Scandal

by Patsy Brookshire

  SCANDAL

  at the Willamina Quilt Show

  By

  Patsy Brookshire

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2012

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-158-5

  Scandal

  at the Willamina Quilt Show

  Copyright © 2013 by Patricia L. Brookshire

  Cover design

  Copyright © 2013 by Judith B. Glad

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  Dedicated to

  John Lloyd Port,

  With whom I share the keys, meals, and my life.

  My thanks to these people who have helped me on this Scandalous journey:

  Aunt Nellie Brookshire for your encouragement.

  Deanna Rogers for giving me the title.

  Fran Whited for helping me with your quilting expertise.

  Deb Smith, for bringing The Quilter's Catalog to my notice and sharing it.

  Sean Connor, without your help the fire couldn't have been put out.

  JanniLou Creations Quilt Store in Philomath, and the wonderful women who accepted Jan and Lou's Quilt Challenge to make Sophie's quilt from my novel, Threads.

  Quilter's Cove in Newport, Judy Muller for helping with the fabric for the completion of the Scandal quilt.

  With no-bounds gratitude I thank these women of my Oregon Coast Writers Focus Group who listened to every word: Marge Arvanitis, Kelli Brugh, Sunshine Keck, Mariah Matthews, Karleene Morrow. Your critiques continue to sharpen my writing and my mind.

  To Writer's On The Edge of Newport, Oregon, for laughing in the right places.

  To Rose Reed of LazerQuick in Newport, for your expertise and support.

  To my excellent editor, Jude B. Glad. Thanks for your work, and to Uncial Press for bringing me into the e-publishing world.

  To Greg and Bonnie Chaney for waiting twenty years for me to finish their wedding quilt.

  My gratitude to my children Greg Chaney and Jennifer Chaney Connor is boundless. Thanks for believing in me and urging me on!

  Chapter 1

  Oregon State Fair, August 2008 Sunday Night

  It was awful! Bugs moving everywhere, hissing. Frantically, with the other people in front of the cages, I was jumping this way and that, screaming and hopping about as the dang things flipped off the toes of my shoes. We never meant this to happen. But when our Exotic Bugs Exhibit of Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches started coming at us in a skittery flood, we couldn't stop and examine plans gone awry.

  Sixteen-year-old Connor knew his roaches. His exhibit won First Place in its category.

  I'm not a bug person, though I admire spider webs. It's kind of a crafty thing for a bug to do, weaving. But cockroaches don't do anything clever that I know of.

  Those hissing bugs are humongous, some about the size of my cat's paw, the width of a silver dollar. They aren't like ladybugs, pretty and with poetry attached. I don't want any big ol' bug touching me. Eeuu. When one lands on my ankle and skittles up my pants leg, I jump with the crowd. I scream. I flick my leg. It falls out. And yes, I stomp it.

  Right then a big broom would've been handy. Or a vacuum.

  Connor, his father Dave, and I were only a few feet away from the display, pleased with the number of people who crowded around the cages, until a man bumped into one of them, sending it smashing to the floor. I'd turned at the CRASH and saw the cage door fly open, throwing cockroaches onto the bare tops of nearby sandaled feet. A woman's scream pierced the room and the crowd recoiled. From the middle of the mass a man shouted, "Jumping Cockroaches!"

  "Hissing Cockroaches, you fool!" shouted Connor, but the damage was done. The crowd, as they say, went wild. The cage emptied. Roaches bounced and crunched. People leaped. The air was blue with swearing as they scrambled, bruising each other's hips, toes.

  Dave's voice boomed. "Calm down, everybody! The bugs won't hurt you!" But the crowd careened through the aisles, knocking exhibits awry as they passed.

  "Dammit! Don't step on 'em!" Connor's shout overrode all, rising to a screech, "Don't squash them!" His frustrated, "Dammit all!" and then, "Shit!" rang through the disaster.

  People slammed against each other, the mass of them folding and opening like an accordion as we swept down the long hall towards the closed doors at the far end.

  Just inside these doors sat the U-shaped Oregon Authors table, which now served as the catchment area for our crazed, bug-fleeing crowd. Authors and buyers, mouths agape and eyes wide, stared. They recoiled en masse.

  Leading us was a skinny and frantic woman wearing a fringed poncho. I saw her try to veer as she careened toward the center table that was laden with edible goodies. Instead, as if propelled by the wind of fear, she flew--until gravity prevailed.

  She landed face down on the table. Arms outstretched she slid, sending home grown tomatoes, shelled filberts, Concord grapes, and slices of juicy, red watermelon in all directions.

  Her slide ended in front of one of the authors who'd not run, but raised his camera.

  I saw the flash but not the photographer. I'd been watching a flustered author wipe at her books with a soggy paper napkin, heard her moan to the man next to her, "So, who's going to fix this?"

  He shook his head and popped a loose filbert into his mouth. "Not my problem."

  What a mess!

  I was happy. Most of the bugs were dead.

  In the early afternoon I'd never dreamed that I'd be glad to see Connor's display thus, dead on the floor. It had started normally for a fair day, being day three of the eleven day-long Oregon State Fair, held in Salem, the state capitol. My young cousin had worked hard at putting together his display. What it is about these bugs that captures his interest I don't understand. But when they move slowly in their cages I am drawn to the color of their backs, a Halloweenie orange and black.

  Earlier I'd heard a viewer remark, "I bet they'd shine up nice if hit with a bit of cleaner." I'd saved it to suggest to Connor that he should persuade his older sisters to do the job. I was sure they'd like to do that for their baby brother.

  The blue ribbon reflected Connor's talent at showcasing the critters. His printed sign, Have A Cockroach For a Pet!, makes people grin and shake their heads.

  I'd been thrilled when cousin Dave had asked me to help with this odd project. I had free time and enjoyed spending it with him, both of us hanging at the edge of our forties. My oldest cousin, Dave's father, Sam, was enlisted to help us with the daily sprucing of the cages, removing dead bugs and refreshing the exhibit with lively ones. In fact, Sam didn't help much, choosing instead to examine the baby chicken cage where he could flirt with their keeper, a pretty young woman.

  He's a spry eight-seven. His eyes are not so bright with blue as when I'd met him nearly thirty years ago, and he takes his cane along for long walks, "In case I meet someone who should need it." His back is still straight, and he's a heck of a cook, e
specially with comfort foods, putting together a great homemade macaroni and cheese.

  "I watch my energy. Need to save it for the ladies," he said, when Connor urged him to take a bug cage and clean it.

  Yes. Well. Hmm.

  When the bugs escaped and people went nuts, I was amazed how nimble Cousin Sam became. Flattening himself against the wall, he'd avoided the whole craziness.

  To our rescue rode the roving man-and-woman-clean-up crew on their flashy bicycles, the man honking the bulb of his bike horn. Dressed as clowns, with white faces and painted smiles, they assessed the situation. His bike towed a maintenance cart stocked with brooms and dust pans.

  Carnival music blared from the bike. The man turned off the music. Shaking her head, then her finger at us, the woman got off her bike to bow to the applause. They were the perfect touch for our event. The man reached for a small push broom, looked again at the carnage, exchanged it for the largest one. The woman looked at the floor, turned down her mouth in an exaggerated frown at the bug litter, and took another large broom. They went to work.

  When our blood pressures and breathing returned to normal, Dave, Connor and I grabbed tools and joined the clowns in mopping up. Connor kept making "Ooh, ooh," sounds.

  Cousin Sam strode onto the scene to direct our brooms to little bodies that we'd missed. So helpful.

  An hour later, the clowns stashed their tools back onto the cart, brushed their hands together, and jumped back on their bicycles. Honking their horns in farewell, they took away the bodies.

  After a final check of the locks on the cages, we retired to the Exhibitors RV Area where Sam's Toyota Sunrader camper was parked for the duration of the fair. Gathered in what Connor calls, "Grandpa's trailer," we drank coffee and pop while eating Sam's stash of chips and salsa. We filled the place.

  I finally looked at my white tennies, "Ugh, bug juice!" I wondered if bleach would take out the stains. I flicked the tiny remains of an orange and black body off my tan khakis.

  "Sorry, Cousin Annie," Connor said.

  I related the bug shining idea, which made Connor scowl until I suggested his sisters do the job.

  "Teeny tiny brushes," he said, with wide-eyed teen innocence and a gamin smile. Affected, but effective. We all smiled with him, picturing his achievement-oriented sisters working on the bugs.

  Sam balanced salsa on a good sized, lime, tortilla chip, and then tipped the whole thing into his mouth. "Hey, Connor! Ease up. T'wasn't serious after all, just an accident."

  "Easy for you to say, old man." Dave was teasingly disrespectful of his dad, who responded by lifting an eyebrow at him.

  Sam licked extra salsa from his upper lip. "I bet you can get some more of those roaches right here at the fair. At one of these food stands probably." He cackled. "Probably smear some of this salsa on the counter here, tonight, while we're sleeping and get yourself some more for the showing tomorrow."

  "Oh, Grandpa, they're not those kinda roaches." He finished off his can of pop, and belched.

  We all glared at him, which he ignored.

  "For cripes sake, nobody got hurt. Except my Hisser guys. It's gonna take a couple days to get new ones. Tomorrow's Monday. We can get some from the critter store, here in town. Right, Dad?"

  "Sure kid. Though I do like Gramp's idea of getting 'em for free."

  "Whatever," mumbled Connor. Obviously the humor escaped him.

  "Sleep for me. Connor, how about you and Dave taking the overhead? I'll bunk down here." I'd planned to go home to Gladstone but one more day here would be all right. I was too tired to drive and not on a time schedule.

  We performed small-camper magic, folding the dining table out of the way, pulling out the seats to make a bed, couch cushions forming our mattress. Sam had his sleeping bag. From the tiny closet I pulled out stored sheets and blankets. Pillows for us both and we were okay.

  A last trip to the RV Center's public bathhouse and I tucked myself into bed. Certainly not motel glitz, but all of us being snugged in here together comforted me. It had been over a year since I'd been to Cannon Beach where Dave, Teri and the kids lived with Sam in the old family cabin that they had remodeled into a comfortable home. Tonight was a treat to see and be with my relatives, young and old.

  "Hey, Sam," I said into the dark camper, "Wanta come home with me for the week?" I live by the Clackamas River, in the house Roger and I built. But it is often too quiet. I like the noise of company.

  My year-old black and white cat, Prince Charming, loves company too. He would be glad to see me home and to have somebody else to play with. Sam is a good animal man. His visiting me would give Dave's family some alone time, and respite for Sam too.

  "Sounds good to me. Got an old friend in a care home up there, if you'd have time to take me for a visit. Sure would love to see her. It's one of those assisted living places. Never get me in one of 'em, but then I'm lucky to have family."

  Sam had been a widower for many years, since his wife Sue had died in a hiking accident when she was in her sixties.

  We decided that instead of my bringing Sam back to the Fair, he'd stay with me for a week or so. Dave and Connor would take his camper back to the house where it sat parked most of the time. He'd given up his driver's license but wasn't ready yet to let go of his vehicle, and it did come in handy for the family.

  It took a while for us all to settle down. I eventually found a place on the firm bed that was comfortable enough to allow sleep. Despite Sam's whistling noises, as he slept, it was good to hear him.

  Tomorrow we would wake up to a different reality.

  Chapter 2

  The Eyes Had It

  We didn't see the photo until we heard the thud of the Monday morning paper on the camper's metal steps, followed by a knock and someone saying, "You might want to have a look at this." Connor was sitting in the front seat and he jumped out the door to retrieve the paper. He read the front page, scowling, and then handed it across the seat to his dad, who shared it around.

  The bold headline shouted COCKROACHES ESCAPE AT STATE FAIR, and the photo, in full color, above the fold, made it impossible to not "have a look". The jumbled mess of flying books and food was all there. The most dramatic aspect was the glazed fear in the grey eyes of the woman sprawled on the table, her poncho askew, her forehead decorated with red watermelon smears, grapes tangled in her hair. The luck with the eyes made the photographer in me jealous.

  I laughed at the grapes, but the guys scowled as they read the short article that suggested someone hadn't secured the cage. It stung.

  Connor stood at the open door of the camper, flinging his arms about, punctuating the air with his energy. "Hey! Is that fair? The cage popped open when it hit the floor, that's simple enough. Why do people always have to make stuff up? They don't know why the door opened. Doesn't matter. None of us know! Stupid people!"

  He stared again at the photo of the graped woman. "At least I'm not her! That's gotta hurt, her fifteen minutes of fame is a stupid photo of her being stupid." He walked around the trailer, three times, fast. When he finished he was breathing deep, slow and steady. He was a speed walker for his high school track team, and claimed it always helped him clear his mind.

  "Hey! You know what?" he said as he came back in through the door. He took the paper away from Sam, who had turned to the crossword and was inking in the answers. Connor flipped back to the photo. "We made front page! Everybody will want to come see the hissers now!" With that he laughed and handed the paper back. "It's all gonna work out."

  That is a great thing about the kid, he has a positive nature.

  "Hey, Grandpa, do you have any frozen waffles?" With that we all got busy with coffee, cold cereal and toast, no waffles. After breakfast I went shopping for new clothes and shoes.

  Dressed in my new duds, I returned to the exhibit to try to repair the damage with a photo of my own. I wanted to show the charm of the creatures, and to display the lock. I'd been sending my photos to venues around the state, and
beyond, since high school. This was a perfect opportunity to use my contacts. I wanted today's photo to make the front page of the Cannon Beach paper. Though not the kind of publicity Cannon Beach High School was seeking, even bad publicity, as they say, is better than none at all. It's a small account for me, but, in family terms, it's big.

  Connor was right. The crowd was here because of the story. I saw a man pull his rolled paper from his back pocket and quick-like place it on top of one of the cages so the headline was prominent. I left it there, thinking perhaps it would bring more attention. At least people were looking.

  That's where I first heard of the Willamina Quilt Show, while staring at Connor's exhibit of the Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches, and wondering if my camera could capture how weird looking the creatures truly are. The only camera I'd brought with me was my small digital. I'd been thinking I'd only be taking family and State Fair snaps. But the little Canon would do well. It's just that when I am excited, I'm more comfortable with the familiar settings of my older film camera.

  I was also intrigued by the photo byline, Len Bolder. Was it he, I wondered. The name was the same as a man I'd known long ago, but in all last night's excitement I'd not bumped into anyone familiar.

  Nah, most unlikely it was the Len Bolder I'd known.

  I needed to focus. Ignoring the baby chicks in the Agricultural area, turning away from the glaring, glass eyes of the stuffed raccoons in the Wildlife Management area--gosh, the Fair was full of things to take my attention--I angled and zoomed at the cages, satisfied with their security. Using the dented cage as a frame I took a clear photo of the lock, and the bugs, within. Not so many, now.

  Behind me I heard two women talking as they brushed past, caught in the crowd amassed in front of the exhibit. One was saying, in a determined, firm tone, "It's the best little quilt show in Oregon, maybe in the whole Northwest. Perhaps in the whole United States."