Authors: Isis Crawford

A Catered Murder (5 page)

BOOK: A Catered Murder

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“The funny-looking guy with the cape said to tell you he wants his bottle of water.”

“It's in the back with his name on it. Go bring it out to him.” Libby gave his hand a light slap. “And stop twisting that nose ring.”

Googie dropped his hands down to his sides. “Sorry. You want me to get the water or put cookie baskets on the rest of the tables?”

Libby thought for a second. “You do the cookies and I'll do the water.”

Then she promptly forgot as everyone converged on her for instructions. For the next twenty minutes, Stan, Amber, and Googie ran back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen serving the cake, and distributing coffee cups while Bernie and Libby went around with coffeepots filling the cups up with decaf or regular.

Libby was making her fourth trip back to the kitchen to refill her carafe when Lydia Kissoff appeared before her.

“Laird is waiting for his water,” she said.

Libby put her hand to her mouth. “I'm sorry.”

Lydia Kissoff sniffed.

“That doesn't help Laird. This wouldn't happen in Manhattan, I can tell you that,” she said.

“I'll be right back,” Libby said and took off for the backroom.

Bernie glanced up from the coffeepot she was filling.

“What are you looking at?” Lydia Kissoff demanded.

“Nothing. You just seem a little tightly wound.”

“What I am is no concern of yours,” Lydia Kissoff snapped.

Bernie screwed the top of the coffeepot back on. “Maybe you should think of taking up yoga. I understand it's very relaxing.”

Two bright spots of color appeared on Lydia Kissoff 's cheeks.

“If I want advice, I'll go to a doctor,” she said to Bernie as Libby appeared at her side with the bottle of water.

“Sorry I took so long,” Libby apologized, handing the bottle to Lydia, who grabbed it and marched off. “She doesn't look happy, does she?” Libby said to her sister.

“Nope,” Bernie agreed. “She doesn't, but then, if I worked for Laird Wrenn, I probably wouldn't be happy either.”

“True,” Libby said. “She really hovers around him. Not something I'd want to do. I wonder what Tiffany sees in Lionel?” she mused. “Because whatever it is, I'm sure not getting it.”

Then she ran off to check on Stan's whereabouts, since he was supposed to be packing up the glasses and was, at the moment, nowhere to be seen.

Five minutes later, out in the dining room, Nigel Herron, the master of ceremonies, stood up and tapped on the microphone. Everyone in the room turned towards him. He straightened his tie and slicked back his hair with the palm of his hand.

“I'm not going to waste any time introducing my old classmate and friend Laird Wrenn,” he said. “He's Clarington's most famous alum, and I'm sure you're much more interested in hearing what he has to say than in listening to me introduce him.”

Someone in the audience yelled, “Damn right we are,” as Herron extended his hand to indicate Laird Wrenn, who was sitting to his right.

Laird nodded at Nigel Herron, then flicked his cape over his shoulders and stood up as everyone clapped wildly. When the applause died down, he began to speak.

“I can't tell you how much I owe my dear friend, Nigel Herron.”

More wild applause, although Libby reflected that Nigel Herron had a strange expression on his face. She just couldn't decide what it was.

“And the school. After all, it is from you”âhe indicated the audienceâ“that I get my inspiration. The events that happened here have given me the stories I've written about. Who would think that Longely holds deep, dark secrets? But it does. And I want to thank you for sharing them with meâwillingly or not.”

And he brought his lips into an unpleasant grin and laughed.

More clapping, but now it was tentative.

“My friends,” he continued. “As my character, Count Catal Hayucuk, would say to you: Welcome, welcome. You and I have much to experience together and little time to do it in.” Laird Wrenn's cape spread out as he opened his arms wide. “Being here for the first time in more years than I want to remember awakens old hungers and old memories.

“Did you know that blood has always been seen as the currency of life? There is blood and there are the creatures that feed upon it. Thus it was and thus it shall be. This was true in Mesopotamia and it is true now. We like to think we've left all of that behind.” Here Laird leaned forward.

“But we haven't,” he confided in a stage whisper. “We haven't at all. There is evil . . .”

“Right here in River City,” Bernie whispered to Libby.

“Shut up,” Libby hissed back while giving Bernie a vicious jab in the ribs.

Laird Wrenn continued. “That is why people read my books. Because they are hungry for the truth. Hungry to know about lives outside of their own stunted existences that consist of mowing lawns and driving children to soccer games.”

People exchanged uneasy looks.

“Hungry to experience the exquisite fulfillment of pure desire. I have been lucky in that sense. I have been lucky that my talents have brought me to this place. I have been lucky to have met Count Catal Hayucuk.”

Laird stopped, picked up the bottle of water Lydia had given him, unscrewed the top, poured some into a glass, and gulped it down. In Libby's dreams the drinking went on and on. In reality, it just took a few seconds.

Laird put the glass down on the table. An odd expression played over his face. His eyes widened. He put his hand to his throat and opened his mouth. A strangled noise came out.

Libby thought she heard the word, “Oh, no.” Or maybe it was a name. She couldn't be sure.

Then he toppled over onto the dais.

This is not good,
Libby thought as she watched Lydia Kissoff and Nigel Herron leaning over Laird's body.
This is not good at all.

“Bernie,” Libby said. “I think he's dead.”

“At least he brought his own coffin,” her sister replied as she watched Griselda Plotkin, followed by Fred the photographer, run towards the dais.

Chapter 5

“G
et the shot, Fred, get the shot,” Libby mimicked Griselda Plotkin as she ran towards the dais at the reunion dinner. “Who the hell invited them anyway?”

Sean Simmons looked at his daughter. He didn't think he'd ever seen her this upset. It was a little after nine in the morning. Sunday in Longely. Except for the churchgoers, the occasional jogger, and the hum of the lawn mowers, no one was out. Most of the townspeople were eating their breakfasts and reading the morning newspaper and, Sean thought, talking about last night's event.

He followed the progress of a black and white neighborhood cat that was crossing the side street outside his bedroom window while he considered what he could say that would calm Libby down.

“Lionel probably had a heart attack,” Sean suggested, covertly glancing down at the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. Given the circumstances, doing it would seem callous, he decided.

Libby rolled the pencil under her palm for a few seconds before speaking.

“I hope so, but he didn't grab his chest. He grabbed his throat.”

“One thing doesn't preclude the other.” Sean conveyed a piece of egg to his mouth. “People do strange things in times like that. Believe me. I know. In my job I've seen them all. At least they won't have to buy a coffin for him.”

“That's what Bernie said.”

Libby and Sean sat in silence for a minute. He reached over and speared a small piece of potato with a shaky hand.

“I understand your old flame was at the reunion.”

“Bernie told you?”

“She mentioned it.” Sean lifted the fork to his mouth. “How is he?”

“Orion's good,” Libby said.

“I think I can still get someone to beat him up and run him out of town if you want.”

There had been a moment when Orion had left Libby that he'd seriously considered doing just that before common sense and his wife prevailed.

Libby laughed and went over and kissed her dad on the top of his head.

“Thanks, Dad. Not every girl has a father that would make an offer like that, but I think I have everything covered.”

“Just so you know.” He squeezed her hand. “You look tired,” Sean said, studying his daughter's face as she moved away.

“I can't understand why,” Libby told him.

Tired didn't even begin to cover it, Libby reflected as she took a sip of orange juice. Even though she'd squeezed it herself not more than a half hour ago, it tasted tinny. She reflected that this morning everything seemed to have a funny off taste. Maybe it was because she hadn't gotten any sleep.

It had been eleven-thirty before the police had let her and Bernie go. One o'clock before they'd finished talking to their dad. Then she'd eaten half a pan of brownies and that certainly hadn't helped. She'd spent the rest of the night tossing and turning.

Between thinking about what had happened to Lionel and thinking about seeing Orion again, she hadn't been able to close her eyes. And then, when she finally had dozed off, Mrs. Randall's cats had started fighting underneath her window and that had been it.

Sean carefully swallowed the potato and put the fork down.

“I remember Lionel. Short, fat, pasty-faced kid. Ran around in a black Mustang until he got his license yanked. Always had an opinion, whether you asked him for it or not. I pulled him in twice for trespassing. Once at the school and once at that big keg party down by the docks the first week in September. Remember that one?” Sean coughed. “There must have been over two hundred kids there. At least. I had to get a couple of school buses to take everyone we caught down to the station.”

“My God, how could I forget?” Libby made a face. “I heard about it for weeks. It was so embarrassing.”

Sean studied his daughter's face.

“That job paid for your college.”

“I know.”

“That's good because sometimes I get the feeling you wished I had been something else.”

“Well, it wouldn't have hurt if you'd sat at your desk like a normal person,” Libby blurted out. “You didn't have to go racing around in a patrol car.”

“You're right. I didn't have to.” Sean coughed again to clear the phlegm out of his throat. “But your grandfather always taught me that if you want to find out what's going on, you got to get out there and get your hands dirty.”

“With what? Skateboarders? Keggers? The occasional speeder down Oak Street? Nothing ever happens in Longely,” Libby said.

“Plenty happens,” her father retorted. “Your mother just wouldn't let me tell you about it.”

Libby tried another sip of orange juice, made a face, and put the glass down. It still tasted bad.

“Anyway,” her father continued, “what I wanted to say before we got sidetracked is that there was something off about Lionel. Something not right. Most kids, they get into trouble, it's because they're not thinking, but with Lionel you always had the feeling that he was weighing everything. There were rumors about him. Nothing I could pin down, but to be honest, I wouldn't have been surprised to see him land up in jail.”

“Instead he made the
New York Times
best-seller list.”

“This is true,” Sean allowed as he watched his daughter get up from her seat.

She began to pace around the room while she ran her fingers through her hair, trying to calm the tangle of black curls. Finally she stopped and faced him.

“I can't believe he died at my dinner,” Libby said.

“I admit that was inconsiderate of him,” Sean said. “But I'm sure no one is going to hold that against you.”

Libby kept twisting her curls around her finger.

“You wouldn't know that from the way the police acted. They made me leave everything behind. All the dishes. My pots. My knives. The leftover food. Everything. They told me they'd call me when it was all right for me to pick everything up.”

“They were just being extra cautious,” Sean explained again. “I would have done the same thing in their place.”

“You know how it looks?” Libby made another circuit around the room. “It looks as if my food is at fault.”

“Don't be ridiculous. People understand about procedure.”

“No, they don't.”

Sean watched a squirrel running across a telephone line.

“You know I'm right,” Libby said when he didn't reply. “That's why you're not answering.”

Sean grunted. “What does your sister say?” he finally asked.

But before Libby could answer, the downstairs doorbell went off. Sean heard voices. A moment later he heard footsteps on the stairs and Bernie popped into the room. She had a worried look on her face.

“Libby,” she announced. “Clyde Schiller is here. He wants to speak to you.”

“Great.” Libby blew a strand of hair off her forehead. “Just great.”

“Tell him to come up,” Sean said.

“Dad,” Libby began, but Sean cut her off before she could finish her sentence.

“No,” Sean said. “I'm not having my girls speaking to an officer of the law by themselves even if he is an old friend of mine.”

“You didn't want to see him before,” Libby pointed out.

“Well, I do now.”

“You don't have to do this. We can take care of ourselves.”

Sean looked at his daughter for a moment before saying, “Oh, yes, I do.”

Libby tried to deny the surge of relief flooding through her.

“If that's what you want.”

“It is.”