A Catered Christmas. Isis Crawford
what these are for?”
Bernie shrugged. “Christmas ornaments?”
“They’re pretty.” Libby put the pinecone down and looked at the tray of meringue mushrooms on the table. “They’re perfect,” she said.
“Yours are just as good,” Bernie told her.
“Not quite,” Libby said as she followed Bernie back out onto the set. Hortense’s had more texture to them. Libby was wondering what kind of pastry tube Hortense had used to get that pebbled effect when she realized that Bernie was talking.
“You know,” she was saying, “Hortense may be the ultimate bitch, but you have to hand it to her in the interior design department. Although I like what you did better.”
Libby smiled. “Me too.”
But what Hortense had done wasn’t bad at all. She’s just gone in a different direction. And it had taken her a lot less time to execute, something Libby reminded herself she should bear in mind for next year. The mini Christmas tree on the end of the counter was decorated with homemade cookies that Hortense had baked, painted with gold leaf, and shellacked on her last show. The bows that were knotted around the garlands of greenery were made out of a cream-colored organza that had been shot through with gold thread.
In addition, Hortense had taken light green glass bowls and filled them with smooth river stones, into which she’d embedded groups of ivory tapers. She’d put those on the windowsills. A huge poinsettia that Hortense had placed in a reed basket woven in Africa sat on the kitchen table, while a lavender plant sat off to one side of the sink. The effect was both elegant and homey at the same time.
Libby sighed as she looked around. There was no denying that Hortense was a genius at what she did. She excelled at taking simple household objects and giving them a new look. Though drying cattails, spraying them gold, and making them into Christmas wreaths was going a little too far, in her opinion. She was just thinking that the Shredded Wheat wreath wasn’t a particularly good idea either when she heard a noise.
“What was that?”
Bernie shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“I did. It’s coming from behind the door on the left.”
“That’s Hortense’s office.” Bernie cocked her head and listened for a moment. “I think you’re right. I think someone is in there.”
Libby felt a wave of panic. Why did she always let Bernie talk her into these things? “What if it’s Hortense?”
“It’s not. And even if it is, so what? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
Somehow Libby didn’t think Hortense would agree with her sister’s assessment of their situation. “How do you know it’s not her?”
“Because she’s getting her hair done.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I know the woman who does it.”
“I still think we should leave,” Libby said.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
After all, Libby reasoned, since they weren’t supposed to be here in the first place, why not get out while the going was good.
“Don’t you want to find out what’s going on?” Bernie said.
“Why assume something is going on?”
Bernie pointed to the door. “Then what’s that noise?”
“A mouse?”
“A mouse on steroids.”
Libby bit her lip. Why had she ever said anything to Bernie? All Bernie ever did was complicate things.
“After all,” Bernie said, “what’s the worst that can happen? That we’ll be thrown out of here, and isn’t that what you want anyway?”
“I hate when you do this,” Libby told her.
“Do what?” Bernie demanded.
“Twist my words back at me.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” Bernie said as she moved toward the door. “Except maybe my ring. I was just repeating what you’ve been saying the whole day, which is that you don’t want to be on the show. Right?”
Libby had to concede that was true.
“So it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does,” Libby said. She knew Bernie’s reasoning was faulty; she just didn’t know why. “Wait,” Libby cried as Bernie grasped the doorknob.
“It’ll be fine,” Bernie assured her. She pulled.
The door flew open. As Bernie walked in, Libby caught a glimpse of Consuela Batista bending over a file cabinet.
Bernie stopped short. She didn’t know what she’d expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t a view of Consuela’s ample derriere. Some people, she decided, shouldn’t wear pants with large tropical flowers on them.
“What are you doing?” Bernie demanded, not that the answer wasn’t fairly self-evident.
As Consuela turned and straightened up, Bernie frowned slightly. She knew she’d seen her before in another context, with a different name, but try as she might, she couldn’t remember. The question had been bothering her since she’d first seen the feature about Consuela in Food magazine last year. Then she’d forgotten about it until she’d seen her name on the list of contestants.
“Me?” Consuela replied. “Me? How about you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bernie said.
“I’m not the one who’s ridiculous,” Consuela shot back.
Bernie watched Consuela narrow her eyes. She’s good, she thought appreciatively. Given the circumstances, most people would have looked at least a little guilty or startled, but not Consuela. No, siree. She was practically vibrating with indignation. She looked like a hen about to peck someone to death.
Of course, the way Consuela was wearing her hair might have inspired her behavior, Bernie mused. Over the years, she’d noticed a correlation between bad hairstyles and bad behavior. Bernie was trying to figure out how Consuela had managed to achieve that look—Bernie was guessing paste—and why she’d want to, when Consuela opened her mouth and began shrieking for help.
Again, this was not what Bernie had expected. For a moment, Bernie was rendered speechless as she listened to Consuela’s screams. They were, Bernie reflected, impressively loud screams. In fact, they were the kind of screams that nineteenth-century novelists might describe as bloodcurdling, although how blood could actually curdle was something Bernie had yet to figure out. Obviously, blood could boil being a liquid and all. But curdle? No. Bernie didn’t think so. As far as she knew, only milk curdled.
“Stop,” Bernie shouted; but as she did, she realized that her lungs were no match for Consuela’s, who was now shrieking away like some sort of demented banshee, although here again, on reflection, Bernie wasn’t sure that banshees shrieked, so this was another infelicitous phrase.
From what she’d read, banshees were supernatural beings in Ireland and Scotland who took the shape of old women and moaned or sung outside of houses where people were going to die. So then where had the expression “shrieking like a banshee” come from? It was probably from a piece of literature. She was trying to figure out which story it could be when the door that led to the other kitchen banged open. Eric Royal, Hortense Calabash’s personal assistant, came running in.
Bernie decided he looked like a crane.