A Catered Mother's Day (15 page)

Chapter 29

“Y
ou're nuts,” Libby exclaimed, looking slightly aghast. She was standing on the sidewalk across from Clara Randall's house facing Bernie. Due to the weather, they were the only people out on the street. Everyone else was tucked up in their houses instead of doing spring stuff like yard work and washing cars.

“No. I'm not,” Bernie replied. She'd just explained her idea to Libby and gotten the reaction she'd expected.

It was seven o'clock in the evening. The sky was still a gun-metal gray, but at least it had finally stopped raining, although it looked as if it was going to start again any minute. It was still wet out though. Water was pooling in the gutters, beading on the blades of grass, and dripping down from the tree branches. Bernie brushed a drop of water off her nose, spotted an earthworm on the sidewalk that had been flushed out of the ground by the rain, bent down, picked it up, and put it back on the lawn.

“For good luck,” she explained to Libby even though Libby hadn't asked her why she was doing it. “Maybe there's something on Manny's laptop that can tell us something,” Bernie continued. “And at this point we need everything we can get.”

“Agreed, but even if there is, I'm sure the police have the laptop in their possession,” Libby said as she looked at the crime scene tape festooning Clara Randall's house. She couldn't help thinking that with the tape the house reminded her of a badly wrapped package.

She and her sister had just spent the last hour and a quarter following their dad's suggestion. They'd gone up and down a two-block area knocking on people's doors and asking about Manny Roget. Half the people hadn't been in and the ones who had been in hadn't had much to say. Yes, they'd seen Manny Roget from time to time going in and out of Clara Randall's house, but most of them had never spoken to him.

Evidently, he was a man who kept to himself. Only three of the people they'd talked to had exchanged greetings with him. All three said he seemed pleasant enough. Maybe a little on the shy side. How long had Manny Roget lived in Clara Randall's house? No one Bernie and Libby talked to knew precisely. The estimates they'd gotten ranged from three to seven months.

The only thing everyone agreed on was that Manny hadn't been there when the big nor'easter had come barreling through around Thanksgiving. They were sure of that because otherwise he would have been outside helping drag the tree branches off the lawns along with everyone else and they would have remembered that. He was not, everyone agreed, an inconspicuous person.

“We need to see what's on that computer,” Bernie reiterated.

“Then we should have taken it when we had the chance,” Libby pointed out. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her old, battered L. L. Bean rain jacket, realized there was a hole in both pockets, and took her hands out. “But we didn't and now the police have it.”

“You don't know that,” Bernie countered. “What if the CID missed it? They could have. Basically, they were dealing with Clara Randall's homicide scene, not Manny's. They probably just gave his room a quick look through, if that. After all, I put the laptop back in the laundry basket. It was hard to see, so it could still be in the house. It certainly won't hurt to look.”

“Yes, it most certainly will,” Libby said. She folded her arms across her chest. The wind was picking up and blowing the branches around, sending down scatters of raindrops. It looked as if they'd just caught a lull and the rain would be coming back soon, Libby thought. She reached back and pulled up her hood. She didn't like getting her head wet. “What happens if we get caught in the house?” she demanded. “What then? I don't even want to think about what will happen if we are. Dad will have a coronary.”

“We're not going to get caught,” Bernie assured her. “We can go in through the back. No one can see us there. The fence and the garage provide the perfect cover.”

Libby snorted. “I don't care. Even if what you say is true, which I'm not sure it is, I don't think it's worth the risk.”

“Then stay here,” Bernie told her. “I'll be in and out in no time.”

Libby screwed her face up. “I'm serious about not going.”

Bernie put the hood up on her Burberry as well. “I'm not forcing you, but I just want to remind you that we promised Ellen's sons we'd get to the bottom of this.”

“I haven't forgotten,” Libby said stiffly. “I just don't think that breaking in to Clara Randall's house is the way to accomplish that goal. Even if the computer is there, we won't be able to get the information off it. Remember, it's password protected.”

“Don't worry. I haven't forgotten,” Bernie said.

“So?”

“So now we know someone who might be able to get around that small little obstacle.”

“You mean Ryan?”

“No. Tom Hanks.”

“Seriously.”

Bernie laughed. “Who else? I'm sure not talking about Brandon or Marvin.” They were nearly as bad on a computer as she and Libby were.

“First of all, Ryan probably can't do it,” Libby replied, her voice rising slightly.

Bernie frowned at her sister. “Why do you always have to be so negative?”

“I think
realistic
is the word you should be using,” Libby retorted. The truth was she was having deep misgivings about asking Ryan to hack into Manny's computer. It seemed wrong to her on a number of different levels. “And even if he can, I'm not sure it's the right thing to do.”

“I disagree. Anyway, he wants to try,” Bernie said.

“How do you know that?” Libby demanded.

“Simple,” Bernie replied. “Because I asked him.”

“When?”

“Earlier, when you were in the bathroom getting ready to go out.”

“He could go to jail,” Libby protested.

“No, he can't, Libby. He's too young. I checked. The most he'll get is probation. He really wants to do this. He told me this is his way of making up for being an ungrateful little brat.”

Libby's eyebrows shot up. “Those were his words?”

“Not exactly, but close enough.” Bernie leaned against a lamppost to take the weight off her ankle. The swelling had gone down, but every time she stood or walked on it, it started to ache again. “I think we owe it to Ryan to give him the opportunity to square things up. We should let him try.”

“If the laptop is there.”

“Which we won't know until . . .”

Libby put up her hand to stop Bernie talking. “All right. You win.” She didn't have the energy to argue anymore. “Let's just make this fast.”

Bernie hugged her. “You're the best big sister ever.”

Libby untangled herself from Bernie. “No. Just the stupidest.”

Sometimes being the older sibling sucked, Libby decided. How had Bernie convinced her to once again do something they shouldn't be doing? She didn't know. But this she did know. If they got caught Libby knew that the major blame would fall on her shoulders because it always did. Her dad would tell her that she was the older one and hence should know better. And truth? You know what? He was right.

Chapter 30

L
ibby was thinking about what her father would say if he knew what they were doing as she and Bernie quickly crossed the street and walked down the driveway to Clara Randall's house.

“What if someone sees us going in?” Libby asked. She could feel her heart rate kicking up.

“No one can see us,” Bernie assured her, nodding at the fence and laurel bushes with her chin. “Our hoods are up and there's no line of sight from the other houses into the backyard.”

“But if someone does see us and call the cops?” Libby persisted.

Bernie pointed to the garage. “Then we'll say we just came back to get the cat food for Cindy.”

By now the sisters were standing in front of the house's back door. Bernie tried the door handle. The door was locked. Not that she'd expected anything different.

“Stand in front of me,” she commanded Libby.

Libby sighed and did as she was told while Bernie went to work with Brandon's lock picks, the ones she'd borrowed when she'd locked herself out of her house and had “forgotten” to return.

“You can always work as a B and E guy if the store ever closes down,” Libby cracked as she stood guard.

Her sister grunted and kept on twisting the picks in the lock. The hood was making her perspire, but she didn't want to take it off in case anyone was watching. A strand of hair fell across her face and she blew it away. She had to admit she really wasn't very good with the picks. She was just borderline competent, if that. Why wasn't there an app for this? That's what she wanted to know. Heaven only knows, there was an app for everything else under the sun.

“What's the holdup?” Libby asked after another minute had gone by.

“No holdup. It just takes me a little while,” Bernie said between gritted teeth. She supposed if worst came to worst she could always break a window and get in that way, although that would attract attention from the police, something she was trying to avoid.

“Come on,” Libby hissed.

“I'm doing the best I can,” Bernie snapped. She applied more pressure to the pick. A moment later she felt something give and then the tumblers clicked. “We're in,” she told Libby as she straightened up and pushed the door handle down. “I hope.”

The door swung open. Bernie pumped her fist in the air. “Yes,” she crowed. Then she covered her mouth and looked around. Fortunately, no one was there to hear her.

A moment later, Libby and Bernie walked inside.

“What do we say if the police come now, Bernie?” Libby asked. The cat food alibi now being off the table, since they were inside the house.

“We don't say anything, Libby. We run.”

Libby pointed to Bernie's ankle. “You're barely back to walking.”

“Don't worry,” Bernie said as she walked through the kitchen. “It's not going to come to that.”

“That's what you always say,” Libby muttered as she closed the door behind them.

“And I'm right ninety percent of the time,” Bernie rejoined.

“It's the other ten percent that worries me,” Libby said as she looked around the kitchen.

The room was smudged with patches of black dust the CID had left behind when they'd dusted for fingerprints. So were the living and dining rooms. The downstairs looked as if someone with coal dust on their hands had finger painted on the walls and the furniture. Clara Randall, Libby reflected as she headed for the stairs, would not have been pleased. She would not have been pleased at all.

Libby started up the stairs. The fifth step let out a loud squeak when she stepped on it, making her gasp in surprise.

Bernie laughed. “Nervous?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Libby answered. “I just wasn't expecting that. The stairs didn't squeak the last time we were here.”

But Libby had lied. She was nervous. She didn't know whether it was because she was anxious about the cops coming or was just anxious about being in the house, period. The moment she'd walked in she'd felt a strange vibe, almost as if Clara Randall was watching them and blaming them for what had happened—although why Clara Randall would think that Libby didn't have the slightest idea. She wasn't going to tell her sister about what she was thinking though. She'd just make fun of her.

When she and Bernie got to the second-floor hallway, they looked around. The Fu Dogs were there as were the photos on the walls. There was no black dust on the walls or in the other bedrooms except for an errant smudge now and then. On the other hand, the police had obviously gone through Clara Randall's bedroom with a fine-tooth comb. They'd dusted the bed, walls, and dressers for prints and removed the bedding and a good part of the carpet. The room looked bereft. It was hot up there and with the windows shut tight the smell of Clara Randall's death lingered in the air like a bad memory. And there was another smell too. A familiar one, although Libby couldn't identify it.

She sniffed. “What is that odor?” she asked Bernie.

Bernie shook her head. “I don't know. Maybe it's better not to speculate.”

“No. It's something else.”

“Let me know when you figure it out,” Bernie said before turning and walking out the door.

Being in there depressed her. She couldn't help remembering Clara Randall splayed out on the floor. It wasn't the way she would have wanted to go. Stupid comment. Who would? Libby followed Bernie out, making sure to walk around where Clara Randall had lain. The sisters slowed down a little to look at the pictures as they headed toward the door to Manny's room.

“I wonder who's going to take these,” Bernie asked, referring to the photographs.

“I don't think anyone is,” Libby said. “Clara Randall didn't have any family. Or at least none from around here.”

“Sad,” Bernie said.

“Very,” Libby agreed. “At least Mom had Dad and us.”

Bernie nodded as she stopped in front of the door to Manny's room. The walls and the floor were clean. No one had dusted for fingerprints here. She was right. This was how she had thought it would be. The evidence technicians had confined themselves to the scene of Clara Randall's death even though it was obvious to her that the two deaths were related.

She opened the door and slowly went up the stairs using the banister as leverage. The room looked the same way it had when she and Libby had left it. She went over to the laundry basket and peered inside. Yup. The laptop was still lying on its bed of dirty sweatpants. Another win for her!

“See,” she said to Libby as she lifted it out. “I'm going to call Ryan and ask him to meet us somewhere so I can give this to him.”

Libby didn't answer. She was standing off to one side looking out the window.

“What's up?” Bernie asked, joining her.

“That.” Libby pointed to a blue Ford SUV with tinted windows slowly cruising down Clara Randall's driveway. As Bernie and Libby watched, the Ford turned around, drove back up the driveway, turned left, went down the street, came back up, and parked across from Clara Randall's house.

Libby pressed herself against the wall and took a deep breath to try and calm herself down. She didn't think whoever had been driving the vehicle could see her from the street, but she wanted to make sure. “Do you think that's an unmarked vehicle?” she asked anxiously.

“No,” Bernie replied immediately. “I don't. An unmarked vehicle wouldn't have those windows. They're illegal. Anyway, why would they be staking out this house?”

Why oh why,
thought Libby,
do I let Bernie get me into these messes when I know better? What is wrong with me?

“How about because they got a call from one of the neighbors about an intruder?” Libby snapped back.

“Think for a minute,” Bernie told her sister. “If the Longely PD got a call like that they would have sent a squad car over and a cop would be downstairs banging on the front door and shining a light in the windows.”

“So who is it then?”

“I have no idea. Can you see in?” Bernie asked Libby.

Libby peeked out. “No, I can't.”

“Well, neither can I, so I'm not even going to begin to speculate.”

“What do you think he—”

“Or she . . .”

“Whatever. Wants?”

Bernie clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Not a clue. If I don't know who he is, how am I going to know what he wants?”

“Well, I don't like it,” Libby said, still studying the vehicle. “The windows freak me out.”

“Me too,” Bernie agreed. “Although maybe they're not as dark as they look.”

“You're kidding me.”

“It could be the angle we're looking at them from. It's possible,” Bernie said defensively when Libby rolled her eyes. Bernie tapped her nails against her thigh while she thought about alternative explanations. “Maybe the SUV being here is just a random thing. Maybe whoever is driving is waiting for someone else. Or maybe they pulled over to have a chat on their phone. Maybe they got this car at an auction from a drug dealer and haven't gotten around to changing up the windows.”

Libby snorted. “Talk about reaching.”

Bernie leaned against the wall. “I'm just exploring possibilities.”

“Okay,” Libby said. “Call me crazy, but I wouldn't describe driving up and down Clara Randall's driveway as random. Whoever is in the SUV is definitely studying the house. Or waiting for us to come out. Either way is not good.”

Bernie brightened. She had another idea. “How about this? Maybe it's a real estate agent wanting to get a jump on selling the house.”

“That's a little better,” Libby said, forced to admit that what Bernie had said made some sense. “That's slightly plausible. But what if it isn't? What if it's someone else? What if they are waiting for us to come out? What do we do then?” Libby asked. “We can't wait all evening for him or her to go away.”

“We could go out and ask him what the hell he's doing,” Bernie suggested.

“That's funny considering we're not supposed to be in the house at all.”

“Then how about this?” Bernie said. “We'll give him ten more minutes and if he isn't gone we'll go out the back way.”

“That's not going to help,” Libby protested. “Whoever is in that SUV will still see us walking down the driveway.”

“Not if we go through the hole in the fence . . .”

Libby furrowed her forehead. “What hole?”

“There's a loose plank on the far right.”

“I didn't see it.”

“Well, it's there,” Bernie replied. “We can slip through that and circle around to Boyton,” Bernie said. “Then you can get Mathilda and pick me up there. It'll be faster than me trying to walk.”
At least
, she thought,
we parked the van around the corner. Thank God for small favors.

“What if the SUV is in the driveway when we go outside ?” Libby asked.

“What if the hand of God comes down and squashes us? What if we have a tornado? What if a flood washes us away?” said Bernie, waving her hands in the air. She was losing patience.

“I'm sorry,” Libby said. “I don't see this as a great plan.”

Bernie put her hands on her hips. “I'll be happy to entertain options.... Well?” she said when Libby didn't reply. “I'm waiting for suggestions.”

Libby looked at the floor. Much as she hated to admit it, she couldn't think of an alternative.

“Just as I thought,” Bernie said.

“There's no need to be so smug,” Libby said.

“I'm not being smug,” Bernie told her. “I'm being factual.”

The ten minutes went by slowly. Libby kept peeking out the window to check on the status of the blue Ford SUV while Bernie sat on the futon and tried to access Manny Roget's laptop.

“Total fail,” she said in disgust after she'd tried every combination of Manny Roget's name that she could think of. It would be interesting to see how well Ryan would do. She turned the laptop off and stood up. “It's time to go.”

“Maybe we should wait a little longer,” Libby ventured.

Bernie shook her head. “For what? Whoever is in the SUV doesn't look like they're moving anytime soon, and as you said, we can't stay here forever.” She put the laptop in its case, the case in her Louis Vuitton tote—bought used at a shop in the West Village—opened the door to Manny's room, and headed down the stairs.

“I told you we shouldn't be doing this,” Libby grumbled as she followed Bernie. “I told you something bad would happen.”

“Nothing bad has happened,” Bernie replied as she walked down the hall to the staircase that led to the first floor.

“Yet, Bernie. Yet.”

Bernie laughed. “Think of it as an adventure, Libby.”

“I don't like adventures,” Libby whined.

“No kidding.”

The sisters were now in the kitchen. Bernie looked out the kitchen window. The driveway was clear.

“And that,” Bernie added as she opened the back door, “is the crux of your problem.”

“My only problem,” Libby snapped back, “is listening to you.”

“Ah, but if you didn't, think how dull your life would be.”

Libby wanted to say, “I like dull.” But she didn't. There was no point. It would only continue the conversation.