A Catered Tea Party (12 page)

B
y the time Bernie and Libby stepped out of Alla's shop, Stan was halfway across the parking lot.

Bernie cupped her hands and yelled. “Stan, wait. I want to talk to you.”

Stan kept going.

“Maybe he didn't hear you,” Libby suggested.

“Maybe,” Bernie agreed. The parking lot was noisy, what with cars pulling in and out. She picked up her pace to a trot. She was glad she was wearing her three-inch wedges instead of her stilettos. Less chance of tripping, and she could move faster.

“Or maybe he doesn't want to talk to us,” Libby said. Already she could feel a trickle of sweat working its way down her back. It had to be at least ninety, maybe more.

“That too,” Bernie replied as she dodged a car that was backing out of its parking spot.

The woman rolled down her window. “Watch where you're going,” she snarled.

“Let's not kill ourselves,” Libby said as she grabbed a handful of the back of Bernie's sundress and pulled her sister out of the way of another car backing out.

“I'm watching.”

“You're obviously not.”

Bernie grunted as she maneuvered between two parked cars in an effort to head Stan off. Libby slowed down. She could feel the pain in the back of her knee start. Damn. She'd done something to it last week, and she thought it was better, but evidently it wasn't. She was rubbing it when Bernie called out to Stan again. This time he turned, looked at Bernie, made a sharp right, and headed in the direction of the nail salon. Any doubt that Bernie or Libby had harbored about Stan not hearing Bernie vanished.

“I think we can safely say that Stan doesn't want to talk to us,” Bernie said.

“Maybe because he's talked to his brother,” Libby suggested, “and he doesn't want to make things worse.

“Or maybe he's in a rush because he's going to be late for his mani-pedi,” Bernie proposed.

Libby laughed. “Or he could be working on his tan.”

“Or he could be going out the back exit.”

“That too,” Libby agreed. Shops in strip malls were mandated to have a rear exit as part of fire-code regulations.

“Unless he works there and he's late,” Libby said.

“Can you see that, Libby?” Bernie asked as she headed to the salon.

“About as much as I can see you eating Little Debbies,” Libby replied.

“But I like Little Debbies,” Bernie protested.

“Yeah. Me too. It's a guilty . . .”

“Pleasure,” said Bernie, finishing her sister's sentence for her. “Like frozen Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Snickers Bars.”

“And Popeyes fried chicken.”

By this time they were at the salon door. Bernie opened it and went inside. Libby followed.
At least it's air
-
conditioned,
Libby thought as a blast of cold air hit her. The place was full, and the woman behind the cash register looked up and smiled as Bernie and Libby entered.

“What can I do for you? You want manicure? Pedicure? Waxing? Tan?” the woman asked as Bernie spotted Stan exiting the rear door and took off after him.

“We're just passing through,” Libby explained to her.

The woman lost her smile. “Hey,” she said. “What are you doing? This isn't a street. This is a place of business. You can't go running through here like this.”

“Sorry,” said Libby, pausing to apologize.

The woman glowered at her. “I'm calling the police,” she declared reaching for the phone.

“Please don't,” Libby said. “Everything's fine. Really.”

“It is not fine with me,” the woman announced as she dialed.

Libby took off. No use sticking around now, she reasoned. She kept on bobbing her head and saying “Sorry, so sorry” to the women who had put down their magazines and were staring at her as she went by them. She knew it wouldn't help anything, but being polite was a reflexive action.

By the time Libby caught up to her sister, Bernie had caught up with Stan Holloway.

“Why didn't you stop?” Libby could hear Bernie asking him, as she bent over and massaged her legs.

“I didn't know you were chasing me,” Stan told her.

Bernie snorted. “At least if you're going to lie, put a little effort into it, for heaven's sake. Use some imagination.”

“It's the truth,” Stan protested, doing a really good job of looking outraged.

“Of course it is,” Bernie replied. “Why else cut through the nail salon like that?”

“Because—if you must know, not that it's any of your business—I was taking a shortcut.” Stan wiped the sweat off his face with the hem of his T-shirt. Despite herself, Libby couldn't help noticing his abs, which were textbook washboard. They took her mind off the stitch she'd developed in her side.

Bernie looked around. They were in the alley in back of the shop. It was lined with dumpsters brimming with garbage. Clouds of wasps and hornets buzzed around them, while crows hopped in and out, scavenging for food.

Pieces of fast-food wrapping paper peppered the asphalt. It was hotter here than it was in the front of the strip mall, the heat bouncing off the concrete walls and the black tar, and between it and the smell Bernie felt mildly nauseous. She heard someone talking and looked around. A couple of Best Buy employees were standing in front of the store's loading dock taking a smoking break. She brought her attention back to Stan.

“Really,” she said, getting back to the matter at hand. “So where were you taking a shortcut to?” She pointed to the weed-strewn lot that began where the asphalt stopped. “Wait. I know. You were scouting out a camping space.”

Stan scowled at her. “Maybe I was.”

Bernie smiled and brushed a fly away. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Doubt away.” Stan's lips curved into a mocking smile. “In fact, I don't have to answer you if I don't want to, so why don't you just get lost?”

Bernie clicked her tongue against her teeth. “So rude.”

“Hey, you were the one chasing me.”

Bernie let that one go. “I take it you don't have an answer for my question,” she said instead.

“Oh, I have one alright. I just don't want to tell you. You're not the cops,” Stan said smugly.

“No kidding,” Bernie replied. “And if you're really lucky I won't call them either.”

“You won't have to,” Libby said. She'd finally managed to straighten up. “The lady at the register in the nail salon is doing that for you.”

“Great,” Bernie muttered. She looked around. “We should get moving before they show up.” She didn't want to have to explain what she was doing to the cops because she was about ninety-nine percent sure they wouldn't understand. Or approve.

“Works for me,” Stan replied, being of the opinion that any meeting with the police was a bad meeting. “Why would you call them on me anyway?”

“Maybe because you killed Zalinsky. Or maybe because you broke into Casper's house and left a note and a tin of doctored tea on his dining room table,” Bernie said.

“Which?” Stan asked.

“How about both?” Bernie said.

“Wow.” Stan put his hands up in the air. “You got me. Hey, I've changed my mind. Let's wait for the police. That way I can charge you with harassment.”

“Okay by me,” Bernie said. She and Stan glared at each other.

Libby pointed toward Best Buy. “Have fun, you two. I'm leaving.”

Stan thought about the weed he had in the glove compartment of his car and changed his mind again. “You're really crazy,” he told Bernie as he fell into step with Libby.

“So I've been told,” Bernie retorted.

“Where did you come up with this?” Stan demanded.

“Alla,” Bernie said, following in her sister's footsteps.

“Who the hell is Alla?” Stan demanded, looking puzzled.

“The lady who owns the tea store,” Libby replied.

“That's her name?” Stan shook her head. “That's one crazy lady.”

“She said she overheard you say you wanted to kill your boss, and since your boss is Zalinsky . . .” Bernie let her voice trail off.

“I was pissed,” Stan said at the time.

“So you don't deny you said that?” Bernie asked.

“Like you've never said anything like that when you're angry,” Stan shot back.

“I have,” Bernie said. “But the person didn't die.”

“Jeez.” Stan rolled his eyes. “See. This is why I didn't want to talk to you in the first place. Because you're looking to pin Zalinsky's murder on anyone but your friend, and you're grasping at straws.”

“I'm looking for the person who killed Zalinsky, and it wasn't Casper,” Bernie replied.

“So you say,” Stan said.

“I most certainly do,” Bernie replied, taking a quick step back from a wasp that was flying around her face.

“How do you know that? Because he told you he didn't?” Stan demanded.

“All the evidence against him is circumstantial,” Bernie replied.

“There's more against him than against anyone else,” Stan said.

“Not true,” Bernie said.

Stan jutted his chin out. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Bernie replied.

Stan folded his arms across his chest and planted his feet firmly on the ground. “Since you know so much, why don't you tell me why I did it?” he demanded.

“Fine,” Bernie said. “Here's what I think. I think you killed Zalinsky and then framed Casper.”

Stan laughed. “Did I leave the note and the tea on Casper's table as well?”

“How do you know about that?” Bernie asked.

“Easy,” Stan said. “Your friend has a big mouth. He called and asked me.”

“And what did you tell him?” Libby asked.

“I told him yes, of course,” Stan sneered. “What do you think I told him? I hung up on him.”

“Maybe you did do it,” Libby posited. “Maybe you wanted to get back at Casper for the way he treated you and your brother during rehearsals and for the costumes you and your brother were wearing.”

“They made us look like the laughingstocks of the town,” Stan muttered. “I wouldn't even make my dog wear that.”

“But Casper didn't have anything to do with those costumes,” Bernie protested. “And I'm betting you knew that. No. What I think happened is that you killed Zalinsky and were trying—albeit clumsily—to frame Casper by writing that note to the police.”

“You certainly had a motive,” Libby added, stepping back into the conversation. “You killed Zalinsky because of what he did when he took over your business. He promised to grow it, but he didn't, did he?”

Stan shook his head. The mention of what Zalinsky had done infuriated Stan to the point that he had trouble talking about it.

Libby continued in a calm voice. “Instead he did just the opposite. He shut your business down and made you work for him, and now your family is in deep trouble, since they loaned you the start-up funds and you can't repay them.”

“They're losing their house,” Stan blurted.

“That would certainly get me really upset,” Libby noted.

“And how,” Bernie said, thinking of her dad.

Libby swatted at a hornet buzzing around her face. “So you killed Zalinsky and then you tried to frame Casper for it. I think it's as simple as that.”

“Where'd you hear that stuff about Zalinsky and the business?” Stan asked. The words came out through gritted teeth.

Libby took a step back. “Erin,” she replied. “We heard it from Erin.”

“And when did you see her?” Now a vein was pulsing under Stan's left eye.

Libby told him. Judging from the expression on Stan's face, she guessed he hadn't known about his brother's escapade in Zalinsky's house.

“He went there?” Stan asked.

“Yup,” Libby answered.

“With Erin?” Stan said.

“Yes, again,” Libby replied.

Stan took a deep breath and let it out. Then he took another. Libby and Bernie could see his body begin to relax. “George is never going to learn,” he said.

“He's never going to learn what?” Bernie asked.

“He's never going to learn about women. Ever.” Stan rubbed beads of sweat off his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Talk about someone with a motive.”

“Erin?” Libby clarified.

“No. Madam Curie.” Stan bit his lip. “Hear that?” he asked a moment later.

Bernie and Libby stopped talking and listened. They heard sirens, and they were heading their way.

“Come on,” Bernie motioned toward the back exit of Best Buy. “Let's get out of here.”

Libby and Stan nodded. At least that's one thing everyone could agree on, Bernie reflected.

“H
ot day,” Libby said to the two smokers in front of the loading dock as they went by them.

The smokers grunted and continued smoking. Bernie pulled open the glass door and went inside. Libby and Stan followed. A moment later, they were engulfed in the store's air-conditioning. Libby rubbed her arms. Now she was freezing.

“You were talking about Erin's motive,” Libby reminded Stan as they walked by the bank of TVs, all of which were tuned to news channels.

“Was I?” Stan said. He didn't turn his head. He was watching a clip of a baseball game.

“Yeah, you were,” Libby replied.

Stan tore his eyes away from the TVs. “Hypothetically speaking?”

“If that's the way you want it,” Bernie replied.

“It is,” Stan said.

“Go on,” Libby urged.

“I don't know,” Stan said, having last-minute doubts.

“Hey, let's not forget that she-who-must-not-be-named was willing to throw you and your brother under the bus.”

“True. Very true.” Stan gave a nervous cough and shuffled his feet. “Well, in that case,” he began, “if you were engaged to someone, someone wealthy, and you left him for another even wealthier person with the expectation that you would marry that person, and you found out he was going to throw you out of your apartment, which he was paying for, not to mention finding out that all the pieces of jewelry he'd given you were worthless fakes so that he was leaving you with nothing because he was hooking up with a younger, sexier model, you'd be pretty pissed, wouldn't you?”

“Yeah, I think I would,” Libby said, remembering how she'd felt when Orion left her.

“Definitely,” Bernie declared. “He'd be so dead.”

Stan smiled. “Exactly. What is it they say about hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?”

“And does this person who she-who-must-not-be-named was originally engaged to have a name?” Libby asked.

“Ah,” Stan said. “That would be telling.”

“You've already told,” Bernie pointed out.

“Not really. You can't expect me to do all your work for you, now can you?”

“Fine,” Bernie said. “We'll figure that out for ourselves. But I still want to know why you put that tea on Casper's dining room table.”

“Okay.” Stan clutched his chest. “You got me.” He held his hands in the air. “Bring on the cuffs.

Bernie whipped around and faced him. “So you do admit you left the tea there?”

“No, I don't,” Stan answered. “I don't at all. I was kidding. Kidding.”

“I'm not so sure,” Libby told him.

“Good for you,' Stan replied. “You shouldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions. And as for the name of she-who-is-an-incredible-pain-in-the-ass's former boyfriend, I suggest you ask her majesty.” He sniggered at the idea. “I'm sure she'd love to tell you.” Stan bowed. “It's been a pleasure, ladies, as always.” Then he took off.

Bernie started to go after him, but Libby held out a restraining hand. “Don't bother,” she said. “We've gotten everything we're going to get out of him.”

“You're right,” Bernie replied as she watched Stan head for the door. “At least for now.”

“Good. Because I'm too tired to chase him.”

“And too hungry,” Bernie added.

“Yeah, that too. Yogurt doesn't do it for me.”

“Me either,” Bernie said. That was all she and her sister had had for lunch, and it wasn't enough. “I'm thinking something light. Maybe a couple of opened-face brie and cucumber sandwiches on toasted French bread and a perfectly ripe Pennsylvania peach for desert.”

“With an iced coffee,” Libby added. She was imaging the explosion of flavor and the juice of the peach in her mouth.

“And a couple of madeleines,” Bernie said.

“Definitely those,” Libby agreed. They were her new favorites. She loved the subtle flavor of the little cakes and the slight resistance when she bit into one. “I wonder what Dad will say about what Stan said.”

“We can ask him when we get home . . .”

“If he's home.” It seemed as if she and her sister never saw him anymore.

“I just hope that Michelle isn't with him, if he is.”

“Tell me about it.” Libby sighed. Michelle always had something to say. Unfortunately, her comments weren't particularly helpful.

Bernie changed the subject. Michelle was simply too depressing to talk about. “Well, at least we do know that Stan's story confirms the one George was hinting at,” she noted.

“Too bad Stan didn't give us a name,” Libby said.

“An omission the Internet might be able to remedy,” Bernie observed. She removed her smartphone from her bag with a flourish. Five minutes later, she'd found the information she was looking for.

“I wonder if it was Erin who broke off the engagement,” Bernie mused as she passed her cell to Libby.

Libby squinted. “I can't read this. It's too small,” she complained.

“Jeez. Maybe you should get your eyes checked,” Bernie told her.

“Maybe you should get a bigger phone,” Libby retorted.

Bernie grabbed her phone back and read the article to her sister. According to it, Adam Benson, a stockbroker for the firm of Smith and Miller, had announced his engagement to Erin at the Bridgeview Yacht Club in Hudson, New York, on the fifth of November in 2014.

She checked some more. “Evidently Mister Benson is still doing business at the same firm.”

“Ah ha. Our next victim,” Libby said.

Bernie nodded. “It'll be interesting,” she said.