Chapter 15
Dear Sophie,
My neighbor spies on me all the time. She must think I don’t see her peering out between her drapes at all hours. My life is none of her business. How do I tell her to stop?
Annoyed in Watch Hill, Rhode Island
Dear Annoyed,
Bring her a gift of food. If you bake, you might make a cake or some cookies and bring them over. Be kind. Once she knows you, she might stop watching. Maybe she needs someone to talk to.
Sophie
My breath caught in my chest. “Someone else saw Bernie threaten Tate?”
“Worse. Mrs. Grabowski lives in the house that backs up to the alley right behind our garage. She went out to A Midsummer Night’s Dream but came home before the fireworks. According to her, she was in bed watching TV after the fireworks when she heard our garage door open. She got out of bed, peered out the window, and saw Bernie unlock the side door of the garage. He opened the garage door, started the car and drove away, leaving the garage door open.”
I couldn’t imagine worse news for Bernie unless Mrs. Grabowski had claimed to see him in the act of killing Tate. “Oh, Mars! Do you think he really went somewhere that night?” As soon as the words slipped out, I shouted, “No!” Lowering my voice, I said, “He has an alibi for that period of time. He was at The Laughing Hound. There has to be someone who can confirm that.”
“Let’s hope they back him up and that the cops don’t think Mrs. Grabowski had the time wrong.”
“Was the garage door open when you came home?” I asked.
“I have no idea. I didn’t walk along that side of the property. I went in through the front door,” said Mars.
We had crossed King Street and were getting close to Antonio’s house. “Look for a white house with a navy-blue door.” I was so distressed about Mars’s news that I could barely focus. “Mrs. Grabowski is certain that it was Bernie? It was dark. How could she know for sure that it was him?”
“I had the same thought. Around nine tonight, I’m going outside to see just how much light is back there.”
“Did you ask her if she saw him? Maybe you planted the notion in her head.”
“Sophie! I’m not that stupid. She saw me looking at the garage doors when she was putting her trash out in the alley. She said, ‘You boys were sure out late last night. Did I miss a big party?’ ”
“So I asked her if she saw us come in.”
“And then she told me what she did last night and that she was in bed when Bernie drove out. Is this the house we’re looking for?”
I gazed up and down the street. “It’s the only one that fits the description.” I banged the door knocker that was shaped like a sailboat.
A handsome young man with dark hair and engaging brown eyes opened the door.
“Hi, I’m Sophie Winston, and this is Mars. We’re looking for Antonio Hirsch?”
His eyes swept over us. He wasn’t very tall, but I bet women chased him all the time because he was darling. “How can I help you?”
My mouth dropped open. He definitely was not the server I’d had at Blackwell’s Tavern. That Antonio Hirsch was older, taller, and had a slightly receding hairline. “You’re Antonio Hirsch?”
“Yes.”
By now Mars was staring at me like I had lost my mind.
“You are not the Antonio Hirsch who served my party at Blackwell’s Tavern on Tuesday morning.”
He smiled. “That would be correct because Tuesday was my day off.”
“Are there two Antonio Hirsches?” I asked doubtfully.
“What’s this about? Did you lose something?” he asked.
“We wanted to talk with you about Mr. Bodoin and whether anyone might have wanted to do him harm.”
He nodded. “Come on in.”
We walked into a combination living and dining room that looked more like a man cave. Weights and workout equipment occupied a space where a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.
Mars whistled at the television. “Wow! Nice setup!”
It was huge, and two only slightly smaller TVs hung over top of it. Speakers were mounted on the walls and a sprawling leather sofa in the shape of an enormous C took up way too much space.
“Excuse me,” he said. He yelled up the stairs, “Jonah! Could you come down here?”
Jonah loped noisily down the stairs. He stopped abruptly at the sight of us. Pointing at me, he said, “I know you from somewhere.”
“And I know you as Antonio Hirsch,” I said. He was definitely the man who had served us at Blackwell’s Tavern on Tuesday.
The real Antonio glared at him.
Jonah sighed. “Man, I couldn’t find my name tag and you weren’t working, so I borrowed yours. No biggie. You know how Marsha hates it when we don’t wear a name tag.”
Antonio crossed his arms over his chest. He looked at Mars and me. “This is what I put up with.”
“We’re looking into Mr. Bodoin’s murder,” I said quickly, “and I hoped you might be able to shed some light on what was going on at Blackwell’s Tavern.”
Antonio relaxed visibly and gestured to the sofa, “Have a seat. How can we help you?”
“Was anyone upset with Mr. Bodoin?”
Antonio shook his head. “Not that I know of. He was a great guy. We’ve been wondering why anyone would have killed him.”
I looked over at Jonah, who said, “I agree. There might be some people who would like to see Marsha dead. But Bodoin was great. We have a little restaurant league competition each season. Softball, basketball, bowling. He always came to our games and kidded around with us.”
“Was Bernie Frei at those games?” asked Mars.
“Oh sure,” Antonio said cheerily. “Another great fellow.”
“Did you ever hear Bernie threaten Bodoin?” I asked.
“Threaten?” asked Jonah. “They were friends, joking around with each other.”
“They usually made a bet, with the loser donating money to some local charity,” said Antonio. “Is it true that they arrested Bernie?”
“Unfortunately,” said Mars. “That’s why we’re here. Bernie is a friend of ours. We’re trying to figure out who else might have had it in for Tate Bodoin.”
Antonio and Jonah looked at each other blankly.
“Any chance he was having an affair?” asked Mars.
“Not that I know about,” said Antonio.
Jonah shrugged.
“Is there a young woman working at Blackwell’s Tavern who is in college or high school and has a summer job there?” I asked, thinking of the letter I had found in my purse.
Jonah frowned. “Blackwell’s is open seven days a week from lunch until midnight. There’s a pretty big crew of servers, but that doesn’t ring any bells for me.”
“Me either,” said Antonio. With a sly smile, he added, “I usually notice the ladies.” He blushed. “My sisters get mad at me when I say things like that. Don’t get me wrong. I totally respect women. What I mean is that I probably would have noticed her.”
I suspected he would have. It was a disappointing meeting, though. I had hoped they might have pointed a finger at someone who had a beef with Tate Bodoin.
We thanked them, gave them my card, and left.
“That was a major bust,” I said to Mars as we walked home.
“Are you kidding? They confirmed something really important.”
“That the woman who wrote the letter doesn’t work at Blackwell’s Tavern?”
“That, too. But more importantly, Marsha was lying about Bernie threatening Tate. Bernie already told us that he didn’t, and those two guys were clearly involved in the sports rivalry between the two restaurants. They never heard threats, just good fun.”
I stopped in my tracks. “You’re right. Marsha is the one who pointed the police in Bernie’s direction to begin with. Do you think she could be the one who smeared blood on his car door?”
Mars groaned. “I’d like to know where she was that night after the restaurant closed.”
We resumed walking. “It’s not like we can ask her. I think Nina and I upset her. Besides, I don’t think I would trust what she said. No, we have to go around her somehow.”
“There’s no point spinning our wheels that way,” said Mars. “She’ll only say that she went straight home to bed, which is something that none of us can prove unless she had company, which I doubt.”
We arrived at my house at the same time as Humphrey stepped out of his car. He jogged toward us.
“I bring news,” he said.
I unlocked the door and Daisy, refreshed from her nap, sprang out and danced around the three of us in greeting. We walked into the kitchen, where Mochie stretched and yawned as though we had wakened him from his nap.
“Iced tea?” I asked.
Mars and Humphrey chimed, “Please!” while patting Daisy and Mochie.
When I brought the tall icy glasses to the table, Mars held out his hand to Humphrey. “Do you have your phone on you?” he asked.
Humphrey handed over his mobile phone and Mars promptly turned it off, asking, “Sophie, have you bought anything that can listen to our conversation? A smart appliance or gadget?”
“Not yet,” I said. “What’s going on? Why do you think someone is listening?”
“We can’t be too careful. Bernie is in a precarious situation. The last thing we need is someone hearing our discussions and using them against him. Frankly, it might be wiser to chat out in your yard.”
Bernie and I exchanged a look. It was getting very warm outside.
“I don’t have any smart gadgets, Mars,” I protested.
“All right. Speak softly.”
We sat down at the banquette in my kitchen and Humphrey said, “According to my source, the medical examiner has shifted the time of Tate’s murder to be between nine in the evening and one in the morning. But I don’t know why.”
“That matches what we thought,” said Mars.
“His last meal was crab, shrimp, and flounder, white wine, spinach puree, rice, cheese, and”—he looked me in the eyes—“chocolate mousse.”
“Wow, that guy ate well,” said Mars.
“I would have to check, but crab, shrimp, and flounder together don’t sound like anything on the menu at Blackwell’s Tavern,” I said. “I suppose he could have eaten a crab appetizer, a shrimp appetizer, and then had flounder as a main course, but I think he ate dinner somewhere else. That would be consistent with Marsha’s claim that he left Blackwell’s and didn’t return.”
“They have all those seafood items except for flounder at The Laughing Hound, and I don’t think the crab and shrimp are together in one dish,” said Mars. “I know their menu very well.”
“Good job, Humphrey. Thanks!”
Humphrey smiled at us. “If you happen to see me dining out with a tall redhead, I’d rather you didn’t mention it. I had to cajole the information out of my source by bribing her with a nice dinner.”
“A girlfriend, Humphrey?” asked Mars.
“I wouldn’t go quite that far yet. And she would never get my mother’s approval.” Humphrey smiled at us.
“Oh, come on, Humphrey,” I said. “No woman will ever be good enough for you as far as she’s concerned.”
He considered for a moment. “Maybe Kate Middleton, but she’d just squeak by.”
Mars tapped his fingers on the table. “What about the mousse?”
“Lots of places serve that,” I said. “What are you getting at?”
“What if he returned home and ate mousse as a midnight snack?”
“Are you suggesting that Bobbie Sue murdered him?” I asked.