A Catered Mother's Day Read online

  “So when are you going to move?” Bernie asked Ellen.

  “We’re in. We signed the lease two weeks ago. We just have to bring in our supplies.” Ellen lapsed into silence as she watched a sailboat out on the Hudson. “Bruce and I used to have one of those, a twenty-four footer. Then the kids came along and we sold it. You’re lucky you’re not married,” she said suddenly.

  Bernie dusted the crumbs off her pink silk blouse, which caused the pigeons to surge forward. “You just need to find a way to make everyone pay attention.”

  “I’ve tried,” Ellen wailed. “You know I have, but nothing I say seems to penetrate.”

  Bernie stamped her feet and the pigeons retreated for the third time. “That’s the problem. You have to stop talking and start acting.”

  “And do what?” Ellen put both of her hands out palms up in a gesture of defeat. “Tell me. I’ve tried not doing the dishes or doing the laundry, but it didn’t faze them in the least. Clearly my family has a higher capacity for dirt and disorder than I do.”

  Bernie finished off her biscotti. “I might have a solution for you.”

  Ellen leaned forward. “Tell me.”

  “You could always fake your own kidnapping. That would certainly get everyone’s attention.”

  Ellen’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

  Bernie snorted. “Of course not seriously. I was kidding. But you could go off to a spa for a couple of days.”

  Ellen leaned back. “I like it,” she said.

  “Then you should do it,” Bernie replied, thinking that Ellen was referring to her second idea instead of her first.

  Chapter 2

  Up until Ellen’s call on Saturday evening, Bernie and Libby had had a pretty uneventful day. Business at the shop had been slow but steady. They had sold out of their chocolate salted caramel cupcakes and lavender and honey crème brûlées as well as their basil chicken salad, pasta primavera, and Moroccan lamb stew. At a little after seven Bernie and Libby ushered their last customer out, locked the front door, cashed out, wiped down the counters, and swept up.

  Afterward, they retired to the kitchen, where they began boxing up the French macaroons they were featuring for Mother’s Day. After that was done they planned on meeting Marvin and Brandon at RJ’s for a drink, then getting a good night’s sleep because Mother’s Day morning was always a busy one, what with frantic dads and unruly kids hurrying in to buy last minute treats.

  “I wonder what Mom would have thought of the macaroons,” Libby said as she carefully slid six of them into a clear plastic box and put the top on.

  Bernie looked up from cutting lengths of deep blue velvet ribbon. “I’m sure she would have approved. She always liked new things.”

  “Mrs. Salazar was asking about the little cupcakes with the candied violets on top that Mom always did for Mother’s Day.”

  Libby reached for a ribbon. “We can do those next year.”

  “Dad would like that.”

  “He liked anything Mom made.”

  “This is true.”

  The sisters worked in silence for the next twenty minutes. At seven forty-five Bernie’s cell rang. She wiped her hands on her apron, picked it up, and looked at the screen.

  “It’s Ellen,” she informed Libby as she answered.

  First Bernie heard, “I’m in so much trouble.” Then Ellen began to laugh hysterically. “What’s the matter?” Bernie asked.

  Libby moved closer so she could hear.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” There was another cackle of hysterical laughter from Ellen.

  “Ellen, tell me what’s going on.”

  “I should never have listened to you, Bernie.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bernie told her. She’d been up since five in the morning and was not in the mood for drama.

  “You know, Bernie. Your suggestion. Your brilliant plan.”

  “What suggestion, Ellen?”

  Ellen’s answer was another burst of maniacal laughter.

  Libby raised an eyebrow, demanding clarification. Bernie shook her head in response. She had no idea what Ellen was talking about. She decided to try a different tack. “Okay,” she said. “At least, tell me where you are.”

  “I’m at the Riverview Motel. Room twenty-one.”

  “Jeez, that’s an oldie but goodie. What are you doing there?”

  “Now, that’s a good question. An excellent question. Of course the better—”

  Bernie interrupted. “Ellen, stop. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  This time Ellen let out something between a laugh and a sob. “How can I tell you when I don’t know? I thought I did, but now . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Bernie looked around the kitchen and saw her evening plans disappearing. “Are you on something?” she asked, although she couldn’t see Ellen ingesting anything that didn’t come from Whole Foods. Was acid organic? Probably not.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Pills. Acid. Bath salts.”

  “Are you nuts?” Ellen’s voice rose in indignation. “I have three kids, for God’s sake.”

  “Right. Moving on. Are you hurt?” Bernie asked. “Should I call nine-one-one?”

  “No,” Ellen cried. “Absolutely not. Whatever you do, for God’s sake don’t do that.”

  “Are you sure?” Bernie asked.

  “I’m positive,” Ellen said. “I couldn’t explain. I don’t know who it is.”

  “Who who is, Ellen? You’re not making any sense at all.”

  “I did a bad thing, Bernie. A really bad thing. You’ll come, won’t you? Please.”

  Bernie grimaced. She’d really been looking forward to a shot of Scotch and a visit with Brandon. “Do I have a choice?” Ellen started sobbing on the other end of the line and Bernie immediately regretted her comment. “Of course I’ll come. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she promised.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Ellen hung up, leaving Bernie looking at her phone.

  “What was that all about?” Libby asked.

  Bernie shook her head as she put her cell back on the kitchen counter. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Why doesn’t she call Bruce?” Libby asked as she quickly finished tying the bow on top of a box holding the six chocolate macaroons with a hazelnut praline filling. She fluffed out the loops on the ribbon and added, “Isn’t that what husbands are for?”

  “Theoretically.” Bernie picked up a broken macaroon that was lying on the prep table and ate it. It melted in her mouth, leaving behind the taste of chocolate and hazelnuts. “Maybe she didn’t call him because this has to do with him.”

  “What did he do? Kill someone?”

  “Bruce?” Bernie laughed at the idea. “Not hardly. He’d outsource it. He’s not a get-your-hands-dirty kind of guy.”

  Libby sighed as she looked at the unboxed macaroons.

  “You don’t have to come,” Bernie told Libby, correctly interpreting her sigh. “It’s okay. I know you don’t like Ellen very much.”

  “I never said that,” Libby protested.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like Ellen, it’s just that she complains all the time. She whines more than I do.”

  Bernie laughed.

  “But I’ll come,” Libby told her sister. “Of course, I’ll come. You’re going to need my help.”

  Bernie smiled. “Like that’s going to happen.”

  Libby smiled back. “Funny, how it always seems to. I wonder what Ellen’s doing at the Riverview Motel anyway.”

  “I guess we’re going to find out,” Bernie said. Then she ran upstairs to tell her dad where they were going. A minute later she was down with the keys to the van. Her dad’s routine injunction of “be safe out there” floated down the stairs after her. Libby was waiting outside.

  “I’m surprised Dad didn’t want to ride along,” Libby observed.

  “He
said to call him if it’s anything interesting and he’ll get Marvin to drive him down. He thinks Ellen is probably being hysterical.”

  Libby made a pffft noise with her lips. “Well, she does tend to get a tad overwrought.”

  “There is that,” Bernie allowed.

  “More than a tad,” Libby added.

  Bernie didn’t say anything because it was true.

  Chapter 3

  The Riverview Motel on Route 72 had been built over seventy years ago at a time when people went out for leisurely Sunday afternoon drives. Once the motel had been an elegant stopping place for tourists bent on enjoying the scenic pleasures of the Hudson Valley. Now Route 72 was a forgotten road and the Riverview Motel was strictly for the locals. It was the place to go if you were a teenager and wanted to have a party, or you were older and wanted to have an assignation.

  The sign signaling the turnoff to the motel was sited ten feet off the road and had never been replaced. Over the years, it had come to tilt sharply to the left, giving the picture of the Hudson River a tipsy feel. The weather had done its work as well, and by now the blues had faded to grays, while the boats on the river and the people on the shore had been reduced to white and black smears.

  A few of the letters on the sign had vanished as well, so now the sign read, THE IVERVIEW OTEL. It had been that way for as long as Bernie and Libby remembered, the owners, Isaac and Mina, having no desire to invest money in fixing it. As Bernie pulled into the parking lot she noted that the grass and the ivy seemed to be winning the battle in their fight with the macadam.

  Libby pointed as three wild turkeys looked at them, gave a couple of squawks, and hurried off into a cluster of weeds that were invading the parking lot perimeter. “Isaac should sell this place before it falls down.”

  “I don’t think he really wants to,” Bernie replied as she maneuvered around a piece of cement.

  “Then he should fix the place up,” Libby stated.

  “He could,” Bernie said. “But he obviously likes things just the way they are. I’m guessing that he prefers to spend his money on his fishing trips.”

  “That salmon was really good,” Libby allowed, remembering the four pounds of king salmon Isaac had given them from his last trip as a thank-you for storing the catch from his freezer in theirs when his power had gone out last winter during the ice storm.

  “Good!” Bernie exclaimed. “It was great. I hope he goes on another trip soon.”

  “Me too,” Libby replied. It really was the best piece of fish she’d ever tasted. “Dad is talking about going down to the Carolinas with Clyde. They have mahimahi down there.”

  “Not as good as salmon, but good enough,” Bernie said. Then she changed the subject. “Boy, I had some great times here,” she reminisced while Mathilda let out an ominous creak as she jounced into and out of a deep rut.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Libby noted.

  “That’s because it’s not,” Bernie said. “We need to get a new van.” She said this at least once a week.

  Libby patted Mathilda’s dashboard. “Don’t listen to her. We won’t abandon you.”

  “You really think talking to her helps?” Bernie asked her sister.

  “Yes, I do.” Libby gave Mathilda a final pat. “Just because she’s a machine doesn’t mean she doesn’t have feelings.”

  “I’m not even going to comment on that,” Bernie said, concentrating on keeping Mathilda out of the largest of the potholes dotting the parking lot. “This is even worse than when I was here, and that’s saying a lot.”

  Libby pointed to the Subaru parked in front of room twenty-one. It was the only vehicle in the lot. “There’s Ellen’s car.”

  “No parties tonight,” Bernie observed as she parked next to it. “In my day, the place would have been full.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Libby said. Unlike her sister, she had never been into that scene.

  Libby got out first and Bernie joined her. Except for the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the occasional barking dog, it was quiet out. Libby was just thinking about what it would take to bring the Riverview back to life when she thought she saw something moving across the way. She nudged Bernie.

  “What was that?” Libby pointed to the grove of trees the turkeys had vanished into.

  “What was what?” Bernie asked, looking in the direction her sister was pointing.

  “I’m not sure. I thought I saw something moving out there.”

  Bernie squinted. She didn’t see anything, but then it was hard to see at dusk. “Sorry, but I don’t see anything.”

  “There was something there,” Libby insisted.

  “Well, there isn’t now. It was probably a turkey.”

  “It wasn’t a turkey,” Libby said. “It was bigger.”

  “Then a deer.”

  “It was smaller than that.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it’s gone now,” Bernie said impatiently.

  Libby shook her head.

  “Why are you shaking your head?” Bernie demanded.

  “What if it was a person?”

  “Or a vampire,” Bernie suggested.

  “You should stop binge watching True Blood.” Then she changed the subject. “Where is Ellen anyway? She had to have heard us pull up. I mean it’s not as if Mathilda is quiet. Given what you said, I would have thought she’d have opened the door, if not been waiting outside for us.”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Bernie said. She turned and knocked on the door. “Ellen.”

  Ellen didn’t answer.

  Bernie knocked again.

  No response. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the sycamore trees. A frog croaked somewhere.

  “So where is she?” Libby asked after a minute had gone by. “I mean her car is here.”

  Bernie licked her lips. “I don’t know.”

  Libby sucked her breath in. “I have a bad feeling about this, Bernie.”

  “So do I,” her sister admitted.

  “Maybe we should call the police.”

  “Ellen specifically asked me not to do that,” Bernie reminded her sister, putting her hand on the doorknob and pushing.

  The door creaked as it swung open. She and Libby walked in.

  The room looked exactly like all the other rooms in the motel Bernie had been in over the years. It was small and dingy with white walls, a badly painted seascape hanging over the bed, a beat-up-looking TV, and a small refrigerator.

  “This place needs to be aired out,” Libby observed. “I think someone was wearing too much cologne or something.” She sniffed. “What is it? It smells so familiar.”

  But Bernie didn’t answer. She was too busy looking at the bed.

  Someone was in it. And it wasn’t Goldilocks.

  Chapter 4

  For some reason, the first thing that both Libby and Bernie noticed were the man’s hands. They were down at his sides. Then they noticed that his legs were straight out, and he was looking up at the ceiling. Clearly he was dead. The staring eyes and the mark around his throat left no doubt about that.

  They stopped in their tracks. Libby put her hand to her mouth.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “Who is he?” Bernie asked reflexively, not expecting an answer.

  Libby shook her head. “I don’t know.” There was something about him that looked familiar, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.

  “He looks like he’s laid out for a wake,” Bernie observed.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been to one,” Libby replied, her eyes glued to the dead man on the bed.

  One thing was undeniable. The guy lying on top of the thin, white, chenille bedspread was big. Libby figured him for six foot three and almost three hundred pounds at least, although it was a little hard to estimate with him being horizontal and all. His feet hanging over the bed looked like gunboats, and Libby guessed that the white sneakers he was wearing were probably a size thirteen. He had a full beard, a gold earring
in his left ear, and was dressed in cargo pants and a short-sleeved shirt. He looked ready to go out for a walk in the park, except that is, for the ligature mark around his throat.

  Bernie was about to take a step toward him when she heard a low moan and turned. It took her a moment to spot Ellen crouched down on the floor in the space between the bed and the wall with her back toward the nightstand. The nightstand lamp was off, which was why Bernie and Libby hadn’t seen her in the shadows when they’d come in.

  “Oh my God. What happened? Are you all right?” Bernie cried, the words tumbling out as she rushed toward her friend.

  “I’m good,” Ellen said, and giggled. “I’m ducky. Just fine. Peachy-keen in fact.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  Ellen shook her head. “No, I’m not hurt, Bernie. I told you I’m okay.” Although the dazed look in her eyes clearly said otherwise. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Let’s guess,” Libby said.

  Bernie took a couple more steps and crouched down in front of Ellen. The two women were so close that their knees were touching. Even though the light was dim, Bernie could see there wasn’t any blood on Ellen’s white T-shirt or her pink shorts, and there didn’t seem to be any bruises on her face, arms, or legs.

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Bernie asked again.

  “I’m sure,” Ellen answered. “One hundred percent. Absolutely.” She giggled.

  Libby leaned over Bernie. “What happened?” she asked.

  Ellen shook her head and whimpered.

  Libby persisted. “Who is the guy on the bed?”

  Ellen started to cry. “I don’t know,” she managed to get out between sobs.

  “How can you not know?” Libby demanded.

  “Because I don’t,” Ellen replied, crying harder.

  Bernie reached out and stroked Ellen’s hair. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Ellen whispered.

  “Please, you have to tell us what happened,” Bernie begged.

  Instead of answering, Ellen wrapped her arms around her knees, hugged herself, and started rocking back and forth.

  Bernie and Libby exchanged looks. This wasn’t going well. She’s in shock, Libby thought as she caught sight of a bottle of Canadian Club sitting on the other nightstand. Maybe the Canadian Club would help.