“You’ll do fine,” she told her. “You did fine last time we were on the air,” she said.
Libby reached in her backpack and took out a cookie. “When I looked at myself I wanted to hide under the bed. I never realized my stomach and butt were that big.”
“They’re not, but if you feel so strongly, then don’t eat those,” Bernie told her, pointing to the chocolate chip cookie Libby had just taken a bite of.
“You shop, I eat.”
“It’s not the same.”
“It certainly is. Anyway, chocolate has health benefits. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”
Bernie sighed. When Libby got like this she wanted to whack her across the face and tell her, “Get a grip. Listen to what you’re saying!” But since she was never going to do that, she decided to change the subject to something more neutral, like Consuela and Hortense.
“I can see why Hortense got so mad at Consuela,” Bernie said. “Telling Great Food that Hortense used prepared pie crusts was definitely not a good thing to do.”
Libby wiped the crumbs off her lap.
“I know. I wonder why Consuela did it.”
“I’m guessing to get back at Hortense for something she said. Or because she was jealous.” Bernie pulled the mirror down and studied her make-up. “This is what the literary among us would call a paroxysm in a pie plate, a scandal in a Sachertorte.”
“Or a mountain in a meringue.”
“That works,” Bernie said as she took her finger and wiped a dap of lip gloss off the corner of her mouth.
Libby grinned.
“The magazine didn’t print the accusation though.”
Bernie put the mirror back up.
“No, Libby, they didn’t.”
“I wonder why?”
“Let me think. Maybe because Hortense would have threatened to sue them for libel. I mean, given the lawyers that woman probably had on retainer, writing that would be like baiting the bull. It wasn’t worth it. Even if the magazine printed it as a blind item. Anyway, food magazines don’t have gossip columns, although the way chefs are becoming TV personalities, maybe they should. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if they did in the near future.”
“And of course Hortense found out.”
Bernie shrugged. “Magazines routinely check their sources, a fact Consuela must have known. And even if she didn’t, she must have known word would have gotten back to Hortense, the food community being the small world it is.”
And it was. Not for the first time, Bernie reflected how everyone in it seemed to live in everyone else’s pocket.
Libby turned to her. “Consuela must have been so mad about something that she didn’t care what happened.”
“Agreed,” Bernie said. She’d had a few of those days herself, especially when she’d found Joe in bed with that … that … no, don’t go there, Bernie told herself. Try to look at it in a positive light.
“Here’s my question,” Libby said. “If Hortense hated her so much, why did she invite Consuela on the show? It makes no sense to me.”
Bernie thought about that for a moment. “Because she wanted to humiliate her? Because she was a sadist?”
“Possibly,” Libby agreed. “But then why did Consuela agree to come? I mean, I wouldn’t do something with someone who I knew hated me. I’d be afraid she’d do me a bad turn.”
“Maybe she was afraid not to,” Bernie observed.
“But why? That means that Hortense had some kind of hold on her.”
“And we’re going to try and find out what it was.” Bernie handed Libby her lip gloss. “Here. Try this.”
Libby took a deep breath. “I guess it’s showtime.”
“I guess it is.”
Bernie patted Libby on the arm. “We’re gonna kill ‘em,” she said.
Libby raised an eyebrow. “I think under the circumstances that’s not a good phrase.”
“I think you’re right,” Bernie conceded.
Libby grinned. “But I know what you mean.”
Chapter 18
Bernie stopped in the doorway of the green room and peered in. Yup. Everyone was there except them. She and Libby took a step inside. Two seconds later, Estes came waddling over to them. Why do people do that to themselves? Bernie wondered as she looked at what Estes was wearing.
The red and green sweater with reindeer embroidered on it was not a good choice sartorially speaking, Bernie decided. That sweater wouldn’t look good on anyone, but couple it with Estes’ green and red plaid pants, not to mention his girth, and you had a walking clothing disaster of monumental proportions. Obvious the man wasn’t married or his wife hated him, Bernie decided. Otherwise she’d never let him walk out the door like that.
Bernie was trying to see if Estes was wearing a wedding ring as he pointed to the clock on the wall.
“Where the hell were you?” he demanded. “We have ten minutes to airtime. You were supposed to have been here fifteen minutes ago. Why are you late?”
“They’re late because they’ve been too busy trying to find out which one of us killed Hortense to pay attention to the time,” Reginald called out. He pointed to Libby. “Ask that one.”
Estes’ face grew flushed. He turned to Libby.
“What have you done?” he demanded.
“I didn’t do anything,” she replied.
A statement, Bernie reflected, that wasn’t exactly true. But Bernie was happy to see that Libby was getting a little better at holding her own. Her chin was up and she had her hands on her hips.
“I’ll thank you not to make things worse than they already are,” Estes told her.
Bernie laughed. “And how is that possible?”
“I just don’t want to see the Hortense Calabash Show get tagged as a bad luck show. Then I’ll never get people to come on it.”
“Bad luck show?” Libby asked.
“Yes.” Estes rubbed his nose. “A bad luck show. Like Poltergeist.”
“That was a movie.”
“Fine. Then the Brick House Saloon. Five people on the set were seriously injured.”
“Because they were careless,” Bernie said.
“That’s not what the tabloids said,” Estes pointed out.
Consuela interrupted. “Do you really think this show is cursed?”
Give me strength, Bernie thought. “No. I don’t think this show is cursed,” Bernie told her. “I think we have someone on the show who didn’t like Hortense a whole hell of a lot, and the police think that too.”
“The police?” Pearl squeaked as she popped up from behind the chair Reginald had been sitting in, dust rag in hand.
The woman looks terrified, Bernie reflected. She wondered what she had to be terrified about. And what she had been dusting? The rungs of the chair?
Brittany sniffed. “I can’t believe you think we’re all suspects,” she huffed.
“The police do,” Bernie shot back.
“Ridiculous,” Brittany said.
That woman is wearing way too much Prada, Bernie thought as she watched Brittany drift toward the door.
“Then who do you think ah … assisted Hortense toward the other side?” Bernie asked her. “Or do you think this was an accident too?”
“I don’t know.” Brittany combed back her hair with her fingers. “Maybe a vagrant who wandered in did it? Maybe one of the camera crew did?”
“Why should it be one of them?” Bernie asked her.
“Why shouldn’t it?” Brittany countered.
“Because this murder wasn’t random,” Bernie told her.
“Murder is such a harsh word,” Reginald observed.
“Then what would you call what happened to Hortense?” Bernie asked him.
“A mishap. Just like Estes said.”
Brittany pursed her lips. “In the end it doesn’t really matter,” she said after a moment of reflection.
“Doesn’t matter?” Libby said. “Someone being killed doesn’t matter?”
; Brittany gave her a pitying look. “My dear girl, I meant that in the cosmic sense. We’re all just grains of sand on the cosmic beach of life.”
My god, Bernie thought. Could we get anymore trite?
But apparently Brittany could, because the next words out of her mouth were, “What’s done is done. What’s important is that we face the future together.”
“What future?” Consuela demanded. “What are you talking about? We have no future. We’re contestants on a television show.” Then she whirled around and pointed to Bernie and Libby.
“And why are you two in charge?” she demanded. “If anything, the police should be investigating you! You were the ones who were going through Hortense’s files looking for the ingredients.”
Bernie was just about to say something but Libby got there first.
“How can you lie like that?” she demanded. “Aren’t you embarrassed? You were the one going through the files, not us.”
Consuela tossed her hair and appealed to the other contestants.
“I’m not lying,” she told them. She gestured toward Libby and Bernie. “How do we know you didn’t steal the list?”
“Yeah,” Reginald said. “I think Consuela deserves an answer. How do we know that the investigators don’t need to be investigated?”
Bernie was not happy to see that Pearl and Brittany started clapping. She was about to frame her answer when Eric Royal walked through the door. Bernie was relieved to see that he’d gotten a haircut and that he was wearing a tweed jacket, blue shirt, and brown and blue tie, instead of the ensemble he’d had on the day Hortense was killed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Eric told them.
“How can it not matter?” Reginald cried.
“I’ll explain in a moment,” Eric said. “But first I suggest we all spend a moment of silent meditation. Hortense and I liked to do that before all our shows.”
“We should meditate on Hortense,” Jean La Croix called out. “It is only right.”
Consuela rolled her eyes. “Oh please,” she said.
“No. It is a good thing to do,” Jean La Croix insisted. “She was a great lady.”
“She was a bitch,” Consuela said.
La Croix put his hand to his throat. “Where I come from, it is considered bad to speak ill of the dead.”
“Come on,” Consuela said. “You hated her as much as anyone else, and you can stop with the phony accent.”
“Look who is talking,” La Croix replied. “The only time you ever set foot in the Dominican Republic was when you took a cruise.”
“Well, the only time you saw Haiti was when you were watching the Travel Channel in Attica.”
“You lie!” La Croix screamed.
Uh-oh, Bernie thought as she watched La Croix heading toward Consuela. She was thinking, Emergency room, here we come, when Estes started bellowing. La Croix froze.
“That is enough!” Estes yelled. “I will not have this type of behavior on my show.” He looked around. Bernie was interested to see that La Croix, Pearl, Consuela, Reginald, and Brittany were looking at the floor. “Good,” Estes said into the ensuing quiet. “We have some changes that Eric wants to go over with you, and since we have”—he consulted his watch—"only eight minutes left, I suggest you pay attention.”
“Changes?” Pearl exclaimed. “What changes?”
Estes glared at her. “If you’ll be quiet, you’ll find out.”
“Oh dear,” Pearl said. “I don’t do well with changes. I don’t do well at all.”
Brittany put her hands on her hips. “Why are we changing the format at this late date?”
“Yes,” La Croix said. “For once I must agree with the queen.”
“Excuse me,” Brittany snapped. “Did you just call me a JAP?”
La Croix shrugged. “No. I’m calling you damned lucky to get away with what you did. I certainly wouldn’t have. I don’t have a daddy to help me out.”
Bernie could see that Brittany had paled slightly under her make-up.
“And what does that mean?”
“You know what I’m talking about. And if you don’t want everyone else to know, you’ll shut up.”
“What are you talking about?” Bernie asked.
Neither Brittany nor La Croix answered. Bernie followed their gaze. They were both looking at Estes. He was making snarling noises, and his color had become the most alarming shade of crimson. It would make a wonderful dress color, Bernie thought, but she was fairly positive it wasn’t a good skin color.
“Shut up!” he bellowed. “Everyone just shut up.”
There was dead silence in the room again.
Bernie watched the director’s assistant step in.
“We’ve got three minutes to airtime,” he cried.
It’s going to be an interesting show, Bernie thought. An interesting show indeed.
At which point her sister’s cell phone began to ring. She answered it. “Okay, Dad,” she said after a moment went by.
“What was that about?” Bernie whispered after Libby hung up.
Her sister explained.
“So that’s what La Croix was talking about,” Bernie said.
Libby nodded. “I don’t see how I can do what Dad wants me to.”
Bernie glanced at the clock on the wall. They had two minutes to go. “Go ahead. So you and Brittany will be a little late walking onto the set.”
“I don’t know,” Libby told her.
“Go on. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
“Estes can yell at me.”
“Exactly,” Bernie said.
Chapter 19
Libby looked at the camera staring back at her as the opening credits for the Hortense Calabash Show rolled across the monitor. She’d totally forgotten. Was she supposed to look at camera one or was it camera two or three or did it matter? Except, weren’t they all focused on different parts of the room? But they could move around, so it probably didn’t matter. Or did it?
For the life of her she couldn’t recall what Eric had said. She must be getting early Alzheimer’s. Or mad cow disease. Actually, she knew why she couldn’t remember. She was too busy digesting what her father had asked her to ask Brittany. It was incredible. She just wished her dad had called after the show. She didn’t need any distractions now. She caught Bernie giving her a worried glance. She tried to give her a smile. Then she took a deep breath. Okay, she told herself, forget everything. Forget about Brittany. Forget about the murder. Concentrate on what’s happening now.
She could feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Should she wipe them off? Shouldn’t she? If she didn’t, the sweat would start running into her eyes and that would make her eyes tear, which in turn would make her eyeliner and mascara run, and she’d look like a raccoon.
But how could she wipe her forehead without looking like a total dork? Especially since she didn’t have a Kleenex with her, and she couldn’t go get one out of her backpack. She’d have to use her shirtsleeve, which was totally unacceptable.
Bernie never perspired when she got nervous. At least she never did it in places people could see. Why did she? No one else in her family had this problem except her. Libby started to fan herself with her hand and stopped herself even though she wanted to continue. But it was so hot under the lights. She couldn’t stand the heat.
She should have worn something cooler; she’d meant to, but the only thing she had in her wardrobe that didn’t make her arms look fat and her waist too big was this long-sleeved, wool-blend, light blue blouse. Her T-shirts were, as Bernie put it, beyond redemption, so she couldn’t wear those, and her other white shirts were stained and frayed.
She should have gone clothes shopping. She should have bought that shirt Bernie had wanted her to get, Libby reflected as she glanced at Bernie, who was wearing the black pants she’d gotten in Paris and a pink V-neck silk sweater. I should have gotten the shirt even if it was over two hundred dollars, Libby thought. Bernie was right. It would have be
en worth the price. Libby clicked her tongue against her teeth as she studied her sister.
Bernie always looked relaxed and in control, just the way she did now. Why can’t I be like that? Libby wondered as she snuck glances at everyone else. Why do I just want to go home and eat chocolate? She was sure no one else in the room felt that way. Everyone else in the studio looked calm and collected. Just like Bernie.
Except for Pearl, that is. Pearl was having a meltdown. She was busy buttoning and rebuttoning her cardigan. Suddenly Libby liked Pearl a whole lot better than she formerly had.
Libby found her gaze straying to Estes. His color had returned to normal, which was good because for a few minutes there she’d thought they’d be calling Marvin’s father to come and take him away. Which, considering Estes’ size, would have been a hard job. How did one get four hundred pounds of dead weight on a stretcher anyway? Libby wondered. She shuddered briefly. It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke.
But in any case, she didn’t have to worry about that. Right now Estes was up in the production box, or whatever it was that Bernie had called it, talking to the guy sitting in front of the console with all the levers and dials on it. Libby forgot what he was called too. Engineer? Production manager? Production assistant? Who cared? She was too nervous to remember anything.
I am going to make such a fool of myself, she thought. Especially with this new format.
Why, oh why was everyone judging the outcome? Having Hortense as the judge was bad; having the other panelists act as judges was worse. They were going to say terrible things about her cooking. Why shouldn’t they? It certainly wasn’t in their interest to say anything nice. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she and Bernie were the first contestants. And tomorrow if she and Bernie won, they were going to cohost the show. Great. Libby could feel her temples starting to throb.
Tomorrow they were contracted to deliver two dinners for eight and twelve, respectively, as well as twelve dozen cookies for the Holiday Spirit Day at the Longely Library, not to mention the potato pancakes for twenty for the Jewish Center. At least she’d already made the applesauce and three-quarters of the cookies.
A Catered Christmas Page 14