“Do you know where everything’s stored?” Peggy asked, and any hope I had of getting help vanished as all four of them started opening cupboards and closets and exclaiming for the others to come and see the treasures-none of which pertained to Thanksgiving-they unearthed.
I, too, opened cupboards in a search for mixing bowls and utensils. “Batter up,” I muttered, and dumped half a bag of mix into a stainless steel container with a handle.
“Need help?” came a gentle, tired voice from the door.
I looked up to see Nancy Fairfield leaning against the jamb, looking fragile and quite pretty in a corduroy skirt and bulky sweater-apparently her favorite outfit. She had dragged back her fair hair and fastened it behind her neck, and wore only lipstick in a shade of dusty pink that set off the blue of her eyes.
“Up to it?” I asked. I might be desperate for assistance, but I didn’t want to be responsible for her suffering a relapse.
“If I can sit down,” she admitted with a wry face for her enfeebled condition.
I fetched a chair, and with relief saw Sue Hinkel had arrived and commandeered Art, and they now carried the first of the tables-the long, foldable variety that seats at least ten-from their storage place leaning against a wall.
“You don’t know Simon Lowell, do you?” she asked as I set her up at the stove to watch a pan of bacon and another of sausages.
“Met him yesterday.” I flicked a few drops of water onto the skillet, but they sat there instead of dancing away. Not hot enough, yet.
“Isn’t he great? So intense.”
So hairy, I thought, but I managed to keep from saying that aloud.
“I’ve never met anyone like him, before,” she added.
“He’s one of a kind,” I agreed with perfect honesty.
“He makes politics come alive for me. I mean, I never really thought about the government’s role in society until I met him. And I go to Stanford!”
“Should have gone to Berkeley.” I tested the skillet, and this time the drops of water sizzled away in a satisfactory manner. I poured the first batch of pancakes. “Is he coming to help today?” I added, forever hopeful.
She turned vague. “He said he had some business he had to take care of.”
“On Thanksgiving morning?” I demanded, but she was off and running on Simon’s brilliance in general, and his concern for the downtrodden masses in particular. But since nothing she said implied this earnest young Communist held accountants-specifically Clifford Brody-in abhorrence, I allowed my thoughts to return to making sure I’d done everything necessary to get things running smoothly today. Everything except make sure that damned turkey breast showed up in time for the raffle, I concluded at last.
By seven a.m., we were up to our elbows in pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausages and bacon, and the place smelled like heaven for the hungry and had my mouth watering. At least enough people had arrived to help, so I no longer despaired of the event getting off the ground. Lesser members of the SCOURGEs now set up and positioned the tables, while others stacked plates and silverware at one end of the serving counter. Things were beginning to hum smoothly, except for the minor squabbles over who forgot to bring the scissors and thumb tacks for some of the decorations.
The first of our cooked offerings now rested beneath a heat lamp-but not for long. Art Graham bore down on them with a gleam in his eyes. Well, we all had to eat before the customers arrived, so why not? I let him serve himself, then dragged off my coat and tossed it in a corner. The kitchen was the one place you could count on getting warm.
“I need someone to squeeze oranges,” I shouted, and as usual, no one came running to volunteer. Muttering under my breath, I went in search of a knife.
“Don’t worry, Simon’s bound to get here soon.” Nancy forked a sizzled piece of bacon onto the draining plate lined with paper towels. “He never shirks any task. I just can’t understand why Dad doesn’t like him.”
I was beginning to get an idea why, if she talked about him like this all the time. I was getting pretty sick of hearing how dedicated and noble was this latter-day hippie, myself. “How’re your studies going?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject. “You’re a senior, now, aren’t you?”
“I may change my major,” she said. “I can’t believe how politically naïve I am.”
Or naïve in general, I reflected.
“Someone need an orange squeezer?” Adam Fairfield strode into the kitchen, sober and cheerful. “You didn’t wait for me, Nancy.”
The girl froze. “I didn’t think you’d want to get up so early.”
“And not help?” He ruffled her smooth hair in the way of fathers everywhere, with the universal obliviousness to how much their offspring hated it. He took over with the knife and soon had orange halves piling in a growing mound. And as if that weren’t enough, his presence had one other benefit. Nancy fell silent about her forbidden love.
I warmed toward Adam. When I’d seen him yesterday, he’d still been recovering from too much to drink. Today he seemed calm, in control, not the least angry. More determined, that was it. Maybe he’d spoken to his ex-wife Lucy. Something had certainly had a positive effect on him.
“Sorry I’m late.” Sarah Jacobs hurried in. “Emergency. Someone just got a baby instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving.” She looked us over and nodded. “You look the most exhausted,” she told me. “Let me take the pancakes for awhile. You go check out front.”
With relief, I left her to it. I grabbed a plate, piled on a pancake, some scrambled eggs, and a couple of slices of bacon, and went to see what disasters awaited me in the hall.
To my surprise, I found Simon Lowell, once again-or still-in his tattered overalls and plaid flannel shirt, standing on a table as he helped Art Graham erect the platform from where the raffle drawing would be centered. As I watched, Simon pulled a ninepenny nail from his pocket and hammered it through one two-by-four into another. Good with a hammer, I noted, and couldn’t help but wonder if he were equally good with a knife or other tools, such as, oh, just for instance, a letter opener. He looked strong…
I was getting carried away. Had it been Adam Fairfield found dead, I might have had reason to suspect Simon. But he had nothing against Brody that I’d heard of. Yet.
The door opened, and Sheriff Sarkisian sauntered in, eyeing our activity with a better-you-than-me expression. Gerda stopped in mid-pin of a supposedly festive orange garland, winning a yelp of protest from Peggy. My aunt lowered her glasses and peered over their top at the sheriff. “Come to harangue your chief suspect on a holiday?” she demanded.
He held up both hands as if to ward off further accusations. “Just stopped in for breakfast, if you’ll sell me a ticket.”
“The raffle…” began Peggy, ever hopeful.
“The breakfast.” Sarkisian cut her off before she could shift into high gear.
“We should have that set up by now,” Gerda fretted. “Ah, Annike, you’re not doing anything. Just lounging around, I suppose. Come here and take care of this hungry man, will you? I’ve always wanted to give a lawman a ticket, but I’ve got my hands full.”
I found the cashier’s box after considerable searching, in its clever hiding place in plain sight on top of the table beside the front door. Then I only had to find the tickets, which turned out to be in Peggy’s car, since she’d only printed them off her computer late last night. By the time I got back, Simon and Art had drafted Sarkisian to help with the construction. It did my heart good to see those two ordering the sheriff around. I would probably have stood there watching if families hadn’t started to arrive.
I left Ida Graham selling tickets and hurried back to the kitchen, where Adam now squeezed the carton of oranges with cheerful abandon. I’d have a job mopping up after him-unless I could con someone else into that chore. The noise level from the Hall grew steadily, accompanied by the occasional pounding of nails. A radio blared out-briefly, then someone mercifully turned it off. At least I heard a fair amount of laughter, and no complaints had yet reached the cooks.