A Catered Tea Party (16 page)

T
he next day it took Libby and Bernie until early in the afternoon to track down Jason Pancetta. Well, that wasn't exactly true. They really didn't track him down. It was more like they bumped into him. He was going into The Blue House while Bernie and Libby were coming out. They'd just finished trying to talk to Magda and spectacularly failing at that endeavor when Pancetta brushed by them.

“Hello,” Bernie said, noting that Pancetta was carrying a takeout bag from McDonald's and wearing aviator-style sunglasses, black cargo shorts, a T-shirt proclaiming
Drink Is Good
, and flip-flops. Not exactly going-to-work clothes, Bernie thought, as she caught a whiff of suntan lotion coming from him. The smell made her want to go to the beach. Heaven only knows, it was hot enough for it. Unfortunately, the storm had arrived and departed without cooling anything down.

Pancetta looked up, startled. “Yes,” he said, removing his earbuds from his ears.

“What a coincidence,” Bernie said. “If you're looking to talk to Magda, she's not in a very good mood.”

“She's never in a good mood, and I'm not.”

“Not what?” Bernie asked.

“Not here to talk to Magda.”

“So what are you here for?” Bernie asked.

Jason scowled. “Not that it's any of your business, but I came to pick up my baseball hat.”

“Are sure you're not picking up a teapot?” Libby asked him apropos of nothing.

Jason scrunched up his face. “What are you talking about?” he asked Libby.

Libby waved her hand in the air. “Never mind. Forget it. We need to talk.”

“We are talking,” Pancetta pointed out.

“She means about what happened the other night,” Bernie explained.

“Then she should say what she means,” Pancetta observed.

“And mean what she says,” Libby couldn't resist adding.

Jason shook his head. “You're talking like a crazy lady.”

“And you're talking like a crank,” Libby told him.

Jason shifted his McDonald's bag to his other hand. “You'd be cranky too, if you didn't get paid.”

“What makes you think we have?” Bernie said to him.

“As far as we can tell, no one has,” Libby said. “From what I understand from Hsaio, Zalinsky has no money in his bank accounts. None.”

“He would if someone sold all that art stuff Zalinsky has,” Pancetta observed. “Then there'd be plenty of cash.”

“I don't think so,” Libby told him.

“What do you mean?” Jason demanded. “Do you know how much that stuff is worth?”

“If you own it,” Bernie said.

“And Zalinsky was renting it,” Libby said.

Jason blinked. “Get outta here!”

“Seriously,” Libby said. She'd gotten a call from Clyde that morning informing her that Art Unlimited had called the Longely police department wanting to know when they could pick up their stuff.

“Except for the teapot,” Bernie said. “Zalinsky owned that. Too bad whoever took the teapot won't share.”

“They will if I find it,” Jason growled. “You'd better believe that.”

Looking at him, Bernie did. “So who do you think took it?” she asked.

“How would I know,” Jason replied.

“Just askin',” Libby said. She snapped her fingers. “Hey. I have an idea. It could even be you. You could have it.”

“I could,” Jason replied. “But I don't. Now if you'll excuse me,” he continued before Libby could reply, “I'd like to get my hat and have my lunch.”

Bernie pointed to Jason's bag. “Is that it?” she asked as she watched a yellow butterfly fluttering around a black-eyed Susan, one of many that had been planted in front of The Blue House. She didn't remember them being there before, but maybe she just hadn't noticed.

Unlike the black-eyed Susans, the storm had flattened the petunias in The Blue House's flowerbeds and splashed mulch out onto the newly growing lawn. It was just a couple of weeks since Zalinsky had died, but speedwell was taking hold in the grass, and deadly nightshade was growing in the flowerbeds. It wouldn't be long, Bernie reflected, before the place began to look abandoned. The town was going to have to come to a consensus on what to do with The Blue House, and sooner would be better than later.

“No. I got it to feed the geese,” Jason told her. “Of course it's my lunch. Why? Do you have something to say about it?”

“Why would I?” Bernie asked. She brushed a small leaf off her pale blue T-shirt. Today she'd paired her top with a vintage white linen skirt and white espadrilles. It was the perfect outfit for a summer afternoon as far as Bernie was concerned.

“Because of the place you run,” Pancetta told her. “You know, everything there is organic this and locally sourced that.”

Bernie laughed. “I was just going to say I like Mickey Dee's apple pies. Of course, I liked them better when they fried them. The ones they bake, not so much.”

Jason smiled despite himself. “It's true. Fried was better.”

“Sadly, healthier is not always tastier,” Bernie observed.

“Maybe we could sit outside and you could eat your lunch while we talked,” Libby suggested, gesturing to a bench in front of The Blue House.

“I already told you, I have nothing to talk about,” Jason replied. He used his forearm to wipe off the beads of sweat on his forehead.

“How can you say that when you don't know what we want to discuss?” Libby asked.

Jason gave her an incredulous look. “Of course I know what you want to talk about. I'm not an idiot, you know. You're helping out our erstwhile director, never mind that he's a thief and a liar . . .”

Bernie interrupted. “But not a murderer.”

Pancetta ignored her and went on with what he'd been saying. “You want to talk about Zalinsky, and I have nothing to say about him.”

“Fair enough.” Bernie smiled. “I could see why you would feel that way. I'd be embarrassed too, if I were you.” Earlier in the day, she'd managed to have an interesting conversation with Adam Benson's assistant, Hillary John, about Jason Pancetta. It had turned out that the information Bernie had found on the Internet had been correct. Pancetta had worked for Smith and Miller too. Talking to Hillary, it had been obvious to Bernie that Jason had been engaged in some non-kosher activities at the firm, but what they were Hillary wouldn't say, and Jason had either been forced to quit or had been fired.

“Why would I possibly be embarrassed?” Pancetta demanded, attempting to keep his face expressionless and failing.

Bernie enlightened him. “You know,” she said, “your losing Erin to Zalinsky, and then his making you work for him like he did.” Bernie could see Jason's knuckles whitening as his grip on the takeout bag tightened. “I wouldn't want to relive that either. What did he have on you that made you stay?” Despite her best efforts, Bernie hadn't found anything on the Internet when she'd gone back to it. That didn't mean there wasn't anything there. It just meant she'd run out of time to look. “Did you stay because you were hoping to win Erin back? Or was Zalinsky blackmailing you because he knew about something you'd done?” Given what she'd learned about Zalinsky, she was betting on the latter scenario.

Splotches of color appeared on Jason's cheeks. “He didn't have anything on me,” he snarled.

“That's it, isn't it?” Bernie said, thinking about what Hillary had told her about Jason being let go from Smith and Miller. “What did you do that was so bad?”

“I didn't do anything,” Jason protested.

“Did you kill somebody?” Libby asked.

Jason laughed. “You got me. I killed the president of Smith and Miller and threw his body in the Hudson River because he was about to complain to the SEC about his losses.”

Bernie looked him up and down. “I don't see you for a violent crime.” And she didn't. “I see you as a lover, not a fighter.”

Jason smirked and puffed out his chest. “That's right, baby. Anytime you want a demo I'll be happy to oblige.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Bernie studied him some more. “I see you as more of a white-collar-crime kind of guy. A schemer.” She could tell from the expression on Jason's face that she was getting warmer. “Embezzlement?”

“You want me to tell you about the misunderstanding?” Jason asked her.

“It would be nice,” Bernie allowed.

“But we've already established I'm not a nice guy.” Jason moved a step closer to her. “So how about this? How about talking to me when you find the damned teapot. I might feel a little more inclined.”

“Fair enough,” Bernie said. “I do have one more question, though.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “I'll say this for you: you are persistent.”

Bernie curtsied. “I try. We talked to Adam Benson.”

“Ah,” Jason said, frowning slightly. “Good old Adam. Now there's a blast from the past.”

“You two worked in the same firm.”

“You know we did,” Jason told Bernie. “Is that your question?”

“No. My question is why did Erin leave him for you?” Jason grinned. “Why do you think?”

“Sex?” Bernie said. “Or money?”

Jason's grin grew larger. “If there's one thing I know, it's my ladies.”

“So you were her backdoor man?” Bernie asked.

Jason shrugged. “Everyone has a talent.”

Bernie thought about Erin for a moment. She saw her as cold and calculating, a woman moved by money, not sex. “But you had to be making money too,” she said, musing out loud. “Probably a lot. Otherwise Erin wouldn't have looked at you.”

“Let's just say we satisfied each other's needs,” Jason said, miming sex with his hands.

“I'm puzzled,” Libby said, jumping into the fray. “If that's the case, why did Erin leave you for Zalinsky?” she asked.

Jason flushed. His jaw muscles tightened. “It wasn't her choice.”

“Really? People always have choices,” Libby said.

“What world are you living in?” Jason snapped.

“Obviously not yours,” Libby snapped back.

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Is that what Erin told you? That she didn't have a choice?”

“No. That's what I know,” Jason said, and he stormed off toward the parking lot.

“Hey, you forgot to get your hat,” Libby called after him.

“You're going to need it for Zalinsky's funeral,” Bernie added.

Jason didn't answer. Instead he raised a middle finger.

“Oh dear,” Bernie said while she watched him getting into a Jeep. “Maybe he didn't hear us,” she suggested.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Libby replied.

“I do too,” Bernie remarked as she watched Jason zoom out of the parking lot and onto Seeley Road. A minute later he'd gone around the curve and was out of sight.

Libby bent over and took a pebble out of her loafer. “I have to say he's rather touchy about Erin,” she observed when she straightened up. She fanned herself with her hand. Bernie was right. She should have worn a sundress instead of Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt—a dark red polo shirt at that.

“He certainly is,” Bernie agreed. “Or maybe he's getting crabby because that bald spot on the back of his head is getting sunburned. We should give him his hat back.”

“Yes, we should. We wouldn't want him to get skin cancer or anything like that,” Libby replied.

Bernie put her hand to her heart. “Heaven forefend, Libby. Heaven forefend.”

Libby looked at the expression on her sister's face. “You have a plan, don't you?”

“I'm not sure you'd call it that,” Bernie said modestly. Then she smiled and told Libby what she had in mind.

Chapter
31

“B
ut why would the teapot be in The Blue House?” Libby asked Bernie when her sister was through talking. The longer Bernie talked, the more faults Libby found with her sister's notion. Her plan seemed quixotic at best, disastrous at worse.

“Can you think of a less likely place?” Bernie asked.

“Yeah. Timbuktu.”

“We can't look there, but we can look here,” Bernie said, pointing to the structure.

Libby shook her head at her sister's logic or lack thereof.

“And if it's not there,” Bernie continued, “we can cross The Blue House off our list.”

Libby widened her eyes. “List? What list? Do we have a list?”

“I'm speaking metaphorically,” Bernie informed her.

“Ah. How can I not have gotten that?” Libby asked.

“Sarcasm does not become you,” Bernie told her.

“Neither does the heat.” Libby fanned herself with the edge of her hand to make her point. “The Blue House is like a sauna.”

“Such a delicate flower,” Bernie observed.

“At least, let's wait for a cooler day.”

Bernie put her hands on her hips. “You mean to tell me that you're going to be put off by a little heat with Casper's life hanging in the balance?”

Libby snorted. “Let's not overdramatize here. Casper is fine.”

“For now,” Bernie said. “But if we don't solve this, he'll be going to jail.”

Libby waved her hand in the air. “Now is what counts.” She went on. “And have I mentioned the fact that in my humble opinion looking for the teapot is going to be like looking for a . . . ?”

“A needle in a haystack, to use another well-worn phrase,” said Bernie, finishing her sister's sentence for her. “And yes, you have. Several times.”

“Plus there's Magda,” Libby continued, undeterred by her sister's adversarial stance.

“What about her?”

“Shouldn't we tell her what we're doing?”

“Why would we?” Bernie inquired as she watched a cicada land on the grass in front of her, its wings glinting in the sun.

“So she won't call the police or think we're a burglar and shoot us.”

“She won't know we're there, and she doesn't have a gun.”

“What if she does hear us and she does have a gun?” Libby argued. “What then?”

“Then we'll just have to be very, very quiet,” Bernie told her.

“We should tell her,” Libby argued.

“No, we shouldn't!” Bernie told her.

“Why not?”

Bernie transferred her glance from the cicada to her sister. “Obviously, because she could be the one who took the teapot. She could be the one who killed Zalinsky.”

“Even if you're right,” Libby said. “Why do we have to do this now? Why can't we wait till she's gone? It would be easier.”

“And we're going to get in how?”

Libby went silent. They'd given their key to Magda, and the place was still alarmed.

Bernie rubbed her hands together. “So are we going to do this or not?”

“I guess,” Libby said with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

Five minutes later, they were inside The Blue House. Bernie quietly closed the side door behind her. It shut with a soft thud, blocking out the afternoon sun. They'd come in that way because Magda had a clear line of sight to the front door.

“I don't see how Magda can stand this,” Libby observed as she held up her hair to cool off the back of her neck, then pulled out her polo shirt to let the air circulate.

“She dressed for it,” Bernie observed.

Libby let the dig go by. “God, I hope they get the money to fix the air-conditioning because it's even hotter in here than it is outside.”

“Told you you should have worn something cooler,” Bernie couldn't resist pointing out as she blinked her eyes to get used to the dim light.

Libby just grunted. She stood there for a moment, fanning herself. “Where to?” she asked Bernie. “This is your party. You pick.”

“Stage and backstage area first,” Bernie said because those were the areas that were the farthest from where Magda was sitting. “Then the rest of the space.”

The thick beige carpet muffled their footsteps as they walked down the side corridor. At ten feet in, they took a left, walked twenty more feet and took a right. The place seemed huge with no one in it. It was quiet, dead quiet, tomb quiet, in contrast to when Zalinsky had been alive. Then the place had been full of people running about, excited people busy having meetings, willing the future into existence. Now, except for Magda, no one was here.

“I wonder if Zalinsky is going haunt this place,” Bernie mused. “Or maybe he already is.”

“What an odd thing to say,” Libby told her.

“Not really. After all, this was his baby,” Bernie said running her fingers along the wall. Who was going to pay the bills for the place, she wondered, and how long would the lights stay on if no one did. It would be a shame to see a space like this go to waste. “He did die here, and ghosts
are
tethered to places.”

Libby couldn't get her sister's words out of her mind as she walked next to her. She was sure it was because her sister—damn her—had suggested it, but she kept thinking she saw something out of the corner of her eye, and when she turned around nothing was there. She would be very glad to get out of there.

“What's the matter?” Bernie asked as she and Libby neared the backstage area.

“Nothing,” Libby lied.

“Because you're looking a little spooked.”

Libby glared at her sister. “Let's just do what we came to do and get out of here.” She blinked the sweat out of her eyes. “I feel as if I'm going to dissolve into a puddle.”

“Do you think the g—”

Libby held up her hand to stop her. “Don't go there.”

“Just sayin',” Bernie replied.

“Well, don't,” Libby snapped. Being backstage was creeping her out anyway, without thinking that Zalinsky's ghost was looking over her shoulder.

“He could be a helpful ghost,” Bernie went on. “Maybe he wants to help us get the teapot back.”

“And maybe you should shut up,” Libby hissed.

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

“It is,” Libby said. “It definitely is.”

“You take the right side, and I'll take the left,” Bernie said.

At which point they got to work. They looked under and around the curtains, they went through the prop area and down into the areas underneath the trap doors. They lifted up the floor panels and examined the areas between the floodlights, then they opened up the cabinet drawers and moved the chairs.

“Hey,” Libby cried, as she picked up one of the cushions on the chair, “look what I found.”

Bernie came over. She stared down at the pair of white gloves that had been underneath the cushion. “Wasn't Zalinsky looking for those?”

“Oh yes,” Libby said. “Remember? He was running around, accusing everyone of stealing them.”

“Maybe he wasn't wrong,” Bernie said, studying them. “Maybe someone did.” She indicated the gloves with a nod of her chin. “Somehow I have the feeling these didn't get under the cushion by themselves.”

“Maybe someone hid them to annoy him,” Libby suggested.

“Possibly,” Bernie said as she picked up the gloves and slowly turned them over. They were white cotton. But they felt funny. She ran her fingers over them. They were lined, which was unusual for cotton gloves. She turned the gloves inside out. They were indeed lined with a thin layer of rubberized material. She showed the lining to Libby.

“Odd,” Libby said.

“Suggestive,” said Bernie as a glimmer of an idea began to occur to her. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the scene in the kitchen when she'd run in and found Zalinsky on the floor. “He was wearing gloves onstage.”

Libby nodded. “Yes, he was.”

“I wonder where he got them from,” Bernie mused.

“He must have had an extra pair,” Libby suggested.

Bernie grunted.

“What are you thinking?” Libby asked.

“I'm thinking you should call Marvin,” Bernie replied.

“And why should I do that?”

Bernie explained.

“It seems far-fetched,” Libby said of Bernie's idea.

“It is,” Bernie agreed. “But it's possible. Do you want to call Marvin, or should I?”

“I will,” Libby said. “Although he's not going to like this,” she predicted.

She was right. He didn't. But he agreed to it nonetheless.

“When?” Bernie asked after Libby lowered her phone.

“Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow,” Libby told her. “Depends on when everyone clears out.”

“I guess that'll have to do,” Bernie told her as she took photos of the inside and outside of the gloves, then put them back where Libby had found them. She had been going to give them to Clyde but had decided to leave them where they'd found them and show Clyde the photos instead.

“Now what?” Libby asked as she watched her sister.

“Now we go through the lounge, the changing rooms, and the kitchen.” Especially the kitchen, Bernie thought. She definitely wanted to see the kitchen.

Libby groaned. “I'm getting light-headed,” she complained.

Bernie rummaged in her bag. “Here,” she said. “Drink this.” And she handed her sister a flask of homemade lemonade.

“Is there anything you don't have in there?” Libby asked, referring to Bernie's tote as she opened the flask and gulped it down.

“You're one to talk,” Bernie answered. “Feeling better?”

Libby had to admit she did, which was a good thing because they were coming to the tricky part. While the stage area was away from where Magda was presently ensconced, the lounge, the dressing rooms, and the galley kitchen were not. Now they'd be in close proximity to Magda, or at least close enough so that Magda would be able to hear them moving around if they weren't very quiet, especially since there were no other sounds in the building, not even the hum of the air-conditioning unit.

Libby reflected on that as she and Bernie walked down the hallway to the lounge. When they got there, Libby took a deep breath, grasped the handle of the door to the lounge, and pulled. The door creaked as it opened. Libby cursed under her breath. She and her sister stood there waiting for Magda to come, but she didn't, and after a minute they went inside.

Everything looked the way it had the last time they had been in here, Libby thought. The sofas and the chairs were in the same places; the coffee table was still littered with paper coffee cups and crumbs from the muffins everyone had been eating before they'd gone onstage; rose petals still marked the spot where Zalinsky had thrown the vase with Erin's flowers.

Looking at the lounge, Libby couldn't help thinking about everyone gathered here the evening before the performance. One of those people had killed Zalinsky. They were moving closer to the how, but not to the who. Everyone had hated him, but who had hated him enough to take things one step further? Libby thought back to that night. Had anyone been acting strangely? Had anyone said or done anything that indicated they were planning on killing someone? She shook her head. If they had, she hadn't seen it.

But one thing was for sure. No one in that room had been happy. No one in that room had wanted to be there. Everyone there was there under duress. Certainly she and Bernie were. Libby closed her eyes and pictured the scene. She could see Erin's fury when Zalinsky had thrown the vase with her flowers on the floor and told her to clean it up, and she could hear Casper cursing Zalinsky under his breath. Then there'd been the Holloway boys in a major sulk over their costumes and Magda with her blood-red fingernails sitting by herself, looking as if she'd like to rip someone's heart out and eat it, and Hsaio looking as if she wanted to disappear into the sofa.

Libby was trying to remember exactly what everyone had said when Bernie poked her in the ribs. “Are we going to do this or what?” she asked her sister.

Libby startled. “Sorry,” she said, and she got to work.

Fifteen minutes later, she and Bernie were through searching. They'd covered every inch of the space, and Libby felt reasonably sure that unless Zalinsky's teapot was buried under the floor or secreted somewhere in the walls, it wasn't there. She was on her knees, having just finished looking under the sofa, and was thinking about how she and Bernie were going to handle the dressing rooms and the galley kitchen, and that maybe they should have started with the kitchen because that, after all, was where everything had begun, when she heard a noise.

Libby turned around and saw Magda standing in the doorway.

It took Libby a second longer to see the gun Magda was holding in her hand and a second after that to realize that it was pointed at her and her sister.