A Catered St. Patrick's Day Read online

  “That I believe,” Bernie told him. “You look as if you’re ready to fall asleep standing up. But I don’t believe you called so I could bring you a muffin. For one thing, you didn’t ask.”

  “I thought you’d know, being as you say you can read my mind.”

  “You could have gotten something at the diner, which is—what?—two steps away?”

  Brandon made an attempt at a smile and failed. “His stuff isn’t nearly as good as yours,” he pointed out.

  “Seriously,” Bernie repeated, wondering what Brandon wasn’t telling her.

  Brandon sighed. “Seriously, I called you because I wanted you to see how everything is before people start mucking around with things.”

  “Are you talking about people in general or is there someone specific you have in mind?”

  Brandon ran his hand through his hair, which Bernie noticed was standing out in all directions, then zipped up the hoodie he was wearing. “Just in case,” he said instead.

  “Just in case what?” Bernie asked.

  Brandon crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “Just in case,” he repeated.

  “Now you’re not making any sense,” Bernie told him.

  Brandon didn’t say anything. Instead he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Bernie studied him for a moment. “Are you afraid you’re going to get arrested?” she asked gently.

  “It had crossed my mind,” Brandon admitted.

  “Why don’t you tell Auntie Libby what happened,” Libby coaxed.

  Brandon jammed his hands in his pockets and pressed his lips together.

  “After all,” Bernie pointed out, “isn’t that why you called us down here in the first place?”

  “I guess you’re right,” Brandon said.

  A

  nd so he did.

  Chapter 2

  The story Brandon told Bernie and Libby went like this: The night before had been on the dead side at RJ’s. At six o’clock there had been twenty people in the bar and that number had dwindled down to twelve by ten o’clock. At 12:50, six more people had departed, leaving only the guys from the Corned Beef and Cabbage Club drinking at the bar.

  By one o’clock Brandon haiv d started washing the glasses, wiping down surfaces, and prepping for the next day. Now, all the time he was doing that, the guys from the Corned Beef and Cabbage Club were pestering him to bring in one of the kegs and crack it open so they could have an early taste of the green beer.

  “Not that it’s great stuff,” Brandon commented.

  “We know,” Bernie said. Cat piss were the words that came to mind when describing it, and although she’d called it that before, she didn’t say that now.

  “I mean,” Brandon continued, “even though I told them there was no friggin’ way that was going to happen, they just wouldn’t let it go. Finally I had to tell them to shut up or get the hell out and they chose to leave.”

  Bernie buttoned her coat. The sun was deceptive. It was chillier outside than she thought it would be. “So these six guys ...” she prompted.

  “Five guys and a girl,” Brandon corrected.

  Bernie raised an eyebrow.

  “Her name is Liza,” Brandon said.

  “Liza Sepranto?” Libby asked.

  Brandon nodded.

  “That’s new,” Libby observed.

  “Not really,” Brandon told her. “She’s been hanging out with them for a while.”

  “I guess we’ve gotten out of touch with those guys,” Libby observed.

  “We’ve never been in touch,” Bernie reminded her sister.

  “Believe me, either way it’s no great loss,” Brandon said.

  “Okay. So they left willingly. What happened next?” Bernie asked, getting back to the matter at hand.

  “Well, I finished cleaning up and I was cashing out when I heard a noise in the back.”

  “How long after they left was this?” Bernie asked.

  Brandon thought. “Probably twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour at the most.”

  Libby dug a piece of dark, single-origin chocolate out of her parka and ate it. Chocolate helped her concentrate. “What kind of noise?”

  Brandon shrugged. “People talking. Something heavy being moved. Anyway, I opened the door and took a look. And don’t you know it, there was Mike Sweeney trying to open up one of the barrels. So I go out there and we get into it.”

  Bernie shuddered, visualizing the worst. “How badly did you get into it?” she asked, knowing Brandon’s temper and his strength.

  “Bad enough,” Brandon admitted. “I was pissed, so I decked him. He was just lying there. For a moment, I was a little worried, but then he kind of came around and Duncan and Liam picked him up and dragged him off. No foul, no harm.”

  “That was lucky,” Bernie observed.

  Brandon shrugged. “I guess it was. Anyway, I locked up and went home and went to bed. And that was that. Until now, that is.”

  “Why are you back here so early?” Libby asked.

  “Bad luck,” Brandon said. “Shorty was supposed to open, but he’s in the ER down in Mount Sinai with a kidney stone, so he woke me up and asked if I could be a pal and come down and take care of things for him.” Brandon frowned. “If I find out he’s lying to me, he’s in deep trouble. Anyway, I threw on some clothes, jumped in my car, and here I am. When I came in, the place looked exactly the way it had when I’d left. Then I opened the back door to olaack dooair the place out and that’s when I saw Sweeney.”

  “How do you know it’s Sweeney?” Bernie asked. “Did you turn him over?”

  “No. I haven’t touched him.” Brandon smoothed down his cowlick with the palm of his hand. “I know it’s Sweeney because I recognize the pants and those friggin’ shoes of his.”

  Bernie and Libby both looked down. Sweeney had on saddle shoes.

  “Evidently they’re the latest thing in trader land,” Brandon said. “I heard him bragging to Duncan about how they cost him five hundred bucks.”

  “Leave something long enough and it becomes fashionable again,” Bernie commented.

  Libby pointed to her jacket. “So I guess I should keep this.”

  Bernie snorted. She was about to reply that the jacket hadn’t been worth keeping when Libby bought it, when she heard the sound of a car entering the parking lot. A moment later, a Lexus barreled into the back lot and squealed to a stop a few feet in front of them. RJ’s owner, John Mulroney, got out of his car and waddled over. “What the hell happened?” he demanded, even though Brandon had already told him when he’d called him.

  Mulroney was a little guy, about five-foot-six, and almost as wide as he was tall. Bernie could see from the way he was moving that any sort of motion at all exhausted him. Brandon stepped aside so Mulroney could see the barrel and Sweeney floating in it.

  “Jeez,” Mulroney said. “Who is that?”

  “Mike Sweeney,” Brandon answered. “Remember?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Mulroney swallowed. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that he got really drunk and passed out and that he’s still alive.”

  “Not unless he’s grown gills,” Bernie said.

  Mulroney looked up and the flesh under his chin jiggled and his face got red. He seemed to be noticing Bernie and Libby for the first time. He turned to Brandon. “What the hell are they doing here?” he demanded. “I thought I told you not to call anyone.”

  Libby put on her game face. “Sorry. We were wandering by and we stopped to say hello,” she said brightly. “We were just keeping Brandon company until you came.”

  “He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself,” Mulroney growled. He took a handkerchief out of his vest pocket and mopped his brow, after which he turned to Brandon and jerked his head in the sisters’ direction. “These two are the busybodies who always get themselves involved in things they have no business getting involved in, correct?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Bernie said.

 
Mulroney ignored her.

  “And our chief of police doesn’t like them,” he continued.

  Brandon suppressed a smile. “Hates them, actually.”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Bernie said.

  “Not really,” Brandon replied.

  “All of you be quiet,” Mulroney snapped before Bernie could reply.

  “That’s rather rude,” Bernie said to him.

  “Ask me if I care,” Mulroney spat out as he glared at Brandon, Libby, and Bernie.

  Bernie thought it was a good glare as far as these things went and she could see why some people she knew might be intimidated by him. Then her gaze drifted to Mulroney’s tie. It was red and white check with black dots in the middle o"1ethe midf the red checks. Bernie was thinking it was one of the worst ties she’d seen in a while when Mulroney started talking again.

  “Listen,” he continued, “the only thing I care about is getting this thing squared away so we can get RJ’s ready for this afternoon.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s going to happen,” Libby observed, assuming that “this thing” Mulroney was referring to was Mike Sweeney’s death.

  “And why is that?” Mulroney demanded.

  “Why do you think?” Libby asked him. The man was either incredibly callous or incredibly stupid. Or both.

  “I don’t have a clue,” Mulroney said.

  “Call me crazy, but the last I knew,” Libby told him, “murder investigations take precedent over business openings.”

  “Murder?” Mulroney’s eyebrows came together. “Why do you assume Sweeney’s death is a murder?” he said, his voice rising. “It looks like an accident to me.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Bernie said.

  Mulroney straightened out the lapels of his camel-hair coat. “Not at all. Obviously, Sweeney snuck around to the back and opened the keg. Then when he went to drink some beer, he slipped, hit his head on the barrel, and passed out. No one was there to pull him out, so he drowned.” Mulroney patted his tie. “Hell, it could even be suicide. I heard this guy Sweeney had a lot of problems. Maybe he decided to end it all. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that’s what happened.”

  “It would be a novel way to do it,” Bernie said. “Is that the story you’re going to tell the police?”

  “I’m not going to tell,” Mulroney italicized the word tell with his fingers, “the cops anything. They’ll come to that conclusion on their own.” He shrugged. “If you’d been in the bar business as long as I have, you would have learned that a lot of weird stuff goes on. One thing I will say, though. Sweeney was a pain in the ass when he was alive and he’s a pain in the ass now that he’s dead. That’s indisputable.” He turned to Brandon. “Has the linen guy come in yet?” he asked him, dismissing Mike Sweeney in one sentence.

  Bernie was offended. Even though she hadn’t liked Sweeney, he still deserved better than being treated like an inconvenient piece of trash.

  “Well, has he?” Mulroney repeated when Brandon didn’t answer immediately.

  Brandon looked at his watch. “He should be here in another ten minutes or so.”

  “Good,” Mulroney said. “Why don’t you go inside and get busy, while I wait for the police.”

  “So you’re really going to try to get this place open for business?” Libby asked Mulroney.

  “On one of the busiest days of the year? What do you think?”

  “I think yes,” Libby said.

  Mulroney bared his teeth in what passed for a grin and clapped. “Very good. Now, I think it’s time for you girls to get moving. Brandon and I have a lot of work to do.”

  Libby looked at Bernie, who gave her an imperceptible nod, and started moving toward the van.

  “Later,” Bernie said to Brandon.

  “Definitely.” And he made a fist and held it up to his ear, mimicking a calling motion.

  “What do you think?” Libby said to Bernie once they had turned out of the parking lot.

  “About what?” Bernie asked as she waited for a car to pass before she got into the left-hand lane.

  “About Sweeney’s death being a homicide.”

  “Oh, without a doubt,” Bernie said. “I think that somewhere between three and nine in the morning someone killed Sweeney. Now whether he was drowned in the keg or killed somewhere else is a question the ME will have to answer.”

  Libby looked up from studying a small rip in her jacket pocket. “I think he was killed here. It makes more sense. Why kill him somewhere else and drag the body to the back of the bar? Sweeney was a big guy. It would have been quite a job.”

  Bernie readjusted the van’s rearview mirror. “Unless someone was sending a message.”

  “To whom and for what?”

  “Don’t know,” Bernie answered. “It was just a thought.”

  Libby looked at Bernie. “So if Sweeney was killed in back of RJ’s,” she said, thinking aloud, “that means that he came back with someone else and that he and that someone most likely had a fight and one way or another the someone we’re talking about got Mike Sweeney’s head in the barrel.”

  “... Or knocked him out first and then held his head underwater ...”

  “Beer ...”

  “A liquid ...”

  “Whatever. But either way is the same. Mike Sweeney drowned.”

  “Agreed,” Bernie said. “There is one thing I am sure of, though. It’s that Mulroney is going to call in all his favors... .”

  “Which are considerable,” Libby interjected. “Marvin told me he’s a big supporter of the Chamber of Commerce.”

  “Yes, he is, and he’s going to use his considerable influence to convince the authorities to process the scene as quickly as possible. In fact, I think if we weren’t there, Mulroney might have moved the body to the Dumpster in back of A La Carte. Don’t get me wrong—eventually it would get figured out, but in the meantime RJ’s would be open. And that’s the important thing to Mulroney.”

  “Lucy would crucify us if we did something like that,” Libby asked.

  “So would Dad, but evidently Mulroney thinks he can get away with Sweeney’s death being a case of accidental drowning. You heard him. Hell,” Bernie said as she turned the van onto Oak Street, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mulroney used that barrel of beer.”

  “You think that’s why Brandon called you?”

  Bernie thought about her answer for a moment before replying. “I think he wanted us as witnesses. I think that Brandon was afraid that Mulroney would want him to relocate Sweeney’s body to a less troublesome place and that he precluded that by having us there.”

  “I think you may be right,” Libby said. “It’ll be interesting to see if RJ’s opens today.”

  “Bet you five that it does,” Bernie said.

  Libby nodded. “You’re on.”

  When Libby went upstairs to their flat to tell their dad what had happened, he added five dollars to the pot, making the odds two to one against her.

  “High finance,” Sean said, chuckling as he pushed his money onto the center of the coffee table.

  “So you think Lucy can be bought?” Libby asked her dad later in the day.

  Most people tended to overcook them, making the yolks rubbery. It was the simple things in life that turned out to be the most difficult to achieve, Libby thought as she savored another bite of her sandwich. A properly boiled egg, an omelet, a perfectly roast chicken—these were miracles. Which made Libby think about the oatmeal-whole-wheat bread the egg salad was resting on.

  It was everything a bread should be, easy to make, a good keeper, had a good crumb, made excellent toast, and, most importantly, was quite tasty. The ingredients were simple, consisting as they did of old-fashioned oats, whole wheat and white flour, salt, yeast, a small amount of molasses, and a hint of cardamom.

  The grain had been ground fifteen miles away in a newly opened gristmill. To be honest, Libby wasn’t sure she could taste the difference between the flour
bought in the store and the flour made there, but she bought it there anyway because she wanted to support the business.

  She liked the idea of knowing who her suppliers were and where the ingredients she was using came from, and on a practical level it made quality control easier. Customers seemed to like the idea as well, since they lined up to buy the loaves as soon as they came out of the oven, which was why they baked the bread seven days a week.

  Sean, normally a white-bread kind of guy, chewed on his sandwich and thought about the fact that even he had to admit that this bread was excellent. Then he shifted gears and considered how to answer his daughter’s question about the moral probity of Lucas Broadbent, Longely’s chief of police, known as Lucy to his detractors, which were legion.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Libby said when her dad didn’t immediately respond to her inquiry.

  “That’s not true,” Sean replied after he’d swallowed. “I don’t think Lucas can be bought. At least not outright,” Sean added. “And I should know, having worked with him for a number of years. But Lucy is nothing if not a political animal and a man who always puts what’s good for him first.”

  Sean took a sip of his coffee and put the mug down. “So therefore, I do think he can be influenced to treat Mike Sweeney’s death as a possible accident. He’s got a fair amount of wiggle room here. After all, it wasn’t as if Sweeney was shot through the heart, so the cause of death isn’t that obvious.” Sean took another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a swig of coffee. “They’re going to have to do an autopsy to find that out.

  “And today’s a big day business-wise for RJ’s, and Mulroney was a big contributor to his campaign when Lucy ran for re-election, so you do the math. My guess is that Lucy will wrap up the investigation as quickly as possible. Which,” Sean said, thinking of recent cases, “he has a tendency to do anyway.”

  “True,” said Bernie as she walked through the door. She went over to the table, grabbed half a sandwich, took a bite, and swallowed. “But let us not forget that Sweeney was a rich, connected guy, so this is not the kind of crime that can be swept under the rug for long.”