A Catered Thanksgiving (20 page)

Bernie shrugged. “Seven thirty is okay by me.” Years of working at the shop had conditioned her to get up early.

“The time won't be a problem,” Libby agreed.

“Good,” Melissa said.

A moment later everyone was filing up the stairs. Bernie and Libby locked each person into their respective bedroom. The locks seemed sturdy enough, and fairly tamper-proof, Bernie thought. Of course, if one was slightly talented, one could probably open them from the inside with something like a hairpin, but Bernie decided not to mention that possibility and get everyone going again. It was now blissfully quiet without the sounds of everyone yelling at each other. And at the very least, with everyone snug in their rooms, she and Bernie would get a good night's sleep.

“Good night. Don't let the bedbugs bite,” Bernie called out to everyone once she and Libby had finished locking everyone in.

No one answered, but then Bernie hadn't really expected them to. “From caterer to jailer,” she said. “Who woulda thunk it?”

“Who indeed?” Libby agreed as the lights in the hallway flickered again. “We're not really going to patrol the second floor, are we?” Libby asked.

“No,” Bernie said. “Are you nuts?”

“Then why did you say we are?”

Bernie grinned and told Libby her idea involving the three bags of clear marbles she'd spotted sitting on a shelf in the garage.

“That way,” she concluded, “we'll hear anyone coming down the stairs.”

“Because they'll fall.”

“Exactly.”

“Brilliant!” Libby exclaimed.

Bernie smiled smugly. “I like to think so.”

“I
wonder where Monty's will is,” Libby mused as she and Bernie finished booby-trapping the stairs and walked into the living room.

Bernie shrugged. “He probably has his will in his lawyer's office, and he's left everything to some obscure charity,” she said.

Libby pulled up her pants. She really had to get the waistband on them fixed. “You're probably right. All this hue and cry for nothing. Won't the Field family be in for a surprise if that happens!”

Bernie suppressed a yawn. “Especially the person that murdered him. Talk about wasted effort.”

Libby started to yawn as well. “I'd think that whoever killed him had to be pretty sure that they knew where the will was.”

“I agree. Otherwise why bother? Only, when they went to look—surprise—the will wasn't there.”

“Jeez. Talk about not having your plans turn out.”

“I'd say.”

“Guess Monty really won.”

Bernie chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I don't think getting your head blown up constitutes winning, unless you have a really fatalistic outlook on life, or you were dying and wanted to have the last laugh on someone.”

“You'd really have to hate someone to do that,” Libby said.

“Maybe Monty was a good hater. It certainly sounds that way.”

Libby changed the subject. “On a more prosaic subject, I wonder if there are any extra pillows or blankets around.”

“If there are, they'd be upstairs,” Bernie said.

But she was too tired to check and so was Libby. Instead, she and Libby stopped by the living room window and looked out at the scene in front of them. The snow was still falling, but not as hard as it was before. It was coming down in shiny crystal flurries.

“It is pretty out there, isn't it?” Libby said to Bernie.

Bernie repinned her hair. “It certainly is.” She sighed. “All that powder. It reminds me of the West. You know,” she said, “it just occurred to me that if we had skis, we could get away from here.”

“But we don't,” Libby said, secretly glad that was the case.

As much as she wanted to get away from the Field family, the idea of skiing out of here seemed like a worse alternative. Bernie was a good skier, while she'd never gotten beyond the bunny slope. Mastering the snowplow had been beyond her. Maybe because she'd fallen down on purpose whenever she'd started going fast.

“Unfortunately.” Bernie sighed again. “It looks as if we're stuck.”

“I guess we should try and get some sleep,” Libby said.

Bernie nodded her head in agreement. But as it turned out,
try
was the operative word.

L
ibby and Bernie were attempting to sleep on the settees in the living room. This was proving to be next to impossible because the settees were narrow and hard and altogether inhospitable.

“I can't sleep on this sofa,” Libby said, trying to get comfortable.

“It's a daybed,” Bernie said as she tried to find a place for her feet.

“Whatever it is, it's built for midgets.”

“That's because people in the fourteenth century were smaller.”

Libby lifted her head. “What?”

“These are replicas of daybeds used in the court of Louis Quatorze.”

Libby groaned again. “All I know is that my back is never going to survive. What is this thing stuffed with?”

“Horsehair,” Bernie said.

“That's disgusting.”

“That's what they would have used back in the day. Either that or straw. Now, from the feel of it, it's probably cotton batting or foam rubber.”

“I hate this thing,” Libby groused as she tried to get comfortable.

Bernie wasn't faring much better. While she was thinner than Libby, she was taller and her feet hung over the daybed's edge, and if she tucked them under her, she started getting cramps in her calves. She knew that this was a sign that she needed water, but she was too tired to get up and get some. “This thing is worse than the airline seats,” she complained. “There's even less room, if that's possible.”

“Tell me about it,” Libby said as she shut her eyes and tried to imagine herself sleeping in her own bed. “I think these daybeds were meant for decoration,” she said after another five minutes had gone by. “I don't think they're meant for people to actually sit on.”

“Recline on.”

“That too.”

“I wonder if these daybeds are originals,” Bernie said, sitting up and running a finger over the frame's ornate carving. “Because if they're not copies, these daybeds are probably worth fifteen to twenty thousand dollars apiece.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? That I'm being tortured by something really expensive?”

Bernie laughed.

“But I guess if they're real, then they're another thing for the family to fight about,” Libby mused.

“There's a lot of money up for grabs now that Monty's dead,” Bernie said. “That's for sure.”

“Yeah.” Libby turned around again. No matter what she did, she couldn't get comfortable. “And there aren't a lot of good sharers in the bunch.”

“I wonder what Monty wanted,” Bernie mused.

“Peace and love and lots of money and total control of his entire family.”

“Seriously.”

“I'm guessing to be alive today and eating leftovers.”

“I mean heir wise.”

“He probably didn't know himself. I'm sure it varied with the day of the week. How often do you think Monty changed his will?”

“Way too often,” Bernie said.

“That could get confusing.”

“Well, it's going to give the lawyers some big, fat fees.”

“If everyone here doesn't kill each other first.”

“Which would also give the lawyers big, fat fees. I think it costs at least a hundred thou to hire a defense attorney for a murder rap, probably even more. Any way you go, the lawyers win.”

“Which was exactly what Monty was trying to avoid. Ironic, isn't it?” Libby said.

“Life is ironic,” Bernie noted.

“Waxing philosophic, are we?”

“I think the lack of sleep is finally getting to me.”

“Me too,” Libby said as she tried lying on her back. “The whole divide and conquer bit works every time.”

“It's certainly worked in this case. Except for Monty. Maybe if he'd been a little looser with the purse strings, no one would have felt the necessity of jerry-rigging the turkey, and he'd be alive today, and we'd be home.”

“Home would be a good thing.” Libby sighed. “I miss my bed.”

Bernie stretched. “I wonder how Dad's doing.”

“Better than we are.”

“I hope so.

“Me too.”

Libby and Bernie were quiet for a moment. They lay in the dark, listening to the house creaking and the wind blowing outside.

“You know what you were saying before about Monty keeping everyone on such a tight string, and that if he hadn't, maybe whoever killed him wouldn't have gotten impatient and decided to try for the brass ring?”

Bernie turned her head. “Yes?”

“So you think this murder is all about the money?” Libby asked.

“Don't you? What else could it be about? It certainly ain't about love.”

“Maybe it's about hate.” Libby was going to say more, but before she could, she turned on her right side and rolled off the daybed and landed on the floor with a thunk.

Bernie burst out laughing.

“It's not funny. It hurt,” Libby said, picking herself up.

“I just bet it did,” Bernie said before going off in another gale of laughter.

Libby stood up and rubbed her shoulder. “That's it. We have to find another place to sleep. These daybeds aren't working for me.”

“Me either,” Bernie agreed and she got up. “My kingdom for a decent mattress,” she said as she and Libby went looking for another place to stretch out.

B
ernie and Libby ended up in the study.

“Back here again,” Libby said. Somehow, the lilac bookshelves didn't look so bad now.

“At least now we know why everyone hangs out here,” Bernie said as she plopped herself down on the tweed-covered sofa.

Libby sat down on the flowered one. “Yeah, it's the only reasonably comfortable place in the house.”

“I'd kill for an air mattress,” Bernie said as she tested the sofa cushions with her fingers. They were lumpy.

Libby wadded up her parka to use as a pillow, placed it on the end of the sofa closest to the end table, and lay down. “Better,” she said.

“Much,” Bernie agreed after she'd done the same thing.

The sisters lay in the dark, listening to the whistling, whooshing noises the wind was making outside and the creaks and groans from inside. Every once in a while there was a noise that sounded like a shot being fired.

“It's an old house,” Bernie said by way of explanation, even though Libby hadn't asked for one. “Old houses make noises. It's probably the wood beams cracking in the cold.”

“Probably,” Libby said. “But it's unnerving, anyway.”

It was, but Bernie didn't want to say that. Because to say it would be to give in to a bad case of nerves.

Libby closed her eyes. After a moment, she opened them again. “God, this house has a lot of rooms,” she observed. “Too many. It's like a maze.”

Bernie turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. “Go to sleep.”

“I'm trying,” Libby said. She wasn't succeeding, she added silently, but she was trying.

Another five minutes went by. Bernie lay there wondering what everyone else in the house was doing. Whether or not they'd gone to sleep. Where Geoff was. How he'd managed to disappear into thin air like that. Surely there was something she was missing, but try as she might, she couldn't see what it was.

Geoff had to be somewhere. He could even be lurking out in the hall, by the door. She told herself that wasn't possible. She told herself she'd hear him or anyone else. She told herself to get a grip. But she couldn't. There was something wrong. Something wrong with the whole setup. But she couldn't figure out what it was. If she could relax and get her mind on something else, it would come to her.

So she tried thinking about recipes. Specifically about bread. About trying out a recipe for a yeast-risen sweet potato bread she'd read about last week. She pictured herself kneading the dough, feeling it smooth and satiny underneath her fingers, smelling the yeast and potatoes. But it didn't help. Her mind kept going back to Geoff. Finally she couldn't stand it anymore. She sat up.

“I need a drink,” she announced, getting off the sofa.

Libby sat up, too. “Include me in.”

“Will do,” Bernie said as she marched out of the study. She came back a moment later with a bottle of Courvoisier and two glasses. “I couldn't find any snifters.”

“I'm appalled,” Libby said, taking the glass that Bernie had just filled. “Simply appalled.”

“So I see.” Bernie poured a couple of fingers into her glass and raised it. “To finding Monty's killer,” she said.

“To getting out of here,” Libby added.

“The sooner the better,” Bernie said.

“Amen to that,” Libby said.

They clinked glasses and drank. Libby savored the brandy on her tongue. Then she felt it slip down her throat, warming her as it worked its way down to her stomach.

“God, I needed that.”

Bernie studied the amber liquid in her glass. “This is good stuff.”

“Monty probably reserved it for guests.”

“Probably,” Bernie agreed.

“Important guests.”

Bernie took another sip. “Well, he certainly wouldn't be pleased to see us drinking it. That's for sure. Us being common trades folk and all. I'm surprised Lexus isn't having us stay in the servants' quarters.”

“That's because there aren't any.”

“Which is surprising. I figured Alma for living here.”

“For her sake, I hope not. That would be hell,” Libby said as she took another sip of brandy. “I could really get to like this stuff,” she observed, changing the subject.

“Sometimes you really do get what you pay for,” Bernie observed. “Good chocolate. Good coffee. Good liquor. All cost money to make. And are worth every cent.”

Libby ran her finger around the rim of the glass. Crystal made a high-pitched squeak. This made no sound at all. “Monty probably marked the bottle, you know, like Mom used to do when we were younger.”

Bernie laughed at the memory. “And I kept on filling up the vodka bottle with water….”

“And Dad kept on complaining to Mom that she was watering down his drinks….”

“It was pretty funny.”

“Until she came up and caught you red-handed.”

“That wasn't so funny,” Bernie said, picturing the expression on her mom's face.

“No, it wasn't,” Libby said. She'd been in the bathroom at the time, but she'd heard everything through the door.

Bernie rubbed the side of her nose with her knuckle. “How was I supposed to know she'd forgotten her reading glasses? Boy, was she not happy. Neither was Dad, for that matter.”

“But he wasn't as unhappy as Mom. In fact, I got the impression that he thought it showed initiative on your part. Not that he would have said that to Mom. How long did she ground you for?”

“Two very long months.” Bernie intertwined her fingers, turned her palms outward, and stretched. “And don't forget, I had to wash all the pans in the shop as well. I think that was worse. Oh well, at least it was the winter. It would have been even worse if it had been the summer.”

Libby kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the coffee table. “How come you never told Mom I was drinking, too?” she asked.

Bernie shrugged. “You were her perfect little girl who never did anything wrong. I didn't want to disappoint her.”

“I was insufferable, wasn't I?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Did it bother you that you always got blamed for everything and I always skated?” Libby asked. She realized that they were both whispering.

Bernie grinned. “Once in a while, but mostly no. I got to have more fun.”

“And I envied you for it. I think I was too scared to do anything,” Libby reflected. “How come you weren't?”

Bernie shrugged. “I don't know, really. Maybe because I had less to lose than you. Or maybe because staying home never appealed to me.”

“Well, I want to thank you.”

Bernie inclined her head. “My pleasure.”

“I never would have thought back in the day that we'd make a good team.”

“But we do. Unlike the Field family.”

“Exactly,” Libby said.

“Let's drink to us,” Bernie replied, raising her glass.

Libby did the same. “Love, health, and the time to enjoy them.”

“Amen to that,” Bernie said.

And they clinked glasses and drank.

“So do you think that Geoff killed Monty?” Libby asked Bernie after Libby had put her glass down.

Bernie took another sip from her glass and pondered the answer. “He is the obvious candidate,” she said after a moment had gone by.

“Obvious is not necessarily true,” Libby said.

“So you don't think he killed Monty?” Bernie asked.

Libby considered her answer for a moment before speaking. “I'm not saying he didn't, but I have problems with him as the perpetrator.”

“How so?”

Libby thought about how to put what she wanted to say in words. Finally, she came up with, “I guess I don't think he's capable of orchestrating the whole turkey blowing up thing. Or maybe he's capable of it, but it just doesn't seem like his style. He's too emotional. Too impulsive. I think that if he were going to kill his father, he'd shoot him or hit him with something during an argument and then be scared and horrified and run away, not plan the murder out, then calmly sit there and wait for it to happen.”

“Maybe you're right about that,” Bernie said after thinking through what Libby had said. “But have you thought about the fact that he might have had help? Or more likely, Geoff was the ‘helpee'….”

“That's not a word,” Libby protested.

“No, it's not,” Bernie agreed. “But I like it, anyway. What I'm trying to say is that someone else might have planned the murder out and enlisted Geoff as a helper. He appears to be someone who could be easily led.”

“And the person doing the leading would probably be Melissa,” Libby said. “She seems like a likely candidate.”

Bernie nodded. “Well, despite what Melissa said, they did look tight to me when we saw them when we first got up here.”

“Boy, that seems like an eternity ago.”

“I can't believe it's only been”—Bernie consulted her watch—“twelve hours. It feels like forever.”

“It's certainly been a busy twelve hours,” Libby observed.

“Too busy,” Bernie said. She tapped her fingers against the sofa's arm. “The question is, how busy have Melissa and Geoff been?”

“Well, they were tight when we got here, you're right about that, but they've been arguing every since.”

“Maybe they're turning on each other.” Bernie stretched again. “We should try and help that along. See what happens.”

“It's a definite avenue. Of course,” Libby continued, “one of the other Field family members could have killed Monty as well, charming people that they are.”

Bernie yawned. She could feel herself starting to relax. The brandy was finally working its magic. Soon she'd be able to sleep. “Like Lexus. She's a cold-hearted, money-grubbing…”

“Wow. Don't hold back with your opinion,” Libby said.

Bernie laughed. “I guess that was a little over the top. But she has a definite motive….”

“So does everyone else,” Libby pointed out. “And I don't think she could rig the turkey by herself.”

“We don't know that,” Bernie protested. “For all we know, Monty could have taught her everything he knew about making fireworks.”

“Somehow, she doesn't seem the type.”

“I just have two words for you. Courting behavior.”

“Maybe you're right,” Libby said.

Bernie looked indignant. “Of course I'm right. I'm always right about male-female stuff. Premarriage, she was probably oohing and aahing over everything that Monty said and did.”

“When you put it that way, I can see him taking her down to the bunker and playing the big man and showing her what he did. However, no way could she lug Monty's body to her bed. So please explain that to me.”

Bernie smiled. “That's easy. Someone else did that. Which was why she was so upset. Obviously, she thinks it's Geoff, and she thinks the next step is going to be that he's going to try and blackmail her.”

“Which is why she wants us to find out where he is. Then she can get rid of him.”

“Maybe she already has. Or here's another possibility. Maybe she and Geoff were partners and had a falling-out. I mean, how else would he know that Lexus killed Monty?”

“
If
she killed Monty.”

“Fine,” Bernie acceded. “If she killed Monty. But Geoff's still involved whichever way you go.”

Libby rubbed her forehead. “You're giving me a headache.”

“I'm giving myself a headache,” Bernie said. “The mathematical permutations are endless. Or maybe they're just thirty-six. Actually I think it's twenty-eight. It could even be sixty-four. Or maybe…”

Libby held up her hand. “Let's not go there, please.”

“You're right. Let's not. That way madness lies.”

“There has to be a way to whittle the possibilities down.”

“There is,” Bernie said. “We'll just keep on poking and prodding, and eventually something will shake loose. It always does.”

“
Eventually
being the key word,” Libby said.

“Do you have another suggestion?” Bernie asked her.

“Hey, I wasn't disagreeing with you. I was just making an observation.” Libby took another sip of her brandy and ruminated on the situation at hand. “I think we should talk to Ralph and Perceval tomorrow about their trip…”

“And see if they have anything else to say. And let's not forget Bob and Audie. They always seem to be lurking around in the background.”

Libby ran her finger around the rim of her glass again. “I don't think they'll talk if Greta is around.”

“Agreed,” Bernie said. “So we'll have to take care of that.” She stifled a yawn. “You know, we really should have checked the bunker to see if Geoff was in there.”

“He's not.”

“He's most likely not.”

Libby snorted. “Count me out of that one. And if by some chance he is, as far as I'm concerned, he can stay out there and good luck to him. I'm not taking that walk again.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Bernie said. “Hopefully, it will have stopped snowing by then and we can see where we're going.”

“Always a good thing,” Libby noted. She glanced out the window. “It seems to be calming down out there a little.” She turned to look at Bernie. Her sister's eyes were closed. “Are you asleep?” she asked.

Bernie's eyes flew open. “I guess I was,” she admitted. She put her glass on the table, lay down on the sofa, and put one of the throw pillows over her face. A moment later she was sound asleep.

Libby drank the rest of her brandy and lay down as well. She started thinking about the Frosts' dinner party in four days and where she could get perfectly ripe pears for the pear-almond custard tart she was going to make. What had she been thinking? Good pears were hard to find, and she needed twelve for the two tarts.