A Catered Mother's Day Read online

  Bernie leaned against a birch tree to take the weight off her foot. “So what did Ellen say when she registered?”

  Cole shook his head. “Nothing really. She said she wanted a cabin on the end. She said she was doing something to surprise her husband.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Libby said dryly.

  “If you say so,” Cole replied.

  Obviously Cole hadn’t heard about the ransom note yet, Libby thought.

  “She paid in cash,” Cole continued. “I gave her the key, then I went in the back to take a nap. I was up late the night before writing,” Cole explained. “Next thing I know, the cops are knocking on my door, telling me to stay put and not go out. That they have a possible kidnap situation going on. I don’t mind telling you they practically scared the bejesus out of me.”

  “I can imagine,” Libby said.

  “Then, when I found out that there was a dead guy and the dead guy was Mano . . .” Cole bit his lip and looked down at the ground for a moment. “Boy, talk about truth being stranger than fiction. I couldn’t have written that. No one would believe it. They’d say it was too much of a coincidence.”

  “Mano?” Libby said.

  “Yeah. The dead guy. That’s what he told me his name was. I figured it was short for Manolo, even though he didn’t look Spanish. But these days you never know.”

  “You met him?” Bernie asked, confused.

  “Yeah. He used to come by sometimes, maybe once or twice a week. We’d sit, have a couple of beers, play some chess.” Cole looked at the girls. “You two look odd. Did I say something wrong?”

  “This guy was big, had a full beard, an earring?” Bernie asked.

  “That’s him. Why? What’s going on?”

  “I’m just surprised is all,” Libby said, a puzzled expression on her face. “The dead guy’s name was Manny, Manny Roget.”

  “Maybe,” Cole said, “but that’s not how he introduced himself to me when he came by to see Isaac.”

  “Did he give you his last name?” Bernie asked.

  Cole shrugged. “Nope. Of course, I didn’t ask either. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. It didn’t occur to me to.”

  “What did he want to see Isaac for?” Libby asked.

  “Well, Mano told me he wanted to apologize to Isaac for all the trouble he caused back in the day. Said he’d finally worked up the courage to talk to him, but when he came by, Isaac was at the ER with Mina and I was holding down the fort. I told him I’d relay the message, which I did.”

  “What did Isaac say?” Bernie asked.

  Cole ran his hand through his hair. “Not much really. I think he was too worried about Mina to process what I was telling him. Mano came back a couple of days later, but Isaac was taking Mina to the hospital for some tests so he missed him again. Anyway, he and I got to talking and it turned out that we both liked to play chess, so we got in the habit of playing once or twice a week.” Cole paused for a moment before continuing. “I mean, he seemed like a nice guy. In a way I had to admire him.”

  “How so?” Bernie asked.

  “He bottomed out, and then he pulled himself together.”

  “Bottomed out?” Libby asked.

  “He told me he had some drug problems and then he was on some heavy head medicine. It was something I could relate to. The drug part, that is. After I lost my job, I kinda went off the deep end for a while. Course not as bad as Mano. I never tried meth, thank heavens. But the point is he straightened himself out. Next thing on his agenda was losing all the weight he had gained. He was embarrassed by that. He told me he used to be really skinny.”

  “He was,” Libby said.

  “But,” Cole continued, “I guess if you’re addicted to something it’s better to be addicted to junk food than some of the other stuff that’s out there.” Cole patted his belly. “Fortunately, I’ve never had a problem in that direction. Live healthy, live long, I say.”

  “Do you know how long Manny has been back in Longely?” Bernie asked.

  Cole scratched his ear. “Not really. Maybe nine months. Maybe a year. Maybe less. Obviously, I’m not really sure.” He glanced down at his watch. “Oops. How time flies when you’re having fun. Gotta go, ladies, the plumber is going to be here any minute and I have to talk to him about the leaky toilet in unit seventeen, but come back and visit whenever you want to.” He grinned. “I can always use the company.”

  “He seems like a nice guy,” Libby noted as she and Bernie walked back to the van. “Good looking too.”

  “Too clean cut for my taste,” Bernie commented, painfully climbing back into the van. She wished her ankle would heal already. “I’m not a big fan of preppy.”

  “No kidding,” Libby rejoined.

  The two sisters spent the rest of the drive over to Miss Randall’s house dissecting what Cole had told them. When they arrived, they weren’t any closer to knowing anything relevant than they had been before they spoke to him.

  Chapter 15

  Old Lady Randall lived in a classic old Victorian painted lady. The house, Bernie thought, belonged in San Francisco with the other ladies of a certain age. It was in great shape. Every ten years or so, Old Lady Randall gave it the equivalent of a face-lift and repainted it. Bernie particularly liked its latest incarnation featuring shades of green, dark green, and coral. Even though it had been nine years since the last paint job and the paint was alligatoring a little on the dormers and the weather side of the house, it still looked good.

  The deep-set front porch had rocking chairs that were made to while away a summer afternoon and the flower boxes on the windows were overflowing with pink geraniums. The three large ferns hanging from the porch ceiling swung slowly in the breeze. It was the kind of house that had been built in the days when one had a staff. To say it required an enormous amount of upkeep would be a massive understatement, but the house was Old Lady Randall’s baby and she found a way to do what needed to be done. Bernie and Libby used to catch glimpses of her in her housedress mowing the lawn with her push mower or clipping the hedges with a pair of large metal pruning shears.

  “She’s got to be eighty,” Bernie said to Libby as she turned into Seymour Street.

  “At the very least,” Libby said, slowing down to avoid hitting a squirrel.

  “Maybe she’s gotten better with age,” Bernie posited hopefully.

  “Doubtful,” Libby said as she turned into Old Lady Randall’s driveway. “In my experience, people never get better with age, they just get more of whatever they are.”

  Bernie sighed. It was not an encouraging thought. “Well, it would be hard for her to get any grumpier.”

  “We’ll see,” Libby said. She was not optimistic.

  The last time she and Bernie had been at the house they’d been selling Girl Scout cookies and Old Lady Randall had threatened to call the police on them if they didn’t get off her porch. When they’d told their mother, Rose had sighed and said she was a lady with problems and they’d do best to steer clear of her. Which they had.

  Libby was remembering that as she parked Mathilda next to the garage. She and Bernie got out of the van and walked up the path to the porch. As she did, she noticed that the grass needed cutting and the laurel hedges needed pruning.

  “This house is huge,” Bernie commented, slowly mounting the four steps to the porch. She’d forgotten how big it was. A family of ten could probably live in there comfortably. She looked around. The grass might be a little too long, but the porch was pristine. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the floor, all the chairs were neatly aligned, and none of the plants had a leaf out of place. They probably wouldn’t dare, Bernie thought.

  The sisters stopped at the door.

  “Go on,” Libby said to Bernie. “Ring the bell.”

  “No. You.”

  “Flip you for it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Well, don’t sulk when you lose.”

  “I�
�m not going to sulk and I’m not going to lose.”

  “Works for me,” Bernie said. She reached into her pocket and brought out a nickel. Then she flipped the coin up in the air and caught it. “Call it.”

  “Heads.”

  Bernie placed the coin on the top of her hand and uncovered it. “Tails. You lose.”

  “But it’s your case,” Libby protested.

  “It’s our case and you’re sulking.”

  Libby sniffed. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “I would,” Bernie told her.

  “I can’t believe you’re scared of a little old lady.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “No,” Libby lied.

  “Then ring the bell.”

  “I will.” This is ridiculous, Libby thought, walking up to the door. It was ornately carved oak, with a mail slot in the middle. Two etched glass windows took up the upper half. After a thirty-second pause, she lifted her finger and rang the bell. As she did, a fat, ginger kitten scampered up the porch, ran between Libby’s feet, and started meowing. Libby bent down and petted it while she waited for Old Lady Randall to come to the door.

  “Ring it again,” Bernie instructed after a minute had gone by without any results.

  “Why don’t you?” Libby retorted, still petting the cat.

  “Because I didn’t lose the bet.”

  “Jeez,” Libby muttered. She rang the bell again. She could hear it echoing inside the house. Another minute went by. The cat started meowing again. An uneasy feeling began to settle in Libby’s stomach. She turned to Bernie. “I think something’s wrong.”

  “She’s old. It might take her a while to come to the door,” Bernie said.

  “It shouldn’t take this long,” Libby observed.

  “You don’t know,” Bernie answered. “Maybe she broke her leg and she’s in a cast, or maybe she’s gone deaf, or maybe she’s not home.”

  “No, she’s home,” Libby replied. “She’s definitely home. I saw her car in the garage.”

  Bernie shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything. She could still be out. Maybe someone came and picked her up and took her to the grocery store or she had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Maybe,” Libby said, unconvinced. The cat was still meowing. “Boy, she really wants to go in,” Libby noted as she bent over to pet her some more. Her fur was glossy and she looked well taken care of.

  “She?” Bernie said.

  Libby picked the cat up and took a look. “She. I guess you’ll just have to wait,” she said to the cat, putting her down. The cat’s tail twitched, she meowed and rubbed against Libby’s ankles. “We should probably talk to the neighbors and see if they know where Old Lady Randall is.”

  “Hold up a sec.” Bernie walked over and peered in through the window. Even though it was covered with a crocheted curtain, she could still see inside. “There’s a pile of mail on the floor,” she told Libby. Then she moved aside so Libby could have a look.

  “Maybe Old Lady Randall has gone away on vacation,” Libby suggested.

  “Or she could have fallen,” Bernie said.

  Libby looked at the neighbors’ houses again. “Hopefully one of them has a key for the house. I think I’ll go ask.”

  But before she could do that, Bernie reached over and turned the doorknob. It was heavy brass, the kind they don’t make anymore, and felt warm in Bernie’s hand. The door swung open, hitting the wall with a smack. The noise broke the quiet and Libby jumped. Bernie watched the cat run into the house and down the hallway. Bernie frowned.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “Old Lady Randall wouldn’t have gone away and left her place open.”

  “No, she wouldn’t,” Libby agreed. “Unless, of course, she forgot. Maybe she forgot,” she said, trying to be positive. “After all, she is eighty.”

  “Maybe,” Bernie said, but she didn’t believe it and she could tell from Libby’s expression that Libby really didn’t believe what she was saying either. After all, not six months ago Alice Finkelstein had complained that Miss Randall was after her for the twenty-five cents she owed her from last year.

  Bernie and Libby stepped into the entryway. The house was cool and dark, stranded in a perpetual autumn. A large, ornate, gilded mirror sat on the wall opposite the door. Underneath it was what looked to Bernie’s eyes like a marble-topped seventeenth-century chest of drawers. There was an expensive oriental on the tile floor.

  “Miss Randall,” Bernie called out.

  Miss Randall didn’t answer. Bernie felt as if the house had swallowed up her voice. The only sound she could hear was the cat meowing and the ticking of a clock somewhere inside. She and her sister exchanged glances.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Libby asked Bernie.

  “Unfortunately, I think I am,” Bernie replied. She bent down, scooped up the mail, and went through it. It was all flyers. No letters.

  She carefully put the mail back where she’d found it. Then she and Libby walked into the kitchen. The cat was sitting in front of a cabinet, meowing.

  “I bet that’s where her food is,” Libby said, opening the door. There was a big bag of dry cat food inside. Libby got a bowl out of another cabinet and put a little food in. “Don’t worry,” she said to Bernie as the cat ran over. “I’ll put everything back.”

  “You’d better,” Bernie said absentmindedly as she surveyed the kitchen. She loved it. She could cook here. The kitchen was old, but in impeccable condition. The light blue stove, fridge, and dishwasher all looked as if they’d come straight out of the fifties, as did the white cabinets.

  Bernie went over and touched the fridge. “I bet this is the real deal.”

  “I bet you’re right,” Libby replied.

  “Boy, I’d love to have one of these, but with all the mod cons.”

  “When we win the lottery,” Libby replied, putting the cat food back where it belonged.

  Retro was in again and fridges with retro styling on the outside and modern conveniences on the inside were going for four to six thousand dollars a pop.

  Bernie began opening and closing drawers. They were all neatly lined with lavender-scented paper.

  “That’s a bit much,” Libby said, taking a step back.

  “What?” Bernie asked.

  “The lavender.”

  “I don’t smell it,” Bernie said.

  “Well, I do,” Libby replied. The fact that Libby’s sense of smell was keener than Bernie’s had always been a point of contention between the sisters.

  “If you say so,” Bernie said, opening and closing another drawer.

  The silverware drawer, the drawer with the kitchen utensils, the drawer that held pot holders and kitchen towels, and the drawer that contained coupons, all of which were clipped and filed, were immaculate.

  “Just like ours,” Bernie said.

  “Heh-heh,” Libby commented. “I wish.”

  “I bet she doesn’t cook much,” Bernie observed as she opened the last drawer. There was neat and there was crazy OCD neat. This drawer was filled with twine and scissors and a bunch of loose keys in a plastic container. All of the keys were neatly tagged. “Look at this,” Bernie said, holding up a small key in a plastic bag. Inside was a note that read, In case you need salmon, Isaac. “I guess Old Lady Randall knows Isaac.”

  “That’s nice of him,” Libby observed.

  “He’s a nice guy,” Bernie said.

  “Yes he is. So are we done here?” Libby asked. She was feeling increasingly uneasy about being in the house.

  Bernie dropped the plastic bag with the key back in the drawer and closed it. “Yes. We are.”

  The crunch of the cat eating followed Libby and Bernie as they left the kitchen. Walking through the dining and living rooms, Libby couldn’t help but think of her mom’s dictum of “a place for everything and everything in its place.” If ever a place exemplified it, this one did. It was even neater than their flat when Mom was alive. But, whereas Rose
had always liked light, Old Lady Randall had a different sensibility. The windows in the living and dining rooms were covered with a heavy damask that muted the light and absorbed noise.

  The floors were polished, the furniture gleamed, the orientals looked like the real deal, and Bernie was almost positive the lamp on the dining room sideboard was a Tiffany, and the pictures in the dining room were Edward Hopper drawings. The only signs of disarray she could spot were a couple of crumpled up tissues and an ashtray full of pistachio shells on the coffee table in the den.

  The cat joined them as Libby was commenting on the fifty-two-inch HD TV on the opposite wall. “It looks brand new.”

  “Newer than ours,” Bernie replied.

  She was beginning to think that Old Lady Randall had gone to visit a neighbor after all. There was certainly nothing except the mail to indicate that anything had happened to her. Bernie almost suggested that she and Libby leave—she didn’t even want to think about what would happen if Old Lady Randall came in and found them standing in her house—but by that time Libby was heading toward the stairs and Bernie figured what the hell, they might as well take a quick look-see as long as they were already inside. At least this way, they’d know whether or not Manny had been living here. If he was, they’d tell Clyde and one of his minions could deal with Old Lady Randall.

  The cat bounded up after them. The ginger tabby kept twining herself around Bernie’s and Libby’s ankles until midway up the stairs Libby scooped her up, carried her the rest of the way, and put her down on the top step. The cat looked at her for a moment, then dashed off into the first room on the left. Unlike the others on the second floor, this door was open.

  Chapter 16

  The tabby started meowing loudly.

  “God she’s noisy,” Libby said as she followed the cat into the room.