Godwin’s heart turned over. “Oh, Rafael,” he sighed, and turned away so the man would not glimpse the hope shining in his eyes. Godwin had been disappointed a few times this past summer, and by incipient partners far less worthy than this one.
When he got his emotions under control, he turned back. “What brings you to the shop?”
“My condo was feeling too small, so I decided to be brave about the weather. And anyway, I wanted to see you in your own setting.” He looked around, nodding in approval.
Godwin had mentioned he would like Rafael to come to Crewel World to see him “in his natural setting,” but also to have Betsy meet him.
Not that Godwin needed Betsy’s approval of Rafael, of course. But Godwin’s susceptible heart had led him into some situations he quickly regretted, and he felt he needed a backup opinion on this new interest.
“I want also to meet the woman who is your boss,” said Rafael, and at this seeming reading of his mind, Godwin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise..
Rafael had a beautiful laugh, deep and rich and whole-hearted. “You want me to meet her, too!” he said, pleased to have guessed. Godwin laughed with him. No one who laughed like that could be a bad person. He was sure Betsy would agree.
Godwin had thought of introducing some of his friends to Rafael and later seeking their opinion. He had decided not to, sure that if they met Rafael, they’d either bad-mouth him or try to woo him away.
So now here was Rafael, ready to be anatomized. Godwin, a lover of language, had come across the word anatomized in an old book, and had looked it up and discovered that it meant to analyze in great detail. But what if Betsy didn’t approve? Worse, what if she perceived something awful about him?
Well, what if she did? Was her opinion likely to be good in the first place? After all, Betsy had her own unhappy history with men.
Rafael had walked away to look around the shop while Godwin was turning these things over in his mind. They’d rearranged the shop recently, and now the shallow front section, marked off by the antique, white-painted counter, was devoted entirely to knitting yarns, needles, patterns, and supplies. Counted cross-stitch patterns, fabrics, floss, and other materials took up the biggest area in the center; and needlepoint canvases, wools, needles, and other supplies were stored in the back, behind a half wall of box shelves. The walls in the central area were covered with framed models of cross-stitch patterns. Some were small and beautiful; some were large, complex, and beautiful; some were amusing or clever. There were alphabet samplers, witches and jack-o’-lanterns, animals, seascapes, flags and eagles, teapots, English cottages, comic Santas, farmyards, elaborately gowned women, to name just a few. Most were done in counted cross-stitch, but some showcased other kinds of needlework, such as bargello, candlewick, or Hardanger. Rafael walked around, as absorbed as if he were in a museum.
Godwin let him wander. At last Rafael returned to say, “And this, this, is your ‘fun little hobby’?” He flung a hand up and outward. “How dare you speak of it so slightingly! Many of these things are very beautiful, and doubtless they are very difficult to execute! No wonder your heart is so blithe, when you work among such beautiful things all day long! Your boss must be an amazing woman, so—so charming, so artistic, and then to turn so feminine an occupation into a business! I want to meet her! Where is she?”
“She’s at a meeting. The whole city of Excelsior is going to hold a big Halloween celebration in a few weeks, with a parade and everything, and she’s on the planning committee for the parade.”
“Oh, yes, you told me of that event. And she is helping with it? She is a woman of many talents, I see.”
“Oh, yes, more than you know—more than I know, probably. I worry about her sometimes. I mean, she’s already got the hassle of this shop plus she owns the building—or will in about four hundred more mortgage payments—so why she takes on more grief is a puzzle to me.”
“You think planning a parade in a small town is a big grief?”
Godwin smiled sourly. “You have no idea.”
THE main problem was that the organizing committee for the fall festival was too big. Not many hands making light work, but too many chefs spoiling the broth. Fourteen chefs to be exact, almost every one of them insisting his or her opinion be heard.
Billie Leslie had never organized anything bigger than a church picnic, but she had a solid, authoritarian manner that made people frequently turn to her for guidance. On the other hand, she was slow to cut off discussions, even when things were getting bogged down in talk.
Decisions had taken too long from the start. What kind of autumn festival was it going to be? A Halloween celebration? A mini-Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade? How about the ultimate in nonoffensive, politically correct events, a celebration of the pretty-colored leaves?
The “pretty-colored leaves” supporters were quickly defeated, but it wasn’t until after the third planning meeting that the leader of the Thanksgiving contingent discovered she had to go to Pennsylvania for a son’s sudden marriage, which gave the Halloween contingent their chance to rally and win.
The meeting to decide the specifics of the Halloween festival was particularly rancorous. Some wanted a parade. Others wanted the sidewalks lined with booths. Some wanted games and dancing on the common by the lake. Someone suggested a huge cookout, others felt families would enjoy individual post-summer picnics, and still others wanted hot dog stands, that fellow who sold pork chops on a stick, and the woman who made fabulous fruit smoothies. Everyone had an opinion and was willing to share it, at length, with the committee. And what was to happen if it rained—or snowed? Snow was not unknown in autumn in Excelsior. Normally there were at least flurries by Halloween. Billie’s solution was to set up subcommittees to work problems out. Eventually, there were eleven subcommittees, some with as few as one member.
At a meeting that ran two hours past its scheduled end, there was a compromise of sorts. They’d have it all: pork chops, a picnic, a pickup tag football game, and booths on the common; three—three!—costume contests (children from infants to age six, children from seven to fourteen, and adults), booths on the sidewalks, two bands, and a parade. Someone suggested a torchlight parade, pointing out that since the floats and costumes were to be done by amateurs, dim lighting could only help. At least ten people insisted on making a statement of agreement to that last suggestion.
That was the last meeting Betsy had attended. She wouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place, except that Billie was a good customer at Crewel World so Betsy saw her often—and she’d proved vulnerable to Billie’s blandishments. But Betsy was glad to be the sole member of her committee, and relieved that her assignment was simple. She was to set the order of the units in the parade, and to be there on the night in question to make sure they set off in that order. Since she didn’t get to choose the “units,” and since the final list would not be available until near the date of the event, she couldn’t see how her attendance was helpful, much less essential at the big meetings. So every other week she sent a letter saying that planning on the parade order was coming along nicely, and assumed that her report was read into the minutes.
Then a letter arrived, one sent to all members: The second-to-last meeting was mandatory, as the entire event’s planning would be brought under review and finalized. Because Billie had to work, the meeting would take place at The Barleywine.
Betsy told Godwin that she had to leave work at three, but hoped to be back in time to help close up at five. “Where’s the meeting?” he asked.
“The Barleywine. Billie can’t get away.”
“Oh? Well, maybe drinks will be served. Try the stout. It’s strong but good.”
Actually, Betsy thought there might be a little celebratory drinking. The planning was done. This was simply a review, Billie had assured everyone, to make sure each person’s assignment was complete, that nothing had been forgotten, and everyone knew what he or she was responsible for.
Rainy and
chill as it was outside, Betsy nevertheless elected to walk to The Barleywine. It was only a couple of blocks up Lake Street, then not even a block up Water.
Not that long ago, it had been the Waterfront Café, and Betsy still felt a nostalgic sense of loss that the old-fashioned restaurant was gone. She was glad the current owners were still offering some of the original country café entrées. Sometimes the taste buds insisted on an old-fashioned hot turkey sandwich awash in gravy.
Betsy lowered her umbrella and ducked into the pub. The interior hadn’t been changed a whole lot. There were still two booths in the back, and small square tables in the main seating area, though now each was ornamented by a big pottery beer stein, the kind with a pewter lid. But where there had been a hardwood floor, there was rough-cut slate; and the lunch counter was now a bar, one of those massive freestanding antique ones with carved corners and a brass rail. There was a young man behind the bar, polishing glasses. Behind him was a clear glass wall, through which the microbrewery setup could be seen.
It looked like a factory or a laboratory in there, with three big stainless steel kettles and four tall tanks, an even bigger tank shaped like a silo, and a control panel with red and green lights. Leona was amid all the equipment, wearing rubber boots and thick rubber gloves, feeding a fat tan hose into one of the kettles.
“Here you are!” said a voice, and Betsy turned to see Billie Leslie offering her a sheet of paper. She was a short, slender person, but vibrant and cheerful. “Here’s the agenda!”
Betsy took it and her heart sank. The sheet was covered with small type, top to bottom, single-spaced, with lots of bullets. Surely D-Day didn’t take this much planning. And Billie didn’t even look apologetic, Betsy noted resentfully.
Betsy was the last arrival. Now all fourteen planners were present—plus a nonmember, a man Betsy recognized as her auto mechanic, Ryan McMurphy. But he was seated off by himself in one of the booths, lingering thoughtfully over a soft drink.
Billie, clearly anxious to get started, gestured at Betsy to find an empty chair. Then she came herself to stand at the head of the tables.
Billie’s real first name was Wilhemina—she was named after her great-grandmother—but anyone who called her that was liable to get a look so cold icicles would form on his earlobes. She was in her late forties, with graying auburn hair plaited into a pair of thick braids pinned up on her head. Her hair was very fine and determinedly curly, pulling out of its confinement to form a kind of mist around her head. She wore The Barleywine uniform of a dark-blue T-shirt and trousers, under a linen-colored apron two sizes too big for her. She had a strong, straight nose, electric blue eyes under level brows, and a wide, thin mouth bracketed by deep lines and weighted down at the corners by life’s hard lessons.
Billie took a seat herself and looked around the table with that mouth and those eyes, and mutiny at the long agenda died aborning.
Finally, thought Betsy. She’s going to assert her authority.
But alas. First came Old Business. The finance subcommittee reported that sales of ads in the souvenir program had finally increased enough to cover the printer’s charges. Two other members expressed satisfaction at the news, while another wanted to know if the fees were tax-free and started the one lawyer on the committee off on a long exposition on nonprofits and city events. Finally, another committee member cut him off with, “Can we please stick to business?”
The head of the food committee reported at length about the two people who would be selling fresh popcorn, and about the candy apple vendor, the pork chop setup, and the hot dog stand.
The security committee presented the very tall, fair-haired Sergeant Lars Larson of the Excelsior Police Department, who announced that Excelsior PD was going to ask for assistance from other jurisdictions and that there might be as many as a dozen sworn peace officers in attendance. Or as few as eight, depending on what else was going on. Billie cut off a discussion about whether or not to ask the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Department for assistance.
“With all that, are you going to have time to drive your Stanley in the parade?” asked Betsy.
“Oh, yes. But I’d like to ask to drive it close to the back, so if something comes up, I’ll either have it already handled or can cancel without disturbing the order of the parade.”
“Couldn’t Jill drive?” asked Betsy, making a note. Lars and his Stanley Steamer were famous in Excelsior; it would seem peculiar not to see it at this event.
“Not with two little ones to watch over,” said Lars. “They’ll be riding in it, of course, along with the mayor.”
Jill and Lars had two children, toddler Emma Beth and a new infant son, Erik.
The next agenda item was a surprise. Billie called on Ryan McMurphy, who had been sitting quietly in his booth. He rose and came to the table. Ryan was about thirty-five, or maybe younger—years of heavy drinking had lined his face and given him a paunch that his faded blue jeans could only underline. He wore an open red plaid flannel shirt over an old black T-shirt. His hands were thick and a little grimy, but he looked freshly shaven and his dark brown hair was slicked back.
“Well, I guess she’s ready to rock ’n’ roll,” he announced in a sandpaper voice. “The fire truck, I mean,” he explained when he saw some puzzled stares. Their faces cleared. Ryan had found an ancient fire engine in a shed on an abandoned farm a few years ago and had been restoring it. He claimed it was the first motorized fire truck in Excelsior. It dated back to the early twenties, and if he was right, it was a piece of Excelsior history. He had offered to drive it in the Halloween parade. His offer had been accepted—if he could get it running reliably.
“Got ’er so she starts right up and runs pretty smooth,” he continued. “Kind of noisy, but reg’lar fire trucks don’t have mufflers, so that’s all right. I found a bell—might even be the original bell, it’s got ‘Excelsior’ cut into it, but no date, or it might be a school bell. I got the ladders cobbled back together, but you can’t climb on ’em, they’re just for show. An’ I can’t get the siren to sound right; sounds like it’s got a head cold.”
He looked around the conjoined tables and a smile slowly formed. “An’ guess what? Joey Mitchell came for a look at the truck, and he heard that siren, an’ he says it sounds like the ghost of a siren. Then he says the fire department was cleanin’ out their storage area and found a dozen old rubber coats, like they used to wear? He says they’re half rotted, sleeves fallin’ off, and he says he can get ’em for nothin’ and if we give ’em a coat of white paint, and get four, five men to wear ’em ridin’ on the truck, then . . .” He stopped and looked around the table again. “See?” he demanded, raising his hands. “Don’cha see?”
Betsy suddenly saw. “Why, I think that would be terrific! A 1923 fire truck, a creepy siren—and ghost riders!”
Then the rest of the committee saw, too, and there were excited exclamations. Praise was heaped on him, and Ryan stood basking in it for a minute, then said, “That’s all, I guess,” and went back to his booth. He took a sip of his Coke and looked everywhere but at the committee, still smiling.
Betsy was smiling, too. As she looked around the table, though, she was surprised at the expression on Billie’s face. It was of extreme satisfaction. Obviously she was pleased that Ryan had come up with such a great idea for the torchlight parade, but what was she so smug about?
Betsy wondered if the fire truck’s ghost riders had been Billie’s idea. How nice of her to let Ryan take the credit!
Two
RYAN’S fantastic idea made the next item to be discussed, the Men’s Precision Folding Lawn Chair Marching Unit, seem mundane by contrast.
But as usual, the discussion surrounding it took longer than anyone wanted, though no one seemed inclined to give up his or her chance to voice an opinion.
They were into a deep discussion of whether the unit would supply its own music from a boom box or just move to whatever the band ahead of them was playing, when the door opened
and a man with a withered left arm came in, shaking rain from his shoulder-length hair. He wore a dark leather jacket, jeans, and boots.
“Hello, Joey!” called Billie. “What brings you out?”
“A sandwich and a beer at The Barleywine,” the man replied cheerfully. Eyeing the crowded tables, he remarked, “Looks like business is good.”
“No, it’s a meeting of the Halloween Committee. Give Roger your order.” Billie tilted her head toward the bar, where the young man stood, putting silverware away.
But Joey had caught sight of Ryan in his booth. “Hey, Rye!” he called.
“Joey,” said Ryan in a wary voice.
Joey swerved toward the booth but didn’t go all the way to it. “Whatcha drinkin’?” he called over the sound of a committee member talking.
“Coke.”
“Coke?” Joey sounded surprised.
“Coke!” Ryan spoke in a defiant tone.
“Hush, you two!” ordered Billie. “We’re trying to have a meeting here.”
“All right, all right,” Joey said, and quietly to Ryan, “Buy you another?”
“Okay.”
“Want something to eat?”
“Nah.”
That made Betsy look at her watch and wait impatiently for the committee member currently speaking to stop. When he did, she asked Billie, “How much longer are we going to be here? It’s after five o’clock. We were supposed to be done by now.”
Billie looked distressed. “Is it five already? We’re not even halfway through the agenda.” She lifted the sheet in her hand and turned it over to show it to the committee. Some of its members groaned softly, not having noticed that the back side had as long a list as the front.
“All right, settle down, whining isn’t going to help any,” she said. “But how about we take a break? I’ll bring us all a snack and something to drink. Or would you rather just keep working?”
Blackwork Page 2
