The Killer Wore Cranberry

  The Killer Wore Cranberry

  Edited by J. Alan Hartman

  “Biscuits, Carats, and Gravy” Copyright 2010 by Barb Goffman

  “How to Sweeten a Mother-in-Law” Copyright 2010 by Stephanie Beck

  “Turkey Cull” Copyright 2010 by Laird Long

  “A Mobster’s Guide to Cranberry Sauce” Copyright 2010 by Beth Mathison

  “The Thanksgiving Cookoff War” Copyright 2010 by Earl Staggs

  “Who Snuffed the Turkey?” Copyright 2010 by Lance Zarimba

  “Murder with All the Trimmings” Copyright 2010 by Lesley A. Diehl

  “Ambrosia” Copyright 2010 by Jack Bates

  “Last Licks” Copyright 2010 by Kathleen Gerard

  Cover Copyright 2010 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  Introduction

  Growing up, Thanksgiving for me was all about plunking down in front of the television and watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Fantastic balloons, the entire gang of Sesame Street on a float, marching bands and, of course, Santa Claus bringing up the rear.

  That's not to say the food wasn't a big part of it either. When I was much younger, the idea of a table laden with turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie was enough to make my tummy sing out in happiness.

  With age comes clarity, and I'm afraid that over time I became disillusioned with the whole day. I started to realize that the Thanksgiving Parade was really nothing more than one giant sales gimmick. I learned that a turkey wasn't a magical food, but something people argued over in the frozen poultry section at the local Safeway or Publix or other regional supermarket. The stuffing was invariably Stove-Top and not some delicious concoction made from scratch. I found out why the cranberry sauce has the ridges, which is because Ocean Spray doesn't make a ridgeless can. And although Sara Lee is probably a very nice woman, the idea of a pie being thaw-and-serve leaves me feeling pretty empty. We won't even get into the whole “gosh-I-wish-the-family-would-go-home” thing.

  Since I haven't enjoyed Thanksgiving for a number of years, I thought perhaps it was time to bring a little bit of the fun back to the holiday not only for me but for readers. In the Summer of 2010 I put out a challenge to writers: bring me your best mystery story based around a Thanksgiving food, but be sure to keep humor as one of the ingredients. The results were pretty spectacular, and you'll find the top choices in this anthology. Reading through the submissions, it's apparent that I'm not the only one who has struggled with family, food and functioning on that third Thursday of November.

  From the downright hilarious and slapstick to the more subtle, the flavor of humor adds just the right amount of seasoning to the stories contained within. My hope is that you'll find a good chuckle, a terrific mystery and perhaps a new author to invite to your holiday table. And, if Uncle Seymour steals the last piece of pie AGAIN this year, you might have some inventive new ways to bump the guy off.

  Best wishes for a happy holiday season!

  J. Alan Hartman

  Editor-in-Chief

  Untreed Reads Publishing

  Biscuits, Carats, and Gravy

  By Barb Goffman

  We have three big Thanksgiving traditions in my family. Everyone gathers at my house. We all hold hands when we give thanks. And we all avoid my big sister Agnes’s gravy like the plague.

  Unfortunately, I can never dodge it entirely.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Dotty,” Agnes said, click-clacking into my kitchen, holding out her gravy container as if it held gold. More like mold, if this year’s version resembled last year’s. And every year’s before that.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Agnes.” I pecked her on the cheek as she handed off her creation. I set it down next to my silver gravy boat. My poor boat that everyone passed around the table each year, never actually pouring anything from it. Not that you could. Agnes used so much flour, the gravy practically stood up on its own.

  “You want me to use the lower oven again this year, Dotty?” asked my brother-in-law, Fred, carrying in Agnes’s turkey.

  Someone should have told that man years ago that just because it’s Thanksgiving, he doesn’t have to wear a bright orange sweater with a turkey on it. Nonetheless the same sweater. Every year.

  “Sure do,” I said. “It’s already set to keep the bird warm until we sit down to eat.”

  Agnes and I divvy up the cooking each Thanksgiving. Since I host, she takes on the turkey and gravy. I handle everything else. Agnes and Fred live only a few blocks away, so splitting things is easy. Quite frankly, I’d rather be in charge of the turkey and gravy, too. It’s such a shame that every year the family gets a mostly perfect meal. But I haven’t been able to figure out a kind way to keep Agnes out of the kitchen. Not yet anyway.

  I heard the front door open and close again, and I stepped into the foyer. Almost the whole clan had arrived: both my girls, their husbands, and kids; my son, Michael, with his wife, Charlene, and kids; and most of the brood from Agnes’s side.

  As I hugged everyone hello, I scanned my living room one more time. The maroon couch pillows were plumped and set at exactly the right angles. That tiny spot that had somehow appeared this morning on my beautiful white carpeting had been exorcized. Nice classical music provided a peaceful yet sophisticated background. And both the cornucopia on the coffee table and the pumpkin-scented candles atop the accent tables provided the perfect finishing touches.

  Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.

  If only things could stay like this. I tried to ignore my six-year-old grandson, Bobby, who was sitting on the arm of one of the wing chairs. The arm! Just then I noticed my granddaughter Libby had set her glass on a table without a coaster. The girl is thirteen years old. She should know better. I shot her a look. She fixed things right quick. My stars, this younger generation has no sense of propriety.

  Agnes stepped into my dining room. I followed, feeling calmer. I knew this room would still be perfect, still undisturbed by others’ hands. And it was. The linen napkins were properly positioned and folded. The Waterford glasses and wine goblets were set at the correct angle to the plates. Both my china and the mahogany table underneath it shone in the light reflecting off my crystal chandelier.

  I sighed with happiness.

  “Everything looks exceptional, Dotty, as always,” Agnes said.

  “Thanks.” I nodded my head. Couldn’t help smiling. Yes, everything appeared just right.

  Michael had put all three leaves into the table this morning so we could fit all twenty-four of us around it. I was pleased, even though it was going to be a pretty tight squeeze. Tight enough that my husband, Henry, sitting at the far end, wouldn’t have much room to scooch his chair back to unbutton his pants as the meal progressed. That, of course, was a plus.

  I felt a tug on my arm.

  “Grandmother, come see!” Bobby pulled
me toward the front door. My daughter-in-law, Charlene, was taping up a sign that declared “Happy Thanksgiving” in orange and blue crayon. Beside the words was a picture of a...

  “Is that a dog?” I asked, tilting my head, trying to decipher the drawing. It kind of resembled a cow crossed with a giraffe, but I guessed dog based on the long ears and tail and brown coloring.

  “Yes,” Charlene said, beaming at Bobby. “He made this for you this morning. He can’t draw a turkey yet.”

  I laughed. Good heavens. Claude Monet he wasn’t. But at least Bobby spelled the words correctly. And his heart was in the right place.

  I leaned down and gave him a hug. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He looked slyly at his mother then back at me. “Maybe for Christmas you could give me a dog?”

  I laughed some more while Charlene’s face turned red. Boy, did she have her hands full with this one. He was crafty. Had to appreciate that.

  “You’ll have to talk to your mother about that,” I said.

  One of my timers dinged, and I hurried off to pull a pan of biscuits from the oven while I heard Bobby say, “Can I, Mama? Please?”

  A dog. Dear Lord. I shivered, thinking of the potential mess.

  I’d barely set foot into my quiet kitchen before Agnes was hot on my heels. “Did you remember to set a place for Jessica?” she asked

  “Of course.” How could anyone forget the bottle-blond bimbo dating Kevin, her oldest grandchild? Last year at Thanksgiving, Jessica wore such a low-cut, tight sweater I swear Henry nearly mentioned it when he shared what he was thankful for. “It’s going to be a tight fit in there. Any more grandchildren, and we’ll have to think about setting up a children’s table, like Mother and Daddy used to do.”

  “Who knows, maybe next year there’ll be great-grandchildren on the way,” Agnes said with a lilt in her voice.

  I stopped short, nearly dropping the biscuits.

  “Kevin has asked Jessica to marry him!” Agnes said.

  Dear Lord have mercy. I was going to have to smile at that girl across my Thanksgiving table for the rest of my life. If only she didn’t always have such a vacant look in her eyes. Or could spell vacant.

  “What wonderful news,” I said. “When did this happen?”

  “Just last night. Don’t say anything. They’re planning to announce it during dinner. I promised Kevin he could have Mother’s engagement ring.” She fluttered her right hand. “I’m going to give it to him when they make the announcement, so he can put it on Jessica’s finger while the whole family watches.”

  Mother’s engagement ring? She was going to give Mother’s two-carat, platinum-set, colorless engagement ring to that twenty-year-old, gold-digging airhead? I took a few quick breaths. I hadn’t minded when Mother left her stunning diamond ring to Agnes when she passed a few years ago. We split up the family heirlooms fairly evenly. And the oval-shaped ring looked so nice on Agnes. She had thinner fingers than Mother had, so the ring accentuated Agnes’s long, lean hands. She wore the ring on the index finger of her right hand, keeping Mother closer to her heart, according to a Jewish tradition Agnes had learned about on some cable show. I thought that was a nice sentiment, so I truly had no problem with Agnes getting Mother’s ring—until now. I’d simply never dreamed Agnes would let the ring out of the family. It should be going to a granddaughter, not a granddaughter-in-law!

  “Well, isn’t that lovely,” I said, trying to keep my voice chipper and steady while I avoided Agnes’s gaze. It wouldn’t do to express my concern. Certain people would think I was jealous, when, really, I only wanted things kept proper.

  I set the biscuits down on the kitchen table and examined everything on it, trying to find something to focus on instead of Agnes. I needed a distraction. The sweet potato salad looked good after chilling overnight. Next to it sat two cans—cans!— of cranberry sauce. In my house! They must be the work of my eager-beaver daughter-in-law. Charlene always meant well, but her taste certainly left something to be desired. As did her hair style. I shuddered, moving my eyes along. When I spotted my gravy boat, I had an idea. A wonderfully delicious idea.

  “Agnes, give me the ring,” I said, turning toward her. “Let me shine it. It’s a little dull now. It should be perfect when Kevin gives it to Jessica.”

  She smiled at me. “Oh, Dotty, you’re always so thoughtful.”

  Yes. I smiled back. I was.

  * * *

  About an hour later, we all sat around the dining-room table, hands clasped, sharing thanks. It was an enlightening experience, to say the least. Apparently my eleven-year-old granddaughter, Ellie, is most thankful for some singer named after carpeting. Justin Berber or something like that. I hoped I might get a more thoughtful answer from my fifteen-year-old grandson, Tim, but no. He’s most thankful for the success of the Carolina Panthers this season. Henry wasn’t much better. His lips said he’s thankful for his family, but his eyes roamed to a sweater he shouldn’t have been noticing.

  Yes, Kevin and the airhead had shown up. With her breasts practically sitting on the table, she mooned at Kevin and said she was thankful for him. Nothing else. Solely him. And my idiot grand-nephew ate it up. Maybe she did love him. I hoped so. But I feared she loved our money more.

  Finally we made it to Agnes, who sat to my left. She always liked giving her thanks last.

  “I’m so thankful that our entire family still lives right here in Fayetteville and that we’re all close,” she said. “With the turmoil you see in the news every day, we’re so lucky to have been blessed with health and prosperity. I’m thankful to the Goodyear company for promoting Floyd and Charles again this year.” She beamed at both her sons, who are in management at the tire manufacturer.

  “I’m thankful for Fred and Margaret and...” Agnes went on as she always does, naming every single member of the family. “And, finally, I’m thankful for my little sister, Dotty, who takes on the responsibility for this meal every year and who has been my best friend my whole life.”

  Now she smiled at me. I took the opportunity to squeeze her hand and get a better grasp on Mother’s engagement ring.

  “Agnes, you are so sweet, as always.” I slid my hand away, easily pulling the ring with me, thanks to the butter I had rubbed on the inside of the band after I shined it. “Henry, I think it’s time.”

  All eyes shifted to the other end of the long table where my husband rubbed his palms together, relishing the imminent delight of carving the bird. He loved it so much you’d think he was a butcher in a prior life. Or a mass murderer. I took that opportunity to stretch my arm out over the gravy boat and drop Mother’s ring in it. The ring sank with nary a ripple.

  I hated having to hide the ring in the gravy. Lord knows what might grow on it until I got the chance to fish it out, but it was the best spot. No one would find it in there. And I just had to keep it safe until Libby got married. After all, as the oldest female grandchild, the ring was rightly hers. When the time came, I’d simply find the ring under the credenza or behind the sideboard or something like that. I could explain it away.

  About fifteen minutes later, after we all had finished our soup, and slices of turkey had begun making their way around the table, along with my mashed potatoes, green-bean casserole, and homemade cranberry sauce (so there, Charlene!), Agnes gasped.

  “Mother’s ring!” she said. Well, screamed is more like it. My sister may be in her seventies, but she has the lungs of a choir girl. “It’s gone!”

  “What do you mean, it’s gone?” Jessica screeched.

  It was the first interaction she’d had with anyone but Kevin since she walked in the door. Yep, just what I thought. She wanted Kevin for the family money.

  “Now, now, dear, I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” my brother-in-law, Fred, said to Agnes. “Didn’t you take it off earlier?”

  Agnes rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, I took it off so Dotty could polish it. But she returned it to me, and I put it back on. I specifically reme
mber that.”

  “Well, where did that happen?” he asked.

  “In the kitchen, while we were...” Agnes stopped talking. Her mouth fell open. “Oh, no.”

  Oh, no, what?

  “What’s the matter, Grandmother?” Kevin asked.

  “I slipped the ring on while we were putting the final touches on everything,” Agnes said, waving her arm at the table. “All the food.”

  I never knew silverware could make such noise. It clattered as everyone dropped their utensils. A couple of forks fell to the floor. Dang it. I’d have to get the steam cleaner out after dinner.

  I put a calming hand on Agnes’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find it when we clean up. Now everybody eat up before the food gets cold.”

  “Eat up?” Jessica said. “Are you crazy? Someone could swallow my ring!”

  “Your ring?” Charlene and both my daughters echoed in unison.

  “Yes. Kevin and I are getting engaged. He’s supposed to give me the ring tonight. It was gonna be a big surprise.” She glared at Kevin as if this were all his fault. “Do something!”

  The boy looked bewildered. “Like what?”

  “Like what?” Jessica said. “How ’bout like this?!” And she jammed her hands deep into the bowl of cranberry sauce sitting in front of her. The juice sloshed over the side, right onto my gleaming table. Jessica kept wiggling her hands, making a bigger and bigger mess.

  Everyone sat staring at her. Finally Jessica pulled her hands from the cranberries, the sauce dripping down her arms. “It’s not in there!” With frantic eyes and literally heaving breasts, she then thrust her hands into the bowl of brussels sprouts, causing some of them to catapult out of the bowl, across the room. “Help me!” she screamed.

  And Lord have mercy, everyone did. Before I could stop it, Kevin was destroying the green-bean casserole, running his hands all through it while chunks flew out—some landing in his hair. My granddaughter Ellie and grand-niece Cheryl flapped their hands through the mashed potatoes. Fred grabbed the remains of the turkey carcass and shoved his arm inside, feeling it up.