Bernie shrugged. It was true. She was. Mostly because she hadn't gone home with Brandon. She'd been afraid she'd get stuck at his place and not be able to get back in time to help open the shop. Sometimes, she wished she'd stayed in California and hadn't come back to work here. This place ran her life. Then she shook the thought off. She was just in a funk brought on by too much work and not enough s.e.x.

"Okay. Try the crust out," Bernie said. Then she added hastily, "But not today."

Today they wouldn't have time to do anything but keep baking so they could restock the display cases. That was the problem with making everything fresh: It was a balancing act. Too much and they had to throw stuff out. Not enough and they had unhappy customers.

Libby was just about to tell Bernie that she agreed that today wasn't the day to start experimenting with anything, that they'd be lucky if they had time to pee the way things were going, when Googie came in with an envelope and handed it to Bernie.

"This guy said to give this to you."

"What guy?"

"Don't know." Googie straightened his hat. "He gave it to me when I was waiting on Mrs. Ruffo," he told Bernie.

Libby peered over Bernie's shoulder while she opened the envelope. There were three tickets to Cat on a Hot Tin Roof inside.

"Kevin O'Malley," Bernie and Libby said together. Then they took the tickets up to show to their dad.

"I guess he really wants to tell us something," Libby said.

"I guess so," Sean agreed, putting his coffee cup down. "He's obviously sticking to the letter of the law."

Libby gave her dad a puzzled look. "Law? What law?"

"His law," Sean explained. "Last night he told you...."

"He told Bernie...."

"Then Bernie-that he couldn't tell you anything directly. In his mind that would be gossiping, but if he points you in the right direction and you make the connections you need to make, you find out whatever it is that he deems important, well then, that's not his doing. He's in the clear. I wonder what made him change his mind?" Sean mused as he picked up yesterday's paper and scanned the headlines. He liked his news a day old. It put everything in perspective.

"Maybe his conscience?" Bernie said.

"He ran a strip club," Libby protested.

"So? What's that have to do with anything?" Bernie demanded.

"Oh, come on," Libby said. "You can't be serious."

"You're becoming very judgmental in your old age."

"No. I'm not," Libby told her.

"Ladies," Sean growled, glaring at both his daughters. "Sometimes I don't know what's wrong with you people," he declared. "All you do is bicker. It gets very trying."

"Sorry," Libby and Bernie murmured, although from where Sean was sitting they didn't look at all repent.

"It's an interesting question, isn't it?" Bernie said, getting back to the matter at hand.

"What?"

"Why Kevin sent us the tickets. It would be so much easier if Kevin just came out and said what he wanted to, but at this point I guess we'll have to take what we can get."

"When are they for?" Sean asked.

"Tonight," Bernie told him. "Unfortunately."

Libby stifled a yawn. "I just hope I don't fall asleep in the middle of it," she said. There was something else about the play that was important, but Libby couldn't remember what it was. The trick was to stop thinking about it. Then it would come to her. Probably when she was rolling out dough for the pies. That's when things always seemed to pop into her head.

Bernie patted her on the back. "Don't worry. If you start snoring, I'll wake you up."

"I don't snore," Libby protested.

Bernie crossed her arms over her chest. "You most certainly do."

Libby appealed to her dad. "I don't, do I?"

Sean decided to concentrate on the paper. Replying would be a lose-lose situation for him. He'd learned from years of living with his wife and daughters that there were some questions you never answered, the archetypical one being, Does this make me look fat? Do I snore? might not be as laden as that one, but it was close enough.

"Would you like to go?" Libby asked.

Sean refolded the paper. "Go where?" he asked as if he didn't know.

Libby sighed. She hated when her father did this. "To the play, of course."

"I'd love to," Sean lied. "But Clyde is coming over."

Bernie put her hands on her hips. "Dad," she said.

"It's true," Sean bl.u.s.tered. Clyde wasn't really coming over for a visit, but he was sure he could lure the big guy to the flat with the promise of some lemon squares and pecan bars.

In Sean's opinion there were some things that went beyond the call of duty and this was one of them. Why sit through an inferior version of one of his all-time favorite movies? After all, who could replace Elizabeth Taylor as Maggie? No one. That's who.

Chapter 11.

The Longely Playhouse was based in the Longely Community Center, an old firehouse on Warren Street. The town had done a very nice job of remodeling the building several years ago after the fire department had moved into more modern quarters. Now the two-story building housed a variety of activities, up to and including yoga cla.s.ses, story times for toddlers, lunches for senior citizens, figure-drawing cla.s.ses, as well as local theatrical efforts, or amateur theater as Sean insisted on calling it.

Superior Productions, the company that was mounting Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, had been in business for the last three years. Sometimes it benefitted from Longely's closeness to New York City, by getting a number of out-of-work actors who were looking to build up their resumes to perform in its plays. But mostly it relied on local talent.

The theater, which accommodated a respectable seventy-five people, was practically empty when Bernie, Libby, and Marvin arrived, a fact that didn't surprise Bernie, Libby, or Marvin. Even though all the roads were clear, people were tired from their round of early morning shoveling and were opting to stay in and watch TV, a course of action Libby kept telling everyone she would have liked to have followed as well. And Bernie had to admit that she wouldn't have minded too much either. Between the baking, the shoveling, and clearing the van off so they could get to the store and buy more b.u.t.ter and vanilla, the day had just worn her out.

The three of them had just walked through the door and were standing in the entranceway studying their tickets to find their seat a.s.signments when Libby gave Bernie a sharp nudge in the ribs.

"What?" Bernie asked, rubbing her side. "That hurt."

Libby pointed. "That's what I was trying to remember," she said.

"You want to take a figure-drawing cla.s.s?" From what Bernie could see, Libby was pointing at the schedule for art cla.s.ses.

"No, dummy. I'm talking about Sam."

Bernie hit her forehead with the flat of her hand. "I can't believe I forgot. That's right. She said she had a bit part in the play." She continued, "Well, she does. In a broad sense. She's acting as an usher."

Sam came toward them. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"We're going to see the play," Libby said.

Sam practically shoved their programs in their hands, then hurried off.

"I think she's embarra.s.sed," Libby observed as they took their seats.

Kevin had gotten them center-row seats.

"I don't think anything would embarra.s.s her," Bernie said as she put her coat over the back of her seat.

"She used to work at the Coffee Grounds," Marvin told them.

"Really?" Libby said.

"Yup. I remember her because she tripped and spilled the coffee she was carrying all over my shirt. She had purple hair then."

Somehow Bernie wasn't surprised. "Well, she was wearing a gray wig the last time I ran into her. She probably changes her hair color the way some people change their shoes. Do you know anything else about her?"

Marvin thought for a moment. Then he said, "I heard her mom died last year down in the city. She was involved in some sort of accident, so Samantha came up here to live with her dad, Robert Barron."

Bernie raised an eyebrow. Robert Barron was a developer, although what he developed no one seemed to know. About six months ago, she'd read an item in the business section of the local paper about a deal Robert Barron was finalizing with Colbert Toys. That might explain why he didn't want his daughter even peripherally involved in anything that had anything to do with any sort of scandal that would affect his business.

Marvin bent down and pulled up his socks. "Supposedly, she's his kid from his first marriage."

Libby put her program down on her lap. "I didn't know he had a first marriage."

Marvin straightened up. "It didn't last too long."

Libby took a chocolate bar out of her bag, broke off a piece, and pa.s.sed the rest to Marvin. "Now I feel bad for the kid," she said as the chocolate melted in her mouth.

"Why?" Bernie asked as she got out of her seat. "Just because her father is an egotistical, self-absorbed moron?"

"Something like that," Libby replied.

"Wow," Marvin said. "That's quite a mouthful."

"We did a dinner party for him a couple of years ago and never got paid," Libby explained. "He's very cheap. Not to mention the fact that he has these disgusting hunting trophies all over his house." She looked up at her sister. "Where are you going?"

"To find Sam."

"She didn't say anything before," Libby said. "Why do you think she'll say anything now?"

Bernie reached up and repinned her hair. One of these days she was going to cut it all off. "As Dad says, 'persistence is the cornerstone of good police work.'"

"You're not a policeman," Libby retorted. "You're a caterer."

"I never would have known," Bernie said as she walked up the aisle.

The building housing the Longely Community Center was a small place composed of a large entranceway, the performance s.p.a.ce, four rooms on the bottom floor and three on the top floor. Therefore, it didn't take Bernie long to locate what pa.s.sed for a green room. It was the second room on the left-hand side of the hall. Sam was sprawled out on a mustard yellow sofa that looked as if it had been dragged in off the street, listening to her iPhone and licking the vanilla cream from the middle of an Oreo cookie. Evidently she was taking her ushering duties as seriously as she took her cleaning ones, Bernie thought as she stepped inside.

It took a moment for Sam to notice her. When she did, she lifted herself into a sitting position.

"You can't come in here," she told Bernie, not bothering to take her earphones off. "This is for cast members only."

"I had a part in The Wizard of Oz once."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. I was Glinda. And I was very good. You can ask Miss Grover, my fourth-grade teacher. No? You're not going to? Fine. If it bothers you that I'm in here, we can step outside."

Sam ate the last of her cookie and brushed the crumbs off her hands. "I don't have to talk to you and I'm not going to."

"Okay. I'll just sit here till you do," Bernie said. "That sofa looks awfully comfortable."

Sam pointed to her ears. "I can't hear you."

Bernie took two quick steps toward Samantha, reached down, and yanked Sam's headset off. "There," she said, holding it up. "Problem solved."

"You can't do that!" Sam squawked.

"I just did."

"Give them to me," Sam demanded as she grabbed for her earphones.

Bernie took a step back. "I will after we're finished talking."

"They're Bose. They're really, really expensive."

Bernie smiled. "I know. I have a pair."

Sam glared at her. Bernie returned the favor.

"Well," Bernie said after a couple of moments had gone by. "It looks like we're at a stalemate."

"What's a stalemate?"

"An impa.s.se."