A Catered Christmas. Isis Crawford

way, Sherlock,” Bernie had whispered when Libby had told her. “Bet you ten bucks.”

      “You’re on,” Libby had whispered back.

      She’d really wanted Bernie to be wrong. All she wanted to do was go home, take a bath, down some aspirin for her headache, and get to work on her soup for the next day. Was that too much to ask? Evidently it was, because two minutes later, Lucy had walked over and announced to everyone that the show was going to go on as planned. The police would work around the shooting schedule.

      Bernie had just smiled and stuck out her hand, palm upward.

      “Told you,” she said.

      “The trouble with people today is that they don’t have any respect for the dead,” Libby had grumped as she slapped two five-dollar bills into Bernie’s palm.

      “You sound like Mom,” Bernie had told her as Bree materialized beside them.

      How does she do that? Libby wondered as Bree looked at the money in Bernie’s hand, then looked back up at Libby.

      “I forgot to pay Bernie for the eggs she picked up this morning,” Libby stammered. She didn’t know why she was lying to Bree. There was no reason to, but Bree always made her feel crass.

      “Actually it was the snails,” Bernie added. “Haven’t you heard? We’re raising our own. Kind of a test run. Did you know that some archaeologists think that snails were the first animal that man domesticated? And that the Mesopotamians ate them as did the Romans and that a French recipe for their use appeared in a 1390 cookbook, although they didn’t become popular until the beginning of the sixteenth century.”

      Bree raised an eyebrow. “Really. How fascinating.”

      She idly touched her French knot. Libby noted that it was perfect as per usual. Then she wondered if there was anything about Bree that wasn’t perfect.

      “I need to talk to the two of you for a minute,” she informed them.

      “Wonderful,” Libby muttered under her breath as Bree motioned for her and Bernie to follow her into the hallway.

      Knowing Bree, she probably wanted her to cater a sit-down dinner for twenty-five by tomorrow night for under two hundred dollars, Libby thought, as well as arrange for the flowers.

      “Now, my dears,” Bree said once she, Bernie, and Libby were standing outside the green room, “I have a teeny, tiny little favor to ask of you.”

      Here we go, Libby thought. Then she realized from the expression on Bree’s face that she must have groaned out loud.

      Bree had raised her eyebrow again. “Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me in this time of need.”

      “Of course not,” Bernie replied for Libby. “She was just groaning because her feet hurt, right, Libby?”

      “Right, Bernie.”

      What else could she say? Not something along the lines of, “You don’t ask for tiny favors.” They’re all either expensive, time-consuming, or both.

      Bree looked at Libby’s feet and said, “I feel for you, my dear. Bad feet can be such a trial. It’s so sad to go shopping and not be able to wear the cute shoes. I would die if that happened to me. But I understand they’re doing wonderful things with surgery these days.”

      “I don’t need surgery,” Libby said.

      She realized she was gritting her teeth so hard her jaw was aching. She looked down at her feet. She was wearing perfectly respectable black leather ballet flats. Even Bernie had said they weren’t bad.

      “I never said you did.” Bree sighed. “You always have been overly sensitive. I just gave you a fact.” Then she changed the subject before Libby could reply. “Poor, poor Hortense. She was going to have her bunions removed. Not that she has to worry about that now.”

      “Guess not,” Bernie said. “Though she might have to worry about a pedicure. I understand people’s nails keep growing after they’re dead. Maybe that could be a new service for funeral homes. Postmortem pedicures.”

      “Really,” Bree shrilled. “Sometimes I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Bernie.”

      This, Libby decided, might be the only subject that she and Bree agreed upon.

      “Sorry,” Bernie replied, although Libby noted that she didn’t look at all contrite.

      After a moment of silence, Bree beckoned for Libby and Bernie to come closer.

      “Well, the police are telling me"—here Bree lowered her voice even more—"that they suspect a homicide.”

      “What a surprise,” Bernie muttered at the same time that Libby said, “Great.”

      Why couldn’t Hortense’s death have been an accident? Libby didn’t have time for a crime, not now, not before Christmas and New Year’s Eve. This was party season, for heaven’s sake. Hortense should have been more considerate.

      Bree shot her a dirty look, and Libby shut up, but she couldn’t stop running her to-do list in her head. Maybe she was more like Pearl Wilde than she wanted to admit, she decided.

      “Did they say why?” Bernie asked.

      “They found the gas line disabled and the remains of a disposable flash camera in the oven.”

      “Disposable camera?” Bernie said. She moved her silver and onyx ring up and down her finger, which Libby knew meant that she was thinking. “Interesting.”

      Libby said. “I don’t understand.”

      Bree fiddled with the gold buttons on her jacket. “Frankly, my dear, I’m not sure that I do either, but the homicide people are hypothesizing that someone"—Bree lowered her voice again to the point that Libby had to strain to hear her—"booby-trapped the oven. Chief Broad mentioned something about disabling the flash so when the camera went off it sparked and ignited the gas when Hortense opened the oven door. The chief will explain it to you.”

      “Somehow I doubt that,” Bernie said.

      She, Libby, and her father were not on the chief of police’s favored-persons list. If they were on a list at all, it would be labeled “troublemakers.”

      “No, he will,” Bree said, her tone leaving no doubt that this was not a matter the chief had any say in.

      This is going to be interesting, Libby thought as another question popped into her head. “But what about the Christmas tree ornaments? What were they doing in the oven?” For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what Hortense could possibly be using them for.

      Bree shrugged. “Chief Broad thinks the murderer put them in there.”

      “Obviously the murderer is someone who doesn’t like Christmas,” Bernie noted.

      “Or Hortense,” Libby felt bound to point out. “But how come the ornaments didn’t melt?” she asked.

      “Because glass doesn’t melt before two thousand degrees,” Bernie informed her.

      Bree shuddered.

      “Poor Hortense. She was my bunk mate in camp,” Bree added.

      “At least she died doing the thing she loved,” Bernie said. “How many of us can say that?”

      “True. Very true.” Bree dabbed at her eyes. Then she straightened up. “Now, about that favor.”

      “Yes,” Libby said, a sense of foreboding growing in her stomach. She just couldn’t cater a dinner. Not now. Not with what they had to do.

      Bree looked around again. Then she leaned in. “Well,” she confided, “the police think someone here might be responsible, and I’d like you to see if you can find out who it is.”

      “Us?”