A Catered Thanksgiving, page 22
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.
And then she started thinking about Christmas and the gingerbread houses she was going to make for their window display. She figured she’d need twelve of them. This year she wasn’t going to use a premade pattern. She was going to make her own. She’d make the usual two-story Colonials, but it might be fun to throw a ranch or two in there, and maybe a Spanish-style house as well.
They could have cacti in the yard. And maybe some gingerbread dogs and cats. And kids. They could do a whole village. It would be a lot of work, but worth it. Everyone would stop and look, and then they’d come in and buy things. She’d have to talk to Bernie and see what she thought, and on that note she fell asleep.
Chapter 34
El Huron waited ten minutes until El Huron was certain that Bernie and Libby were in a deep sleep. El Huron was tired. Exhausted, really. Standing on the other side of the door, listening to the two women talk had made El Huron furious. They didn’t know what they were speaking about. They had everything totally wrong. They understood nothing. Absolutely nothing. They were ridiculous in their surmises. And so sure of themselves. They were stupid. Very stupid. That should have made El Huron glad. But it didn’t.
El Huron wanted to explain to them. El Huron wanted to jump out and yell at the women and tell them they were missing the point. El Huron wanted them to admire the artistry of what El Huron had done and what El Huron was going to do. The rightness of it. The moral validity. El Huron wanted the sisters to understand the lesson El Huron was about to teach the Field family, a lesson the Field family richly deserved. Of that there was no doubt.
El Huron pictured the sisters listening to what El Huron had to say. El Huron pictured them agreeing with El Huron, telling El Huron that what El Huron was doing was correct, admirable even. That wrongs had to be righted. That the universe demanded it. The sisters owed El Huron that.
After all, El Huron had spared their miserable little lives when El Huron could have locked the bunker door and left them to choke to death. But had El Huron done that? No. El Huron had not. El Huron had done the right thing. The correct thing. El Huron had left their lives in the hands of God, and God had chosen to spare them. For the moment. For this they owed El Huron. They owed him respect. And understanding.
But above all, the sisters owed El Huron silence. Silencio profundo. Profound silence. El Huron desperately wanted the sisters to shut up, to stop talking. All the words coming out of their mouths were hurting El Huron’s ears. They were confusing El Huron, leading El Huron away from the path that had been settled on. The true path. The path of honor and of glory. But El Huron could not say that to them. Could not even hint at that. No. That would be a breach of discipline, something that El Huron never committed. El Huron could only stand on the other side of the door and remain absolutely still, even though every muscle in El Huron’s body was crying out to move and El Huron desperately wanted to scratch the itch on El Huron’s nose.
But no. One made a plan and stuck to it whatever happened. Of course, that said, one must always leave room for adjustments. Things did go wrong. Situations did change. So one must be committed but flexible at the same time. Watching Bruce Lee had taught El Huron that. In fact, that attitude, that ability to be both flexible and inflexible, was what made El Huron so good at what El Huron did. El Huron was like the bamboo. Strong but supple.
So instead of saying anything to the sisters, instead of setting them straight, which El Huron had so badly wanted to do, El Huron had followed the women from room to room, watching them while they searched for a place to sleep, wanting to tell them that there was only one place to go, but refraining.
And El Huron had done this shadowing so perfectly that they had not seen or heard El Huron. Not a single board had given out a crack or a creak as El Huron walked on them. That was because El Huron knew every inch of this house. Every nook and cranny. And El Huron had done this, had paid strict attention, despite being so tired that El Huron’s eyelids felt as if they were closing by themselves and all of El Huron’s muscles and bones and sinews were telling El Huron they wanted nothing more than to lie down.
But El Huron had persevered. And finally, as El Huron knew they must, the sisters had gone into the study, settled down on the sofas, and gone to sleep. El Huron peeked into the room and watched them for a moment.
Both of them were sleeping the sleep of the dead. The taller, thinner one, the one with the darker hair, had one of the throw pillows over her head, while the shorter, plumper one was using her parka as a pillow. Both were sleeping with their mouths slightly opened. They both looked peaceful, the result, El Huron supposed, of both brandy and exhaustion. Of course, El Huron knew what their names were, but El Huron preferred to think of them as the light-haired and the dark-haired ones, la rubia and la morena.
As El Huron’s mother used to say, “Name something and it’s yours,” and El Huron did not want these two women. Not in any way. Not when they might become collateral damage, as the war movies that El Huron watched were fond of saying.
El Huron tiptoed closer. El Huron smiled. The darker-haired one had left her tote bag on the coffee table. Very, very carefully El Huron moved nearer. El Huron put El Huron’s hand into the bag and felt around. El Huron heard a rustle and froze. The dark-haired one moved and mumbled something El Huron couldn’t understand.
El Huron thought it had to do with mocha frosting and an attic, but El Huron wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter. Then she turned toward the back of the sofa, and the pillow she had over her face fell to the floor. That seemed to distress her, so very, very carefully, El Huron removed El Huron’s hand from her bag. Then El Huron leaned over, picked the pillow up off the floor, and put it back where it had been. The thinner one sighed, lifted her hand up, brought the pillow down, and hugged it to her.
El Huron waited another moment, and when both women were resting comfortably, El Huron returned to the bag of the dark-haired one. El Huron carefully opened it and put El Huron’s hand inside. A moment later El Huron had what El Huron was looking for. The dark-haired one’s cell phone. El Huron deposited it in El Huron’s pocket, along with the other ones El Huron had carefully collected from everyone’s bedrooms a little while ago. It had been so easy. Now El Huron would put them in the bottom of the trash bags in the garage, where they would never be found.
The idea of locking everyone in was laughable. The locks were a joke. So was the booby trap the dark-haired one had set. El Huron had painstakingly picked up all the glass marbles on the steps and deposited them in a paper bag. At first El Huron had wanted to scatter them around the sofa the dark-haired one was sleeping on. The amusement value would have been considerable. But then El Huron had decided it would be better if they just disappeared, because uncertainty was always more unsettling.
Before El Huron had entered the rooms, El Huron had been worried that El Huron wouldn’t be able to find the cell phones. That they would be buried in pants pockets. But that hadn’t been the case at all. Everyone had left them out on their dressers or night tables. They were careless. And wasteful. As the rich tended to be. That was one thing El Huron had learned.
El Huron couldn’t help smiling when El Huron thought about the scene that would ensue tomorrow morning, when everyone woke up and found their cells missing. There would be accusations. There would be fights. If El Huron was lucky, there would also be panic, and panic stopped people from thinking clearly.
Panic would distract everyone from what was to come. El Huron could hardly wait. The time was nearly at hand. But now it was time for El Huron to get to bed. El Huron had earned the right to sleep. And El Huron had to get up early. There was much for El Huron to do.
Part of El Huron wanted to keep going and fill the balloons with the gas now, but the other part of El Huron, the disciplined part, knew that sleep was essential. Sleep would ensure that no mistakes were made. Because if there were mistakes, all of El Huron’s careful planning would be for nothing, and that was a thought that El Huron could not endure. El Huron had a responsibility, a responsibility El Huron would carry through until it was discharged. This El Huron had learned from El Huron’s mother.
Chapter 35
It was two o’clock in the morning and Sean was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing he were back in his bedroom in Longely, instead of in Martha’s condo in Florida. At least if he were home, he could turn the TV in his bedroom on. If he went out in the living room and tried that here, Martha would be up and on him like a tick on a dog, demanding to know what the matter was, wanting to make him tea, and generally driving him crazy. Why was it that some people couldn’t understand that other people liked to be left alone? That was what he liked so much about Ines. She didn’t fuss over him. It just annoyed him no end when people did that.
Here all he could do was lie in bed, listen to Martha’s snoring coming from the next room, and think about what Joan had told him over gin rummy, and how that fit or didn’t fit in with Monty Field’s murder. And he had lots and lots of thinking to do.
It bothered him that for all these years he’d thought one person was guilty and that he could be wrong and it might turn out to be someone else. It was going to take him a while to wrap his mind around that. He’d been so positive that Monty Field had killed his wife Penny, and since he usually didn’t make mistakes when it came to those kinds of things, Joan’s comments had hit him hard.
And it wasn’t as if he had been alone with his feelings. Clyde had thought so, too. Evidently so had Marvin’s father. Or at least according to Marvin, he had. It was the conclusion that made sense. The obvious conclusion, and if there was one thing that Sean had learned from being on the force over the years, it was that the obvious conclusion was usually the correct conclusion. He’d thought that even though he’d never been able to prove that Monty had killed his wife. And that had eaten at his guts.
But maybe he hadn’t been able to prove Monty had killed his wife, because it hadn’t happened that way. Maybe he’d just attached the blame to Monty because he didn’t like him after what had happened with Rose. Actually, he hadn’t even liked him before anything had happened with Rose. He hadn’t liked him, period, so maybe he’d just made the assumption that Monty was to blame and that had been that. Case closed. Sean didn’t like to think that he worked off of personal biases, but maybe he did.
And maybe Marvin’s father had felt the same way. Maybe it just irked him that Monty hadn’t wanted to pay for a decent coffin for his wife and that he hadn’t wanted a ceremony. That wasn’t a crime. It was just mean-spirited. After all, nice people killed people, too. It happened more than people wanted to think it did.
