A Catered Thanksgiving (9 page)

S
ean took a deep breath and listened to Bernie's voice mail for a second time. Suddenly he wasn't sitting by the pool in Martha's complex, soaking up the sun and trying to figure out how to politely decline going to a karaoke bar with Martha and her cronies that evening. He'd been running through his list of possible ailments he could suddenly develop without having to go to the hospital when he'd heard his phone ring.

But by the time he'd extracted the dratted thing from his jacket, it had stopped, a fact that irritated him no end. At least the old phones didn't move. They had substance. You knew where they were. Now you always had to go looking for them. Usually by the time he found it, the person on the other end of the line had hung up.

I mean, how was he supposed to remember where he put the phone? It was too small, anyway. The thing was made for a twelve-year-old girl. Just hitting those buttons was a chore. And it was light blue! What was Bernie thinking when she'd bought it for him? Imagine him liking the color. Phones were clearly meant to be black or silver. Then he'd listened to Bernie's voice mail and his irritation had been replaced by what? Alarm. Anger. Puzzlement. Shame. An emotional mess he couldn't sort out.

The question Bernie had posed in her voice mail immediately took him back to the last time he'd lost it. Sean sighed. He'd never discussed what had happened, not even with his wife. Especially not with her. What had happened was plain and simple. The facts weren't in dispute and never had been.

Sean took a sip of his water and put the bottle back down on the table. The sun was shining, it was a pleasant seventy degrees, and he was the only person at the pool. It hadn't been sunny back when it happened. He remembered the weather had been cold and raw. In the forties, with a cold rain falling.

It had been an unusually gray autumn, which hadn't offered much opportunity for leaf peeping. But that hadn't mattered to him. He'd been flying because he and Rose had bought the building on Main Street that the shop and the flat he and the girls now occupied were in. Rose had opened A Little Taste of Heaven three weeks after they'd moved in. She'd been so proud of it. Watching her bustle around the shop had made him smile. He'd loved sitting on a stool, sipping a cup of coffee, and watching her work.

Monty Field had walked into the shop on a Friday. No, it was a Tuesday, not that it really mattered, and he'd ordered $165.30 worth of fried chicken, coleslaw, green bean salad, mashed potatoes, brownies, and chocolate chip cookies.

Sean remembered the amount exactly. In those days $165.30 was a lot of money, and Rose was very excited. It was the first large order she'd gotten, and she'd worked very hard on it. Sean smiled as he remembered coming home after his shift and helping Rose mix up the chocolate chip cookies.

Monty had come back the next day and picked up the food. Unfortunately, after he put the order in the car, he realized that he didn't have his wallet with him, but he told Rose he'd be right back with the cash. And Rose had let him go. It was her second month in business, and she trusted everyone.

Only Monty Field didn't come back. He didn't come back that day or the next one or the one after that. He didn't answer Rose's calls or come to the door when she went up there. A month later Rose had come to Sean and asked him what she should do. And he said he'd take care of it. Rose had told him not to. In fact, she'd begged him to leave it alone, but he'd gone off, anyway. No one was going to treat his wife that way.

He was still in uniform when he'd jumped into his squad car and sped out to Monty Field's place. At that time Field lived a little farther up the road. It was late in the day, and he caught Field as he was coming out of his workshop. No one else was around when Sean had demanded Rose's money, which was a good thing, because the incident turned into one of those he said/he said deals.

Monty had told him he wasn't paying for inferior goods, or words to that effect. He'd told Sean that the chicken had been undercooked or burnt, that the coleslaw had made people sick, and that not only wasn't he going to pay Rose, but he was thinking of suing Rose for damages. Well, if there was one thing that Sean knew, it was that Rose's food was good. Her fried chicken was always perfect, and she was fanatical about keeping things at the proper temperature. So he'd lost his temper—he had quite a temper in those days—and he'd roughed up Monty Field. It wasn't anything that bad. Monty ended up with a few bruises and a cut lip. No broken bones. No concussion. Nothing like that.

But still it wasn't the kind of thing a sheriff should be doing. Even though Monty couldn't prove that Sean had done it—he denied it up and down—on some level the council knew that Sean was guilty as charged. So the politicians did what they were good at. They shushed things up and made a deal.

They gave Field a contract for the July Fourth fireworks on the town square and let him move his establishment to a noncommercial zone. After all, they didn't want to admit that their sheriff had beaten up a townsman. Understandably, because that would have opened them up to all sorts of liability charges. But Sean was sure it was one of the things—not
the
thing, but one of the things—that had gotten him dismissed from his job when he'd arrested the mayor's stepson for playing mailbox baseball.

Sean took a sip of his drink. However, all this had happened a long time ago—it felt like a different lifetime, when he'd been someone else—and he couldn't see any connection between him and Monty Field and Monty Field's murder. Lamebrains that they were, Monty's brothers, always a pair of winners, were probably just looking to deflect suspicion onto his girls.

God, he wished he could be up there now. But he couldn't. No flights were going in or out of any of the New York City airports. He'd checked multiple times, and nothing was flying into or out of the tristate area.

The Weather Channel announcer had reported that the storm wouldn't be tapering off until tomorrow and the cleanup would probably take a day or two. Realistically speaking, he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. And really, he told himself, the truth was that even if he had stayed in Longely, he couldn't have gotten to his daughters, anyway. He'd be at the flat and they'd be at the Field house. The situation would have been the same. But it still didn't make him feel any better.

Not that that was the issue at the moment. His issue was, what should he tell Bernie and Libby? He mulled that over for a few minutes, and after going through several variations of the events that had transpired, he decided that he'd better tell them the truth. All of it. When he thought about it now, he realized that although he'd gone about dealing with Field in the wrong way, his instincts had been good.

He had nothing to be ashamed of. Even though he'd acted unprofessionally, his offense had been committed for a good cause. When he'd gotten that settled in his mind, he punched in the numbers to Bernie's cell and told her what had happened between him and Monty Field all those years ago.

As it turned out, he was glad he called, because the Field brothers had already hinted at the incident and this gave him a chance to set the record straight. Sean thought the conversation went well, and he was just about to hang up when Martha and her cronies came marching out of the condo complex and surrounded him, making him feel around two.

“Who are you talking to?” Martha asked, nodding at Sean's cell phone. When he said, “Bernie,” she grabbed the phone out of his hand without so much as a by-your-leave. “I just want to tell you your dad is doing fine,” she blared. “We're taking him to play mah-jongg.”

“Mah-jongg,” Bernie repeated incredulously.

“Yes. And then we're all going to a tai chi class. You'll love it,” she said to Sean, catching the look on his face. “Good-bye,” she said to Bernie.

Sean grabbed for the phone, but it was too late. Martha had already hung up.

“I wasn't done,” he protested.

“Sorry,” Martha told him as she returned the phone. “You can call her back later.”

“I can call her back now,” he snapped as he punched in Bernie's number again. His call went straight to voice mail. He tried again.

Martha looked at her watch. “We're going to be late for the game.”

“It can wait,” Sean told his sister as he tried Bernie's number for the third time. Still nothing.

“There's a storm there, right?” Martha said.

Sean allowed as how that was correct.

“So the network is probably down.”

“Possibly,” Sean reluctantly agreed.

“Call someone else who uses that network and see.”

Even though it pained Sean to follow one of Martha's suggestions, he called Ines's cell and got the same result.

Martha gave him the smug smile she had had when they were kids. “I'm right,” she said triumphantly. “Maybe the network will come back up in a half an hour or so. You can try it at the game.”

“I'm not going to the game.”

“Of course you are. Joan will be disappointed if you don't come. She's been looking forward to it.”

“But I don't play mah-jongg,” Sean pointed out. He realized he was whining.

“You'll learn,” Martha said as she yanked him out of his beach chair. “It'll be fun.” Martha emphasized the word
fun,
which was when Sean recollected that his sister used to teach preschool.

“No, it won't be,” Sean protested.

“You never did like learning new things,” Martha observed as she handed Sean his cane. Then she added, “I'm not taking no for an answer.”

“You never have,” Sean mumbled.

Martha turned to face him. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why did you ask me what I'd said?”

Martha sighed. “You're right. Some things never change. How about gin rummy? You used to like that.”

Seam smiled. “I did, didn't I?”

Martha clapped her hands. “At last, a positive response.” Then she changed the topic. “What were you talking about with Bernie and Libby, anyway?”

“Monty Field's death.” And he told Martha what had happened.

“Joan will be interested to hear that,” Martha said when he was through.

“Why?”

Martha gave him an incredulous look. “Because she lived next to him.”

“Joan Adams? So you're in contact with her?”

“Of course I'm in contact with her. Who do you think we were going to be playing mah-jongg with?”

“You're kidding.”

“Why do you think I told you she was looking forward to seeing you?”

Sean didn't say anything.

“You haven't been listening to a thing I've been saying, have you?”

“Sure I have.”

“No, you haven't.”

“Does she live around here?”

Martha pointed to the entrance of a five-story building. “She's waiting for us in there.”

Sean started walking again. For the first time since he'd arrived, he was glad that he'd come down.

“A
t least now we know why Monty told us what he did,” Bernie said, thinking of the conversation they'd had about her mother's chicken.

“Dad should have told us,” Libby said.

“I can see why he didn't want to.”

“I can see, too. Poor Dad.”

The sisters were on the other side of the kitchen, conversing in a low voice as they watched Perceval, Geoff, and Ralph pull Monty's body out of the oven and wrap him in an old quilt Lexus had given them. It was a quilt, Bernie couldn't help reflecting, that looked like something you'd wrap around furniture when you were moving.

“Dad will survive,” Bernie told her.

“But not happily,” Libby said.

“That's true,” Bernie replied.

Libby didn't comment. She was wondering where the three men were going to store Monty Field's body.

“I bet he'd rather be here,” Bernie continued.

“Dad? Without a doubt,” Libby replied, refocusing on what her sister was saying. “I think he'd rather be in the middle of a firefight than there, given what you told me.”

Bernie grinned. It was a well-known fact that her dad hated playing dominoes and checkers, but he reserved his special scorn for mah-jongg. Bernie remembered him saying, “A game for rich, spoiled old ladies who have nothing better to do.” Talk about karma. The idea of her dad playing that made her laugh out loud. “If my cell were working, I'd love to call and tell him I told him he shouldn't go down there,” she told Libby.

“Which would be cruel,” Libby said.

“But satisfying.” Bernie gave her cell another glance. It was still a no-go. She made a face. “Unfortunately, it's not an option.”

Her reception had gone out right after Martha had hung up her dad's phone, so she and Libby hadn't been in touch with their dad since then. Not being able to talk to him made her nervous. Which was ridiculous. She wasn't two. But since there was nothing she could do about it, she turned her attention back to the drama at hand.

“So where are you taking him?” Bernie asked Geoff as she watched Geoff, Perceval, and Ralph trot by with Monty Field's body wrapped in the quilt.

“To the garage, of course,” Geoff replied. “Where did you think we were going to put him?”

Bernie shrugged her shoulders. “I guess I thought you'd have him lying in state in his bedroom.”

“Maybe we should do that,” Geoff said to Ralph, having missed the sarcasm in Bernie's comment.

“Hardly,” Ralph replied. “Lexus would have a fit.”

“One of the other bedrooms?” Geoff said.

“No. They're all occupied. The garage is the only available space.”

“Somehow it doesn't seem very respectful.”

“Well, it's better than having your dad lying around the kitchen,” Perceval pointed out to Geoff.

Geoff waffled. “I don't know,” he said.

Ralph snorted. “Come on,” he said to Geoff. “Let's go. Monty's getting heavy.”

“That's because he's deadweight,” Perceval rejoined. “Don't you get it,” Perceval said when no one laughed. “Deadweight. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Geoff scowled. “That's not funny, Perceval,” he said as he shifted his grip so he could get a better grasp on his father's body.

“You never did have a sense of humor, not even when you were a kid,” Perceval told him as the three men started walking again.

“I laugh when something's funny,” Geoff retorted. “And you're not. Dad didn't think you were, either.”

“Your dad wouldn't have recognized a joke if it came with a laugh track attached to it,” Perceval told Geoff as the men neared the door.

“Just because he didn't think that blowing up Lexus's van with a bottle rocket was funny,” Geoff said.

“Oh, please. Let's not exaggerate. The van was just damaged a little. And, anyway, Geoff, it was your rocket.”

“Yes, it was, but I wasn't going to set it off.”

“That's not what you told Melissa,” Perceval replied.

Bernie could see the color rising in Geoff's cheeks.

“By all means, take her word for it,” Geoff said. “She wouldn't know the truth if it hit her in the head.”

Ralph spoke before Perceval could answer. “Please, gentlemen,” he said, addressing both men. “Could you stop bickering and show a little respect.”

“For Monty?” Perceval's tone was incredulous. “Why? He never had any respect for me or for you, either, for that matter.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Geoff said.

“I would,” Perceval replied. “Look what he did to us. If that doesn't show a lack of respect, I don't know what does.”

“I have to agree,” said Ralph. “Treating us like we were kids. Making us account for every cent we spent. That was just wrong.”

“Maybe he had a reason for doing that,” Geoff protested.

“You can't be serious,” Perceval retorted.

“I am.”

“Sure. The same way he made Alma account for every penny she spent,” Ralph observed.

Geoff rubbed his hands together. “Money doesn't grow on trees, you know.”

“Oh my God,” Perceval said. “Now you're sounding just like him. Why are you defending him when he treated you like dirt, too?”

But Bernie couldn't hear Geoff's reply, because by now the three men and the corpse were out in the hallway.

“Ah, that's what I love about the holidays,” Bernie said. “They always bring out the best in everyone.”

“So it would seem,” her sister said. “So it would seem.”