A Catered Thanksgiving (7 page)

“I
wish I hadn't given up smoking,” Bernie said as she brushed the snow off her pants.

“I wish I had started,” Libby told her as she did likewise.

“Well, one thing is clear. We're not getting out of here now,” Bernie said, gloomily surveying the van's wheels, which were buried under the snow.

“Not without a snowplow and snowshoes we're not,” Libby agreed, amazed at how much effort it took to walk in snow up to her knees.

Bernie studied the blizzard raging in front of them. She figured the wind was gusting at a good forty miles an hour, making visibility impossible. They couldn't see the road they'd come up on, much less the fireworks bunker near the house.

The moment Libby and Bernie had gone outside, they'd known they weren't going anywhere, but they'd cleared the snow off the van and started it up, anyway. It had been a futile gesture. The wheels had spun around, digging deeper into the snow, and the windshield wipers hadn't been able to keep up with the onslaught.

Then they'd called Brandon and found out that even if they could get the van out and make it down the hill to the highway—which was extremely doubtful—there would be no place to go. A state of emergency had been declared for Westchester. All the roads were closed, and people were being told to stay off of them.

“We're stuck,” Libby said, stating the obvious.

“No kidding,” Bernie replied.

“This is not good.”

“Why?” Bernie asked. “Just because we're stuck in the house with a corpse and the person who made him one?”

“There's that and the fact that whoever killed him is trying to pin the murders on us,” Libby countered.

“I say it's the entire family. Witness Perceval's and Ralph's whole ‘Oh my god, you've killed Monty' scene and Lexus's ‘Oh, the horror of it all' after she revived.” Bernie bracketed the word
revived
with her fingers.

Libby grimaced. “Yes. That was some of the worst acting I've seen since the Longely Playhouse rendition of
Our Town
. I mean, if you're going to do something, do it right.”

“Well, they did it right with Monty. I'll give them that.”

“Maybe they all killed him,” Libby said.

“An attractive thought, but I don't think they trust each other enough to be able to coordinate something like that.”

“Any chance it could have been an accident?” Libby asked.

Bernie looked at her. “Yes, someone just happened to lose an explosive device, and by some quirk of fate, it ended up in the turkey. It happens every day.”

“Maybe it was supposed to be a joke.”

“In other circumstances, I'd say that might be the case, but not in this one. All these people work with explosives. They know what they can do. If they wanted it to be a joke, they would have put something small in the turkey, not something that would blow off Field's head.” Bernie stamped her feet up and down to keep the circulation going. “Just thinking about it makes me want a drink.”

“Me too,” Libby said. “I bet Monty kept a really good liquor cabinet.”

Bernie gave a wistful sigh. “A shot of decent brandy would be incredibly nice right now.”

“Yes, it would be,” Libby agreed, despite the fact that she usually didn't drink. However, she was willing to make an exception in this case.

Suddenly Bernie's cell phone rang. Both women jumped at the noise. Bernie took it out of her pocket and looked at who was calling. She frowned.

“It's Dad,” she said.

“That's bad,” Libby replied. Their dad rarely made calls on his cell unless it was an emergency.

Bernie tried to reassure her sister. “He's probably just calling to wish us a happy Thanksgiving,” she told her as she moved to the shelter of the doorway to shield the phone from the snow. If there was one thing she'd learned over the years, it was that water and electronics didn't mix.

Libby moved next to her so she could hear both sides of the conversation. “He did that this morning,” Libby reminded her just as Bernie pressed the talk button. “He knows. Clyde called and told him.”

“What does Libby say I know?” Sean asked Bernie.

“She was saying you know about the storm,” Bernie told him in the most cheerful voice she could muster.

Libby gave her a thumbs-up for fast thinking.

“But don't worry about a thing,” Bernie continued. “We're fine. How's it going in Florida?”

“I guarantee that it's going a lot better down here than it's going up there,” Sean said. “And I'm not referring to the weather, either.”

“You're right. He does know,” Bernie mouthed to Libby.

“When were you going to call and tell me about Monty Field having his head blown off?” Sean demanded.

“Soon. We just didn't want to interrupt your family reunion and all that bonding that must be going on,” Bernie said.

“Really?” Sean said.

Bernie winced at the sarcastic tone. “Don't worry,” she told him. “We have everything under control.”

“You consider being accused of murder having everything under control?”

Libby made a face. “I told you we should have called him immediately,” she whispered.

Bernie raised her hand, signaling for Libby to stop talking. The connection wasn't that good, and she was having a hard time hearing her dad, let alone figuring out what to tell him, as it was.

“Clyde was exaggerating.”

“I hope so,” Sean said.

“He is,” Bernie replied. “Perceval was hysterical.”

“The boys at the Longely police station seem to be taking it pretty seriously.”

“Well, Perceval called them up and retracted the statement after he'd calmed down fifteen minutes later. So I don't know what their problem is.”

“Their problem,” Sean said, “need I remind you, is that the chief has been gunning for me for years, and this offers him a perfect opportunity to embarrass me by putting you in jail.”

“That's ridiculous,” Bernie said.

“You don't know Lucas Broadbent like I do,” Sean replied.

“I think you're exaggerating,” Bernie insisted.

“Are you so sure? I thought not,” Sean said when his daughter didn't answer. “Well, you know what I'd do if I were you?” he said.

Bernie moved farther into the doorway, with Libby at her side.

“What?” Bernie asked.

“I'd see if I could find out who killed Monty Field before the Longely CID gets there.”

“Piece of cake,” Bernie said.

“I'm serious,” Sean replied.

“Funny, but we were just thinking about doing that,” Bernie lied, although they would have come around to that conclusion eventually. Maybe.

Sean coughed. Bernie could hear the sounds of people talking in the background. “Given the way Clyde described the storm, I figure it'll take the police at least a day to get up there. That should give you plenty of time. And I'll be there as soon as I can,” their dad said.

“No, Dad. You don't have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” Sean replied. “I take care of my girls.”

“We're perfectly capable…” Bernie began, but it was too late. Sean had already hung up. Bernie stared at the phone for a moment before slipping it in her jacket pocket. “Damn Clyde,” she said. “I love him, but I wish he hadn't called Dad.”

“I didn't even think Clyde was around to tell Dad,” Libby said. “I thought he and the missus were out in Arizona, visiting his kids.”

Bernie sighed. “Well, I guess you were wrong.”

“Evidently,” Libby said. She shook her head. “I wonder if you can get fingerprints off a turkey,” she mused.

“Probably not. I don't think that turkey skin is a good vehicle for retaining fingerprints, but they might be able to get DNA off of it. Not that they would bother.”

“But it would be bad if they did since we handled the bird.”

“Lots of people have handled the bird.”

“But if it was a substitute bird, then our DNA wouldn't be on it.”

“This is true,” Bernie told her. She looked out at the storm. It gave no hint of abating. “We should go inside. I'm freezing.”

“Me too. Although it isn't much warmer inside,” Libby pointed out.

“But it's drier,” Bernie said.

“Maybe we can sleep in the van,” Libby said, thinking ahead to the coming night. Any vain hope she'd had that they could get out of there was now gone.

The prospect of bedding down in the house did not thrill her, for obvious reasons. First, there was the whole “murderer on the loose” thing, and then there was the issue of random exploding objects. In Libby's book, neither one of those things made for a restful night's sleep. At this point, she'd give anything to be back in her snug flat above the store.

“Do you really want to sleep in the van?” Bernie asked her sister.

“It's probably not a good idea,” Libby admitted. “We'd turn into Popsicles.”

Bernie put her arm around Libby's shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Come on. It won't be so bad.”

Libby looked at the falling snow and sighed. “I guess Dad is right about trying to find out who killed Monty Field,” she said.

“You know he is. It's not like we have a choice.”

“And we're not going to get out of here for a while.”

“No, we're not,” Bernie said. “This is definitely going to be a memorable Thanksgiving.”

Libby sighed again. “But not in a good way. This is like a setup for one of those bad horror movies.”

“Woo,” Bernie said, wiggling her fingers in front of Libby's face. “Watch out. I'm coming to get you.”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” Libby yanked her hood up for emphasis. “And to make matters worse, I'm all out of chocolate.”

Bernie put her hand over her heart. “Oh, the tragedy of it all.”

Libby frowned. “Well, it is. And I hate to admit this, but I'm also really hungry.”

“Well, we do have plenty of food inside.”

“Yes, but we have to go into the kitchen to get it,” Libby said. “Which I am not anxious to do.”

“Not a problem,” Bernie replied. “I want to take another look around in there, anyway.” She might be many things, but squeamish wasn't one of them. “What do you want to eat? I can bring it out to you if you want.”

Libby thought for a moment. “Some pumpkin bisque and a little bit of Brie and some of the stretch bread I baked yesterday would be nice.” Soup seemed like a soothing thing to have at a time like this, and Brie's creamy texture always cheered her up. “And maybe a thin slice of apple pie.”

“You got it,” Bernie said.

But the sisters never made it to the kitchen.

They got distracted along the way.

B
ernie and Libby could hear the raised voices the moment they stepped back into the foyer.

“Interesting,” Libby whispered to Bernie as she listened to what was being said.

“Very,” Bernie whispered back, wiping her feet on the mat. Then she took off her jacket and hung it over the hall closet doorknob.

“Forget the food,” Libby murmured as she did likewise with her parka. “We need to check this out first.”

“You want us to eavesdrop?” Bernie said in mock horror.

Libby grinned. “Heaven forfend.”

“I'm shocked, shocked and appalled. Suggesting we listen in on what is obviously a private conversation. Tsk. Tsk.” Bernie swept a loose strand of hair off of her forehead and pinned it up. “Okay. You win. I guess I'm going along because we're tradespeople and tradespeople have low morals.”

“I'll tell that to Brandon,” Libby said.

Bernie laughed and punched Libby in the arm. “He already knows. That's why he loves me.”

“Then what did you hit me for?”

Bernie shrugged. “Because I can.”

She leaned over and gave her sister a quick hug. Libby hugged her back. Then both women slowly tiptoed in the direction of the conversation, if that was what it could be called.
Arguing
seemed like a more appropriate term to Bernie. So did
quarreling
and
squabbling
.

“Melissa, you have to wait for the lawyer,” Libby could hear a woman saying in a very loud voice.

“Why, Lexus? He's dead.”

“It doesn't matter, Melissa. You can't take things that don't belong to you.”

“But this painting does belong to me, Lexus. Dad promised me this Potter. It's in his will.”

“No, Melissa, it isn't.”

“Lexus, he showed me the will. I saw it.”

“That was before he changed it.”

“He didn't change it.”

Libby could hear the alarm in Melissa's voice.

“He most certainly did.”

“I don't believe you, Lexus.” Now the alarm was turning to anger.

“Believe what you want, Melissa. It's true.”

“You're a liar and a slut.”

“At least, I'm not a compulsive gambler, Melissa.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“That's what I would call a person that loses ten thousand dollars in the casino in one night.”

“I never did that,” Melissa huffed.

Lexus waved her hand. “Fine,” she amended. “Nine thousand five hundred.”

“I'm not going to be distracted by your accusations, Lexus. The bottom line is, you can't take what belongs to me.”

“It doesn't belong to you, Melissa,” Lexus screamed. “Nothing belongs to you. Your father wrote you out of his will.”

“I spoke to Dad last week and he said I was in it.”

“Well, your father changed it two days ago.”

“Show it to me. I want to see it.”

“I can't right now.”

“That's because there isn't one.”

“No. That's because your father put it in a safe place.”

“Ladies,” said a voice, which Bernie recognized as belonging to Perceval, “you need to stop this. My brother wouldn't have wanted you fighting like this.”

“Oh, please, Perceval,” said a woman whose voice Libby couldn't place. “Your brother liked seeing everyone fight over the money. He fostered it.”

“That's not true, Greta,” Perceval protested.

The woman who was Greta laughed. “Of course it is. The only reason you're here now is that you were afraid your brother would disinherit you if you didn't show up for Thanksgiving. Do us all a favor and stop trying to play the good guy. It's annoying.”

“I'm not playing at anything, Greta,” Perceval said. “I'm just trying to get people to calm down. This wrangling…”

“Wrangling?” Greta said.

“Arguing, for those of us with a limited vocabulary, and what do you mean, ‘stop trying to play the good guy,' Greta?”

“Exactly what I said, Perceval. You're certainly not one to point the finger. You and Ralph were rifling through Monty's desk drawers when the rest of us came in.”

“I wasn't rifling through anything, as you so crassly put it. I was looking for important papers that we are going to need.”

“Like Monty's will, Perceval?” Greta said.

“Among other things.”

“You were looking to steal it.”

“That is a totally unwarranted accusation,” he said.

Bernie could hear indignation in Perceval's voice.

“Is it? Monty was supposed to be turning the company over to me and Bob and Audie today.”

“That's absurd.”

“Is it?” Greta asked.

“Yes. I would have heard if that were true,” Perceval said. His voice went up an octave.

“So would I,” Lexus said.

“Me too,” Melissa added.

“Well,” Greta said, “I think one of you did find out about that, and I think one of you killed Monty before the papers could be signed.”

“What a horrible thing to say,” Perceval countered, his voice quavering with indignation.

Bernie and Libby could hear Greta's laugh. They decided that she seemed to be enjoying herself.

“You and Ralph were the ones that arranged this meal, weren't you?” Greta said.

“At everyone's request,” Perceval said.

“Not mine.”

“That's because you invited yourself, Greta. We didn't even know you were coming until you called and told us you were arriving this morning.”

“I didn't invite myself, Perceval. Your brother invited me and my cousins.”

Libby and Bernie could hear Perceval sniff.

“He never told me, and I'm sure he would have. We just have your word on that.”

“Maybe he didn't want you to know until the last minute. Maybe he had an announcement to make that he was saving up till dinner.”

“And maybe you're making it all up, Greta. As per usual.”

“Aren't you interested in what he was going to say?” Greta asked.

Lexus reentered the conversation. “You've already told us multiple times,” she said. “None of us are interested in listening to your lies, and since my husband is dead now, it doesn't really matter, anyway.”

“How convenient for you,” Greta retorted.

“You're just full of insinuations, aren't you?” Lexus replied. “Insinuations which I don't plan on dignifying.”

“Well, you did know that he would tap on the turkey pop-up button,” Greta answered. “You can't deny that.”

“Everyone knew that he would tap on the turkey pop-up button, and that includes you, Greta,” Perceval said. “That's what he did. That's what he always did every Thanksgiving. Repeatedly. It was a family joke.”

“Yes, Perceval, but all of you had a motive to kill him, which I did not.”

“Sure you did, Greta,” a new voice said.

“Ralph, are you accusing me?” Greta asked.

“Yes, Greta I am. You hated him as much as everyone else.”

“I most certainly did not,” Greta protested.

“You must have,” Ralph retorted. “After all, you and your henchmen wrung every last cent you could out of my brother. That's not my definition of caring for someone.”

“He was generous to me, Ralph, because I was nice to him. Unlike you.”

“You weren't nice to him, Greta. You were scamming him.”

“If that was true, Ralph, which it wasn't, why would I have killed him, then? Why kill the goose that lays the golden egg? Tell me that,” Greta demanded.

“Maybe he finally got wise to your scams,” Ralph told her. “Maybe he was going to have you arrested for embezzlement. Maybe that was the announcement he was going to make. In fact, the more I think of it, the surer I get that that was the case.”

“Trying to dodge the bullet as per usual, Greta,” Perceval observed.

“Meaning what, Perceval?” Greta demanded.

“Meaning exactly what I said, Greta,” Perceval replied.