by Diane Morlan
“Well, then unpack it!” demanded the stout woman waving away my offering. “You should never refuse a guest. You serving girls aren’t very well trained.”
Okay, I’d taken lip from this prima donna all afternoon. I looked her straight in the eye, put my hands on my hip, and said, “I am not a serving girl, Mrs. Wentworth. I’m not a girl, I’m a woman. I’m catering this event and the wine has been put away—”
“Mrs. Wentworth!” my friend, Megan Murphy, called out, moving between us from the kitchen. She was also the candidate’s girlfriend. “How is your lovely daughter, Whitney? Here, let me get you a little more wine. Do you have a ride home?”
Megan pulled a half-empty bottle out of the box I had just packed.
“Of course I have a ride,” retorted the society dame crossing her arms across her generous bosom. “Yvonne Jackson is my driver today.” I couldn’t believe that she somehow had turned the mother of the candidate for Governor of Minnesota into her personal chauffeur.
Megan filled Henrietta’s glass. “A plastic glass is a terrible way to serve wine,” Henrietta Wentworth continued her inebriated rambling. “Although it’s a cheap wine, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”
I was about to tell her a thing or two about being grateful for what we have when a voice called out.
“Henny, are you ready? I’m leaving. Let’s go if you want a ride.” The candidate’s mother, Yvonne Jackson came over and took Mrs. Wentworth by the arm. Mrs. Jackson sported a brand new permanent and her short grey hair was in tiny ringlets. The tall, slim lady wore a cotton print dress that my mother had called a housedress. “Good Lord, Henny,” Yvonne Jackson said. “You’re soused. Can’t you ever drink socially?”
“My dear,” replied the corpulent woman, “I am just being sociable. And stop calling me Henny. I hate nicknames. They are so crass.”
“Well, la-te-da Miss Hen-re-it-ta, excuse me for living!” With that, Mrs. Jackson sashayed in a small circle, grasped Mrs. Wentworth by the arm, and dragged her toward the exit.
I watched the two gray-haired women traverse the length of the hall to the exit, wondering how they had ever become friends, if that’s what you could call their relationship.
Mrs. Wentworth obviously came from money. Her clothes, although out of style, were expensive. She wore a heavy gold chain around her fleshy neck. Mrs. Jackson probably didn’t own any jewelry except for the simple gold band that glistened on the third finger of her left hand.
“How did those two ever become friends?” I asked Megan who had her ear to the ground for any and all gossip in Hermann.
“They haven’t been friends for long. Henrietta wouldn’t have given Yvonne the time of day a few years ago. Charlie’s success and Graham Wentworth’s death changed everything. When Graham committed suicide and there was so much gossip about the money missing from the bank, Yvonne started to visit Henrietta. She takes her to lunch and brings her to these political events, and generally looks after her.”
“Interesting,” I said. “It looks like Yvonne related to Henrietta’s situation in some way.”
“I guess so,” Megan said, looking around the hall.
I turned back to packing up the remains of the refreshments we had served at the rally, expecting Megan to pitch in and help. I should have known better.
Megan was looking in the direction of a group of people near the exit from the hall. “I need to speak to these people,” she said, moving in their direction.
“Why did I ever let you talk me into this?” I said to Megan’s back. “Come back here and help me.”
Megan waved me off over her shoulder. “I have to meet with the Grand Master. We need the hall again next month.”
I tucked in my white blouse that Megan had insisted I wear and thought again, about how Megan had shanghaied me into this catering business. I was a coffee roaster, not a caterer. If Megan hadn’t been my best friend since second grade, I’d be enjoying a day off instead of cleaning up this mess. And Megan would be showing houses to potential buyers. She was a top-notch realtor and the only reason she was baking cookies and putting together cheese and cracker platters was because she was head over heels in love with Charlie Jackson, Independent candidate for Governor of Minnesota.
Looking at my watch, I realized that I needed to get going. My crochet class at Trudy’s Lace Haus would be starting in just over an hour. Megan had started the crochet class with me but dropped out when she couldn’t learn the basic stitches. She even had trouble holding her crochet hook. She laughed about it and said her talents lay in other areas. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t talking about her baking abilities.
I put the last of the leftover food in plastic tubs and was about to tidy up the kitchen when Megan returned to let me know the date and time of Charlie’s next event in this area. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had conveniently disappeared while I cleaned and packed up. I dug into the soapy water and started washing platters and other serving dishes, thinking about my date tonight.
Hmm! My date with Decker. I had met Jerry Decker last summer when I discovered the dead body of a trumpet player at the Polka Daze music festival, which took place at the Maron County fairgrounds just outside of Hermann. Ever since, we’d been going out to dinner almost every Saturday night. We usually got together a few times during the week when our schedules allowed. He’s a detective with the Maron County Sheriff’s Department. The first time I laid eyes on him last summer, I went weak in the knees. He still had that effect on me. I guess you could say we were dating. Do people still date?
I wondered where we would go for dinner. There are only so many restaurants in Hermann. Maybe we should branch out and go somewhere new. The drive to Mankato would take less than an hour.
I put the container holding the leftover food into the trunk of my little Honda. The backseat held several big grey tubs packed with paper plates, plastic utensils, and cups. Two large coffee urns filled the passenger seat. I really needed a bigger vehicle. I promised myself to make it a priority to do more than just drive slowly past the car lots in town.
I had made a half-hearted effort a few weeks ago and stopped at Hermann Auto Mart. I saw a lovely cherry red Blazer that I had test-driven. It was only two years old and had surprisingly low mileage. It would last me a long time. Then again, I was thinking that I should get something with better mileage for the sake of the environment and my budget. I was still trying to make up my mind.
I had just picked up my purse and was ready to leave when Megan waltzed into the room and said, “Okay, what can I do to help?”
I bit my tongue holding back the words I wanted to sling at her. “Nothing, Meg, it’s all done,” I said. “I’m off to my crochet class.”
“Are you still doing that crochet stuff?” Megan shook her head. “It seems like a waste of time to me. You can buy anything you make.”
“Of course you can. And you can buy any of the baked goods that you produce. It’s the doing that counts. Crocheting lessens my stress level. It’s my tranquilizer.”
“I just bake because I love to eat.” Megan said patting her slightly rounded tummy.
3
The bright sunshine reflected off the window of Trudy’s Lace Haus when I drove up. Lisa’s car was there. Whitney usually parked behind the group home. I picked up my tote bag, smoothed down the white blouse that was amazingly clean, if a little wrinkled from working with all that food and drink. I ran up the walk to the Lace Haus, checking my watch, and saw that I was late.
Trudy, dressed in a sunshine- yellow, short-sleeved, cotton crocheted sweater and black Capri pants, greeted me with a smile and a wave. “Hi, Jennifer, we were beginning to think you had deserted us today, what with the big Town Hall meeting and all.”
Lisa just smiled and gave me a little wave. She was wearing hospital scrubs.
“Sorry I’m late. Did you have to work today, Lisa?” I asked her. Usually when not at work, Lisa’s uniform was jeans and a sweatshirt.
�
��Only for a few hours. I filled in for someone who needed the morning off.”
“Looks like I’m not too late. I beat Whitney,” I said digging in my tote bag for my current project.
“Not exactly,” Trudy replied. “She left early. Said she had a social history to do on a new resident. Whatever that is.”
“Oh, darn. I wanted to see her tablecloth. Did she finish it?”
“It’s gorgeous!” exclaimed Lisa. “I don’t know if I have the patience to make something so big. She worked on it for months.”
I wasn’t exactly sorry that I had missed Whitney. She’d been so snarky lately that I didn’t mind that she wasn’t here. I did want to see her finished tablecloth though.
I took out my current project and showed Trudy and Lisa what I had completed since the last class. I was having a problem working a triple crochet cluster on the bodice of the Christening dress. This dress was made with delicate yarn and it took a while to get used to crocheting with the fine-spun yarn.
“I hope I catch on to this soon,” I complained. “I love the way it looks but I feel so clumsy when I’m crocheting.”
Trudy held up the table runner she was working on. “You’ll get used to it. Then you’ll want to challenge yourself by using thinner and thinner thread.” Trudy’s piece looked like gossamer on angel’s wings. Lisa was using a size 10 thread that looked like yarn next to Trudy’s thread.
“What size is that thread?” Lisa asked. “It looks like sewing thread.”
“It’s a size 70. I just started this doily,” said Trudy holding up a coaster-sized circle. “I like the way it’s working up. It’s only going to be about twelve inches in diameter when I finish it. I may enter this in the Maron County Fair next year.”
We fussed over the delicate little crocheted piece. Crochet thread comes in different sizes, the bigger the number, the finer the thread. Most doilies were made in size 10 or 20.
For a few minutes, there was silence in our group. I was lost in thought about which vehicle to buy. I really liked that red SUV. Suddenly the back door slammed open.
“I want a Mountain Dew,” demanded a short stocky man in jeans and a plaid shirt. We all knew Harold Younger. He had conned little Marsha into trying to get her to buy him a can of pop last time I was here. Harold had grown up in our neighborhood and was the brother of my grade school classmate, Natalie. Harold had Down’s syndrome. A usually happy, affectionate man, his eyes were squinting as he shook a dollar bill at Trudy. “See, I have money!”
Trudy kept a fridge full of soft drinks and juice, along with a counter filled with snacks for customers taking classes. Since the group home opened, the residents often came here for snacks rather that walking the two blocks to Casey’s, the only store in Itzig.
“Harold, where did you get that money? Didn’t Whitney say you had spent all your money?” Trudy looked at me and explained that Harold had been in an argument with Whitney prior to my arrival because he wanted soda pop and had no money. “In fact, he missed going on an outing with the other residents because he spent all his money on candy and pop.”
“I have money! You have to give me a Mountain Dew.”
“Harold, I just can’t sell you a pop today,” Trudy said. “One of the counselors will have to call me so I know that it’s okay to sell one to you. Can you have Whitney or someone give me a call?”
“No! I don’t like Whitney. I’ll get one at Casey’s. So, the heck with you!” Harold stomped out waving his fist in the air.
We went back to working on our projects while chatting about the staff and residents of the group home. About twenty minutes later, the back door slammed open again and Harold rushed in yelling, “She won’t wake up! She won’t wake up!”
Trudy tried to calm him down. “Harold, stop yelling and tell me who you’re talking about.”
“Whitney! Whitney won’t wake up.”
“Where is she, Harold? Are the others back from the outing yet?”
“She’s sleeping and she won’t wake up!” Harold yelled again.
“Harold! Where is she sleeping?” Trudy asked in a stern voice.
Harold stopped yelling and pointed out the window in the back door. “Out there, by her car.”
We rose as one and headed out the back door. We hurried toward Whitney’s little black Miata that was parked next to the garage. The windshield was smashed and on the ground next to her car laid the beautiful Queen Anne ’s lace tablecloth, that she had just finished crocheting. Next to the tablecloth was a wooden baseball bat inscribed with the Louisville Slugger insignia.
“Where is she?” asked Trudy.
“She was right here.” Harold pointed to the ground near the tablecloth. “She wouldn’t wake up.”
“Harold, did you smash her windshield?” Trudy asked.
Harold looked down and kicked the baseball bat at his feet. “She’s mean. She won’t let me have a Mountain Dew.”
“She has to be somewhere around here,” I said. “She wouldn’t leave without her car.” Lisa nodded in agreement wrapping her sweater around her.
Trudy took charge. “Let’s check out the house. Maybe she fell or something and is in the house.”
“It’s cold out here. I’m going to run back to your shop and get my sweater,” Lisa said to Trudy. “I’ll be right back.”
We strode through the back yard to the house. Trudy stuck her head in the door. “Yoho! Anyone here?” she shouted.
No answer. Cautiously we entered the kitchen through the back door leaving Harold outside wringing his hands and mumbling. Trudy called out. Again, no answer.
We heard a car pull into the driveway so we went outside to see who had arrived at the group home. Maybe whoever just pulled in would have some information on Whitney’s whereabouts. We watched the group home van stop in front of the garage. Lisa walked up next to me and welled on as the garage door open and the van roll inside. Soon, people were spilling out of the garage, chatting and laughing.
Three female residents ran up to Trudy to show her what they had bought at the mall. Trudy was interested and asked questions. You could tell that she liked these women and wasn’t uncomfortable around them.
Marsha, still wearing her pink wig, came up to me and said, “Hi! What you name?”
“I’m Jennifer, are you Marsha? I met you at Trudy’s a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, okay. Look. My new necklace. I got it for my sister for the next time she visits.”
“It’s very pretty, Marsha,” I replied. By then another resident had taken her attention. Marsha ran over to her and waved the necklace in her face. The other resident slapped Marsha’s necklace away like an annoying fly. Marsha wasn’t deterred in the least; she just kept talking while the other woman walked into the house.
A red haired man slunk into the house through the back door, clutching a plastic bag to his chest and mumbling something about not touching his stuff.
I heard the garage door slide down. Turning, I saw a handsome blond man exiting the garage by a small door. He was wearing a quilted flannel-lined jean jacket and faded jeans. As he came closer I could see a little grey blended into the blond. Then I realized that I knew this guy. Could it be?
“Pete?” I croaked, my voice suddenly quitting on me.
“JJ!” Pete ran up and enveloped me in a bear hug. “I’ve been hoping to run into you! How are you?”
Here I was, being hugged by Pete Champion, my old high school boyfriend, who I hadn’t seen in more years than I’d care to count.
“I didn’t know you were back in town,” I said.
“I moved back a couple months ago. Got sick of the daily grind and took a job here as house manager where I can work with people.”
“You mean you left your law practice to work here? Why would you do that?”
I realized that Pete was the new house manager that Whitney had been talking about at the last class. The last I had heard about Pete he had been a big mucky-muck in the Twin Cities. Something must have
happened for him to make this kind of career change at this stage in his life.
“JJ, I’ve been practical all my life. Had everything all figured out. Reached all my goals and was a darn good attorney. Then found that I was bored out of my skull with corporate law. Contracts, wills—that sort of stuff. It just got to me. So, I sold out my share to my partners and moved back home. Now I know my next-door neighbor and I have a job that really helps people. JJ, it’s just great to see you again.”
“Pete, please don’t call me JJ. I outgrew that years ago.”
“Did you? I still like it.” He beamed down at me.
With that, he did a Little Richard spin around and started singing that old fifties rock and roll song. “Jenny, Jenny.”
“Stop that,” I shouted, slapping him on the arm.
He stopped singing and looked into my eyes. He slipped his arm around my shoulder; I didn’t protest. By now, everyone was laughing—residents and counselors alike.
Harold started shouting at Trudy again. Pete went over to speak with him. Trudy pointed out the broken windshield on Whitney’s car and told Pete that we couldn’t find her.
“Maybe she got a ride from someone when she discovered the broken window.” Pete looked at Harold.
“Did you break that glass with your bat, Harold?”
“She yelled at me.” Harold crossed his arms and shook his head. “She said I couldn’t have some Mountain Dew. I like Mountain Dew.” Harold stomped his foot.
“So, you smashed her windshield?” questioned Pete. “Harold, you know that’s not acceptable. Let’s go in and see how Whitney wants to handle this. You’ll have to pay for the repairs.”
“No! My money! I want a Mountain Dew,” Harold crossed his arms and pursed his mouth. As far as he was concerned, the discussion was over.
When he turned toward the house, I touched his arm and said, “Pete, she’s not in there.”
“She’s not? Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Trudy and I were looking for her when your van pulled in. Her tablecloth is lying next to her car. I can’t believe she would leave it there. She worked on it for months. Do you think Harold may have hurt her?”
