“Did they say why?” Bernie asked.
“They found the gas line disabled and the remains of a disposable flash camera in the oven.”
“Disposable camera?” Bernie said. She moved her silver and onyx ring up and down her finger, which Libby knew meant that she was thinking. “Interesting.”
Libby said. “I don’t understand.”
Bree fiddled with the gold buttons on her jacket. “Frankly, my dear, I’m not sure that I do either, but the homicide people are hypothesizing that someone"—Bree lowered her voice again to the point that Libby had to strain to hear her—"booby-trapped the oven. Chief Broad mentioned something about disabling the flash so when the camera went off it sparked and ignited the gas when Hortense opened the oven door. The chief will explain it to you.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Bernie said.
She, Libby, and her father were not on the chief of police’s favored-persons list. If they were on a list at all, it would be labeled “troublemakers.”
“No, he will,” Bree said, her tone leaving no doubt that this was not a matter the chief had any say in.
This is going to be interesting, Libby thought as another question popped into her head. “But what about the Christmas tree ornaments? What were they doing in the oven?” For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what Hortense could possibly be using them for.
Bree shrugged. “Chief Broad thinks the murderer put them in there.”
“Obviously the murderer is someone who doesn’t like Christmas,” Bernie noted.
“Or Hortense,” Libby felt bound to point out. “But how come the ornaments didn’t melt?” she asked.
“Because glass doesn’t melt before two thousand degrees,” Bernie informed her.
Bree shuddered.
“Poor Hortense. She was my bunk mate in camp,” Bree added.
“At least she died doing the thing she loved,” Bernie said. “How many of us can say that?”
“True. Very true.” Bree dabbed at her eyes. Then she straightened up. “Now, about that favor.”
“Yes,” Libby said, a sense of foreboding growing in her stomach. She just couldn’t cater a dinner. Not now. Not with what they had to do.
Bree looked around again. Then she leaned in. “Well,” she confided, “the police think someone here might be responsible, and I’d like you to see if you can find out who it is.”
“Us?” Libby squeaked, although in retrospect she realized she shouldn’t have been surprised. “You want us to investigate?”
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried by this turn of events. She was glad she didn’t have to cook, but investigating another homicide? Things always turned weird with those. At least with cooking if you followed the recipe, you knew what you were getting, which was more than she could say about investigating a homicide.
“Well, yes,” Bree replied. “After all, it’s not as if you haven’t done this before, because you certainly have. Twice, to be exact.”
“Lucy won’t like it,” Libby said. “He won’t like that at all.”
“He certainly won’t,” Bernie chimed in.
Bree flicked a mote of dust off her suit jacket before replying. “Ordinarily you’d be correct in your assessment, but I’ve persuaded him for the good of the town to set aside his normal way of doing things.”
“Doing what?” a voice boomed.
Libby looked up. Chief Lucas Broad had joined them. He was wearing his uniform, but then he always wore his uniform.
Bree smiled sweetly. “Ah, Chief Broad. I was just saying that you’ve graciously decided to accept Bernie and Libby’s help with our little problem.”
“And my father’s,” Bernie said. “We come as a package.”
Libby watched Lucas Broad open his mouth, then close it again. It was no secret that the chief and her father hated each other.
“Isn’t that right, Chief?” Bree said.
The chief struggled with the word for a second. Finally he managed to get a yes out. “That is correct,” he said.
Libby was interested to note that a look of what seemed like genuine pain was crossing the chief’s face as he uttered those words. What does she have on him? Libby wondered as Bree turned to Libby and Bernie and gave them one of her brilliant smiles.
“See,” she said, “I told you things would be fine.” She waved a hand in their direction. “Now you three arrange things among yourselves. I have some other problems I have to settle.” And she walked away.
Libby watched her as she rounded the corner and entered the green room. Then she turned her gaze back to the chief. He was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his foot tapping, and a scowl on his face.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get something straight here. I’m doing this for the good of the town. Understand?”
Libby nodded. Somehow she managed to keep from looking at Bernie. If she had, they both would have started laughing.
“That is the only reason this is happening.”
“Boy, Bree must have something on you,” Bernie observed. “Or your wife.”
Why does she have to say things like that? Libby thought as she observed the chief’s eyes becoming little slits. Why does she always have to make things worse? Her sister could never seem to grasp the fact that what she said had real consequences, as in who would take care of her father and run the store if Bernie got herself arrested? Libby, that’s who.
“That is libel,” the chief huffed.
“Sorry,” Bernie said. “I was just kidding.”
“Libeling a public official is a felony,” the chief continued.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Bernie asked.
“She didn’t mean it,” Libby said, stepping between her sister and the chief of police. “She’s upset.”
The chief considered Libby’s words for a moment. Then he said, “We’re all upset by Hortense’s untimely demise. She was a well-loved member of the community and will be missed.”
Libby caught a look from her sister. If there was anything less true, she couldn’t imagine it.
The chief continued on. “Given the nature of everything, I’ve agreed to conduct things a little differently than I usually would.” He coughed into his fist. “We’ve decided to try to delay publicizing this tragic event. At least as much as we can. Bree has persuaded me that, given the nature of the outrage, it would be better, public-relations-wise, if we had a suspect in custody when we do, which is where you come in.”
“Why us?” Bernie asked.
“Obviously,” the chief said, “because you’re here. Because you know these people.”
“We don’t know them,” Libby objected.
“Of course you do,” Lucy said. “You’re caterers, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Libby said.
“So there you go,” the chief said.
Bernie tapped her foot on the floor.
“That’s a little like saying that just because I’m Irish, I go to mass every Sunday.”
“You mean you don’t?” the chief said.
“We’re Protestant.”
“I don’t care. What I care about is that there will be no nonsense from either one of you, understand?”
“What do you mean by nonsense?” Bernie asked.
As Libby watched, the chief’s eyes got even smaller.
“I mean the kind of things you and your sister do,” he snarled.
“I don’t suppose you could be more specific?” Bernie asked, goading him on.
Judging from the expression on Lucy’s face, Libby decided this was not a good question.
Lucy raised one of his hands and ticked things off as he spoke.
“No breaking and entering, no misrepresenting yourselves, no illegal entries, no stealing vehicles. In fact, no illegal activities of any kind. Is that good enough for you?”
“Shucks, and I was so looking forward to doing all of that,” Bernie said.
Libby noted that Lucy’s e
yes seemed to be disappearing all together.
“Do we at least get badges?” Bernie asked.
Bernie, just shut up, Libby thought as the chief stuck his face about an inch away from her sister’s.
“I’d rather go to hell.”
“Well, that’s a fairly clear response,” Bernie said. “Can we at least see the case file?”
“There is no case file at the present moment, but if there was, the answer would be no,” the chief told her.
“Then how are we supposed to work?” Libby demanded.
“The way you always do,” the chief said. “By blundering along.”
“What if we don’t want to do this?” Libby asked him.
He looked at her for a moment before replying. Then he said, “I don’t think that’s an option.”
Bernie put her hands on her hips. “What are you going to do, arrest us?” she demanded.
The chief stroked his chin.
“You know,” he said, “it’s amazing how many little rules and regulations towns like ours accumulate over the years. Code enforcement, especially in food establishments, is a tricky thing.”
“Are you threatening us?” Libby asked.
The chief put his hand over his heart.
“I never threaten,” the chief said. “Your father will tell you that. I was merely pointing out the obvious. By the way, the missus would love it if we could have one of your mince pies for Christmas.”
Libby forced herself to smile. “No problem,” she said.
“And we’d like a double portion of hard sauce.”
“Of course,” Libby said.
“But skip the rum and brandy.”
Interesting, Libby thought. Maybe what she’d heard about Mrs. Lucy going into rehab to dry out was true.
“I guess we can use orange and vanilla flavoring,” Libby said.
The chief nodded. Bernie coughed. The chief turned his gaze to her.
“Are you at least going to tell us how Hortense was killed?” Bernie asked.
The chief nodded. “I can do that.”
He was almost done explaining when the production assistant came by. “Five minutes to airtime,” he said.
“Oh my God,” Libby squealed. “I have to put my make-up on.”
One thing you could say about Hortense’s homicide, she thought as she ran to get her purse, it had certainly taken her mind off of being on television.
Chapter 7
Sean turned his wheelchair away from the television and studied his two daughters. They looked slightly out of breath, and their cheeks were still red from the cold. The weatherman had said it was going down to ten degrees tonight. Looks as if he’d been right, Sean thought as he glanced at his watch. It was early. Libby and Bernie had come right home after the show. He was happy but surprised. Somehow he’d expected they’d be meeting their boyfriends at R.J.'s.
“You two made your old man proud,” he told them. “You really did. But what happened to your hostess, if you don’t mind my asking? Why wasn’t Hortense on the show?”
Not that he’d admit this to anyone, but he was disappointed. He’d been looking forward to seeing how she was going to make the meringue mushrooms she’d talked about yesterday. He watched Bernie and Libby look at each other.
“Well?” he said after a moment had elapsed. “Did she choke on a piece of fruitcake?”
“Close,” Bernie said.
Sean snorted. “I was kidding.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
Damn, Sean thought. Trouble followed his girls around like lambs followed Little Bo Peep.
“Go on,” he told her.
Bernie clasped her hands together and brought them up to her chin. “Someone killed her. At least that’s what Lucy is saying.”
For a moment Sean was silent. Things rarely shocked him. He’d been a cop too long for that. But he had to say that this did.
“What happened?” he asked.
“There was an explosion,” Libby explained.
Bernie put her hands back down. “We all ran in to the test kitchen and found Hortense covered with fruitcake, cookie dough, and blood. Not a good mix; not a good mix at all, colorwise. Hortense would not have been happy.”
Libby opened her mouth to say something and closed it again.
Sean noticed his eldest daughter was wringing her hands, something she did when she was extremely perturbed. Libby was the sensitive one in the family. Always had been and, despite his best efforts to toughen her up, always would be.
“Of course,” Bernie continued, “no one would be happy in Hortense’s situation.” She moved her silver and onyx ring up and down her finger. “Anyway, someone rigged the oven so it would explode when Hortense opened it,” she explained. “The oven in the test kitchen,” Bernie clarified before Sean could ask.
“How strange,” Sean mused. “Death by fruitcake. I always knew they were lethal, except for your mother’s of course, but I thought it was more of a digestive thing.”
“What a horrible thing to say,” Libby cried.
Sean sighed. His eldest daughter was tending toward developing a terminal case of sincerity.
He was about to tell her that when Bernie said, “It’s not horrible, Libby. You shouldn’t misuse words like that. It dilutes them. The word horrible comes from the Latin word horrere and means to be terrified. For that matter, awful really isn’t correct either. How about the word nauseous?”
Libby jutted her chin out.
“I couldn’t help it, okay?”
Bernie rolled her eyes.
“You could have turned your head away from me.”
“Couldn’t help what?” Sean asked.
Bernie pointed at her sister. “She threw up on my shoes.”
“At least she didn’t contaminate the crime scene,” Sean observed.
“I wish she had. They were Jimmy Choos.”
“Is that some new form of the flu?”
“Very funny, Dad.”
“I thought it was.”
Libby put her hands on her hips.
“It happened so fast I didn’t have the time to do anything else,” she explained to him. “And I already apologized about ten times and offered to buy Bernie a new pair of shoes.”
“And I already told you, you can’t afford to buy me a new pair of those,” Bernie retorted.
Sean watched Libby turn to him.
“I don’t know how much they cost, because she refuses to tell me.”
Sean noted that Bernie was tapping her foot, never a good sign.
“For the record, they were five hundred. On sale. Satisfied?”
Libby looked shocked. Just like his wife would have been, Sean reflected.
“That’s obscene,” Libby cried. “No one should spend five hundred on a pair of shoes.”
“See. I told you, you weren’t going to get a new pair for me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, are you?”
Sean decided it was time to intervene.
“Girls, girls,” he said before Bernie could reply. “Have pity on your old man.” Their bickering always drove him nuts.
Bernie inspected her nails. “Fine.”
Libby drew herself up. “Fine with me too. I’d just like to point out for the sake of accuracy—a trait I know Bernie values—that it was the glass from the Christmas tree ornaments that killed Hortense, not the fruitcake.”
Libby always has to have the last word, Sean thought. Just like his wife.
“Don’t be so literal,” Bernie retorted.
“Like you’re not,” Libby replied.
Sean glared at both of them. “That is enough,” he said, using the tone he’d used on them when they were six and eight.
“Okay by me,” Bernie said.
Libby began picking at her cuticle. “Ditto,” she said. She turned to Bernie. “And don’t tell me the etymology of that word,” she snapped at her.
“I wasn’t going to,” Bernie responded as
the doorbell downstairs rang.
Libby excused herself and went to get it.
“She gets like that when she’s upset,” Sean said.
“I know,” Bernie replied.
“So why don’t you ease up on her?”
“I guess I should.”
“There’s no should about it.”
A moment later, Sean heard the clomp of footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Clyde,” both he and Bernie said together as Clyde stuck his head in the door.
“How ya doin', Cap?” he asked Sean.
Sean nodded. He’d finally given up telling Clyde not to call him that.
“Good,” Sean told him. He realized as he said it that he couldn’t help but look down at his hands. They weren’t shaking. So he hadn’t lied. Today was a good day.
Clyde handed Sean a package. “Christmas cookies from the wife.”
“Thanks,” Sean said. Clyde’s wife had the reputation of being the worst cook in five towns.
“I suppose you could use them as doorstops,” Clyde told him as he moved a stack of magazines off of the armchair, removed his parka, hung it over the back of the chair, and sat down. “Especially the rum balls. Those are lethal.”
Sean laughed. “What are you congratulating me on?” he asked.
Clyde looked at Bernie and Libby. “You mean you haven’t told him?” he asked them.
Sean noticed that Bernie had suddenly developed an interest in the view outside his room.
“We were getting around to it when you came in,” Bernie said.
“Tell me what?” Sean asked.
“You know that Hortense got killed, right?” Clyde asked Sean.
“Right,” Sean said.
“Well, you’re gonna love the rest of this,” Clyde said to him.
“The rest of what?” Sean watched as Clyde rubbed his hands together. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“Hey, I’m trying to build up the suspense here.”
“And I’m going to tell Libby not to feed you anymore if you don’t spit it out right now.”
Clyde sniffed. “Fine. If that’s the way you want to be.”
Sean nodded. “It is.” He kept forgetting how annoying Clyde could be.
“Okay, Cap, Lucy has asked you guys to help him with the investigation.”
“Hortense’s?” Sean said. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
A Catered Christmas Page 6