A Catered Thanksgiving, page 11
Bernie was struggling with the door.
“Let me help,” Libby said. She grasped the handle with Bernie, and they both yanked. They heard a pop, and the door went flying open, throwing them both into the snow.
“Guess it wasn’t locked,” Bernie said as she picked herself up and brushed herself off.
“Guess not,” Libby agreed as she shook the snow off the back of her scarf as the door blew shut.
“Shall we try again?” Bernie asked, nodding toward the door.
Libby nodded back. At this moment she didn’t care if there was enough nitro in there to blow herself and everyone else up. She just wanted to get in out of the storm.
“Here we go,” Bernie said.
She and Libby braced themselves. They grabbed the handle and pulled. This time they both managed to remain upright as the door swung open. Libby loosened her grip and edged her way inside. Bernie followed. The door shut with a thud. It was pitch black inside. The sisters couldn’t see anything.
Chapter 17
“Wonderful,” Bernie said as she fumbled around the walls, searching for the light switch. “We should have brought a flashlight with us.”
“We don’t have a flashlight,” Libby reminded her.
Bernie was too busy cursing to reply. Actually, it didn’t take her long to find the light switch, though as Libby would later tell her father, it seemed like an eternity, what with the wind making strange whistling noises outside.
“Got it,” Bernie said and flicked the switch.
There was a whoosh and a fan turned on. Must be the venting system, Bernie thought as her fingers found the switch next to it and turned that one on as well. Suddenly the room was bathed in light. Pink, green, and blue auras danced in front of the sisters’ eyes.
Libby blinked and looked around. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but this was not it. “The place looks bigger from the outside,” was the first thing she said as she took a step out of the small entrance foyer she and Bernie were standing in.
Bernie put her hood down and unzipped her jacket. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“How on earth do they manufacture things here?”
“They don’t.” Bernie wiped the snow off of her cheeks with the back of her hand, then wiped that on the back of her jacket. “Remember, you told me this is where Monty and his family come up with new ideas for fireworks. It’s not where they manufacture them. I think I remember reading that their plant is somewhere in Pennsylvania, which would make sense. Since it’s illegal to sell fireworks in New York State, it might be illegal to make them here as well.”
“And set them off,” Libby added as she stamped the snow off her shoes. It made a little wet pile on the gray concrete floor.
“That’s what I just said.”
“I was thinking of Dad.”
Bernie smiled. “Yeah, it used to piss Mom off no end when Dad lit them off on the Fourth of July.”
“It certainly did.”
Bernie laughed at the memory. “She used to get so angry.”
“It never stopped Dad, though,” Libby noted.
“No, it didn’t, did it?” Bernie replied as she looked around. “In fact, it egged him on.”
The room she was standing in was twelve feet by twenty feet and was lined with shelves on two sides. A bulletin board was affixed to the third side, which was the wall opposite the door. Two long metal tables, the kind one found in restaurants, ran the length of the shelving. Four office chairs on wheels were pushed under them. One of the tables had scales, measuring cups, mixing bowls, and retorts, as well as a box of Kleenex and a yellow legal pad.
“Just like home,” Bernie said, indicating the bowls. “A pinch of this, half a cup of that, and voilà. You have an explosion.”
“As in the turkey.”
“Exactly,” Bernie said.
Libby lightly touched the bowls and the scales with the tips of her fingers. “Really, if you put it that way, it’s not that different from what we do. After all,” she added, thinking of one of her earlier cooking mishaps, “if you add enough baking soda to cake batter, the cake explodes.”
Bernie chuckled. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“I haven’t,” Libby said, thinking back to how long it had taken her to clean the oven with her mother standing over her.
She looked at the pad. Someone had jotted down two numbers and a word. The first number was 899.92. That was followed by a question mark. The second number was spelled out. It was one million and was underlined three times. A little farther down the page was the word Africa and the word GAB spelled out in capital letters. At the bottom of the page the same person had written the word explanation. They’d underlined the word several times and followed it with five exclamation points.
Libby handed the pad to Bernie. “What do you make of this?” she asked.
Bernie studied the page for a little while. Then she said, “Well, for openers, look at the way explanation is written. The underlining, the exclamation points, the amount of pressure the person used bearing down on the pen. I’d say whoever wrote the word explanation was extremely upset. As in he wanted one and it had better be good.”
Libby nodded. That was her feeling as well.
“My guess is that these notes refer to something that’s happening in Africa,” Bernie continued. “Maybe the company is sending fireworks to Africa. A lot of fireworks. A million dollars’ worth is a lot of fireworks. So is eight hundred ninety-nine dollars and ninety-two cents, for that matter.”
Libby sniffed. Her nose was still running and her throat felt tickly. Maybe her nose was running not because she was cold; maybe it was running because she was getting sick. She’d been fighting off something for a week now, and she was sure the little trek she’d taken hadn’t helped.
Libby sniffed again. “Those numbers seem a little improbable,” she replied. “Why wouldn’t they make their own fireworks in Africa, instead of spending money to have them imported?”
Bernie shrugged. “Well, they send wallboard here from China, don’t they?” she asked. “And I know they were sending bricks from there to here. I mean, these days who knows.”
“That doesn’t say a lot of good things about our economy,” Libby said as she hugged her parka to her. It was cold enough in here so that she could see her breath. But she reminded herself it was still better than being outside. Hopefully, by the time they were done, the storm would have subsided somewhat.
“No. It doesn’t. At least what we do can’t be outsourced,” Bernie said.
“That’s true,” Libby agreed.
Both sisters were quiet while they thought about that. After a minute or so had elapsed, Bernie went back to thinking about the matter at hand.
“Or maybe,” she ruminated, “I’m wrong and there were two different sales, which would mean almost two million dollars’ worth of fireworks. Wow. That’s a lot of gunpowder.”
“It certainly is.” Libby didn’t want to think about how much. “But what about the word GAB? That doesn’t fit in anywhere.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?” Bernie agreed. She studied the notepad some more. A moment later she had the beginnings of an idea. “What if the letters aren’t a word?” she said slowly. “What if they’re initials?”
“So?” Libby said. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Well, what if the initials stand for Greta, Audie, and Bob? That would fit in with the rest of the page.”
Libby grinned. “Yes, it would. And they did say they were here to see Monty about a business deal.”
“Exactly. But maybe it’s not a deal that’s pending, but one that’s already been completed.”
“And the two numbers written on the page aren’t two different deals, but the differential between what Monty expected and what he got.”
Bernie nodded. “Hence the word explanation. As in he’s demanding an explanation for the discrepancy.”
“The only problem with that scenario,” Libby countered, “is that Monty didn’t seem upset when he was talking to them out front after we arrived. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“That’s true.” Bernie tapped the edge of the pad against her front teeth. “But maybe Monty was just acting. He strikes me as the kind of man who lulls someone into a sense of security and then pounces.”
“He’d have them arrested if they were embezzling money, that’s for sure,” Libby said. “Look at what he did to Alma.”
“Without a doubt. Maybe he was planning to have them arrested here and the storm interfered and Greta, Audie, and Bob found out and killed him first.”
“How did they find out?”
“One of the other family members told them. Had to be,” Bernie said.
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they wanted a share of the cash.”
Libby nodded. “I can see that. But could they have jerry-rigged the turkey that fast?” she wondered out loud.
“If they knew what was going to happen, then they would have come prepared. But even if they didn’t, even if they found out when they got here, it wouldn’t take them that long to rig the turkey if they knew what they were doing.”
“And you think they could have?”
“Absolutely. I bet if we talked to them, we’d find that they’ve been playing around with this stuff all their lives. It’s a family business, after all.”
Libby clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I guess now they’ve got a motive. If what we’re postulating is true.”
“Nice word.”
“I think so.”
“Hopefully, we can find something in the company files that will back this up.”
“Facts are always good,” Libby observed.
“So I’ve been told,” Bernie said. Not that she necessarily agreed with that statement when the facts proved to be inconvenient.
She put the pad back down on the table and studied the shelves lining the bunker walls. On the far wall were containers of chemicals. Most of the containers were plastic. All of them had pasted-on white labels with the names of their contents carefully spelled out in big black block letters.
“Do you know what any of this stuff is?” Libby asked as she gave the wall a brief once-over.
Bernie shook her head. “Well, it’s not used for making apple pies, that’s for sure.”
“I should have taken chemistry in college,” Libby lamented.
Bernie laughed. “I doubt if that would help you with this,” she said as she turned to study the contents of the shelves on the opposite wall. Those shelves were full of cartons with names like Fire, Black Cat, Big Shot, Ass Kickin’ Mule, and Sundance written on them. “Fireworks,” Bernie said, and she walked over and opened one called Great Bear. “I wonder what this is like when it goes off.”
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Libby replied, her attention drawn to the bulletin board on the wall opposite the door.
She and Bernie moved toward it. The bulletin board was covered with news clips and photos of fireworks displays. Under each one, someone had written the location, date, and time of the event. Bernie noted that all the displays shown were on the East Coast. Then she noted that the handwriting under the displays was the same as the handwriting on the legal pad. Bernie wondered if it was Monty’s. She thought it probably was.
“Nice displays,” Bernie said, studying the pictures. “They look very professional.” She indicated the room with a sweep of her hand. “So is this setup. Everything here is immaculate.” She knocked on the wall the bulletin board was attached to. “I wondered if this wall is the weak one,” she mused.
Libby looked at her sister. “Weak what?”
“Weak wall.”
“What are you talking about?” Libby asked.
“Nothing. I just read somewhere that every building where they store fireworks in has one weak wall so that if there’s an explosion, the entire place isn’t leveled.”
Libby crossed her arms over her chest. “This is not a piece of information I need to know.”
“I thought you’d find it reassuring.”
Libby gave her sister an incredulous glance. “Sometimes you amaze me.”
“That’s what Brandon says,” Bernie replied.
“And he doesn’t mean in a good way.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. I am a paragon of virtue.”
Libby choked on her cough.
“Well, almost,” Bernie conceded and she pointed to the next room. “That has to be the office. Maybe we’ll find something that’ll help us in there.”
“I certainly hope so,” Libby groused. “I’d hate to think that we took that walk for nothing.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Bernie said as she and Libby moved toward the office.
“You’re just saying that to annoy me,” Libby said.
“No, it’s true,” Bernie replied. “You know, testing your mettle against the outdoors and all that.”
Libby rolled her eyes. “This from the woman who has told her boyfriend the only camping she’d do is at a motel with a pool.”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?”
“Peeing.”
“Peeing?”
“Yeah, the whole peeing and pooping thing. I’m not a big fan of doing it outdoors. The thought of wiping myself with leaves that could turn out to be poison ivy gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“That’s what would happen to me,” Libby said.
Bernie sniggered. “It did happen to you at Camp Wassatanga.”
“I prefer not to talk about that,” Libby said with as much dignity as she could manage.
By now both women were at the doorway to the office.
They looked inside.
Their hearts sank.
Chapter 18
The place was a mess. There was no other word for it. Whereas the room outside was totally organized, the office was chaos. Papers were strewn all over the desk and the floor. They spilled out of the two file cabinets and onto shopping bags filled with what looked like unopened junk mail.
“Obviously, Monty’s secretary quit,” Bernie said.
“Yeah. About five years ago. If he ever had one.” Libby massaged her forehead with her fingers. She was getting a headache.
“Or,” Bernie continued, “someone could have gone through the papers already. That would be my thought.”
“Not a happy one.”
“No, it’s not,” Bernie agreed.
“Then we might be going through all these papers for nothing,” Libby said, thinking once again of the walk they’d taken.
“Yeah, but we won’t know until we do.”
Libby groaned. She knew her sister was right.
“And we should do what we’re going to do quickly, because the family is going to start wondering where we are pretty soon.”
“Let them,” Libby said, even though she didn’t mean it. It would just make more trouble for them, which was the last thing she needed right now. She looked around, trying to come up with a battle plan, and that was when it hit her. “Do you see what’s missing?” she asked Bernie.
“Order?” Bernie responded.
“Ha-ha. No. A computer. There is no computer.”
“Maybe Monty didn’t use one,” Bernie suggested.
Libby pooh-poohed Bernie’s statement. “Even I use a computer,” she said. “I don’t think you can be in business without one these days.” She pointed to the power strip on the floor and the printer attached to it. “And if he didn’t use one, then why would that be there?”
“Good point.” Bernie sighed. “So someone took it, probably the same someone who went through the papers in the office.”
“Or someone could have brought the computer back to the house to use. Or it could be in the shop, being fixed. Maybe the hard drive crashed.”
Bernie went around the desk, opened a desk drawer, and rummaged around. A moment later she held up a pamphlet. “Well, at least we know the machine is a Dell laptop,” she said. “Not that that helps a heap, since lots of people have them.”
“Well, any information is better than no information.”
“That’s Dad talking.”
Libby grinned. “When you hear something a thousand times, you tend to remember it.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to ask everyone at the house what happened to the computer,” Bernie said as she continued to go through the desk drawers.
“It never hurts to ask. It’s getting the answers that’s the problem.”
“Especially from that lot.”
Bernie kept looking through the desk. She didn’t find much—just disks for old programs, wadded-up Kleenex, stubs of pencils, and bags of empty Snickers wrappers. What she didn’t find was more significant. There was no address book, no directory of any kind, no appointment book, and no check ledger or deposit slips.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Bernie said as she closed the left-hand desk drawer, which had been empty except for a ball of rubber bands and a box of paper clips.
“Maybe Monty kept all of his numbers in his phone,” Libby replied. “And his accountant writes his checks and files all his information.”
“I’ll give you his accountant, but not the phone book or the appointment calendar.”
“Why?”
“Because smart phones are expensive, and pen and paper are cheap.”
“Or he could have been one of those guys that keeps everything in his head.”
“True. But there still have to be records somewhere,” Bernie said. “The question is, where?”
“At his accountant’s.”
“Maybe.”
“Most probably.”
“Which we don’t have a name for.”
“Even if we did, he wouldn’t tell us anything.”
