A Catered Mother's Day Read online

  “You think you can do better?” Libby demanded.

  “Well, I sure as hell can’t do worse.”

  “Bet you ten you don’t get any further than I did.”

  Bernie was just about to tell Libby the bet was on when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  Bernie spun around. Stu Hartley was grinning at her. He took one large coffee black, one corn muffin lightly toasted no butter, and an almond Danish. He was so punctual that Amber had his order ready to go when she saw him getting out of his Accord at six forty-five on the dot every Monday through Friday morning. An accountant, he commuted down to Loeb, Spenser & Brown, a high-end firm located on Madison Avenue. Usually, he wore a gray suit, white shirt, and gray-and-black-striped tie; tonight he was decked out in leather.

  “I didn’t know you rode,” Bernie said, checking out his vest.

  Stu gave a deprecating shrug. “I just got Jane.”

  Bernie furrowed her brow. “Jane?”

  “The Harley next to the streetlight. That’s what I’m calling her.”

  “Oh,” Bernie said. “Why Jane?”

  “She was my first true love, the one who broke my heart.”

  “I wouldn’t tell my wife that if I were you,” Bernie told him.

  Stu shrugged. “I don’t think she’s going to care.”

  “Seriously?” Bernie asked.

  A look of panic crossed Stu’s face. “I shouldn’t tell her?”

  “Absolutely not. What does Esther say about the bike anyway?” Bernie asked. Somehow Stu’s wife didn’t strike her as the Harley-riding sort.

  Stu gave Bernie a nervous grin. “Not much. Ha-ha.” He tugged his vest down over his gut. “Actually,” he confessed, “she doesn’t know yet.”

  Bernie couldn’t help herself. She laughed. She knew Stu’s wife and she was not going to be amused. “Oh boy.”

  “Oh boy, is right,” Stu allowed. “It’ll be interesting when she comes back from her conference on Sunday. If you don’t see me at the shop on Monday morning, call the police.” He took a sip of his beer and put the can down. “I’ll be buried in the backyard.”

  “What made you buy it?” Libby asked.

  “Impulse,” Stu replied. “I always wanted one and I was driving by the dealership in Eastwood and there she was gleaming in the window. I think I’m having a midlife crisis or something.”

  “I think maybe you are,” Bernie agreed.

  Stu leaned forward and clapped his hand on Bernie’s shoulder. “Listen, I heard you talking to Jack and I might know where Sandy lives.”

  “That would be great,” Bernie said.

  Stu took his hand off Bernie’s shoulder and rubbed his chin. “I’m pretty sure she lives in the purple house with the lavender trim on the corner of Mission and Oak. You can’t miss it.”

  Bernie raised an eyebrow. Sandy, she thought. Not Sandra. Interesting. Stu took another swallow of his beer. Bernie was amused to see he was drinking Budweiser. When she’d run into him at RJ’s, it was the microbrews or nothing.

  Stu explained. “Sometimes I go that way to get to the train station and I usually see her Civic parked in the driveway.”

  “Do you know why she isn’t here?” Libby asked.

  Stu leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I heard she was fired for being late too many times.”

  “That would do it,” Libby said. It would certainly be grounds for letting someone go.

  “Thanks for the tip,” Bernie told Stu.

  “My pleasure,” Stu responded. “But I think she quit and people are making stuff up.”

  “We’ll say a prayer for you,” Libby told him. She knew Esther too. He was going to need it.

  “To Stu,” Bert Mendalbaum called out. He raised his can of beer. “L’chayim. May his wife not kill him.”

  “L’chayim,” everyone bellied up to the bar responded as Bernie and Libby walked out the door.

  When they were standing on the pavement, Bernie called Brandon to see if maybe he knew Sandra’s address or last name. Or anything. But he didn’t.

  “Not even her last name?” Bernie asked.

  “I have a vague memory of it starting with a P, but I could be one hundred percent wrong. She doesn’t hang around with anyone I know.”

  “Whom does she hang around with?” Bernie asked.

  “I think she keeps to herself. Listen, gotta go,” Brandon said. “Tony is a no-show and I’m in some serious weeds here.” Then he hung up before Bernie could say anything else.

  “Why do we want to talk to Sandra anyway?” Libby asked Bernie.

  “Because,” Bernie said lightly, running the tips of her fingers over the Harleys as she walked by them. Her old boyfriend had had a bike and sometimes she still missed riding on it. “Because she might be a lead, and even if she’s not, we don’t have anything to lose by talking to her.”

  “I guess it’s worth a shot,” Libby conceded. Although given her druthers, she’d rather be going home. She was tired and she wanted to go to bed.

  Bernie nodded. “Exactly. We might as well try the address Stu gave us, and if that doesn’t pan out I can come back to the Roost later by myself”—she emphasized the words by myself—“and see if I can get Sandra’s info out of Jack.”

  “How much are you going to offer him?”

  “I was thinking up to one hundred.”

  Libby smiled. “So I saved us a hundred bucks.”

  Bernie laughed. “Maybe you have.” She looked at the moon overhead and felt the night breeze nibbling her arms. “Anyway, it’s a nice night to go for a ride,” she noted. “Maybe on the way back we can stop at Fannon’s and pick up some ice cream for Dad and ourselves.”

  Libby perked up. Suddenly she didn’t feel tired anymore. “Let’s get coffee mocha chip. It’s their best flavor, although”—she paused for a minute—“their banana chocolate chunk isn’t too shabby either.”

  “We’ll get a pint of each,” Bernie happily said as she got in the van. It’s amazing what ice cream can do, she thought. Just talking about it was putting her in a better mood already.

  Chapter 41

  Mission and Oak was on the far side of town. It had been a while since Libby and Bernie had been there, but they remembered the area being as close to slummy as anything in Longely got, which wasn’t saying much. The houses here were smaller, two-story rental properties with no garages. Their postage stamp yards tended toward the unkempt and the landscaping mostly consisted of overgrown laurel hedges and impatiens.

  But evidently things were changing, because this time when Libby drove by, Bernie spotted a few houses with new paint jobs, flower boxes, and extensive plantings, not to mention a couple of restaurants featuring organic ingredients, and an upscale food market advertising gelato—all signs that the far side of town was about to come up in the world.

  “I wonder how Stu knows what Sandra’s vehicle looks like,” Libby mused as she pulled up in front of the house. “And he called her Sandy. She doesn’t seem like a Sandy to me.”

  “The obvious answer comes to mind.” Bernie replied. “Although for the life of me, I can’t see her and Stu together.”

  Libby laughed at the idea. “Neither can I, but you never know. Look at Mom and Dad. I can’t think of two more opposite people and they were really in love.”

  “Yes, they were,” Bernie replied softly as she studied the driveway of the purple house. Even in the fading light the color popped, especially because the houses on either side were painted all white.

  There was a car parked on the blacktop, but it wasn’t a Civic. So either Stu was wrong or Sandra wasn’t here. Well, there was only one way to find out. Bernie pressed her lips together as she contemplated the house Sandra was supposed to be living in. Constructed almost sixty years ago, the place had been conceived as a two-family colonial with one family living on the top floor and the other on the bottom. It must have been nice once, but over the years, time and weather had taken their toll. Paint was peeling off the w
indowsills, a couple of shutters were gone, the steps were listing to the left, and six heavy wooden posts supported the sagging wraparound porch on the second floor.

  “I don’t think I’d be sitting out there right now,” Bernie remarked, indicating the small table and two chairs on the balcony.

  “Me either,” Libby agreed as Bernie scanned the windows for signs of life.

  She couldn’t see any lights or movement upstairs, but she did see a light shining through the curtains covering the window on the first floor. That and the car in the driveway led her to believe that someone was home.

  Libby indicated the two entrance doors sitting side by side with a nod of her head. “I wonder which one is Sandra’s.”

  Bernie pointed to the mailboxes. “Let’s find out.”

  But they didn’t. There was no name on either one. Bernie paused for a moment, then pressed the bell on the right underneath the sign that read JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES GO AWAY.

  A moment later Bernie and Libby heard a cheery “I’m coming” and a moment after that the door was flung open and an elderly lady with flaming red hair, wearing a housecoat, a pearl choker, and bright yellow Converse sneakers confronted them.

  “Yes?” she said, waving a cigarette holder around. A dribble of ash fell on her housecoat and she brushed it away.

  Bernie started apologizing for the lateness of the hour, but the woman stopped her.

  “Please,” she said, “I never go to bed before four. All those years in the theater, you know.” She peered at them through her glasses. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Libby said.

  “I think I do.” The woman pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose to get a better view. They were bright pink circles and covered half of her face. “Yes, indeed I do.” She clapped her hands together. “You’re Rose’s girls, aren’t you? I guess you don’t remember me,” she said when she saw the blank looks on their faces. “I’m Thelma, Auntie Thelma. Hollywood?”

  “Oh my God.” Libby’s eyes widened as she recalled who the lady in front of her was. She put her hand to her mouth. “I remember now. You went off to Hollywood to be in the movies. You were supposed to marry Ronnie . . .”

  “Zorn,” Thelma said. “But I broke the engagement, and off I went to seek fame and fortune.”

  “And did you find it?” Libby asked.

  Thelma grinned. “I never became a star, if that’s what you’re asking, but I got my SAG card and I’ve always worked steady, which, let me tell you, is no mean feat. I don’t suppose either of you happened to see Walk of the Zombies or Blood in the Sky by any chance?”

  Both Libby and Bernie shook their heads.

  “No matter. Most people didn’t, but I had starring roles in those.” Thelma waved her cigarette holder around. “I never regretted going there for a moment or, for that matter, not marrying Ronnie Zorn. Rose was right. I was never cut out to be your typical hausfrau. But enough about me . . . I want to hear about you two,” she said, shutting the door behind them.

  Libby and Bernie spent the next half an hour perched on an ornate, carved, antique sofa, sipping iced tea out of jam jars, and catching up.

  “Rose was such a wonderful lady. So talented. A regular domestic goddess is what she was,” Thelma enthused. She giggled. “Unlike me. I used my oven to store my sweaters in.” Thelma stabbed the cigarette holder in the air for emphasis. “Still do, for that matter. If you can’t heat it up in the microwave I don’t eat it.” She pointed to her stomach. “I guess it works, because I still have my girlish figure.”

  She giggled again. “Well, as much as one can be girlish at my age.” Thelma leaned forward. “You know,” she confided, dropping her voice down to a stage whisper, “if it wasn’t for your mom, I wouldn’t have left Longely. She was the one who encouraged me to go to Hollywood to seek my fame and fortune. ‘Thelma,’ she said, ‘you have to do what makes you happy.’ And so I did.”

  “Well, she sure didn’t say that to me when I headed out to the West Coast,” Bernie recalled.

  Thelma patted Bernie’s knee. “You were her daughter. I’m sure she was scared you’d fall prey to evil influences—there’s a lot of that out there.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Bernie conceded, recalling Rose’s words.

  “Your mother was no fool,” Thelma said.

  “I never thought she was,” Bernie replied.

  Thelma beamed. “She was very proud of you, Bernie. You too, Libby.” Then Thelma straightened up and looked from Bernie to Libby. “But enough of the past. What delightful mission has brought you to my humble abode? What can I help you with?”

  Bernie got straight to the point. “We’re looking for a woman called Sandra,” she answered. “She works as a bartender at the Roost.”

  “Ah, yes.” Thelma gave her head a little shake. “Poor dear.”

  “So you know her?” Libby asked.

  Thelma clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I should hope so.”

  “Does she live here?” Bernie eagerly asked.

  “Has for the last eight months,” Thelma replied. She carefully took her cigarette out of her holder and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. “Filthy habit, but I can’t seem to give it up. Oh well.” She gave a deprecating shrug. “Everyone has to die of something, right? Right?” Thelma repeated when neither Libby nor Bernie replied.

  “Right,” Bernie quickly said. “Does Sandra have a last name?”

  “I take it you’re asking me if I know it.”

  Bernie nodded.

  Thelma snorted. “Of course I do. She’s my upstairs tenant. Her name is Melon—as in the fruit.” She sighed. “I probably should have asked more rent from her; she’s paying practically nothing. I’ve always been bad when it comes to business. But given the flat’s condition, I couldn’t charge her the going rate. What do you think about the color, by the way?”

  “Of the house?” Bernie asked.

  “What else?”

  “Quite eye-catching,” Bernie said diplomatically. Which was true.

  Thelma chortled. “That’s one way of putting it. You should see it in the daylight. It positively sizzles. Let me tell you, the neighbors are not pleased, but I think it’s good to expand people’s horizons, don’t you?” She sniffed. “They were quite unpleasant when I moved in.”

  “Is that why you chose those colors?” Bernie asked.

  Thelma’s expression reminded Bernie of, to use a phrase of her mother’s, the cat that ate the canary.

  “Let’s just say,” Thelma replied, “that it was an added benefit, but I chose those colors because I liked them. Also they were on sale, not a bad thing in my situation. Although I have gotten a call back for a toilet paper commercial and those do pay good money.” Thelma looked pensive as she rat-tat-ted her fingernails, which were long and red, on the top of the arm of the love seat she was sitting in. Then she smiled and clasped her hands together. “However, I’m sure you’re not interested in my employment opportunities or lack of them. So why do you ladies want to speak to Sandra, if I might ask?”

  “Well, we’re hoping she can help us with some information,” Bernie replied.

  “May I be so bold as to ask what kind of information you wish to solicit from her?”

  Bernie and Libby looked at each other. They weren’t quite sure how much they wanted to share.

  Noting their reluctance, Thelma sat up straighter and smiled an utterly beguiling smile. “Oh, come on,” she urged. “My life is utterly boring. Make an old lady’s day.”

  Bernie and Libby couldn’t help themselves. They both smiled back. The lady’s a charmer, Bernie thought. No doubt about that.

  “Well?” Thelma asked. She leaned forward expectantly. “Is Sandra . . . involved in anything interesting?”

  “Not really,” Libby said.

  Thelma’s face fell.

  “A little bit interesting,” Bernie allowed.

  Thelma’s smile returned. “Does this have anyth
ing to do with Manny and Miss Randall by any chance?” she asked.

  Bernie took a sip of her iced tea. It had a chemical aftertaste. She guessed it was one of those instant mixes. “How did you know?”

  Thelma waved her hand in the air. “It’s been all over the news.”

  “True,” Bernie allowed.

  Thelma’s eyes glittered. “You’re investigating?”

  “More like poking around,” Libby told her. In Libby’s mind, investigating connoted warrants and wire taps.

  “I see.” Thelma clapped her hands. “What fun. How delightful.” Then she realized what she’d said and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear. I sound dreadful. Absolutely heartless. That’s not what I meant at all!”

  “I’m sure,” Libby reassured her. “We want to speak to Sandra because we’re hoping she can shed some light on where Daisy Stone is.”

  “We just have a few questions we want to ask Daisy about Manny,” Bernie added.

  Thelma cocked her head. “You want to speak to Daisy Stone?” she asked, surprised.

  “Hopefully,” Bernie replied, slightly disconcerted by Thelma’s tone.

  “About Manny?”

  Bernie nodded. “Yes. Is that going to be a problem?”

  Thelma sat back in the love seat and frowned. “My dear, talking to her about anything is going to be a problem.”

  “And why is that?” Libby asked.

  Thelma reached for her cigarette holder. It was long, black, and shiny, with a series of red stars going down the side, and reminded Bernie of something out of a thirties movie.

  “Because Daisy is,” Thelma began, “not to mince words, completely off her rocker. Has been for some time. She’s at the Pines. Such a nice name for such an ugly type of place, don’t you think?” Thelma shuddered. “I keep on thinking of that old movie The Snake Pit, even though I know those places aren’t like that anymore. It’s such a pity. They keep her so doped up it’s hard to get a ‘hello’ much less a ‘how are you’ out of her.”

  Libby took another sip of her iced tea for the sake of politeness. “So you’ve seen her?”

  “That,” Thelma said, giving Libby a confiding smile, “is why I said what I did.”