White Fire

58

At half past two o’clock in the afternoon, a man wearing an enormous greatcoat, bundled up in gloves, silk scarf, and a trilby hat, carrying a bottle of champagne, rang the doorbell of the large Italianate mansion at 16 Mountain Trail Road. A maid, dressed in a starched black uniform with a white apron and cap, answered the door.

“May I help—?” she began, but the man came striding in with a cheery Christmas greeting, overriding her voice. He handed her his hat, scarf, and coat, revealing himself to be dressed in a severe black suit.

“The storm seems to be letting up!” he said to no one in particular, his voice loud in the echoing marble foyer. “My goodness, it’s cold out there!”

“The family is at Christmas Eve dinner—” the maid began again, but the man in black didn’t seem to hear as he strode across the foyer and past the great curving staircase into the long hall leading to the dining room, the maid hurrying after him, burdened with his outerwear. “Your name, please, sir?”

But the man paid no attention.

“I’m supposed to announce you—”

She could hardly keep up with him. He arrived at the great double doors to the dining room, grasped the handles, and threw them open, to reveal the entire family, a dozen or more, seated around an elegant table gleaming with silver and crystal, the remains of a suckling pig on a giant platter in the center. The pig had been reduced to a rib cage surrounded by greasy gobbets and bones, the only thing remaining intact being its head, with its crispy curled ears and the requisite baked apple in its mouth.

Everyone at the table stared at the man in surprise.

“I tried to—” the maid began, but the gentleman in black interrupted her as he held up the bottle of champagne.

“A bottle of Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne and a Merry Christmas to each and every one of you!” he announced.

A shocked silence. And then Henry Montebello, sitting at the head of the table, rose. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” His eyes narrowed. “You — you’re that FBI agent.”

“Indeed I am. Aloysius Pendergast, at your service! I’m making the rounds of all my friends, bringing season’s greetings and gifts of cheer!” He sat down in the only empty chair at the table.

“Excuse me,” Montebello said coldly. “That chair is reserved for Mrs. Kermode, who should be here momentarily.”

“Well, Mrs. Kermode’s not here yet, and I am.” The man plunked the champagne down on the table. “Shall we open it?”

Montebello’s patrician features hardened. “I don’t know who you think you are, sir, bursting into a private family dinner like this. But I must ask you to leave this house at once.”

The agent paused, swaying slightly in the chair, a hurt expression gathering on his face. “If you’re not going to open the champagne, fine, but don’t send me away without a little glass of something.” He reached over the table and picked up a half-full bottle of wine, examining the label. “Hmmm. A 200 °Castle’s Leap Cabernet.”

“What are you doing?” Montebello snapped. “Put that down and leave at once, or I shall call the police!”

Ignoring this, the man plucked a nearby glass off the table, poured a measure of the wine, and made a huge production of swirling it about, sticking his nose in the glass, sipping, noisily drawing in air, puffing his cheeks, sipping again. He put the glass down. “Some good berry notes, but no body and a short finish. Dull, I’m afraid; very dull. What sort of wine is this to serve at a Christmas Eve dinner? Are we but barbarians, Squire Montebello? Philistines?”

“Lottie, call nine-one-one. Report a home invasion.”

“Ah, but I was invited in,” said Pendergast. He turned to the maid. “Wasn’t I, dear?”

“But I just opened the door—”

“And what is more,” Montebello said, his voice crackling with fury as the rest of the family looked on with blank consternation, “you are drunk!”

In that moment, as if on cue, a cook entered from the kitchen, flanked by attendants, carrying a huge flambé, the flames leaping up from the silver server.

“Cherries jubilee!” Pendergast cried, jumping to his feet. “How marvelous!” He surged forward. “It’s too heavy for you — let me help. That fire could be dangerous — especially here, in Roaring Fork!”

The cook, alarmed at the drunken man coming at her, took a step backward, but she was too slow. The FBI agent seized the great flaming platter; there was a sudden moment of imbalance; and then it overturned, the platter, cherries, ice cream, and burning brandy all crashing to the table and splattering over the remains of the pig.

“Fire! Fire!” Pendergast cried, aghast as the flames leapt up, his face a mixture of dismay and panic. “This is dreadful! Run! Everyone outside!”

A chorus of cries and shrieks went up around the table as everyone scrambled backward, knocking over chairs, spilling wine.

“Out, quickly!” shouted Pendergast. “Pull the alarm! The house is burning down! We’ll be burned alive just like the others!”

The sound of terror in his voice was infectious. There was instant pandemonium. A smoke alarm went off, which only increased the mindless panic to get out, to get away at all costs from the fire. In mere seconds the diners, cook, and wait staff had all cleared the room, some pushing others away in their panic, and stampeded down the hall and across the foyer. One after another, they burst out the front door and into the night. The man in black was left alone in the house.

With sudden calm, he reached out, picked up an enormous gravy boat, and poured it over the alcohol flames, which were largely sputtering out anyway due to the melting ice cream and juices of the roasted carcass. A dash of wine from the bottle of inferior Cabernet completed the fire suppression. And then, with great aplomb and rapid efficiency of movement, he strode through the dining room, into the living room, and through it to a series of formally decorated rooms in the back, where Henry Montebello maintained his home legal office. There, Pendergast went straight to a cluster of filing cabinets. Perusing the labels on the front of each, he chose one, jimmied it open with a swift, sure motion, flipped through the papers, removed a fat accordion file, shut the cabinet, and carried the file back through the house to the front hall, plucking his bottle of champagne from the dining table in the process. In the front hall, he retrieved his greatcoat, scarf, hat, and gloves from where the maid had dumped them on the floor in her panic, secreted the file in the bulk of his coat, and stepped outside.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “the fire is out. It’s safe to return now.”

He strode off into the snowy afternoon, to his waiting car, and drove away.