A Catered Fourth of July (7 page)

“Yes, they are.” Bernie inhaled their aroma. “And they smell wonderful. You know, I have an idea.”

“Don't tell me.”

“You'll like this. Okay you won't like it, but I think I have a way to get Gail to talk. She has a standing appointment for a mani-pedi at La Dolce Vita at eleven every Tuesday . . . and today is Tuesday.”

“You're telling me this, why?” Libby asked.

Bernie grinned. “Because I think you should go. It would be the perfect opportunity to chat her up.”

“Why can't you go?” Libby demanded. “Excessive grooming is your specialty.”

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Excessive grooming? I think I'm going to ignore that.”

“Seriously, why do I have to go?”

“Because while you're talking to Gail, I'm going to be poking around in the Evans's house.”

“Why?” Libby asked.

“You said it yourself. Rick seems way too anxious to point a finger at Marvin. I want to find out why.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Evidence.”

Libby rolled her eyes. “Could you be a little more specific?”

“No.”

Libby sniffed. “That's because you don't know what you're looking for.”

“Untrue,” Bernie shot back.

“Here's what I think. I think
I
should search the place and
you
should get the mani-pedi.” Libby stared at her sister. “How's that?”

Bernie shook her head. “Sorry, but that won't work.”

“Why in heavens not?” Libby protested.

“Because, Libby, for openers, you're Marvin's girlfriend and I am not.”

“So what?”

“So Gail will be more likely to talk to you.”

“How do you come up with that? I'd think it would be just the opposite.”

Bernie flicked a speck of flour off of her tank top. “And you would be wrong. It's called bonding.”

“Bonding?” Libby repeated.

“Yeah. In a manner of speaking. You're going to tell Gail how upset you are that Marvin did what he did and how upset he is about the incident. You're going to talk about what a terrible accident it was and how you're going to miss Jack Devlin. Poke in the ribs. Wink. Wink.”

“But I'm not going to miss him,” Libby objected. “Not one single bit.”

“I know that. You know that. But Gail doesn't. It'll be interesting to see the expression on her face when you mention his name.”

Libby started dissolving gelatin in orange juice, after which she got eggs out of the cooler. She slammed the door shut. “If it's going to be that interesting, you go,” she said ungraciously.

“It won't be the same. Really. Otherwise, I would.” Bernie put her hand up. “Swear.”

“No, you won't. You just want me to get my nails done even though you know how much I hate having someone touch my hands and feet.”

“Tsk-tsk.” Bernie shook her head slowly. “Such a lack of trust.”

Libby put her hands on her hips. “It's true, Bernie.”

“No, it isn't,” Bernie answered in as sorrowful a tone as she could manage.

Libby decided her sister looked as if butter would melt in her mouth. She wished she had her sister's ability to play the innocent.

Bernie turned serious. “I really do think you have the best chance of getting something out of Gail. If I didn't, I wouldn't ask you to go.”

Libby crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. She felt herself begin to weaken. “I don't know.”

“Well, I do. Even if you don't want to, do it anyway. Do it for Marvin,” Bernie urged. “After all, that's what this is all about.”

“That's a low blow. Even for you.”

Aware that she had scored the winning goal, Bernie smiled sweetly. She was always magnanimous in victory. “But an accurate one.” She went over and planted a kiss on Libby's cheek. “Thank you. And who knows? You might actually like it. The mani-pedi, that is.”

“I won't,” Libby said, getting the last word in.

Bernie let her. Given the circumstances, she figured it was the least she could do.

“W
hat are you going to do if the garage door isn't open? ” Libby asked her sister as they drove toward the Evans's house.

Bernie had confided that she planned on entering the Evans's house through their garage. That would give her a chance to try and open the door with the picks she'd “borrowed” from her dad's desk drawer without anyone seeing her.

“Then I'll find another way, but it always is,” Bernie replied.

“And you know this how?” Libby asked.

“Because I usually go by their house when I go to Eli's to get the flour.” Bernie fiddled with the air-conditioning in the van, trying to get a little more cool air out of it.

Libby fanned herself with the side of her hand. “You go this way?”

“It's shorter.”

“Not by much.”

“By enough.” Bernie gave up on the air-conditioner and leaned back.
If I don't move, I'll be fine,
she told herself. Maybe she should buy a fan. One of the old-fashioned paper variety. She remembered seeing a lovely one in an antique store in the city.

She ate the last of her slightly stale raspberry chocolate muffin and brushed the crumbs out of the smocking on the front of her dress. Raspberry and chocolate were a no-fail combination, even if she did say so herself.

It was ten forty-five in the morning and almost ninety degrees. Rain was predicted in the early afternoon from a storm moving up the East Coast. Given the grayness of the sky, it looked as if the rain was going to be coming a lot sooner than that.

“Good luck,” Libby said as she dropped Bernie off three blocks from the Evans household.

Since they only had one vehicle, a vehicle with the name of their business emblazoned on the side, they'd decided it would be smarter if they met up again at the salon. Parking the van in front of the Evans's house was out of the question. Bernie's walk from the house to the nail salon was a mile at most, which wasn't terrible.

Ordinarily, Bernie wouldn't have thought anything of it, but it was like a steam bath outside. Even though she had her bottle of water and was wearing a light silk dress that was as close to wearing nothing as she could manage, her walking flip-flops, and a hat, it was still going to be a schlep. In fact, she was a little sorry—no very sorry—that she wasn't the one having her nails done and that Libby was the one snooping around the garage.

Obviously, she had grossly underestimated the humidity.
There's a lesson to be learned here,
Bernie told herself.
Don't believe the weather forecaster.

Oh well. What was done was done, as her mother used to say. Anyway she was better at this kind of thing—criminal activity of the lite variety—than Libby was. It wasn't something to brag about, but it was true. For one thing, she didn't get as easily flustered as her sister did.

“Tell them to shave your calluses,” Bernie told her sister as she got out of the van. “It's ten dollars more, but it's worth it.”

“Shave my calluses?” Libby repeated. “How do they do that?”

“With a razor.”

“No one is getting near my feet with a razor.”

Bernie shrugged. “Okay, but your heels are cracking.”

Libby sniffed. “They're fine, thank-you-very-much.”

“Don't you want soft feet?”

“I really don't care. My feet take me where I want to go and that's good enough for me.”

“You're just a tad grumpy this morning.”

“That's because I'm about to do something I don't want to do.”

“You need chocolate,” Bernie observed. “You're going into chocolate withdrawal.”

“There is no such thing,” Libby said.

“Yeah, there is and I think you're the poster child for it.”

“Maybe you're right,” Libby conceded as she pulled away and headed toward her putative rendezvous with Gail at the nail salon, leaving Bernie on the side of Maple Tree Lane.

The Evanses lived in a middle-class homogeneous development. That was Homogeneous with a capital
H
. The buildings had gone up in the seventies and mostly consisted of two-story colonials, which appeared to have been designed by someone using a Xerox machine. The fact that almost all of the houses were painted white, with a few light blue and beige ones sprinkled about, didn't help. Bernie had always thought the people who lived in the blue and beige houses had to be the rebels in the development. It was the kind of place where it would be easy to go out, get slightly tipsy, and wander into the wrong residence.

Built by the same developer who had built several other developments in and around Longely, the area featured the same touches. They included but were not limited to tree names for the main streets, black and gold decorative street lamps, houses with entrances that faced the street, attached garages, and gold eagles perched on the eaves over the front doors.

Although the landscaping had not been mandated, each house featured evergreen foundation plantings in front of the houses, as well as petunias and impatiens in the summer, mums in the fall, and tulips in the spring.

In addition, ninety percent of the houses had American flags flying out front. The only difference between the residences was that some of the houses had children's toys strewn on the front lawn and some didn't. Rick and Gail's house was one of those that didn't, a fact Bernie was reminded of as she neared their residence.

She noted another fact and her spirits plummeted. Despite what she'd said to Libby, the garage door to the Evans's house was closed. Shut tight like a drum, although why a drum should be shut tight she didn't know. Bottom line, that sucked. She couldn't even look inside. The garage door was one of those cheapo models that didn't have any windows.

Bernie slowed her pace as she thought about what to do next. Of course, she could always leave, but that would mean admitting to Libby she was wrong and she wasn't prepared to do that. Also, most important, was the fact that, given the circumstances, Marvin did need as much help as he could get. A fact she shouldn't lose sight of.

Bernie nibbled on one of her fingernails as she considered what to do next. She guessed it would have to be the picks she'd brought along. After all, she couldn't climb in through the second-story. She wasn't wearing the right shoes for that sort of endeavor. Flip-flops just didn't cut it when it came to second-story work. Besides, the windows were probably sealed, anyway. That left the first floor. She thought about breaking a window in the back, but discarded the idea. She didn't want to alert Gail or Rick to the fact that someone had been inside.

Of course, she could make it seem like a robbery had been committed . . . but that was a lot of work. Too much work and it increased the danger of being caught. If listening to her father's stories over the years had taught her anything, it was that the more complicated things were, the more clues were left behind, which meant the greater the chance of being apprehended.

The only problem with using the picks, as she now remembered was that she wasn't very good with them. She sighed. Oh well. She guessed she was going to have to give it a try anyway.

On the bright side, the neighbors were at work and no one would see her.

Bernie stuffed her water bottle in her bag and walked quickly to the back. She spent the next twenty minutes trying to open the door . . . and failing. Finally, she gave up. She was just about to leave when she looked at the wreath full of herbs that was tied on the door and laughed. She couldn't believe it! All this time struggling, and there was a key tied to the wreath. She hadn't seen it because the black nylon cord had blended in with the willow branches intertwined with the herbs, which of course was the whole idea.

She carefully took the wreath off its hook, unfastened the key, and wound the tie around her finger so she wouldn't lose it. She put the wreath back, inserted the key in the lock, and turned it. The door swung open. Elated, she did the happy dance, then got control of herself and went inside, carefully closing the door behind her.

She found herself in the kitchen. She took a quick look around, noting the time on the clock. She figured that to be on the safe side she should be out of the house by twelve o'clock at the latest. Bearing that in mind, she continued on through the living room and dining room, pausing on the way to look at the mail and the bank statement that had been left out on the dining room table. Nothing in it raised any alarm bells. From what she could see, Rick and Gail Evans looked like the average carrying-too-much-credit-card-debt couple.

She headed upstairs and did a quick run-through of the second floor. She found nothing noticeable so she returned to the first floor, went into the kitchen, and opened the door that led to the basement.

She switched on the light and slowly walked down the ten steps into something that wasn't quite as bad as the pictures of hoarders' houses on TV . . . but it was pretty darn close. Furniture was piled on top of furniture without much space to walk through.
How odd,
Bernie thought. The upstairs was immaculate. The downstairs was an incredible mess. It was as if the house was schizoid.

Looking around, it was obvious the basement was the repository of twenty years worth of stuff. At least. Probably more. In fact, there was so much stuff that it took her a minute to break what she was seeing into individual components.

She identified a washer and dryer sitting on top of a chest of drawers, two old refrigerators and an upright freezer piled together, a pool table with a tear in the felt, a foosball table with one leg propped up on a load of books, four file cabinets, a kitchen table, shelving of various sizes, old aquariums, stacks of old newspapers, innumerable cartons filled with who-knew what, piles of empty laundry detergent and Clorox bottles, not to mention a scattering of tools, some with their price tags still attached.

Bernie sighed. Looking through the mess would take weeks and all she had was half an hour, maybe three-quarters of an hour at most, if she pushed it.

“Of course it would help if I knew what I was looking for,” she muttered as she skirted a dining room table. She took another step, jamming her little toe against an old generator that had been lurking under the table. She cursed as she hopped on one foot.
Serves you right for wearing sandals,
she could hear Libby say as she bent down and rubbed it.

When the pain subsided, she opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet nearest her and began looking through the papers jammed into it. From what she could see, they were a potpourri of bills, receipts, recipes, newspaper articles, and tax returns, some of which dated back thirty years or more.

She looked closely at a few of the papers then stopped and closed the drawer, certain that nothing in there had anything to do with Jack Devlin's death. She quickly looked through the second and third drawers, but they contained the same materials as the first one. She thought about looking in some of the other file cabinets and changed her mind. She was positive it would be more of the same. Turning, she scanned the basement again and shook her head. The chaos made her think about the state of A Little Taste of Heaven's office. It wasn't nearly as bad as the basement, but it wasn't good.

Truth was, she'd be lucky if she could lay her hands on the shop's tax returns for the last year. Well, that wasn't exactly true. She knew they were in a pile in the office; she just didn't know which pile, and that was true of their expense sheets, as well. It was one of the reasons tax season was always such a nightmare. One of these days, she and Libby were going to have to go through their papers, keep what should be kept, and throw out what needed to be thrown out before their office ended up looking like this basement. Fortunately, their office was smaller, which kept the mess down.

Bernie shook her head again as she contemplated the task in front of her. Herculean was a fairly accurate term, she decided as she cruised up and down the basement randomly opening cardboard cartons. Most contained clothes, some contained books and magazines, while others contained dishes, glasses, and sundry pots and pans. One thing was for sure. None of them contained anything that indicated Rick or Gail . . . or both . . . had anything to do with Jack Devlin's death.

If she ever wanted to hide something, this would be the place to do it, Bernie reflected.

For a moment, she weighed the idea of giving up the search and getting out of the Evans's house, but she remembered what Cheech had said about not being able to catch the wave if you weren't in the ocean and she made the decision to keep going. She spotted a door across the basement and made her way to it. Opening it, she clicked the switch, and went inside.