A Catered Fourth of July Read online

  In any case, Libby wasn’t complaining because the chiffon pies were easy to make, their ingredients were cheap, and their profit margins were large. The pie crusts were baked blind, cooled, and then filled with a variety of flavors.

  She rolled the portion of pie dough she’d been working on into a circle. “We could always rent one of those frozen yogurt machines with an option to buy,” she suggested as she transferred the dough to the waiting pie pan, patted it down, and began to crimp the edges. She loved the way the pie dough felt like velvet underneath her fingers.

  “Then we’d have to break it down and clean it every night.” Bernie added a stream of cocoa powder to the contents of the mixer bowl. Red velvet cake was a Southern thing that had suddenly become popular in the northern states. “Remember. All those little tubes have to be cleaned with brushes. Or have you forgotten?”

  Libby wrinkled her nose. “God, what was I thinking? How could I forget?”

  “Probably because you repressed it.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Libby’s memories of working at the frozen custard stand in the Catskills were not good. Aside from having two sex-crazed coworkers who insisted on indulging in that activity every time they got a break—unsettling since she never knew where she was going to come across them—it had taken her the better part of two hours every evening to dissemble, clean, and reassemble the custard machine. Eventually, she’d broken one of the little tubes and gotten herself fired—which had been fine with her.

  “Ice cream would be better,” Bernie continued, thinking out loud. “We’d just need a larger freezer and cooler.” Her voice gathered enthusiasm as she went on. “We could do all local fruit and maybe a few exotics like vanilla with black pepper or lavender and cardamom or avocado ice cream.”

  Libby smiled. She liked the idea. “I heard the pizza place in the strip mall near town is selling their freezer. Someone said they’d be willing to take two hundred for it.”

  Bernie nodded. “Not bad. We could sell ice cream for—” She stopped. Price point calculations had never been her thing.

  “Give me a sec to figure it out,” Libby said, being the better of the two at that particular task. Her lips started moving, but no sound came out as she did the arithmetic in her head. “Ballpark, I think we could sell the ice cream for two-fifty for a single scoop, three dollars for a double.”

  “Including the cones?”

  “They can’t be more than a nickel each. And I’m being generous.”

  Bernie nodded. “That would work. We’d be undercutting Schneider’s by a nickel a scoop.” Schneider’s was the only place in town at the moment that sold homemade ice cream.

  “Always a good thing. We could do sorbets as well.”

  “We should talk to Stonewall Dairies,” Bernie suggested, “and see if they can give us a deal on milk and cream.”

  “I’ll call them later today,” Libby promised.

  The sisters worked in silence for the next couple minutes. When Libby was done with the last of the pies and had them all safely secured in the oven, she poured herself a second cup of coffee and perched on one of the kitchen stools. “I’ve been thinking,” she began as she stirred a lump of raw sugar into her coffee.

  Bernie looked up from putting frilly cupcake papers into muffin tins. “Always a dangerous occupation,” she cracked.

  Libby ignored her and continued on with what she’d been about to say. “Do you believe that Rick Evans really didn’t care that his wife was sleeping with Jack Devlin?”

  “No,” Bernie promptly replied. “I’ve never met a guy who didn’t care about something like that. Even the ones who don’t like having sex, care. It’s a control thing.”

  Libby raised an eyebrow. “Is there such a thing as a man who doesn’t like sex?”

  Bernie laughed. “I think there might be one or two out there. Not our men of course, but I know that Brandon would leave me if I fooled around.”

  Libby reached over, snatched one of the strawberries that was about to become part of a strawberry chiffon pie, and ate it. “So would Marvin.”

  “Rick Evans is a Type A control freak. If Gail did something like that, he’d be livid.” Bernie began pouring the batter into the paper cups. On three occasions, she had placed the paper cups on baking sheets instead of in muffin tins and the batter had ended up spilling over the sheets and onto the counters. Definitely not worth the cleanup. Using the muffin tins was a little slower, but definitely safer. And faster in the end. It was a tortoise and hare kind of thing.

  “Maybe they really do have an open marriage,” Libby suggested while she handed Bernie a strawberry. “Maybe Rick was telling the truth down at the station. Or maybe he just likes to watch. Maybe he’s a voyeur.”

  “Maybe,” Bernie said, plucking the stem out with her fingernails and plopping the berry into her mouth. “But this is Longely, gossip capital of the world. If he and his wife were doing that, we would have heard. But I haven’t heard a hint of anything like that. A whisper. Anything at all. Have you?”

  “Nope.”

  Bernie ate another strawberry. “Neither has Brandon. So there you go.”

  “It doesn’t mean it’s not happening,” Libby objected.

  “True. But it makes it more likely that it isn’t.”

  “Okay then,” Libby continued. “We come to Gail. Do you believe that she wasn’t furious when she found out that Jack Devlin was stepping out on her with Juno Grisham, her arch nemesis?”

  “Who also happened to conveniently be there when Devlin was killed,” Bernie pointed out.

  “Except she was on the hill, which is nowhere near where the reenactment took place. We saw her there, remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” Bernie replied. “She was quite the spectacle with those wings.”

  “She had a good motive, but the husbands of those two women had better ones. And what about David Nancy? His wife—” Libby paused because she couldn’t remember her name.

  Bernie supplied the name. “Cora. I’m sure he wasn’t too pleased either.”

  “If he knew.”

  “True.” Bernie went over to the refrigerator and poured herself a cup of iced coffee. “The husbands are usually the last to know, although given the level of gossip in this town that’s probably not true.” She shook her head. “Just thinking about who did what with whom is giving me a headache. I think we’re going to need a flowchart.”

  “I think you may be be right. I’ll tell you one thing. These people have way too much free time.”

  Bernie poured some heavy cream into her coffee and watched the swirls the cream made as it turned the black liquid a pleasing shade of tan. It was so much better than adding skimmed milk to coffee. The skimmed milk turned the coffee an unappetizing shade of gray. Really. In the scheme of things what did fifty calories matter? It was worth it for the taste it imparted.

  “So what about Gail?” Libby asked, getting back to her original question. “Do we like her for Devlin’s murder?”

  “Are we calling it murder now?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Last night you said you weren’t sure.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Bernie snorted. “You most certainly did.”

  “I was just exploring possibilities,” Libby retorted. “But the more I think about it the more I think that, for once, the DA is right.”

  “Me, too.” Bernie tapped her nails on the counter. “So let’s talk about Gail, Rick Evans’ charming wife.” She took another sip of her coffee, put the cup down, finished pouring the batter into the cups, and put the muffin tins in the oven. She carried the empty bowl over to the sink and rinsed it out so she could make the bittersweet chocolate frosting she was going to top the cupcakes with.

  “Yeah, she is a piece of work.” Libby remembered the time she’d seen Gail lash out at the checkout girl in the local hardware store when the store didn’t have what she’d needed.

  “She
does not take losing well,” Bernie said slowly. “Not well at all. Remember when she lost the school election for class president and put a snake in Patti Jensen’s locker and Patti fainted? Gail claimed it was an accident. Like that snake just happened to find its way in there. Like the musket just happened to explode.”

  “I’ll never forget that one,” Libby exclaimed. “I had the locker two doors down.”

  Bernie smiled. “That was all you talked about for weeks. Somehow I don’t think Gail’s changed. I think she’s just gotten better at hiding it.”

  “As do we all. One thing is for sure. She can’t have taken it well. Losing Devlin to Juno, I mean.”

  Bernie snorted. “Now that’s an understatement if I ever heard one. Gail has hated Juno ever since she was crowned Miss Apple Queen at the Longely Apple Festival.”

  Libby wrinkled her nose. “But Gail had to know Devlin was a well–known philanderer.”

  “Maybe that was part of Devlin’s appeal. Philanderer.” Bernie rolled the word around in her mouth. “The word reminds me of the word philatelist. Stamp collector,” she explained, seeing Libby’s puzzled expression. “One collects women while the other collects stamps. One has a black book and the other has an album.”

  Libby shook her head. Sometimes she didn’t understand her sister. “Surely, given his reputation, Gail couldn’t have been surprised when Devlin went off with someone else.”

  Bernie dried the mixing bowl, set it on its stand, and started measuring out the ingredients for the frosting. “You know what they say about denial being a river in Egypt. Anyway, knowing Gail, she would have thought she was so wonderful that Jack would stay with her forever. Or at least until she threw him out.”

  “Yes. She’d definitely want to be the one doing the leaving,” Libby agreed.

  “Don’t we all.” Bernie took the butter out of the cooler so it would have time to soften then got out the sugar, vanilla, dark chocolate, and coffee extract.

  “Yes, we do. But some of us feel more of a need than others.”

  Bernie put her hands on her lower back and stretched. She’d slept wrong the night before and her lower back was killing her. “Maybe Rick and Gail Evans worked together to kill Jack. Each of them does have a motive.”

  Libby raised an eyebrow. “Interesting theory. The family that kills together, stays together? An exercise in family bonding?”

  “Well, it is possible. It has been known to happen. Look at Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “I don’t think they were married.”

  “The Macbeths?”

  Libby groaned. “Just stop.”

  “All I’m saying is that what I suggested is within the realm of possibility.”

  “Agreed. However there is one small glitch. Gail wasn’t there.”

  “A mere detail,” Bernie said.

  “However, Rick Evans was there, putting on quite the performance, accusing Marvin the way he did.”

  “Indeed he did. It’s like he wanted people to forget that he was the person who developed the idea for the reenactment. He was the person who knew all about the arrangements.”

  “And he was the person who arranged for the costumes,” Libby said.

  Bernie went over to the counter and turned on the radio. Music helped her focus. “We should talk to Rick and Gail.”

  “Why both of them?” Libby asked as the timer went off for the pies.

  “Because maybe Gail knows something.”

  Libby snorted. “She’s not going to tell us.”

  “She might if she’s approached in a low-key informal way.”

  Libby got up, turned the oven off, took the pie crusts out of the oven, and lined them up on the cooling racks. “Perfect,” she said, looking at the golden, flaky crusts.

  “Yes, they are.” Bernie inhaled their aroma. “And they smell wonderful. You know, I have an idea.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “You’ll like this. Okay you won’t like it, but I think I have a way to get Gail to talk. She has a standing appointment for a mani-pedi at La Dolce Vita at eleven every Tuesday . . . and today is Tuesday.”

  “You’re telling me this, why?” Libby asked.

  Bernie grinned. “Because I think you should go. It would be the perfect opportunity to chat her up.”

  “Why can’t you go?” Libby demanded. “Excessive grooming is your specialty.”

  Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Excessive grooming? I think I’m going to ignore that.”

  “Seriously, why do I have to go?”

  “Because while you’re talking to Gail, I’m going to be poking around in the Evans’s house.”

  “Why?” Libby asked.

  “You said it yourself. Rick seems way too anxious to point a finger at Marvin. I want to find out why.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Evidence.”

  Libby rolled her eyes. “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “No.”

  Libby sniffed. “That’s because you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

  “Untrue,” Bernie shot back.

  “Here’s what I think. I think I should search the place and you should get the mani-pedi.” Libby stared at her sister. “How’s that?”

  Bernie shook her head. “Sorry, but that won’t work.”

  “Why in heavens not?” Libby protested.

  “Because, Libby, for openers, you’re Marvin’s girlfriend and I am not.”

  “So what?”

  “So Gail will be more likely to talk to you.”

  “How do you come up with that? I’d think it would be just the opposite.”

  Bernie flicked a speck of flour off of her tank top. “And you would be wrong. It’s called bonding.”

  “Bonding?” Libby repeated.

  “Yeah. In a manner of speaking. You’re going to tell Gail how upset you are that Marvin did what he did and how upset he is about the incident. You’re going to talk about what a terrible accident it was and how you’re going to miss Jack Devlin. Poke in the ribs. Wink. Wink.”

  “But I’m not going to miss him,” Libby objected. “Not one single bit.”

  “I know that. You know that. But Gail doesn’t. It’ll be interesting to see the expression on her face when you mention his name.”

  Libby started dissolving gelatin in orange juice, after which she got eggs out of the cooler. She slammed the door shut. “If it’s going to be that interesting, you go,” she said ungraciously.

  “It won’t be the same. Really. Otherwise, I would.” Bernie put her hand up. “Swear.”

  “No, you won’t. You just want me to get my nails done even though you know how much I hate having someone touch my hands and feet.”

  “Tsk-tsk.” Bernie shook her head slowly. “Such a lack of trust.”

  Libby put her hands on her hips. “It’s true, Bernie.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Bernie answered in as sorrowful a tone as she could manage.

  Libby decided her sister looked as if butter would melt in her mouth. She wished she had her sister’s ability to play the innocent.

  Bernie turned serious. “I really do think you have the best chance of getting something out of Gail. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask you to go.”

  Libby crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. She felt herself begin to weaken. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do. Even if you don’t want to, do it anyway. Do it for Marvin,” Bernie urged. “After all, that’s what this is all about.”

  “That’s a low blow. Even for you.”

  Aware that she had scored the winning goal, Bernie smiled sweetly. She was always magnanimous in victory. “But an accurate one.” She went over and planted a kiss on Libby’s cheek. “Thank you. And who knows? You might actually like it. The mani-pedi, that is.”

  “I won’t,” Libby said, getting the last word in.

  Bernie let her. Given the circumstances, she figured it was the least she could do.

  Chapter
9

  “What are you going to do if the garage door isn’t open? ” Libby asked her sister as they drove toward the Evans’s house.

  Bernie had confided that she planned on entering the Evans’s house through their garage. That would give her a chance to try and open the door with the picks she’d “borrowed” from her dad’s desk drawer without anyone seeing her.

  “Then I’ll find another way, but it always is,” Bernie replied.

  “And you know this how?” Libby asked.

  “Because I usually go by their house when I go to Eli’s to get the flour.” Bernie fiddled with the air-conditioning in the van, trying to get a little more cool air out of it.

  Libby fanned herself with the side of her hand. “You go this way?”

  “It’s shorter.”

  “Not by much.”

  “By enough.” Bernie gave up on the air-conditioner and leaned back. If I don’t move, I’ll be fine, she told herself. Maybe she should buy a fan. One of the old-fashioned paper variety. She remembered seeing a lovely one in an antique store in the city.

  She ate the last of her slightly stale raspberry chocolate muffin and brushed the crumbs out of the smocking on the front of her dress. Raspberry and chocolate were a no-fail combination, even if she did say so herself.

  It was ten forty-five in the morning and almost ninety degrees. Rain was predicted in the early afternoon from a storm moving up the East Coast. Given the grayness of the sky, it looked as if the rain was going to be coming a lot sooner than that.

  “Good luck,” Libby said as she dropped Bernie off three blocks from the Evans household.

  Since they only had one vehicle, a vehicle with the name of their business emblazoned on the side, they’d decided it would be smarter if they met up again at the salon. Parking the van in front of the Evans’s house was out of the question. Bernie’s walk from the house to the nail salon was a mile at most, which wasn’t terrible.

  Ordinarily, Bernie wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but it was like a steam bath outside. Even though she had her bottle of water and was wearing a light silk dress that was as close to wearing nothing as she could manage, her walking flip-flops, and a hat, it was still going to be a schlep. In fact, she was a little sorry—no very sorry—that she wasn’t the one having her nails done and that Libby was the one snooping around the garage.