Free A Catered Tea Party by Isis Crawford Page B

question for a moment. “Why not?”
    â€œIt just doesn’t seem like her.”
    â€œTotally disagree. Did you see the look on Erin’s face when Zalinsky threw her roses on the floor? If she had had a gun, she would have shot him. No. I think she’s capable of lots of things if she gets pissed enough, and finding out that her jewelry was fake would definitely be something that would piss her off.”
    â€œYeah. But is she capable of rigging the teakettle? I see her more as someone who would slip antifreeze into someone’s coffee.”
    â€œI don’t know. She could have looked up how to do it on the Internet, and even if she didn’t, she could have gotten someone to do it for her.”
    â€œNow that,” Libby told her sister, “I could totally see her doing. Well, one thing is for sure,” Libby continued, changing the subject, “Zalinsky was definitely prepared to get out of town.”
    â€œEvidently,” Bernie agreed. “Maybe that’s why he bought the teapot. Because it was small and portable, and he could sell it. If anyone would know an interested buyer, he would.”
    â€œOr,” Libby said, another explanation having occurred to her, “maybe Zalinsky was a prepper. Maybe he was one of those guys who believed in being prepared for Armageddon.”
    â€œA prepper?” Bernie replied. “No. Preppers have supplies of food, water, batteries, and medical supplies.” She pointed to the backpack. “This is a go bag. This is for when something bad happens and all you have time to do is grab the bag and get out of town.”
    â€œWell, he didn’t get out fast enough,” Libby observed. “Obviously, he didn’t see whatever . . .”
    â€œWhoever,” Bernie corrected.
    â€œFine. He didn’t see whoever coming. He thought he still had time.” Libby was just about to ask Bernie how much the Krugerrands were worth when she heard a car pulling into the driveway.
    Bernie cursed under her breath.
    â€œNow what?” Libby asked.

Chapter 11
    B ernie didn’t answer her sister. She was too busy listening to the sounds below. A moment later, she and Libby heard footsteps crunching on gravel, then footsteps on the veranda, then the front door to the house opening, and the sound of the alarm beeping as someone punched in the code. Libby and Bernie looked at each other.
    â€œLucky we went in through the office,” Libby whispered.
    â€œI figured it was a two–tiered security system,” Bernie whispered back.
    â€œNo, you didn’t.”
    Bernie put her finger to her lips. Now Libby could hear it too. There were footsteps coming up the stairs.
    â€œDamn,” Bernie cursed as she shoved the money, jewelry, and gun lying on the bed back into the backpack, while Libby returned the chair under the curtain rod back to where it had been and grabbed the carton the backpack had come in. Then they both ran for the closet. They were trapped. There was nowhere else to go.
    â€œPlease, don’t come in the bedroom,” Libby prayed.
    â€œI wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” Bernie told her. Then she added, “It could be worse. At least our van is parked in the back.”
    Libby didn’t reply. Her body was rigid as she contemplated the footsteps in the hallway. There were two sets. One tread was heavy, while the other was light. Then she heard voices. They sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place them.
    â€œI think it has to be in his majesty’s bedroom,” a woman said.
    â€œAre you sure?” a man’s voice asked.
    â€œNo, I’m not. But I’ve looked everywhere else.”
    â€œGlad you have the code,” the man says. “It saves us the trouble of breaking in.”
    The woman laughed. “Not because he wanted me to have it.”
    â€œNow, that I can believe. He was a control freak,” the man said.
    â€œThat’s a