A Catered Birthday Party Part 18

"Thanks," Libby replied. "I have to say I don't think your wife was the delusional one in this partnership."

"Let's go before I lose my temper," Richard said.

"Is that what happened to Annabel? Did she get you angry?" Libby asked.

"I refuse to have my privacy invaded by the likes of you," Richard said as he dug his fingers more deeply into Libby's shoulder and dragged her toward the stairs.

Chapter 17.

Bernie heard Richard and Libby coming. The carpet m.u.f.fled their footsteps, but Libby was doing a pretty good job of talking as loudly as possible. Fortunately, Bernie thought, this was a new house and sound traveled. So maybe there was something good about using wallboard after all.

She'd been through four rooms of the right wing and had at least six more to go that she was aware of, and there were even more rooms than that, because she didn't know what was in the left wing of the house. This had been a mistake, Bernie decided, as she tried to figure out a way to get out of the house.

A big mistake. And she had no one to blame but herself. Libby had been correct-not that Bernie would ever tell her that. And to top everything off, you'd think that a place this size would have more than one staircase. Talk about chintzy. But it didn't, so she was pretty much boxed in.

Actually, this had been more than a mistake. It had been a blunder. She hadn't counted on the fact that there were simply too many rooms and too little time. Most importantly, she didn't have a clue what she was looking for. Therefore, she couldn't narrow the field down to drawers or closets. And-surprise-so far she hadn't found anything that said, "Here. I'm the person who put the poison in the wine bottle. Arrest me." And she probably wouldn't either. That was usually the way these things went.

What she had found were more bedrooms than a Mormon polygamist would need. Why had the Colberts built a house this large? Because they could. With the exception of two, most of the bedrooms she'd been in looked uninhabited. One was obviously Richard Colbert's room, while the second one, which was three doors down from the first, was the sleeping quarters of the late, apparently unlamented Annabel Colbert. Both rooms were surprising in their lack of personal touches. Bernie had the feeling that everything in them, from the bedding to the pictures hanging on the walls, had been chosen by a decorator with an eye to proclaiming the wealth and taste of the inhabitants.

There were no dirty clothes hung over the back of a chair. No shoes on the floor. No pictures of little Annabel or baby Richard on the walls. There were no family photos. No pet photos. No hokey snaps of Richard and Annabel either together or separately in a gondola on a ca.n.a.l in Venice, lying on a tropical beach sipping a rum and c.o.ke, or waving from a cruise ship. The bedrooms were like stage sets, which made Bernie wonder where Richard and Annabel conducted their real lives. If they had real lives. Maybe everything was just for show.

Besides the color schemes and the products in the attached bathrooms, the only real difference between Richard's and Annabel's bedrooms lay in the fact that Richard's room had three Puggables in his closet, while Annabel had two bags of mini Snickers in hers. Must have been her secret vice, Bernie thought as she contemplated taking one but rejected the thought. In fact, it struck Bernie that for a couple who ran a toy company Richard and Annabel's house was surprisingly devoid of anything that could remotely be construed as fun.

Bernie was in Annabel's room looking at the handbags in Annabel's closet. She was thinking that Annabel's taste was somewhat pedestrian when she heard Libby proclaiming in an indignant voice that she saw no need to go through the bedrooms and that her sister was definitely not in the house. Drats, Bernie thought as she glanced at her watch. Ten more minutes and she would have been out of here. Oh well. No point in thinking about that now.

Now she had to think about what she was going to do. Of course, she could always stay. That was one option. All Richard would do was call the police. But that could be a problem. Especially if they decided to take them into custody. They might be sitting in a jail cell until tomorrow. And that would not be good, because then there would be no one to make the pot roast, the kreplach, the chicken soup, and the rugelach for Mrs. Stein's dinner party. So that left her with option number two: escape.

Since there was only one stairway and Richard was on it, that precluded that path. And she definitely didn't want to do something like hide in the attic, or in a closet, or under a bed, because Bernie was 100 percent sure that Richard would go through every nook and cranny in the house looking for her. Richard liked to win and to him this was one big game. Which meant she didn't have lots of choices. In fact, there was only one good one that she could think of.

Jumping out the window. Wonderful. Thank heavens she was wearing her house-breaking-into outfit-a black, long-sleeved James Perse cotton and spandex T-shirt, black parachute pants, a black quilted vest, and the only sensible shoes she owned, a pair of Gortex hiking boots that she'd gotten because Brandon had made her-instead of something like a pencil skirt, leggings, and stiletto boots. Then she'd really be in trouble.

Bernie went over, pulled the silk drapes back-talk about expensive, the material alone for these had probably cost several hundred dollars-and peered down at the ground. Nothing to it. Piece of cake. Ha. Ha. Luckily there were no foundation plantings, because landing on a cedar branch would be exceedingly uncomfortable. At best. And there was about two inches of snow on the ground, which would help cushion the fall-slightly.

She cranked the window open and leaned out. The windowsill was narrow. There was no ledge. Basically she'd have to climb out, hang down, and push off with her feet so she wouldn't hit the wall. For a brief moment she thought about reconsidering, but then she thought about Mrs. Stein's pot roast. She'd be very disappointed if she didn't get it. At ninety-four she couldn't cook anymore, and her children and grandchildren were coming. How could there not be food on the table? Bernie decided jumping was the only way to go.

She concentrated on Libby's and Richard's voices. They sounded closer now. They'd cleared the steps. It was only a matter of time before they'd look in this room and Bernie wanted to be well away before Richard came in here. The last thing she wanted was for him to look outside and see her running away. Well, she wouldn't run. That would be a mistake. She'd walk. If he yelled at her to stop, she would. And then she'd tell him that she was just taking a stroll around the grounds while Libby went in and talked to him. Let him prove different.

Yes. That would work. No need to panic. Bernie took a deep breath. Richard and Libby were getting closer. She had to stop dithering around and decide what she was going to do. And anyway, how high was twenty feet, really? She was five feet six inches. If she was hanging by her arms, that would add another foot, so now you were talking almost seven feet. If you subtracted that from twenty feet, she was only dropping thirteen feet at the most. That wasn't bad. Not really. Although, to be honest, she wasn't that fond of heights. But at least she wasn't as bad as Libby in that regard. Sometimes, Libby got queasy going over bridges.

Bernie checked her pockets to make sure her wallet, cell phone, and keys were where they should be. She rechecked the b.u.t.tons on her pockets to make sure they were closed.

"You go, girl," she whispered as she cranked open the window and began climbing out.

The getting out part proved to be a little trickier than she imagined. The whole turning around business didn't work very well, mostly because she couldn't decide what she should do first. But she finally got it figured out. Except for that moment or two where she thought she was going to fall. She managed to keep her grasp, though. Then she hung down and pushed off from the wall with her feet.

The impact on landing was bone rattling. She could feel the shock reverberating up her body as her feet hit the earth. Then she collapsed in the snow. A moment later, she regained her breath. Another moment after that, she managed to sit up. Her left ankle was throbbing slightly.

Probably just a sprain, she thought. She became aware that her behind was cold. That's what came of sitting in the snow. She got up, brushed her rear end off, and headed toward the van at what she judged to be as good a pace as she could manage with her ankle.

Richard Colbert entered the fourth bedroom with Libby in tow.

"See," she was saying for the hundredth time. "No one is here. I told you."

He ignored her as his eyes swept the room. Everything seemed in place. He checked the closet. It was empty. He gave the bathroom a quick once-over. Nothing. He pulled the shower stall panel back. The bathtub was empty. He felt Libby wiggling away from him. This time he let her go, confident that she would stay there to protect her sister, whom he had yet to find. But he would. He promised himself that.

And he would enjoy having Bernie arrested. She was making trouble for him-this whole thing with Annabel could be a potential PR nightmare. He could just see the headlines now: TOY EXEC OFFS WIFE. NO CUDDLES FOR PAPA PUGGABLES. Nope. He paid his people big bucks for damage control. So far they'd done an excellent job. He was d.a.m.ned if their efforts would be undone because of two girl detectives. Girl detectives. His mouth curled up in a sneer. They had obviously read too many Nancy Drews when they were younger.

He got down and checked under the bed-not that he expected Bernie to be there-but he was a methodical man, which is how he'd gotten where he was. In fact, he expected Bernie to be in the crawl s.p.a.ce in the attic. There was just enough s.p.a.ce there to get into, but there was nowhere to go once you were inside. The s.p.a.ce went in about a foot and stopped.

Anyone in there was stuck. For a moment, Richard played with the idea of moving a trunk against the s.p.a.ce and trapping her in there. Libby wouldn't know she was in there and Bernie wouldn't say anything. And even if Bernie had her cell phone she couldn't call out. There was no signal up there. Then he'd go on vacation for a couple of weeks. If she was alive when he got back, all well and good. If she wasn't...oh well. The thought was attractive, delicious really, but it was a fantasy, nothing more, and he had enough to deal with as it was. Opening the door and seeing her in there would be pleasure enough.

"Can we stop this nonsense?" Libby said as Richard got up off his knees.

"When we're done. And not before," he told her. "Go if you want to," he added, testing his hypothesis.

As he suspected, Libby didn't move. He was right again, he noted with satisfaction. Actually, not that he liked to brag, but he was rarely if ever wrong. He turned to leave and then turned back. There was something here. Something that was bothering him. He stood there for a moment trying to figure out what it was. Everything looked the way it should. And yet...He rubbed his hands together. It was drafty in here. Yes. That was it. He strode over and swept the draperies back. The window was open. The conclusion was obvious.

"She jumped," he told Libby.

"Don't be ridiculous," Libby scoffed. She was pretty sure Richard was right, though. What a relief! "She was never here, so how could she jump?"

"Then why is the window open?"

Libby shrugged. "How would I know? Maybe one of your people forgot to close it."

"My people don't forget things."

"Then yours are the only ones," Libby retorted.

Richard pointed to the snow. "And what are those?"

Libby looked. "What 'those'? I don't see anything," she lied.

"Look harder!" Richard yelled. "Can't you see those tracks?"

"There's no need to shout," Libby told him. She squished up her eyes, pretending she was having trouble seeing. "Footprints?" Libby asked after a moment.

"Exactly," Richard said. A triumphant smile played around the corners of his mouth. "They're your sister's footprints."

"Don't be ridiculous," Libby scoffed. "She'd never wear shoes that made prints like that."

"We'll see," Richard muttered as he ran out of the room. "Yes indeedy. We certainly will."

"Where are you going?" Libby cried.

Richard flung the words "To get your sister" over his shoulder as he hit the landing. Libby went after him.

Richard had it all figured out. He'd follow the footprints. Bernie Simmons thought she was smart, but he was way smarter. Leaving a trail like that. Really. He had to admit he was a little disappointed. He'd been looking forward to cornering her in the attic, but he'd settle for intercepting her in the snow.

Bernie was sitting in the driver's seat of A Little Taste of Heaven's van sipping a cup of French roast from her thermos, eating half of a crunchy peanut b.u.t.ter and radish sandwich on country bread, and listening to NPR on the radio when Richard Colbert yanked the door open. Libby was right behind him.

"That's rather rude," Bernie told him.

"Show me your shoes," he gasped, because he was winded from running.

"Are you out of your mind?" Bernie answered.

He put his hands on his knees and took a couple of breaths before straightening up. "No. I want to see them."

"I have lots of shoes. Is there any particular kind you'd like to see? Boots? Sandals? Ballet flats?" Bernie broke off a quarter of her sandwich and carefully rewrapped it in Saran Wrap. "For later," she explained as she stowed it in her bag. "Although I can't see why you're interested in my shoe collection. Unless, of course, you're one of those men who are into cross-dressing. Because if that's the case, I don't think my shoes will fit you. However, there are sites on the Web you can visit. If you'd like I can tell-"

"I'm talking about the shoes on your feet," Richard growled. Then he whirled around. "What are you laughing at?" he demanded of Libby.

"Nothing," Libby said. "I'm not laughing."

"She's not laughing," Bernie said. "She's giggling."

Richard turned back to Bernie.

"Don't tell me you have a foot fetish," she said. She put her hand to her mouth. "Oh dear. You do, don't you?"

Richard's face was now crimson. How had the situation gotten so out of hand so fast? This was a nightmare. This woman was just babbling on and on. He had to get control back.

"I'm not kidding," he growled. "I want to see the shoes you're wearing and I want to see them now."

"Well," Bernie replied in a reasonable tone of voice. "Why didn't you say that in the first place, although you still haven't told me why." And she stuck out her foot and showed him her Manolo Blahniks. "Nice, aren't they? I got them at the end-of-the-season sale. Fifty percent discount. What about the purple bow? Do you like it or do you find it distracting? Brandon likes it, but I'm not sure."

"See," Libby said to Richard now that she'd finally managed to suppress her giggles. "I told you you were wrong. Someone else made those tracks. Maybe you have a prowler on the grounds. You should check and make sure."

Richard ignored her. "You had on different shoes," he said to Bernie.

Bernie took a sip of her coffee. "I already told you I have lots of different pairs of shoes-not as many as Imelda, but I do try to do my fair share to keep the American economy moving. And I try to wear a different pair of them each day so I don't wear them out. If you'd like to come to my house I'd be happy to show you my footwear collection. No?" Bernie said. "Fine. There's no need to glare at me like that. I was just being polite. Now, I'm going to ask you once again, do you want to tell me what this is about?"

Richard took a deep breath and tried to relax. He was sure his blood pressure was in the red zone. I will not yell, he told himself. I will not give this woman the pleasure of losing control. Instead he took another deep breath and focused on what he was going to say.

"It's about you searching my house, while your sister was talking to me and keeping me occupied," he said through gritted teeth.

Bernie took another bite of her sandwich and chewed it thoroughly before speaking. "Allow me to point out that you invited my sister to come here and talk to you. She did not initiate the meeting."

Richard shook his finger in her face. "Which you took as an opportunity to do a little ad hoc exploring."

"And why would I want to do that?"

"To find evidence that I murdered my wife."

Bernie ate the last eighth of her sandwich and wiped her hands on her napkin. "And did you?" she asked.

"Of course not," Richard cried as he wondered once again how he'd been so thoroughly bested. "It was an accident."

"Then why do you keep bringing the subject up?"

"I don't. You do."

"No. You do. You know," she said to Richard, "I'm so appalled by those accusations that I'm not even going to dignify them with a response. Come on, Libby, let's go. We have work to do."

Richard's jaw dropped. By now he was so upset all he could do was splutter. Libby edged around him and climbed into the van. Bernie started up the vehicle.

"So what happened to your shoes?" Libby asked once they'd cleared the gate.

"I changed them of course," Bernie said. "Lucky I always keep a spare set of stilettos in the van for emergencies."

"Doesn't everyone?" Libby replied. And she started to laugh.

A moment later Bernie joined in. "It was pretty funny," she said.

"I don't think Richard Colbert thought so," Libby observed.

"Not at all," Bernie replied.

Libby extracted a Lindt truffle from her pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth. The chocolate melted on her tongue. That's what made good chocolate so special. Its melting point was near body temperature. Libby had tried making chocolate truffles at the shop, but they never came out this well. She reflected that she'd take a chocolate truffle over a real one any day of the week.

"Richard Colbert is not a good person to make an enemy out of," Libby observed once she'd finished enjoying every last ounce of flavor the truffle had to offer.

"No, he isn't," Bernie agreed.

"You probably shouldn't have said what you did."

"Probably not," Bernie allowed. "He'll probably get his lawyer to sue us on some grounds or other. But you have to admit it was funny. When I asked Richard whether he was a cross-dresser, I thought he was going to explode."

Libby started to giggle at the memory. A moment later Bernie joined in. They were still giggling when they pulled up in front of Joyce Atkins's house ten minutes later.

Chapter 18.