Food Fair Frenzy

by Abby L. Vandiver

  Didn’t they hear the bell?

  Whenever we were on one of Miss Vivee’s fact-finding excursions, I usually stepped back and waited for her to do her thing. I didn’t talk, unless she asked me a direct question because I never knew what outrageous story she’d come up with to get the answers she needed. But this time, I thought I’d take the lead.

  “We’ll be right with you,” a voice finally came from a back area.

  “Okay,” I answered back.

  “Let me do the talking,” Miss Vivee said.

  “It’s an archaeological firm, Miss Vivee. I know the lingo.”

  “Lingo, smingo,” Miss Vivee said. “I’ve got this.” She winked at me and made a clicking sound with her mouth. “You just hang back.”

  Hang back?

  “Fine,” I said and went and leaned on the wall – arms folded across my chest, one leg crossed over the other – next to the desk. I let my eyes wander around the room. It was a mess, papers everywhere, but the pictures, old black and white ones that were hung on the walls, did interest me. I pushed off and started to take a look at them when a blue folder on the desk caught my eye. It had a label on it, with a long number and “Lincoln Park” in large black letters.

  Oh my goodness!

  “Miss Vivee!” She and Mac had sat on the worn, rust-colored seat cushions of the metal chairs that were in front of the desk. “Look!” I pointed to the folder. “That’s why they were checking on the probate file, to find out about the land.” I said in a strained whisper.

  Miss Vivee stood up and leaned over the desk. “What’s in it?” she whispered back, her eyes wide in anticipation.

  I hunched my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Get it!” Miss Vivee’s whisper crackled with excitement.

  “What?”

  “Get that folder,” she said a little louder and pointed to it.

  “Shhh!” I said. I had heard her, I just couldn’t believe what she wanted me to do. Then, before I could answer her, she snatched the folder off the desk, fell back into her seat and stuffed it down into her purse.

  Oh Lord!

  “Hello,” a woman came out the back just as Miss Vivee snapped her purse shut. “I’m Debra Goodall.”

  Not one of us said a word. I didn’t speak because I was in shock and, luckily, had been instructed not to. I didn’t know what was wrong with Miss Vivee, but one thing for sure, I knew that little ninety-something heart of hers was racing.

  Debra Goodall wore her fine brown hair long and straight, parted on the side, she had a habit of sweeping it behind her ear, even when it was already there. She had narrow brown eyes that she accentuated with black eyeliner, and a light application of blue eye shadow. She was about 5’6” with a shapely build. But I didn’t think it was from exercising because she inhaled often when she spoke, as if she couldn’t get in enough air at one time to voice an entire sentence.

  She looked at the three of us expectantly. “May I help ya’ll?”

  “I need the little girl’s room,” Miss Vivee said and stood up.

  “We don’t have a public restroom,” she said looking confused. “You can go to the gas station down the street.”

  “She’s an archaeologist,” Miss Vivee said and pointed at me. “She needs to talk to you, but really,” she started shaking her leg and pushing down in her seat, “I have to go to the restroom. It’s really not good for you to deny a woman of my age the use of your facilities. It could get quite messy.”

  Debra Goodall looked at me, then at Miss Vivee. “It’s right down that hallway,” she pointed. “First door on the left, right past the table with the coffee maker on it.”

  “Thank you,” Miss Vivee said. “C’mon, Mac.”

  Consultant Goodall looked at Miss Vivee. “Are you taking him with you?”

  “We do everything together,” Miss Vivee said. “Have been for the last fifty years.”

  Mac got up and followed Miss Vivee down the hall.

  “Are they okay?” Debra Goodall asked. “I mean . . . Is something wrong with the two of them?”

  I laughed. “I don’t think it would be too far off or impolite to say that they are a little weird.”

  Debra laughed with me, then pointed to a seat. “Have a seat.”

  “Actually,” I said. “I wanted to take a closer look at the pictures on the walls. These are excavations you’ve done?” I asked and walked over to a picture on the opposite wall.

  I had to come up with something fast, I didn’t know what Miss Vivee was up to with that folder and Mac in the restroom. But I figured I’d better keep Archeologist Goodall busy.

  “Yes,” she said proudly. “But that was years ago. We don’t go out on digs anymore. What about you?” She looked at me. “I don’t meet an archaeologist every day.”

  “I know, right?” I said and smiled. “But I am. So is my mother. She’s a Biblical archaeologist and used to take us kids out on digs with her. I caught the bug.”

  “Wow,” Debra said. “That’s cool.”

  “Is this your husband?” I pointed to a man in one of the pictures with her.

  “Yes. That’s Lance.” She came stood next to me. “Although we weren’t married yet when that was taken.”

  “Is he an archaeologist, too?”

  “No. He’s a geologist. He’s the reason that I stopped going out on digs, and started this little firm.”

  “You miss it?” I asked. “Excavating?”

  She stared at the picture, looking at it thoughtfully, and didn’t say anything for a long minute. “Sometimes I do,” she said and looked at me, a half smile on her face. She took in a breath. “What about you? You’ve been out on any digs lately?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Over at Stallings Island.”

  “Get out of here! That was you? You’re the one who found the extinct – well thought to be extinct fish?”

  I smiled. She had heard about me. “Yep. That was me.”

  “Oh. My. God. Lucky you!” She said. “Congrats. I read all about it in my subscription of Archaeology.” She patted me on my back. “It’s nice to have you in my humble little office.”

  “We’re back,” Miss Vivee announced as she and Mac came through the doorway.

  “Are you okay?” I asked and raised an eyebrow.

  “We’re fine, Dear,” Miss Vivee said.

  “Do you need to sit down,” Debra asked. She nodded to the chairs and the two went and sat down.

  “That coffee smells so delicious.” Miss Vivee blew out a breath like she was winded from running a marathon. “Could I get a cup?” Miss Vivee asked.

  “It may be a little stale,” Debra said. “I had made it earlier this morning.”

  “Just like I like it,” Miss Vivee said. “Hours old.” She smiled at Debra.

  “Would you like a cup, too?” Debra Goodall asked Mac.

  “No, he doesn’t want any,” Miss Vivee said.

  “Okay,” Debra said and looked at me. Before she asked if I wanted some of the old brew, I shook my head “no.”

  She headed down the hallway, and as soon as she disappeared, Miss Vivee whipped that crumbled folder out of her purse and threw it across the desk.

  “You can’t leave that there like that,” I went back to speaking in a strained whisper. “Look at it!”

  Miss Vivee stood straight up and glared at me, not saying a word.

  “You don’t think she’ll notice that?” I pointed to the bent up blue folder sitting on top of all the clutter on the desk, standing out like a sore thumb.

  “Do you take cream and sugar?” Debra yelled from the back.

  “Yes,” Miss Vivee yelled back. “Two creams, and seven sugars.”

  “Seven?” came the response. “You want seven teaspoons of sugar?”

  It seemed her voice was getting closer. I went to the doorway, and met her just as she was getting back to office area. I stood in front of her. “Yes. Seven teaspoons.” I said.

  “It’s just a little
cup,” Debra Goodall said and waved the small, white Styrofoam cup at me.

  “Seven.” I nodded my head vigorously. “Is that alright?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “Hope she brought her insulin,” she mumbled as she headed back down the hall. “She’ll probably have to drink it straight from the bottle.”

  I turned to see Miss Vivee sticking that rumpled folder under some paper on the desk.

  “Miss Vivee!”

  “What?” she said and snatched her hand back. Then she narrowed her eyes at me. “Don’t yell at me, Missy.”

  “I didn’t yell, Miss Vivee,” I said whispering. I started opening drawers. “I’m just a little anxious.”

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Looking for another blue folder.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  I stopped what I was doing, and tilted my head. I looked at her quizzically.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Because you broke that one,” I said and pointed to the one partially hidden on the desk. “We need to fix it.”

  “You can’t actually break a folder,” Mac said. His first words since we’d been there. “It’s made out of stock paper. She just bent it up a little.”

  “A little?” I said. “Mac, please!” I turned to look on the shelf behind the desk.

  Did he really think he needed to explain to me the make-up of a folder? Geesh!

  “Bingo!” I said as I came upon a box of multi-colored folders. I grabbed a blue one, and turned back to the desk, fishing out the Lincoln Park folder from where Miss Vivee had tried to hide it.

  “How do you think you’re going to transfer that label to the new folder?” Miss Vivee asked.

  “Oh crap,” I said.

  “Dearie!” Miss Vivee yelled out. “Yoohoo! Debra Goodall!”

  “What are you doing?” I said a little louder than I meant to. I turned to see if Debra was coming, and at the same time tried to stick the folder behind my back.

  “Here, I come,” Debra said.

  “No!” Miss Vivee said. “Don’t come. I just wanted to tell you that Mac wanted a cup of coffee. Could you bring him one?”

  “What?” she said. She had come back down the hall anyway and was standing in the doorway, one cup of coffee in her hand. I had backed up against the wall, both folders behind my back.

  Miss Vivee smiled a seven-spoons-of-sugar-smile at her. “Mac would like a cup, too.”

  Debra Goodall looked at Mac, and he smiled at her. “I thought he didn’t want any coffee.”

  “He changed his mind,” Miss Vivee said.

  Debra looked at him, then at me. “Does he talk?” she asked.

  “Of course he does,” Miss Vivee said. “How else would I have known he wanted coffee?” She furrowed her brow and shook her head.

  Debra took in a breath, turned on her heels with the one cup still in her hand.

  I pulled the folders from behind my back as soon as Debra Goodall disappeared. Laying the new folder on the desk, I tried to pull off the label. It wouldn’t budge. I looked at Miss Vivee and Mac. They looked back at me.

  “Crap.”

  Then I remembered I’d seen a pair of scissors in the middle desk drawer. I retrieved them and cut the tab with the label attached off. Then I cut the tab off the new folder and pulled a piece of tape off the dispenser that sat on the desk.

  “Voila!” I waved the folder in the air. They wouldn’t realize anything was amiss until they handled the folder, hopefully by then, we’d be long gone. Then I removed the contents from the original folder and pressed them flat as best I could and placed them inside the file. I tried to put the folder back in the same spot Miss Vivee had confiscated it from. I folded the bent up folder and gave it to Miss Vivee. “Here,” I said. “Put this in your purse.”

  Miss Vivee clicked her purse shut just as I heard Debra Goodall come back in. She had a cup of coffee in each hand.

  “I put seven sugars in his, too,” she said. “You two seem to be one, so I figured that would be just about right.”

  They took the cups and each took a sip.

  “Mmmm,” they said in unison.

  “Where’s Lance?” Miss Vivee asked. She was muscling her way back in the conversation after not having a substantive word to say, and acting looney for most of our visit.

  “Lance?” Debra Goodall asked.

  “Yes. Isn’t that your husband’s name?”

  “Yes, it is.” Debra looked surprised that Miss Vivee knew that.

  “Is he here?” she asked

  Debra Goodall looked at me with a smirk then back at Miss Vivee. “As a matter of fact, he came in when I was making the coffee. He’s in the back.”

  “Well my husband and I have a thousand acres of land in the Black Belt down in Freemont County.”

  There she goes with that lie again.

  “In the Black Belt?” That seemed to pique Debra’s interest. She threw back her shoulders and glanced back through the doorway down the hall.

  “What are you doing with your land?” Debra asked looking back at Miss Vivee.

  “Having it surveyed for its historical significance.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “As a heart attack,” Miss Vivee said locking eyes with her.

  “I’ll get my husband,” she said.

  Lance Goodall was tall and lanky. He looked to be in his early thirties, and had a light five o’clock shadow with red undertones, the same color as the highlights peppered throughout his head of thick, light brown hair. He had on skinny leg jeans, a plaid shirt, and beige tie and suit jacket that all looked outdated and too small.

  He got right into the conversation as he came into the room.

  “How did you get that land?” he asked Miss Vivee.

  “Hello,” she said. “You’re Lance Goodall.”

  “Oh yes,” Debra spoke up. “This is my better half,” she smiled at Mac. “Lance this is-” she stopped. “You know, I don’t think I ever got your names.”

  “I’m Vivienne Caspard-Whitson.”

  “And I’m Dr. Macomber Whitson,” Mac said and smiled. “Vivienne’s my better half.”

  “Ahh, you do speak,” Debra said.

  “So back to my question,” Lance said.

  “It has been in my family for generations,” Miss Vivee picked back up with her lie without batting an eye. “I have the family version of how it was acquired, but I’d like to know for sure.”

  “So you came to us?” he asked.

  “Isn’t that what you do?” Miss Vivee asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And I heard you did the historical preservation survey on Lincoln Park.”

  The Goodalls looked at each other.

  “Who told you that?” Lance asked.

  “We’re involved in several social circles,” Mac said.

  “We heard that you’re the ones that get the important jobs like that,” Miss Vivee said. “So we decided to come and see you.”

  “To help us out with our land.” Mac patted his pocket. “We brought our checkbook.”

  The Goodalls looked at each other again, this time they smiled.

  “So tell us about that project,” Mac said. “The one you did at Lincoln Park.”

  “Well,” Lance cleared his throat and seemed to think about what to say. He started out speaking slowly. “We were hired by the City of Augusta,” he said. “That’s how we get our contracts, through various political subdivisions, such as municipalities.”

  “Well we get most of them that way,” Debra said.

  “Right,” Lance said.

  “About ninety-five percent of the time,” Debra said. “Then there’s private owners, like yourselves, that hire us.”

  “Right. We conduct surveys of lands in certain districts that are believed should be included in the National Register of Historic Places.”

  “Just like your land,” Debra said. “They’re recommended based on stories passed d
own from generation to generation about the history of the land.”

  “Was it one?” Miss Vivee asked.

  “Was what one?” Debra asked.

  “Lincoln Park. Was it in an historical district?”

  “No,” Debra said.

  “We don’t think so,” Lance added. “We were hired to supplement the information on the area surrounding it that had been listed in the National Register around thirty-five years ago. We just turned in our report, so it still has to be decided on.”

  “Right,” Debra said. “But we needed to collect more data on the developmental history of the neighborhood. So there’s still that to do.” She swallowed, taking in a breath and looked at Lance.

  “Attempting to amend the historic district boundaries can be tedious.” Lance Goodall took over her explanation.

  They spoke in tandem, like they were like a tag-team wrestlers. And like it was rehearsed.

  “And what exactly did you find out?” Miss Vivee asked.

  I saw Debra Goodall’s eyes go from that blue folder on that desk to her husband and then down to her hands. She didn’t say a word.

  “Why would you be interested in that?” Lance Goodall asked.

  “At our age, we tend to be interested in everything. Nothing much else left for us to do,” Miss Vivee smiled one of her fake smiles, “but count our money and ask questions.”

  Mac patted the pocket where he claimed the checkbook was again.

  “So what did you find out?” Miss Vivee asked.

  “As I said, we submitted what we had, and then we still have to do supplemental work before it’s all finished,” Lance answered, his wife’s words seemed to have left her.

  “Well, my good man, I’m convinced,” Mac said. He stood up and stuck out his hand.

  Lance took his hand and shook it. “Convinced? About what?”

  “You are the people to take care of our land. You two seem to know what you’re talking about and are in sync with each other and I like that. Don’t you like that, Vivee?”

  “Mmm hmm.” Miss Vivee nodded her head.

  “So what we’ll do,” Mac said, “is have our granddaughter drive us to our safe deposit box.”