Dyeing Wishes (25 page)

The twins made one more effort to be helpful. Shirley stepped up to the microphone, turning it away from the waiting, now fuming woman. Shirley tapped it and spoke into it, presumably saying “Testing, testing.” No sound came. Mercy started toward it with a finger extended, no doubt aiming for a switch, but the fuming, no longer patient woman had had enough by then and shouldered Mercy aside. She flipped the switch herself and leaned into the microphone, which promptly deafened the room with wrenching feedback.

My hands instinctively clapped to my ears and I turned, shoulders drawn up, to see how Ardis and the others were coping. Ardis was still on her feet, standing at the head of our table, regarding the scene
unperturbed—the picture of a strong woman, sure of her purpose and enjoying herself.

The feedback gained the audience’s attention the way no other amplified request would have. When we were all quiet, the impatient, now feedback-shy woman introduced herself from a safer, though not optimal distance.

“Good evening. I’m Evangeline Lavender.”

She didn’t look violent or excitable. I turned to Ernestine, my eyes asking the question, and pantomimed tipping a pitcher of iced tea.

Ernestine shook her head, as John had before, and mouthed, “Not here.”

I turned back and listened to Evangeline Lavender—slender, permed, bespectacled, and good with improvised weapons. Her pastel shirtwaist dress must belie her true nature. Or at least a hot temper. In fact, she looked like a weedy Margaret Thatcher.

“As president of the Blue Plum Historical Trust,” she said, “it is my pleasure to welcome you to the thirty-eighth annual annual, er, the annual, the thirty-eighth ann…, yes, the Blue Plum Historical Trust Annual Meeting and Potluck. It is our thirty-eighth.” She held several index cards in her hand and at that point decided it would be better to read straight from them.

“It is so nice to see so many familiar faces here tonight,” she read without looking up at any of the faces, “and also exciting to see faces new to our lovely and historic town. You can be sure I will be calling on you new faces in the very near future to sign you up and get you involved in our wonderful annual Blue Plum Preserves Heritage Festival, which we hold annually in July.” She did look up then, and straight down the middle table at me. “Is that Ivy McClellan’s granddaughter I see?”

“We told you it was,” came a Spivey voice from somewhere off to the side.

“Thank you, yes,” Evangeline muttered in their direction. “A friendly warning, then,” she called, shaking her finger at me and smiling to show how much fun we were having. “I know where you live and work, so brush off your volunteer hat. I’ve got something special in mind and I’m going to come looking for you.”

There was polite laughter. I laughed too and nodded. Then I moved into the lee of the back to my right and wondered what Evangeline was planning to talk me into and how easily I could keep myself out of it. Maybe her threat was good news, though. Maybe she was the one the Spiveys said was looking for me. Judging from her puny proportions and dependence on note cards for simple opening remarks, I felt confident I was a match for her, with or without a pitcher of iced tea.

After that, Evangeline reminded us that the business portion of the meeting would follow quickly on the heels of dinner, including an update on plans for Blue Plum Preserves from the festival chairman.

“We will keep the business meeting and any accompanying discussion brief,” Evangeline read from her note cards and to an undercurrent of skeptical snorts, “so that we may move on to welcome this evening’s very special guest, Grace Jenkins, who is going to tell us about her fascinating research into the local china-painting trends of the 1920s and thirties.” That was met with several delighted “ohs” and one soft groan. “And back by popular demand,” Evangeline plowed on, “is our ‘Stroll Down Memory Lane’ slide show, just beyond the dessert table there, so don’t forget to stroll over and spend some time in yesteryear.” This was met with more than several groans, punctuated by an “oh” that sounded more like an “oof,” as though a groaner had been corrected.

“Will you all please join me now,” Evangeline said, “in a prayer of thanks for the wonderful town in which we
live and for the wonderful food and fellowship of which we are about to partake? After our blessing, please remember to form two lines at the buffet table and be mindful of those in line behind you. You may go back for seconds, but please don’t take your seconds along with your firsts. Let us pray.”

Some heads bowed, some eyes closed, and when Evangeline said, “Amen,” the audience surged forward.

Our group, under Ardis’ superlative leadership, ended up very near the front of the two buffet lines. I wasn’t sure how we did that, considering the location of our seats—back end of the middle row of tables—but no one else in our group or anyone around us showed any surprise at all.

“I
’ve been looking for you.” A hand with long fingers appeared before my face. “By the way, you’ll want to take some of that in the yellow bowl next to the hummus.” The fingers indicated the dish in question before helping itself to a deviled egg from an adjacent platter. It was Joe Dunbar suddenly in the line across from me. He’d somehow ambled out of the crowd and made it to the front of the line behind Mel and John without my noticing. No complaints of line jumping rose from the line behind him, though, so I shrugged and took a dollop of the brownish, greenish mashed…

“What is this?”

“Here.” He reached over and redolloped my plate with a larger helping.

“Hey.”

Before I pulled my plate out of range, he added a helping of the hummus to it and pointed to a basket of small flatbreads. I started to ignore him, and them, to prove myself capable of making my own choices. Luckily I recognized the feeling of self-defeating perversity bubbling up within and ignored
it
instead. Those flatbreads—slightly puffed, beautifully mottled with darker brown, lightly brushed with oil—called to me and to the hummus on my plate. And to that other stuff Joe had talked me into, whatever it was. Despite fried chicken being the
first and most prevalent aroma to cross paths with my nose that evening, I had the beginnings of a decent-looking Middle Eastern meal in my hands.

“I forgot,” I said, feeling more kindly toward his bossy dining instructions.

“Forgot what?” He moved forward, casting a critical eye on the acres of green salads ahead of us.

“That you told me you were an expert hunter-gatherer at these dos.”

“Honed through years of experience. You’ll want to avoid most of the salads,” he said, “except for the spinach there in the green lettuce-leaf bowl. It’s probably decent.”

“I’m glad you think so. I brought that.”

“I know. I recognized Ivy’s bowl.” He smiled and took a helping. “Why the skirt?”

“Why not?” That was probably too quick, too snippy. I glanced along the table. Thea was too far ahead and I couldn’t be sure I’d hit her if I winged a roll at her. Joe had on a pair of jeans less faded than usual and a dark blue sweater. Probably his evening wear.

“No reason,” he said. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.”

I passed my salad by, figuring I’d be taking most of it home as leftovers and eating it for lunch for the next five days. I passed the others by, too, opting for a few pieces of julienned red bell pepper, a baby carrot, and a broccoli floret from a vegetable tray. Joe looked at the veggies and shrugged, but when we came to a dish of lasagna in a pretty red baking dish and I reached for the serving spoon, he shook his head.

“Why not?” That came out louder and more irritated than I’d meant, considering I
was
feeling more kindly toward him, but I was feeling even more kindly toward the looks of that lasagna.

“Shh,” he said. “Keep moving. Here.” He put a scoop of another pasta dish with tomato sauce and cheese on my plate.

“This stuff looks like—”

“But the flavor is amazing and Shirley’s lasagna always has too much sugar in it.”

“Sugar?”

“Try not to think about it. Do you like green beans? The blue bowl in the middle there. Superb. And the baked beans in the brown bean pot. Made with molasses. Wonderful dark brown flavor. Not the ones in the slow cooker, though.”

“Why not?”

“Canned.”

“What did you bring?”

“The stuff in the yellow bowl,” he said. “I’m a little worried no one will try it.” He caught my look. “It is good, though. And it has a name. I’m just not sure of my pronunciation.”

I browsed surely and quickly to the accompaniment of Joe’s low-volume commentary, taking dibs and dabs and staying mindful of the lines stretching behind us. When we reached the dessert table, we’d ended up with no fried chicken (no matter what the source, all of it always too greasy—according to Joe) and none of the scalloped potatoes (canned milk, fake cheese), but we’d each scored a small wedge of roasted asparagus quiche made by John (asparagus roasted just to the point of crispy tips, extra sharp cheddar—five stars from Potluck Juror Joe).

“What do you recommend for dessert?” I asked, noting the presence of not one, but two of Mel’s coconut cream pies.

“I’m not really a dessert guy.” He surveyed the selection anyway. “Mercy’s brownies always disappear fast.” He pointed to a plate of light brown squares.

“Gah. Oh, sorry.” I looked around guiltily.

“Gesundheit,” he said.

“But what about that?” I pointed to the few slices that were left of a single round dark chocolate layer.

“No idea. I’ve never seen that one before.” He sounded…what? Annoyed? Offended?

Judging from the cross section, it was dense, moist, and covered with a dark, dark chocolate ganache…mmm.

“Never mind,” I said, server already in hand. “I’ll be your guinea pig and give you a review later.”

We took our plates over to the table. He seemed to assume he was part of Ardis’ seating scheme. I assumed he was right, and, sure enough, he greeted the others who were already back and eating, and Ardis, who’d just taken a bite from a chicken leg that looked crispy and not especially greasy, pointed with it toward the place opposite mine. Before I’d moved from beside Ardis, he’d threaded between the tables, put his plate down, and threaded back out.

“Why were you looking for—” I started to ask.

He interrupted. “Tea?”

“Sure, thanks.”

I squeezed past Ardis, who, besides the chicken, had a nice portion of my spinach salad on her plate. I stopped beside Thea—beside Thea who had a large slice of coconut cream pie on her dessert plate. The low growl I heard might have come from my own throat. Thea didn’t notice the growl, though. She was communing with a helping of cheese grits. Joe had had reservations about those cheese grits, but Thea made them look worth trying another time. I was about to subtly catch her attention by kicking her chair, when Debbie waved her fork and caught mine.

“I was looking for you,” she said.

That phrase again. “You, too?”

“Um.” Debbie looked at Ardis, then Mel, then Thea.

Thea looked at me over her shoulder. “Why so jumpy?”

“Hang on a sec.” I finished my squeeze past her and Ernestine, put my plate down at my place, and squeezed back up to the head of the table so I could see all of them. “Okay, sorry, but I’ve heard something like that from three different people tonight and so far not one of them has told me
why
they were looking for me.”

“She’s paranoid in pink,” Mel said.

“It’s a lovely shade,” said Ardis. “And she looks very pretty in it.”

But I suddenly felt very exposed standing there. More people were sitting and most of them were tucking into their suppers, but I was inviting a few curious looks. That was only natural, I knew, because I still had plenty of the “she’s not from around here” sticking to me. But that didn’t mean I had to like it. At least I didn’t see the Spiveys watching me—although now that I’d thought of that, not knowing where they were made me nervous, too.

“Mel’s right,” I said and started back around toward my seat.

“Wait, Kath,” Debbie said. “I only wanted to tell you that we decided to reschedule the dye workshop. Ardis suggested we do it at the Cat, though, to save travel time. I’ve still got dyes mixed and ready and I can bring them in, no problem.”

If I knew Ardis, she also hoped the change in venue would separate the pleasant activity from its association with that tragic morning.

“We can each dye an extra skein and give it to Bonny,” Ernestine said. “Sort of in memory of Shannon. We thought she’d like that.”

“Isn’t that a nice idea?” asked Ardis.

“It is,” I said, moving back toward my seat again.
There went my theory of separating the dyeing from the dying, though. And after that homophonic thought, maybe I should steer us back toward using the original term of “hand painting” instead of dyeing. “Hand painting,” I said, giving the substitution a boost. “Great idea. Looking forward to it. Let me know when you choose a date.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Debbie said.

As much as I wanted the safety of sinking out of sight into my seat, that stopped me in my tracks again,
so soon?
evidently clear on my face.

“Plus,” Mel said.

“Plus?”

“It’s a perfect cover story,” Ardis whispered, “for all of us getting together so we can report to you and compare notes.”

I looked at them sitting together there, right then, and felt I must be missing something. My open and readable face was open for misinterpretation, too, though, because Ardis and Mel both scanned it, appeared satisfied, and nodded.

“I told you she’d get it,” Ardis said. “She’s quick and crafty as Ivy ever was. Kath, we’re calling it the Double Blind.”

“Sounds good,” I said, completely lost. I crouched over the table, going for conspiratorial while at the same time lowering my profile and hoping to be less conspicuous among the now mostly seated diners. “Tell you what, though. Run through the gist of it so we’re sure everyone is on the same, um, is using the same dye lot.”

“Good use of jargon, hon,” Ardis, murmured, patting my arm appreciatively. “It adds real luster to our cover story.” She looked around to see who else might be listening. The diners beyond my place and Joe’s were laughing at something from their end of the table. “
Pssst
,
can all of you hear me if I keep my voice this low?” Debbie, Mel, and John nodded on one side of the table, Ernestine and Thea on the other.