A Catered Christmas. Isis Crawford

Brittany said as she fished around inside her pocketbook. Finally she found her cell. “Mommy can’t talk right now,” she said into it. “Mommy is busy dealing with a dead person. Well, I’m not sure this one will go to heaven. No, Josefina will take you to the party. Bye, bye, sweetums.” And she clicked off. She was just about to put it back in her bag when Estes grabbed it out of her hand.

      “I’ll give it back to you after the show,” Estes told Brittany.

      “If there is a show,” Bernie countered as Brittany grabbed her phone back from Estes.

      She clutched it to her chest. “Of course there’s going to be a show,” Brittany said.

      Bernie gestured toward Hortense’s prone body. “I think you’re forgetting something.”

      “No, I’m not. Haven’t you heard that thing about the show must go on?”

      “I’m not sure that saying applies to this situation,” Bernie said. She was just about to tell her why when, out of the corner of her eye, Bernie noticed that Pearl was making her way to the sink. She watched Pearl open the cabinet doors.

      “Pearl, what are you doing?” she asked her.

      Pearl glanced over her shoulder. “Looking for something to clean the walls, of course. And the floor.”

      “Of course,” Bernie said. Wouldn’t that be everyone’s first thought? “Don’t do that. The police won’t like it.”

      Estes lifted his hands in supplication, dropped them to his sides, and looked up at the ceiling. “Why, dear God, does everything happen to me?”

      “I think it happened to Hortense,” Bernie pointed out.

      “Hortense is no longer among us. I am,” Estes shot back.

      “Precisely my point.” Bernie turned her attention back to Pearl. “Pearl,” she said in the same voice she imagined she would use on a recalcitrant small child. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave the walls alone.”

      Pearl straightened up. Bernie noted that she had a roll of paper towels in one hand, a bottle of spray cleanser in the other, and a look of steely determination in her eyes.

      “I think Top Job would be better, but this will do.”

      Bernie wanted to say, “Don’t do it,” but before she could get the words out of her mouth, Pearl walked over and let loose with a spray of cleanser on the wall. “I prefer high-gloss paint for cleaning purposes, but semi-gloss does just as well, don’t you think?” she asked Bernie. “Thank heavens this room wasn’t painted with flat latex. For a while, Hortense was thinking of using a flat yellow latex in here, but I managed to talk her out of it.”

      “Really,” Bernie said. She didn’t know whether to be fascinated or appalled. “You have to stop,” she told Pearl. “You have to stop what you’re doing now.”

      Pearl gave her an exasperated glance.

      “But I can’t just leave it like this,” she protested. “Hortense would be immensely displeased if I did.”

      “The police will displeased if you don’t,” Bernie told her.

      Jean La Croix waved his hand around the room. “But this is … how you say … so ugly.”

      Bernie gestured at the blood-splatter pattern on the wall. “Would it be better if it were attractive? Something you could make into a new wallpaper pattern?”

      “That is a horrible thing to say,” Jean La Croix huffed.

      “You’re right,” Bernie told him as she refocused her attention on Pearl. “Maybe what you say about Hortense is true,” she told her, “but you’re going to have to leave things alone anyway.”

      “I can’t,” Pearl wailed.

      She turned back and directed another shot of cleanser at the wall. Visions of forensic evidence vanishing danced before Bernie’s eyes.

      “Libby, take the bottle away,” Bernie told her sister, who as luck would have it was standing right next to Pearl.

      Libby looked at Bernie uncertainly.

      “Me?”

      “No. The king of Siam.”

      “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

      Bernie took a deep breath. “Please,” she got out through gritted teeth. “Just take the cleanser away from Pearl now.”

      “I don’t know,” Libby said as Pearl clutched the bottle to her chest. “Why don’t you do it?”

      “Because you’re closer.”

      “By five steps.”

      “Why do things always have to be so complicated with you?” Bernie snapped.

      Libby bit her lip. “We shouldn’t be arguing.”

      “No. You’re right. We shouldn’t be.” Bernie thought for a moment. She nodded in Pearl’s direction. “Why don’t you take Pearl into the green room and make her a nice cup of tea?”

      Libby brightened.

      “I think that’s a splendid idea,” Brittany said.

      “I think we could all use something,” Consuela observed. “Maybe a shot of scotch?”

      “Cognac,” Jean La Croix said. “What we need is some cognac.”

      “How about some cookies?” Libby suggested. “I always find cookies help in times such as these.”

      Reginald rolled his eyes.

      “Really, my dear,” he said to Libby. “You’ve been reading too many British murder mysteries. Next you’re going to suggest crumpets.”

      Bernie watched a flush grow on Libby’s cheeks.

      “Hey,” Bernie told Reginald. “That was entirely unnecessary. Libby was just trying to be helpful.”

      Reginald put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

      “So sorry. I didn’t realize your sister was such a delicate flower.”

      Bernie took a step toward him. “Don’t be nasty.”

      Reginald appealed to everyone. “What did I say?” he asked.

      Bernie caught herself before she answered. Just calm down, she told herself. Calm down and focus on the big picture. The important thing was that they were contaminating the crime scene by being here—if it was a crime scene. After all, Estes could be right, Bernie thought. There was a chance. Albeit a slim one.

      Maybe the list was in the bedroom. Maybe the stove exploding was an accident. After all, accidents did happen, stoves did explode because of the way they were installed. Unfortunately, Bernie’s gut told her different.

      “Who put you in charge anyway?” Estes demanded of Bernie as Libby started leading Pearl out of the room. “I’m the producer. I’m the person around here who’s supposed to be giving the orders. Everyone listens to me.”

      “We’re not taping the show yet,” Bernie retorted.

      “Good point, Joe,” Reginald said. He pointed a shaking finger at Bernie. “You’re like some Jonah.”

      “Jonah?” Brittany said.

      “If you were in any way literate,” Reginald snapped at her, “you would know that I was referring to someone who brings bad luck.” He pointed at Bernie. “Wherever you go, bad things happen.”

      “That’s not true,” Bernie said, even though she was beginning to believe it might be. After all, she and her sister had been involved in investigating two murders already. “Anyway, no matter what you think of me, you still have to call the police and report this.”