Murder Is Uncooperative (13 page)

“Sure, Daddy. You can talk to her,” Ben said, before handing me the phone. “He's coming but he wants to ask if he can bring someone called Carrie.”

What? I took the phone from Ben.

“Hey, Bec, that's so great of you to ask me for dinner. Ben seems very excited about it all. He said he has a picture to give me.

“Yes, he did some painting in pre-school. But he mentioned you wanted to bring someone named Carrie?”

Dave laughed. “No, Cara. You remember. She lives in your building. I've been seeing her. We were going to spend the weekend together, but I'm sure she'd jump at the chance of a turkey dinner. Her daughter's away this weekend with her ex.”

I was speechless. I very much doubted Cara would want to spend an evening with her boyfriend's ex-wife and other co-op members. She probably had something much swankier in mind. But I guess she fell into the category of people who didn't have family around for the holidays.”

“Because I guess I can't come if I can't bring her. And, you know, Ben seemed so excited about it.”

I thought that Ben would likely be confused by seeing his father with someone else. And not happy. I figured he still hoped we would get back together. But he probably should learn that this wasn't going to happen. And, knowing Dave, Ben was going to have to get used to seeing his father with other women.

“Sure, if she wants to come, that's fine,” I agreed.

So now my ex-husband was bringing a date to my Thanksgiving dinner. This was going to be some meal.

And I laughed as I realized that Ben had been right. There had been ten people planned for dinner. And Daddy coming was going to make twelve.

I got up early on Sunday to start preparing for the evening meal. I'd made the pumpkin cheesecake the night before, and it was chilling in the refrigerator. Time to get started on the turkey.

I used my mother's stuffing recipe. While the pumpkin cheesecake was a bit of a departure from the pumpkin pie my mother used to make, familiar dishes seemed right on this holiday. Her recipe called for cubes of bread, seasoned with celery and onions, with lots of sage. Just the smell of it reminded me of her, and I blinked a few tears out of my eyes as I saw her handwriting on the recipe she had written out for me after I'd been married. I'd actually never used this recipe. Dave and I always seemed to spend the holidays with his parents or mine.

Time to grow up, I told myself firmly and started cutting a loaf of bread into cubes.

The scent of onions and sage was already making the kitchen smell great. I was having trouble mixing the stuffing in the largest bowl I had, but I was enjoying working on this. Preparing the turkey was another thing altogether. According to the recipe, I had to remove the neck and giblets from the cavity. That meant sticking my arm into the cold, damp center of the bird. Gross. I was surprised my fastidious mother had been willing to do such a thing.

Maybe my father had helped, I thought brightly. Too late now, but I'd try to remember that for Christmas. I suppose I would have to cook another turkey then.

My mother had noted that I should keep the neck and add it to the turkey bones to make broth. I'd never tried that but we might be able to get a few cheap, healthy meals out of some turkey soup. I obediently wrapped the neck and stored it in the refrigerator for later.

Placing the stuffing in the cavity was another messy task. The turkey was large, cold and wet, and it tended to almost slip off the plate as I spooned the stuffing inside. I pushed the stuffing further back until the bird was full, cringing at the slippery feeling on my hands.

I used skewers to close the gap and keep the stuffing in. I placed the turkey on the rack of the roasting pan, being careful not to drop it.

I lifted the heavy pan and placed it in the center of the oven.

Which was stone cold.

Had I forgotten to turn it on for preheating? Nope, the dial was set for 325.

I checked simple things. Yes, the stove was plugged in and the top burners worked. There didn't seem to be a problem with a blown fuse. The oven element didn't seem to be loose.

I grabbed my laptop and googled “electric oven won't work.” The sites I found suggested that the oven could be accidentally set in self-clean mode. I wish I had a self-cleaning oven, but I was pretty sure this one required scrubbing to clean. It also suggested that the self-timer could be on.

Everything else, from a problem with the thermostat to a burnt-out element or a broken wire seemed to imply I should call a repair service. Which was probably not going to happen on a holiday. At least not in time for me to cook a turkey for the twelve people I was having for dinner this evening.

Dad sometimes liked fiddling with gadgets and electrical appliances, but the arthritis in his hands made it hard for him to do much handyman work. And I was hopeless at that sort of thing.

But I remembered Mariana saying the apartments in the co-op were all similar. Her stove was probably the same as mine. And she was used to doing a lot of cooking and baking. Maybe she'd had a similar problem and knew how to fix it. Or knew something about the stove I wasn't getting. I glanced at the clock. It was early for a Sunday but I hoped not too early. I headed next door and knocked on Mariana's door.

“No, I don't know what the problem could be,” she said. “But I could come next door and take a look at it.” She glanced down at the jeans and sweatshirt she was wearing. They weren't the elegant outfits I was used to seeing her in. Her clothes, while perhaps a little snug, looked appropriate for a casual morning at home, but I thought she usually dressed up for my father and was uncomfortable being seen in these clothes.

“I just thought you might see something I'm doing wrong,” I said. “You have the same stove as me, right? But I don't want to bother you if you're busy.”

“No, that's fine. I think all the co-op stoves are the same. I'm not sure if I can help, but I'll come and look at it.”

Mariana followed me next door but, as she predicted, she didn't know what was wrong. As far as she could tell, I hadn't set the automatic timer on accidentally. And she confirmed that the stove didn't clean itself.

“But, I'll tell you what,” she said. “I'm right next door and my oven works. Why don't we bring the turkey over to my place?”

The beauty of living in a co-op, I thought, as Mariana headed back to heat up her oven and I prepared to carry the heavy roasting pan next door. We might not have top-of-the-line appliances
but we had neighbors who could help out in an emergency. That was something to give thanks for.

Mariana agreed to keep an eye on the turkey but asked to borrow a turkey baster. “My goodness, it's been a while since I cooked a turkey,” she said. “But there's not much to it. You've done all the hard work.”

With that in hand, I settled down to preparing the rest of the dinner. Cranberry sauce was a snap. I poured the fresh cranberries into a saucepan with some sugar and water and listened as the berries popped in the boiling liquid. So easy. I had never understood why people would buy canned cranberry sauce. The sauce just needed to cool. My mother had always used a pretty glass bowl to serve the sauce. It showed off the ruby color to perfection.

Peeling enough potatoes for twelve people was a bit of chore, especially as I was more accustomed to cooking for three. But I finally had them ready to cook, along with a selection of fresh vegetables.

Apart from the potential disaster of the broken oven, everything was going smoothly.

Both Ben and my father had been napping for a while. Dad's arthritis tired him out a lot, and it was good for him to rest before having a bunch of people over. But now I could hear that they were both awake.

“Can you guys help me with the table?” I called. Ben came running, and Dad followed more slowly. Unfortunately, today seemed to be one of his bad days. He was walking, but his steps were slow, and he leaned heavily on his walker. I could tell from his face that he was in pain.

“Oh, Dad, I shouldn't have asked for help if you aren't feeling well. Ben and I can manage.”

"I'm still man enough to wrestle a dining room table into submission,” he said. “Don't worry about me, Becky. I'm just a bit stiff after lying down.”

I could tell he was in a lot of pain but he was willing to help, which was a good sign. Dad was usually good natured but the pain sometimes made him a little testy. He helped me add leaves to our dining room table. It was an ingenious design, a table my mother had inherited from her own mother. It folded small enough to seat just two people but had enough leaves to stretch it to seat ten. I added the small table I usually had outside on the deck to the end of the dining table. It was a bit lower than the main table but I hoped it would do for the two boys. With the whole thing stretched across our combined living/ dining room, there should be space for everyone to sit and still have room to move around.

I placed a couple of my mother's pretty tablecloths on the tables and used her good china. A vase of chrysanthemums in the center, and we were ready.

I had just enough time to change into a dress, a comfortable knit in a warm brown shade, and slip on my brown patent ballet flats. I was about to head next door and check on the turkey when my guests started to arrive.

Anna and John were the first, with baby Jordan in a carrier. “I brought some rolls,” Anna announced. “I made them myself. I used to bake all the time with my mother, but I haven't tried it since we moved out here. I hope they're all right.” She handed me a basket of whole-wheat rolls, still warm from the oven.

“Well, if they taste as good as they smell, they'll be wonderful,” I assured her.

I introduced my father to the young couple. Ben came running down the hall but skidded to a sudden stop when he saw Jordan.

"Mom,” he said in disbelief, “you told me a boy was coming. That's not a boy. That's a baby.”

“There's a bigger boy coming,” I assured him, as there was another knock on the door of our apartment.

This time it was a bigger boy. Jeremy's son, Aiden, had the red hair Jeremy must have had as a boy. He was about seven or eight, with a wide gap where his front teeth had been. Although Ben had met some of the kids from the co-op in the playground behind the building, the two boys hadn't met. I remembered Jeremy saying his son lived with his mother for part of the time.

Ben was suddenly shy with this stranger and huddled close to me.

Jeremy was holding a casserole. “I made a sweet potato casserole,” he said. “We can't have Thanksgiving without sweet potato casserole. Isn't that right, Aiden?”

Ben looked dubious. “Is it as good as pizza?” he asked, pizza being the best thing he could imagine.

Aiden laughed. “No way! But Dad puts marshmallows on top, so you can just eat those if you don't like the sweet potatoes. That's almost like eating dessert.”

“Aha!” Jeremy yelped, putting down the casserole and reaching over to tickle his son. “You eat your vegetables, young man, and don't be spreading your bad habits to impressionable kids.”

Both Aiden and Ben dissolved into giggles.

“Do you like cats?” Ben asked suddenly. “I have a kitten,” he added as Aiden nodded. “Do you want to play with Maui? He's in my room.” The two boys ran down the hall to Ben's room.

Anna watched them leave. “It's hard to believe Jordan will be that big one day.”

“Sooner than you think,” Jeremy and I said at the same time.

“They grow up faster than you want them to,” I added. “Your Jordan will be moving around and getting into things before you know it.” I smiled at the chubby baby asleep in his carrier and oblivious to everyone around him.

Jeremy picked up the casserole he had momentarily placed on the floor. “Let me get this out of the way,” he said. “It's still warm, but I should probably heat it up in the microwave for a few minutes just before we eat. And I just need to go back to my place for a minute. I bought some wine but couldn't carry everything at once.”

Gwen was with him when he came back, and he was carrying a large box.

“I ran into Jeremy in the hall,” she explained. “He said he was heading back to his place, but I was bringing up that box of stuff I promised you, and he offered to carry it.”

“Where do you want this?” Jeremy asked.

“Could I have it in my bedroom?” I asked. “I mean, I have an office in my room.” I showed him a spot next to the desk, hoping I wasn't blushing. “Thanks,” I said. Gwen had followed us into the room, and I turned to her. “That looks heavier than the other one you gave me.”

“It is heavy, so I was glad to run into Jeremy.” She placed a file folder on top of the box and took a firmer grip on the pie plate she was holding. The smell of warm chocolate wafted toward me. “I shouldn't even have tried to carry everything. I'll just go put this down.”

“Gwen told me you were helping her with a history of the co-op,” Jeremy said. “That's nice of you. Gwen's got a lot on her plate right now. Now, I'll just go get that wine.”

I went back to the living room, where Gwen had already introduced herself to my father and was chatting with Anna and John.

Jeremy was back a minute later and handed me a carrier bag with two bottles of white wine.

“Hey, that's the same wine I bought,” I said. “But I only bought one bottle, so thanks. It was recommended as the perfect accompaniment for turkey in a column I read in the paper.” It had been the cheapest of the wines recommended by the expert who wrote the wine column in the local paper. But the description had sounded good.

“Ah, so that's why great minds think alike. I read the same column.”

Dave and Cara arrived next. I'd somehow thought that Dave would buzz our apartment from the intercom but of course he would go to Cara's first. I was expecting it, but I still felt a bit of a pang when I saw him at my door with another woman.

“Daddy!” Ben yelled, running out of his room where he'd been playing with Aiden. “Come see the picture I made for you.”