A Catered Tea Party Read online

  Casper gave a mirthless laugh. “Please. So could anyone else. It was so dark in there anyone could have gone into the kitchen and back again.”

  “Well, it was okay when I plugged it in,” Libby said. “So that narrows the time frame down considerably.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the kettle,” Casper suggested. “Maybe the plug was defective.”

  “No, it was the kettle,” Bernie said. “They found the one we plugged in, in the kitchen cabinet. So someone changed up one for the other.”

  Sean leaned back in his armchair. “And here’s where we come to our problem. You have no one to vouch for your whereabouts, and you have the knowledge to have rewired the kettle.”

  “What you said goes for the crew as well,” Casper protested.

  Sean shook his head. “Their movements have all been accounted for.”

  “The guards,” Casper suggested.

  “I saw them,” Sean said. “They were standing on either side of the stage, blocking the way.”

  “Fine.” Casper took another sip of his tea. His leg jiggled faster. “Then one of the cast.”

  “Possibly,” Sean said equitably. “But no one except you has any experience with wiring.”

  “I don’t have any experience either,” Casper protested.

  “You worked in a lighting store,” Sean said.

  “So what?” Casper cried. “I worked on the floor. I sold things. I didn’t work in the back of the shop.”

  “You told me you’d rewired a lamp in your living room,” Bernie reminded him.

  Casper rolled his eyes. “Jeez. Give me a break.”

  “I’m just sayin’ . . . ,” Bernie told him.

  “I know what you’re sayin’,” Casper replied. “Okay. You’re right. I did it. ” He extended his arms. “Here. Put the cuffs on me.”

  “Stop it,” Bernie chided.

  “Anyone can rewire a teakettle,” Casper continued, lowering his arms. “All you have to do is look on the Internet and follow the instructions. Anyway, it was probably an accident.”

  “I think not,” Libby said.

  “Electric teakettles can short out on their own,” Casper protested. “It can happen. It probably happens a lot more than people think.”

  “Evidently not like this,” Bernie said.

  Thanks to her dad’s friend Clyde, she’d seen the police report, and the report had been very clear. Someone had hot-wired the electric teakettle, and when Zalinsky had touched it, he’d received a fatal shock to his heart. Unfortunately, whoever had done it had wiped the handle and the teakettle itself clean. So, no fingerprints.

  “Well, I didn’t touch that teakettle,” Casper said. “I didn’t,” he repeated when nobody in the room said anything. He raised his hand. “I swear.”

  Sean speared a crumb of crust on his fork and ate it. “It’s not me you have to convince,” he told him.

  “I don’t understand why they’re so sure it’s one of us,” Casper said.

  “Not us—you,” Sean told him, speaking slowly to emphasize the gravity of the situation. “At the present time, you are the primary suspect.”

  “This is beyond the pale,” Casper replied in a voice brimming with outrage.

  Sean held up his hand. “May I continue?”

  “Sorry,” Casper muttered.

  “In the mind of the police, you had the motive, the means, and the opportunity to commit this crime. Plus—and this is a big plus—there’s the note accusing you, plus the note threatening . . .”

  Casper broke in. “I already explained that.”

  “Do you want to hear what the police are thinking, or don’t you?” Sean snapped. He was running out of patience.

  “I want to hear,” Casper said.

  “Then let me finish,” Sean commanded. He glared at Casper, who shrank back into the sofa. “As I was saying,” Sean continued. “The police have two theories. In one, you killed Zalinsky because he was making your life a living hell and threatening to make sure you never got another directing job anywhere . . .”

  This time it was Bernie was who broke in. “Is that true?” she asked Casper.

  Casper nodded. “But he didn’t mean it. He was always saying that kind of stuff.”

  Sean went on as if no one had spoken. “. . . and then you stole the Chinese teapot because you figured he owed it to you. In their other theory, you intended to steal the teapot all along, so you hot-wired the electric kettle to provide a distraction, and Zalinsky’s death was an unfortunate by-product of the heist.”

  Casper had gotten very still while Sean was talking. “Do you believe that?” he asked anxiously when Sean was done.

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Sean assured him. “But what I think doesn’t matter. If I were you, I’d get a lawyer.”

  Casper bit his lip. “I can’t afford a lawyer. I don’t have any money,” he cried.

  Bernie got up and put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I told you we’d help you and we will.”

  “How?” Casper asked.

  “By talking to people,” Bernie answered.

  “Great,” Casper grumbled. “Some people get Sam Spade, and I get the conversationalists.”

  Bernie glared at him. “Hey, we’re doing you a favor here.”

  Casper looked down at the floor. “I know,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

  He looked so miserable that Bernie stopped being angry.

  “You’d be surprised at what we can find out,” Libby told him. “And you can help us by going home and writing down anything that Zalinsky said, anything that he did that made anyone in the cast mad at him.”

  “That list would be one hundred miles long,” Casper protested. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “Begin at the beginning,” Libby suggested, echoing a phrase from Alice in Wonderland.

  Casper ignored the reference. “But everyone hated Zalinsky,” he pointed out. “Everyone.”

  “Yes, but there’s someone out there who hated him extra specially,” Libby said.

  “Extra specially?” Bernie repeated. “What kind of phrase is that?”

  Libby gave her sister the evil eye, then continued on with what she’d been saying. “Someone,” she clarified, “who hated Zalinsky enough to kill him, and that’s the person we have to find.”

  Chapter 4

  “You think writing that list is going to help?” Bernie asked Libby once Casper was gone.

  “Even if it doesn’t,” Libby replied, “it’ll give Casper something to do.”

  Sean took a swallow of his iced coffee and put the glass down on the side table next to his chair. “I can see why Lucy likes Casper for this,” he remarked. Lucy, aka Lucas Broadbent, was the Longely chief of police.

  “Casper wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Bernie protested.

  “You’d be surprised what people will do when pushed hard enough,” Sean told her.

  “Not Casper,” Bernie repeated.

  “So you keep saying,” Libby said.

  “All the evidence is circumstantial,” Bernie told her. “All of it!”

  “Agreed,” Sean said.

  “Then why settle on Casper?” Bernie asked.

  “The two notes,” Sean answered. “They sealed the deal.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair while he thought about how he would conduct the investigation if he were still Longely’s chief of police. “If I were you, I’d start with the teapot,” he suggested after a minute had gone by. “I’d try to get a handle on where you’d unload something like that. And the security guys. I’d talk to them and see what they have to say.” Sean was about to say something else, but his attention was captured by the sound of the downstairs door opening and closing and someone running up the stairs.

  Bernie was just thinking that they should really keep the downstairs door locked when the door to the flat opened and Sean’s newfound friend Michelle came barreling through. Even though she was in her early fifties, to Bernie’s mind she dre
ssed as if she was in college. Today she was wearing a thigh-high denim skirt, which showed a lot of tanned leg, leg that Bernie had to admit looked pretty good, a tight black T-shirt, and flip-flops. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head in a loose bun—the hairstyle of the moment.

  “Oh my God,” she cried, advancing on Sean. “You poor dear. I just got home from Cabo and heard about what happened at The Blue House. That must have been terrible for you. Seeing that.”

  “And even worse for Zalinsky,” Libby couldn’t help noting.

  Michelle threw back her head and laughed, displaying a set of perfect teeth. “That goes without saying.” When she reached Sean, she bent down, gave Sean a hug, and kissed the top of his head. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

  “That’s okay,” Bernie said sweetly. “Somehow we all managed to get along anyway.”

  Michelle laughed again. “Of course, you did.” She grabbed Sean’s hands and pulled him up. “If it’s alright with you,” she said to Bernie and Libby, “I’m going to steal your dad away. It’s such a lovely day that I thought he and I could go down to the Hudson and sit in one of the cafés along the water and soak in the summer. It’s so brief in this part of the world, I feel it’s a crime not to enjoy it. Oh dear.” Michelle looked around, taking in Bernie and Libby’s expression. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Not to be rude or anything, but as a matter of fact, you are,” Libby told her.

  Michelle put her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just . . . got carried away. I should leave,” she said, turning to go.

  Sean patted her thigh, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by his daughters. “Don’t be ridiculous, Michelle,” he told her. “What we were talking about can wait.”

  “But Dad,” Libby objected.

  Michelle bit her lip. “I really don’t want to cause trouble.”

  “Believe me, you’re not,” Sean said to her.

  “Because you all looked terribly serious.”

  “Which is why a break would be perfect right around now,” Sean told her. Then he turned to his daughter. “Libby,” he said. “We’ll talk about this when I get back.”

  Then before Libby could say anything else, he and Michelle were walking out the door.

  “I just can’t bear to be inside on a day like this,” Bernie and Libby heard Michelle trill, her voice floating upward, as she and their dad walked down the steps.

  “That’s exactly how I feel,” Sean replied.

  Then Libby and Bernie heard the downstairs door close. A moment later, they saw Sean getting into Michelle’s BMW.

  “Where did she get that car?” Libby asked.

  “No doubt from her last husband,” Bernie replied.

  “I can’t figure out what she wants from Dad,” Libby said. “It’s not like he has any money.”

  “Maybe she just likes his company,” Bernie replied.

  Libby raised an eyebrow.

  “Some women like older men,” Bernie pointed out.

  Libby shook her head. “I remain unconvinced.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her eye. Her face was grim. “I think I may have an idea about what Michelle wants.”

  Bernie stopped watching Mrs. Johnson walking into their shop and turned toward her sister. “What?”

  “Although it’s pretty far-fetched,” Libby admitted.

  “I’m waiting,” Bernie said when a minute had gone by and Libby hadn’t said anything,

  “Really far-fetched,” Libby repeated. She was suddenly having doubts about confiding in Bernie.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  Libby took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay, Debby . . .”

  “The Debby from the Grist Mill?” Bernie clarified.

  Libby nodded. “Last time I was there, she told me she’d heard that Michelle got her stretch bread recipe by cozying up to one of the bakers at Totonio’s. Maybe she’s after our cookie recipes.”

  Bernie made a disgusted sound and went back to watching the street. “That’s ridiculous,” she scoffed. “I know we don’t like her, but let’s get real here.”

  “It’s possible,” Libby countered.

  “So is snow in July.” Bernie turned away from the window and started picking up the dirty dishes and putting them on the tray to take downstairs. “Or how’s this? Maybe she just likes Dad. Maybe that’s all there is. Maybe we are jealous.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Libby conceded. But in her heart of hearts she wasn’t convinced, not one single bit.

  Chapter 5

  As Igor Petrovich scowled and flexed his biceps, Bernie decided he looked even larger standing in the doorway of his Brooklyn apartment on Ocean Parkway than he did standing on The Blue House stage as a security guard.

  “Why you want to talk to us?” he asked her. He was wearing a wife beater and a pair of khaki shorts. “Why are you here from Longely?”

  So Bernie explained why they’d made the trek into the city.

  Obviously she didn’t do a good job because the next words out of Igor’s mouth were, “This what happened is not our fault.”

  It was the next day, and Bernie and Libby had taken the first part of their father’s advice and gone to speak to the security guards Zalinsky had hired to keep an eye on the teapot. The two brothers shared an apartment on the sixth floor of a high-rise three miles from Coney Island in a building Bernie guessed had been erected in the 1930s.

  “I’m not saying that at all,” Bernie replied.

  Igor’s scowl grew. “So you saying what then?”

  Ivan, who was wearing the same thing as his brother, joined Igor. He was slightly shorter and wider, and his hair was wet, but that was where the differences ended. “We hired to look good, that’s all Zalinsky wanted us to do.” He jabbed a stubby finger in the air to make his point. “He wanted us to look mean. That’s what he said.”

  Igor nodded. “My brother Ivan is right. We do exactly what Zalinsky wants.”

  “Which was?” Libby asked.

  “To make a show,” Ivan said. “To stir up interest. We didn’t know anyone was going to be hurt. We don’t do things like that.”

  Libby clarified. “Hurt people?”

  “Nyet. Be where people get hurt.” Ivan stroked his jaw. “My brother and I, we do not like this. Also we have to be careful of our faces.”

  “I see,” Bernie said, even though she didn’t. Now that Bernie was looking at the two men, she was surprised she hadn’t seen the strong resemblance between them before, but at the time she hadn’t been paying much attention to them.

  “You must have thought there was a chance someone would get hurt,” Libby persisted. “You were wearing bulletproof vests.”

  “Fakes,” Ivan said. “Not the real thing.”

  “Fakes?” Libby repeated, nonplussed.

  Both Igor and Ivan nodded their heads.

  “How about the guns?” asked Bernie.

  “Also fakes,” Ivan said.

  “Really?” Bernie asked.

  Ivan nodded. “They look real, no?”

  “They look real, yes,” Libby said. “Why would you do that?”

  “You ask this question for real?” Igor said.

  Libby and Bernie both nodded.

  “We are actors,” Ivan explained. “We hire ourselves for when people want to make themselves look important at nightclubs and other events. We become their bodyguards for the evening. We create . . . how you say . . . a buzz.”

  “And there’s a market for that?” Bernie asked genuinely curious.

  Ivan and Igor nodded their heads again.

  “Da,” Ivan said. “A big market. Everyone wants to be someone important. Sometimes we do some modeling too. Catalogs. That is why we have to be careful of our faces.”

  “Out of curiosity, how much do you get paid to be a bodyguard?” Bernie asked.

  Bernie whistled when Igor told her.

  Igor’s face darkened. “But we did not get tha
t from Zalinsky,” Igor said. “He told us he didn’t have the cash on him and he would go to the ATM afterward. But there was no afterward. How you find us anyway?” Igor asked, changing the subject.

  “Casper . . .”

  “The crazy little man in black shirt and black pants who is sweating like a mule all the time?” Ivan asked.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Bernie replied.

  Libby continued. “He said that Zalinsky hired you and that his assistant . . .”

  “Magda?” Igor asked.

  “Yes, Magda might have your address, so we talked to her, and here we are,” Libby said.

  Bernie took a step forward. “May we come in?” she asked. “We’d really like to ask you about what happened that evening. Maybe you saw something that will turn out to be helpful, something that you don’t even know is important.”

  “We tell the police everything we see. They already have talked to us,” Ivan objected.

  “I’m sure they have,” Bernie told Ivan. “But we were hoping you could run through everything again for us.” As she was speaking, Bernie thought she saw a flash of something inside the apartment—maybe a woman—moving across the hallway.

  Igor rubbed the tattooed star on his bicep. “You are the caterers at the play, yes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Bernie told him as she looked again. There was nothing there.

  “So why you want to know about this?” Ivan asked.

  “Sometimes we help people out,” Libby told him.

  “Help them out how?” Ivan asked, looking puzzled. “You bring food to their houses when they are sick?”

  Bernie laughed. “No. We help them out when they’re in trouble with the law,” she explained.

  “So you are police too?” Igor asked. “You cook, and you do policing?”

  “No,” Bernie said.

  Igor cocked his head. “Then you are like the private detectives I see on TV?”

  “Kinda,” said Libby, stretching the truth.

  Igor scratched his arm. “So who is this person in trouble?”

  “Casper,” Bernie said.

  “How he is in trouble?” Ivan asked.

  “The police think he might have had something to do with Zalinsky’s death, and we don’t think that’s the case,” Bernie explained.