New Year's Eve, What A Gas!

Claire and James Ward were only hours away from heading out into the revelry of New Year's Eve, frantically searching for the right clothes, shoes, and jewelry for one of the most exciting nights of the year. Claire was digging through a box in her bedroom closet, looking for some of her great-grandmother's antique jewelry, which had recently been passed down to her after her mother's death.

"Why are you rummaging through that old box?" asked James as he dug through his dresser, trying to locate a very specific cologne. "We've got to get a move on it."

"I want to find this turquoise necklace my mom used to wear during the holidays," said Claire. "It was my German great-grandmother's; plus it's fabulous and would match my dress perfectly."

Claire moved aside a few unremarkable items until she came upon something that caught her eye. "Oh, what's this?" she said as she pulled out a musty, old journal with a decimated cover and binding, and flipped through the brittle pages. "Gosh, James, I think this is one of my great-grandma's cookbooks."

James came over and examined the book himself. The writing was small and in German.

"Can you read any of this?" asked James.

"I think so; my German isn't terrible. My grandma taught me the basics." Her eyes scanned the pages and a smile formed across her face. "Think of how cool it would be if we showed up to the party with an authentic German dish?" replied Claire, giddily.

"We only have a couple hours. You'll probably have to go to the store to pick up some ingredients, and who knows how long it'll take to prepare," said James, cautiously, knowing his wife had no cooking ability whatsoever and didn't want her to get frustrated.

"I'll find something simple," said Claire. She flipped through the pages for a few minutes. Meanwhile, James sought out the right tie for the night. "Here we go. This is all stuff we should already have. Ooh, it looks like a savory sauce. I have those brats in the freezer, James. I'll prepare the sauce, fry the brats, toss it in a ceramic dish in the oven. Should be ready to go in an hour or so."

"That's fine, Claire, but how will you have enough time to do that and also get ready? It practically takes more time than we have now..." said James, but he was cut off by his wife.

"Don't you dare finish that thought, love." Claire whisked away to the kitchen, cookbook in hand, to begin her preparations.

An hour or so passed, and James was sitting on the sofa drinking a glass of brandy, while Claire finished dressing. She came downstairs to a whistle from her husband; she looked great, and she was wearing her great-grandmother's necklace.

"Honey, could you please get the brats out of the oven and cover them with the heavy-duty lid while I get my heels on?" asked Claire.

"Sure thing, baby. And I have to say, you are looking fine tonight," said James, grinning.

The couple scurried about the house. It was already 10:30, and it would take them fifteen minutes to get to the party.

"God, that sauce is something potent. It made my eyes water when I opened the oven to cover it," said James as he emerged into the living room, coat on and ceramic dish in hand.

"I added a little extra horseradish to it," replied Claire as they fled out into the chilly, late-December night.

They arrived soon after at the Grignard's house. The party was alive, boisterous. Champagne and beer flowed freely as the Wards made their way through the living room, greeting friend, acquaintance, and stranger alike.

"Claire, what do you have there?!" exclaimed a tipsy Victoria Grignard, the lady of the household. She took the brats from Claire and dashed off to the kitchen without waiting for a response.

James and Claire were soon sipping champagne and sampling shrimp and finger foods from long tables in the dining room. They drank, danced, and schmoozed with many old friends as the clock approached midnight.

It was ten minutes until the New Year when the partiers heard horrific screams from Victoria Grignard and two other women in the kitchen. Men rushed into the kitchen, toward the agonizing howls, only to retreat – coughing, hacking, and dry heaving.

The gas coming from the kitchen was palpable. As James and Claire stampeded toward the front door in a haze, following the other terrorized guests, they turned back to see Victoria stumbling out of the kitchen. Her face was covered in putrid, red spots, and her eyes were turned up into her head. Blood gushed from her nose onto her plush, white carpet, which she fell onto seconds later, wailing.

James and Claire both felt the gentle burning in their lungs long after they made it out of the house. They were sitting on the grass with their friends, choking and vomiting from the foul air. Emergency service personnel were soon on scene, triaging gassed men and women, taking many away in ambulances.

"What happened? Does anyone know what happened?!" cried a tearful Claire to a group of hacking firefighters, who had pulled a lifeless Victoria from the house only minutes prior.

"Some sort of poison gas, ma'am," replied the fire captain as he bent over and vomited on the lawn.

"Oh, my god, from where?!" shrieked Claire. James attempted to settle her so the firefighters could return to their work.

Soon after, James and Claire were cleared to go home by the paramedics. The couple began 2016 in abject misery and poor health.

The following week, after Victoria Grignard's funeral, the Wards were visited by two detectives from the local precinct.

"Homeland Security thinks this was a case of domestic terrorism, Mr. and Mrs. Ward," said Detective Ford. "We're taking it very, very seriously."

"Terrorism? Oh, my god!" exclaimed Claire. "At the Grignard's?!"

"Yes. Someone brought a white, ceramic dish to the party, containing what appears to be the chemical compound dichlorodiethyl sulfide – more commonly known as mustard gas," replied the detective.

"Mustard gas?!" yelled a confused James.

"We've now interviewed everyone at the party and no one seems to recall who brought the dish," said Detective Ford as he and his partner headed toward the door. "Take my card and call me if you remember anything else about that night – anything suspicious or anyone that may have held ill will toward the Grignards."

The couple nodded, shaking from the revelation, not revealing their ownership of the dish out of unmitigated fear. When the detectives pulled out of the driveway, James and Claire raced upstairs, threw open the bedroom closet, and pulled out the box that contained the cookbook.

"What the hell did you make, Claire?!"

She flipped through the book while James searched the box for any clue of what went wrong.

"Was this your great-grandfather?" asked James as he held up an old, faded picture which was attached to some German army papers.

"Yes. I think his name was Fritz. He won the Nobel Prize," replied Claire, matter-of-factly, looking over the photo and the papers, then returning to the tattered book.

"Fritz Haber!?" screamed James. "Claire, I've seen entire programs about him on the History and Science Channel. He designed the chemical warfare program for Germany during World War I."

Claire was speechless. James grabbed the book from her, and asked her to point out the page with the recipe she had used. He made her translate every ingredient. His mouth opened in terror as he realized that she had made a savory sauce using household chemicals. It wasn't her great-grandmother's cookbook; it was a chemist's journal!

"Oh, my god, James. I gassed our friends!"

"Claire, how could you know so little about cooking that you'd put ammonia or bleach in food?!"

"James, I'm a tenured gender studies professor – not the head of Le Cordon Bleu Culinary School!"

Tears ran down Claire's face. She and her husband fell silent, staring at the journal, wondering how long it would be before the detective and his men came knocking at the door again.