Chapter 13
Meanwhile, Libby was in the kitchen arranging cookies on one of Nigel’s platters and trying not to have a nervous breakdown while Amber washed the cocktail glasses and hors d’oeuvre plates.
“What’s happening upstairs?” Amber asked her.
Libby lied.
“I don’t know. I’m sure everything is fine.”
“Then why did that woman scream like that?”
“Maybe she saw a mouse.”
“No.” Amber wrinkled her nose. “Something else is going on.”
Libby tried to concentrate on getting the lemon snaps to line up.
“Even if there is,” she said, “the dishes still have to be done.”
Amber turned off the water.
It’s nice to see how well she listens to me, Libby thought as she watched Amber’s eyes dart nervously this way and that.
“First Laird Wrenn dies and now this,” Amber whispered. “Maybe there’s a mass murderer in Longely. Maybe he’s in the house.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Did you see Scream?”
“Fortunately, I missed it.”
Amber looked mildly disappointed.
“Well, in that movie this deranged killer gets in the house and—”
“Amber, that’s enough. Get back to work.”
“Okay, but I’m just trying to be helpful. Don’t blame me if you faint when someone’s head comes rolling down the stairs.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Maybe the killer has one of those big Samurai swords.”
Libby gritted her teeth. Her sister was a dead woman.
“There is no killer.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Okay. There’s no killer in this house. Now please peek into the dining room and tell me if I should clear the table.”
Amber opened her mouth.
“Now,” Libby ordered pointing to the dining room.
“Fine. If that’s the way you want to be.” And she trotted off. A few moments later she was back.
“No one is in the dining room. They’re all in the hallway. Waiting for Nigel and Lydia to come down. Maybe we should call the police.”
“Absolutely not,” Libby snapped. “It’s not our place.”
“It would be if someone were dead.”
“But they’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Amber.” Libby took a deep breath. “You are going to finish the glasses and start brewing the coffee while I finish the cookies and bus the table.”
Amber shrugged. “Whatever.”
As Libby put three more lemon snaps on the plate, she tried not to glance at the back steps, tried not to think of Bernie being dragged down the stairs, tried not to think of the public disgrace. What exactly was she going to say? she wondered as she put a doily on the second platter and arranged more cookies.
Maybe she could use the drug defense. Bernie had just taken a new anti-depressant and had become momentarily crazy. Or Bernie was jet-lagged and had taken an over-the-counter sleeping pill and become momentarily crazy. Or Bernie was in the process of grieving for her lost wardrobe and had become momentarily crazy. Or Bernie wasn’t her sister after all. An evil elf had spirited the real Bernie away and left this one in her place.
Libby was thinking that that was a possibility when Bernie came through the back door.
“I got the soda you wanted out of the van.” Bernie handed her a six-pack.
“I will never forgive you for this,” Libby hissed while she smiled at Bernie for Amber’s benefit. “Never.”
Bernie smiled back.
“You have to learn to trust in the universe.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I wasn’t.”
Before Libby could answer, Lydia Kissoff came down the steps Bernie had recently gone up. She was followed by Nigel and Susan Andrews. The remaining guests surged through the other door.
“What happened?” Bree Nottingham demanded.
“Someone,” Lydia said, holding up the book Bernie had found in the drawer, “tried to steal this.”
“That’s terrible,” Bernie said realizing that she must have dropped it on her way out the window. In her panic she’d forgotten she even had it. “Simply terrible.”
“Isn’t it though?” Libby agreed.
“The window was open. They must have gotten away through it,” Lydia said. “You didn’t happen to see anyone, did you?” she asked Libby.
“No,” she replied.
“I was out at the van getting some more soda and I didn’t see anyone either,” Bernie volunteered.
“Really?” Lydia’s eyes rested on Bernie’s forearms. “Those scratches look nasty.”
Bernie tried for a rueful laugh, but came out with a snort instead.
“They do, don’t they? It’s what I get for being in a hurry. I tripped on the way back in.”
Lydia raised an eyebrow.
“You should be more careful. How did you fall?”
Bernie pointed to her shoes.
“I think I must be developing weak ankles in my old age. I should really start wearing shoes like yours. You know. Sensible. Mine are too high,” Bernie said, at which point Libby quickly stepped in front of her.
Nigel looked around unhappily. “I guess I should report this to the police,” he said. “But then we’ll be here forever. And they make such a mess.”
“After all,” Bree Nothingham pointed out. “Nothing was really taken.”
“True,” Lydia agreed.
“It was probably some teenage boys doing it for the hell of it,” Bernie suggested.
“They probably wanted a souvenir,” Nigel said. “Something from Laird.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Bree Nottingham agreed.
Libby didn’t say that she thought that Laird Wrenn’s fan base was more apt to be female than male. Instead she looked at everyone standing around and thought about how lucky she was—not to mention Bernie, of course.
“Why don’t I make everyone a round of iced Irish coffees to go with dessert?” she proposed to the assembled guests. Thank heavens she’d brought extra cream and brown sugar along. And she always had Jameson’s and chocolate in her emergency catering kit because, as her mother always said, you just never know. “You guys look as if you could use something that packs a wallop.”
Then she forced herself to smile, which is difficult to do when you are harboring homicidal thoughts about your sister in your heart.