Dread on Arrival

by Claudia Bishop

  Quill gave up and followed Marge to her pickup truck.

  It was quite a nice one, with the Peterson Dairy Farm logo on the driver’s side door. The rear bed was filled with an assortment of scythes, hay forks, a butter churn, and half a dozen old metal milk jugs. Marge paused halfway into the driver’s seat. “So what d’ya think that lot’s worth?”

  “Quite a lot, I should expect,” Quill said diplomatically. She hoisted herself into the passenger side, which was partly obscured by Marge’s purse and a tattered copy of a price guide to antique farm tools. She picked it up and handed it over. “Actually, you know I haven’t a clue. Do you think you have something valuable?”

  Marge shoved the catalogue under the seat. “Well, we’re going to find out what some people think, anyways.”

  The high school sat between the southern border of Peterson Park and Maple Avenue, the last residential street within the village limits. It served around seven hundred students, much reduced from the tide of postwar babies in the ’60s. The two-story brick school complex always reminded Quill of a movie she had seen with Meg when she was six and Quill was twelve. It was set in a two-story brick insane asylum. Meg had nightmares for a week.

  The brick was a grouchy orange red. The roof was an uninspiring asphalt shingle. English ivy straggled around the foundation in a dispirited way. The trim around the double-hung windows was an off-white doing its best to look lively. The whole school was saved by the grounds. Black walnuts, oaks, aspen, mountain ash, and birch surrounded the school on three sides. The lawns were patchy, but the magnificence of the trees gave the school a glad serenity.

  The administration offices, gym, and auditorium were in the middle, with the wings containing classrooms stretching out either side. The parking lot in front of the admin building was full, as both women had expected. A couple of kids in orange vests were directing traffic to the athletic field to the rear, which, Marge remarked philosophically, was just fine because the auditorium entrance was around the back, too.

  They followed the single lane around the east end of the building

  “Good grief,” Quill said as they came to a halt behind a line of cars waiting to park. “How can they possibly hold classes with all this commotion?”

  “They aren’t,” Marge said. “The current mayor—who isn’t going to be mayor long—talked to the school board and everybody got the day off.”

  “Looks like they didn’t take it.”

  The athletic field was jammed with cars, vans, pickup trucks, SUVs, and even an old bus. A steady stream of people walked toward the large double doors to the auditorium. The doors were propped wide open. Two large men in sunglasses, sports coats, and chinos stood on either side of the entrance, arms folded. They looked so much like airport security guards that Quill expected them to pat down the people trying to get into the auditorium.

  Most of the people in line carried an astonishing variety of stuff: paintings, vases, lamps, old books, small tables, ladder-backed chairs, antique boxes, old clothes, tote bags, wrapped parcels. A smell of mold drifted through the air. The mood of the people streaming in was cheery and hope-filled.

  A smaller but equally steady stream of people came out the side door of the auditorium. They were also carrying stuff. Most of them looked huffy. A few were indignant. One or two turned and shouted into the auditorium. All were sour-faced. Quill began to see how Edmund Tree might feel the need for two hefty guys as a matter of defense.

  “Rejects,” Marge said with interest. “I wondered how they were going to handle this. Must be another guy right inside the door. Takes one look at what you’ve got and you either get the old heave-ho or the go-ahead.”

  “Uh-oh.” Quill opened the passenger side door and got out. “Look at that bus.”

  “What bus?” Marge eased herself out of the pickup and squinted at it. “That bus? It’s an old school bus painted like the hippie vans in the sixties. What about … oh. Well, well, well.”

  “That’s the Pawn-o-Rama bus,” Quill said, quite unnecessarily, since the side was scrawled with the name of the show in neon orange.

  “I watch Pawn-o-Rama. Old Belter knows his stuff.” She nudged Quill in the ribs. “Look. There he is getting out of the bus. Belter himself. Who’s that in the sequin T-shirt? The one carrying the camera?”

  “That’s a Steadicam,” Quill said knowledgeably. “And that’s his mother.”

  “Kind of young to be his mother.”

  Quill cocked her head and squinted into the sunlight. The woman with the Steadicam was a younger, smoother-faced version of Mrs. Barcini. “You’re right. I’ll bet it’s Josephine, his sister. They’re all named alike. His mother’s name is Josepha. His name is Joseph. His sister’s the camera person on the show from the looks of it. His mother’s the producer. They all look amazingly similar, don’t they?”

  Marge grunted.

  “His mother is the one in the tie-dye T-shirt, right behind him.” Quill closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it. Then she opened them again. “What do you suppose they’re doing here?”

  Marge chuckled. “I got a pretty good idea.”

  “You do?” Quill did, too. She bit her fingernail.

  Belter’s standard uniform appeared to be shorts, flip-flops, and a succession of T-shirts sized for a thinner man. Today’s T-shirt was black. The Pawn-o-rama logo stretched over his belly in electric yellow, orange, and red. He sauntered up to security guy number one, and slapped him on the back. He gave the high sign to security guard number two. Then he waded into the line of hopefuls streaming into the auditorium, grinning, shaking hands, and slapping backs.

  “Preemptive strike,” Marge said. “Telling people to check with him before they sell anything to Tree.”

  Belter put one arm around Nadine Peterson in a friendly way. She blushed and opened up the large green garbage bag she carried. He peered into it and shouted “Yahoo!” The security guards exchanged glances and squared their shoulders. The shorter one pulled out his cell phone. The other started after Belter.

  Marge began to chuckle. “Good old Belter. You coming with me? I want to get over there.”

  “Belter wants to talk to them before they sell anything to Tree?” Quill echoed. “But the show just values antiques, they don’t buy anything.”

  Marge rolled her eyes. “Rose Ellen Whitman’s got a junk shop, right?”

  “A high-end boutique.”

  “And Belter’s got a pawn shop, right? You sell and buy stuff in a pawn shop. You buy and sell stuff in a what-d’ya-call-it? High-end boutique? Old stuff. There’s a limited amount of old stuff around. Towns like ours with attics and basements filled with junk are getting harder and harder to find. Belter’s out there scoping out the action for himself.”

  Quill was taken aback. “You know, it never occurred to me that Edmund might be a source for Rose Ellen’s stock.”

  “It should have. Jeez. Does your mother know you’re out? Come on. Things are heating up over there.”

  Josephine Barcini stepped in front of the security guard who had started after Belter and directed the Steadicam into his face. The shorter security guard stuck his cell phone in his belt and shoved the camera away. Mrs. Barcini hit him from behind with her purse. Then Mrs. Barcini screamed: “Doughhead!”

  Marge set off at a sturdy trot. Quill hurried after her. By the time they crossed the worn grass to the auditorium doors, the security guards were surrounded by shouting, shoving Barcinis and a crowd of confused villagers. Nadine Peterson clutched her green garbage bag to her chest. Next to her, Esther West cradled a tissue-wrapped package and looked wildly from side to side. Harvey Bozzel held a majolica vase over his head to avoid the forward and backward sway of the crush. He caught sight of Quill and mouthed: “Help.”

  Marge grabbed Nadine by the arm and towed her to the sidewalk. Then she took the package from Esther and shoved her in Nadine’s direction. She poked Harvey in the ribs to get his attention, gave him Esther’s package, and jerk
ed her thumb over her shoulder. Holding both items up as if wading through a waist-deep puddle, Harvey went and stood by Esther and Nadine.

  Marge tapped Mrs. Barcini on the back, ducked Mrs. Barcini’s roundhouse right, and grabbed her by the neck. Mrs. Barcini’s eyes bulged.

  “Hey!” Belter shouted. “That’s my mamma you’ve got by the throat!”

  Josephine Barcini swung the camera around in an eager circle.

  “You’re under arrest,” Marge said to Mrs. Barcini.

  Mrs. Barcini’s lips formed the word “Doughhead.”

  Belter’s face reddened. He shoved the security guards out of his way and advanced on Marge. Quill moved forward to stop him.

  Marge glared at him. “You’re under arrest, too, buster. Disturbing the peace.” She released her grip on Mrs. Barcini’s throat. “Write ’em up, Quill.”

  Quill opened her mouth and then shut it.

  “I’m making a citizen’s arrest,” Marge said. She nodded in Quill’s direction. “I don’t need to tell you, Barcini, that a citizen’s arrest is valid when a public offense is committed in the presence of the arresting private citizen. That’s me.” She looked around the circle of startled faces and said, “You all want to remember that when you walk into that polling booth and vote for me for mayor.” She turned back to Barcini. “This is the duly appointed secretary of the Chamber of Commerce. She’s going to write up the ticket.”

  Quill started and fumbled in her skirt pocket for her sketch pad. She found a lightbulb in a Baggie instead. What was she doing with a lightbulb in her pocket?

  Marge raised her voice, apparently under the misapprehension that she wasn’t loud enough already. “And then I’m taking you down to the sheriff’s office where you can explain to Sheriff Kiddermeister where you get off starting a riot in my town and why I had to rescue three of our finest citizens from you and your thugs.”

  A faint cheer sounded from the three rescued citizens.

  “Thugs? What thugs! My mamma and my sister?” Belter said. “There’s no riot, either. And if there was a riot, it wasn’t me that started anything. You want thugs, you get a load of these two.”

  The two security guards resettled their sunglasses and looked impassive.

  “Are you all perfectly demented?” Edmund Tree stepped out of the shadows of the auditorium and into the sunlight. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit coat, smoothed his tie, and stared icily at Barcini. Rose Ellen drifted behind him, a faint smile on her lips. She settled next to Quill, her perfume an expensive cloud around her.

  Belter’s little beady eyes lit up and his drawl intensified. “Now looky, looky here. If it isn’t the great Mr. Tree hisself.” He stuck his thumb in his belt. Josephine pointed the Steadicam at his face and pulled in for a close-up. He grinned widely, revealing the need for some dental whitening strips—or at least a sturdier toothbrush. “What d’ya think, folks? Should I chop him into kindling? Lop off a few of his branches? Trim him down to size?”

  “Hoorah!” Mamma Barcini yelled. She began to applaud. “Get the doughhead! Get him!”

  In what Quill was sure was a reflex action, a couple of other people began to clap, too.

  Belter shoved his face closer to the camera. “Is Mr. Tree ready for … the Barcini Slap Down?!”

  “Yay!” Mamma Barcini cheered. She put two fingers to her mouth and whistled. “Slap Down. Slap Down!”

  “Barcini,” Edmund said coldly, “I have no idea what a slap down may be. Nor do I wish to be enlightened. I am asking you to leave. Now.”

  Belter flexed his right arm, which was surprisingly well muscled. “Well, now, Eddie, I don’t think you’d stand a chance against the old Belter here. But I’ll challenge you and your stuck-up pals to whatever kind of contest you want. Don’t even have to be manly. Belter’s man enough to get in touch with his feminine side. Right, folks?”

  “You tell ’em, Belter!” Mamma Barcini shouted.

  He twirled around on his tiptoes. “Dancing, maybe? Nope? What other kinds of girly things are you up to, Eddie? C’mon. Man up, Eddie. Man up and take the challenge.”

  Edmund thinned his lips in a grimace of distaste. “I’ve warned you about harassing me, Barcini.” He nodded elegantly in Quill’s direction. “As Mrs. Quilliam-McHale will attest. Why you persist in trailing after me is anyone’s guess, but I’m sick and tired of it. I don’t want to warn you again. Get out. Pack up your trashy bus, your trailer-trash hangers-on and go. Get away from my show and leave these good people alone.” He snapped his fingers at the security guards. “Get rid of them, Marco,” he said. He walked over to Rose Ellen and settled his hands protectively on her shoulders.

  The guards grabbed Belter, one on each arm, and hustled him toward the bus. Josephine, still running the Steadicam, walked after him. Mrs. Barcini adjusted her T-shirt around her hips and followed her daughter, head high.

  “Edmund.” Rose Ellen was barely audible. “The camera? Little sis? We wouldn’t want any of this aired, would we? Tell Marco to relieve him of it, can’t you?”

  “Excellent idea.” Edmund raised his voice in a gentlemanly shout. “Marco. The tape?”

  The shorter security guard nodded, turned, and wrenched the camera out of Josephine’s hands. She shrieked and kicked at him and wrenched the camera back.

  Quill cleared her throat. “The camera doesn’t belong to you, Mr. Tree. And I don’t think Josephine is all that much of a threat to your goons.”

  Edmund shrugged. “Let it go, Marco.”

  The guards shoved the Barcinis onto the bus, one by one.

  After a long moment, Belter started the engine, put the bus in gear, and pulled onto the lane that led out of the parking lot. He drove slowly. As he passed by, he glared at Edmund through the windshield. Edmund raised his hand in a short, cocky salute and sneered back.

  Both of them looked mad enough to kill.

  7

  ∼Choux Pastry∼

  1 cup of water

  3 ounces salted butter

  1 cup of flour

  1 cup of eggs, beaten

  (For sweet pastry add 1 teaspoon sugar to flour)

  Boil water and butter in a saucepan. Lower heat to lowest setting. Stir in flour and mix with fork until smooth. Put ball of pastry into a glass bowl and beat with spoon. Add egg mixture and beat until smooth. Pinch off dough into balls. Dip balls into beaten egg. Place balls onto greased cookie sheet and bake at 425 degrees for about twenty minutes.

  “Marge was amazing. Just amazing. If she hadn’t stepped in the way she did, I think we would have had a riot.” Quill clasped her hands behind her back and looked over Meg’s shoulder as her sister briskly folded raw eggs into a mixture of flour and water with a large fork. “You’re making choux pastry?”

  “What does it look like? Of course it’s choux pastry.” Meg nudged her away from the prep table. “You know it makes me crazy when you kibitz. Go sit in your rocker.”

  “Since when have we specialized in choux pastry?”

  “Since I decided on the appetizers for the Tree cocktail party tonight.”

  “You’re not doing country pâté with cheeses?”

  “That, too, plus shrimp bites, wild mushrooms in cream, and something with leeks, which I will figure out when I get there.”

  “Did you get the recipe from Clare?”

  “I think I know how to make a choux pastry as well as Clare.” Meg whacked the fork against the stainless-steel bowl to dislodge the bits of pastry. “So then what happened?”

  “At the high school? Everybody lined back up and took their assembled attic finds into the auditorium.”

  “What’s with the Slap Down business?”

  Quill shrugged and sat down in the rocking chair. “I’m not sure. But apparently these kinds of challenges are common enough on reality shows. They stage a challenge and then the audience gets to vote on who wins. That’s according to Rose Ellen, who seems to think that Edmund should respond somehow. They both think Belter’s going to r
un the tape on the next Pawn-o-Rama program. Rose Ellen says it’s a technique to get viewers to participate in the action, which is supposed to keep them loyal supporters.”

  “Gladiator contests,” Meg said dismissively. “It’s pretty clear that arm wrestling’s out of the picture. I’ll tell you one thing that’s non–gender specific—cooking.”

  “True.”

  “So they could have a cooking contest.”

  “The mind boggles. Can we forget about the Trees and the Barcinis for a minute? Let’s talk about pastry.”

  “Sure.” Meg divided the pastry into two large balls and added a handful of fine sugar to one of them. She began to beat it briskly with a fork.

  “I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to the menu planning yesterday morning, but I’m pretty sure Clare’s planning something similar for the wedding reception.”

  “These will be better.”

  Quill knew that set to Meg’s chin. She gave up.

  Meg glanced at her and then looked away. “So who made it onto the show? Anybody turn up with a fabulous find?”

  “Harvey did, with his collection of majolica. It’s beautiful, actually. His mother and grandmother collected it. You’ll never guess who else—Dookie brought in a pile of journals and newspaper clippings from the Civil War. Esther had some very nice jewelry from her great-great-whatever-aunts. Those landscapes Adela and Elmer have always had in their living room? I guess they made the cut.”

  “Those lake and waterfall things? The ones she says came down to her from her many times great-grandpa?”

  “Yep. They get to have them evaluated.”

  Meg pinched off small rounds of dough and placed them on the oversized cookie sheets she used for baking. She did this with incredible speed. “You sound dubious.”