A Catered Fourth of July Read online

Libby nodded.

  “I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

  “We would just like you to comment on something that Hilda the Pig said,” Bernie replied.

  “Hilda?” Rick started laughing. “You want me to comment on something a pig said?”

  “Yeah, we do,” Bernie replied.

  “Juno is a lunatic. She should be medicated.”

  “That seems a little harsh,” Bernie told him.

  “So what would you call someone who pretends a pig is talking to her?” Rick challenged.

  “Eccentric.”

  “You know, it really doesn’t matter what you call that nut job. I’ve had a long day and I’m anxious to get home.”

  “To your loving wife?” Libby asked.

  “No. To my basset hound. Of course, to my wife. The last thing I want to do right now is have a conversation about something that Juno—”

  “Hilda,” Libby corrected.

  Rick groaned. “That moron said about me. She hates me. She hates everyone. She spreads lies.”

  “Why does she hate you?” Libby asked.

  “Because she wanted to use the old Hinkleman House as a Wiccan Institute and I voted no on a zoning code variance.” He shook his head. “First of all, it’s in a residential area and people were worried about the parking; second of all, we don’t need more crazies running around, conducting ceremonies in the middle of the night.”

  Bernie cocked her head. “When was this? I don’t remember reading about it.”

  “A couple years ago.” Rick shifted his weight from one leg to another. “Juno’s never forgiven me for that. She’ll do anything to block my becoming mayor, but that’s not going to happen.” He shook his head. “She was nice before she got into this Wiccan stuff. Unlike her husband. But now she’s off on another planet.”

  “What’s wrong with her husband?” Libby asked.

  “Three words. Possessive, controlling, and jealous.”

  “So he wasn’t relaxed with the Juno-Devlin situation?” Bernie asked.

  “To say the least,” Rick replied.

  “Like you were with your wife and Devlin?” Bernie asked.

  Rick shrugged. “Believe what you want. My wife and I have an open marriage. We’ve had one for years.”

  “What about Juno’s marriage?” Libby asked.

  He shrugged again. “It isn’t my business.”

  “But if you had to say,” Bernie pressed.

  “It’s good if you like blood sports,” Rick replied.

  “Do you?” Libby asked, changing the topic.

  “I hunt, if that’s what you mean. But then you already know that.”

  Bernie leaned forward. “Are you a good shot?”

  He preened. “As a matter of fact I am. I shoot competitively.”

  “We’ve heard you also know a lot about guns.”

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s no big secret. I’m a collector.”

  “We’ve heard that too,” Bernie put in. “What does your wife think of your hobby?”

  “Not much. She doesn’t like weapons. Sees no reason to have firearms in the house. Mine are in the basement. It’s easier that way.”

  So that explains it, Bernie thought. “My dad always says marriage is the art of compromise.”

  “But she’s a member of the Musket and Flintlock Club,” Libby pointed out.

  “She goes when they’re having a potluck, but that’s about it. It’s strictly a social thing with her.”

  “I’m with her,” Libby said, thinking of her one and only experience with a firearm. Her shoulder still hurt like hell.

  “Most women are,” Rick said. “Except Elise, of course.”

  “You know what I find odd,” Libby said, changing the subject. “What I find odd is that you gave Bernie and me the distinct impression that you didn’t know anything about firearms.”

  Rick looked at Libby blankly. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “The way you acted when Jack Devlin was killed,” Libby answered.

  “What should I have said?”

  “I’m not sure,” Libby admitted. “Why did you put Marvin in charge of the muskets, anyway?”

  “He volunteered to take care of the costumes, and the muskets were part of the costumes. After all, we’re talking about props here.”

  “True,” Libby conceded. She took a sip of her lemonade. “Did you take a shot at Marvin?” she blurted out.

  Rick shook his head in disbelief. “Why would I do something like that?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,” Libby replied.

  “Well, I didn’t,” Rick asserted.

  “Then who did?” Libby challenged.

  “How the hell should I know?” Rick cried. “I’m not the Magic Answer Machine.” He shifted his jacket back to his other arm. “If you want to talk to someone who had a reason to kill Devlin, talk to Juno’s husband.”

  “He wasn’t there,” Libby pointed out.

  “Yes, he was.”

  Bernie perked up. “Where? I didn’t see him.”

  “Neither did I,” Libby added.

  “He came late. He was behind the big oak tree in back of the gazebo.”

  “What the hell was he doing there?” Libby demanded.

  “I’m guessing he was watching Juno. You get a clear view of the rose garden from there.”

  “Why would he being doing that?” Bernie asked.

  “Why do you think? I already told you. He’s pathologically jealous of her. And by the way, FYI, Chuck is a reenactor. He knows all about muskets. He did a couple stints at Gettysburg.”

  Libby started to bite her cuticle, realized what she was doing, and stopped.

  “You want answers, go talk to him.” Having said that, Rick turned on his heel, marched over to his BMW, and got in. It was one of the only cars left on the lot.

  “I wouldn’t mind having a car like that.” Bernie sighed as he roared out of the parking lot, leaving a fine cloud of dust in his wake.

  “Maybe in your next life,” Libby said.

  “Well, it sure ain’t gonna be in this one.”

  Chapter 27

  “So what do you think about what Rick said?” Libby asked Bernie as they walked toward their van. The station was all but deserted until the next train came in at 11:10. Overhead, crows were flying in to roost in the big copper beech trees that bordered the parking lot.

  Bernie stopped to pick another pebble out of her sandal. “About Juno’s husband?”

  Libby nodded.

  “As in should we talk to him?”

  Libby nodded again.

  “I don’t remember seeing him, do you?”

  Libby shook her head. “He must have left before the police came.”

  “So,” Bernie mused, “while everyone else ran toward Jack Devlin, Juno’s husband ran away.”

  “That’s what Rick Evans implied.”

  “Suggestive, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” Libby agreed.

  Bernie checked the time on her cell. It was a little after eight. “No time like the present. Especially since we’re close to their house.”

  “If he’s home,” Libby said.

  “I guess we’re going to find that out.”

  “Maybe we should call,” she suggested.

  “And give him a heads-up?” Bernie shook her head. “I think not. Let’s surprise him, see what happens. More fun that way.”

  “Your definition of fun, not mine.”

  Bernie grinned and got in the van. “Exactly.”

  It was eight-fifteen when Bernie and Libby pulled up in front of the Grisham’s house. The sun was setting and the sky was an array of soft pinks, oranges, and gray-blues. A jet streaked high overhead, leaving an arching white plume behind it. The air smelled of freshly mown grass and roses.

  “This is a perfect summer evening,” Bernie noted.

  Libby sighed. “We should be having a barbecue.”

  “We will as soon as we get
this figured out,” Bernie assured her.

  As the sisters got out of the van, they could hear yelling going on inside the house. The noise spilled out, cutting through the evening’s tranquility.

  “It could be the TV,” Libby said in a hopeful tone. The yelling got louder.

  “You wish.”

  “It probably is,” Libby persisted.

  “Because folks in this zip code don’t have domestic disputes?” Bernie asked.

  Libby was framing her reply when she heard a scream followed by a crash.

  “Definitely a domestic dispute,” Bernie said.

  Libby frowned. “The smart thing to do would be to call the police, domestic disputes being unpredictable.”

  “But we’re not smart,” Bernie noted.

  “If Dad were here, he would tell us not to go in,” Libby pointed out.

  “He’s not. Anyway Libby, we’re not going in. We’re ringing the bell.”

  “True, Bernie. And the cops could take a while to get here.”

  “We wouldn’t want someone to get hurt in the meantime.”

  “No, Bernie. We certainly wouldn’t.”

  They headed for the front door. Bernie rang the bell. When no one answered, she rang it again. She was just about to press the button for the third time when the door swung open.

  A tall, tanned man wearing khakis, a white polo shirt, and loafers without socks peered out at them. He had regular features, including a nose that was a little too perfect to be real, dark hair that was graying slightly at the temples, and a snarl of an expression on his face.

  Now that they saw him, Libby and Bernie realized they’d spotted him at the reenactment walking to the park lot.

  Except for the expression, Bernie felt as if she was looking at a Ralph Lauren ad. Of course, the smell of whiskey floating off him wasn’t something you’d smell in the perfect WASP world the ads evoked. But then again, maybe you would. Perfect worlds tended to have dark undersides.

  “Chuck Grisham?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Bernie introduced themselves. “We’d like to speak to you for a second.”

  “We’re busy at the moment,” he growled. “Go away.”

  “We could hear,” Bernie said.

  Chuck leaned forward. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, breathing on her.

  She wanted to take a step back against the onslaught, but pride demanded she stay put.

  “We just wanted to make sure everything was all right.” Libby summoned up her most ingratiating smile. “We heard a crash. We thought maybe someone got hurt. You know, like the television falling on someone . . . or something like that. . . .” Her voice trailed off as her sister shot her a look.

  Chuck narrowed his eyes as he tried to process what Libby was saying. “Why would our television fall?”

  “It happens,” Bernie told him as she strained to get a peek inside the house. “In fact, it’s one of the most common causes of household deaths.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Bernie couldn’t see any blood on the hallway floor or the entrance to the living room, so that was good.

  “Well, the television hasn’t fallen and we’re fine,” Chuck told them as he folded his arms across his chest.

  “How’s your refrigerator? Maybe we should come in and take a look. Make sure it’s okay,” Libby chirped, picking up on Bernie’s cue. “We do know about that kind of thing.”

  “Thanks, but everything is just dandy. So now you can leave. In fact, I insist on it,” he told them.

  “Actually—” Libby began.

  Chuck snapped his fingers, cutting her off before she could say anything else. A look of recognition passed over his face. He raised his hand and shook his finger at her. “I know you. You were at the reenactment. So was your . . .”

  Bernie supplied the word. “Sister.”

  “You’re the caterers, aren’t you? The ones who have that fancy-pants shop on Main Street.”

  “I wouldn’t call it fancy-pants,” Bernie told him.

  “Well, I would.” Chuck pitched forward, then recovered and rocked back on his heels. The smell of whiskey coming off him seemed even stronger than it had before.

  Bernie decided he had the smell of someone who’d been drinking long enough to become one with the alcohol.

  “What’s it called, again?” There was a slight slur to his words.

  “A Little Taste of Heaven,” she said.

  He scratched his cheek. “Fancy-pants and presumptuous. Not a good combination in my book.”

  Bernie wrinkled her forehead. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard what I said.”

  “How can you say something like that when you’ve never been in the store?” Libby demanded.

  Chuck sniffed. “I’ve heard comments.”

  “From whom?” Bernie asked before she could stop herself.

  “Never you mind,” Chuck told them.

  “You just made that up,” she said.

  Chuck glowered at her. “What are you two doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be behind the counter or closing up or washing dishes or something? Aren’t you a long way from Main Street?”

  “Geographically speaking, about three miles, which isn’t really that far,” Bernie answered.

  “We were just wondering if you saw anything odd or out of place at the reenactment,” Libby asked.

  He stared at them for a moment, seeming to have trouble focusing, before he turned slightly to the right.

  Bernie noticed a bruise on the right side of his chin. It looked new. She thought about the crash she and Libby had just heard. Had Chuck fallen into something? Judging from the alcohol on his breath that was entirely possible. Or had Juno pitched something at him? That was entirely possible, too.

  His eyes narrowed. He absentmindedly rubbed his bruise while he studied them. Finally he said, “People have told me about you two.”

  “Nothing bad I hope,” Libby said.

  “They said you fancy yourselves as detectives. Or should I say dabblers in detection.”

  “I would hardly use the word dabble,” Libby said indignantly.

  “Girl detectives,” Chuck sneered. “What a charming concept. So Nancy Drew-ish.”

  Libby was going to say something, but Bernie squeezed her arm. Libby took the hint and remained silent.

  “You said you saw us at the reenactment,” Bernie said to Chuck. “We saw your wife there.”

  “Being the laughingstock of the town.”

  “But we didn’t see you,” Bernie said, keeping to the subject at hand.

  “I was behind the oak tree.”

  “You were?” Juno had come up behind him. “I thought you said you were too busy to go.”

  “I changed my mind,” Chuck told her.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Watching the reenactment.”

  “He’s just being modest,” Bernie said. “He just can’t let you out of his sight.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Juno muttered.

  “That’s what Rick Evans says,” Libby put in.

  Chuck tried to stand up straighter. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Rick also said you were a reenactor,” Bernie said.

  Chuck nodded. “I am indeed.”

  “So I guess he isn’t lying about everything,” she noted.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “How come you weren’t in the reenactment in the park?” Libby asked.

  Chuck swayed, then regained his balance. “Because I knew this one would be a joke. When I was at Gettysburg, we drilled, we rehearsed. This reenactment was a disgrace. It isn’t even based on a real incident! You can’t play fast and loose with history.” His voice rose. “People like Rick Evans have no respect for anything. They should be marched outside and shot.”

  “He means metaphorically,” Juno clarified. “He’s very passionate about history.”

  “I can speak
for myself,” Chuck told his wife.

  “So you didn’t want to kill Devlin?” Bernie asked.

  Chuck started laughing and ended up having a coughing fit. “Really? Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you were jealous that he was having an affair with your wife,” Libby said.

  Chuck pointed to Juno. “Her? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not jealous of her.”

  “He doesn’t mean that,” Juno said. “He’s just a little under the weather.”

  Chuck snorted. “Just be glad I didn’t say something worse,” he told Juno. Then he turned back to Libby. “Where did you get that from? Rick Evans?”

  “No. Sanford Aiken,” Libby answered.

  “That jerk,” Chuck muttered. “Always sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Or was it Elise Montague, Libby?” Bernie said. “I forget.”

  “No. It was definitely Sanford.” Libby paused for a moment and then said, “Or maybe it was Rick Evans.”

  “Maybe you two should just shut up,” Chuck snarled.

  “So,” Libby continued. “I take it that you are going to neither confirm nor deny that you were jealous of your wife and killed Jack Devlin?”

  “I think you should be more charitable, Libby. I think you should give old Chucky the benefit of the doubt.” Bernie turned toward him. “Maybe you just meant to teach Devlin a lesson and things went wrong. I don’t know. Which one was it? After all, you are a reenactor. You just said so. You were there. And you do know your way around a musket.”

  “So what if I do?” Chuck said.

  “So that gives you motive and opportunity,” Bernie told him.

  He gave her a disdainful look. “That gives lots of people motive and opportunity. All I can say is that I hope your cooking is better than your detecting work.”

  “Really?” Libby said.

  Chuck sniffed. “Yes, really. You’re missing the point.”

  “Would you care to enlighten us?”

  “Gladly. Jack Devlin’s death isn’t about love. It isn’t about sex. It isn’t about jealousy. It’s about good old-fashioned money.”

  “Because everything always is?” Libby asked.

  “Exactly,” Chuck told them. “Always has been, always will be.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?” she inquired.

  “Not really,” Chuck replied. “You two are supposed to be investigating so go investigate. You come barging in here in the middle of the night—”