Beware False Profits (12 page)

The knickknacks were in the last box. I was a bit surprised Hazel had collected china commemorating events in the life of the British royal family. Princess Margaret and Princess Diana on their wedding days, the queen staring at the world from a china beaker. Maybe Hazel had thought of herself as one of the Windsors, exiled to dismal little Emerald Springs, where no one knew how to make a proper curtsy. What surprised me more was that Brownie included the china in the boxes along with everything else. I doubted any of it was a priceless collectible, but had he sold these pieces he might have made enough to have his bedroom repainted a color Hazel had despised.

I put that box to one side, debating how to handle it. Since I wasn’t sure that Brownie was now—or had ever been—in his right mind, I felt an urge to protect him. I decided to consult with Fern Booth, who was in charge of Aunt Alice’s Attic, where all dishes and collectibles were sold. That seemed to be the right thing to do. And heck, it couldn’t hurt my standing with the Tri-C Critics to let Fern make the decision whether to give the box back to Brownie or sell the contents and run with the money.

I was reboxing clothing to carry it to the appropriate tables when I realized I hadn’t checked pockets. Today women’s clothing is all about slim lines, so pockets are often excluded. But nothing here was right off the runway, and there were pockets galore. I decided to check a few to see if she was a pocket stuffer.

She was.

Thirty minutes later I had built several small mounds on Ed’s desk. Sixty-four dollars in small bills and change. Keys. Shopping lists and receipts. A gold bracelet with a broken clasp. A compact and comb and an assortment of other items I didn’t have time to catalogue. I could feel time ticking away, and I knew if I didn’t get the clothing out to the appropriate tables, it had no chance at all of a new life in someone else’s closet. Frankly I didn’t think it had much chance anyway.

I rummaged through Ed’s desk and found a padded envelope. I swept everything except the money inside, sealed it, and stuck it in a desk drawer with a note scrawled across it. I would go through the envelope later and figure out what to do with everything. Some of it, like the bracelet, should go back to Brownie. The rest could probably be tossed.

I put the money in my wallet because it would make the perfect excuse to lecture him on the danger of making his feelings about Hazel so abundantly clear just days after her death.

I was carrying the box of skirts into the social hall when I saw Maura in the children’s chapel where the garden shop was set up. Still lugging the skirts, I caught her checking the root system on an African violet.

“That’s a pretty one, isn’t it?” I said. “I think it’s one of May Frankel’s. She has a wonderful collection.”

“I have the perfect window. Just enough light. I’ve been looking for the right plant.”

I lowered my voice. “How are you doing?”

“Getting along. I have something for you, but I didn’t think to bring it. I’m so busy…” She looked dejected. “I never realized just how much Joe did now that I’m doing everything alone.”

If Joe returned, I wondered if he would be more appreciated at home. Of course I had no real way of knowing what the situation was before he left. Maybe Maura routinely stuffed him with homemade pies and gratitude, but somehow, I didn’t think so.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow and pick it up if I can,” I said, curious to know what she had unearthed.

“You look like you could use some help.” She nodded to the box.

Since it was now more or less my job to help Maura cope, I weighed the alternatives. If she helped me deliver the boxes, that might begin to integrate her into the life of the church and make her feel part of the community. On the other hand, this
was
the rummage sale. Volunteers had been chewed up and spit out for less. Tyler needed at least one parent at home.

I nodded my thanks. “I appreciate the offer, but you’ve got enough on your plate. Just stay and enjoy. I can take care of this.”

She looked grateful, but I gave her points for trying. I was beginning to think Maura had potential.

We said good-bye and I finally got rid of the box. In fact, except for the china, I got rid of all of them in the next fifteen minutes.

I was just about to take the china upstairs to Aunt Alice’s Attic when I saw January Godfrey going outside for a smoke. I decided to follow him and make sure my punch bowl theory was correct.

I’ve never been able to figure out how old our sexton is. He has the lithe body of a runner, although considering the cigarettes, it’s doubtful he has the lungs. His long hair is white, but his face is unlined. He can converse knowledgeably on any topic and has given Ed more than a few ideas for sermons.

As for how long he’s been at the church? Well, a lot longer than we have. In fact, I think January has outlasted half a dozen ministers. Since his memory for church history is extraordinary, January’s the one we go to when we need information about something that happened in the past. If January saw it or heard about it, then he’ll remember every detail.

I found him in the bushes, on the far side of the parking lot from the parsonage, a cigarette perfuming the air. He was wearing his signature faded jeans and T-shirt. Today the shirt was a souvenir from the Rolling Stones Steel Wheels Tour of 1989. As January’s shirts go, this one is practically brand-new.

January looked too comfortable. I wanted to shake him and demand he tell me about the punch bowl, but he’s a hang-loose guy, and I knew I had to ease into it.

I managed a strained smile. “How’s it going? Are you ready to quit your job yet?”

He laughed. “Don’t let them get to you.”

“They’ll all turn back into pumpkins at the stroke of midnight. I’ve seen it happen.”

We chatted a little. He has a deep voice that makes everything he says sound important. Most of it is.

I finally got down to business. “January, Sally Berrigan borrowed the church punch bowl for Mayday! and it was splattered with chocolate. She asked me to wash it and put it back…” I told him the rest of the story, trying not to make myself sound like a pathetic wuss.

He chuckled. “What could Fern Booth have done to you, Aggie?”

“I didn’t want to find out.”

“Well, did you get it washed? Don’t leave me hanging.”

This was not what I wanted to hear. “No! It disappeared. I was hoping you’d washed it and put it back when you cleared out the kitchen.”

“I didn’t clear out the kitchen.”

I slapped my hands across my chest, more or less the way an undertaker might place them in a casket. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Some of the proceeds from the rummage sale are supposed to go toward replacing the old glasses. The committee boxed them for the rummage sale and ordered new ones. You’ll like them.”

“January, you didn’t find the box under the sink with the punch bowl in it?”

“Too bad, huh? I think I might have saved you a lot of trouble.”

Somebody
had found it. The punch bowl was no longer there.

My brain was racing frantically. “Who was on the kitchen committee, do you know?”

“Oh, you’re not going to like this.”

He recited the list, and he was right, I didn’t. Fern Booth was at the top, and Ida Bere was right behind her. The day I’d seen them coming up the walk? Probably to box up the old glasses for the sale.

I tried to piece together my future. “Okay. Then one of them probably found it and washed it, and it’s back where it belongs. They’ll confront Sally about this the moment she gets back, and she’ll tell them the last time she saw the punch bowl, I was carrying it to my car after Mayday!”

“Then you can tell them what happened, Aggie. Get a grip, okay? We’ll go look in the Society’s closet. I’ve got keys. You’ll see it’s fine, and if it ever comes up in conversation you can throw yourself on their mercy.”

“January, how long have you been here?” I demanded.

“Okay, it
will
come up. But the only thing you did was store it under the sink until you could get around to washing it. You can leave out the part about seeing Fern and running off with your tail between your legs like a little sissy.”

“I’m a middle child. I try to make everybody love me. And besides, you’re supposed to give me support and comfort.” I looked down at his hand. The cigarette was burning away, but the only thing he’d done since I arrived was flip the ash on the ground and grind it into the dirt with his foot. He’d never once lifted it to his mouth.

“Why aren’t you smoking that?” I asked.

“I haven’t smoked a cigarette for ten years.”

“You just let them burn to ash?”

“I’m not ready to go cold turkey.”

“You come out here to escape, don’t you? You time these breaks when you have to get out of the building.”

“I take more of them since Norma Beet became secretary.”

“Maybe I’ll take up cigarette holding, too.”

“Better than taking up target practice.” He threw the cigarette on the ground and mashed it with his foot. Then he picked up the butt, like the good guy he is, and put it in his pocket.

“Let’s go check that closet,” he said.

We went in through the back way. I smiled at passersby and pretended that standing over January as he opened the sacred Women’s Society closet was no big deal. But it
was
a big deal. Because although the sterling silver tea and coffee service was there, and the serving platter that more or less matched the punch bowl was there, and everything else that belonged there was
there
, the punch bowl was not.

“Holy smokes.” I leaned against the wall a moment, and closed my eyes.

January hovered over me, shielding me from view. “You say it was in a box, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I bet somebody took it out and set it on the counter without opening it. Maybe it got mixed up with the boxes of glasses they’re selling.”

My eyelids flew open. “You think so? But somebody would have opened it by now and seen what was in it.”

“If I were you, I’d trot right up to Aunt Alice’s Attic and see.”

“What, and tell Fern Booth how badly I screwed up?”

In fairness to January, he only clucked like a chicken twice. “Just peek in the boxes, if any are left.”

I remembered Hazel’s china collection. I had planned to carry it up there anyway. I’d be greeted with smiles. Maybe they’d last long enough for me to poke around a little.

“If you hear screaming from the second floor?” I said.

“I’ll bring the fire extinguisher. You jump to one side when I aim it in their direction.”

I patted him on the arm and went to fetch the collection of royal faces gracing my husband’s study.

Upstairs I tiptoed past the toy room, terrified I’d be reeled in to restring tennis rackets. But the toys seemed to be doing fine without me. In fact, no one even seemed to notice I
wasn’t
there. I wondered how my massive contribution could so quickly have been forgotten.

Aunt Alice’s Attic took up the largest religious education room on the second floor. Half a dozen people milled around under the hawkeyed gaze of Fern Booth. Four tables were set up with china and glassware. Another four had what were loosely termed
collectibles
. Pottery from airport gift shops, a few leather-bound books, a Wedgwood teapot with a cracked spout, packages of lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, a basket with embroidered hand towels and crocheted doilies. The list went on.

I saw immediately there were no chocolate-coated punch bowls. I didn’t know how to feel.

Fern saw me and started in my direction. I swallowed. She looked angry, but she often does. I told myself not to run.

“Isn’t it a little late to be bringing donations?” she demanded.

Fern has salt-and-pepper hair cut with geometric precision around a face as square as the trapdoor of a gallows. I think she’s training her eyebrows to meet in the middle to perfect a permanent scowl. But she really doesn’t need that extra touch.

I forced a smile. “I’m sorry, but these just came in last night and actually, there’s something of a problem with them. I came for your advice.”

If possible, she looked even more suspicious. This time I couldn’t blame her. I’d never asked for advice before and probably wouldn’t again.

I explained the situation, setting the box on the nearest table as I did and opening the flap so she could see what we had.

“Do you think we should sell them or give them back?” I practiced my most ingratiating voice. “I’ll let you decide.”

She took moments either to consider or crank up her attack. But when she spoke, she almost sounded pleasant. “I think you’d better ask the mayor. Then, if he says he still doesn’t want them, we’ll put them in the Society closet and keep them for the sale next year. Do a little advertising in the newsletter so we get the best price.”

Her solution was not only kind, it was sensible. I didn’t know what to say. This was a new side of Fern.

“You don’t agree?” She more or less bellowed the words.