A Catered Birthday Party Part 7

Richard gave an impatient wave of his hand. "Sam. Samantha. She was supposed to help with the dishes and the serving. I know she was here a moment ago."

"She left," Libby said.

"Left?" Richard echoed.

"Yes, left. As in walked out the door. She said you didn't have any food," Bernie said.

Richard gave a sigh indicating suffering on a par with Job. "Of course I have food. O'Malley delivered the platters this morning."

Good call, Bernie, Libby silently thought.

"It serves me right for hiring her," Richard grumbled. "By now I should know better. She's a total nut job. Comes from living with that mother of hers. No basis in reality whatsoever. No. If you want something done professionally, hire a professional."

"Who is she?" Libby asked.

"Sam's one of my friend's kids. She's living at home while she studies acting. Her father is trying to teach her the value of work, but he's not having much success."

"Seems to be going around," Bernie said as she recalled the array of college kids they'd employed over the years at A Little Taste of Heaven. "So where's the rest of the staff?" she asked, thinking that it would be interesting to be able to talk to them and hear what they had to say. "I would think that a house like this would require six live-in help-at least."

Richard favored her with a wintry smile. "Perhaps in the nineteenth century that was the case, but since we're in the twenty-first, and there are a mult.i.tude of labor-saving devices at one's disposal, that is not true. Surely even you recognize that?"

"That's funny," Bernie said. "Because I distinctly remember Annabel telling me she'd given the staff the day off for Trudy's birthday party."

Richard gave a snort of disgust. "Annabel likes...liked to play the part of the English country lady. She was fixated on the idea actually. Not that it's any of your business, but we don't have any staff. We have people coming in as needed."

"Like the tooth brusher for Trudy," Libby said.

Richard frowned and rubbed his hands together. It was obvious from the expression on his face that he found the topic of Trudy and the tooth brusher distasteful.

"I came in to see whether you two are all right. I thought maybe you were having trouble finding your way back," he told the girls, ignoring Libby's last comment.

"You have such a magnificent house," Bernie gushed. "I'd love to see it."

Richard gave her a look that suggested she had a better chance of seeing the inside of the private vault of the queen of England. Instead of replying he just grunted and stood there with his arms crossed over his chest while Libby and Bernie unwrapped the food they'd brought and set it up on platters. When they were done he escorted them into the sunroom, where everyone else was sitting.

Interesting, Bernie thought. Most people would have taken five minutes and given them a quick house tour. Clearly he found the idea distasteful. Why? Was it them? Was there something he wanted to hide? Or did he just have an overdeveloped sense of privacy? Or all three?

"I found them," he announced to the room as the other pugs ran over to sniff Bernie's and Libby's feet.

Libby put Trudy down. She expected her to run over to the other dogs, but she stayed at Libby's side.

"Good," Joyce said. "We were afraid you'd lost your way."

"Spiritually or spatially?" Bernie quipped.

No one replied, which, Libby reflected, might be a good thing, considering the possibilities. Then she lost her train of thought as she contemplated the room she was standing in. It was truly spectacular. The walls and the ceiling were made of gla.s.s panels joined together with copper strips. It was like being outside, only better because the center of the room was filled with five extremely large potted palms that towered over everything.

Various types of ferns lined the periphery. The floor was ornately laid in a complex pattern of blue and white mosaic tiles, while the furniture was wicker with sky blue cushions. She felt as if she'd been transported to a solarium in an English country estate.

"This is wonderful," Libby commented as she thought of all the English mysteries she'd read as a girl. All that was missing was a white-gloved butler serving tea and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

Richard shrugged. "Annabel insisted we build this after we came back from England. I don't know why. She called it her folly, and it certainly is. It takes an enormous amount of gas to heat this thing."

Bree picked up Rudolph. "She certainly had a vision of how she wanted things to be."

Bernie unb.u.t.toned her cardigan. It was almost oppressively warm in here, but she supposed it had to be for the palms.

"I wouldn't know I was in Longely being here," Bernie said.

"I believe that was the general idea," Joyce said dryly. "Anyway, you're here and that's the important thing."

"Yes," Joanna agreed. "It's easy to lose your way in a house like this."

"Not if you're careful," Ramona chimed in.

Joyce lifted an eyebrow.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Melissa demanded.

"Nothing," Ramona said. "Absolutely nothing."

I'm missing something here, Bernie thought as she listened to the conversation. She didn't know what these people were talking about, but it definitely wasn't about the house's floor plan. She could see from the expressions on Bree's and Libby's faces that they didn't think so either.

"Now that you're both here," Richard said, "and since Sam's departed, I wonder if I could possibly impose on you to serve some tea."

"Not at all," Bernie said, thinking that that would allow her a little time for a quick examination of the house.

But that didn't happen. For all intents and purposes, Richard never let them out of his sight all the time they were there.

And neither did Trudy, who followed the girls around as if she were glued to them.

Maybe Sam was right, Bernie thought. Maybe she shouldn't have fed her the piece of bread after all, but not for the reasons that Sam thought.

Chapter 9.

Libby took a sip of her Guinness and settled in on her bar stool. She didn't know why she was drinking this-she really didn't like beer, and she wasn't keen on being here either. She'd rather be home baking bread and watching television. It had been a long day and she wanted to go to bed early, an unlikely possibility the way things were turning out.

It was nine o'clock on a Wednesday night at R.J.'s and she, Bernie, Brandon, and Kevin O'Malley, the person they'd come to talk to, were the only souls in the place. Usually the place was packed, even during the week, but a winter storm advisory had kept anyone with any sense snugged up in his or her house. She and Bernie would be at home watching TV with their dad if Brandon hadn't alerted them to Kevin O'Malley's presence.

Kevin O'Malley was a man of regular habits. Even the promise of a nor'easter wasn't enough to interrupt his midweek stint at R.J.'s. At first Libby hadn't minded going because Marvin was going to meet up with them. She hadn't seen him in three days. Unfortunately, on the way over he'd called, said he had an emergency, and would be there later if he could. Which, in a word, sucked. Libby took another sip of beer and pondered how a funeral director could have an emergency, but then she decided she didn't want to think about that and ate a peanut instead.

For the life of her she could never understand how people, specifically Brandon, could say stout had a chocolate undertaste. Beer tasted like beer, and chocolate had nothing, absolutely nothing in common with beer whatsoever.

"Try it," Brandon said for the third time as he pushed a bottle of the stout across the bar with the tips of his fingers. "If you like chocolate you'll like this."

"I already told you I won't."

"How do you know if you don't try it?"

"I just know," Libby snapped.

Brandon shrugged and left the bottle where it was. "In case you change your mind," he said.

"G.o.d, you're persistent," Bernie told him.

Brandon smiled. "That's how I got where I am."

"Which is?" Bernie prompted.

"Being the s.e.xy red-haired bartender every girl wants, but you are lucky enough to have."

Bernie laughed. "I believe s.e.xy men are described as tall, dark, and handsome, not tall, redheaded, freckled, and handsome."

Brandon pounded his chest with his fist. "You have cut me to the quick."

"I figured."

"Fortunately, I have a robust ego."

"That's one way of putting it."

Brandon leaned over and gave Bernie a quick kiss. "I can get off early tonight. Mick's coming in to close. Unless the storm gets here first. Then I get to close early."

"He would actually close because of a storm. He's getting soft in his old age."

Brandon patted his gut. "It happens to all of us."

"What time were you thinking?" Bernie asked.

"Eleven o'clock."

Bernie checked her watch. That was a little under two hours from now. "That's the veritable shank of the evening."

Brandon picked up a gla.s.s and started wiping it. "What does that mean?"

"Haven't got a clue," Bernie admitted. "I just like the way it sounds."

Brandon put the gla.s.s down and picked up another one. "So eleven is good?"

"Eleven is perfect," Bernie allowed. "Unless the storm blows in."

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I must be getting old too. Getting in at three and getting up at five to shovel a path to the store just doesn't excite me as much as it used to."

"You mean I'm not worth it?"

Bernie gave him The Look.

"How about if I helped shovel?"

"That might be feasible," Bernie conceded. "Not that you will."

Brandon wiggled his eyebrows up and down. Bernie couldn't help it. She burst out laughing.

Brandon plunked his elbows on the bar. "See, Libby," he said. "I'm just an irresistible force of nature."

"You're something," Bernie told him. "That's for sure."

Libby smiled, but her heart wasn't in it. Marvin could at least call.

"Don't you worry," Brandon said, reading her mind. "He'll be here soon. Go on and have a sip of the stout. It's the sovereign cure for what ails you."

"I thought that was chocolate."

Brandon pushed the bottle closer to her.

This time Libby took a sip.

"Not bad," she said grudgingly.

"Not bad?" Brandon yelped.

"Okay," Libby conceded. "It's good. But it still doesn't taste like chocolate."

"How can you say that?" Brandon protested.

Before Libby could answer, Bernie held up her hand. "Enough," she said. "It's time to do what we came here for-talk to Kevin O'Malley."

Brandon shrugged. "You can try, but as I told you on the phone, he likes to drink alone."

Bernie fluttered her eyelashes. "I'm hoping to change his mind."

"I don't think that's going to work, babe," Brandon said. "Not that you don't have...um...great lashes, but Kevin used to run a strip club and has become immune to feminine wiles. Unlike me."

"Hmm," Bernie replied. "Strip club to a fancy food store. That's an interesting leap. I wonder how he did it."

Brandon shrugged. "I heard that his dad died and left him some money and he did this because it was as far away from a strip club as he could possibly get. But I don't know for sure. He isn't a real chatty kind of guy. He likes to be left alone and have his three shots of Black Label. So that's what I do. I don't think you're going to have much luck getting him to talk about the Colbert household."

Bernie shrugged. "I know it's a long shot, but I figure anything that we learn is better than nothing. Right now we don't have much."