GAME OF SCONES
Knocking again, this time even louder, I glanced around. Big windows faced the veranda. It felt a little improper but I peered inside.
“Mrs. Farmer?” I tapped on the glass and waited. Nothing. No Elsie. Now what?
I had been specific about when I’d be there, but maybe she was in the back. I went down the porch steps and walked around the side of the house. There was a detached garage in the backyard and the garage door stood open. Elsie’s car, a white Cadillac, was parked inside. So she was home.
“Hello,” I called. “Is anyone back here?” As beautiful as the flowers had been out front, the backyard garden was even prettier. One section surrounded by a miniature picket fence seemed to be devoted to different colored roses. Roses are my favorite.
I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and turned just in time to see a figure slip between the tall bushes at the back. “Hello,” I tried again, but whoever it had been was gone. Stepping into the backyard I noticed a brightly colored pile of clothing on the ground. Maybe Elsie had been hanging out laundry and that’s why she hadn’t heard my knock. You’d be surprised how many people in St. Ignatius still hung their laundry out on a clothesline. My house (Greer’s house) had one and I loved it. There was nothing like the smell of fresh line-dried sheets.
I wandered further into the garden. Once I was close enough to the pile of clothing, I realized my terrible mistake. A scream rose in my throat but no sound came out.
What I’d mistaken for a pile of clothing was Elsie, her body prone, her glasses askew, her eyes open but sightless, a scone clutched in her outstretched hand…
Table of Contents
GAME OF SCONES
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Recipes
About the Author
Game of Scones
Mary Lee Ashford
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Mary Lee Woods
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: December 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0504-5
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0504-4
First Print Edition: December 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0505-2
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0505-2
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
“If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” my Aunt Cricket is fond of saying. And though that is great advice, everybody can’t actually leave, can they? I mean, someone has to stay in the kitchen and take the heat or nobody eats.
Today that person was me, Rosetta Sugarbaker Calloway, aka Sugar to my friends.
Up until six months ago, I had been a highfalutin senior food editor for a major magazine headquartered right here in the midwest. Corner office, nice salary, corporate trips. Now, thanks to a downturn in advertising revenues which resulted in downsizing at Mammoth Publishing, I had a new calling.
Cookbooks.
In partnership with Dixie Spicer, a woman who is, without a doubt, the best cook in Jameson County if not the whole world, I’m the Sugar half of Sugar and Spice Publishing. The Spice part comes in, not just because it has a nice ring to it, but because Spice is Dixie’s nickname. A moniker she claims came about because of her last name, Spicer, and her hair color, which is a rich cinnamon. To tell you the God’s honest truth, the nickname probably had a lot to do with her personality, but more about that later. In any case, Dixie and I publish cookbooks.
Now, probably not the kind you’re thinking. Not the big fancy celebrity or TV show-driven ones on the shelves at the big box bookstores. These are community cookbooks. They’re the kind your church or your kid’s soccer team puts together, usually using the sale of the books as a fundraiser.
Most days I thought my exit from the corporate grind and the new venture it had brought about was brilliant, but today my role had turned into more damage control than publishing professional. The St. Ignatius Founders’ Day Commemorative Cookbook, our inaugural project, was due to the printer in six weeks and I’d thought a brief meeting with the cookbook committee would finalize the contents. But then Scone Wars had broken out. What to do?
“When you find yourself in a hole, stop diggin’” was another idiom from Aunt Cricket, and though I’ve found she borrows wisdom from others and edits to the situation, it is mostly still wisdom. Mostly.
I took a deep breath and tried to gather my thoughts. As I did, I inhaled the combined smells of hot coffee and fresh baked pies. No matter where you’re from, food is a universal thing. But here in the heart of America it’s absolutely baked into the essence of the people and the place. Whether a holiday celebration, a family dinner, or a potluck. It’s infused into the joy, the grief, and everything in between.
Today I’d counted on food to bring together the St. Ignatius Founders’ Day Committee. With the help of the Red Hen Diner, I’d assembled a mouth-watering spread of summer fruit pies. Cherry (my favorite), apple, and peach. Perfect flaky crusts, sweet fruit flavors, and fresh hot coffee. I’d placed my trust in food to bring the group together.
Instead I had a major fail on my hands. The mob was out of control.
Or at least two members of the St. Ignatius Founders’ Day Committee were, and the rest of the group egged them on with their rapt attention. I looked around the chicken-themed meeting room with its bright red and white checked tablecloths. In a matter of minutes, the place had changed from a bright and friendly chicken-themed backroom at the diner, to a WWE smackdown ring, with two contenders and the rest of the committee craning their necks, and jockeying for the best view to see what was goi
ng down.
In one corner, we had Elsie “The Eliminator” and in the other corner, Bertie “The Rock of the Block.” It had begun with jabs over whose recipe for scones should be included in the Founders’ Day cookbook, and escalated to full blown insult-throwing. Both were now on their feet, red-faced and agitated, silver heads bobbing as they squared off.
The committee chair made eye contact with me from across the room. Petite and proper Harriet Hucklebee looked around at the roomful of people as if she wasn’t sure whether she should call the sheriff or sell tickets.
“Ladies, ladies.” I raised my voice in an attempt to be heard above the argument. “Let’s talk about this. I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.”
“You sure can, missy.” Elsie Farmer whipped around toward me, her smart silver earrings jangling with the force of her turn. “You can take Bertie’s sad excuse for a scone recipe and toss it right in the garbage where it belongs.”
“Come on, Elsie, everybody knows my scones put yours to shame.” Bertie stomped closer to her opponent tightening the strings of her blue chambray apron with each step. “At last week’s Ladies’ Missions meeting, they were gobbled up. None left. You might have noticed if you hadn’t been so busy flapping your lips.”
“That must have been because people were taking them home to use for doorstops,” Elsie shot back, her fists jammed on the waistline of the pink cabbage rose floral dress she wore. “If people knew ahead of time what you serve at your B & B, they wouldn’t bother.” She turned and addressed the rest of the committee. “I guess the ‘B & B’ stands for bad and…bad.”
Not terribly creative insult throwing, but she spat out the last “bad” as if it were the foulest of swear words.
There was a collective gasp from the onlookers.
“You’d better watch yourself,” Bertie bristled. She pushed up her wire-rimmed glasses and leaned in nose to nose with Elsie. “Don’t you go bad-mouthing my business, old woman.”
“What are you gonna do, old woman?” Elsie reached out a finger and poked it at Bertie’s nose. “Do me in over a scone recipe?”
Oh my word, the two had plum lost their minds.
“Ladies—” I tried again to restore some civility.
“You.” Elsie turned her finger toward me. “Sugar Calloway, you’re the reason for all this fuss. You and your dumb cookbook.”
Now all eyes in the room shifted to me. I didn’t think it was the best time to point out that the “dumb cookbook” she referenced wasn’t really my dumb cookbook. It was their dumb cookbook.
I looked to the other committee members for help. Poor little Harriet, bless her heart, looked ready to duck and run. Jimmie LeBlanc, head of the local historical society, ran a finger under the band of his bow tie like the bright red satin was about to strangle him. Tina Martin’s bright fuchsia lips were frozen into a surprised “O.” Dot Carson, the postmistress, leaned forward her eyes darting between Elsie and Bertie. And Lark Travers, jewelry store owner and project donor, suddenly found the ceiling of the room extremely fascinating.
Okay then, no help from the peanut gallery.
Turning back to Elsie, I took a deep breath.
She looked me up and down and lifted her chin. “When you’re ready to see reason, you know where to find me.” She walked to the door, and then turned back to the room. “Until this is sorted out, I will not support the Founders’ Day project, nor will the Farmer family.” With that, Elsie slammed out.
“Good riddance,” Bertie called from across the room.
“Wow.” I broke the silence that followed Elsie’s exit.
And as if that had been the cue they were waiting for, everyone started talking at once.
Chapter Two
Holy guacamole, now what? How on earth did a short meeting to sort out a few details about a cookbook go from a pie and coffee to DEFCON 1 in a matter of minutes?
I did feel somewhat responsible because it wasn’t news to me that a ton of emotion is often attached to a favorite recipe, but I’d never seen anything quite like this.
It would take the committee a little while to get settled down, which gave me a chance to gather my papers and my thoughts. The St. Ignatius Founders’ Day Cookbook was tight on space already and truly didn’t need two scone recipes, but there had to be a way to work this out. A great believer in the win-win theory (go ahead, call me Pollyanna if you like), I was sure there had to be a solution. A good one. I just couldn’t put my finger on it at the moment.
What had ever possessed me to think the two would see reason? I guess I’d thought one of them would take the high road and volunteer to leave their recipe out. I’d even brought along alternative recipes each had submitted. Elsie’s Pineapple Right Side-Up Cake sounded tasty and Bertie’s Corny Casserole would be a great addition. But instead the two feisty seniors had gone at it like opponents at a sold-out rumble.
I looked around the table. With a break in the action, some had taken the opportunity to refill their coffee cups or take a restroom break. Others were headed back to their places, checking their phones or chatting with their neighbors. Most of the committee members had little interest in scones, or casseroles or cakes for that matter, but from what I could hear of the chatter the threat of Elsie Farmer’s family pulling out had the group in a tizzy.
The Farmer family was a big part of many of the events. Farmer’s Farm Feeds had the parking lot where the parade would start, Farmer Trucking would provide the flatbed truck that would serve as the stage for all the presentations and, most importantly, Farmer’s Hardware was the sponsor of the Miss Iggy contest which would determine who would be crowned queen of the whole St. Ignatius Founders’ Day Celebration.
Who would have thought that a dispute over a scone recipe would threaten to derail so many things?
I reached for my sheaf of papers and handed draft copies of the book’s table of contents to Tina Martin, local real estate agent, who sat on my right.
“What do you want me to do with these?” She waved the papers in the air. Her hot pink perfectly manicured nails matched her lipstick. In addition to being the town’s most successful realtor, Tina was also the local cosmetics maven. If she hadn’t tapped you yet to host a Looking Pretty party, trust me, she would. I think I’d escaped thus far because I was newish in town and didn’t know enough people to garner a big order.
“Just pass them down.” I handed a few more to a young woman on my left who I had just realized I didn’t know. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You probably don’t remember me.” She took one of the sheets and handed the rest to her neighbor. “We met at last month’s Dilly Dally Dayz. I’m Minnie. Minnie Silberhorn. I’m the new secretary of the Founders’ Day Committee. I think they just picked me because I’m good at taking notes. And because Kenny Farmer volunteered me.” She straightened the pens beside her tablet, one red, one blue, one green, lining them up equal distance apart on the table.
Her light blue eyes met mine and a twinge of guilt shot through me because I had forgotten meeting her. I prided myself on remembering names and faces, and usually tried to pair a person’s name with something about their appearance so the name would stick in my memory. But Minnie was so quiet, both in dress and manner, nothing about her really stood out. It wasn’t that she was homely; it was simply that she sort of blended into the background.
“We really appreciate your note-taking, but I’m sure you’re good at a lot of things.” I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Are you any good at herding cats? Because I’m afraid that’s what it’s going to be like, trying to get this group back on track.” I waved my hands at the room.
She gave me an odd look and straightened the red pen I’d just bumped out of alignment.
Okay then. Not everyone appreciates my sense of humor.
I watched my table of contents papers m
ake their way around the table. Dixie and I had organized the recipes into the usual categories. Appetizers, Main Dishes, Sides, and Desserts. I really had to get the categories signed off on today because I needed to get photos done for the sections. Add to that, I needed to get a photographer lined up.
Also, because the purpose of the book was not only to celebrate local fare but also to commemorate the town’s founders, I’d suggested some snippets of history mixed in. I needed those today as well.
Harriet Hucklebee slipped into the space between Tina and me. “I know you told us we’d have a limited amount of space for town history, but Jimmie has put a few ideas together.” She lifted her eyes heavenward. “Lord help us, I think he’s written a novel.”
I stared at the two-inch thick pile of papers she’d laid in front of me. Jimmie LeBlanc hadn’t just written a novel. He’d penned War and Peace St. Ignatius style.
“In order to keep within the budget for printing costs, we have to stay with the number of pages we planned.” I tried to give her my no-nonsense-I-mean-business look but it’s hard to take a tough line with a woman that looks like Marian the Librarian. Dixie and I had been very clear with the committee on page count when we’d looked at options more than two months ago.
“I know, but you know Jimmie.” She pushed at the sleeves of her soft blue sweater set and shrugged her shoulders. “You’ll just have to be firm with him.”
Me? So in other words, no one on the committee wanted to tangle with the retired history teacher turned local history fanatic. The truth was I was fascinated by Jimmie’s stories, but the charming old guy had not even a passing acquaintance with the concept of brevity. Bottom line, we had to keep costs down or the cookbook would end up being a money pit rather than a fundraiser.
Harriet patted the back of my hand. “I know you’ll help him to understand.” She smiled and stepped away. “I’ll work on getting the group back in their places so we can get on with our agenda.”
I glanced at my cell phone to check the time and saw I had missed two calls. One of them from my landlady.
Game of Scones Page 1
