Ida waved the last chunk of yeasty-smelling oat bread at me. “Some welcome home for you, huh, kiddo? Peggy’s been saying you had the sheriff’s whole crew here all night.”
“We kicked them out when we got sleepy,” Gerda assured her with a complete disregard for the truth.
“Yeah, right.” Sue Hinkel leaned back in an arm chair, managing to look like an ad for her beauty shop even with her mouth full of cinnamon roll. Several more stood on a plate on the cedar chest that served as a coffee table. She had pulled back her long red hair-natural, unlike Peggy’s-into a twist, fastening it on top of her head. On her, it looked terrific. But then on Sue, everything looked terrific. Even freckles. For that matter, even cinnamon rolls.
I smiled at the doctor, Sarah Jacobs, who sat curled into an overstuffed chair. “The whole SCOURGE elite squad. Gad, what an honor.”
“Revel in it while you can,” Sue advised with a grin. “We’re about to put you to work.”
“Speaking of which,” Art Graham interrupted, “we’ve got to get back to the store. We left my nephew watching things.”
“He can’t do any serious harm in an hour,” Ida assured her husband, though she didn’t sound all that convinced herself.
“This won’t take very long,” Dr. Jacobs put in. “Everyone’s already gawked at the yellow tape and gossiped all they can about the murder-”
“Yeah,” stuck in Sue, “because you won’t tell us anything juicy.”
“I don’t know anything,” Sarah Jacobs protested. “I haven’t done the autopsy yet. As I was saying, all we have to do is initiate Annike into her new job, and that won’t take all of us.”
Sue Hinkel gave an evil chuckle. “Oh, but we wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
“Watch it, or I’ll get my permanents elsewhere,” I shot at her.
Sue grinned, shaking her terrific red hair which miraculously didn’t come loose. “I’ve got a monopoly here in town. Even Perfect Cindy won’t let some butcher from Meritville touch her. And don’t try to pretend you’ll go to San Francisco. Gerda’s already told us you’ve come home to stay.”
“She has, has she?” I directed a darkling glance at my aunt, who had just emerged from the kitchen. “Then since I’m here, maybe she’ll feed me a real breakfast.”
“Later, dear. Here’s some tea.” Gerda handed over a steaming mug. “Chamomile, with a touch of St. John’s wort and wood betony to make you less grouchy.”
“Make it up by the pot,” I advised, and sank onto the only vacant seat, the bench from my aunt’s loom. “Okay, what’s the consensus of the convergence?”
“That you’ll do a wonderful job.” Peggy O’Shaughnessy leaned forward with a rustle of papers as she brandished the notebook containing her lists. “We’re going to have more fun than ever this year.”
“Who is?” I murmured.
Sue Hinkel selected another roll. “We are. You are another story.”
“Make it one with a happy ending.” I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, let’s hear the worst. What have you got planned?”
“You’ll enjoy every minute of it,” Peggy assured me.
“You have to. That’s on her list,” Sue stuck in.
Peggy shot her a repressive look, then turned back to me. “And it’ll give you a chance to tell a whole lot of people you’re taking over from Brody.”
I peered at the corner of the page I could see. “Is that on your list, too?”
Orange and white tail held high, Furface strolled into the living room. Before I could get my feet to safety, he latched his teeth onto my ankle, purring as he did so. I detached him with care. He’d never yet drawn blood, but there was always a first time. Still purring, he settled his considerable haunches on the loom’s treadles, and six of the eight harnesses shot upward by varying degrees. They lowered a little as the cat curled into his impression of an overweight furry brick. He regarded the crowd with unblinking eyes.
“First,” pronounced Peggy, ignoring both Furface’s and my interruptions, “is the pancake breakfast on Thursday morning. That’s culminating in a turkey raffle, as you already know.” She lowered her wire-rimmed glasses down her narrow nose and peered at me. “You haven’t bought any ticket books for yourself, yet, have you? Don’t worry, I’ve got a few more in my bag.”
“Later,” I said quickly. “Breakfast and raffle, Thursday morning. What’s next?”
Peggy consulted her notes. “That would be Friday at one, and the First Annual Pumpkin Pie Eating Contest.”
“A pie eating contest.” I looked around the circle of SCOURGEs in disbelief. “The day after Thanksgiving when everyone’s been stuffing themselves? For heaven’s sake, why?”
“You weren’t here for the Third Annual Harvest Festival Pumpkin Growing Contest,” Gerda told her. She dragged a kitchen chair into the room and stationed it near a basket of freshly dyed turquoise wool. “It was an overwhelming success. In fact, it’s the sole reason for the pie eating contest. We didn’t know what else to do with all the pumpkin, and it seemed such a waste to throw it out.”
“Why didn’t you donate it to the homeless shelter, or the church?”
“We did.” Peggy beamed at me. “And they were very happy, but neither of them had much freezer space. So they cooked up what they could use and gave the rest back.”
“A lot of rest back,” stuck in Ida Graham. “We’d intended to can it, but no one’s had any time.”
“Pumpkin pies,” I muttered. “I suppose it’s too much to hope they’ve already been baked?”
“Much too much.” Gerda picked up several locks of the uncombed wool and began to tease them with rapid-or nervous-movements of her fingers. Amazingly, only the black tom Clumsy helped, batting at the brightly colored fluffs she set aside ready for carding. “Cooked, turned into pie filling and frozen, but that’s it.”
“Great.” I caught the corner of Peggy’s list. “Only one event for Friday? Good. What about Saturday?”
Art Graham stretched out a long arm and took one of the few remaining rolls. “That’s the same as always. The Clean-Up-the-Park project. Fourth Annual this time around, isn’t it, Ida?” he asked his wife.
Ida nodded. “Not that it really needs it since we put in the trash cans and conned the Boy Scouts into mowing and pruning. Thank heavens for community service requirements for ranks.”
“Can’t we just skip it, then?” I looked from one to the other of them, and my budding hope faded.
“Tradition,” Art Graham said, shaking his head. “Don’t want to give up any of our little traditions.”
“It’s only been done three times before!”
“Think of it as pre-holiday decorating,” suggested Sue Hinkel. “We’ll be stringing the lights and hanging the banners, even if we don’t turn on the electricity or unfurl anything for another week. This way, the park’s ready for the dinner, and the heavy Christmas and Hanukah and Kwanzaa work gets done, too, and we only have to gather the workers once.”
Gerda peered over the top of her glasses at me. “Never turn down anyone who volunteers to work, dear.”
I snagged the last cinnamon roll from under Sue’s nose. Store-bought, of the cellophane and plastic container variety. Not even heating in the microwave had induced them to give off any heavenly aromas. With a sigh, I bit into it. “What are you bribing them with?”
Ida Graham gave a short, appreciative laugh. “Got it in one, kiddo. Hugh Cartwright promised to come through with a trial batch of one of his new liqueurs. That, and the pie leftovers.”