Chapter 41
As Bernie looked at Bebe dancing around Susan’s feet, she thought, I should have realized the dog had stopped barking. But maybe that wouldn’t have made a difference. Whenever she was really intent on something, everything else dropped away and she developed tunnel vision.
“You’re making a mistake,” she said to Susan.
“I heard what you asked your sister.”
“Then you know that Libby knows too.”
Susan snorted.
“I doubt that very much.”
“She’ll figure it out.”
“No, she wouldn’t. She’s too busy making scones and running her shop.”
Bernie didn’t want to admit that this was probably true.
“What about the party?” she said instead.
“What about it?”
“Well, how are you going to get rid of me before everyone comes?”
“I’m going to duct-tape your mouth closed and put you in the trunk of my car and dispose of you after the memorial service.”
“That would work,” Bernie reluctantly conceded. “Except what are you going to tell Libby?”
“That you went out for soda and never came back.”
“Without a car?”
“Shut up,” Susan snapped.
“You don’t improvise well, do you?”
“Bree is right. You do talk too much.” As Susan gestured with the torch, Bernie decided she really was crazy. “It’s your fault you’re in the situation you’re in.”
“My fault?” Bernie cried. “Where do you come up with that little bit of twisted thinking?”
“Well, if you hadn’t known that bamboo shoots contain cyanide, you’d be happily filling cherry tomatoes right now.”
“So being ignorant is a good thing.”
“In this case, yes. Now move. I have to do my hair before my guests come.”
Bernie took a step towards the door that led to the garage.
“Yes. You wouldn’t want to greet them with messy hair.”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t.”
As Bernie took another step, she pondered whether she could get close enough to Susan to kick her before she pressed the trigger on that damned butane torch. Maybe she could if she were fast enough.
“Geoff was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?” she asked Susan.
“You know why sex is bad for women?” Susan asked in return.
“Is this a punch line to a bad joke?”
“It makes them talk too much.”
“You were sleeping with Geoff?” Bernie asked.
“Me and everyone else,” Susan said grimly.
“What did he have that was so irresistible?”
“He was available,” Susan said. “Now let’s move.”
“You know,” Bernie started to say when all of a sudden there was a loud pop, and a glass by the sink shattered.
As she turned to the noise, she heard Libby say, “Drop the torch,” to Susan. “Don’t even think of it,” Libby said as Susan’s finger tightened on the torch trigger.
Bernie gave Libby the thumbs-up sign.
“Better listen to her,” she advised Susan. “She’s a crack shot.”
“She can’t shoot,” Susan said.
“What do you think I just did?” Libby asked her.
“You missed me.”
“That was a warning shot,” lied Libby.
“You wouldn’t shoot me if you could,” Susan sneered.
“She will if you hurt me,” Bernie said.
Susan thought for a few seconds, then lowered her torch and began backing towards the door that led to the garage. Bebe went with her. It was the moment Bernie had been waiting for. Before Susan realized what was happening, Bernie took a couple of steps towards her and kicked the torch out of her hands. Then she tackled her. She and Susan went down in a heap.
“Kill, Bebe,” Susan commanded as Bernie tried to pin her arms to the floor.
Bebe moved in and nipped at Bernie’s leg.
“Goddamn it,” she cried and shook the dog off as Susan kicked at her and tried to wiggle free.
“Help me!” Bernie yelled to Libby as Susan tried to scratch her face.
The next thing she knew Libby was on the floor too and everything was a thrashing mess of arms and legs, elbows and knees, and fur and teeth.
Then Bernie heard, “What’s going on here?”
Dead silence.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up.
Bree Nottingham, Griselda Plotkin, and Fred, her photographer, all dressed in their party clothes, were peering down at them.
Libby removed Susan’s elbow from her mouth.
“Susan killed Lionel,” Libby said.
“You mean you’ve caught Laird’s real killer?” Griselda trilled.
“Yes,” Bernie said as she grabbed Susan’s wrists and pinned them to the floor. “Could you call the police?”
“Wow. What a story.” Griselda opened her bag as Libby picked a snarling, snapping Bebe up by the scruff of her neck. “Let me get my pad out.” As she groped around for it, she turned to Fred. “What are you waiting for?” she asked him. “Take the shot, for God’s sake.”
“No pictures,” Bree, Susan, Libby, and Bernie cried together.
Bree snatched Fred’s camera out of his hands as he was raising it.
“Hey!” he cried. “Give it back.”
“No, I will not,” Bree replied. “Thank you very much, but Longely’s had enough bad publicity for the time being.”
And for once Bernie and Libby had to agree with her.