A Catered Fourth of July Page 12

Bernie shook her head. “Don’t know. All I do know is that her thighs are as thin as my wrists.”

  Libby fanned herself. “I don’t even know her and I hate her.”

  Bernie laughed and headed the van in the direction of the Longely Elementary School.

  Chapter 17

  During the school year, at two o’clock in the afternoon, the Longely Elementary School would be in a state of controlled chaos. Children would be pouring out of the building, police officers would be directing traffic, and minivans and school buses would be lining up to take the children home. But it was the beginning of July and day camp had let out for the day so the building was quiet. Just a few people, mostly mothers, lingered in the area talking to each other while their kids played quietly on the grass or ran beneath the sprinklers watering the lawn.

  The school had been built in the fifties when land was cheap and plentiful. Surrounded by forsythia bushes and laurel hedges, the school presented a picture of a prosperous, well-tended place, the kind parents felt confident sending their children to.

  Constructed of brick, the building sprawled across the lawn angling first this way and that. It boasted a gym, an auditorium, a library, a media room, an Olympic-sized pool, and a large outdoor play area. The last two features were situated in the rear of the school, which was where, for obvious reasons, the summer camp was located. Bernie followed the road around back and parked the van next to the two other cars that remained in the lot. She and Libby had just gotten out of the van and were heading inside when Samuel Cotton came out of the building. He was a tall, skinny, balding guy with a slight stoop to his shoulders and an unfriendly expression on his face.

  Even though he was in his mid-thirties, Bernie could discern the seeds of the grumpy old man he was going to morph into in his sixties. Samuel Cotton, she decided, was one of those guys who had been born in a bad mood and had stayed that way.

  He was wearing khaki cargo shorts and a bright yellow camp T-shirt that had the catch phrase LONGELY NOW printed across its middle. The clothes were not flattering to him, not that they’d be flattering to anyone above the age of six.

  The yellow T-shirt brought out the greenish tinge in his skin, while his shorts emphasized his knobby knees. Of course, the fact that he was wearing black socks and white sneakers didn’t help in the appearance department. Samuel looked tired and harassed, although to give him his due, anyone dealing with small children would probably feel that way.

  Bernie knew she was stereotyping him, but he didn’t fit her image of someone who hunted. In her mind, those guys were big and burly and expansive, not tall, skinny, and nerdy-looking.

  “Yes?” he said as Bernie and Libby came toward him.

  “We’d like to chat with you for a moment,” Libby said.

  “Chat?” His voice rose. “I don’t chat. We’re not in England. We’re not sitting down to a nice, cozy cup of tea.”

  “All right, talk then. My sister and I would like to talk to you.”

  Samuel wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Can’t it wait?” he asked plaintively. “I really need to go home and take a shower.”

  “This will just take a minute,” Bernie reassured him.

  ”I don’t care how little time it will take. I can’t talk to you right now,” he whined. “It’s been a long day and I need to get home.”

  “This is about—”

  He held up his hand and cut her off. “I know why you’re here and you could have saved yourself the trouble of coming. I don’t know anything about Jack Devlin.”

  “Why do you assume that’s what we wanted to talk to you about?” Libby asked.

  “You are investigating the Jack Devlin incident, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “So there you are. This is a small town. People talk.”

  “Which people?”

  “People.” He ran his hand through his hair. His scalp was glistening with sweat. “The air conditioning broke in the building today.” He gestured toward the school. “Do you know what it was like in there?”

  “I’m sure it was horrible.”

  “Horrible,” Cotton cried. “I thought I was going to pass out in there! And now I’m told that the repairman won’t be able to come until Friday. That’s two days away! Two days in this heat! We’re going to have to close the camp. It’s a health hazard. It’s amazing someone didn’t faint.”

  “So you were here the entire day?” Bernie asked him, trying to pin down his whereabouts vis-à-vis Marvin’s shooting.

  He snorted. “Where else would I be?”

  “I don’t know. You could have had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Well, I didn’t. I’m here when the little darlings come and I’m here when the little darlings go. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” He drew his lips back in a mirthless smile.

  “Surely you must get lunch off,” Bernie said, thinking that it wouldn’t take long to drive from the school to Cotton’s house, fire off a shot, and come back again.

  “Ha. Lunch off? Now that’s a joke. The council is so cheap that they aren’t paying the camp counselors anything. They’re interns. They work for free. You know what that means, don’t you? That means they don’t care. That means I have to watch everything, oversee every single detail. No. I bring my lunch with me and we all eat together. Except on Fridays. Fridays is pizza day. We still eat together, but we have pizza and ice cream. The kids love it.”

  “Listen—” Libby began when Cotton stopped to draw a breath.

  “No. You listen.” He cut her off once again. His rant seemed to have taken the last bit of energy he had out of him, not that there had been that much to begin with. “I can’t think.” He put his hand to his forehead then put it back down. “I bet I’m suffering from heat stroke. The last thing I need to do is answer some silly questions about Jack Devlin. I should probably be going to the hospital to get rehydrated.”

  “We can drive you if you want,” Libby offered. “Right, Bernie?”

  Bernie nodded. “Absolutely, Libby.”

  Cotton looked from one sister to another then took a step back. “No no. That’s very kind I’m sure, but now that I think about it, I’m positive that a cold shower and a long drink will do the trick.”

  “This is not about Jack Devlin,” Bernie said in an attempt to clarify the conversation.

  “I’m not talking about his girlfriends either,” Cotton announced. “I believe that everyone is entitled to their private lives, even if they are pathetic and degrading. And I don’t gossip. Ever. About anyone. So there’s no point in asking me any questions. I’ve already made my statement to the police and that’s what I’m sticking with. Ask them if you want.”

  Bernie took a swig from her water bottle and replaced it in her bag. “So I take it you talked to them about Elise Montague?” Her tone was conversational.

  Cotton didn’t reply.

  “Because David Nancy says that you and Elise had something going on then Jack Devlin came along and poof.” Bernie made an exploding gesture with her hands. “All gone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re speaking about,” Cotton said stiffly.

  “If we talk to Elise, will she tell us the same thing?” Libby asked. “Will she tell us David Nancy was lying?”

  It looked to Libby as if Samuel Cotton was swaying slightly on his feet, but maybe that was just a trick of the light.

  “I have no idea what she’ll tell you,” he said after a slight hesitation. “None at all. You’ll have to speak to her.”

  “We intend to,” Libby said.

  “Because some people would consider that a motive for killing Jack Devlin,” Bernie observed.

  “She isn’t worth killing for,” Cotton blurted out. “You give your sex too much credit. Actually, no woman is, and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”

  “Fine,” Bernie replied. “Here’s another question for you then. Maybe you can answer this one for me.
Do you shoot guns?”

  Cotton stared at her. “What do you mean?” he asked after a minute had gone by.

  “It’s a simple question requiring a simple answer. Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Do you always answer a question with another question?” Libby said.

  Cotton wiped his forehead with the back of his hand again. “Only if they’re stupid.”

  “Actually, I don’t know why my sister is asking you that question,” Bernie said, “since we already know the answer.”

  “We do indeed,” Libby said doing a good television game host show imitation.

  “And that would be?” Bernie asked.

  “That would be yes. Samuel Cotton knows how to shoot,” Libby replied in a bright, cheery voice. “So come on down Samuel Cotton and claim your prize.”

  Cotton peered at her through his sunglasses. “Has the heat claimed your senses? I hear it does that to people.”

  “Obviously you don’t watch a lot of game shows,” Bernie told him.

  He frowned. “I don’t watch any. Now, what are you babbling about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that David Nancy said that you and Rick Evans go hunting.”

  Cotton humphed. “That’s not exactly a secret. We go deer hunting around Syracuse every year.”

  “With what?” Libby asked.

  “With rolling pins,” Samuel Cotton replied.

  Libby frowned. She could feel a headache coming on. “Seriously.”

  “We use guns. What did you think we used?”

  “Well, it could have been bow and arrow,” Bernie countered.

  “But it’s not.”

  “What kind of gun do you use?” she asked.

  “A Remington Model 870 twelve gauge pump action shotgun that is equipped with a twenty-inch rifled slug barrel. Does that help?”

  Bernie didn’t say anything.

  “No. I thought not. I bet you can’t tell one gun from another.”

  “This is true. But I bet the members of your gun club, the Musket and Flintlock Club, can,” Libby said.

  “And your point is?” Cotton asked.

  Bernie jumped in. “I think the point my sister is trying to make is that you most likely have the expertise to rig a musket.”

  Cotton snorted. “Anyone with a lick of sense can do it. All you have to do is look on the Internet to find instructions. Ask anyone in the gun club and they’ll tell you the same thing.”

  “That was my next question,” Libby said.

  Cotton’s voice rose. “Are you suggesting that someone from the gun club did this?”

  “Did they?” Bernie countered.

  Cotton made a disgusted noise. “You really are nuts. For your information, everyone, except Marvin, in the reenactment belongs to that club and we are all law-abiding citizens. We pay our taxes. We sponsor safe gun classes. We hold charity benefits. We give back to the community.”

  “So by definition you wouldn’t have taken a shot at Marvin?” Bernie asked.

  Cotton took a step back. “Someone took a shot at Marvin?”

  “That’s what my sister just said,” Libby told him.

  “When?”

  “Not too long ago.”

  “You think because I know how to handle a firearm I shot at Marvin?” Cotton asked incredulously.

  “That thought had occurred to us,” Bernie told him.

  He started to laugh and ended up wheezing. “Allergies,” he explained between gasps. “That’s beyond absurd,” he told Bernie when he could talk again. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re mad at Marvin,” Libby said.

  “Why would I be mad at him?”

  “Because he killed Jack Devlin,” she replied.

  He shook his finger at her. “According to you, I wanted Jack Devlin dead, so why would I be angry at Marvin for killing him? He would have done me a favor.”

  “Maybe you wanted to kill him yourself,” Libby hazarded.

  Cotton shook his head in disgust. “You ladies have not a clue. You should leave things like this to the authorities.”

  “You don’t like us, do you?” Libby asked.

  “I don’t like people who overstep their boundaries. Something you two ladies are doing in spades. That’s how people get hurt, you know, doing what they don’t know anything about, going where they have no business going.”

  “Is that a warning?” Bernie asked him.

  Cotton held his hand up to his chest. “Good heavens, no. It’s an observation. I’m just stating a fact. I mean, look at what happened to poor Marvin. He sure isn’t having a good week, is he?”

  “No, he’s not,” Libby agreed.

  “I’m glad I’m not him. Now if you ladies will excuse me, I’m going to depart. My shower awaits.”

  “One more question,” Bernie said.

  “I think not,” Cotton responded. With that, he walked over to his vehicle, unlocked it, got in, and drove off.

  “So what do you think?” Bernie asked Libby as they watched his vehicle disappear around the bend in the road.

  “I think that he knows a lot more than he’s telling,” Libby said. “I think he was warning us to stay away.”

  “I think so too. We should have a chat with Elise.”

  “And Rick,” Libby added.

  “Definitely Rick.” Bernie looked at her watch. “But not right now.”

  They had to get back to the shop and get to work prepping tomorrow’s food.

  Chapter 18

  By nine o’clock that evening, the heat of the past days had broken. Within a matter of hours, the temperature had dropped twenty degrees to the low seventies. A breeze was coming out of the west, bringing with it the smell of honeysuckle, which lingered in the night air. The wind had kicked up, and Bernie could tell from the way it was blowing, it wouldn’t be long before the rain the weather forecaster had been promising would arrive. It was a good thing since the trees and the plants could definitely use it.

  After she and Libby had closed the shop at eight, they’d gone upstairs, turned off the air-conditioners, and opened all the windows so that the evening breeze could come in. It had felt good to air out the house.

  Bernie, Libby, Sean, and Brandon were sitting around in the living room sipping iced coffee and eating the wild black raspberries that Sean had picked when she and Bernie had gotten back from talking to Samuel Cotton. The plants had self-seeded in the small patch of land in the rear of A Little Taste of Heaven three years ago.

  At first, the bushes had yielded just a few berries, but they must have liked it in that spot because they’d taken over the entire patch of land. This year, the bushes had yielded a bumper crop. The berries were so good, sweet and tart, that the girls couldn’t bear to let them go to waste, even though picking them could be a painful affair. The bushes were armored with large thorns.

  “Worth every scratch,” Brandon said as he picked a berry out of the bowl, dunked it in cream, and then in sugar before putting it in his mouth. “God, these are good.” He reached over and ate another one.

  “Agreed,” Sean said as he took a sip of his iced coffee. Before he took a bite of the challah Libby had baked the other day, he slathered the bread with sweet butter that Bernie had gotten from a farm on the outskirts of the town. “I could live on this stuff forever,” he commented.

  Bernie didn’t say anything. It had been a long frustrating day and she was enjoying sitting on the sofa next to Brandon with her feet tucked under her. She watched the curtains dance in the swirls of breeze that eddied in and out of the flat and listened to the silence broken only by the sound of the occasional car driving by.

  She sighed and snuggled up against her sweetie. Brandon rarely had an evening off but RJ’s was closed for a private party and the people who were giving it had brought their own staff along. That being the case, she was determined to enjoy his time off to the fullest extent possible.

  Looking at Ber
nie and Brandon sitting on the sofa together made Libby feel sad. She wanted Marvin there, too. She’d invited him. After all, the discussion they were about to have centered around his situation. But he’d begged off, telling her he was too tired. She sighed.

  “Are you okay?” Bernie asked her.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t seem happy.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Thinking about Marvin?”

  Libby nodded. “He’s so depressed. All he wants to do is sleep. I’m worried about him.”

  “Don’t be,” Bernie reassured her. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “Getting shot at put him right over the edge,” Libby observed.

  “He’ll be fine,” Brandon said. “He just needs a few days.”

  “God, I hope so.” Libby snagged a chocolate kiss out of the bowl in the center of the table, unwrapped it, and let it dissolve in her mouth. Then she sat back in the armchair and waited to hear the story Brandon had to tell.

  “You’re going to enjoy this,” Brandon had told Bernie when he’d called.

  “So tell us what you heard,” Sean urged him, before taking another sip of iced coffee.

  Unlike the kind that was hot brewed and refrigerated, this coffee was cold brewed, and Sean liked it a tad better than the iced coffee done by more traditional brewing methods. It was a tiny bit smoother, although he couldn’t taste the notes of chocolate and cinnamon Bernie claimed she could. Probably all those years of drinking police station coffee had ruined his palate, he reflected.

  “It may be nothing,” Brandon said.

  Bernie sat up and stretched her legs out. “Or it may be something. We won’t know if we don’t hear it.”

  Brandon bowed his head in acknowledgment of what Bernie had said and began his tale. “Do you remember Monica Lewis?”

  Sean, Libby, and Bernie shook their heads.

  “Nope,” Bernie said. “Should I?”

  “She used to hang out at RJ’s. I think you played darts with her once or twice.”

  Bernie shook her head again. “I’ve played darts with lots of people.”

  “She won.”

  Bernie shrugged. “Most do.” She was a lousy dart player. “I’m sorry. The name still doesn’t ring any bells.”