A Catered Birthday Party (6 page)

T
he first thing that Bernie and Libby noticed when they entered the Colbert household was that the Puggables were no longer there. Evidently, they’d been returned to wherever they’d come from in the past two days. Without them the house seemed larger and colder, more like a museum than a place where people actually lived.

Bernie and Libby went into the kitchen to drop off the food they’d brought, while the other guests trooped off to the sunroom, dogs in tow, except for Trudy, who tagged along with Bernie and Libby.

Bernie noted yet again that Richard seemed to have no regard for the animal, which struck her as odd considering the position that Trudy occupied. Or maybe it was
because of
the position she occupied, Bernie thought. Maybe he didn’t like anyone or anything being the center of attention except himself.

“I wonder what’s going to happen to her?” Libby asked, nodding to the little dog trotting at their feet as they entered the kitchen.

A girl with long, prematurely gray hair was standing by the sink scrubbing a pot. “Have you read
Poor Little Rich Girl?
” the girl asked them.

“No,” Libby replied. “Why?”

“Because that’s the fate that’s awaiting Trudy.”

“She’s not Gloria Vanderbilt,” Bernie pointed out as she bent down and scratched Trudy under her chin.

“Barbara Hutton,” the girl said.

“Whoever,” Bernie replied.

The girl tossed her head. “It doesn’t matter. The principle is the same. My point is that no one here likes her. Except me. And I don’t live here.” She turned to the dog. “Isn’t that right, pokums?” she crooned.

Trudy wagged her little tail as hard as she could.

“Do you work here?” Libby asked, because she certainly didn’t look like your typical domestic.

“Would I be doing this if I didn’t?” the girl asked. “Mr. Colbert hired me to help serve the mourners when they returned from the funeral.” She eyed the package Libby was holding. “So you’ve brought the funeral meats,” she observed. “That’s good, because there isn’t a friggin’ thing in this house to eat. Lots of booze but no food.”

“Actually, it’s roast chicken,” Libby replied.

The girl briefly considered Libby’s statement. Then she said, “I guess roast chicken could fall under the funeral meat description in a broad, generic kind of way. They’re both protein.”

Bernie fed a piece of bread that was on the counter to Trudy.

“You know,” the girl said to her, “Joyce and Melissa are gonna kill you if they see you feeding that dog anything but her special diet.”

Bernie looked down at Trudy, who had dragged the slice of bread under the table and was proceeding to devour it.

“She seems okay to me. Anyway, if it’s all right for her to eat a piece of birthday cake, surely it’s okay for her to eat a piece of bread.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “I thought you guys were the caterers. You were here when the missus died.”

“Yes, we were,” Bernie said, wondering at the word
missus
, which seemed to come from some old movie.

“Wow.”

“You could say that,” Bernie replied. “Although I’d use the words
scary
and
stressful
myself.”

The girl gave the pot she was working on one last vigorous scrub before taking the sprayer and washing the soap off. “I read in the paper they’re saying it was an accident.”

“You don’t think it was?” Bernie asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

“It sure sounded that way,” Libby observed.

“Hey,” the girl cried. “I just help out here from time to time.”

“Okay. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have an opinion,” Bernie noted.

The girl hitched her jeans up. “Well, I don’t.”

“What did you tell the police?” Libby asked.

The girl took a towel and began drying the pot. “I didn’t tell the police anything. They didn’t ask me.”

“Really?” Bernie said.

“Yes, really,” the girl said. She wiped her hands on the towel and carefully replaced it on the rack next to the sink. “And even if they had there’s nothing I could have contributed. I wasn’t here then. As you know.”

“I do know,” Bernie agreed. “I just thought they might have wanted to talk to you anyway to get background material, impressions of people, stuff like that.”

“Well, they didn’t,” the girl said decisively.

“And if they had, what would you have said?” Bernie asked, out of curiosity.

The girl curled her lip. “I couldn’t have said anything. I already told you that. Besides I signed a letter of confidentially, which means I can’t talk about what happens in this house.”

Somehow Bernie didn’t think that counted when it came to police investigations, but she let that pass. “But if you could?” she persisted.

The girl frowned. “That’s not going to happen. Richard…Mr. Colbert won’t allow it.”

Interesting sentence on two levels, Bernie thought. First there was the “Richard, Mr. Colbert” thing, and then there was the implication that Richard was running the investigation. Maybe
running
wasn’t the right word. Maybe
influencing
was. Which squared with what Clyde had said previously.

“I didn’t say it was going to happen,” Bernie continued. “I’m just asking, if you could talk what would you say? Hypothetically speaking.”

“I wouldn’t say anything,” the girl repeated. “I signed this paper. Mr. Richard says bad things will happen to me if I do.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” Bernie told her.

“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 shit
, 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 God 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 poops on the floor Richard is going to be wicked pissed.”

“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.”