He sniffed it suspiciously. “Smells funny.”
Well, of course it smelled funny. Just like the last one. Eggnog by itself was actually pretty good, but then they put that other stuff in it. Ugh.
“I don’t know why it’d smell funny.” Regina leaned over and peered at it. “I put a nice shot of brandy in it and sprinkled nutmeg on the top.”
“Brandy!” Uncle George handed the mug back. “You’re supposed to put rum in eggnog. Not brandy.”
“Well, it’s time to eat anyhow,” Carol said. “Come to the dining room.”
They all trooped into the dining room. The huge bird was in the middle of the table. I followed along and climbed up on an unused chair against the wall, where I could see what most of the people were doing. Just in case someone was planning to toss pieces of meat on the floor.
That didn’t happen.
Uncle George sat at the head of the table. He glowered as he looked at the food spread before him.
“Here, Uncle George.” Carol passed over a covered casserole dish. “I made creamed pearl onions for you. I know it’s one of your favorites.”
Uncle George took the casserole dish, removed the lid and peered into it. “My digestion isn’t what it used to be. I can’t eat onions. Especially not creamed ones.”
“That’s too bad.” Carol put the dish down next to Uncle George. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind. No one else likes them.”
“You know, I’ve never tried them,” John said as he reached toward the dish. “Maybe I should today.”
Carol’s face grew pale. “No!”
“Why not?” Uncle George snorted. “I’m not going to eat them.”
“Thanksgiving is not the time to be trying out new things, John. There are plenty of your favorites here. Eat them.”
“Just a taste, to see if I like them.” Spoon in his hand, John reached for the dish.
“John! Not today!” Carol reached over and put her hand on the dish.
“But…” John looked at her. She shook her head. Her eyes were rimmed with tears.
“Oh.” He put the spoon down. “You’re right. There are plenty of other things here. I’ll try them another time.”
I jumped down and went into the kitchen.
In her rush to get dinner on the table, Carol had left a lot of food lying around. Including the giblets, liver, and heart from the big bird. They were sitting in a pan of warm water, but it was easy enough for me to snag the liver and haul it out onto the counter. Purring in ecstasy, I crouched down and devoured most of it.
When I heard the people getting up from the table, I scurried into the parlor. The windows were open, which made it chilly, but I climbed into my chair and wrapped my tail around my nose to keep it warm.
John came in and closed all the windows in the front parlor. It was still pretty chilly, but most of the terrible odor was gone.
Carol followed and sprayed the rug with some kind of smelly stuff. I wondered if she thought it would attract some small rodents or something to improve the hunting. It wouldn’t, but people weren’t particularly clever about that kind of thing.
To my delight, John lit the gas fireplace.
As the flames flickered and the heat spread across the room, I closed my eyes and dozed.
The doors to the parlor opened and pretty much everybody piled in.
Uncle George headed directly for my chair. Couldn’t he see I was taking a nap? Who did he think he was? This was my chair. I’d abandoned it once today, probably too easily. This time, I wouldn’t move.
I hissed at him to let him know I was there.
But Uncle George kept coming. He turned around and his huge hindquarters once again hovered over the seat of the chair. And me. For a moment, I considered swatting at him with my sharp claws. Or sinking my needle teeth into that round bottom.
But if he still sat down, I’d be squished.
At the last possible second, I sprang up to the back of the chair.
His bulk dropped into the chair, making the frame creak. He belched and folded his leathery hands on the handle of his cane, then rested his whiskery chin on them. “It’s cold.”
“Here, let me get you an afghan.” Regina rose from her seat and grabbed one from the back of the couch. She draped it across Uncle George’s shoulders and started to wrap the end around his legs.
“Stop that!” Uncle George kicked at the afghan in her hand. “I don’t need you fixing it so I’ll trip when I try to get up!”
“I’m sorry, Uncle George.” Regina straightened up and stepped back. “I didn’t mean to trip you!”
“Ha.” Uncle George kicked the end of the afghan aside. “Give me a cup of coffee.”
Carol came in with a little cart with desserts and a pot of foul-smelling coffee.
I did notice several pieces of pumpkin pie on delicate plates, but I was too full to think about scheming for a way to get to them.
My nose twitched. Something was starting to burn. Something besides the fire, that is. A wool smell.
I glanced at the fireplace. The end of the afghan had flicked onto the edge of the fire. It was smoldering, giving off that smell of burning wool. No one else seemed to notice. They were all fixing cups of that dark foul liquid they call coffee and taking slices of pie.
Small flames crept along the afghan, approaching Uncle George’s pants. He finally glanced down and saw it.
“Fire! I’m on fire! Somebody help me!”
The fire grew bigger.
Uncle George tossed the contents of his cup on the flames. It didn’t make any difference.
Everybody else sat still, watching, cups and forks halfway to their mouths.
Finally, Uncle George leapt to his feet more quickly than I ever imagined he could move, snatching the afghan from around his shoulders and hurling it into the fireplace.
The smell of burning wool was overpowering. We all watched as the afghan burst into flames. In only a few seconds, it was reduced to ashes.
“My afghan!” Carol lamented. “My grandmother made that for me for a wedding present!”
“Well, it’s gone now.” John threw open a window, but the smoke just swirled around over our heads.
“We need a little air circulation here.” Carol stepped to the door in the corner of the room that lead to the garage, which had been added to the house years after the original construction. She pushed a button that raised the garage door.
A strong gust of wind swept through the room and out the open window, carrying most of the smoke with it.
“Humph.” Uncle George lowered himself back into the chair. “I could have burned to death, and not one of you would have lifted a finger.”
Philip shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It happened so quick, Uncle George. We didn’t have a chance to do anything.”
Uncle George examined a scorched spot on his trouser leg. “It could have burned down the entire house.”
Carol’s mouth opened wide and she threw her hand over it.
“It’s all insured, isn’t it?” Philip asked. “I mean, as part of the estate, the house should have good insurance coverage.”
“John and I live here.” Carol wiped her eye with a napkin. “This is our home.”
“Well.” Uncle George glared at her. “You would just have had to find another place to live, now, wouldn’t you? Possibly one you’d have to actually pay for.”
Regina pasted a bright smile on her face and started gathering forks and half-empty plates. “If we’re going to make it to the afternoon service at church, we’d better hurry up! We can straighten up the kitchen when we get back.”
Uncle George thumped his cane on the floor. “I, for one, am not going.”
“But, Uncle George.” Philip handed his plate to Regina. “The reason we didn’t go to the morning service was because you said you’d rather have an early dinner and go to the late afternoon one. So that’s what we planned to do.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” Uncle George br
ushed at his trouser leg. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well, we’re going,” John said. “You’ll just have to stay here by yourself.”
“Fine. I don’t get enough time by myself as it is.” Uncle George glared at him.
“But we can’t leave you by yourself.” Carol pulled her sweater a bit tighter around her shoulders. “We thought you’d be with us all day, so we gave your aide the day off.”
“I don’t need an aide. That’s all nonsense.” Uncle George belched again. “Not until it’s time for me to get ready for bed. She’d better be back by then. In fact, she ought to be here now. Somebody call her and tell her she needs to get here as soon as possible.”
“Uncle George, we gave her the day off to spend with her family. It wouldn’t be fair to call her up and tell her she needs to get back to work.”
“I don’t see why not. It’s her job. That’s the trouble with you young people. Don’t take your jobs seriously.” He glared at them. “And now it’s colder than ever in here.”
“Uncle George.” John closed the window and the door to the garage, which slowed the chilly breeze. The door to the garage was not tight, though, so cold air continued to creep around its edges. “You can come to the church service with us, like we planned. Or you can stay here by yourself. You decide.”
“I’ll just stay here.”
“Fine.” Philp grinned. “That means we don’t need to take all the cars.”
“You’re right.” Carol reached into her pocket to pull out her keys. “Why don’t we take yours, Philip? And John’s. I’ll put mine in the garage, in case we get some snow or ice.”
“Nonsense.” Uncle George shivered. “I checked the weather forecast. I would never have come if we were going to have snow or ice.”
“You can never tell!” Carol took a step toward the front hallway. “I’ll just pull the car in anyhow. You did remember to fill the gas tank, didn’t you, John?”
John’s face fell. “I forgot. How much gas is there?”
Carol’s eyes blazed. “Enough. Maybe.”
Everyone but Uncle George trooped out.
I heard the car pull into the garage and the garage door slide down.
What I didn’t hear was the car’s engine being turned off.
The room still smelled smoky from the burnt afghan, but the smell of car exhaust began to overpower it.
It tickled my nose. I sneezed and jumped down to the floor.
Uncle George swatted at me with his cane.
I hissed and strode out into the hallway, where the fumes weren’t quite so bad. I sat in a patch of fading sunlight and began grooming myself.
The car’s engine sputtered and died.
Uncle George came tottering out toward the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. He sneezed.
I followed him. He grabbed a plate and spoon from the counter and opened the refrigerator door. He splatted a hunk of cranberry sauce on the plate, followed by a slice of turkey.
Without closing the refrigerator door, he headed toward the breakfast room.
The light was dim, but I’m a cat. I could see fine. I kept an eye on him and that nasty cane. I kept my distance behind him.
He juggled the plate and the cane, then fumbled with the front of his pants, muttering, “Now where the hell is that bathroom?”
When he got to the two doors across from each other, he opened the one to the cellar stairs and reached in, his hand patting the wall. “There has to be a light switch.”
I dashed through the open door and stepped in front of him. He swung his cane at me.
Hissing, I tried to run out between his legs, but he moved and I ran straight into one of them.
The plate holding the cranberry sauce and turkey tumbled to the floor. It shattered, spreading cranberry sauce in all directions. The slice of turkey ended up next to the cane.
One of Uncle George’s feet skidded in the cranberry sauce. He tried to regain his balance, but the cane landed on top of the slice of turkey, which slipped sideways.
He lifted the cane from its unreliable position and slammed it down. Into the emptiness above the top stair.
He teetered at the top of the stairs for a moment, then tumbled forward and fell down the steep stairs, headfirst.
I stood for a moment, staring. I could smell blood seeping out onto the rough stone floor. His head was bent back at an awkward angle. He gasped for breath a few times, but then he lay still.
The slice of turkey lay on the floor. I sniffed at it and took a nibble, but I really wasn’t hungry at all.
I went back into the parlor and hopped up into my chair, settling down comfortably. The flickering fire warmed the room.
Once again, I dozed. But now I didn’t need to worry that I’d be chased out of my chair.
Kid Kelly
Herschel Cozine
Every Thanksgiving we go to my Grandma and Grandpa’s house for Thanksgiving dinner.
BORING!
Mom won’t let me take my video games with me. She says they beep and carry on, and besides I should do something else on a special holiday. But there’s nothing else to do. My kid sister, Jennifer, is too young to play with. The grown-ups are all busy with one another and don’t have time to spend with me. So I have to make my own fun. I play with Zero, the dog, and climb the tree in the backyard. But Zero isn’t much of a dog. He won’t fetch, and he isn’t big enough to ride. He’s old now, and sleeps most of the time. The tree doesn’t have any leaves this time of the year, so I can’t spy from there.
The only fun I have is spying on the grown-ups, just like Kid Kelly does. Kid Kelly, Boy Detective, is a crime fighter on TV. I watch him every Saturday. He always gets his man. I have a Kid Kelly Detective Kit with a magnifying glass and other stuff. I even have a card signed by Kid Kelly that makes me a real detective.
Detectives are always watching for crimes and criminals, even at Thanksgiving. So I make sure I keep my eyes open for that sort of thing wherever I go. Of course, there isn’t much going on at Grandma’s house. The grown-ups talk a lot, mostly gossip about people I don’t know. They’re old and don’t do anything wrong. In fact, they don’t do much of anything at all.
This year was different. Grandma was going to kill Grandpa. I heard her tell my mom.
I was hiding behind the door in the hall. They were in the kitchen. Grandma was taking a pumpkin pie out of the oven. She set it on the table and stood back, smiling.
“You know how your father loves pumpkin pie,” she said to my mother.
“Oh, yes,” Mom said. “It’s his favorite.”
“He’ll die when he tastes this one,” Grandma said. “It’s a new recipe.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Grandma just said that she was going to kill Grandpa with a pumpkin pie. And my mom didn’t say anything. Maybe she didn’t hear what Grandma said. Sometimes my mom doesn’t hear very well, especially when she is working in the kitchen and I try to tell her things.
I couldn’t let Grandpa die. He was my favorite grandpa. He gave me a whole dollar one time for sweeping off the front porch. He takes me fishing. He plays catch with me, even though he doesn’t have a baseball glove.
If I had my Kid Kelly phone with me I could call the police. It’s a real phone that takes pictures. But Mom made me leave that at home, too.
I knew what had to be done. First of all, I would warn Grandpa. Of course, I couldn’t just come out and tell him that Grandma was going to kill him. He wouldn’t believe me, anyway. I would tell him not to eat any pie. He would want to know why. I know how much he loves pumpkin pie. He could eat a whole one all by himself. That’s probably what Grandma wanted him to do. If it had poison in it she wouldn’t want anyone else to eat it.
I would make up a story about how I tasted it and it was awful, but we couldn’t hurt Grandma’s feelings. He could pretend to be too full to eat any and would have some later on. Then after dinner, when everyone was in the living room I could sneak out into the kitchen and ge
t rid of it.
I found Grandpa on the front porch. He was asleep in the rocking chair, snoring so loud it scared the birds. I shook him awake.
“Grandpa,” I said. “You can’t eat any pumpkin pie.”
He sat up straight, yawned and pushed his false teeth back into place in his mouth.
“What?”
“Don’t eat the pumpkin pie.”
“What fly?” he said. Grandpa had hearing aids, but he never wore them. He said they made his ears itch.
“Not ‘fly.’ I said ‘pie.’ Pumpkin pie.”
“A fly in the dump? Of course there is. That’s where they live.”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t say ‘fly.’”
“Speak up, boy,” Grandpa said. “I can’t understand you when you mumble.”
I put my hands on his face and turned it until he was looking right at me.
“Grandma made a pumpkin pie. But it tastes awful. Don’t eat any.”
“You want me to taste Grandma’s pie? Of course, son. I love pie.”
I shook my head. It was no use. I couldn’t make him understand.
The only person who could help was my father.
I rushed into the living room. My dad was sitting in his favorite chair watching a football game on TV.
“Grandma’s going to kill Grandpa!” I shouted.
He didn’t even look up.
“Hey, Dad!” I said.
He held up his hand to quiet me. His eyes were glued to the TV where a bunch of guys were hitting each other and running around the field waving their arms. Some guy on the TV was yelling about the quarterback and how he should throw the ball before he was “sacked,” or something like that.
I tugged at his arm, but he pushed me away.
“Not now, son. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“But, Dad,” I shouted. “Grandma is going to kill Grandpa.”
“OK,” Dad said. “As soon as the game is over.”
“But…but…,” I said.
Dad waved a hand at me like he was shooing a fly away. The guys on TV were yelling at the top of their lungs, and Dad was leaning forward, watching them.
“Quiet!” he said. “Go play with the dog.”
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 6
