Could I be done for manslaughter?

This is the third part of the story I have been sharing – I have worked in a hotel kitchen but was fortunate to be waiting staff not catering! My story is completely imagined because the chef I worked under was strict and expected high standards from everyone, but he was a great guy and helpful to new young staff who were trying their best. In this story so far, the main character is working at an event and has an impatient and difficult boss who clearly has no cooking or food prep experience herself. Ever conscious of economy, she’s wanting to know what has happened to the scraps and waste, as well as what was left on customers plates.

“So what have you done with it?” she demanded. She was running out of steam with telling me off, but still wanted to prove her point.
I pointed to the bin without a word – I realised that if I opened my mouth at all I would say something I might regret.
“Right, so you’d better get it out, see if anything is salvageable and make something presentable!” she waved her hand imperiously. “Wasteful! It’s so wasteful!”
“Honestly it’s beyond salvation – “ I began but she took such a deep breath, her face becoming even redder that I thought she might literally explode and what a hell of a clean up that would be, and could I be done for manslaughter?
I seized the bin and pulled out the green biodegradable food safe bag which contained every peel, root, fatty bit, bony bit, mouldy bit and inedible parts of fish, flesh, fowl and veg which I had discarded.
I found a big bowl and emptied it as she stood there whittling on. I found more bowls and separated the waste into fishy bits, meaty bits, veg – it was crazy, who would want carrot tops and tails smelling and tasting of kipper? Who would want rendered bacon fat with essence of grapefruit skin and parsley stalks?
What had caused her to erupt was the pheasant carcasses. I had been tempted to make a stock, but I’d been running out of time. I’d thought about bagging them and sticking them in the fridge to use later, but it was late and I thought I might forget them or whatever – and I’d chucked them in the bin.
I’d hoped she’d leave me to it, but no, she stood over me as if I was an inexperienced kid on placement. She said nothing except to tut and sigh and mutter.
I wonder now why I hadn’t just told her I wasn’t going to do it, washed my hands, grabbed my things and left – left the kitchen, left the hotel, left the job.