“Never mind. We’re all fine. It’s just sauce.” I explained to him about the threats, which Mrs. Hanford happily admitted to slipping under the front door, her entering with a weapon, which I handed over to him, and the recipe conflict.
“The judge will have to sort out that last one,” he said, “but threats followed by attempted murder? Well, that deserves jail time.”
The officer walked Mrs. Hanford out to the waiting police cruiser through a crowd of neighbors who had been awakened by the noise.
“We’re going to have to clean the kitchen before we start cooking again,” Nozzie said.
I looked at my watch. “We’ll never finish all five hundred jars. It’ll take hours just to mop up.”
“This is worse than dying at Mrs. Hanford’s hand. No money for sauce, and we’ll have to pay the penalty. The old furnace won’t make it through the winter. We’ll freeze to death.” Grandma shook her head in despair.
“Anything we can do to help?” asked Mr. Weasel, the man who had lived next door to Nozzie and Grandma for years.
“Pass the hat?” said Nozzie.
“No. I’ve got an idea.”
Everyone’s gaze settled on me.
“If you want to help, come on in and we’ll tackle the kitchen together, then I’ll read off the recipe and each one of you can make a batch of sauce in your own kitchens. We’ve got the ingredients and jars if you’ve got the pots.”
A cheer of support went up from the crowd.
“She’s going to graduate school, that’s why she’s so smart,” said Aunt Nozzie.
The kitchen cleanup took a bit longer than we anticipated since everyone wanted to help and everyone got in each other’s way. But by the time the sun came up, the kitchen was tidy, and the recipe had been wiped clean.
“Okay, everybody got a pen or pencil? Paper?” I began to read the recipe. When I got to the bottom of the page, I turned it over and read “Invert for a half hour to seal the jars.”
“Off you go,” said Nozzie.
The neighborhood began to cook.
“There’s just one problem,” I said.
“What’s that?” asked Nozzie.
“Did either of you read what it says on the back of the recipe?”
“What you read, of course. What else?” asked Nozzie.
“After that it says, ‘Recipe by Belinda Taylor People.’” I looked at Nozzie and Grandma. “Isn’t she the mother of Bertie Hanford?”
Grandma nodded. “Now I remember. Bertie loaned that recipe to me almost fifty years ago. It must have slipped my mind.”
“Ma.”
“We changed it. Remember? We added dried orange peel. Now it’s our original recipe. And we gave Grandma People credit by naming it after her. No reason for Bertie to take a shotgun to us, was there? I’ll pop down to the jail tomorrow and explain it to her.”
A Saucy Postscript
I drove the sauce to the warehouse in Rockford the next day and was only a few minutes late. All five hundred jars sold out before the holiday. Mrs. Hanford was released from jail the day after the kitchen exploded. After all, the shotgun had not been discharged, and Nozzie and Grandma Papa decided not to press charges regarding the “misunderstanding” over the recipe’s author. The threatening notes had disappeared in the kitchen cleanup.
There was talk around town that Grandma Papa and Mrs. Hanford were going into the pie-making business together. Aunt Nozzie declined comment when the local newspaper asked her about the success of her sauce enterprise. She did say her business career wasn’t over. When I read that, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I cried a little, but only a little. I had to be somewhat happy that Thanksgiving at Aunt Nozzie’s hadn’t resulted in yet another murder.
On Thanksgiving Day I turned down Nozzie’s offer of a Scarlett O’Hara cocktail (cranberry juice, Southern Comfort, simple syrup and lime) and asked instead for a scotch on the rocks. Nozzie was sensitive enough not to serve cranberry sauce with the turkey. We had grape jelly instead.
The Corner Suite
By Elizabeth Hosang
Well, it’s about time. In my day, we didn’t stand around talking while there were customers waiting to be served. It’s disgraceful, three able-bodied young women standing around talking with only one cash register open and a dozen people in line.
Now let’s see. I thought I had an African violet in here. You don’t sell those? Pity. They are such lovely little plants, such a beautiful deep colour, and they do so well, even if you don’t water them every day. When you get to my age, your memory starts to get a little faulty. It’s good to have plants that can survive the occasional lapse. But I suppose purple isn’t really the right colour for a Thanksgiving decoration. Maybe I’ll take one of these paper turkeys you have here. Oh, yes, I see the tail opens up like an accordion. I can stand that in the window until I can find a violet.
Young man, there’s no need to huff and roll your eyes like that. We were both in the other line, and I got to this cash first. You’ll just have to wait your turn. You’d do well to learn a little patience. You’ll need it when you reach my age. Life slows down a lot when you move into a retirement home. Unless you’re willing to do something about it.
Well, I’ll just have to pick up some violets from another store. I do so love violets, but I don’t have room for them in my dinky little apartment. If I’d gotten that corner suite I’d have lots of space for violets, and a view of the river.
I do hope I can get home in time before this pie shell thaws. We’re having a pot luck Thanksgiving dinner at the home, and I’m bringing the pie. Of course, I prefer to make my pastry from scratch, but my little kitchen just doesn’t have the space for rolling out the dough.
Now let me see, I’ve got the hair dye. So nice that it comes with the thin rubber gloves. Those thick things they sell for cleaning are just so awkward. You can’t really feel anything through them. Makes it hard when you’re trying to do something delicate. This isn’t really my colour, but it was cheaper. It’s more like the colour Mr. Joseph used. He had the corner suite when I moved in. So vain, that man, dyeing his hair to look younger, when his skin was hanging off him like an old turkey, and those liver spots all over his hands. It was disgusting, the comments he’d make when a lady came to visit. As if anyone would believe he could still do that at his age, what with him being so flabby everywhere else. Frankly, it was a favour to all the ladies in the home when he finally passed last spring.
Is that a smoker’s cough, dear? You’re too young to have such a filthy habit. You’d be quite pretty if you lost that scowl, and some of those rings in your eyebrow. Poor Agnes, she always had breathing troubles. Had to haul around that oxygen tank when she went anywhere. She was so glad to get that corner suite after Mr. Joseph passed. Said with the big windows, she didn’t feel so much like a shut-in. At least she noticed the windows, because heaven knows she didn’t cook. Such a waste of a lovely kitchen. She insisted on starting a knitting circle. I haven’t knitted since my own grandmother passed, but the knitters were the only visitors she ever let in. I’ve never felt so much like an old lady, but what can you do. Nobody else really liked knitting either. By the end, I was the only one visiting her. I think her cough scared some of them off. You wouldn’t think she’d last a month, but she must have been fitter than she sounded. Three months later she was still there. Still, must have been a miserable life, not getting out at all. Her passing was a kindness, really.
Are you sure that’s the price for the window cleaner? I thought it was on sale. No? Well, I suppose it’s worth it. No point having a good view if you have to look out a streaky window, is there?
Now let’s see, this white paper bag is from the pharmacy. Needles? No, that’s right, sleeping pills. Poor Jeanne down the hall. Passed away last month. Such a dear sweet soul. Very arthritic. Diabetes can be such a terrible illness. Bad for the eyesight, bad for the circulation. I had to help her with her injections from time to time. Fortunately my eye
s aren’t too bad, and my hands don’t shake. But as I told her doctor, her memory wasn’t what it should be. That was the reason why she ran short of insulin sometimes. I kept telling him, she just lost track. It was such a shock when she died of a heart attack. So inconvenient. Her death didn’t help me at all. She moved in after me, so she wasn’t even on the waiting list for the corner suite.
Oh well, we can’t control these things. My Eddie, so strong until the stroke happened. Then so much work to look after. Wouldn’t go out, wouldn’t entertain. We both became shut-ins. We had no Thanksgiving at all for a few years. If only his mind had weakened when his body did. But no, he was still stubborn as a mule. Didn’t want to move, wanted to die in his own home, the same dingy old place we’d been living in for thirty years. Of course, if he’d bothered to apply a new coat of paint, or let me buy new drapes, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but no. Money was tight he said, but he always had enough to go drinking with his buddies. And then, when he needed me to clean up after him, he wouldn’t let me move us into that lovely new corner suite at the retirement home. I still remember the first time we saw it. Fresh carpet, new cabinets, and plenty of counter space for an apartment in a place like that. We were first on the waiting list, you know. But the doctor said he was still strong. Drag him to therapy twice a week and make him exercise at home, and he could live another ten years. By then the suite wouldn’t be nearly so new looking, would it?
Let’s see, canned pumpkin, nutmeg, eggs. You know, I think I’ll take this decorating magazine. The corner suite is still in pretty good shape, but it won’t really be mine until I’ve redecorated a little. These candies, I can’t quite read the label, they’re the ones with the caramel centers, yes? Good. I can’t stand them, but Mrs. Warkentin loves them. She’s one of those sturdy Mennonite farmer types. Not very pleasant to chat with, but if you bring her candies she’ll let you in. She’s strong as an ox, and built like one too. She’ll probably be in the corner suite forever, unless her heart gives out all of a sudden. That’s what happened to my Eddie, you know. Just died in his sleep one night. Of course, it was too late for me to get into that corner suite, but at least they were willing to put my name on the waiting list. I guess I should have cancelled his prescriptions at the pharmacy when he died last year, but really, you never know when you might need a sleeping pill or two, and doctors can be such a bother, with all their technical questions.
I think that’s everything. Needles? Oh, that’s right, I still have a few of Jeanne’s things in my apartment. And that mortar and pestle I got from the cooking store. No, dear, I don’t need the credit card reader. I prefer to use cash. I would never remember a secret password. I dare say I’d go blabbing it out loud every time I used it.
Is that today’s paper? What’s the headline say? Coroner to investigate deaths at retirement home? That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone investigate the death of old people? They die all the time. You never know when someone’s heart will just stop, or they’ll get careless with their pills. And insulin is something the body makes anyway.
I think that’s everything I need for the pie. Such a shame I’m going to have to make it in that cramped little kitchen. Next year it’ll be better. I’ll have more room and I can make the pastry properly, from scratch. Well, at least I should have lots of room to make cookies by the time the Christmas party rolls around.
Don’t stare, dear, it’s rude. Such a pretty face, if you just took a little more care with your appearance. Now let’s see. I was going to pick up violets on the way home. They’re going to look so nice in that window.
Operation Knock Her Down a Peg
By Barb Goffman
My daughter Aimee sniffed the milk, twitching her nose as she tried repeatedly to shake her coppery hair from her eyes. She looked like a cross between an overexcited rabbit and Elizabeth Montgomery on a bad hair day. Not the way most thirteen-year-olds would want to appear. But then again, when it’s five a.m. on Thanksgiving, looks aren’t the most important thing—especially when you’re on a mission, as my three teenage daughters and I were.
“Has it gone sour?” I asked. The milk had been left sitting out in our warm kitchen for nearly four days.
“Yeah, definitely,” she said.
“Well then, don’t use it,” I said. “Leave it out for another hour first. Remember, girls, we’re aiming for rancid.”
We had eleven hours until Thanksgiving dinner began at my cousin Janet’s house. Eleven hours until I got my revenge.
Janet and I are closer than a lot of cousins. Or at least we used to be. We star in a cable show called Cooking Cousins, with Janet as the professional chef and me as the home cook. Every week we make the same meal, but Janet uses mostly high-end hoity-toity techniques and ingredients. I use everyday ones, including canned food. The judges do a blind taste test and pick the best meal. Lately, I’ve been winning more than half the time. I’d thought Janet was okay with it until I read in a cooking gossip column last weekend that Janet wants to break away from me and star in her own show. She said I must be cheating on our show, since she’d supposedly tried my recipes and found they actually often resulted in “inedible meals.” The lying witch!
If she wanted inedible food, I was going to give it to her.
Granted, my initial reaction was less nuanced. I thought about confronting her directly. Spilling hot gravy down her blouse. Pushing her face into a plate of mashed potatoes. Dropping a bowl of cranberry sauce on the floor and watching her slip in it. But as lovely as these fantasies were, they were too obviously an attack. I wanted to hoist Janet on her own petard. And with a little thought, I devised the perfect plan to do so. I’d simply steal some of her Thanksgiving dishes and replace them with my own, which I’d make with those bad recipes I supposedly used all the time. I’d also throw in—oops!—some wrong ingredients for good measure. Good thing Janet was such a traditionalist. I had no doubt which dishes she’d make or how they’d look.
“Mom,” Eva said. “The pecan pie recipe calls for a quarter cup of sugar. What do you think of me substituting half of a cup of salt? Too much?”
I smiled at my middle child. “Darling, in this endeavor, there can never be too much salt. Go forth and ruin that pie.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
She saluted me, and it struck me how gangly Eva had become since she’d turned fifteen a few months back. Sometimes it seemed she was hardly more than a collection of thin arms, knobby knees, and a mind that worked faster than Gordon Ramsay could get pissed off. It was Eva who’d come up with the perfect name for our plan, Operation Knock Her Down a Peg. I wondered if she had a future in marketing. Or the military.
She stepped to our kitchen island where my oldest, Meredith, was stabbing sweet potatoes, preparing them for the oven. Meredith had always liked helping me in the kitchen. More specifically, she’d always liked helping me with knife work in the kitchen. She’d be heading off to college next fall, and while Meredith claims she wants to study economics, I think in her heart she really dreams of becoming a butcher. Or maybe a serial killer.
“That’s a lot of potatoes, honey,” I said. Meredith had more than a dozen on the counter.
“I’m making one casserole for Cousin Janet’s dinner and one casserole for us,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll design a smiley face with the marshmallows on top of the one we’ll keep so they won’t get mixed up. As much as I want to see Cousin Janet being humiliated, I also want to eat some real Thanksgiving food, and I’m not going to eat anything over there today.”
“But you’ll pretend to,” I said.
She winked at me. “Of course.”
The oven dinged, ready for the turkey. I carried the sucker over, shoved it in, and set the timer. Given its size, the turkey should only need five hours to cook, but I set the timer for nine hours. That extra time should be more than enough to make the meat drier than sand.
I turned to take in the room and gleefully rubbed my hands together as I watched my daughte
rs cooking against our common enemy. They’d seen how much that gossip column had hurt me, so as soon as I shared my plan, they were all in. Meredith even called my plot “delicious,” which was more than anyone would say about the food Janet would be serving today.
The green-bean casserole would be made with light banana yogurt, turning the usually savory dish into a sugar bomb. For the pumpkin soup, we’d be replacing the cream with sour milk, once we gave the milk time to turn even more. Chunks, anyone? For the turkey, in addition to drying it out, we’d be glazing it with vegetable oil and soy sauce, which should make it look juicy and delicious, yet the skin should actually taste like unmixed salad dressing.
And the pièce de résistance would be the sweet-potato casserole. When Janet and her guests (minus my immediate family) bit into it, little would they know that instead of marshmallows, they’d be eating chopped-up packing peanuts, straight from our office-supply store. Good thing Janet never browns her casserole. We’d simply add a layer of the peanuts to the top of the dish after it comes out of the oven. They’d look just like marshmallows, but they’d taste like the cornstarch they’re made of. Knowing Janet would actually be eating packing peanuts was a bonus I’d have to keep to myself.
When I’d come up with this plan to make everyone think Janet had screwed up, I worried I’d be taking things too far. While no one would die, stomachaches galore would be assured. But then I heard that Janet had invited some network exec to Thanksgiving dinner so she could pitch her new show idea—with me right there! All my concerns disappeared as fast as you could crack a wishbone. Every battle had casualties, and Janet had just declared war.
I bet even our late nana would approve. She’d given Janet and me identical sets of cookware and bakeware as wedding gifts, which would make today’s dish switches possible. Nana had never liked a bully, and she always said she liked my spunk.
I could hardly wait until it was time to head over. In just a few short hours, Janet would be going down.
The Killer Wore Cranberry Page 4
