A Catered Birthday Party Part 6

"He know," the girl replied, a hint of a Spanish accent creeping into her voice.

"Are you afraid you're going to lose your job?" Libby asked.

The girl shook her head. "He told me he ain't gonna need me no more since the missus done died, so I'm leaving."

"Great," Bernie said. In the last two replies the girl had changed her accent and her speech patterns. What was up with that?

"What are you going to do?" Libby asked.

The girl thought for a moment before answering, then said in a voice that sounded like your standard East Coast suburban college girl, "I'm going to Buffalo to visit some friends."

"Is there any way we can get in touch with you?" Bernie asked.

The girl shrugged.

"Just in case," Libby said.

"Just in case what?"

"Just in case we need to talk to you," Libby told her.

"I already told you I don't know anything."

Au contraire, mon ami, Bernie thought. I think you know a great deal. Otherwise why would you be pulling the shtick you're pulling?

"At least give us your name," Libby urged.

The girl remained mute.

"I mean, it's obvious that you liked Annabel," Bernie observed.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" the girl asked.

The girl touched the gold pendant hanging around her neck. "She was difficult. Very difficult. But she like the things I make for her. She say I make the best hot chocolate."

Here we go with the Spanish accent again, Bernie thought.

"And what kind was that?" Libby asked, who had an abiding interest in all things chocolate.

"Some Mexican brand. She also like my ropa vieja. I make this for her too."

Bernie interrupted. "Enough with the food."

The girl folded her arms over her chest. "I can't believe you of all people would say something like that."

"Believe it," Bernie said. She took a deep breath. This girl was definitely into playing games, but Bernie losing her temper was not going to help matters. She tried another approach. "Annabel asked us to help her. We're just doing what she wanted."

The girl's mouth formed itself into a narrow line. "Towards the end she was very sick. Always yelling at Mr. Richard. Calling him awful names. He said she was not well. He said she was crazy." And she took her finger and made a twirling motion near her head. "Loca."

"Do you think that's true?" Libby asked. The last time she'd seen Annabel, crazy was not the word she would have used.

The girl shrugged. "All rich people are crazy. They want this. They want that. They are never happy."

"Please help us," Libby pleaded.

The girl shrugged again. "What's done can't be undone."

"If there's enough evidence it can be," Bernie told her.

The girl laughed. Bernie observed that in some subtle way her body language had shifted again.

"All I know is that rich folks got different rules than you or me."

You are so full of s.h.i.t, Bernie wanted to say, but she held her tongue. "At least give me your name," she said instead.

"It's Rita. Rita Moreno."

"Seriously," Bernie told her.

"I am serious. My momma was a huge fan."

Bernie kept her hands at her sides so she wouldn't strangle the girl. She tried one last time. "Can you tell us anything at all that would be helpful?"

"Yeah," Rita said, her Spanish accent now miraculously gone again. "I can tell you that people around here act like cats in heat. If I did what they're doing my momma would have had me tarred and feathered. And now if you'll excuse me..."

"You're not going to stay?" Libby asked.

"Nope."

"Who else works here?" Bernie demanded.

"No one right now. Mr. Richard let everyone go. He said he wanted to be alone with his grief. I'm the last one here."

"He didn't really say that?" Libby asked.

Rita put her hand up. "Swear to G.o.d that he did. And even if they were here it wouldn't do you no good anyway. Everyone had to sign the same agreement I did."

Bernie stared at Rita for a moment. The look. The shifts in speech patterns. The different accents. The body language. She should have gotten it before. "You're quite the little actress, aren't you?"

The girl grinned.

"Do you have a SAG card?" Bernie asked.

The girl's grin broadened. "I'm working on it."

"Is anything you told us the truth?" Bernie demanded.

The girl's grin grew even bigger. "What do you think?"

"I think I'd like to strangle you, that's what I think," Bernie said. "Where did Richard get you from?"

"A mutual friend. I was between jobs and I needed a gig." And with that she reached up and pulled off the wig she was wearing.

"Does the wig work?" she asked as she fluffed out her spiky bright green hair.

"No," Bernie said. "It's too distracting."

The girl shrugged. "That's what I told Angel." And she stuffed the wig in the backpack that was on the counter before she turned and started out the door.

Trudy, who had been silent up till now, let out a loud belch.

"Told you not to feed her bread," the girl said. "If she p.o.o.ps on the floor Richard is going to be wicked p.i.s.sed."

"I'll bear that in mind," Bernie said.

"In case you're interested, I'm the Spanish maid in Seems Like Old Times by Neil Simon at Syracuse Stage."

"Well, it seems like something, but it isn't old times," Bernie cracked.

Libby gave her sister an interrogatory look as the girl formerly known as Rita flipped them both the bird and walked out the door.

"Seems Like Old Times is a movie," Bernie called after her. "It never was a play. If you're going to lie, at least get your facts straight."

The girl popped her head back in. "Whatever. Play. Movie. Who cares?"

"Neil Simon would probably care, for one, and so should you if you're serious about your craft," Bernie told her.

"You're saying I'm not?"

"I'm saying I don't know what you are," Bernie said.

The girl put her hands on her hips. "I'll tell you. I'm going to be a great actress one day. That's what I'm going to be." The girl squared up her shoulders. "And for your information, I have a bit part in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the Longely Playhouse." She wiggled her fingers. "Ta ta," she trilled. "I'm off."

"I don't think there are any bit parts in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," Bernie mused after the girl left. "She certainly can't play one of the children."

"All I know," Libby opined, "is that she is a truly exasperating person."

"Yup," Bernie said as Trudy puked on the floor. Maybe feeding her the bread hadn't been such a good idea after all.

"Do you think anything the girl said was true?" Libby asked as Bernie went to get some paper towels off the counter.

"Dad always says there's a kernel of truth in every lie."

Libby tapped her fingers on the counter. "I wonder if Richard did let everyone go. That would certainly be interesting if it's true."

Bernie grinned. "I was thinking of the cats in heat part myself."

"Well," Libby said, thinking back to their other cases, "it always seems to come down to s.e.x or money, doesn't it?"

"Or revenge," Bernie said. "Don't forget revenge as a motive for murder."

"I wonder which one it's going to turn out to be in this case?" Libby said.

"I guess we're going to have to wait to find out, aren't we?" Bernie replied. "Although what about fashion as a motive? There are shoes I would die for."

Libby opened her mouth and closed it again. On this subject she had nothing to say.

Chapter 8.

Trudy watched Bernie with a great deal of interest as Bernie cleaned the floor.

"You're a bad girl," Bernie told her.

Trudy wagged her tail. Bernie laughed. She really was hard to resist.

"You know what I'm betting?" Libby said as Bernie straightened up and dropped the towels in the wastepaper basket. "I'm betting that Rita, or whatever her name is, is referring to Joanna and Richard. It's the cla.s.sic man meets secretary, man falls for secretary, man kills wife so he can have the money and the secretary."

"Personal a.s.sistant," Bernie interjected. "People don't have secretaries anymore. They have personal a.s.sistants."

"Whatever," Libby said. "We could ask Bree."

Bernie shook her head. "I don't think she knows. I think if she did, she would have told us."

Libby nodded. Her sister was right. "She must be losing her touch."

"It would seem so," Bernie continued. "However, we could ask Kevin O'Malley. He might know."

Kevin O'Malley was the owner of Smithfield and O'Malley, an upscale grocery store that most of the wealthy households in Longely patronized. He pretty much knew everything about everybody in those circles. Even better, Libby and Bernie knew just where to find him.

"What would Kevin know?" a man's voice behind them demanded.

Libby and Bernie spun around. Richard was standing behind them. They'd been so intent on their conversation they hadn't heard him come in. Trudy scratched Libby's leg and she bent down and picked her up.

"He'd know whether we could get peaches that are decent tasting this time of year," Bernie ad-libbed, wondering as she did how much of their conversation Richard had heard.

Evidently judging from his expression he'd heard only the last part, which, given the circ.u.mstances, was a good thing. Richard grunted. Then a puzzled expression crept over his face as he looked around the kitchen.

"Where's Sam?" he asked.

"Sam?" Libby and Bernie repeated.