed his chin. “So Aiken has something against David Nancy?”

“According to Monica he does.”

Brandon thought about that for a minute. Then he said, “You realize that that means Aiken couldn't have killed Jack Devlin.”

Bernie gave him a puzzled look. “No, I don't realize that at all. Why are you saying that?”

“Well, whoever killed Devlin set Marvin up, right?” Brandon wiped a smidgen of cream cheese off his cheek.

“My dad thinks that might not be the case,” Bernie objected.

“
Might
being the operative word here.”

Bernie held up her hand. “Let's not debate that. Let's just go back to what you were saying before.”

“Fine. If Aiken hated David Nancy that much and he was the one who killed Devlin, why didn't he set up Nancy instead of Marvin?”

“Hypothetically speaking?”

“Yes. Hypothetically speaking.”

“I'm not sure,” Bernie admitted. She took a sip of her coffee and made a face. It tasted as if someone had dunked a couple coffee beans in it. The word
dishwater
came to mind.

“So you agree with me?” Brandon asked.

“I didn't say that. Anyway, you can't prove a positive with a negative.”

Brandon laughed. “Explain.”

“Okay. Two things.” Bernie raised one finger. “First of all, even if Aiken did shoot at Marvin that doesn't prove that he killed Devlin. The two things might not be related.” She raised a second finger. “Secondly, we only have Monica's word that her brother hated Aiken. She could just as easily be lying as not.”

“Let's address your first point,” Brandon said. “I know what your dad said about the two things not being related, but common sense says otherwise. It just seems to me as if whoever is doing this is determined to get Marvin in trouble one way or the other.”

Bernie rolled down her window and dumped out her coffee. It wasn't worth drinking. “Okay. Then answer me this. Who hates Marvin?”

“No one, near as I can tell,” Brandon admitted. He didn't have to think about the answer.

“I rest my case,” Bernie said. “I think Marvin is collateral damage.”

Brandon took another sip of his coffee. “Poor Marvin. That sucks.”

“Yes, it does. How can you drink that coffee?” Bernie asked, switching subjects.

“It's not that bad,” Brandon protested.

“It's swill.”

“When you need caffeine, you need caffeine,” Brandon replied, taking another sip in the face of Bernie's disapproval. “Plus, I put eight sugars in it.”

Bernie made a face. “So you're drinking sludge.”

“Caffeinated sludge.”

“You should—”

“I know,” Brandon said, interrupting her. “I should be careful of what I eat. I'll start tomorrow.”

Bernie sighed. There was no point in pursuing the conversation. They'd been over it too many times before so she changed the subject. “What do you know about Elise Montague?” Bernie had been thinking about her ever since Monica had mentioned her name.

“Aside from the fact that she's an unpleasant lady, is a lousy tipper, and has man hands?” Brandon asked.

“Yes. Aside from that.”

“Probably the same amount that you do. She goes into your place, too, doesn't she?” Brandon asked.

“On Mondays and Wednesdays she gets an order of gingered chicken, a green tossed salad, a pint of coleslaw, and a brownie to go. But she never says anything, except to complain if the chicken isn't warm enough or someone forgets to put extra napkins in her order.”

“Same with me. She usually comes in to RJ's on Fridays around six-thirty, has two Stellas with a slice of orange, and an order of chicken wings, extra spicy She stays for a couple hours, and leaves by herself.”

“I wonder what she does the other four nights?” Bernie said.

Brandon shook his head. “Not a clue. I don't know who she hangs with and I never see her out and about.”

“Have you ever had a conversation with her?”

“Nope. She just gives me her order and sits at the bar and watches TV.”

“Does she come in with anyone?” Bernie asked.

“Not that I've seen. She's not big on talking to people, either . . . unless she's telling them to be quiet. You can guess how well that goes over.”

“Does she ever come in with Samuel Cotton?”

Brandon shook his head. “Not when I've been on, but that doesn't mean she hasn't some other time. You want me to ask Jules and Andy?”

Bernie nodded. “Please. I know she had something going on with Jack Devlin.”

Brandon laughed. “Who didn't?”

“I didn't. Libby didn't,” Bernie replied.

Brandon amended his statement. “I meant aside from you guys. There is one other thing you might find interesting.”

Bernie waited.

“I have a friend who worked a party at the Musket and Flintlock Club. He told me a story about Elise behaving badly. There was this Memorial Day party up there and she got really drunk and needed to use the bathroom, but someone was in it so she went out to the front lawn, pulled her dress up and her undies down, and took a piss. I understand it was quite a show. Especially when Devlin started screaming at her and calling her a slut. Then he dragged her out.”

Bernie leaned forward. “Nothing like being humiliated in public, I always say.”

“I suppose it's as good a reason to kill someone as any,” Brandon allowed.

“Public humiliation? I'd say so. And she does know how to use a gun. Did your friend tell you anything else?”

“About Elise?” Brandon asked.

“About Elise and anyone else at the club?”

“No. He told me they have a mouse problem and that the members drink Bud Light, God help me, and that's about it.

“Has he worked there since?”

“Nope. Too much work, too little pay.” Brandon finished his bagel and gestured to the bag with Bernie's bagel in it. “Are you going to eat that?”

Bernie handed the bag to him. “Be my guest.” She checked her watch. It was almost time. She nodded toward Sanford Aiken's store. “You coming in with me on this one?”

“Nope. You seem to have done so well the last time I think I'll leave you to it.” Brandon yawned. “Just think of me as backup.” He pointed to Sanford Aiken who was slowly walking down the street. He was wearing a navy polo shirt with a frayed collar and a pair of creased khakis.

“He doesn't look so great,” Bernie said, alluding to the gray pallor visible underneath his tan.

“He drinks too much,” Brandon commented. “I wouldn't be surprised if his liver isn't happy.” He clapped Bernie on the shoulder. “Looks like you're up, champ. Have fun.”

“Always.”

Who knew? Maybe if she played this right she could get Aiken to shed some light on why he'd said what he'd said to the police. Or at least what Clyde said he had said to the police.