A Catered Thanksgiving (11 page)

“W
onderful,” Bernie said as she fumbled around the walls, searching for the light switch. “We should have brought a flashlight with us.”

“We don't have a flashlight,” Libby reminded her.

Bernie was too busy cursing to reply. Actually, it didn't take her long to find the light switch, though as Libby would later tell her father, it seemed like an eternity, what with the wind making strange whistling noises outside.

“Got it,” Bernie said and flicked the switch.

There was a whoosh and a fan turned on.
Must be the venting system,
Bernie thought as her fingers found the switch next to it and turned that one on as well. Suddenly the room was bathed in light. Pink, green, and blue auras danced in front of the sisters' eyes.

Libby blinked and looked around. She didn't know what she'd expected, but this was not it. “The place looks bigger from the outside,” was the first thing she said as she took a step out of the small entrance foyer she and Bernie were standing in.

Bernie put her hood down and unzipped her jacket. “It does, doesn't it?”

“How on earth do they manufacture things here?”

“They don't.” Bernie wiped the snow off of her cheeks with the back of her hand, then wiped that on the back of her jacket. “Remember, you told me this is where Monty and his family come up with new ideas for fireworks. It's not where they manufacture them. I think I remember reading that their plant is somewhere in Pennsylvania, which would make sense. Since it's illegal to sell fireworks in New York State, it might be illegal to make them here as well.”

“And set them off,” Libby added as she stamped the snow off her shoes. It made a little wet pile on the gray concrete floor.

“That's what I just said.”

“I was thinking of Dad.”

Bernie smiled. “Yeah, it used to piss Mom off no end when Dad lit them off on the Fourth of July.”

“It certainly did.”

Bernie laughed at the memory. “She used to get so angry.”

“It never stopped Dad, though,” Libby noted.

“No, it didn't, did it?” Bernie replied as she looked around. “In fact, it egged him on.”

The room she was standing in was twelve feet by twenty feet and was lined with shelves on two sides. A bulletin board was affixed to the third side, which was the wall opposite the door. Two long metal tables, the kind one found in restaurants, ran the length of the shelving. Four office chairs on wheels were pushed under them. One of the tables had scales, measuring cups, mixing bowls, and retorts, as well as a box of Kleenex and a yellow legal pad.

“Just like home,” Bernie said, indicating the bowls. “A pinch of this, half a cup of that, and voilà. You have an explosion.”

“As in the turkey.”

“Exactly,” Bernie said.

Libby lightly touched the bowls and the scales with the tips of her fingers. “Really, if you put it that way, it's not that different from what we do. After all,” she added, thinking of one of her earlier cooking mishaps, “if you add enough baking soda to cake batter, the cake explodes.”

Bernie chuckled. “I'd forgotten about that.”

“I haven't,” Libby said, thinking back to how long it had taken her to clean the oven with her mother standing over her.

She looked at the pad. Someone had jotted down two numbers and a word. The first number was 899.92. That was followed by a question mark. The second number was spelled out. It was one million and was underlined three times. A little farther down the page was the word
Africa
and the word
GAB
spelled out in capital letters. At the bottom of the page the same person had written the word
explanation
. They'd underlined the word several times and followed it with five exclamation points.

Libby handed the pad to Bernie. “What do you make of this?” she asked.

Bernie studied the page for a little while. Then she said, “Well, for openers, look at the way
explanation
is written. The underlining, the exclamation points, the amount of pressure the person used bearing down on the pen. I'd say whoever wrote the word
explanation
was extremely upset. As in he wanted one and it had better be good.”

Libby nodded. That was her feeling as well.

“My guess is that these notes refer to something that's happening in Africa,” Bernie continued. “Maybe the company is sending fireworks to Africa. A lot of fireworks. A million dollars' worth is a lot of fireworks. So is eight hundred ninety-nine dollars and ninety-two cents, for that matter.”

Libby sniffed. Her nose was still running and her throat felt tickly. Maybe her nose was running not because she was cold; maybe it was running because she was getting sick. She'd been fighting off something for a week now, and she was sure the little trek she'd taken hadn't helped.

Libby sniffed again. “Those numbers seem a little improbable,” she replied. “Why wouldn't they make their own fireworks in Africa, instead of spending money to have them imported?”

Bernie shrugged. “Well, they send wallboard here from China, don't they?” she asked. “And I know they were sending bricks from there to here. I mean, these days who knows.”

“That doesn't say a lot of good things about our economy,” Libby said as she hugged her parka to her. It was cold enough in here so that she could see her breath. But she reminded herself it was still better than being outside. Hopefully, by the time they were done, the storm would have subsided somewhat.

“No. It doesn't. At least what we do can't be outsourced,” Bernie said.

“That's true,” Libby agreed.

Both sisters were quiet while they thought about that. After a minute or so had elapsed, Bernie went back to thinking about the matter at hand.

“Or maybe,” she ruminated, “I'm wrong and there were two different sales, which would mean almost two million dollars' worth of fireworks. Wow. That's a lot of gunpowder.”

“It certainly is.” Libby didn't want to think about how much. “But what about the word
GAB?
That doesn't fit in anywhere.”

“No, it doesn't, does it?” Bernie agreed. She studied the notepad some more. A moment later she had the beginnings of an idea. “What if the letters aren't a word?” she said slowly. “What if they're initials?”

“So?” Libby said. “I'm not sure what you're getting at.”

“Well, what if the initials stand for Greta, Audie, and Bob? That would fit in with the rest of the page.”

Libby grinned. “Yes, it would. And they did say they were here to see Monty about a business deal.”

“Exactly. But maybe it's not a deal that's pending, but one that's already been completed.”

“And the two numbers written on the page aren't two different deals, but the differential between what Monty expected and what he got.”

Bernie nodded. “Hence the word
explanation
. As in he's demanding an explanation for the discrepancy.”

“The only problem with that scenario,” Libby countered, “is that Monty didn't seem upset when he was talking to them out front after we arrived. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“That's true.” Bernie tapped the edge of the pad against her front teeth. “But maybe Monty was just acting. He strikes me as the kind of man who lulls someone into a sense of security and then pounces.”

“He'd have them arrested if they were embezzling money, that's for sure,” Libby said. “Look at what he did to Alma.”

“Without a doubt. Maybe he was planning to have them arrested here and the storm interfered and Greta, Audie, and Bob found out and killed him first.”

“How did they find out?”

“One of the other family members told them. Had to be,” Bernie said.

“Why would they do that?”

“Because they wanted a share of the cash.”

Libby nodded. “I can see that. But could they have jerry-rigged the turkey that fast?” she wondered out loud.

“If they knew what was going to happen, then they would have come prepared. But even if they didn't, even if they found out when they got here, it wouldn't take them that long to rig the turkey if they knew what they were doing.”

“And you think they could have?”

“Absolutely. I bet if we talked to them, we'd find that they've been playing around with this stuff all their lives. It's a family business, after all.”

Libby clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I guess now they've got a motive. If what we're postulating is true.”

“Nice word.”

“I think so.”

“Hopefully, we can find something in the company files that will back this up.”

“Facts are always good,” Libby observed.

“So I've been told,” Bernie said. Not that she necessarily agreed with that statement when the facts proved to be inconvenient.

She put the pad back down on the table and studied the shelves lining the bunker walls. On the far wall were containers of chemicals. Most of the containers were plastic. All of them had pasted-on white labels with the names of their contents carefully spelled out in big black block letters.

“Do you know what any of this stuff is?” Libby asked as she gave the wall a brief once-over.

Bernie shook her head. “Well, it's not used for making apple pies, that's for sure.”

“I should have taken chemistry in college,” Libby lamented.

Bernie laughed. “I doubt if that would help you with this,” she said as she turned to study the contents of the shelves on the opposite wall. Those shelves were full of cartons with names like Fire, Black Cat, Big Shot, Ass Kickin' Mule, and Sundance written on them. “Fireworks,” Bernie said, and she walked over and opened one called Great Bear. “I wonder what this is like when it goes off.”

“Don't know. Don't care,” Libby replied, her attention drawn to the bulletin board on the wall opposite the door.

She and Bernie moved toward it. The bulletin board was covered with news clips and photos of fireworks displays. Under each one, someone had written the location, date, and time of the event. Bernie noted that all the displays shown were on the East Coast. Then she noted that the handwriting under the displays was the same as the handwriting on the legal pad. Bernie wondered if it was Monty's. She thought it probably was.

“Nice displays,” Bernie said, studying the pictures. “They look very professional.” She indicated the room with a sweep of her hand. “So is this setup. Everything here is immaculate.” She knocked on the wall the bulletin board was attached to. “I wondered if this wall is the weak one,” she mused.

Libby looked at her sister. “Weak what?”

“Weak wall.”

“What are you talking about?” Libby asked.

“Nothing. I just read somewhere that every building where they store fireworks in has one weak wall so that if there's an explosion, the entire place isn't leveled.”

Libby crossed her arms over her chest. “This is not a piece of information I need to know.”

“I thought you'd find it reassuring.”

Libby gave her sister an incredulous glance. “Sometimes you amaze me.”

“That's what Brandon says,” Bernie replied.

“And he doesn't mean in a good way.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. I am a paragon of virtue.”

Libby choked on her cough.

“Well, almost,” Bernie conceded and she pointed to the next room. “That has to be the office. Maybe we'll find something that'll help us in there.”

“I certainly hope so,” Libby groused. “I'd hate to think that we took that walk for nothing.”

“It wasn't that bad,” Bernie said as she and Libby moved toward the office.

“You're just saying that to annoy me,” Libby said.

“No, it's true,” Bernie replied. “You know, testing your mettle against the outdoors and all that.”

Libby rolled her eyes. “This from the woman who has told her boyfriend the only camping she'd do is at a motel with a pool.”

“That's different.”

“How is it different?”

“Peeing.”

“Peeing?”

“Yeah, the whole peeing and pooping thing. I'm not a big fan of doing it outdoors. The thought of wiping myself with leaves that could turn out to be poison ivy gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“That's what would happen to me,” Libby said.

Bernie sniggered. “It did happen to you at Camp Wassatanga.”

“I prefer not to talk about that,” Libby said with as much dignity as she could manage.

By now both women were at the doorway to the office.

They looked inside.

Their hearts sank.

T
he place was a mess. There was no other word for it. Whereas the room outside was totally organized, the office was chaos. Papers were strewn all over the desk and the floor. They spilled out of the two file cabinets and onto shopping bags filled with what looked like unopened junk mail.

“Obviously, Monty's secretary quit,” Bernie said.

“Yeah. About five years ago. If he ever had one.” Libby massaged her forehead with her fingers. She was getting a headache.

“Or,” Bernie continued, “someone could have gone through the papers already. That would be my thought.”

“Not a happy one.”

“No, it's not,” Bernie agreed.

“Then we might be going through all these papers for nothing,” Libby said, thinking once again of the walk they'd taken.

“Yeah, but we won't know until we do.”

Libby groaned. She knew her sister was right.

“And we should do what we're going to do quickly, because the family is going to start wondering where we are pretty soon.”

“Let them,” Libby said, even though she didn't mean it. It would just make more trouble for them, which was the last thing she needed right now. She looked around, trying to come up with a battle plan, and that was when it hit her. “Do you see what's missing?” she asked Bernie.

“Order?” Bernie responded.

“Ha-ha. No. A computer. There is no computer.”

“Maybe Monty didn't use one,” Bernie suggested.

Libby pooh-poohed Bernie's statement. “Even I use a computer,” she said. “I don't think you can be in business without one these days.” She pointed to the power strip on the floor and the printer attached to it. “And if he didn't use one, then why would that be there?”

“Good point.” Bernie sighed. “So someone took it, probably the same someone who went through the papers in the office.”

“Or someone could have brought the computer back to the house to use. Or it could be in the shop, being fixed. Maybe the hard drive crashed.”

Bernie went around the desk, opened a desk drawer, and rummaged around. A moment later she held up a pamphlet. “Well, at least we know the machine is a Dell laptop,” she said. “Not that that helps a heap, since lots of people have them.”

“Well, any information is better than no information.”

“That's Dad talking.”

Libby grinned. “When you hear something a thousand times, you tend to remember it.”

“It wouldn't hurt to ask everyone at the house what happened to the computer,” Bernie said as she continued to go through the desk drawers.

“It never hurts to ask. It's getting the answers that's the problem.”

“Especially from that lot.”

Bernie kept looking through the desk. She didn't find much—just disks for old programs, wadded-up Kleenex, stubs of pencils, and bags of empty Snickers wrappers. What she didn't find was more significant. There was no address book, no directory of any kind, no appointment book, and no check ledger or deposit slips.

“Well, that's interesting,” Bernie said as she closed the left-hand desk drawer, which had been empty except for a ball of rubber bands and a box of paper clips.

“Maybe Monty kept all of his numbers in his phone,” Libby replied. “And his accountant writes his checks and files all his information.”

“I'll give you his accountant, but not the phone book or the appointment calendar.”

“Why?”

“Because smart phones are expensive, and pen and paper are cheap.”

“Or he could have been one of those guys that keeps everything in his head.”

“True. But there still have to be records somewhere,” Bernie said. “The question is, where?”

“At his accountant's.”

“Maybe.”

“Most probably.”

“Which we don't have a name for.”

“Even if we did, he wouldn't tell us anything.”

Bernie pulled the collar of her jacket up around her neck. “And there's something else.”

Libby waited.

“Geoff and Melissa were in here when we arrived. Remember how they came running out of the bunker…”

“After they set off those fireworks.” Libby grimaced. “How could I forget?”

“Which introduces a whole different set of dynamics. It means they either noticed the state of affairs in here and chose to say nothing—”

“Which is a possibility.” Libby indicated the mess in front of her and Bernie with a wave of her hand. “Or they were responsible for this….”

“Or this is how the place usually looks, so it wasn't worthy of comment.”

Libby nodded her head emphatically. “Exactly.”

“I find it hard to believe the latter,” Bernie said.

“Me too,” Libby agreed. “On the other hand, they weren't acting”—she paused to find the word she was looking for and finally settled on—“as if they'd done anything wrong.”

“Well, they could have gone through the office earlier. They could have taken the computer then. In which case, they wouldn't be shocked or upset about what they found in there.”

“But then why go back in?”

“True.”

“Or the person who did this might have told them already,” Libby pointed out. “And they might be covering for him or her.”

“Also a possibility,” Bernie conceded. “Or someone else could have snuck in here.”

Libby sighed. “You realize we're just going around in circles.”

“I know.” Bernie refastened her hair. “It may come down to being a question of what's not here, rather than what is,” she mused. “And that wouldn't be good for us, because a positive is always easier to deal with than a negative.”

Libby just looked at her. “You realize I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Bernie laughed. “I'm not sure that I have any idea what I'm talking about, either.”

She tapped her teeth with her fingernails while she thought of the crew back in the house. She could easily see everyone there scamming money. She thought of Geoff and his father and what she'd overheard Ralph and Perceval say, not to mention Lexus, the loving wife.

Was there passion there or love? Probably not. But hate or revenge, on the other hand…Bernie could see that for sure. Family and business could be a bad combo under the best of circumstances, and this wasn't the best of circumstances.

“Okay,” Bernie said. “On a practical level, I think we need to find everything that we can pertaining to Africa first. At least we know there should be files on that. And if they're not here, that will tell us something as well.”

Libby nodded. “And then we should look at the other accounts and see who was handling them. That is, if anyone other than Monty Field was. I get the feeling the man was a total control freak….”

“You mean jerk,” Bernie said, thinking back to her dad's story about Field and her mom.

Libby nodded. “That too. And jerks make enemies. Serious enemies.”

“Yes, they do.” Bernie thought again about Field's family and about how little love seemed to be lost between its members, and felt a sudden rush of gratitude that her family wasn't like that.

Libby went over and looked through the three paper bags leaning up against the far side of the desk. They were filled with old newspapers and flyers. She sighed. “Nothing of use here. Maybe we'll turn something up in the files that will give us a hint on what direction we should be going in.”

“And even if nothing turns up,” Bernie said, “we'll get some background information on the operation, and that can't be a bad thing.”

Libby stamped her feet to get her circulation going. Her feet were cold and wet, and the fact that she didn't have another pair of shoes or socks to change into filled her with dismay.

“How about you take the filing cabinets to the right and I'll take the rest of the paper bags and the file drawer on the left?” she suggested to Bernie.

“Works for me,” Bernie said.

For the next ten minutes or so, aside from a muttered comment, Bernie and Libby worked silently. The only sounds were the howl of the wind and the rattle of the metal roof. Most of the papers in the file cabinet on the left-hand side of the room proved to be old orders, supply lists, receipts, and bills that needed to be paid, none of which were past due.

“Monty seems to have kept current with his expenses,” Libby noted as she went through them.

“Always a good thing businesswise,” Bernie shot back as she lifted a set of file folders out of the drawer and began looking through them. They proved to be bank statements from five years ago. “The business was definitely making money at that time,” she commented as she perused them. Nothing leaped out at her. “I wonder where the current statements are.”

Libby looked up. “Good question. If we had the accountant's name, we could call him up and ask him.”

“But we don't have his name, so we can't.”

“We should ask Ralph. Or Perceval.”

“It would be interesting to see what they say…or don't say.”

“I'm betting on the
don't say
myself.” Libby closed the file drawer and started looking through some of the other bags full of papers. “Well, Monty definitely never met a piece of paper he didn't like, that's for sure. Most of this stuff is just junk,” she said after a couple of minutes.

Bernie looked up. “So is this. I mean, why file articles on weight loss and termite control?”

“Because he wanted to lose weight and he had a termite problem.”

“These are business files.” Bernie shook her head. “There's nothing here about Africa. In fact, there's nothing here that's current. Just old water bills. Old utility bills. Old bills of lading.” And Bernie shut the first drawer and opened the second one. It, too, was chock-full of files. “Maybe there's something about Africa in here.” She bent down and quickly thumbed through the files. “Nope. Just more crap.” She closed the second drawer and opened the third. It was empty. She cursed under her breath.

“What?” Libby asked.

“There's nothing here. I bet this is where the information we want to see was kept.”

“Or not.”

“Or not.” Bernie wound her scarf more tightly around her neck. “Or maybe it was Greta or Bob or Audie who took the files.”

“Or Ralph and Perceval.”

“Or Lexus. Or Geoff and Melissa.”

“Well, at least we know someone who hasn't taken the files.”

“Who?”

“Monty.”

“Not necessarily true. Maybe he hid them somewhere.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he was stealing money and he didn't want anyone to know.”

“Another motive for killing him.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Well, we are fairly certain of one thing at least,” Libby said.

“What's that?”

“That that's Monty's handwriting on the pad.”

Bernie nodded.

“So I guess we've made some progress,” Libby said.

“A smidgen,” Bernie said.

“What's our next step?” Libby asked her sister.

Bernie thought for a moment. “I think the question we have to answer is, what can we do with what we've got?”

“Meaning?”

“Well, we can't call on outside help.”

“Correct.”

“And no one wants to talk to us.”

“Well, they'll talk. They just won't tell us the truth.”

“Correct again. We're in a static situation.”

“Agreed.”

“So therefore we need to do something to make something happen.”

“Why do I so think that's a bad idea?”

“Then what would you suggest, Libby?” Bernie asked.

“Look for the files. Look for the computer.”

“We can do that as well.”

“So how are we going to shake things up?”

“I don't know,” Bernie confessed. “I haven't gotten that far yet. We should have gotten to the bunker earlier.”

“I don't think it would have made a difference.”

Libby was probably right, Bernie thought. The files and the computer had been taken before she and Libby got here. The likelihood was that they'd been taken before Monty was killed, although they could have been taken afterward, as well. Bernie tried to think back to everyone's movements and figure out where everyone was chronologically, but she couldn't. She'd been more focused on other things—like getting the van out of the snowdrift, bringing in the supplies, and trying to figure out where everything that they were going to need in the kitchen was.

She glanced at her watch. Although it seemed like a lot longer, she and Libby had been in the bunker for a little over half an hour now. It was probably time to head back. She was about to tell Libby that when she caught sight of a square black box standing upright next to the file cabinet. She hadn't seen it before, because it had been pushed into the space between the wall and the file cabinet.

“I think I found something,” she said as she reached in and took the box out.

“Is that what I think it is?” Libby asked excitedly as she caught sight of it.

“I hope so.” Bernie opened the box up. “Yup. It's a corporate kit.”

“Sweet,” Libby said. She went and looked over Bernie's shoulder as her sister started going through the pages.

“The company's official name is Fortuitous Fireworks,” Bernie said.

“That doesn't sound like the kind of name Monty would come up with,” Libby observed.

“Maybe his wife did. Remember, it was her dad's company to begin with.”

“True. I wonder what she was like.”

“Another question to ask Dad when we can get hold of him.”

“I just can't imagine being married to someone like Monty.”

“Me either. Or staying married to him.”

“There must have been something there.”