A Catered Fourth of July Read online

  “Obviously,” Libby said.

  Marvin gulped. Loudly. Bernie, Libby, and Brandon looked at him.

  “I can’t do jail time,” Marvin wailed as pictures of prison movies he’d seen in his youth flashed through his head. “I just can’t. I wouldn’t last a day in there! Not even an hour!”

  “Can we go for five minutes?” Bernie asked.

  Libby glared at Bernie and she shut up. Libby leaned over and patted Marvin’s arm. “You’re not going to. I repeat, don’t worry. We’re going to find out who did this and have them arrested.”

  “Yeah,” Bernie added. “We’ve done it before and we can do it again.”

  “And Dad will help,” Libby said. “So you’ve got all three of us in your corner.”

  Brandon poured himself a ginger ale. He didn’t drink on duty. “Make that four of us.” He took a sip of his soda. “Maybe Marvin’s right. Maybe it was an accident.”

  Libby turned to Bernie. “Back in the park you said that in the days of the Revolutionary and Civil War guns discharging accidentally were a common occurrence.”

  “See.” Brandon gave Marvin an encouraging smile.

  Bernie nodded. “True. Soldiers got scared in the heat of battle and loaded their guns a second, third, and even fourth time, at which point the barrels exploded.”

  “Maybe that’s what happened at the reenactment,” Brandon suggested as he began washing glasses.

  “I don’t think so, Brandon,” Bernie said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, no matter how much powder you put in one of those muskets, it never would have shredded Jack Devlin’s face like that. The musket was loaded with shot.”

  Brandon put the glass down and looked up. “Shot?”

  “That’s what I just said,” Bernie replied.

  “You can get that at any sporting goods store,” Brandon noted. “Hell, you can even make it yourself.”

  “They did during the Revolutionary War.”

  “Some guys do it now. You know, for kicks. Are you sure it’s shot?”

  Bernie nodded again. “I saw some scattered on the ground around Jack Devlin’s body. The shot . . . shots?”

  “Shot,” Brandon told her.

  “Okay then. The shot looked black and they were about this big.” She made a small circle with her thumb and forefinger to show the size.

  Brandon turned off the water. “There goes the musket as a prop theory. However, that still wouldn’t be enough to make the musket explode the way they said it did on television.”

  Jack Devlin’s story had been featured on the six o’clock news, much to the dismay of Marvin and his dad.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Bernie agreed. “Clyde said the muzzle was also stuffed with mud and sticks, which means that once Devlin pulled the trigger, the thingie—”

  “The thingie?” Brandon said. “What’s the thingie?”

  “The thing that ignites everything.”

  “You mean the percussion cap.”

  Bernie waved her hand. “Whatever. The percussion cap then. It caught, the shot had nowhere to go, and blammo! Instant Jack Devlin hamburger.”

  Marvin turned white. He’d already seen Jack Devlin’s face. He didn’t need reminding.

  “That’s disgusting,” Libby informed her sister.

  “But true,” Bernie said.

  Brandon cleared his throat. Everyone turned toward him. “That wouldn’t necessarily have killed Devlin. It could have just maimed him pretty badly.”

  “Maybe that was the intention,” Bernie noted after thinking for a moment about what Brandon had said. “Maybe someone wanted to take away Devlin’s looks. He certainly would have needed extensive plastic surgery if he’d survived.”

  “I could see this being a punishment,” Libby added.

  “Like the guy who throws acid in a woman’s face because she’d rejected him,” Brandon said.

  “Exactly,” Libby said. “Or maybe in this case, a woman getting her own back.”

  “Or a guy,” Bernie said.

  “Then the motive would be different,” Brandon said. “I can’t see a guy doing something like that. I can see him killing Devlin, but maiming him? Not so much.”

  “We really don’t know a lot, do we?” Libby observed.

  Bernie ate a pretzel. “We do know a couple things. We know that screwing around was Devlin’s favorite occupation and we also know that someone had to hand Devlin the musket. Those two facts we are sure of.”

  “Are we?” Brandon asked.

  “Yes, we are,” Bernie answered. “That is, if we’re proceeding under the assumption that the purpose of this little exercise was to kill or maim Devlin.”

  “And we know I didn’t do it,” Marvin said. “We’re sure of that. That’s a third fact.”

  “But we don’t know who did,” Brandon stated.

  “Correct. If we did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Bernie pointed out.

  Everyone was quiet for a moment.

  Bernie ate another pretzel. The crunch echoed through the room. “We have eight people, seven excluding Marvin, who were directly involved in the reenactment. That’s another thing we’re sure of.”

  Everyone was quiet again. They could hear a freight train tooting its horn in the distance.

  Brandon poured the last of the ginger ale from the bottle into his glass. “Let’s go over this one last time.”

  Marvin groaned. “I’ve already repeated this at least a hundred times.”

  “Then one more time won’t make any difference,” Brandon told him. “So who was responsible for the muskets?”

  Marvin raised his hand. “I was.”

  “How did you get them?”

  “I picked them up at the costume place along with the rest of the garb.”

  “Did they seem all right?” Brandon asked.

  Marvin shrugged. “Sure. I guess.”

  Brandon took a sip of his ginger ale and put the glass down. “What do you mean I guess?” he demanded. “Did you look at them? Inspect them, look in the barrels to see if they were clean?”

  Marvin looked miserable. “No,” he whispered. “I didn’t.”

  “Why not?” Brandon asked.

  “They weren’t real. Even if they were, it wouldn’t have made a difference. I don’t know one end of a barrel from another. I’ve never shot a gun in my life. I’ve never been near them.”

  “So it would seem,” Brandon said. “So what did you do with the muskets then?”

  “I stored everything in the shed by the rose garden just like Rick Evans told me to. It was the easiest thing to do. I figured I’d give everyone their costumes before the reenactment and they could change in the Longely Historical Society bathrooms. Inez said it would be all right. That way no one would lose anything.” Marvin bit his bottom lip. “I thought I was being smart.”

  “That’s when I make my worst mistakes,” Libby volunteered, trying to make Marvin feel better. “Why is that, I wonder?”

  “What kind of lock did you use on the shed door?” Bernie asked Marvin, declining to go through the door her sister had opened.

  Marvin shook his head. “I didn’t.”

  Brandon frowned. “You didn’t? Why not?”

  Marvin slunk lower in his seat. “Because Rick told me the shed had a padlock. He even gave me the key for it. But when I got there the lock was already open. It was hanging on the hasp. After I was done putting things inside, I tried closing it, but I couldn’t. The padlock was broken. I knew I should have gone to the hardware store and gotten a new one, but I was running late. I figured everything would be fine. As it turned out, I was wrong.”

  Bernie almost said I’ll say, but stifled the comment. Instead, she asked if anyone had seen Marvin storing the clothes and the props.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Bernie repeated. “What do you mean maybe?”

  “Well, there were people around. I mean, there are always people around so I’m sure someon
e saw me.”

  “Like who?” Bernie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Marvin said angrily. He was suddenly tired of defending himself. “I wasn’t paying attention, okay? I was thinking about other stuff.”

  Libby lifted her hands then brought them down in a calming gesture. “Maybe we should try another tack.”

  Marvin gulped down the last of his Scotch. “I’m listening.”

  “Let’s start off with who besides Rick Evans knew that the reenactment stuff was in the shed,” Libby said.

  “That is the question, isn’t it?” Bernie said.

  “One of them,” Brandon said. “I can think of several others.”

  Bernie shot him a look and he shut up.

  “Everyone knew,” Marvin said, answering Libby’s question. “I sent out an e-mail to everyone who was involved in the production.”

  “Then the second part of the question is, who knew that the shed’s lock was broken?” Brandon asked.

  Marvin shook his head again. “You got me, but I can’t believe it was a secret.”

  “What else is the shed used for?” Libby asked.

  “Nothing,” Marvin replied. “It’s empty. The Longely Rose Society used to store their gardening tools in there, but they moved them to the outbuilding on the other side of the garden.”

  “How long has the shed been empty?” asked Brandon.

  Marvin shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe a year. Maybe six months.”

  Everyone was silent for another minute as the weather announcer forecast the weather for the rest of the week. It was going to be in the nineties for the next three days.

  “I never thought I’d say this,” Brandon said, “but I’m actually looking forward to winter.”

  “Well, I for one, refuse to complain about the heat,” Bernie said.

  “Ha!” said Brandon

  Bernie lifted an eyebrow. “Ha?”

  “Yes, ha. You’ve been complaining about the heat nonstop.”

  “Have not,” Bernie protested.

  “Have so.” Brandon turned to Libby. “Isn’t that right?”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “I’m staying out of this.”

  “You know your sister does.” He shook a finger at Bernie. “You complain about the winter, you complain about the summer. What does that leave you?”

  “Spring and fall, of course,” Bernie replied.

  Marvin waved a pretzel in the air. “Could you two stop bickering and get back to me?”

  “I suppose that’s only fair,” Brandon said.

  “I think so,” Marvin replied. “Especially since I’m the one who’s going to be indicted for murder.”

  “Manslaughter,” Libby corrected.

  “I’m still going to jail,” Marvin said.

  Libby reached over and patted him on the back again. “You won’t. Okay. So let’s go over this one last time.”

  Marvin groaned. “You’re worse than the police.”

  “Please,” Libby said. “We’re just trying to help.”

  Marvin hung his head. “I know,” he said in a contrite voice.

  “Okay.” Brandon took a sip of his drink. “One more time. Did anyone hand Jack Devlin his musket?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t remember?” Marvin demanded.

  “You’re sure?” Brandon asked.

  “Of course I’m sure,” Marvin cried. He took a pretzel out of the bowl and crumbled it into little bits. “If I knew, don’t you think I’d tell you. I’ve tried remembering, but I can’t. Things were so hectic and I was so hot. All I was thinking of was how long it would take before it was over.” Marvin shook his head. “I’ve tried picturing what happened, but I can’t. My mind is a blank.”

  “Someone had to have handed the damn thing to him,” Brandon observed.

  “Why?” Bernie said. “Devlin could have picked it up by himself.”

  “But then how could whoever wanted him dead make sure that the musket reached its intended target?” Brandon asked her.

  “I don’t know,” Bernie told him.

  “How about Rick Evans?” Libby asked Marvin. “What about him?”

  Marvin pounded the bar. “How many times do I have to tell everyone I didn’t see anything?”

  Brandon leaned forward. “So tell me what you did see.”

  Marvin frowned. “I put the guns in a pile on the bench and everyone took one.”

  “Where were you when this happened?”

  “I already told you, Brandon. I was there, but I wasn’t watching.”

  “What were you watching?”

  “I was watching Libby walking toward the gazebo. I was thinking how nice she looked.”

  “That’s so sweet, Marvin,” Libby said.

  Marvin blushed.

  “And then?” Brandon prompted.

  “And then I turned back and all the muskets except the one I was going to use were gone.”

  “And none of them looked any different from any of the others?” Brandon asked.

  Marvin shook his head. “Not that I noticed.” He buried his hands in his face again. “I am so screwed. So, so screwed.”

  “Don’t say that,” Bernie told him.

  “But we’re not getting anywhere,” Marvin told her. “We’re just going around in circles.”

  Bernie drummed her fingernails on the bar. “You’re right. This tack is getting us nowhere. We might be better off figuring out who among the people at the reenactment had a motive to kill Devlin.”

  Brandon laughed. “That would be everyone.”

  “I think we need to be a tad more selective,” Bernie said.

  “Give him the list,” Libby told Bernie.

  “I am giving him the list,” Bernie shot back. “Jeez.” She took out the list that she, her sister, her dad, and Clyde had compiled earlier in the evening and handed it to Brandon. “We’re concentrating on these people. We’re convinced that somewhere in here is the person who wanted Jack Devlin dead.”

  “Or maimed,” Libby said.

  “What difference does it make? No matter what the intention was, the result was the same,” Bernie snapped. “A dead Jack Devlin.”

  Libby put up both her hands. “So-r-ry.”

  “What do you want me to do with this?” Brandon asked, waving the paper in the air.

  “I want you to tell me who you think the most likely candidates are,” Bernie told him.

  “You want me to rank them or something?” Brandon inquired.

  Bernie nodded. “That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  “What if these people don’t pan out?” Marvin asked.

  “Then we’ll broaden our search,” Libby informed him.

  Marvin drummed his fingers on the bar. “To whom?”

  Libby noticed that he was beginning to slur his words. “To the other people who were there.”

  Brandon drank the rest of his soda. “Why are you asking me to do this?”

  Bernie laughed. “Simple. Because you know everything that goes on in this town.”

  Brandon sniffed. “You’re saying that I’m the gossip king?”

  “No, Brandon. I’m saying you’re a bartender and bartenders, like hairdressers, know everything.”

  “It’s true. I do.” He took a pen from the side of the register and began putting numbers next to names. “This is kind of fun,” he told Bernie and Libby when he was through.

  Marvin looked woeful. He hiccupped again. “I don’t feel so well,” he mumbled.

  “Somehow, I’m not surprised,” Libby told him. “What did you have to eat today besides the pretzels?”

  Marvin looked at her. “Not much,” he managed to get out before he did a face plant onto the bar.

  Brandon looked at Marvin and shook his head. “I haven’t seen one of those for quite a while.”

  “Me either,” Bernie said.

  Brandon pointed to Marvin who was lying there with his mouth open. “I guess he doesn’t have much of a toler
ance for alcohol.”

  “Obviously,” Libby said.

  Marvin began to snore. Loudly.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Brandon said. “He’s not going to be a happy camper when he wakes up tomorrow morning.”

  “On that,” Bernie said, “I think we all can agree.”

  “And,” Brandon added, stating the obvious, “he’s not going to be fun to carry out and get into his car.”

  Chapter 8

  By five o’clock the next morning the temperature had already climbed to seventy degrees. The air-conditioning was going full bore in the kitchen of A Little Taste of Heaven, but it was no match for the heat the ovens were throwing off. Even the fans Bernie had set up weren’t having much of an effect. They were just moving the hot air around. Both Libby and Bernie were dressed in shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops, but that wasn’t helping, either.

  “I’m going to get heat stroke and die,” Libby moaned as she rolled out the pie crusts for the lemon meringue pies she was making.

  “You can do that after you finish the pies,” Bernie informed her while she measured out ingredients for the red velvet cupcakes they were featuring that day.

  “Thanks.” Libby took a sip of the iced coffee she’d made the night before.

  Bernie paused to pin a stray lock of hair off her neck. “That’s me, compassionate to a fault. By the way, have you thought of getting a pedicure? It is the summer and you are wearing sandals.”

  Libby frowned. “I thought we agreed that my feet were not up for discussion. I don’t like nail polish on them.”

  “But they look so naked.”

  “And yours look so . . . so . . .”

  “Good.” At the moment, Bernie was wearing green nail polish with blue tips.

  “Not the word I was going to use.” Libby totally changed the topic, going off on a food tangent because it was just too early in the morning to argue. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should sell ice cream or frozen yogurt.”

  “Frozen yogurt is the new big deal,” Bernie reflected. “It would give us another income stream. Especially if weather like this becomes the new norm.”

  Libby looked up as she finished her first pie crust and went on to her second. Only ten more to go, she thought. For some reason, lemon meringue and chiffon pies of various kinds were turning out to be their best sellers this summer. Maybe it was a retro thing, since those kind of pies were particularly popular in the fifties. Or a comfort food thing. The dessert equivalent of meatloaf, so to speak. Or perhaps they were a hot weather thing, because they were light and refreshing.