A Catered Murder Read Online Free Page B

talking to her.
    â€œWhy do you always do that?” Bernie was asking her.
    Libby shook her head to clear it. “Do what?”
    â€œTouch things three times.”
    â€œDo I?”
    â€œYes, you do.”
    â€œIt’s a habit.”
    â€œIt’s OCD.”
    â€œI’m not obsessive compulsive.”
    â€œYou’re borderline. Have you thought about getting treatment?”
    Libby pointed a finger in Bernie’s direction.
    â€œShow me a caterer who isn’t slightly OCD and I’ll show you a bad one. Catering is all in the details,” Libby said as she walked out into the cafeteria and surveyed the scene in front of her. “You should know that.”
    â€œSo is everything else,” Bernie said, trailing after her. She could tell, though, that Libby wasn’t listening to her. She was studying the room in front of them.
    And Bernie had to admit, given the constraints Libby was operating under, she’d done a good job, even though she privately thought that themed dinners were incredibly tacky. So were theme restaurants for that matter. If there was one thing she’d learned as a restaurant reviewer out in L.A., it was that palm fronds and tribal masks on the walls spelled bad food on the plates.
    Libby ran her eyes over the cafeteria. Last night she and Stan and Amber had spent almost four hours getting it ready. They’d set up the guest of honor table, then moved in large round tables and covered all of them with black tablecloths. Next they’d done the place settings—white china—and arranged tableaux of little skeleton men playing instruments, eating food, and riding on donkeys on each table. Libby had gotten the figures from a supplier who handled candy skeletons and skulls for the Mexican holiday, El Dia de los Muertos, The Day of the Dead.
    They’d been an overstock item from last November so she’d gotten them at a good price. But her biggest coup had been the gold foil-wrapped milk chocolate coffins. She was just thinking what a good table decoration they made when the doors to the cafeteria banged open.
    Laird Wrenn swept in, trailed by his publicist, Lydia Kissoff. Three men carrying a shiny black coffin followed.
    Wrenn looked around the room and frowned.
    â€œAnd where,” he said, pointing to his coffin, “am I supposed to put this?”

Chapter 3
    L ibby leaned towards Bernie.
    â€œHe’s kidding, right?”
    â€œNot from what I heard.”
    â€œHe reminds me of a pigeon,” she whispered in Libby’s ear as she watched Laird Wrenn and Lydia Kissoff advancing on them.
    â€œA pigeon?” Libby repeated.
    â€œYou know—all chest with skinny little legs. And that cape he’s wearing doesn’t help. No wonder the dust jackets on his books feature head shots.”
    Libby put her hand up to her mouth to smother a giggle. “Well, he doesn’t exactly look like Keifer Sutherland in The Lost Boys, does he?”
    â€œI loved that movie. I especially loved the guy with the blond curls. The one that looked like a Botticelli angel.” Bernie wound a lock of her hair around her finger. “If I had all the money Lionel has and a body like that, I’d get my shirts tailor-made.” She shook her head. “Boy, that cape looks hot. Maybe he has little electric fans in it.”
    â€œStop it,” Libby pleaded.
    â€œAnd get a load of Lydia. I never thought she’d age well.”
    â€œWay too much makeup,” Libby noted. Then she said, “We shouldn’t be bitchy.”
    â€œWhy not? It’s fun.”
    â€œQuiet.” Libby gave Bernie a poke in the ribs with her elbow as Laird Wrenn closed the distance between them. “Laird,” she said when he was about a foot away. “I don’t know if you remember me, but . . .”
    â€œAre you the one in charge here?” he barked.
    â€œYes, I am.”
    Libby could see the sweat pouring down