The Potluck Club

by Linda Evans Shepherd; Eva Marie Everson

  I frowned. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Leigh Banks.” I shook my fork at her. “And I suspect you’re right about that.”

  She made a face at me and swallowed. “How about if, for now, we just get a bassinet that I can keep in my room? By the time we need more furniture, I’ll have this all figured out.”

  “Let’s pray so.”

  We ate in relative silence for the next few minutes until Leigh suddenly jumped and said, “Oh! I forgot.” She stood and more or less waddled out of the room, then returned holding a tri-folded copy of the Gold Rush News in her hand. “Your paper was out on the front porch when I got home.”

  The Gold Rush News, our weekly newspaper, was instrumental in keeping Summit View’s citizens apprised of the community’s happenings. Since Clay Whitefield had become its ace reporter, the paper’s focus had shifted somewhat to both national and international news as well, much to the chagrin of many of our residents. “If I want to know what’s going on in Denmark,” Fred Westbrook had said to Vonnie and me one evening when I was having dinner at their house, “I’ve always got the paper from Denver.”

  “Wonder if our bear story made it to the front page,” I said, taking the extended paper from Leigh’s hand. “I sure hope that Clay Whitefield quoted me correctly. Nothing worse in this world than having yourself misquoted by the local press.”

  She returned to her seat. “I’m sure he did just fine.”

  I unfolded the paper, laying the top half of the front page facedown, then pressing out the crinkles. “It was something, all right. I just hope that Clay Whitefield gave credit where credit is due: to Chucky!” I flipped the paper over, immediately spotting the color photo of Vonnie and her beloved dog. I laughed out loud, and Leigh leaned over a bit to see.

  “Oh, look how cute Chucky is,” she said. “Vonnie Westbrook and her heroic pal Chucky, a once-homeless bichon, rest easy at the Westbrook’s backyard picnic table after being attacked by a bear,” Leigh read the caption.

  “Vonnie photographed well,” I said, then felt myself grow a bit stiff. Vonnie . . . photographs.

  Leigh pulled the paper a little closer to herself. “What’s this about?” she asked.

  “What?” I leaned closer to her, twisting myself a bit to see what she was pointing to.

  “‘Man Seeks Missing Jewel in Summit View,’” she read, pointing to a teaser box on the left-hand side of the front page.

  “Jewel,” I said. “Let me see that.” I took the paper from her and read it for myself, continuing with “Story, Page Three.” I sighed so hard the paper rustled at the force of my breath. “Oh no. Oh no.”

  “Aunt Evie?” Leigh asked. “What’s going on?”

  I didn’t answer but instead read the very short article written by Clay Whitefield about a man—photo included of a young man who looked remarkably like the man I now knew was Joseph Ray Jewel—who was seeking to find his natural mother, his adopted mother (Harmony Harris, no less) having recently died of cancer. According to the article, Mr. David Harris believed that—because of information his dying mother had given him—his mother’s first name was Jewel.

  “That Donna!” I refolded the paper and slapped it against the table.

  “What, Aunt Evie? What’s going on?” Leigh’s voice was nearing a squeal.

  I stood, marched over to the wall-mounted phone, and dialed Donna’s number. She answered after a few rings.

  “I suppose this is about the newspaper article.”

  How’d she know it was me? “How’d you know it was me?” I asked her.

  “Caller ID.”

  I could hear traffic in the background. “Are you in your car?”

  “I am. Your call was forwarded to me, okay? Welcome to the new millennium.” Her voice dripped with cynicism. I could hear the rustling of paper. “And by the way, I appreciated that shout-out you gave me in the bear story, and I quote, ‘When I saw Deputy Donna Vesey leading the pack to the back porch rather than attempting to protect Vonnie, I knew we were in serious trouble.’”

  I didn’t respond to her sarcasm, instead focusing on the reason for my call. In any case, I wasn’t sure what a shout-out was. “You’re welcome, and yes, this is about the newspaper article, Donna Vesey. Let me ask you a question: have you flushed everything Vonnie Westbrook has done for you your whole life down the toilet?”

  “Hold up—”

  “Do you have no respect for a woman who has loved you like a mother . . . and the good Lord knows more than your own mother could have ever loved you?”

  “Evangeline!”

  “How long did it take you to run to Clay Whitefield after you and I talked?”

  “Evie, think about what you’re saying. You and I just saw each other today. Do you think I had time to call Clay and then he had time to print an article in a paper that probably went to bed sometime over the weekend?”

  I stopped in my tirade. She was right there. Humph.

  My silence allowed her the opportunity to continue. “I’m just as shocked and upset as you are. I had no idea.” She paused. “I’m not saying I’m any less upset with Vonnie about all this, and I’m not saying I’m convinced you haven’t known about it all these years.” “With God as my witness—”

  “Save it, Evangeline. The question now is: what are we going to do from here?”

  I looked out the kitchen window over the double sink. “You tell me, Donna Vesey.”

  She didn’t answer right away. “I’m driving out in Vonnie’s direction now. I only hope she hasn’t seen the paper already.”

  I sighed in reply.

  “And, Evie, just so you know, when I get my hands on Clay Whitefield, there’s going to be a whole new story to tell come next week’s paper. We may just have our first homicide in Summit View, Colorado, and I just may be on the other side of the law.”

  35

  Don’t get on her bad side . . .

  Clay had been answering phone calls all day, or at least for the hours he’d been down at the Gold Rush News. Everyone thought they might know something about the missing jewel, but in the end, no one knew squat.

  A few people had comments about the Potluckers, a few even asking how anyone could tell the members from the bear. One phone call in particular was about Ms. Benson’s quote about Donna’s reaction to the bear. That Evangeline. You didn’t want to get on her bad side.

  He’d driven past her earlier that day and seen her and Donna in what looked to be an argument. Donna looked pretty ticked. He wondered how long it would be before he felt the sting of her rebuke.

  He chuckled. He couldn’t wait.

  36

  Grilling Vonnie

  The nerve of that woman, I fumed, to tell me off twice in one day. I put my clipboard onto the seat beside me. I’d been writing up a report on a tourist who had lost a wallet while shopping on Main Street. Poor thing. Unless a Good Samaritan found it, her credit card was probably already being swiped at the Frisco Wal-Mart.

  I put my phone back into my console and shook my head. It was bad enough that Evie had dissed me in her interview about Vonnie and the bear. But to think that she thought I’d given Vonnie up to Clay Whitefield, well, that was unforgivable. I pulled onto Main Street but slowed down as I came to the Higher Grounds Café. Sure enough, there was Clay Whitefield’s beat-up blue and gray jeep. I whipped my Bronco beside it, grabbed my copy of the Gold Rush News, and charged through the wooden door. The bell announced my arrival as I spotted my prey sitting at his usual table. He looked up from reading a copy of the Rocky Mountain News, happy to see me until he realized I was purple with rage.

  “Donna, what’s wrong?” He looked at the copy of the newspaper in my trembling hand. “Was it something I wrote?” He pulled out a chair. “Here, sit. Let’s talk about it.”

  I sat down in a chair across from him.

  “It’s the article, isn’t it?” he said. I narrowed my eyes as confirmation. “Honestly, Donna, I didn’t think you’d mind that com–Shepherd_ men
t from Evie about how you ran from the bear. I mean, who wouldn’t run?”

  “That’s what you think this is about?”

  I slapped the paper onto the table and pointed to the story about the “missing Jewel.”

  Clay looked at me wide eyed. “You know something about this?” “My question to you is just how do you know?”

  Clay leaned back in his chair and studied me. “I’m surprised you don’t remember.”

  I cocked my head, in no mood to play games. “Pardon me? Remember what?”

  “You were here the morning I interviewed David Harris, that guy everybody accused of being your boyfriend.”

  I leaned back and took a deep breath. “You were interviewing David Harris?”

  “Well, yes. He called the paper and asked if I would run something to help him find his birth mother.”

  I put my elbow on the table and covered my eyes with my hand. “Of course, of course. How could I be so stupid?”

  Suddenly, I realized Clay was pulling out a pen from his pocket. It hovered over his ever-ready notepad. “So, Deputy, just what do you know about his so-called ‘missing Jewel’?”

  I stood abruptly, almost knocking over my chair, and snatched my paper from the table. “That, my friend, is none of your business.” With that, I left the restaurant, mindful of Clay’s scrutiny as I pulled my Bronco from my space. Great job, Donna, I scolded myself. Why don’t you alert the local press while you’re at it?

  I sighed deeply, feeling absolutely drained. There were no two ways about it; it was time for me to have my little talk with Vonnie Westbrook about her son, one David Harris.

  When I pulled up in front of her tiny, two-story, pink-and-rose-colored Victorian, I sat there unable to leave the safety of my truck. For the love of Mike, how was I even going to approach this topic?

  Soon I saw her look out the etched glass window that graced the front door. She opened it and waved.

  I halfheartedly waved back, watching Chucky dance at her feet. How could she? How could this woman betray everyone she loved, especially me?

  I picked up the paper and my clipboard and pushed open my truck’s door.

  Vonnie spoke to me as I walked up the drive. “Donna, I knew you’d drop by on my birthday. I was just pulling out an apple rhubarb pie from my oven. I have some ice cream in the freezer. Why don’t you come in and share a birthday slice with me?”

  Great. I forgot it’s her birthday.

  I sat down at her kitchen table while she scooped out premium vanilla ice cream and put it onto two slices of warm pie.

  She placed the pie in front of me, with one of her silver forks and a napkin.

  I usually helped her in these preparations, but I could hardly move.

  “So,” she said, looking at me with worried eyes, “is everything okay? You seem kind of glum, dear.”

  “Is Fred here?” I asked.

  “No, it’s just you and me and the dog. Fred’s still at work.”

  Her eyes fell on the copy of my Gold Rush News. “Oh, the article came out. Is that what you stopped by to show me?”

  “Then you haven’t seen it?”

  Vonnie pulled out her reading glasses, which she wore on a chain around her neck, and put them on her nose. When she saw the picture of herself holding Chucky, she giggled with delight. “Oh, my! Just look at that, will you?”

  She began to read the article, while I sat in silence, listening to her laughter. She looked up. “Donna, did you ever read anything so priceless? Though I do think the comment from Evie was uncalled for. You were trying to save us all.”

  I leaned back in my chair and stared at her.

  She grew concerned. “Donna, you haven’t touched your pie. Is everything all right?”

  “No, Vonnie, everything is not all right.”

  “Tell me, dear,” she asked with compassion. “What’s wrong?”

  “You can read it for yourself. It’s in the article mentioned beneath the Potluck story.”

  Vonnie looked back at the paper. “A jewel theft in Summit View?”

  I was patient. “Turn to page three.”

  The paper rustled, and her demeanor changed. Startled, she cried out, “What is this?”

  “Don’t you recognize him, Vonnie?”

  Vonnie looked up. Her face was a mix of grief and panic. “Well, he does look like someone I used to know.”

  “You mean Joseph Jewel?”

  Vonnie stared at me, absolutely stunned. “Joseph? You know about my Joseph?” She looked down at the article, then back at me. “This can’t be. This can’t be my son.”

  “Why is that, Vonnie?”

  “My son is dead.” And with that she broke down into hysterical sobs. I stood up and knelt beside her. She wrapped her arms around me and cried into my black leather jacket. “My baby is dead. Mother told me.”

  I held her until the sobs subsided, then pulled back. “Vonnie, your baby is not dead. He’s very much alive and living in L.A.”

  Vonnie shook her head in disbelief.

  I pulled David’s card out of my pocket. “Here. See, Vonnie, I have his number. He wants you to call him.”

  “Oh no, no, this can’t be. What would Fred say?”

  I sat back in my chair while Vonnie dabbed her eyes with her napkin. “Fred doesn’t know you were married before?”

  “No one does. Mother said that would be best.”

  This just didn’t make sense to me. “Vonnie, your mother didn’t like Joseph?”

  “She never met him.” Vonnie looked down at her wrinkled hands. “She wouldn’t.”

  I reached over and placed my hand on top of hers. “Why not?” She tapped David’s picture with her finger. “Donna, isn’t it obvious?”

  I looked down at the paper again, unsure of what she meant.

  She changed the subject. “Donna, how did you find out about Joseph?”

  “I took the Sunday school picture. It was meant to be a surprise. I was going to have it reframed. I had no idea it hid your secret.” “Then you saw my wedding picture?”

  “I have it right here, in fact.” I pulled the photo from beneath my clipboard.

  When Vonnie saw the picture, she gasped. “Oh, Joseph.” She held the picture to her heart. “Joseph, why did you leave me?”

  “He abandoned you?”

  “No, no. It was Vietnam. My Joseph was killed in action.”

  I sat back, stunned. Of all the thoughts that had gone through my head, I hadn’t imagined the truth. I looked down at the ice cream, now melted into puddles around my pie. “Vonnie.” I looked back up. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

  37

  She’s hiding something . . .

  He felt as though Donna had slapped him. Well, she may as well have. He couldn’t imagine her fury over something so . . . something as . . . something that had absolutely nothing to do with her. Nothing whatsoever.

  His brows shot so high they nearly blended with his hairline as he thought how he’d seen Donna and Evangeline in the midst of a heated conversation out in the middle of town. Did that have anything to do with the article about Harris? What was going on? Was Donna hiding something?

  Clay jumped from his seat, reaching for the faux leather jacket he’d draped behind him earlier. Maybe, if he were lucky, he could catch Donna, find out where she was heading off to, and have enough fodder for his next chapter on the ladies of the Potluck.

  38

  Hot Confessions

  Before Donna left, she put our untouched pie in the sink while I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the paper.

  My son was alive and had been raised by Harmony Harris, the movie star? How?

  Finally, I lay my head on the table and wept—for my Joe, for my baby, and finally for my mother’s betrayal.

  I sat up. How could she? I wondered, wiping my eyes on a napkin. Just then, I heard Fred’s truck pull into our driveway. I jumped out of my chair, knocking the paper and wedding picture to the floor. I picked them up a
nd stuffed them into the nearby utensil drawer.

  I was overcome with questions: what was I going to do about David, my mother, and my husband, not to mention dinner?

  Quickly, I grabbed an onion from the kitchen counter and began to chop. I pulled out my electric skillet, dumped the onions inside, and turned the switch on high. The kitchen immediately smelled as if dinner were cooking. At the ruckus, Chucky rushed from his spot on the easy chair and sat at my feet, eager for any tidbits that might fall his way.

  Ignoring him, I opened the cupboard and found a can of ranch-style beans. I thought I’d add the beans first to make the dish look like it was already cooking. I was pouring the beans into the skillet when Fred walked into the kitchen and gave me a squeeze. “Hey, famous lady. Everybody’s talking about you.”

  I dropped the can into the skillet. “What?”

  “Your picture in the paper!” He slapped a copy of the paper onto the kitchen cabinet next to me. “Have you seen it yet?”

  I nodded, then fished the can out of my skillet, keeping my back to my husband. “Oh! Yes, I saw it.”

  “Say, you sound like you’ve been crying.” He gently turned me to face him. “Those are tears. What’s wrong, Vonnie?”

  I stared up at him and simply said, “Goldie left Jack.”

  Fred gave me a peck on the forehead. “Can’t say that didn’t serve him right, from what I’ve heard. But don’t let it get you down. Maybe this will help set things straight between them.” He sniffed the air. “Smells good. What’s for supper?”

  “We’re having chili, but I’m running behind schedule. Would you like a piece of my apple rhubarb pie while you wait?”

  “Sounds perfect,” he said, pulling a plate out of the cabinet. “Now all I need is the pie server.” He put his hand on the handle of the utensil drawer.

  “No! Wait! It’s in the sink,” I practically shouted.

  “Okay,” he said as he turned toward the sink and cut a big slice of pie. I handed him a fork from the dish rack on the counter, then leaned against the cabinet and took a deep breath.