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tree.”
    Bernie and Libby were both too flabbergasted to speak. They simply watched as Monty reached over and pulled the rack containing the turkey out a couple of inches. Then he bent down even farther and inhaled.
    â€œSmell that,” he said, using his hand to waft the aroma up to his nose. “There’s nothing like it. They should bottle it. Don’t you agree, girls?”
    But Libby wasn’t listening to what Monty was saying. She was focusing on the turkey. She didn’t get it. The turkey had been roasting breast side down, but now it was breast side up. That made no sense. The only possible explanation was that Bernie had turned the bird. But why? It wasn’t time yet. She turned to Bernie to ask why she’d done that, but before she could get the words out, Monty reached over and tapped on the pop-up button embedded in the turkey’s breast with the forefinger of his right hand.
    He went tap, tap, tap.
    On the third tap the turkey exploded.

Chapter 8
    B ernie and Libby stood there with their mouths hanging open. They were too stunned to move. Or speak. Their ears rang. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing.
    Finally Libby said, “Tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”
    â€œIt is.” Bernie pointed to the oven.
    Monty Field lay sprawled half on the floor and half on the oven door. His head had been turned sideways by the blast. The upper half seemed to be gone.
    Libby put her hand to her mouth and averted her eyes. She didn’t want to look, but Bernie couldn’t tear her eyes away.
    â€œUgh,” Bernie said as she gingerly stepped around the blood dripping onto the floor. Monty’s eyes seemed to follow her as she reached over and turned off the heat. “Death by turkey,” Bernie said, the words flying out of her mouth before she could stop them. “That’s a new one.” Then she gave a nervous giggle, which was something she always did when she was extremely upset. “Who would have thought?”
    â€œWho indeed?” Libby took a deep breath. She still hadn’t moved from the spot she was standing in. Her legs felt wobbly, and her stomach was doing odd flip-flops. “I told you those pop-up buttons were no good,” she wailed.
    â€œEvidently not,” Bernie replied. She was still having trouble thinking clearly.
    â€œWe killed him,” Libby continued. “The stuffing made the turkey explode, and we killed him. I can’t believe it.”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” Bernie said automatically.
    â€œNo. We did,” Libby insisted.
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” Bernie told her.
    â€œWell, can you come up with another explanation?” Libby demanded.
    â€œPossibly.” Bernie studied the oven and the area surrounding it.
    Of course, there was another explanation. There had to be. It was just a matter of reading the scene and coming up with one. She put aside her queasiness and told herself to focus.
    â€œWell?” Libby said after a minute had gone by.
    â€œNo oyster stuffing,” Bernie finally said.
    â€œNo oyster stuffing?” Libby repeated. “What do you mean, no oyster stuffing?”
    â€œExactly what I said.”
    â€œWhich makes no sense,” Libby said, raising her voice.
    â€œCalm down.”
    â€œI am calm. I just want to know what you meant by ‘no oyster stuffing.’ Under the circumstances I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
    â€œI meant exactly what I said, Libby,” Bernie replied in a voice that Libby found infuriating. “There’s a lot of other stuff on the walls”—Bernie didn’t think she needed to be more specific—“but I don’t see any oyster stuffing, do you?”
    Libby looked around for a moment. She saw turkey and sweet potato casserole and corn-bread stuffing and some pieces of what she thought might be Monty Field’s head—better not to speculate on