A Catered Christmas. Isis Crawford

would? Bernie wasn’t sure.

      “What is going on?” he demanded.

      Consuela stopped her screaming, pointed her finger at Bernie and Libby, and announced, “I caught them snooping around in here. They were looking for the file with the ingredients.”

      Unfrigginbelievable, Bernie thought. Talk about chutzpah. Talk about unmitigated gall. She was just opening her mouth to say something when out of the corner of her eye she saw Libby moving past her.

      “She’s lying,” Libby yelled as she shook a finger at Consuela. “She was the one looking in the file cabinet.”

      “Me?” Consuela drew herself up. Bernie was interested to see that Consuela’s heels were higher than hers. “You’re accusing me?” Consuela asked. “That is ridiculous. I do not need to cheat to win this contest.”

      “And you’re saying I do?” Libby spat.

      Consuela shrugged and inspected her nails. Bernie noticed that each one had a silver star in its center.

      “Think what you want,” she told Libby.

      Eric Royal cleared his throat. “Ladies, ladies,” he said as he reluctantly moved forward into the fray—a fray it was perfectly obvious to Bernie he didn’t want any part of.

      Consuela snorted and turned away from him while Libby didn’t even look up. Poor sap, Bernie thought as she laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze, and stepped out in front of her.

      “So you’re accusing us?” she asked Consuela.

      “What did I just say?” Consuela replied.

      “Frankly, I’m not sure what to think,” Bernie answered. “I’m really quite shocked at this show of perfidy.”

      “Perfidy?” Consuela repeated uncertainly.

      “That’s what I said,” Bernie told her as she reflected that it appeared as if Mrs. French, her fourth-grade English teacher, had spoken the truth when she’d said, “Children, trust in a large vocabulary. It will always serve you well.”

      “You’re nuts,” Consuela retorted, gathering steam again.

      As Bernie listened to Consuela rant on about how terrible Bernie was for using a word like that, it occurred to her that the more wrought up Consuela became, the less Spanish her accent sounded and the more New Jersey it became; suddenly she knew where she remembered Consuela from.

      “You went to school in Hoboken,” Bernie told her, breaking into Consuela’s ravings. “Your name used to be Darlene Brown.”

      Bernie was interested to see that Consuela shut up. Instantly. Bernie could see a flicker of fear passing over her face. And why shouldn’t it? After all, Bernie reasoned, Consuela had made her rep as a plucky Dominica who’d cooked her way up from the ghetto.

      That was her brand, as they liked to say in the advertising business. Bernie wondered what her fans would think if they knew that Consuela was just a middle-class Jersey girl who knew as much about rice and beans as someone from Ohio. No, they wouldn’t be too happy, Bernie was willing to wager. Once credibility was lost, it was hard to get it back.

      “You’re crazy,” Consuela told her.

      “No. I’m not. You used to go out with Peter Dorset. We met at a party once.”

      Consuela lifted her chin up. “I’ve never been to Hoboken.”

      Bernie laughed. “You are such a liar.”

      Consuela gasped and put her hand over her heart. “Excuse me?”

      As Eric moved forward, Bernie noticed that he had a small stain on the lapel of his lavender jacket. It looked like oil, Bernie thought. Or maybe grease. Eric waved his hands in the air to get Consuela’s attention. She ignored him.

      “Did I hear you right?” she asked Bernie.

      Bernie smiled at her. “Of course, I meant that in the nicest possible way.”

      She was about to add something else equally insincere when the door opened again and Hortense Calabash, strands of hair wrapped in little pieces of foil, sailed into the room, the arms of her silk kimono flapping behind her. Eric froze. As Bernie watched Hortense approaching, she reflected that she looked a lot older off screen than on, even allowing for her lack of make-up.

      “Eric,” Hortense demanded. “What is going on here? I can hear the noise in my room for heaven’s sake. How can I focus?”

      “I’m so sorry,” Eric said.

      Hortense looked him up and down. A moment elapsed, then she said, “Don’t be sorry, Eric. Sorry is a waste of time. Just fix the problem and move on. This is a television show, not a kindergarten.” Two red dots of color appeared on Eric’s cheeks. He started to say something, but Hortense held up her hand. “I’m not interested in an explanation,” she informed him. “I’m really not. Explanations are excuses, and I don’t tolerate excuses.”

      Eric took a step back, looking for all the world, Bernie thought, like a whipped dog.

      “Yes, Hortense,” he said.

      Hortense ignored him and glanced around the room. When she got to Consuela, her eyebrows shot up and her nostrils quivered ever so slightly. She moved toward her. “How good to see you again,” she purred as she came to a stop in front of her.

      “You too,” Consuela muttered.

      When Hortense smiled, Bernie reflected that her teeth looked like Chiclets. Whoever had done Hortense’s veneers should be sued.

      “I hope you’re all right,” Hortense said.

      “Why shouldn’t I be?” Consuela asked.

      Hortense put her hand over her mouth for a moment and shook her head. It was, Bernie reflected, a gesture designed to show great concern for your fellow man.

      “Well, I heard you were having that small problem with your suppliers. I hope you managed to fix it.”

      Consuela clenched her jaw muscles.

      “Everything’s fine,” she spit out.

      “Good. Good. Good,” said Hortense. “I’m so relieved.” She shook her head and moved over to where Libby was standing. “And Libby,” she said, looking her up and down, “our very own star. I’m so glad you and your sister could come.”

      “Me too,” Libby said in what Bernie considered to be a very unconvincing tone.

      Hortense reached over and patted Libby’s hand.

      “Our own little local celebrities.” Hortense turned to Eric. “It’s true, you know,” she told Eric. “What’s more, they’re crime fighters in the bargain. You didn’t know that, did you, Consuela?” Hortense asked.

      Consuela shook her head.

      “Yes. They’re quite famous.”

      “I wouldn’t go that far,” Libby demurred.

      “You were in the papers,” Hortense said. “Bree showed me the article.”

      Libby flinched, remembering how unhappy Bree had been about the coverage of their first and second ventures.

      “It’s so reassuring having you here,” Hortense continued. She smiled. “That way if anything happens to me, you’ll be right on the scene. Don’t you find that reassuring, Eric?”

      Bernie decided he looked anything but reassured when he said, “Oh yes.”

      Hortense’s lips twitched up into a smile.

      “For heaven’s sake, I was just joking, Eric. Who would want to harm me?”

      “No one, Hortense,” Eric replied in what Bernie judged to be a less-than-satisfactory