Chapter 3: The Crustacean Catastrophe
“Why?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
“Mom likes lobster!” Daniel cried defensively.
“Why are they currently breathing our air?”
“They were on sale! They were cheaper this way!”
“Daniel, that is universally how live seafood pricing functions.”
He gestured wildly at the counter. “I thought the guy behind the glass was going to… handle them!”
“Handle them? How? Interrogate them? Give them a pep talk?”
“I don’t know! Make them less alive before bagging them!”
I had to turn my face toward the refrigerator because my chest was shaking with suppressed laughter. “What exactly is your action plan here?”
“I’m going to cook them!”
“In what?”
He pointed a trembling finger toward our largest aluminum stockpot on the back burner. “That pot.”
“That pot accommodates a maximum of two lobsters, Daniel.”
“We have six.”
“I am aware of the inventory.”
“Why did I buy six?!” he wailed, running a flour-covered hand through his hair.
He had bought six because three years ago, during a particularly lavish Christmas dinner, Patricia had loudly decreed that “one whole lobster per adult is the only civilized ratio.” This was despite the fact that Frank, a man of simple pleasures, actively despised lobster and would have traded his soul for a slice of meatloaf.
Tragically, while attempting to formulate a battle strategy, Daniel had unceremoniously dumped all six living creatures into the deep basin of the sink, assuming it was a secure holding cell. He then pivoted to address his boiling potatoes and smoking bread.
This was a fatal tactical error. Lobsters do not respect porcelain boundaries.
By one o’clock, a full-scale prison break had occurred. Three of the beasts had successfully scaled the slick walls of the sink and dropped onto the floor.
One had aggressively barricaded itself behind the toaster oven. Another was defensively positioned beneath the rolling utility cart near the walk-in pantry. The third had vanished entirely into the dark recesses of the kitchen architecture.
Daniel was on his hands and knees, peering frantically under the toe-kicks of the base cabinets. “Where did it go?!”
“You have officially lost a lobster, Daniel.”
“It moved exponentially faster than I anticipated!”
“You have engineered a seafood fugitive.”
He glared up at me from the floor tiles. “This isn’t funny, Esme!”
It was, in fact, the funniest thing I had witnessed in my entire adult life.
Then, the doorbell chimed. A crisp, cheerful, doom-laden melody.
Daniel froze on the floor, the color draining from his face. “My parents,” he whispered. “You have to help me.”
“No.”
“Esme, please!”
“I cannot, Daniel. Half my paycheck is currently securing organic bamboo diapers for your sister. My labor is spoken for.”
The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. Then, Patricia’s shrill voice penetrated the heavy oak of the front door. “Daniel! Esme! Open up!”
Daniel scrambled to his feet, dusting flour off his knees. “Just… just keep Mom out of the kitchen! Stall her!”
I walked gracefully down the hallway toward the foyer. But before my hand could grasp the brass knob, the door swung inward. Patricia possessed a spare key for “absolute emergencies.” Apparently, a two-minute delay to lunch met the criteria.
She swept into the entryway like royalty arriving at a colony. She was adorned in pristine, tailored white linen trousers, a pale pink silk blouse, oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses, and a Hermès scarf knotted tightly at her throat. Trailing behind her like a burdened pack mule was Frank, dutifully clutching a bottle of chilled Chardonnay.
And parked directly at the base of our driveway, perfectly framed in the open doorway, idled an enormous, gleaming white SUV. The tinted driver’s side window hummed down to reveal Beverly Watkins.
Beverly leaned out, a sickly-sweet smile plastered on her face. “Do have a truly wonderful private culinary experience, Patricia! Do let me know if the chef’s narrative meets your standards!”
Patricia turned on her heel and offered a rigid, royal wave. “We invariably do, Beverly!”
She slammed the door shut and instantly hissed, “That woman is an absolute pathogen.”
Frank sighed, thrusting the cold bottle of wine into my hands. “I wanted to pick up a six-pack of lager, but your mother-in-law informed me that beer is an insult to lobster.”
I shot Patricia a sharp look. “How did you know there was lobster on the menu?”
Patricia offered a smug, self-satisfied smile. “Daniel texted me from the store, begging to know what I desired. Naturally, I demanded the sea’s finest.” Then, she paused. Her surgically enhanced nose twitched as she inhaled the ambient air of the house. The smug smile evaporated. “What in god’s name is that acrid odor?”
From the depths of the kitchen, a tremendous metallic crash echoed, followed by Daniel screaming, “I’M FINE! EVERYTHING IS FINE!”
Patricia’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure suspicion. “Where exactly is the private chef Daniel hired?”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
Patricia realized I was laughing, and her suspicion calcified into genuine alarm. “Oh, dear lord. Another crash.”
She bypassed me entirely, her white leather wedges clicking ominously on the hardwood as she marched toward the kitchen.
I almost stopped her. My hand twitched toward her arm. But then I remembered Wednesday night. The calculator. The envelopes. The comfort is over.
I lowered my hand and let her walk into the ambush.
Patricia pushed open the heavy swinging door to the kitchen.
For perhaps two full seconds, there was absolute, unbroken silence.
Then, Patricia screamed.
Will the fugitive lobster claim its first victim before lunch is even served?
