Beast of a Feast

by Melanie Jackson

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Are there any stories you want to tell me?”

  “No,” he said, cocking his head in confusion.

  “Bring whatever you’d like,” I told him.

  “Alright. And thanks for having me.”

  “You bet,” I replied as I turned and left.

  That night at home, I made meatloaf with mashed potatoes and steamed baby carrots and a tossed green salad. In an effort to get myself back into the holiday spirit, I decided to add a Thanksgiving favorite, green bean casserole. As I prepared it, I tried to think back to a family gathering that didn’t include the dish as part of the meal. I drew a blank.

  The great thing about green bean casserole is that it’s easy to make and tastes great. I began by getting out my large Pyrex baking pan. In it, I added two cans of green beans to two cans of cream of mushroom soup. After mixing these two main ingredients together, I popped the casserole into the oven on the center rack and let it cook at 350 degrees for forty-five minutes. When it came out of the oven, I garnished the top with baked onion strings (one should never forget this crucial step). The finished concoction was manna from heaven.

  That evening, I told Alex of my discovery in the Daniel Evans case while we ate dinner. He thought that I should call the Chief right away to tell him what I’d found out, but I was confident that tomorrow would be soon enough to bring the case to a close. Alex had a third helping of the green bean casserole. As it turned out, I was as wrong as wrong could be in my decision to delay.

  Chapter 6

  “I’m telling you Chief, he was hiding his son in the back bedroom of his apartment while I was there,” I said emphatically.

  The Chief responded to my agitation with a cocked eyebrow and a skeptical air. Of course, given the fact that I’d rushed into his office first thing in the morning, before he’d had a chance to down his first cup of coffee, to dump everything I’d found out on him without taking a breath, I didn’t blame him for being leery. Still, I was frustrated by his seeming nonchalance.

  “Well? What about it? Are you going to send a squad out to arrest him?”

  “Slow down, Boston. Why don’t you start again at the beginning and lay out your case slowly this time.”

  So I once more told him about my interview with Nathaniel Evans. I told him how Mr. Evans reacted oddly to any suggestion that his son was being hidden. I told him about how his eyes kept wandering away to the closed door in the back of his apartment. I concluded with Evans having thrown me out of his apartment when I confronted him with my suspicion that he himself was the one hiding his son. When I was through, I sat on the edge of my seat in eager anticipation. The Chief still didn’t look convinced.

  “First of all,” he began slowly, “where do you get off going to interrogate Mr. and Mrs. Evans regarding their missing son?”

  “Is that really important now? Can’t we address all unimportant details once Daniel is recovered?”

  “Boston, this isn’t your case. You aren’t a police officer—by your own choice, I should add. These are important details when it comes to preparing a case against the man.”

  “Oh,” I replied, frankly not having thought of that.

  “Second,” he continued, “you have provided insufficient evidence to justify having the man questioned further, let alone arrested.”

  “What?” I replied. “Haven’t you heard a single word I’ve said?”

  “I heard every word. And quite frankly, I’m not satisfied.”

  “So, you’re not going to do anything?”

  “I didn’t say that. Gordon!” he bellowed.

  The door to his office opened almost immediately and Gordon entered the room. This irked me to no end since I was sure his rapid response indicated that he had once more been listening at the door.

  “Yes, Chief,” Gordon said, coming to attention.

  “I suppose you heard everything that Boston said while you were spying outside my door.”

  “Yes, Chief. I mean, no, sir,” Gordon corrected. “I mean, maybe.”

  “For haste and simplicity’s sake, let’s assume you did,” the Chief said, both sounding and looking irritated himself. “I want you to go out to Mr. Evans’ apartment and have a look around. If you find his son, I want you to arrest the man. If you don’t, I’d like it if you would bring Mr. Evans in for questioning.” The Chief shifted his attention back to me. “Satisfied?”

  “Satisfied,” I confirmed.

  “Well, get going,” the Chief urged.

  “I want to go with him,” I insisted.

  “I want you to park your butt in a seat at your desk and stay there until this has blown over,” the Chief instructed. “Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly, sir,” I replied demurely.

  “Now, get going, the both of you.”

  We left the office together, Gordon and me. Before he started off, he turned to me to have one last word.

  “And I’ll have something to say to you myself when I get back,” he threatened.

  I pretended to be scared and then walked to my desk while he turned to leave the station. I was expecting a long, boring wait at my empty desk. Instead, Officer Bryce stopped by to perk up my morning.

  “Chloe, you didn’t tell me your Thanksgiving party was going to be so large,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked in confusion.

  “These things are posted all over town.”

  He dropped a flier on my desk. It was written in calligraphy on fake parchment.

  The Lit Wits’ First Annual Thanksgiving Gala

  Open to All

  Cost: Adults $20, Preteens $10

  (Proceeds to Benefit the Red Cross)

  Dinner starts at 5:00 pm and runs until all are fed

  Call early to reserve a seat

  The flier concluded with a phone number that I didn’t recognize, and an address that I did. It was my address.

  “Oh, my God, what have I gotten myself into?” I moaned as I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and started to dial. My intended party answered on the second ring.

  “Hello, who is it?” a voice said cheerily.

  “You know darned well who it is, Tara Lee,” I said.

  “Oh, Chloe. How nice to hear from you.”

  “Don’t give me your nice shtick. I just saw one of your fliers.”

  “Aren’t they beautiful? Your mother did the calligraphy.”

  “Yes, they’re wonderful. What I want to know is where you get off inviting everyone in town to my home for Thanksgiving.”

  “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

  “Since when is the Lit Wits Thanksgiving party open to everyone in town?”

  “This will be the first year.”

  “And you knew that before you asked me to host the party. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Two reasons, really. At the time, while dealing with my septic system and all, I just didn’t think of it. And besides, if I’d told you, you probably would have refused.”

  “You know I would have.”

  “But Chloe, what’s the problem? Lucy, Rosemary, and I have everything under control. I promise you, you won’t have to lift a finger.”

  “So you say,” I spat back at her.

  “Yes, and so I say. Now calm down, girl.”

  I took a few seconds to breathe and try to calm down. It helped, but not much.

  “Tell me how many people you expect will be showing up at my home for Thanksgiving,” I said as calmly as I could muster.

  “We’ll be providing seating for one hundred.”

  “One hundred! Tara Lee, I can’t fit one hundred people in my home.”

  “Silly girl, why else do you think we’ll be setting up the tent.”

  “The tent? What tent?”

  “The tent for all the people to sit down and eat dinner in your backyard.”

  I was dumbfounded. But she wasn’t through.

  “Of course
, even with that, we’ll still have to feed people in shifts.”

  “Shifts?”

  “Yes, dear. We’ll be having a 5:30 and a 7:00 seating.”

  “You’re planning on having two hundred people to my home for Thanksgiving?”

  “Any walk-ins or spillover will just have to find seating inside.”

  I went slack jawed and my body went numb at the same time. Though I continued to hold the phone to my ear, I could think of nothing more to say.

  “Chloe? Hello? Are you still there?” Tara Lee asked in concern.

  I looked across the room in utter stupefaction as Gordon and Mr. Evans made their way toward me with determined strides. Mr. Evans was not in restraints. They were followed by the Chief. I knew instantly that something was rotten in the state of Washington.

  “Tara Lee, I’ll have to call you back,” I said, breaking the line.

  The men came to a halt beside my desk. My phone rang once before I could switch it off.

  “That’s her,” Mr. Evans stated, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “That’s the one who came to my home posing as a police officer.”

  “Chloe Boston, you’re under arrest for impersonating a police officer,” Gordon announced, reaching to his hip for his handcuffs.

  “Settle down, you two,” the Chief instructed, muscling his way to the head of the pack. “Boston,” he said to me, “did you at any time announce to Mr. Evans that you were a police officer with the Hope Falls police department?”

  “No, Chief. I absolutely did not,” I replied firmly.

  “Mr. Evans,” the Chief continued, turning to face the man, “did Ms. Boston at any time announce to you that she was a police officer with the Hope Falls police department?”

  “I can’t remember,” Mr. Evans conceded. “But she never denied it.”

  “How can she deny it if she’s never asked?” the Chief asked.

  “I called her an officer and she never corrected me.”

  “Sounds like your mistake instead of hers.”

  Mr. Evans looked frustrated but said no more. That was not the case with Gordon.

  “Chloe Boston, you’re under arrest for interfering with a criminal investigation,” Gordon announced.

  “How did she interfere?” the Chief asked.

  “By going to interview Mr. Evans without the authorization of the lead investigator,” Gordon responded smugly.

  “I sent her,” the Chief announced.

  “You sent her?” Gordon replied, sounding somewhat deflated.

  “Chief, you don’t have to do this,” I said.

  “Shut up, Boston,” the Chief snapped.

  “Well then it sounds like you were negligent in sending a meter maid to my house to interrogate me,” Mr. Evans said. “In any case, I’m going to sue this department for everything it’s worth.”

  “But Chief, can’t I arrest Boston for something?” Gordon asked in a defeated tone.

  “You shut up too, Gordon,” the Chief said. “And put those handcuffs away.”

  “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” Mr. Evans announced before turning and stomping from the room.

  We all watched him leave and I was pretty sure we were all thinking the same thing; namely, good riddance. I looked to the Chief with apologetic eyes but he only glared back at me.

  “Gordon, didn’t you find Daniel in his father’s apartment?” I asked.

  “I found nothing but Mr. Evans,” Gordon replied.

  “Did you check the back bedroom?”

  “Mr. Evans was kind enough to allow me to check every room in his apartment.”

  I released a long sigh of frustration. Evans had obviously moved the child before Gordon arrived. Now there was nothing to do but pay the piper for the consequences for my delay in reporting Daniel’s whereabouts.

  “Thanks, Chief,” I said, hoping to relieve some of the stress.

  “Boston, I want you to take the rest of the week off. I’ll have Jeffrey cover your rounds.”

  “Is she on suspension?” Gordon asked hopefully.

  “Consider it an unofficial suspension if you’d like,” the Chief replied. “For now.”

  Gordon smiled at that. I didn’t argue.

  “Gordon, I want you to come to my office right now and explain everything that occurred while you were at Mr. Evans’ apartment.”

  The two men left my desk. Gordon took a moment to smile back over his shoulder at me. Once they were gone, I noticed that a knot of officers had formed in the far corner of the room to watch the fun. One of them, Officer Bryce, peeled off to come talk with me.

  “Wow, Chloe, you really messed up this time,” he said.

  “Yep, I sure did,” I had to agree. “But it sometimes seems like I’m the only one who cares that a child is missing.”

  “It reminds me of a story my father once told me.”

  And he related the story to me…

  The Story of the Chicken Gun

  As the story goes, the FAA built a compressed air canon used to shoot chicken carcasses at aircraft windshields to test their strength. This “chicken gun” propels the dead birds at speeds approximating that of an aircraft in flight. If the windshield breaks, the material used in its construction is deemed insufficient to sustain a midair collision with a flying bird. If it doesn’t break, the windshield is approved.

  Apparently British Rail was working on a train engine that traveled faster than any previous train engine. They became concerned over the strength of the windshield in the engine. When they heard of the FAA testing device, they asked to borrow it to perform their own tests. The FAA agreed and shipped the chicken gun to England.

  British Rail set up a test in which they pointed the canon at the windshield of their spanking new prototype train. They then set the chicken gun to fire at the estimated top speed of the train, loaded a chicken carcass bought at a local market, and fired. The chicken blew a hole through the windshield of the train, demolished the engineer’s seat inside, and embedded itself in the back wall of the compartment.

  British Rail contacted the FAA for an explanation. After reviewing the records of the test, the FAA suggested that British Rail might want to thaw frozen chickens before firing them.

  * * *

  “And is there a point to this story, Lawrence?” I asked.

  “You bet,” he replied. “Be sure you know what you’re doing before you fire your chicken gun.”

  Officer Bryce chuckled as he walked away. I thought of calling him back to tell him what he could do with his chicken gun, but after some consideration, I realized he had a valid point. Still fuming over my encounters with Tara Lee, Evans, Gordon, and the Chief, I grabbed my things out of the locker room and went outside to retrieve Blue. I realized that there was only one thing that would soothe my rattled nerves: dinner rolls.

  That’s right, dinner rolls. The everyday garden variety frozen dinner rolls you buy readymade in large bundles so all you have to do is brown them up in the oven. To me, an essential element of Thanksgiving is those simple dinner rolls. I love them, both plain and whole wheat. One thing I was sure of was that, in their misguided attempt to present an elegant meal, Tara Lee’s army of helpers would neglect the simple dinner roll. And I was bound and determined that if I made no other contribution to Thanksgiving dinner, other than turning over the keys to my home, I would be sure there were dinner rolls aplenty for my guests. So, with Blue in tow, I made my way to The Market on Market Street to buy two dozen packages of frozen dinner rolls.

  Blue and I had been inside The Market together many times, this owing to the fact that I always slip a therapy dog vest onto Blue before entering. Over the years, Blue and Al, the butcher, had grown to become good friends. This was probably due to the fact that Al always sent Blue away with a juicy bone he’d saved for just such an occasion.

  Entering the store, I placed Blue in one of the wagons The Market used in preference to standard grocery carts, and wheeled her to visit Al in the meat department.r />
  “Chloe, happy Thanksgiving,” Al called when he saw me. “And happy Thanksgiving to you too, my pretty girl,” he said to Blue.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Al.”

  “Woof,” Blue added.

  “And what brings you here this beautiful day?”

  “Frozen dinner rolls.”

  “Regular or whole wheat?”

  “Both.”

  “Ah, I love those things. You know, I can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them.”

  “Me neither.”

  I’d apparently found a kindred spirit.

  “I won’t keep you jabbering any longer, but wait while I wrap up a juicy bone for Blue,” he instructed before disappearing behind the counter.

  I accepted Blue’s treat from Al and we said our goodbyes. I set the package in the wagon where Blue sniffed at it with interest, but she was polite enough to not tear the thing open and start chewing on the contents before we left the store.

  I wheeled our wagon into the frozen food aisle. When I made it to the frozen bread, I found a woman cleaning out the dinner roll offering. When she was done filling her wagon, there were only two packages of frozen dinner rolls left.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “but would you mind sharing those dinner rolls?”

  The woman looked to my uniform with concern, but then, seeing the parking enforcement patch on my sleeve, she immediately became surly.

  “Back off, princess. The dinner rolls are mine,” she snarled.

  I stood back in dismay as she rolled her treasure away. How could someone be so rude during the holidays? I quickly grabbed the two remaining packages of dinner rolls and wheeled Blue and my meager haul away in search of Randy, the store manager.

  “Hi, Chloe,” Randy said as I approached. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Hello, Randy. Happy Thanksgiving to you too. I have a problem.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “You’re out of frozen dinner rolls and I need them for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Yes, I hear you’re having quite a gathering at your place.”

  “Yes, I am,” I glowered.

  “We’ve been busy with pre-Thanksgiving sales. Let me see what I can do for you.” Then he reached for his store microphone. “Todd, would you please report to the frozen bread aisle to assist a customer,” he requested over the PA system.