“A public unveiling, Doris Quinn said, or something like that,” I mused. “Calling him a hypocrite.” I shook my head. “I have no idea.” With that we reached Simon’s, and I dropped Sarkisian at his Jeep and headed for home and more pie baking. The one thing neither of us had mentioned was the strength of the hatred between Brody and Simon Lowell, and the fact that it could well have flared into murder.
I decided, as my alarm wrenched me from sleep the next morning, that getting up before dawn was a habit I’d be delighted to break. I took the time to scramble eggs-after all, I was stuck in the kitchen anyway, shoving pies in and out of the oven. I even went so far as to chop fresh herbs from the pots Aunt Gerda kept in the large glass garden window that overlooked the back deck and pine trees beyond. The mushrooms, fortunately, came in a cardboard carton from the grocery store. I’d never cook one she’d picked herself.
Thanks to the bread making machine we’d set with a timer before going to bed, a heavenly aroma already filled the kitchen when I’d staggered in. By the time the eggs had set and I tipped them out of the pan, the machine was just beeping its readiness. I turned out the fragrant cinnamon oatmeal loaf and tore off a chunk. After all, using a knife before it was cool would have meant crushing it. Much better-and faster-this way.
Gerda drifted in, just in time to appropriate the plate I’d fixed for myself. She sank into a chair at the table, garbed in a fluffy purple bathrobe, sheepskin slippers and a bleary-eyed expression. Hefty inserted his plump tailless body into her lap, and Siamese Olaf pawed at her leg, trying to scramble up. She hoisted him onto a space I would have sworn was incapable of holding so many furballs, but Hefty shifted to make room, and the two settled down to an amicable purr.
I filled another plate and soon had Birgit leaping gracefully onto my lap. Purring wasn’t in her plan, though. She reached out a claw and expertly snagged a piece of egg that contained some diced ham. When I tried to stop her grabbing another, she snarled at me. It was going to be war, it seemed. And the way I felt this morning, I had few doubts that Birgit would come out on top.
Around eleven-thirty I dragged on jeans and a sweatshirt and left Gerda in charge of the baking. If I wanted to make sure we had sufficient pies to start the contest, I’d have to collect them and take them to the park myself. After stacking the first load we’d cooked yesterday into a large cardboard box, I made my careful way down the outside stairs. I let myself into the garage, and there was that damned bird, tucked cozily in its nest in Freya’s backseat. It had kicked the newspaper into a shredded heap, making itself more comfortable. It had also-obviously and messily-made a considerable foray around the garage at some point since I’d seen it last, but I’d leave the cleaning up for Gerda. It was bad enough I had to house and chauffeur the damned thing. I wasn’t going to mop up after it, too.
The sky actually looked like it might clear for a little. At least we wouldn’t have to worry about rain-yet. But the pie eating contest wasn’t scheduled until one o’clock, which gave the weather a good hour and a half to gather its resources for a torrential downpour that would cancel the event. I liked to think positive.
I skipped Peggy’s house-I could count on her to show up on time-and went to the next neighbor’s. By my fifth stop, I’d filled what little space remained in the car. Relieved-who’d have known Upper River Gulch denizens could be so reliable?-I headed for the park.
To my surprise, a car already stood at the curb. Sue Hinkel opened the door as I pulled up behind her. “What took you so long?” she called, and waved toward the backseat of her Honda sedan. “Two dozen pies, as ordered.”
“Bless you,” I said, and meant it.
Art Graham emerged from his store, which stood diagonally across the street, his arms loaded down with the red and white checkered plastic tablecloths the town used for the seven picnic tables scattered around what we lovingly called our park. Actually, the expanse of grass, trees and shrubs wasn’t much bigger than a normal square lot-which is what it was. A corner lot located at the intersection of our two major cross streets. Hey, we’re a small town. We take what we can get.
“Gerda opening her store today?” Art asked as he reached us. “We want to unwind with a movie tonight.”
“Just let her know,” I assured him.
We didn’t bother trying to move the tables. We just spread out the cloths, then stacked the pies down the center of each. Art and Ida Graham would bring over paper plates for the contestants, and knives to cut the pies into chunks. We all agreed forks probably wouldn’t be necessary, but they’d bring a few of those, as well, just in case someone proved fastidious.
Peggy pulled up in her dilapidated old Pontiac, but it wasn’t a box of pies she unloaded from the passenger seat. She dragged out a plastic bag, set it on the ground and produced a bright orange T-shirt from the top. She held it up. In large black letters it proclaimed “Pumpkin Pie Chef.”
“For the bakers,” she called. She stuffed it back into the sack and carried the load over, then handed one to each of us. She already wore hers, over her thick hand-knitted sweater.
Well, why not? I reflected. Might as well get into the spirit of the thing. I dragged on mine-she’d gotten all extra larges, so those of more petite proportions, such as herself, could wear them over sweaters or coats. Art displayed his proudly, beaming. It fit a bit tightly, but he didn’t care. Sue-naturally-looked terrific in hers. I began to feel a little more cheerful. Nothing like group camaraderie to lighten the heart.
“How’s the turkey?” Peggy asked, thereby shattering my mood.
“See for yourself.” I stalked off to her car to collect the pies I could see in the back. I heard her making cooing noises behind me and turned to see her tapping on the window. The turkey glared at her balefully.
“Oh, isn’t she sweet?” Peggy sighed with an incredible lack of insight. “I’ve already come up with a couple of names for the contest.”
“What contest?” demanded Sue, but fortunately I didn’t have to hear the answer, as several more cars pulled up, and people began calling greetings to each other. I left the Name-the-Turkey contest to Peggy.
I had to give the SCOURGEs credit, they showed up. No matter how ridiculous the event perpetrated by their elite squad, the rank and file members turned out in force to support them. I don’t know if that constituted stupidity on a massive scale, or if they’d decided it was easier to humor the lunatic fringe. At any rate, people appeared bearing pies, Peggy handed out shirts, and I began to feel like it might not be a major disaster after all.
Somewhere in all the chaos Gerda had arrived. She seemed to have put herself in charge of covering each newly delivered pie with a napkin-an excellent scheme, since the November rains hadn’t reduced the fly population noticeably. Even the contestants and their supporters began to appear. I couldn’t see a single place left where a car could be parked.
Except for a sheriff’s Jeep. Owen Sarkisian pulled up next to Freya and left his vehicle blocking the street. Privilege of office, I supposed. He got out, stopped by my car to say something cheerful to the resident turkey, then strolled over to join us. “Quite a shindig,” he said to me. “Anyone in town not coming?”
“You’ve heard about mob mentality,” I said.
Peggy beamed at us. “You can always count on Upper River Gulch. Such wonderful support.”
Sarkisian shook his head. “Must have taken a lot of organizing.” His gaze settled on Gerda. “These pies the reason you had to leave Brody alone in your house? For vanilla, wasn’t it?”
I shot him a suspicious glance, but he gave every appearance of it having been an idle question. I thought I knew him well enough by now not to fall for that.
Gerda sighed. “You don’t use vanilla for pumpkin pies. Besides, the fillings were already mixed before they were frozen.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “I’d only meant to be gone for a few minutes, you know, just down to the store.” She pointed across the street to Art and Ida’s mom-and-pop market.