Chapter 9
Dear Sophie,
My wife insists on using cutting boards made of wood. I think they’re dangerous because they can’t be sanitized. She says we would all be dead if that were the case. What do you think?
Bacteria-phobe in Chopersville, Pennsylvania
Dear Bacteria-phobe,
I agree with your wife. Wash your cutting board with warm water and soap, then dry. However, if it makes you more comfortable, buy plastic cutting boards. You can even get them in different colors for different foods so there’s no chance of cross-contamination.
Sophie
Nina shrieked when Marsha mentioned Bernie’s name. I was equally appalled but restrained myself. Bernie was one of our dearest friends. There was no way he could be a murderer!
Marsha recoiled. “I gather you know him.” Her voice was flat and droll.
Before Nina could protest, which I was fairly certain she would do, I asked, “Why would Bernie want to kill Tate?”
“They had a not-so-friendly rivalry going. It was an embarrassment to Bernie. He made no secret of that. I can’t tell you how many times he threatened Tate.”
I held my hand up, palm out to stop Nina from defending Bernie. “What sort of threats?”
“ ‘I’ll get you, Tate.’ ‘You’ll pay for that.’ Except Bernie usually used British expressions that sounded cute. People found them funny, but they were serious.” Marsha looked smug.
I tried reading her. She seemed almost pleased with herself.
“You seemed shocked,” she said to Nina. “You must not know him as well as I do.”
I held up my hand again. Maybe it would be better if Marsha didn’t know exactly how close we were with Bernie. “Has he threatened you?”
“I find him intimidating.”
Nina gasped.
I wasn’t sure how long I could keep her from blurting something impolite. I was equally outraged. “Thank you for that information, Marsha. If you think of anything else we should know, please give me a call.”
She followed us to her front door, but I could have sworn she was smirking when she said goodbye.
Nina blew up on the sidewalk. “Bernie would never kill anyone! The nerve of that woman. What was she thinking? I wanted to punch her right in the nose. Why didn’t you defend him?”
“Because we might need her. I know Bernie didn’t murder anyone. It was an odd accusation, but I was getting a weird vibe from her. Didn’t you feel it?”
“She was in love with Tate. Couldn’t you see that? Did you notice the photo of the two of them? An employee doesn’t pose with her hand on her boss’s chest like that. That was an adoring and proprietary posture.”
I had to agree. “I wonder just how close they were. Maybe some of the employees know. Do you think she has a problem with Bernie, or his name was the first to come to mind?”
Nina stopped walking and turned toward me. “I think she planned to place blame on Bernie. Ohhh, I do not like that woman. I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if she schemed to kill Tate because he wouldn’t leave Bobbie Sue. After all these years working by his side every day, her love probably turned to anger. You know they say there’s a fine line between love and hate. It wasn’t a coincidence that Bernie was the first person that came to her mind. She’s trying to cast suspicion on him to deflect it from herself.”
That was entirely possible. “I know an easy way to find out.”
We turned at the corner and headed for The Laughing Hound. When we walked inside, there was no host waiting to seat patrons. Shane Hasler, an African American bartender with a slim athletic build and admirable biceps, rushed toward us. “Sophie, am I glad to see you! This way. Quick!”
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I asked.
“They’re arresting Bernie!”
He led us through the kitchen and out the back to the alley, where Wolf was putting a handcuffed Bernie into a squad car.
Nina and I dashed toward them. “Wolf!” I cried. “What’s going on?”
Wolf was as much a friend as Bernie. A seasoned detective, he saw through most ridiculous claims. But now he turned to me with the poker face that I found so annoying, and said, “I’m sorry, Sophie.”
“Sorry?” Nina squealed. “That’s the best you can do?”
“Bernie!” I shouted. “I’ll call Alex. Don’t say anything!”
The police vehicle took off, leaving Bernie’s employees and friends in shock. Everyone, except Wolf, watched in horrified silence as the police car turned onto the street.
Wolf started to walk toward his car.
“Wait a minute,” I said, catching up to him. “What happened?”
Nina was right behind me. “Surely you didn’t believe that Marsha woman?”
“Look, I know how you feel about Bernie, so I’m not going to tell you to stay out of police business. You wouldn’t do it anyway.” He lowered his voice. “I might as well tell you. There’s blood on Bernie’s car.”
“Blood?” Tate’s body on the cement floor of the cellar flashed in my mind. There had been surprisingly little blood. But there was the droplet I thought I’d seen just inside the back door. “Someone moved Tate to the restaurant cellar.”
“Sophie!” Nina screeched. “You know it wasn’t Bernie.”
I looked into Wolf’s brown eyes. “She’s right. It couldn’t have been Bernie.”
“We’ll know that soon enough,” said Wolf.
“If you haven’t confirmed that it’s Tate’s blood, then why is Bernie in handcuffs?” demanded Nina.
“Because that’s protocol. Would you want to drive a car with a suspected killer sitting behind you without handcuffs?”
“No!” Nina frowned. “But this is Bernie!”
“Look, I like Bernie, too,” Wolf said soothingly. “But we have a witness who says he threatened the victim and there’s blood on his car. Call Alex like you were going to, and—”
“—and hope it’s ketchup on the car?” Nina asked, sarcasm creeping in.
Wolf didn’t respond. He simply stepped into his vehicle and drove away. Shocked employees still lingered outside. I heard one of them ask, “Should we close the restaurant?”
I felt certain there must be an assistant manager who took over when Bernie was off. “Absolutely not!” I said. “The restaurant stays open. We have to do that for Bernie. Let’s all get back to work.” I hurried over to Shane. “Who is the assistant manager?”
“There are two.” Shane wrinkled his nose. “Eva Rosales is working today.”
“You don’t like her?” Nina asked.
“You might say she has a different management style than I’m used to.”
I smiled at his delicate explanation. The three of us followed the others inside.
A woman about five feet tall, like me, with a round face and high cheekbones demanded, “Who are you and why are you in my kitchen?”
I liked her immediately. Bernie needed a no-nonsense assistant taking a firm hand in his absence. “Sophie Winston and Nina Reid Norwood. We’re friends of Bernie’s.”
Her dark hair was pulled back neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck. She lifted her chin. “Nice to meet you. Now get out of my kitchen. You, too, Shane. Back to work.”
Nina and Shane rushed for the door.
I paused to hand her my card. “Thank you for taking control while Bernie isn’t around. If you need me for anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”
She glanced at my card with a confused expression. “Why would I need you?”
I smiled at her. “I don’t expect you will. But just in case . . .”
She nodded but her gaze went right past me. “Donald, I thought I told you to use the blue cutting boards when cutting raw meat.”
She hustled toward him, and I headed for the door.
“You gave her your card?” Nina laughed. “She’s going to throw it out.”
I turned around to see if that was what Eva was doing. She stopped, her back to me, and looked at my card. Then she jammed it in her pocket.
At that moment, my primary concern was getting Alex over to the police station to spring Bernie before he landed in a cell. I walked through the restaurant pressing Alex’s office number on my phone.
His assistant put me through to him just as Nina and I stepped out on the sidewalk. I explained the situation.
“I’m on my way,” was all he said.
It was all I needed to hear.
“Do you think they’ve impounded Bernie’s car yet?” asked Nina.
Moving as a unit, we turned left in the direction of Bernie’s house. I called my ex-husband, Mars. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be him. His phone rolled over to voicemail and I left a message.
I’d had the pleasure of helping decorate a room in the mansion before Bernie moved in. The wonderful old place had high ceilings and huge rooms. We passed the house and turned the corner to the detached garage in the back where Mars and Bernie parked their cars.
Our favorite local police officer, Wong, was sitting on a bench studying the back of Bernie’s house. African American, she had kept her wrong-by-a-mile husband’s last name when they divorced. Her uniform fit snugly. Like me, she had never met a cupcake she didn’t like. Her hair was shaped in a tapered cut, shorter in back and chin length in front. “Wolf said you two would show up.”
“He left you here to guard the car from us?” I asked. “He knows we wouldn’t tamper with evidence.”
She grinned and raised her eyebrows. “Guess he doesn’t trust you.”
“Where’s the blood?” Nina asked.
“Driver’s side. There may be some inside but don’t touch the vehicle. Fingerprints.”
My heart plummeted. Blood on the outside of the car could be explained, but blood inside the car was serious. No wonder they had carted Bernie off to the police station. “Did you see inside the car?”
“No. I’m not allowed to touch it, either. I heard Tate must have bled profusely. I’m still hoping that smear on the door will turn out to be something else. Or at least not Tate’s blood.”
I joined Nina at the driver’s door. The blood stain could not be missed on Bernie’s alpine-white BMW. It was more of a swipe than anything else. It looked to me as if bloody fabric had brushed along the car door. It contained no fingerprints or anything helpful in identifying the culprit.
“I don’t suppose you would open the back for us?” asked Nina.
“You suppose correctly.” Wong shook her head. “Bernie is a great guy. I can’t imagine him killing anyone. But he has that kink in his nose. Makes me wonder if he has a violent past.”
I wanted to protest, to defend Bernie. But we all knew about the kink that was a result of a broken nose. Bernie’s colorful tales about it varied. They were usually quite funny, but I had always assumed his nose had been broken in a brawl with someone.
“It wasn’t Bernie,” said Nina. “We all know that. The killer will turn out to be someone else. We just have to figure out who it was.”
Wong nodded. “If there’s anything legal I can do to help you two, just let me know.”
Her offer lifted my spirits a little bit. No one who knew Bernie was going to believe he was a murderer.
“How long before they spring him?” I asked.
“Hours, maybe days. This is a really serious charge,” said Wong. “It’s a good thing so many people know and like him. If it were almost anyone else, they’d be looking hard for a reason to hold him. Even if they had to charge him with something else to keep him in the slammer.”