A Catered Christmas. Isis Crawford

chest.

      “I’m afraid that that’s not going to happen,” he told Reginald.

      Libby was slightly alarmed to see he was beginning to get red in the face.

      “But what about my pans?” Jean La Croix demanded.

      “What about them?” Estes asked.

      “I want to talk to her about those.”

      “I’ve already told you I will relay your request.”

      Jean La Croix slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “That’s not good enough.”

      Suddenly Libby became aware that she was hearing something other than Jean La Croix’s voice. She turned to listen. A noise seemed to be coming from the other room, the room next to Hortense’s office.

      “What’s that?” Reginald said.

      Estes didn’t say anything.

      “That’s Hortense, isn’t it?” Reginald demanded. He began rising from his chair. “She’s in the test kitchen, isn’t she?”

      “I already told you, you can’t go in there,” Estes said.

      “The hell with that,” Reginald replied.

      Libby watched as he pushed his chair back and strode across the floor. Libby reflected that for a man of his girth, Estes could move when he wanted to because suddenly he was blocking Reginald’s path.

      “I meant what I said,” he told Reginald.

      Reginald opened his mouth to speak but Libby never heard what he had to say, because the blast coming from the second kitchen drowned everything out.

       Chapter 4

      Even with the door to the room open and the venting fan on, Bernie could still smell the faint odor of gas lingering in the air.

      “It’s off,” Eric Royal said to her. “I already checked.”

      Bernie nodded absentmindedly. She’d figured as much. Otherwise they wouldn’t be in here now. They’d be outside in the fresh air waiting for the emergency crews to come. She was suddenly aware that Libby was standing right next to her and that her complexion was a definite shade of lime green.

      Her sister pointed to Hortense’s body splayed out on the floor. Bernie studied Hortense for a moment. She was wearing a Santa Claus suit just like she said she would. Silk, Bernie judged, and tailored to within an inch of its life. It was very upscale.

      “That could have been me,” Libby said.

      Bernie turned and looked at her. Libby was wringing her hands.

      “How do you figure that?”

      “I almost opened the oven,” Libby explained. “I wanted to.”

      “The operative word here is almost,” Bernie replied while Consuela made the sign of the cross.

      “It wasn’t your time,” she said.

      There was no arguing with that, Bernie thought as she turned back to take a good look at Hortense’s body.

      “How can you do that?” Libby demanded.

      “Look at her?”

      “Yes.”

      Bernie shrugged. “Because I can.”

      Libby was the sensitive one in the family, not her. Although she had to say, Hortense was not a thing of beauty at the moment. But then, of course, no one would look good when they’re covered with cookie dough, red and green sprinkles, fruitcake, and shards of what to Bernie appeared to be Christmas ornaments peppering one’s chest. She looked at the glass pinecones on the table; then she looked back at Hortense. Definitely Christmas ornaments. The two browns were a match.

      It wasn’t the explosion that had killed Hortense, Bernie reflected. Or at least not directly. No. The coup de grâce had been the piece of glass that was currently sticking out of Hortense’s throat. Obviously it had sliced through Hortense’s carotid artery. Death had been instantaneous. Or as close to it as you could get.

      “I think we’d better call the police,” Bernie said, interrupting Eric Royal, Hortense’s personal assistant, who was in the middle of flinging his arms about and shrieking, “The blood, oh my God, the blood and around Christmastime too.”

      “So this would be better if it happened in the summer?” Bernie asked.

      Fortunately Eric hadn’t heard her, probably because Brittany was screaming so loudly, Bernie reflected. She sounds like a cat in heat, Bernie decided as she watched Jean La Croix lean over to get a closer look at Hortense.

      He shook his head. “This, it is very upsetting,” he said. “Very upsetting. I must get my equilibrium back.”

      Brittany stopped screeching and turned to La Croix.

      How she’d heard him Bernie didn’t know.

      “It’s always about the great La Croix, isn’t it?” Brittany charged.

      La Croix straightened the lapels of his jacket. “Art supersedes everything.”

      Consuela butted in. “Maybe that’s true,” she told him, “but you’re not an artist, you’re a cook.”

      “In my hands, food becomes art,” La Croix replied stiffly.

      “That’s enough,” Bernie said as Consuela rolled her eyes.

      She was about to say something else when Estes said, “Hortense said she felt something bad was coming. She said she felt as though a tragedy was stalking her. She was psychic, you know.”

      “No, I didn’t,” Bernie replied. She’d heard Hortense called many things but psychic wasn’t one of them.

      “She was. In fact, she was planning on going to a Hindu temple to ask the priests to say prayers so that they would remove the curse she felt had been placed on her and her show.”

      Eric raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that.”

      “It’s true,” Estes insisted.

      “If you say so.” Eric turned to Bernie and Libby. “She did say she was glad you were here in case anything happened.”

      “That proves my point,” Estes said.

      “She was being sarcastic,” Bernie told him.

      Estes spread his arms out. “How can you say that, given the circumstances?”

      “Fine,” Bernie replied. She wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Why don’t we let the police decide.”

      “The police,” Estes echoed.

      “That’s what I said,” Bernie replied. She watched Estes sneak a glimpse at his watch before gesturing toward the stove. The oven door was now a mass of tangled metal.

      Estes sniffed. “Obviously the stove exploded.”

      “Obviously it did,” Bernie agreed. That was undeniable. The question was why had it exploded? Come to think of it, what was Hortense doing in here anyway? “But even if it is an accident, you still have to call the police,” she told Estes.

      Estes rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “First of all, I know that,” he told her. “I’m not a moron. And second of all, I resent your implication.”

      “What implication?”

      “The implication present in your statement, ‘even if it is an accident.’ How can it be anything else?”

      “Easy,” Bernie replied as she squatted down next to Hortense. “Someone could have booby-trapped the oven.”

      “Perhaps