A Catered Thanksgiving (10 page)

L
ibby took a tissue out of her shirt pocket and blew her nose.

“I hope you're not getting sick,” Bernie said. “Because if you are, please stay away from me.”

“Lovely,” Libby replied when she was done blowing.

“Well, you'd say the same thing,” Bernie countered.

“No, I wouldn't.”

“Fine, but you'd think it.”

“That's different from saying it.”

“How so?”

“It's not as rude.”

Bernie shook her head. “Let's agree to disagree on this one,” she said. “Good,” Bernie said when Libby nodded. Then she said, “I wonder if Perceval and Ralph really over-spent or if Monty was just being incredibly cheap.”

“Well,” Libby replied, “we know that Monty was a skinflint. Look at this house. There are the public areas and the private areas, and he spent no money in the private areas. At all.”

“Agreed,” Bernie said, studying at the kitchen again. “If what they said is true, it had to be difficult for Perceval and Ralph to live like that,” she mused. “Having to account to your brother for every cent you spent.”

“I certainly would find it demeaning,” Libby said.

“But demeaning enough to murder someone?”

“Absolutely,” Libby said. “People have killed people for a lot less, as you know. Things build up and up, especially if you work with someone day after day. And you have that whole family history going on. That never helps.”

“What do you think about trying to put the blame on us?” Bernie asked Libby.

“I think it's a really lame move,” Libby said. “I think it's the move of someone who is not well grounded in reality.”

“And yet the whole family seems to be falling in with it.”

“And why not?” Libby said. “It's convenient. If it flies, fine, and if it doesn't, they haven't lost anything. It's a distraction.”

“True.” Bernie checked her reception again. There was still no service. Something occurred to her. “Have you seen a regular phone around here?” she asked Libby. If there was, she could use that to call her dad.

Libby thought for a moment. “Now that you mention it, no.”

“So we're really on our own,” Bernie observed.

“Apparently so. See?” Libby said. “Sometimes new technology isn't the best.”

Bernie opened her mouth and closed it again. This wasn't the time to get into an argument about the need for a new, computerized cash register. They could do that back at the shop. For a moment both sisters were silent while they thought about their predicament.

“It could be days before we get out of here,” Libby said, breaking the silence.

“Well, a day,” Bernie, always the more optimistic of the two, replied. “At least we have food and a place to sleep.”

Libby rebuttoned her sweater. “And a corpse in the garage.”

“Nothing is perfect.”

“Very funny, Bernie.”

“But it's true. I hate to say this, but I'm kinda glad Monty's out of the kitchen,” Bernie said.

“Actually, I am, too,” Libby admitted. “The thought of looking at him whenever I had to go in here was freaking me out.”

“Not that we should be going in here and contaminating the crime scene,” Bernie said.

Libby chewed on the inside of her lip. “It's already contaminated, what with everyone trooping in and out of here.”

Bernie took another look around the kitchen. It was truly beyond bleak. She was willing to bet that Monty's first wife had never set foot in the place, and she was certain that Lexus never had.

“I would hate to work here,” Libby said, echoing Bernie's thoughts.

“Me too,” Bernie agreed. “Some pictures on the walls would help.”

“And a paint job.”

“And new counters and a backsplash.”

“In fact,” Libby said, “ripping the whole thing out and starting over would help.” She nodded toward a lower cabinet drawer. “I wonder why Monty never followed the plans he had drawn up that we found.”

“Probably cost too much money,” Bernie said.

“Probably,” Libby echoed. “So, now what?”

“Now we find out who killed Monty.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“No. I'm figuring we'll just shake things up and see what happens.”

“I'd feel better with a plan.”

“I know you would, but this is the best I can come up with at the moment. Or we could just sit around by the fire and toast some marshmallows and wait for enlightenment,” Bernie said.

“That's what we would be doing if we were home,” Libby said.

“Waiting for enlightenment?”

“Toasting marshmallows. If we were home, we could even make the marshmallows.”

Bernie laughed. “Now, that's going a little overboard.”

“But they
are
better,” Libby insisted. She had made a couple of batches last winter and was thinking of making some again. They really were a different animal from the store-bought ones. They were different enough that she thought she might have a market for them. “I tell you one thing,” she continued. “I certainly wouldn't want to sit around the fire with the Field clan.”

Bernie laughed again. “Why? Because they're such lovely, warm people?”

“Yup. They're just a delightful group,” Libby said. “So who do you think is the guilty party?”

“It could be anyone, although Geoff seemed pretty upset about his father's death. Maybe too upset,” Bernie observed.

“True,” Libby said, thinking back. “He was a little over the top, especially considering the way his dad spoke to him about our van. And he was really pissed at him about that.”

“He doesn't conceal his emotions well, does he?” Bernie noted.

“Not at all,” Libby agreed. “On the other hand, I keep coming back to the fact that Ralph and Perceval were the ones that ordered the turkey….”

“Yes, but everyone knew that. And everyone knew about Monty's habit of tapping on the pop-up button,” Bernie replied.

“And the fact that he insisted on having one of those frozen, battery-raised turkeys for Thanksgiving. I thought they were awful before,” Libby said. “But I'll never be able to pass them in the meat department again without thinking of Monty.”

“Yeah,” Bernie said. “If you or I were going to kill someone with one of those, we'd hit them over the head.”

“That's because we don't know about explosives.” Libby bit at her cuticle. “But everyone here does.”

“I'm not sure about Lexus. I can't see her getting her hands dirty.”

“Maybe she got someone to help her.”

“That's a distinct possibility.” Bernie rubbed her hands together. If the heat was on, she wasn't feeling it in the kitchen. “After all, Geoff, Perceval, and Ralph have all had experience with explosives. But you know, when I think about it, that device would be extremely simple to rig. All you'd need is some black powder, which you can get at any sporting goods store, a nine-volt battery, and a couple of leads, and you're in business. You or I could do it.”

“Not me,” Libby said.

“Well, maybe you're right about that,” Bernie conceded. “You don't do explosives.”

“Or windows. How do you know so much about building bombs, anyway?” Libby demanded.

Bernie grinned. “Last year of high school. Rian Sutter.”

“Mom liked him.”

“That's because she didn't know we were out at Luell Park, blowing up tree stumps. He used to let me help.”

“How exciting,” Libby said.

“I thought so.”

“How come you never told me?”

“Because you would have run straight to Mom.”

Which was a fact Libby didn't even try to deny. “Whatever happened to him, anyway?” she said instead.

“Last I heard, he was working as a ski instructor somewhere in Vermont. I will say it was fun.”

“What?”

“Blowing things up. It gave me a real sense of power.” Bernie was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Let's not forget about Melissa. She didn't seem real happy with her dad.”

“No, she didn't,” Libby agreed. “But remember how she bragged that she was better than Geoff with explosives?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So why would you want to brag about something like that if you'd rigged the turkey? It seems to me as if you'd be trying to make yourself out to be incompetent.”

“Maybe she doesn't care. Maybe she figures she'll never get caught. Maybe she's got an ego thing going.”

“Maybe,” Libby agreed, even though she wasn't convinced. She stamped her feet to keep the circulation going. “What about the three cousins?” she said suddenly.

“What about them?” Bernie asked. As her mother would say, the cold was settling in her bones.

“Well, from the conversation we overheard, it sounds as if they were getting something from Monty, which would rule them out motivewise.”

“That doesn't necessarily have to be true,” Bernie said. “Maybe they were lying to everyone. Maybe as Perceval…”

“Ralph…”

“…whoever said, they found out that Monty was about to cut them off and they decided to dispose of him before he could.”

Libby sucked in her breath and let it out. “We don't know that.”

“We don't know anything,” Bernie replied. “Really, when you come down to it, we have eight people who in varying degrees had the motive and the means and the opportunity to kill Monty,” she said to her sister.

“This is true,” Libby replied, “but Perceval and Ralph are still at the top of my list.”

“Mine, too, if it comes down to it,” Bernie said. “At least Alma isn't here. We can eliminate her.”

“If Alma was here, we wouldn't be,” Libby pointed out. “The bottom line is we don't know anything that will help us sort this out.”

“We don't know anything
yet
,” Bernie corrected. “The operative word here being
yet
. But we will before the police arrive.”

“You have an idea.”

Bernie beamed. “I thought you'd never ask.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“You're going to like this.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Okay, you're not, but it's something I think we have to do.”

“And that is?”

“Look in the bunker.”

“You're kidding me, right?”

“Not at all.”

“And we should do that, why?” Libby asked. The idea of going to a place where there was lots of explosive material definitely did not appeal to her.

Bernie shrugged. “Well, Monty was killed by an explosive device. I'm betting that's where it was probably made. And there might be business files that we can take a gander at. Plus, no one is there right now, so now is the time to take a look.”

“No one with any smarts is out anywhere right now,” Libby said.

Bernie smiled. “Exactly,” she said. “Which leaves the field to us.”

Libby nodded reluctantly. Much as she hated to admit it, what Bernie said made sense. Although maybe not. After all, whoever rigged the turkey probably hadn't left a note saying,
Hey, guys, I've done it. Come and get me. I'm in the study.
On the other hand, the files might contain some useful information. They wouldn't know that until they looked. It was a way to get started, or as her mom would have said, it was something to do, and doing something was better than doing nothing, because if you did nothing, then nothing was ever going to happen.

“If we can get in there,” Libby said, making one last excuse to postpone the inevitable. “The door is probably locked.”

“It might be, but we won't know if we don't try,” Bernie answered. She looked out of the window at what was going on outside. “It's going to be a fun walk,” she said. “Don't you want to get out there and test yourself against the elements?”

Libby turned and studied the snow. “I can't imagine anything I'd rather not do,” she replied. Bernie liked storms and extreme weather, whereas she did not.

Bernie laughed. “The bunker really isn't that far from the house.”

Libby noted that her sister's tone was dubious. “It's far enough,” she said, “especially considering that we don't have the right gear. Like decent boots. Or goggles.”

“Oh, pooh,” Bernie said. “Who needs boots, anyway? And as for goggles—give me a break! It's not as if we're taking a walk across Antarctica and are going to come down with snow blindness. What are you, anyway? A woman or a wimp?”

“A wimp.”

Bernie didn't argue the point. Instead she said, “Let's suit up and get going.”

“I don't think this is such a good idea,” Libby persisted. The storm. Going into a place that housed explosives. Everything about this little venture spelled trouble to her.

Bernie shrugged. “If you don't want to go, that's okay with me.”

“I'm not saying that. I'm saying I don't think it's safe.”

“Don't be silly. It's a three-minute walk. At most. And I promise nothing is going to explode when we're in there. Listen, seriously, if you don't want to come, you don't have to. I'll go by myself. It'll be fine.”

“No. I'll come,” Libby said. After all, she couldn't let her sister go off in that storm by herself. What would her dad say? He'd never forgive her if something bad happened.

“You're sure?”

Libby sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. “I just said I was, didn't I?” she answered as she followed Bernie out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and to the front door.

L
ibby and Bernie didn't encounter any of the Field clan on their trip to the front hallway, which Bernie decided was a good thing. The fewer excuses and evasions she had to come up with, the better.

“Where do you think they all are?” Libby asked Bernie while her sister turned the latch on the front door lock to the open position. Bernie wanted to make sure they could get in when they returned.

Bernie glanced up and shook her head. “Not a clue.” It was quiet in the house, she thought. Too quiet, really. Where was everyone? There were eight people in here, after all. But she couldn't hear anyone moving around. She couldn't hear the television going. She couldn't hear any music. The phrase
snow-shrouded silence
came to mind.

“Maybe they're all in the garage, saying a prayer over Monty's body,” she suggested as she opened the door a fraction of an inch. She quickly closed it again to make sure the lock was disengaged, but she didn't close it quick enough. A fingerling of wind managed to push its way through the crack and deposit a small pile of snow onto the hallway floor.

Libby looked at the snow and wished she was in Florida with her dad. “Spitting on it would be more likely,” she said as she zipped up her parka and flipped her hood up in preparation for going outside.

She hunted for her gloves in the pockets of her parka, but they weren't there. She realized she must have dropped them when she and Bernie tried digging out the van. Terrific. By now they were probably buried under another six inches of snow. Oh well, she'd just have to go with cold hands.

“Ready?” Bernie asked.

“Not really,” Libby replied.

And truth to tell, she never would be. She didn't like cold weather, which Bernie knew, and storms like this made her nervous, which Bernie also knew. For a moment Libby felt a flash of resentment against her sister for making her do this, never mind that her sister wasn't really making her, her own sense of guilt was, and that she could have said no but hadn't.

Bernie pulled the front door open. She had to hang on to it tightly because otherwise the force of the wind would have sent it smashing up against the wall.

“Here we go,” she said.

“This is horrible,” Libby cried as she and her sister stepped out in the maelstrom.

Bernie shut the door behind them.

 

The figure lurking behind the column that divided the living room and the hallway watched Bernie and Libby leave. El Huron had listened to Libby and Bernie talking among themselves as they made their preparations for their exit. Their conversation had amused El Huron. The sisters were resourceful, El Huron thought. El Huron, as the figure had come to name itself, would give them that.

But they were careless, careless the way people who had been protected and coddled all their lives tended to be, careless in the way that people to whom nothing truly bad had happened were. They should be more careful. They should check to see who was around before talking about their plans in a voice that could be heard by strangers. Their father had probably warned them about this sort of foolishness, but they hadn't listened, and now they would pay the penalty.

El Huron always checked everything. Twice. Or more. One could never be too careful. That was the lesson El Huron's mother had taught. El Huron smiled again, thinking about the name. “Ferret.” That's what
el hurón
meant. At first the figure had thought about calling itself “the fox,” but “the fox” was clichéd. And, anyway, the movie
El Zorro
had ruined the name. Then the figure had considered “the lion,” but the lion hunted in prides and tigers were dying out. Soon they'd exist only in cages.

No. Ferrets were good. Ferrets were survivors. They endured no matter what. Both the males and the females were equally ferocious. They'd attack and win against an adversary five times, even ten times, their size. And they were smart. They could figure things out. They learned from observation. And most importantly, they could slip in and out of places most other animals couldn't get into. They could flatten themselves down until they were almost invisible. No one noticed them. Not when they didn't want to be seen.

El Huron had practiced the art of invisibility since being a small child and had accumulated lots and lots of information in that manner. People constantly underestimated El Huron, and that was a mistake. As Libby and Bernie would find out shortly. They should have left well enough alone.

Now, however, they were making extra work for El Huron. So El Huron would be forced to teach them a lesson. And that would be easy. Too easy, really. Just like Monty's turkey was easy. A little of this. A little of that. A fuse. And bang. There you were. El Huron had tried to talk with him. To reason with him. To give him chances. But he hadn't listened. He'd never listened. Neither did the family, for that matter. Everyone was too busy trying to get everything they could for themselves.

The figure cocked its head and thought. Maybe El Huron would give Libby and Bernie a break. El Huron didn't dislike them. Not really. If anything, El Huron felt pity for them. They could have been anybody. They were merely a means to an end. Or maybe El Huron wouldn't give them a break. Maybe their time had come. Still, the skinny one with the dark hair had given El Huron a cookie once. El Huron remembered when people were nice. No, El Huron would decide when the time came by flipping a coin. Leaving things in the hands of fate pleased El Huron. El Huron smiled. The smile grew into a grin as El Huron reviewed the plan for what must have been the hundredth time. El Huron believed in preparation.

 

The wind was gusting at forty miles an hour, driving the snow in horizontal lines, as Bernie and Libby moved away from the house. Snowflakes pelted their cheeks, stung their eyes, and melted on their lips. Bernie stuck out her tongue. The snowflakes left a slight taste of salt.

Both women found it difficult to see anything. The entire world had turned white. The earth and the sky had merged into one mass. For a moment, Libby couldn't tell up from down or left from right. She felt dizzy and had to take a deep breath to steady herself.

Maybe Libby was right about being out here, Bernie thought as she pulled the turtleneck of her sweater over her mouth and secured her hood under her chin. This was worse than she thought it would be. Maybe they should have waited to go outside, not that Bernie would tell her sister that.

“I'm not even sure where the bunker is,” Libby shouted to her sister as she wrapped her scarf around her mouth and her nose to make breathing easier. “I'm not sure where anything is.” She couldn't see more than a couple of inches in front of her.

“I think I know,” Bernie shouted back. “I think it's straight ahead and then we take a jog to the right.”

“You think?”

“I know,” Bernie lied. “Trust me.”

Those were the kinds of words that sent shivers down Libby's spine. The last time Bernie had said that, she and Libby had ended up in an oak tree—literally—sitting on a branch and waiting for a night watchman to leave. Her idea of risk and Bernie's idea of risk were not the same.

“I guess I'm going to have to,” Libby said in spite of that, “because I don't have a clue where we should be going.” And much as she wanted to, she wasn't going back, either, because she needed to stick with her sister, whom she'd dearly love to strangle at the moment.

Actually, Libby could picture missing the bunker entirely and staggering around and around until she and her sister froze to death. No one would miss them until it was too late. Okay, she knew the freezing-to-death part was a bit melodramatic, that she and Bernie were in Westchester, not the Arctic, but the vision persisted, anyway. After all, people had died inches from their tents because they couldn't see them. They'd walked by them. Of course, that was on Everest and this was in Westchester County. There was a difference. She knew that. Still, the vision persisted.

For a moment, she thought of sharing her concerns with Bernie, but then she thought better of it. She would only mock her out. Libby decided her dad was right as she sunk into snow over her knees. She
was
watching too much Discovery Channel. She could feel the cold white stuff working its way into her boots. Terrific. Now she could get pneumonia on top of everything else. She looked down to keep the snow out of her eyes as she slogged along, looking up once in a while to make sure that Bernie was in front of her.

Walking was hard work, and Libby's legs and feet got colder with every step she took. She contemplated returning to the Field house once again. This time she turned around to see if she could see the house, but she couldn't. All she saw was a vague gray shape that seemed to move, and then it was lost to view.

Well, that wasn't the house. It was too small. And, anyway, houses didn't move. Or maybe it was a corner of the Field house and her eyes were playing tricks on her, though when she thought about it again, the shape did look somewhat personlike, if that was a word.

Libby squinted, hoping to see the gray shape again to better identify it, but now nothing was visible except the snow. There probably wasn't anything there, anyway, she concluded.
It's probably my imagination,
she thought as she turned back. But something about the shape bothered her enough to make her feel as if she should tell Bernie. Libby put her hand on her sister's shoulder. Bernie stopped and turned around. Her scarf and the front of her jacket were white.

“I thought I saw something moving in back of us,” Libby blurted out.

“You mean a person?” Bernie asked.

“Something,” Libby said, unable to be more accurate.

“It's just your mind playing tricks,” Bernie told her, and she turned and started walking again before Libby could say anything else.

“I just hope you know where you're going,” Libby said to Bernie's back.

Bernie didn't reply.
She probably can't hear me,
Libby reflected. Her feet were getting colder and colder with every step she took. They were starting to burn, and she couldn't feel her fingers anymore, even though she had them jammed in the pockets of her parka. And then there was the fact that her nose was running and her eyes were tearing from the cold. She was definitely not a thing of beauty at this moment. A few minutes later she saw another gray shape looming up in front of them.
Please let this be the bunker,
she prayed. She just hoped that the door to it was open, because she was turning into a Popsicle.

With the way her luck was going recently, the door would probably be locked, just as she predicted it would be, she thought glumly. Why she let Bernie talk her into things like this, she didn't know. After all, she was the oldest. She should be the one in charge. She took another step forward. Five more steps and she had come to the bunker. Now that she was closer, she could see it was the actual building.

Bernie was struggling with the door.

“Let me help,” Libby said. She grasped the handle with Bernie, and they both yanked. They heard a pop, and the door went flying open, throwing them both into the snow.

“Guess it wasn't locked,” Bernie said as she picked herself up and brushed herself off.

“Guess not,” Libby agreed as she shook the snow off the back of her scarf as the door blew shut.

“Shall we try again?” Bernie asked, nodding toward the door.

Libby nodded back. At this moment she didn't care if there was enough nitro in there to blow herself and everyone else up. She just wanted to get in out of the storm.

“Here we go,” Bernie said.

She and Libby braced themselves. They grabbed the handle and pulled. This time they both managed to remain upright as the door swung open. Libby loosened her grip and edged her way inside. Bernie followed. The door shut with a thud. It was pitch black inside. The sisters couldn't see anything.