A Catered Thanksgiving (6 page)

F
or the next half an hour, Libby and Bernie worked side by side as they chopped the celery, onions, garlic, and parsley for the two stuffings. Then Libby found the biggest sauté pan that the kitchen had and melted two sticks of butter in it. First, she sautéed half the vegetables and poured the contents into a bowl. Then she put in two more sticks of butter and sautéed the next batch of vegetables. She crumbled corn bread into the bowl, then added ten cups of cubed bread, lots of black pepper, and some more butter.

“You can never have too much butter,” she said in answer to Bernie's raised eyebrow as she set the stuffing aside.

“I'm sure the AMA would disagree with that,” Bernie replied.

“Then screw 'em,” Libby said, opening the cans with the oysters and adding them to the other bowl, which held the remaining toasted, cubed bread and sautéed vegetables. “This is holiday food, and you should be able to eat what you want on the holidays.”

“Amen to that,” Bernie said as she cleaned out the turkey's cavity, salted and peppered the inside, and placed the turkey in the pan, thinking as she did about the time one of her roommates out in Cali had roasted a chicken with the little packet of entrails still in the bird, because Bernie hadn't been there to tell her not to.

Next, Bernie took the oyster stuffing that Libby had prepared and put it inside the turkey's cavity. Then she took the heavy needle and thread that she'd brought and sewed the cavity shut and tucked the legs close to the breast. “I hope you'll be delicious and you won't have died in vain,” she said to the turkey as she put it breast side down in the pan so all the juices would flow into it.

Of all the methods Bernie had tried for roasting a turkey—basting it every fifteen minutes, putting an aluminum tent over it, covering the breast with cheesecloth—this one seemed to work the best. You roasted it breast side down and then turned it breast side up for the last three-quarters of an hour of cooking time so the skin could brown. Bernie rubbed the skin with a mixture of butter, oil, salt, pepper, and paprika and slid the bird into the oven, which Libby had already preheated.

“Here we go,” she said to Libby as she set the timer she'd brought with them.

Libby just nodded as she began peeling the potatoes for the sweet potato casserole. She loved sweet potatoes. They tasted great, were extremely good for you nutrition-wise, and came in pleasing shades of orange and yellow. What was there not to like? But putting marshmallows on top of them? No. She didn't think so. She realized it was an American tradition, but a relatively recent one. After all, marshmallows didn't become popular until the 1930s. They reached their high point in the 1950s, their use waning in the 1970s, when the food revolution hit American shores.

However, in those forty years they managed to find their way into a multitude of places they didn't belong. Libby still remembered a particularly ghastly salad she'd encountered that had been made with tomatoes, romaine lettuce, blue cheese, and marshmallows, and since the person who had made it had been an aged relative, she'd had to eat it and smile. Even worse had been the scrambled eggs and marshmallows her best friend's mother had whipped up for a late night snack.

She still shuddered at the memory of that. So really, looked at in that context, a sweet potato marshmallow casserole wasn't so bad. And even if it was, it didn't matter, because the truth was that in this business you gave the customer what they wanted—within reason, of course. Otherwise, you'd be out of business.

Bernie looked over to see her sister staring off into space. “What's going on?”

Libby shook herself. “Nothing. I was just thinking that if we had enough sweet potatoes left over after the casserole…”

“Which we do,” Bernie said.

“I was being rhetorical. Anyway,” Libby continued, “I was thinking that we could sauté the extra potatoes up with some pickled ginger and serve them as another side dish.”

“I didn't see the pickled ginger in the cartons,” Bernie objected.

“I tucked it in my backpack on the way out the door. It was kinda a last-minute thing.”

Bernie laughed. “Well, the dish seems a little avant-garde for the Field family, but why not? The worst that can happen is that they won't like it.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Libby said.

Bernie gave her sister an appraising look. “You know, you do have this missionary streak in you when it comes to food.”

Libby shrugged because it was true. She fought against it, but for better or worse, it was there. “I'm not denying it,” she said. “I think I get it from Mom.”

“I think you do, too,” Bernie agreed, remembering her mom's story about how she'd gotten their dad to eat garlic.

And on that note she and Libby went back to work. They spent the next hour making a pumpkin bisque, which they planned to serve in small sugar pumpkins with toasted croutons floating on top; peeling chestnuts and combining them with Brussels sprouts, to be finished off on top of the stove; making a salad of arugula, endive, and watercress with a sprinkling of toasted hazelnuts; plating the hors d'oeuvres they'd brought from the shop; and getting the dining room table set up, which took some doing because they couldn't find a tablecloth that fit.

“That's why I hate these kind of events,” Bernie grumbled as she gave up looking through the linens and decided to overlap two smaller white Irish linen tablecloths instead. “From now on in, we're just dropping the food off and leaving.”

“Works for me,” Libby said as she located a silver platter for the turkey and a silver dish for the corn-bread stuffing. “We lose money every time we do this,” she noted, holding the serving pieces up. “Bernie, what do you think?”

“I think the sizes are right, but they need to be polished,” Bernie replied.

Libby plunked the serving pieces on the sideboard and opened up the top of the silver chest she'd found in the top drawer. She sighed in dismay as she studied the contents. “As does the silverware.”

Bernie let out an indignant snort. She hated polishing silver. Always had, always would. “That is not in our job description,” she groused.

“Too true,” Libby agreed. “But Mom would be happy.”

For some reason their mother had always loved polishing silver. It had relaxed her, as had ironing. At least that was what she'd always told Libby and Bernie. This, however, was a concept that neither one of Rose's daughters understood. Not even vaguely.

“We could always use plastic stuff,” Bernie suggested. “I think I saw some in the kitchen.”

“We may have to if we can't find the polish,” Libby retorted as she gathered the silver up and walked back into the kitchen. “Obviously, Alma was slacking off.”

Bernie cleared a place on the closest countertop for Libby to put down the silver. “Maybe that's why Monty fired her.”

Libby stifled a yawn as she looked out the window. It was still snowing. If anything, it had gotten worse. “Ralph told me it was because she stole money. Not that it really matters, because we still have to get this stuff cleaned up.”

Bernie shook her head and pinned a loose strand of hair back up. “Just another thing to do.”

Libby and Bernie were searching for the silver polish in the kitchen utility closet when Monty Field came traipsing in.

“Ladies, how's the turkey doing?” he asked.

“Cooking along,” Bernie said.

Monty Field rubbed one of his hands along the side of his beaklike nose before bringing it back down to his side. “I thought I'd check on the bird.”

Libby nodded toward the oven. “Be our guest.”

“This is my favorite part of the holiday,” he confided as he walked toward the oven. “Alma always told me that the turkey would roast without my help,” he said with a smile. “But I don't believe it. Actually, I don't think she liked me in her kitchen. Not one single bit. I know her son certainly didn't. He'd glare at me every time I came in.” And he gave a self-deprecating laugh.

“I can't imagine why,” Libby said as she and Bernie laughed with Monty to be polite. “After all, if you're not entitled to be here, who is?”

“That's what I told him,” Monty replied. “He was better behaved after that.” Monty bent over and opened the oven door. “But she did make a good turkey,” he continued. “I'll give her that.”

“Hopefully, ours will be, too,” said Libby.

“Better than your mother's chicken, at any rate.”

“Excuse me?” Libby said, thinking she hadn't heard Monty Field correctly.

“You were not my first choice,” he informed them. “However, since I'm not paying, I acceded. Perhaps you will prove me wrong, although in my experience the apple never falls far from the tree.”

Bernie and Libby were both too flabbergasted to speak. They simply watched as Monty reached over and pulled the rack containing the turkey out a couple of inches. Then he bent down even farther and inhaled.

“Smell that,” he said, using his hand to waft the aroma up to his nose. “There's nothing like it. They should bottle it. Don't you agree, girls?”

But Libby wasn't listening to what Monty was saying. She was focusing on the turkey. She didn't get it. The turkey had been roasting breast side down, but now it was breast side up. That made no sense. The only possible explanation was that Bernie had turned the bird. But why? It wasn't time yet. She turned to Bernie to ask why she'd done that, but before she could get the words out, Monty reached over and tapped on the pop-up button embedded in the turkey's breast with the forefinger of his right hand.

He went tap, tap, tap.

On the third tap the turkey exploded.

B
ernie and Libby stood there with their mouths hanging open. They were too stunned to move. Or speak. Their ears rang. They couldn't believe what they were seeing.

Finally Libby said, “Tell me that isn't what I think it is.”

“It is.” Bernie pointed to the oven.

Monty Field lay sprawled half on the floor and half on the oven door. His head had been turned sideways by the blast. The upper half seemed to be gone.

Libby put her hand to her mouth and averted her eyes. She didn't want to look, but Bernie couldn't tear her eyes away.

“Ugh,” Bernie said as she gingerly stepped around the blood dripping onto the floor. Monty's eyes seemed to follow her as she reached over and turned off the heat. “Death by turkey,” Bernie said, the words flying out of her mouth before she could stop them. “That's a new one.” Then she gave a nervous giggle, which was something she always did when she was extremely upset. “Who would have thought?”

“Who indeed?” Libby took a deep breath. She still hadn't moved from the spot she was standing in. Her legs felt wobbly, and her stomach was doing odd flip-flops. “I told you those pop-up buttons were no good,” she wailed.

“Evidently not,” Bernie replied. She was still having trouble thinking clearly.

“We killed him,” Libby continued. “The stuffing made the turkey explode, and we killed him. I can't believe it.”

“Don't be silly,” Bernie said automatically.

“No. We did,” Libby insisted.

“That's ridiculous,” Bernie told her.

“Well, can you come up with another explanation?” Libby demanded.

“Possibly.” Bernie studied the oven and the area surrounding it.

Of course, there was another explanation. There had to be. It was just a matter of reading the scene and coming up with one. She put aside her queasiness and told herself to focus.

“Well?” Libby said after a minute had gone by.

“No oyster stuffing,” Bernie finally said.

“No oyster stuffing?” Libby repeated. “What do you mean, no oyster stuffing?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“Which makes no sense,” Libby said, raising her voice.

“Calm down.”

“I am calm. I just want to know what you meant by ‘no oyster stuffing.' Under the circumstances I don't think that's too much to ask.”

“I meant exactly what I said, Libby,” Bernie replied in a voice that Libby found infuriating. “There's a lot of other stuff on the walls”—Bernie didn't think she needed to be more specific—“but I don't see any oyster stuffing, do you?”

Libby looked around for a moment. She saw turkey and sweet potato casserole and corn-bread stuffing and some pieces of what she thought might be Monty Field's head—better not to speculate on that—but Bernie was right. No oyster stuffing. Or so it would appear. Frankly, she didn't want to get close enough to find out.

“Maybe, there isn't any stuffing,” Libby conceded. “But so what?”

“Well, then, where did the stuffing go?”

“Who cares?”

Bernie rolled her eyes. “You should care. Our insurance will care.”

“Maybe it got atomized,” Libby suggested. “Maybe the explosion turned it into tiny particles that we can't see.”

Bernie waved her hand around the kitchen. “Nothing else did.”

Libby put her hands on her hips. “So, Bernie, exactly what
are
you saying?” she demanded.

Bernie rocked back and forth on the heels of her boots. “It's obvious, isn't it?”

“Not to me.”

“I'm saying that someone took the stuffing out.”

“So?”

“So think about it, Libby.”

“I am.”

“Think harder.”

“I hate when you do this.”

“You need to pull yourself together,” Bernie told her.

Libby had to admit that was true. She chewed on her lip while she thought, but she couldn't focus on anything. She was too rattled to think. She took a couple of deep breaths. That didn't work. No. What she needed was a piece of chocolate. Which she'd had the foresight to pack. Actually, she never left home without it. Who knew when a chocolate emergency might arise? Some people had tranquilizers. She had chocolate.

After she'd eaten a couple of Lindt's extra dark truffles and taken a couple more deep breaths, she began to understand what Bernie had been saying. “I get it,” she said. “Someone took the stuffing out and replaced it with an explosive device. And that's why the turkey was breast side up. Because whoever did it was in a hurry and they put the turkey back in the pan wrong.”

Bernie nodded her approval. “Exactly.” Then she had another idea. “Or they might have substituted an already roasted turkey, which they'd jerry-rigged with a bomb, for ours,” she posited. “Smell that?” she asked.

Libby sniffed. “Now that you mention it, yes.” She'd smelled it to begin with, but with everything going on, it just hadn't come to the fore of her consciousness.

“That's gunpowder,” Bernie said. “That's what they use in fireworks.”

Libby offered a truffle to Bernie, who took it—a mark of how upset she was. Then Libby took one, too. In her opinion, sisters never let sisters eat chocolate truffles alone. For a moment, both women stood there, allowing the chocolate to melt on their tongues and coat their mouths.

“Whoever did it must have done it when we were in the dining room, setting the table,” Libby finally said.

“Had to have been,” Bernie agreed. “We were in the kitchen the rest of the time.”

Now that the shock was wearing off, Libby was indignant. “We could have been killed,” she said.

“Indeed, we could have. Although,” Bernie said thoughtfully, “it was tapping the pop-up button that set the device off.”

“Maybe we were the targets,” Libby said.

“No,” Bernie said. “I think Field was.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm not sure,” Bernie said. “But first of all, I can't think of any reason why anyone here would want to kill us, and secondly, neither one of us would have tapped that button. Think about it. It's not something people usually do.”

Libby made a clicking sound with her tongue. “I wonder if that's something that Field usually did.”

“Yes, it was,” Bernie said, remembering a conversation she'd had with Perceval. “It was one of Monty's foibles.”

“Foibles?”

“Shtick.”

Libby absentmindedly reorganized the Parker House rolls in the breadbasket. “Well, it's good that this isn't our fault,” she added.

“Not even remotely our fault,” Bernie said. “Turkeys do not explode without a lot of help. At least not like that they don't.”

“There was the ‘exploding snail in the puff pastry' incident that happened somewhere in upstate New York a couple of years ago,” Libby pointed out.

“That was different,” Bernie told her. “That was a temperature–air pocket thing. That was completely different than what happened here. And the lady just got a minor burn. She didn't get her head blown off. No, we have no liability with this whatsoever.”

Libby decided Bernie was probably right. She gave a sigh of relief. Even though Bernie had already mentioned the insurance thing, she wasn't going to admit to her that one of the first things that had occurred to her after the explosion was whether or not their insurance policy would cover this. What clause would something like this fall under? she wondered. Sometimes she couldn't believe how crass she was.

“Who do you think did this?” she asked.

Bernie shook her head. “Some pissed-off Field family member,” she said.

Libby rubbed her hands together. She was beginning to feel cold. It could be shock, or it could be the temperature of the house. “I wish Dad was here,” she blurted out.

“Me too,” Bernie said.

“Maybe we should call him.”

“And tell him what? That Monty Field died from an exploding turkey?”

“I guess,” Libby answered,” when you put it like that, there's really no point in worrying him. I mean, it's not as if there's anything he can do from Florida. He'll insist on coming right back.”

“Exactly.” Bernie tapped her nails on the kitchen counter. “Not to mention the fact that we're going to have to hear how he told us not to take this job every day for the next year.”

“Two years, at least,” Libby said.

“The police can handle this,” Bernie said.

“I don't envy them their job,” Libby commented.

“Me either,” Bernie said. “Everyone here knows about fireworks, everyone has access to them, and everyone here apparently dislikes Monty.”

Libby looked around and shuddered. “I'd hate to be the one that does that cleanup.”

“Well, they're definitely going to have to get rid of the oven,” Bernie said as she went over and fished her cell out of her tote bag so she could call the cops. “I can't imagine ever baking anything in it ever again.”

She'd just started to dial 911 when Ralph and Perceval came running into the kitchen.

“We heard a noise,” Perceval said.

“It sounded like an explosion,” Ralph added. Then he caught sight of the blood and his brother lying half in the oven. “Oh my God,” he cried. “They've killed Monty.”

There was no doubt in Libby's mind that the “they” Ralph was referring to were her and Bernie.

If there was any doubt at all, it was dispelled when Perceval turned to her and Bernie and said, “Why did you do this?”

“Us?” Bernie countered. “You're kidding me, right?”

She would have said more except that Lexus came running in, took one look at her husband's body, shrieked, and commenced a graceful swan dive onto the kitchen floor, after she'd picked a spot where she wouldn't stain her white cashmere sweater and slacks.

As Libby watched Lexus do a bad imitation of a woman fainting from grief and fear, it occurred to her that as improbable as it might seem, she and Bernie were being set up to take the fall for Monty Field's death. The whole thing had been preplanned, and they'd walked right into it. At least, that was how it looked to her at the moment, she thought as she watched Perceval take out his phone and call the police.