A Catered Tea Party (23 page)

S
ean sat in his armchair petting Cindy and intently listening to his daughters' theory of how Zalinsky was killed. “That could work,” he said when Bernie and Libby were done. He chuckled. “Talk about being hoisted on your own petard.”

“What is a petard anyway?” Libby asked.

“A petard is a small bomb,” Sean explained. “Being hoisted by your own petard literally means being blown up by your own bomb.”

“He was double-crossed,” Bernie said.

“I said literally. The expression is a metaphor,” Sean told her.

“Sorry. It's been a long day,” Bernie explained, running her fingers through her hair. It needed a wash, but she was too tired to do it tonight. Maybe in the morning.

“Evidently. How did the day go?”

Libby and Bernie told him. They saved what Cotton had said for last.

“Humph,” Sean said. “Interesting story.”

“Isn't it, though?” Libby observed.

“Yeah. Why kill Zalinsky twice?” Bernie asked. “That makes no sense.”

Sean shrugged. “Maybe because whoever was doing it wanted to make sure that Zalinsky was really dead. Maybe he or she was afraid that the hot-wired teakettle wouldn't be enough. That the gloves wouldn't work.”

“There could have been two people,” Libby suggested.

Sean raised an eyebrow. “Neither one knowing what the other one was doing? Seems unlikely.”

“Maybe they were working in concert.” Bernie suggested.

“They probably were. Or,” Sean said, “Cotton could be wrong. It could be a baseless rumor. Heard lots of those in my time.”

“I know,” Libby said. She and Bernie had heard her dad's stories.

It was nine o'clock at night, and it was just Libby, Bernie, Sean, and the cat in the flat, a rare event these days. They were sharing a late supper of old-fashioned beet borscht, a simple green salad dressed with lemon juice and olive oil from California, a store-baked baguette with butter from a nearby farm, and a dessert of local peaches, a simple but satisfying meal, as they watched lightning arc across the night sky.

There'd been flash flood alerts on the TV and on Libby and Bernie's cellphones again. Even if there hadn't been, they could feel yet another storm coming. The humidity was dropping, and the wind was picking up. The curtains billowed, and both open windows began to bang against the sills.

“Double death,” Bernie murmured as she got up to shut them.

Sean laughed. “Sounds like the title of a dime novel.”

“It does, doesn't it?” Bernie agreed. “Only now that novel probably costs eight bucks.”

“Or more,” Sean said.

“But it is suggestive,” Libby observed.

“It certainly is,” Bernie agreed. “If it's true.”

“There is that. Even if it is true, I don't think there's any way to prove it,” Sean said after he'd eaten a little more borscht. “I'm not sure that a tox screen would work. Zalinsky is embalmed.”

“Surely they . . .”

“By ‘they' you mean Lucy?” Sean asked,

Bernie nodded. “He could do something if he wanted to,” Bernie said. “There have to be ways to test for poisons even at this late date.”

“I'm sure there are,” Sean told her. “But . . .”

“But what?” Libby asked, interrupting.

“I think ‘if they wanted to' is the operative phrase here,” Sean said, finishing his sentence. “Lucy has one homicide method. He doesn't need two. That would just complicate things for him. Makes it harder to prosecute. Especially poisons. They're slippery buggers. Anyway, the lab is probably backed up. It usually is. ” Sean patted his stomach. He was getting full. “On the bright side, you girls have come up with a working theory. So that's good.”

“True. But we still don't know who double-crossed Zalinsky,” Bernie pointed out.

“You're closing in, though,” Sean said, cheerleading.

“Not fast enough,” Bernie noted.

Libby put a spoonful of sour cream on top of her borscht and stirred. She watched the white cream swirl into the ruby-red borscht, turning it a pretty pink. “I assume Lucy still likes Casper for this?”

Sean cleared his throat. “You said it. I didn't.”

Bernie groaned. “I bet he's not looking at anyone else.”

“You know he's not,” Sean said. “Once Lucy gets someone in his sights, that's it! Just pure laziness, if you ask me.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know what I think,” he said.

“What?” Bernie asked.

“I think you need to forget about the teapot for the moment.”

“But you said to concentrate on it,” Libby cried.

“I did, and doing that provided one part of the equation,” Sean replied. “But I don't think it's going to provide the second part, the who-done-it part of the equation.”

“Why?” Bernie asked her dad as she took a bite of bread. She decided it had integrity. The bread's crust had a satisfying crunch to it beneath her teeth, not like some of that stuff you found at the supermarkets these days.

Sean took a breath. “Because no matter how much I try, I don't see the teapot as the primary motive for the murder. At least in this case.”

Libby smiled a cat-ate-the-canary smile. Bernie glared at her.

“Don't say it,” she warned her sister.

“Don't say what?” Libby asked, all pretend innocence.

“What you were going to say.”

“I wasn't going to say anything,” Libby protested.

Sean smiled. God help him, but he liked hearing his daughters bicker. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

Bernie turned back toward her father. “Explain,” she said.

“Happy to,” Sean replied.

He'd been doing a lot of thinking about the Zalinsky case one way or another while Michelle had been dragging him around to this and that store. He had been beginning to feel like a piece of flotsam bobbing around in the water, and he'd found that thinking about the case helped him pass the time and prevented him from yelling something not nice while Michelle argued with the contractors or debated whether she wanted the walls of her shop painted eggshell or cream or maybe robin's-egg blue. Like he cared.

Sean ate a little more borscht. He'd forgotten how good it was—sweet and smooth, with just a little bite from the black pepper Bernie had put in—and began. “Like I said, I think that Zalinsky was killed for more personal reasons. I don't think that the motivation for the crime was the stealing of the teapot. I think stealing the teapot was a secondary benefit. The primary crime was killing Zalinsky. Whoever did this really hated Zalinsky's guts and wanted to make sure he was very, very dead.”

“Yeah, he wasn't big on making friends and influencing people,” Bernie observed. “He was a con man, pure and simple. That even comes down to the bodyguards he hired to guard the teapot. They looked like the real deal, but they weren't. They were actors decked out with pretend vests and toy guns! I think he prided himself on pulling the wool over people's eyes and making fools out of them.”

“Which tends to spark an intense desire for revenge in the taken,” Sean said.

” Everything he did was for show,” Libby added.

“Well, the gun in his go bag and the one at The Blue House weren't for show,” Bernie said. “Those were real.”

“They certainly were,” Libby replied, thinking back to Magda and the pistol.

Bernie broke off another piece of bread from the loaf on the coffee table and began to butter it. If she weren't careful she'd end up eating the whole loaf. Not a good thing since her pants were getting tight, and she was damned if she was going to buy another pair.

“There's too much stuff going on here,” Sean noted after he'd put a dab of sour cream on his finger and extended it to the cat, who licked it off.

Bernie looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Sean replied. “This crime is like a big ball of knotted yarn. In order to solve it you're going to have to separate the threads.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Libby asked.

Sean speared a piece of lettuce with his fork and ate it. He'd never liked salads until he'd gotten married and his wife had shown him how good a salad could be if you treated it with respect, and his girls had carried on the tradition. He started talking. “Slowly. Patiently,” he said. “When you have this kind of problem, you have to follow the yarn until you can't go any farther, and then you pick another piece and start unraveling that. Eventually you unravel all the knots.”

“Very poetic,” Libby said. She started eating her salad too. It was carefully composed of butter lettuce, sorrel, arugula, and red leaf lettuce, and dressed with fresh lemon juice and olive oil, with just a sprinkling of Maldon sea salt and pepper. It was excellent, if she had to say so herself. “So what end do you suggest we start with?” she asked.

Sean told them.

Bernie's eyes widened. “I don't believe you,” she cried.

“Ask him,” Sean suggested. “It's the only thing that makes sense.”

“Not to me,” Bernie protested.

“Think about it,” Sean urged.

“And the note? Did he do that too?” Bernie demanded.

“If my hypothesis is right, then yes, he did.”

“You're nuts,” Bernie told him.

Sean shrugged. “Of course, I could be wrong.”

“You probably are,” Bernie said. “About everything.”

“There's only one way to find out,” Sean told her. “Talk to him.”

“Fine,” Bernie said as she jumped out of her chair. “I will.”

“I didn't mean right now,” Sean told her.

Bernie didn't answer. She just grabbed the keys to the van and headed out the door.

“Libby, go with her,” Sean urged.

Libby sighed. This was not what she was planning on, but she tore off a piece of bread from the baguette and hurried out the door. Meanwhile, Sean sat back in his seat and reached for the remote. He might as well get some TV in while he could, because when Bernie came back through the door he was going to have to do a lot of handholding, metaphorically speaking. As he turned the TV back on, Cindy stood up, circled three times on Sean's lap, and plopped herself back down. Sean was wondering why she did that as his show came on.

B
ernie banged on Marvin's front door as a clap of thunder let loose. The storm was moving closer. When Marvin didn't answer, she banged on the door again.

“Give Marvin a moment,” Libby said. “He's probably in bed.”

Bernie lowered her hand and waited, tapping her fingers on her thighs, while tree branches rustled around her.

Marvin's voice floated through the door a minute later. “Who is it?” he asked.

“It's me,” Bernie told him. “Let me in.”

“What's the matter?” Marvin cried as he opened the door. “Is everything okay?” He was in his pajamas and, as Libby had predicted, had been in bed.

“No, it's not okay,” Bernie answered. “Far from it.” She stepped inside Marvin's house. “Where's Casper?” she demanded, ignoring Petunia, who was butting Bernie's thigh with her snout.

“In his bedroom,” Marvin answered. “Why?”

“I have something to ask him,” Bernie replied, pushing past Marvin.

Marvin turned to Libby, who had bent down to pet Petunia. “What's this about?”

“That stupid teapot,” Libby answered while she scratched Petunia under her chin.

“Couldn't it wait till tomorrow?” Marvin asked her. “I have to be up early. We have a delivery.”

“I know. I'm sorry to barge in like this,” Libby said. “My sister is . . . a tad upset.”

Marvin rubbed a mosquito bite on his arm “About what?”

Libby explained as she walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa. She could hear Bernie through the door of Casper's room. “Well, did you or didn't you?” Bernie was demanding. “I need you to answer me now.” Libby couldn't hear Casper's reply, but it must have been in the affirmative because the next thing Libby heard was, “So you lied to me again.” Then she heard, “Why? I want to know why?”

A minute later, Bernie came out of Casper's room and stormed through the living room without looking at Marvin or Libby, much less saying anything.

Libby jumped up. “Gotta go,” she told Marvin. “I'll call you later.” She followed Bernie out the door. Her sister didn't say anything on the ride back to their flat, and Libby didn't ask her for an explanation. When they got to the flat, Bernie slammed on the brakes, and Libby was glad she had her seat belt on because otherwise she would have hit the dashboard. By the time Libby had her seat belt off, Bernie was out of the van and pounding up the stairs.

Sean looked at his youngest daughter when she came barreling in and turned off the TV.

“Casper should have told me,” she said.

“He was probably scared to,” Sean answered. Then he said, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice shame on me.”

Bernie bit her lip. “I guess I deserve that.”

“You do, but it's a hard lesson to learn.”

A moment later, Libby came up the stairs. Five minutes after that, Casper did the same. He was still in his pajamas, looking disheveled and gaunt. “I'm sorry,” he said to Bernie. He was holding a cardboard box in his hands. “I'm really sorry.” He went over to Bernie and gently placed the box in her hands.

“Is this what I think it is?” Bernie asked him.

Casper nodded.

“Why don't you sit down?” Sean told Casper while Bernie opened the box. “Do you want something to drink?”

Casper shook his head. He was feeling queasy.

“Eat?”

Casper shook his head again.

“You want some peach pie,” Sean declared. “We all want some of Bernie and Libby's peach pie.” When Casper didn't answer, Sean said, “I'll take your silence as a yes.”

Libby got up and went downstairs to do the honors. By the time she came back up, Bernie had the teapot out of the cardboard box and carefully placed on the mantel.

“It doesn't look like it would be worth that much,” Libby said about the teapot as she set a tray loaded down with peach pie, plates, forks, spoons, and homemade vanilla ice cream on the coffee table.

“It doesn't, does it?” Casper said in a low voice.

Libby dished out the pie and the ice cream, and for a moment no one spoke. They were too busy eating.

“This is really wonderful,” Casper said when he was halfway done. Surprisingly, he was feeling a little better.

“Have some more,” Sean directed, leaning over, cutting another slice, and plopping it on Casper's plate. “You look as if you could use it.”

“Why?” Bernie asked when Casper was finally done eating.

Casper bit his lip and looked down at his plate. “I have all these bills. I thought I could sell it. I told you. But I couldn't. I didn't know what to do with it.”

“I get taking it the first time, but the second . . . the whole note and teapot thing . . . ,” Bernie said. “Why?”

Casper pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I never should have done it,” he said. He didn't have the energy to lie anymore. “I've never done anything like this before.”

“And it shows,” Sean said. He'd heard all he needed to hear.

“Dad!” Bernie cried.

Sean turned to her. “Well, it's true.” Then Sean finished the last of his pie, sat back in his chair, and waited for Casper to speak. When he didn't, Sean put his hands on his thighs and leaned forward. There was a clap of thunder signaling the arrival of the storm. “Do you want to tell Bernie and Libby why you did what you did, or should I?” Sean asked Casper.

“I meant well,” Casper said.

“Did you?” Sean asked.

“Yes, I did,” Casper told him.

“Do you want to hear what I think happened?” Sean asked. Then he went ahead before Casper said anything. “This is what I think occurred,” he told him. “First, of course, you stole the teapot. That was a crime of opportunity. You didn't think it through. You thought you'd be able to sell it quickly. But you couldn't.

“So you had this thing lying around, and I think you were getting nervous that Zalinsky's killer and possibly my daughters were going to figure out that you were the one who stole the teapot, so you decided to stage a diversion, a diversion that would hopefully send everyone off in a different direction. Moving out of your house made everything seem more convincing.”

“That's not true,” Casper said. “Well, maybe it's partially true.”

“Which is it?” Bernie asked.

Casper didn't reply.

“But why did you think that?” Bernie asked him. She didn't understand. “We never thought anything of the kind.”

“He did it because he was greedy,” Sean said.

“That's not it,” Casper said.

“Then what was it?” Sean demanded.

“I was trying to do a good thing,” Casper told him.

“How do you figure that?” Libby asked.

When Casper didn't answer, Sean continued. “He wasn't. Casper figured that with you running around, he had more time to sell the teapot. But it didn't matter. He didn't know the right people to sell it to. He was stuck with the thing, the thing that someone else felt belonged to them. Then there were the police. He could have gone to them, but if they found out he had the teapot, they would use it as confirmation that he killed Zalinsky. So he was in a bind, a bind of his own making. Do I have it right, Casper?” Sean asked.

Casper lifted his head up. “Some of it.”

“What's the rest?” Bernie asked.

“What's the point?” Casper said. “You won't believe me anyway.”

“Try us,” Sean said.

“I just thought . . .” Casper shook his head. He looked miserable. “Forget it. I was probably wrong anyway. What are you going to do now? Call the police and turn me in?”

“That's up to my daughters,” Sean informed him, deciding Casper looked as if he was going to cry.

“You deserve it,” Libby told him.

“But we're not going to,” Bernie quickly added, although she would have liked to, given all the trouble he'd caused.

Casper leaped off the sofa and hugged Bernie and Libby. “Thank you, thank you,” he said. Then he turned to Sean.

“Not necessary,” Sean said, shrinking back in his seat. He held up his hands. “No hugging, please. I don't do hugging. Just sit back down.”

“I'm not a good criminal,” Casper observed once he was back on the sofa.

“Now that's a massive understatement if I ever heard one,” Sean remarked.

“I thought I would be,” Casper said mournfully. “I've staged two mysteries.”

“Not quite the same thing,” Sean was telling him when he noticed that Bernie was looking at her cell. “Can't you put that thing away?” he told her.

“It's Lucy Chin,” Bernie replied. “She sent me the photos she promised.”

“Let's see,” Sean said.