A Catered Thanksgiving (12 page)

“Perhaps she was an old-fashioned gal. You know, one of those ‘married till death do us part' kinda women.”

Libby shuddered. “That's probably why she was so fat.”

“Drowning one's sorrows in food—a well-known remedy,” Bernie observed.

“Well, I suppose it's better than alcohol.”

“Not when you get up to four hundred pounds,” Bernie said, briefly looking up before she turned another page. “The company is an LLC,” she informed Libby.

“I would expect nothing less,” Libby said.

Bernie continued leafing through the pages. “Now, this is interesting,” she commented as she came to the stock certificates. “Monty had a sixty percent ownership in the company. All the other family members make up the remaining forty percent.”

She handed the certificates to Libby, who looked at them and handed them back. Then Bernie handed Libby another page.

“Look at this,” she commanded.

“So,” Libby said, scanning it, “according to this, Perceval is the treasurer, and Ralph is the secretary, and Geoff and Melissa are on the board of the LLC.”

“But note that Greta, Bob, and Audie have no official positions.”

“But if Monty gave them his stock…”

“Then they'd control the business.”

“But why would he do that?”

“He wouldn't. He'd just tell everyone he was going to.”

“And play everyone off against everyone else.”

“But if, let's say, Ralph and Perceval…”

“Or Melissa and Geoff…”

“Believed that…”

“Then they'd have a reason to kill Monty…”

“Because they'd be out on their asses.”

“No wonder everyone wanted Monty dead.”

“Yes indeed.”

Libby was about to ask what that meant in terms of the Africa deal when she heard a noise.

E
l Huron cursed as the door to the bunker slammed against the wall. The wind had gotten the better of El Huron, wrenching the door out of El Huron's hand. No matter. The women probably hadn't heard anything, anyway, between the wind and the fan. Actually, it didn't really matter if they had. It just meant that El Huron had to act with even more dispatch, more coolness than usual. And if the women had heard and came out of the office into the large room, that would not matter, either. All they would see was a gloved figure wearing a ski parka and mask. Impossible to identify. El Huron had taken precautions to make sure of that. No. El Huron's identity would remain a secret, as it had all these years.

El Huron would have loved to take the ski mask off, because it itched terribly—El Huron was allergic to wool—but this was not a possibility. El Huron could not take the chance and jeopardize everything, especially not at this stage of the game. Instead, El Huron slid a gloved hand underneath the wool mask and scratched El Huron's cheek.

Then El Huron unzipped the parka and took out the fireworks El Huron had placed there for safekeeping so they would not get wet. Most people who did not know about these things would consider that to be a dangerous thing to do, but El Huron had been raised with them, had played with them as a child, had felt the sting of the dragon, and knew that was not the case.

There was one Dragon Egg, one Eagle, and one Crazy Gator. They should do the trick. The fuse on the Dragon Egg was short, while the one on the Eagle was longer, and the one on the Crazy Gator was the longest of all. Baby Bear, Mama Bear, and Papa Bear. That was how El Huron thought of them. Each one with a job to do, each one complementary to the other, as was the case in any well-run family. El Huron took a lighter out of the inside pocket of El Huron's parka. El Huron flicked it. A small flame danced out. El Huron watched it for a brief moment before El Huron's thumb released the top. The flame died.

The fireworks were timed to go off one after the other. El Huron carefully laid the fireworks on the floor about a foot away from the door and looked up. El Huron half expected to see the women coming out of the room, but El Huron did not. He just saw the empty corridor between the rows of shelving. El Huron smiled in relief. El Huron would admit that El Huron had been slightly concerned. But not anymore. The plan would work. The plan would work perfectly. El Huron took a deep breath and set the timers on the delay-action fuses. When El Huron was sure everything was as it should be, El Huron shut off the fan and jammed the switch. Then El Huron turned and left the bunker, carefully shutting the door. El Huron wasn't positive but thought one of the women said something.

“Good luck to you,” El Huron murmured.

Whatever happened now was in the hands of God. El Huron was simply the instrument of vengeance and chaos.

El Huron paused for a second, then turned and started back to the house. El Huron walked briskly, pushing against the wind, and in a matter of moments El Huron had arrived. Before entering, El Huron took off the ski mask and stuffed it in the parka pocket. Then El Huron turned the doorknob and walked inside, being careful to close the front door as quietly as possible. El Huron did not make the same mistake twice.

El Huron quickly balled up the parka El Huron had been wearing, walked into the hallway that led to the utility closet, opened the closet door, and stuffed the parka in the corner, under the tarps. El Huron smiled again, feeling certain that El Huron's mother would approve of El Huron's actions had she known. She would do more than approve. She would be proud.

 

The noise had startled Libby. She'd jumped, and the papers she was holding had slipped out of her hand.

“Relax. That's the outside door blowing open and shut,” Bernie told her sister.

“But we closed it,” Libby protested.

“Evidently, not tight enough.” Bernie pointed to the ceiling. “Listen to the wind,” she said. “It sounds as if it's going to blow the roof off.”

It's true, the wind is howling,
Libby thought, but she distinctly remembered Bernie slamming the door to the bunker shut. It had made a heavy thud, and Libby had had the irrational feeling that they'd never be able to open the door again and that they'd be stuck in the bunker, in the dark, forever.

“No,” Libby said. “I'm sure we did close the door all the way.”

“Then the noise was something blowing up against the bunker,” Bernie told her.

Libby thought that over for a moment. She wanted to believe it, but she couldn't. “Like what?”

“I don't know. A garbage can, part of a tree limb.”

“But there are no trees around here.”

“Then, it was something else, Libby.”

“It really did sound like a door slamming.”

“Maybe it did, but it's not.” Bernie stamped her feet impatiently. She hated when her sister got this way.

“But you don't know that for a fact,” Libby argued.

“Yeah. I do. And even if you're right—and I'm not saying you are—what difference does it make? I'll tell you—none.”

“It does make a difference because then that would mean someone came in.”

Bernie snorted. “That's absurd.”

Libby narrowed her eyes. Now she was getting mad. “It most certainly is not.”

“It is! Think about it for a second.”

Libby folded her arms over her chest. “I already have.”

“Obviously you haven't.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“Because if someone came in, they would know we were here. They'd have to. The lights are on. It's obvious someone is inside. And they would have said hello or come in to see what we're doing.”

“Maybe they don't want us to know they're here.”

“And why is that?”

“Because they don't wish us well.”

“If they didn't wish us well, we'd know that already. They'd have shot us or thrown some exploding something in here.” Bernie moved closer to the door. “Hello,” she called out. “Anyone here?”

No one answered.

“Hello,” Bernie yelled.

Again, there was no reply.

Bernie turned to her sister. “Satisfied?” she asked.

“No.”

“Now you're being really paranoid.”

“I'm not. What if the person that killed Monty is trying to kill us?”

“We've already gone through that.”

“Yeah. But what if?”

“And they'd be doing that why?”

“Because then we can't prove that we didn't do it.”

“Do what?”

“Kill Monty.”

“That is so not the issue.”

“But it could be.”

Bernie looked at her sister. “I think you're going into chocolate withdrawal.”

“No. Seriously. Think about what I said.”

“I have. And I repeat. We need to find you some chocolate.”

“You don't think that what I just said is possible?”

“I find it possible, but highly improbable. Killing us seems overly complicated.”

Libby sighed. Maybe Bernie was right. Maybe this place was getting to her. Maybe she did need something to eat. She was just about to tell her sister that when she heard an explosion.

T
here was a series of pops and hisses, followed by a loud boom. Thirty seconds later there was another loud boom, followed by another one sixty seconds after that. The noise ricocheted off the walls, increasing in volume until it was deafening. Libby and Bernie could smell the gunpowder. The air outside the office turned red and purple. Libby and Bernie started coughing as the smoke started drifting to where they were standing. Bernie ran and slammed the door shut.

“Okay, you were right,” Bernie told Libby.

Despite the circumstances, Libby allowed herself a moment to feel smug. “Told you,” she said.

“And whoever did this must have set the fuses on a delayed timer, otherwise they would have gone off immediately.”

“Great,” Libby said. “That makes me feel so much better.”

“It'll be fine,” Bernie lied, because she wasn't sure it would be.

She closed her eyes as she thought of all those shelves of chemicals in their plastic containers. They were probably okay. They probably wouldn't go off. Unless they were hit with a piece of flying debris. And even then they'd be okay. After all, Melissa and Geoff had made it out all right. The plastic the containers were made out of had seemed pretty thick. But if the containers did rupture…Well, it would be adios, muchachas.

Libby coughed again. The smoke was getting to her. She looked around and grabbed a handful of circulars and newspapers and crammed them in the space between the floor and the door.

“There, that should help a little,” she said.

“They should have a sprinkler system in here,” Bernie said.

“Well, now's the time for it to come on,” Libby commented.

Only it didn't and the room continued to fill with smoke.

“Isn't there a venting system?” Libby asked her sister.

“Yeah. Remember, I turned it on when we first walked in here.”

“So then why isn't it sucking the smoke out?”

“Someone must have turned it off,” Bernie said, realizing that she hadn't heard the whir of the fan for the last couple of minutes. “When we get out of here, I'm going to kill whoever did this.”

“If we get out of here.”

“No, Libby. When.”

“We might be better off staying put,” Libby suggested.

“Here?” Bernie asked incredulously.

“Yes. Here. We could cover our mouths with our jackets and go underneath the desk and wait it out.”

“If everything blows, that's not going to help.”

Libby stemmed another coughing fit. “But what if whoever did this locked the bunker from the outside? Then we're better off under the desk.”

“We don't know that.”

“We didn't know someone was going to set off explosives in the bunker, either.”

“That's true, Libby, but we still have to try. Remember what Dad always says, ‘Action is always better than inaction.'”

“I don't know.”

“I do. We can always come back if the door is locked. We've got to get out of here.”

“I suppose.”

“Look, the longer we wait, the more chance there is that one of those containers out there will go off.”

Libby started coughing again. “I hate fireworks,” she said when she'd stopped.

“I know you do.” Bernie zipped up her jacket and put up her hood. “And I have a feeling I'm going to feel the same way by the time we're out of here.”

Libby suited up as well. The fabric would offer some protection from the flying sparks.

“Ready?” Bernie asked her sister.

“No.”

“Okay,” Bernie told her, ignoring Libby's last comment. “I'm going to open the office door, and we're going to make a dash for the outside door.”

Libby crossed her fingers.

Bernie put her hand on the doorknob. “On the count of three,” she said.

“Wait.” Libby blew her nose. “Okay.”

“One. Two. Three.” And Bernie yanked the door open and took Libby's hand.

They ran. Little hot pellets burned their cheeks and foreheads. The fireworks boomed around them. The noise was deafening as the sound waves bounced off the sides of the bunker. Lights pulsed. They were like strobes and were so bright that Bernie and Libby couldn't look into them.

Libby ran with her eyes focused on the floor. Bernie, who was in the lead, did the same, but she ran with her hand out, because she didn't want to hit the door face-first. It seemed like forever, but it was less than ten seconds before her hand came in contact with the door. She pushed. Nothing happened. Her heart fell.

“Is it locked?” Libby said between coughing spasms.

“I hope not,” Bernie croaked back.

By now her eyes were tearing from the smoke. She backed up and rammed the door with her shoulder. It gave a little. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Why had she worn mascara? Her eyes felt as if they were on fire. Then she tried again. The door gave.

“Thank God,” Bernie said as she and Libby stumbled outside.

They stood there, taking deep breaths. Snow fluttered down around them. Bernie wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and brushed at an ember on her jacket. She was just glad that she hadn't worn her new puffy coat, the one she'd gotten on sale at Barneys for an embarrassingly large sum of money. Then she and Libby both looked at each other and started laughing hysterically.

“You don't look so great,” Libby said to Bernie, once they'd stopped.

“Well, you're not exactly a vision of loveliness yourself,” Bernie replied, which set them off into another gale of laughter.

Libby wiped the tears from her eyes. “Yeah. But at least I don't have mascara smeared all over my face.”

“This is true. I guess the ads lied. I guess it wasn't waterproof.”

Libby giggled. For some reason she thought Bernie's statement was hysterically funny. “You should demand a refund.”

“Maybe so.” And Bernie reached down, grabbed a handful of snow, and washed her cheeks with it. It numbed her face.

“Better,” Libby said. “Now you just look like a street urchin, instead of someone who slept in a coal bin.”

“Thanks.”

“What are sisters for? Well, I guess this proves one thing,” Libby said, changing the subject.

“What?” Bernie asked. The snow was swirling around her, but she didn't care. She was happy to be outside and to be able to breathe again.

“That whoever did this wants to kill us.”

Bernie stuck her hands in her pockets to warm them. “No. It proves that whoever did this doesn't care if we live or die.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because if they wanted to kill us, they would have set off something larger and blown the whole place up.” Bernie gestured to the bunker. “But it's still standing.”

“That might have been an accident on their part.”

“Also, they could have locked us in there and left us to suffocate, then claimed it was an accident. Who would be the wiser?”

“Now, there's an attractive thought.”

“No. I think that whoever did this knew exactly the right amount of explosives to use.”

“The same way they knew what they were doing with the turkey,” Libby said, thinking aloud. “They used just enough to kill Monty, but not enough to injure anyone else in the vicinity.”

Bernie nodded. “Exactly. Maybe they wanted to teach us a lesson.”

“God,” Libby said. “I really hate these people.”

“Me too.” A trail of footprints leading back in the direction of the house caught Bernie's eye. They were faint and growing fainter. She pointed. “I'm willing to bet that given the rate that it's snowing, those must belong to the person that set off the fireworks in the bunker.”

Libby went over and put her foot in one of the rapidly filling footprints. “Well, whoever these belong to has bigger feet than I do.”

“That's not hard, considering you're a size six. Everyone has bigger feet than you do. When we get back to the house, we should check everyone's boots and see if they're wet.”

“Good idea.” As Libby turned back to Bernie, her stomach started to rumble. Suddenly she realized she was ravenous. If she'd thought about it at all, she would have expected that she'd be too upset to eat.

“Hungry?” Bernie asked.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“Me too,” Bernie admitted. “Although what I could really use is a nice stiff drink. Like a Scotch. Single malt. Straight up with no ice. Then maybe a strip steak with some fries and a tossed salad with a good olive oil and lemon juice.”

“And a tarte tatin for dessert.”

“Naturally,” Bernie said.

Libby sighed wistfully. “Personally, I'd settle for some chocolate. Seventy percent dark. Lindt. Or even some Hershey's Kisses. No. Definitely Hershey's Kisses. They're comfort food.”

Bernie wiped the snowflakes off her face. “Tea with rum in it wouldn't be bad, either. Or maybe hot brandy with apple cider and cloves.”

“And a nice hot bath.”

“And a fire.”

“And Marvin.”

“Ditto Brandon.” Bernie chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I mean, it's one thing to investigate a murder and another thing to be stuck in the same house with the murderer, a murderer with a flair for the dramatic.”

“Agreed,” Libby said. “Most people just shoot people they want to kill.”

“Maybe Monty's death was designed to send a message.”

“Like don't eat commercially raised turkeys. Support your local poultry farmers.”

Bernie laughed. “Not quite.”

“So whom was the message intended for?”

Bernie shook her head. “Don't know. If we knew that, we could figure out who the killer is.” She hugged herself. The euphoria from having escaped the bunker was fading, and she was noticing the cold creeping up her legs again. Then she realized she was shivering.

“Of course,” Libby said, “there's always the possibility that we're overthinking this and our murderer just made do with the materials they had at hand.”

“There is that,” Bernie allowed. “Well, there's one thing I am sure of.”

“What's that?”

“That we need to get something to eat.”

“Definitely,” Libby said.

Bernie and Libby stopped talking and concentrated on walking. It seemed to be harder to do that than it was when she and Libby had come out to the bunker, maybe because this time they were walking into the wind, or maybe it was because she was even colder and wearier and hungrier than she had been.

“I'll tell you one thing,” Libby said as they got closer to the front door of the Field house.

“What's that?”

“Whoever did this is going to be surprised to see us.”

Bernie grinned at the thought. “And how.” She was really going to enjoy seeing the look on their faces.