Chapter 35
Bernie wiped a drop of sweat off her cheek as she laid the phone down. She couldn’t remember it being this hot in June before. Or humid. This was August weather. And it certainly wasn’t doing her hair any good.
“How do you stand being in the kitchen in the summer?” Bernie asked her sister.
“You get used to it. So,” Libby asked her, “what did you find out?”
Bernie pushed her hair back behind her ears. Maybe, she reflected, she should get it all cut off.
“Well?” Libby said.
Bernie took a drink of water and told her what she’d been able to ascertain.
“Garbage pickup on Lydia’s street is scheduled for nine-thirty A.M. give or take twenty minutes—which doesn’t help us—and the development the Holders live in uses a private service called Enterprise Carting. I haven’t been able to get them on the phone yet.”
Libby put the chicken she was frying on brown paper to drain.
“Well, that’s a start.”
“They’re located in Ashford on Clinton Street.”
Libby thought. “Clinton Street is near Sam’s Club. I could swing by there when I go and get some more chicken.”
“Since when do you go to Sam’s Club?” Bernie asked her sister, who had once called the super-sized chain stores a blot upon the American landscape.
“I’ve been going for the last couple of years,” Libby replied a tad defensively.
“What made you change your mind?”
Libby mentioned the name of a prominent caterer down in New York City.
“And he’s right. It’s all a matter of being selective.” Libby wiped her forehead with her forearm. “Anyway, my vendor was out of chickens and I need to get some for tonight. We’re doing a small dinner for eight at the Sharp residence.”
Bernie groaned. Great, she thought. She’d been planning on getting a hamburger with Rob.
“It’ll be easy,” Libby told her. “We’re doing Indonesian chicken, which everyone always likes and is so simple that Amber can make it by herself, as well as the cucumber salad.” Libby looked at the clock on the wall. “When she gets here. Which had better be soon. The jasmine rice with cashews and stir-fried spinach with a hint of balsamic vinegar we’re doing there. And Edna Sharp wants something light for dessert, so we’re giving her the cassis sorbet, which I made last week.” Bernie could see Libby studying her face. “Unless you’re busy.”
“No. Heaven forbid,” Bernie retorted. “Why would I want to do something else when I can be slaving in the kitchen with you? Cook by day, detective by night. What could be better?”
Libby indicated the calendar hanging on the wall.
“It is written down.”
“Is that new?”
Libby blotted the cooked chicken, then slid two more pieces into the pan.
“I’ve been doing it for the last two years.”
“Oh.”
Bernie found herself gazing at the fried chicken. She should have had breakfast, she decided. Her mouth started to water. She herself hated making fried chicken. It splattered fat everywhere, but she loved eating it. Especially when it was perfectly done. Which Libby’s always was.
“Don’t touch it,” Libby warned as she went to pick off a little bit of crust on the piece of chicken that was draining on the paper.
“I wasn’t going to do anything,” Bernie replied with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Yes, you were. You always do. You want a piece, buy it,” Libby told her before continuing, “We should be at the Sharps’ at six o’clock . . .”
“. . . Sharp,” Bernie said. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”
Libby didn’t even groan, much less look up from the chicken. “What about the newspaper deliveries?”
“Lydia gets the local paper, Mary Beth doesn’t get anything.”
Libby pursed her lips. “Do we know who the local paper guy is?”
“Sam Hanlon.”
“That’s Googie’s older brother.”
Bernie watched Libby adjust the heat under the pan. “How about I talk to him and the Enterprise people and you talk to the neighbors,” she said.
Libby nodded.
“And,” she continued. “Just so you know, Dad talked to Clyde and Clyde said the postmortem put Geoff’s death somewhere between seven and eight o’clock in the morning, which tells us nothing we didn’t already know. Of course,” Bernie reflected, “time of death isn’t as precise as people like to think. It’s really an estimation. There are all sorts of factors involved—like heat. Actually liver temperature . . .”
“Enough,” Libby told her sister.
“Okay.” Bernie watched Libby turn the chicken. “I can respect that. What if nothing comes of this?”
Libby finally looked up.
“What do you mean?”
Bernie crossed her arms over her chest.
“Talking to these people. What if it doesn’t lead anywhere? Then what?”
“If nothing comes of this,” Libby replied slowly, returning her gaze to the pan, “I guess that’ll be that. I can’t see any other avenues to explore. Can you?”
Bernie ducked her head.
“No,” she replied. “I can’t.”
“And Tiffany will get her wish,” Libby reflected.
“It appears so,” Bernie agreed. Then she walked out into the front of the store. It was a quarter to twelve, and the lunchtime crowd was beginning to trickle in.