As stressful as all that was, the thing that was freaking out Ginger the most was that her in-laws were coming for Thanksgiving. The guest room, where Jeff’s parents would stay, wasn’t so much a bedroom as it was a dumping ground for things she didn’t have time to deal with. The room was filled with piles of clothes the kids had outgrown, pictures and mementos she’d meant to put in an album, even unpacked boxes from their last move. Ginger didn’t like the mess, but at least she could close the door to the room and pretend it didn’t exist. Now, for the first time since they’d lived in the house, the guest room would have to accommodate guests.
Ginger’s parents were deceased and, until last year, Jeff’s parents had lived in town and always hosted Thanksgiving. When they’d moved to Florida last spring, both Ginger and Jeff had breathed a sigh of relief that the forced family fun of the holidays would be coming to an end. But it turned out it wasn’t coming to an end; it was just changing venues. A month ago, Jeff’s parents announced they’d be coming north to spend Thanksgiving with them. Now Ginger would not only have to find time in the next three days to make the guest room habitable, she also had to figure out how and when she’d have time to shop for and make Thanksgiving dinner. She wondered if anyone would notice if all she served was pumpkin pie.
Mindy had suggested a solution, but considering the late date, it would require calling her in-laws right away. Ginger couldn’t remember ever picking up the phone to call them—that was a task she left to Jeff. Unfortunately, he was tied up in meetings all day, so if this idea was going to work, Ginger was just going to have to bite the bullet and make the call herself. Everything about the call was going to be awkward, from what she was going to say to how she would greet them when they answered the phone.
She never knew how to address Jeff’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Weaver seemed too formal even for their stiff relationship, and calling them Brenda and Paul was way too cordial. When Ryan was born, Ginger tried calling them Grandma and Grandpa until Jeff’s mother had coolly pointed out, “Ginger, we’re not your grandparents, you know.” She hoped she’d get their answering machine, but, if not, she’d have to greet them with, “Hey, you, it’s Ginger.” She picked up the phone and dialed.
From: Ginger Weaver
Sent: Monday, November 24, 2016 11:07 AM
To: Brenda Weaver
Subject: Your visit
I’m sorry our phone call ended on such a sour note. I didn’t mean to offend you by suggesting you and Paul stay in a hotel for Thanksgiving. I just wanted you to be comfortable and to make sure you understood that the house might not be very clean when you get here. I’m in the middle of a big project for work and I have to bake a dozen pumpkin pies for the school bake sale. So things have gotten a little out of hand here and I haven’t vacuumed or dusted for weeks. Good thing you don’t have allergies! I’ll do my best to get Jeff and the kids to pitch in and get things picked up around here before you arrive. We look forward to seeing you on Wednesday!
From: Brenda Weaver
Sent: Monday, November 24, 2014 11:21 AM
To: Ginger Weaver
Subject: RE: Your visit
I have already made reservations at the Pikesville Hilton for Paul and myself. I made the reservations for only two nights because we will be leaving the day after Thanksgiving instead of staying through the weekend as we’d planned so that we don’t intrude further on your busy schedule. As you said on the phone, you don’t really have a guest room and the boys will be happier this way now that one of them doesn’t have to give up their room for their grandparents. I looked into switching our flight to go see Steven and Michelle out in Seattle for the holiday, because their lives don’t seem quite so hectic as yours, but at this late date everything was booked. Fortunately. the early return flight was not a problem. We will see you on the 26th.
From: Ginger Weaver
Sent: Monday, November 24, 2014 11:25 AM
To: Jeff Weaver
Subject: Your parents’ visit
Honey, don’t be mad. but I called your mother today to see if she and your father would want to stay in a hotel. Could you please call her and tell her we want them to visit but staying in a hotel will be easier? The email I got from her was cold enough to freeze my laptop. Sorry about this. Love you!
Voicemail, Monday, November 24, 2014 1:36PM:
Hi, this is Carl Franco, manager of Lakeside Restaurant calling for Ginger Weaver. I received your message about reservations for Thanksgiving dinner. Unfortunately, we will be closed that day. You’re right, we’ve been open for Thanksgiving dinner in the past, but turnout has been low in recent years due to people getting ready to hit the mall, so we decided it wasn’t worth it. I appreciate your dilemma—sorry the machine cut you off before you could finish explaining the situation, but I’m glad you called back. I did hear that Big Al’s Good N Stuffed had Thanksgiving dinners to go. You may want to try giving them a call. Good luck and have a nice holiday.
From: Jeff Weaver
Sent: Monday, November 24, 2014 4:48 PM
To: Ginger Weaver
Subject: RE: Your parents’ visit
Why the hell did you tell my parents to stay in a hotel? You know how my mother gets about these things. I had to listen to her go on about not wanting to be a burden and how next year they’ll go to Seattle because Steven has his shit together (she didn’t say shit, of course, but I know that’s what she was thinking). She’s adamant about staying in a hotel. I guess it was too much to hope to have a martyr-free Thanksgiving. I’ll be leaving work soon. We’ll talk when I get home.
*
On Tuesday, Ginger’s right eye began twitching uncontrollably. Fortunately, this didn’t prevent her from ordering a take-out Thanksgiving dinner from Big Al’s Good N Stuffed. Big Al himself assured her it could easily be reheated in the microwave and taste like it was made from scratch. She was skeptical, but at this point she was out of options.
At least she could take some satisfaction in knowing the project for her client would be done before the Wednesday deadline, and she planned to put the finishing touches on it and send it to them that afternoon. That is, until they sent her additional changes to the specs. It was doable, but would take more time. She’d work on it after going to the grocery store and before she started baking the pies. Meanwhile, her eye continued to twitch.
From: Nina Phillips
Sent: Tuesday, November 25, 2014 8:08 AM
To: Ginger Weaver
Subject: Pumpkin Pies
Hi Ginger—Just confirming that 4 of the pumpkin pies will be gluten free. Thanks!
“The most precious jewels you’ll ever have around your neck are the arms of your children.”
From: Ginger Weaver
Sent: Tuesday, November 25, 2014 10:03 AM
To: Nina Phillips
Subject: RE: Pumpkin Pies
What!?! You didn’t tell me this! Pumpkin pies aren’t gluten free—they have a piecrust for crying out loud.
From: Nina Phillips
Sent: Tuesday, November 25, 2014 10:04 AM
To: Ginger Weaver
Subject: RE: Pumpkin Pies
But you make your own piecrust and it’s always so flaky and good. Someone said your secret is to use vodka and I know vodka is gluten free because that’s what kept me sane when Bob insisted we go Paleo last year (thank God we’ve moved on from that phase). I know you can figure something out!
“The most precious jewels you’ll ever have around your neck are the arms of your children.”
From: Ginger Weaver
Sent: Tuesday, November 25, 2014 7:28 PM
To: Mindy Carter
Subject: Help—I need eggs!
Hi Mindy! Guess what? Drinking and baking don’t mix! LOL I definitely shouldn’t have opened the second bottle of Chardonnay. I ended up knocking one of the cartons of eggs on the floor. I’m here by myself because I yelled at Jeff and the kids earlier so he took them to go get something to eat. I can’t drive to
the store to get more eggs because of the Chardonnay. Guess what—they broke. Oops, I already said that.
From: Mindy Carter
Sent: Tuesday, November 25, 2014 7:29 PM
To: Ginger Weaver
Subject: RE: Help—I need eggs!
I have some eggs you can use but I’m at swim practice right now and can’t bring them over until later.
Sent from my iPhone
From: Ginger Weaver
Sent: Tuesday, November 25, 2014 7:41 PM
To: Mindy Carter
Subject: RE: Help—I need eggs!
Never mind. I was able to scoop enough of them up before the dog got to them. I think I got all of the shell out so it should be all right. Don’t tell Nina. :-P
*
On Wednesday morning Ginger woke to a husband who was barely speaking to her, a kitchen that looked like it was a phone call away from being condemned by the health department, and a pounding headache. At least, she told herself, the pies were done and ready to be delivered to school. Although, she had to admit they looked terrible and it wasn’t because of her fuzzy head and twitching eye. Slowly, the events of the night before came back to her: accidentally smashing her hand into the middle of one of the pies, deciding the best solution was to stick a small gourd in the hole in an attempt to disguise it, then sticking gourds in all the other pies so her mistake wouldn’t stand out. In related news, hives now covered half her body.
Given the empty state of the house, Ginger realized she’d overslept and that Jeff must have gotten the boys off to school. It wasn’t until she glanced at the clock that she realized she was really running late. If she showered and got dressed quickly, she should be able to get the pies to school before heading to the airport to pick up her in-laws. Considering how well the day was going so far, Ginger thought it was fitting that it began to rain as she was loading the gourd-adorned pies into the back of her minivan. She climbed into the driver’s seat and checked her phone for emails before heading for school.
From: Brenda Weaver
Sent: Wednesday, November 26, 2014 11:23 AM
To: Ginger Weaver
Subject: We’re Here
We’re at baggage claim. I called the house but didn’t get an answer, and your cell went to voicemail. I’m sure you’re on your way. Are you still driving the light blue minivan? Paul’s keeping an eye out for it. You’ve told us how terribly busy you are, did you forget to tell us to get a cab?
Ginger’s heart sank. She thought her in-laws weren’t supposed to arrive until the afternoon. She wondered if she’d accidentally put 1:00 on her calendar instead of 11:00. Unfortunately, scrolling down she saw that wasn’t the only message.
From: Tom Spinelli, VP Sales
Sent: Tuesday, November 25, 2014 8:08 PM
To: Ginger Weaver
Subject: Design for Acme Account
Ginger—I’m working late trying to get things finished up before the holiday and see we haven’t received your final designs for the Acme account. The team will be making its presentation at 9:00 tomorrow and need your files ASAP. Thanks.
From: Ginger Weaver
Sent: Wednesday, November 26, 2014 11:31 AM
To: Tom Spinelli, VP Sales
Subject: RE: Design for Acme Account
Tom—I’m so sorry I’m just seeing your email now. I worked on your most recent spec changes (sent yesterday) and thought I’d sent the final designs to you. Did you check your spam folder? I don’t know what went wrong, but I will resend. I can’t apologize enough and hope you will give me another chance.
From: Tom Spinelli, VP Sales
Sent: Wednesday, November 26, 2014 11:31 AM
To: Ginger Weaver
Subject: RE: Design for Acme Account
This is an automated response to inform you I will be out of the office until Monday morning and am unable to respond to emails until that time. If this is an emergency please contact Janet Heinz at [email protected].
*
The windshield wipers kept time with the throbbing in her head as Ginger sped through the streets of Pikesville on her way to the Brewster Street School. The rain was coming down hard now and she could hear the pies sliding around the back of her car every time she took a corner. She knew she should slow down, and there was more than one intersection where, if she got pulled over, she’d swear to the officer the light was still yellow when she went through. But all Ginger wanted to do was drop off the pies so she could get to the airport. even though she knew her in-laws had already called Jeff to tell them she’d forgotten to pick them up.
She hit a pothole disguised as a puddle and heard the pies go thump. Ginger could kick herself for not saying no to Nina and for letting her pride in being a good baker get her into this mess. And for what? A lost job, strained family relations, and a bunch of pies that looked like something the Bride of Frankenstein would serve at her wedding.
As she took the turn into the school parking lot on two wheels, she heard the final shift of the pies. Checking the rearview mirror, Ginger realized the pies—the source of all her misery for the last week—had flipped and smashed to the point that the back of her car looked like the scene of a pumpkin Armageddon. Not a single pie was salvageable.
Nina had set up a table in the covered breezeway in front of the school so people could pull up to the curb and get their pies without having to get out of their car. Exactly what happened next depends on who you talk to, but one thing is clear: Ginger’s car did not slow down as she approached the display. Some witnesses claimed she accelerated, while others insist she simply lost control of the minivan on the rain-slicked road. Either way it was undisputed that Ginger Weaver’s car drove head on into the table, sending pies, decorations and volunteers flying in every direction. Many would argue that what happened was an accident. and if the story had ended there a jury might have agreed. What hurt Ginger’s case, however, was the undeniable fact that she put her minivan in reverse, backed up, and then drove into the table again.
School was dismissed early that day and teachers were careful to shield the departing children from the grisly scene of vegetal carnage: twisted cornstalks, a smashed cornucopia with its guts spilling across the sidewalk, the crushed pumpkins outlined in chalk. All the volunteers except Nina, who prosecutors would later argue was the intended target, escaped harm. It took some time for rescuers to reach Nina, who was eventually found pinned beneath the upturned table and completely covered in pie. Crime scene investigators credited a festive display of hay bales with saving her life. She recovered from her injuries as best she could, and when she wheeled herself across the stage in her custom-decorated wheelchair to receive The Brewster Street School Lifetime Volunteer Achievement Award the following spring, Nina received a standing ovation.
As for Ginger, there was a bright side to her story. From then on, her in-laws made it a point to travel to Seattle every year for Thanksgiving. Her husband was speaking to her again, albeit only during designated visiting hours. And she didn’t have to worry about making Thanksgiving dinner for the next few years because they serve one with all the trimmings at the Pikes County Correctional Facility, topped off with a mean pumpkin pie.
Death for Dessert
DG Critchley
“And I thought I was having a bad Thanksgiving.” I’m not proud of it, but that was the first thought that crossed my mind when George Stubbs opened the door to his bungalow and collapsed in front of us. EZ dropped to her knees, checked for a pulse and started performing CPR. When she went to blow in his mouth, my brother Robert stopped her.
“Don’t. He’s been poisoned. I can smell the almonds.” Robert put his hand on her shoulder. Odd since Robert was not a people person.
EZ glared at him. “Of course you can smell almonds. Martha uses almond flour in her pie. George brought a whole pie home with him. Remember?” EZ had already switched from human to sheriff mode. Admittedly Robert has more degrees than a protractor, but I didn’t recall any in toxicology
. Of course, he acquired degrees so often that I wouldn’t put it past him either.
“Eothalia, look at his face.” We both looked. George’s face was cherry red but fading fast. She checked for a pulse.
EZ pulled out her phone and called Del Lovis, Lockhaven’s finest (and only) deputy. She apologized for calling him on the holiday but they had a situation, and to get over here. Then she called the county coroner’s office.
Just to make the holiday perfect, it started raining.
*
Three hours earlier…
I was looking for a new script after Robert shot down Vampire Schoolgirls from Beyond. And as long as he controls the purse strings, he gets to put the scripts through his algorithm and check financial feasibility. To be honest, the script didn’t thrill me, and seemed a little derivative. But if I didn’t let Robert turn down a script now and then, it makes it harder to get him to greenlight projects I like. The doorbell jarred me out of my slush pile.
My office was the room nearest to the front door, mostly because once Robert got caught up in a project, he couldn’t hear anything. To my surprise, by the time I stood up and headed to the door, Robert was already there. In walked the town sheriff, but in civilian clothes. This wasn’t like her—EZ even wore her uniform to funerals.
Robert was wearing a jacket and a tie that looked like a unicorn threw up on it. This was definitely not normal, even in Florida, where the term “normal” is at best nebulous.
EZ turned to look at me. “A little casual, aren’t we?”
I had no idea what she was talking about. So I did what I do whenever Robert starts talking. I shrugged noncommittally.
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 17