Free A Catered Thanksgiving by Isis Crawford Page A

Parker House rolls in the breadbasket. “Well, it’s good that this isn’t our fault,” she added.
    â€œNot even remotely our fault,” Bernie said. “Turkeys do not explode without a lot of help. At least not like that they don’t.”
    â€œThere was the ‘exploding snail in the puff pastry’ incident that happened somewhere in upstate New York a couple of years ago,” Libby pointed out.
    â€œThat 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.
    â€œWho 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.
    â€œMe too,” Bernie said.
    â€œMaybe we should call him.”
    â€œAnd tell him what? That Monty Field died from an exploding turkey?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œExactly.” 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.”
    â€œTwo years, at least,” Libby said.
    â€œThe police can handle this,” Bernie said.
    â€œI don’t envy them their job,” Libby commented.
    â€œMe 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.”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œWe heard a noise,” Perceval said.
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œUs?” 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