“No one unwrapped anything,” Danielle shouted. “I was an exotic dancer, not a hooker.”
“What’s the difference?”
Yowzah! Before Danielle could jump Jasmine, I yelled, “Enough. Jasmine isn’t going to tell anyone that you were an exotic dancer because she wouldn’t want to screw up your wedding or the rest of your life. She understands what it’s like to want a new start. Right, Jasmine?”
Jasmine let out a huff.
I took it for assent. “And Danielle isn’t going to run you out of town, Jasmine, because she knows what it’s like to leave Chicago under less than ideal circumstances. Right, Danielle?”
The bride crossed her arms and pouted. Neither said a word, but the shifts in their body language told me the worst of the shouting had passed.
“Now, unless you want people wondering why the pastor’s fiancée mowed down one of the mayor’s trees, I suggest we talk about this somewhere less conspicuous.” The last thing Danielle needed was to have her driving mishap viewed as a political statement.
Danielle must have agreed since she threw the SUV into reverse. Minutes later, we were safely parked in the bakery parking lot, in desperate need of éclair therapy. I ate two while Danielle gave Mrs. DiBelka the cake topper her mother-in-law insisted they use on the five-tiered wedding cake. The bride-and-groom statue had been in Pastor Rich’s family since the early 1900s. Wow, did the thing look its age. The peeling paint on the bride’s face made her look like a molting snake, which was almost pleasant next to the groom’s resemblance to Quasimodo. A better maid of honor would accidentally smack the knickknack out of Mrs. DiBelka’s hand and put an end to the current and all future brides’ misery. I snagged an apple doughnut instead.
We emerged from the bakery with a box of pastries and headed to the photographer. While we drove, I explained to Jasmine how Danielle used the money she earned as an exotic dancer to pay her way through college. Once she had her degree, she quit dancing but discovered how difficult it was to leave the stigma behind. Which is why she moved here.
When Danielle pulled into our destination, I frowned. “Why are we at Pop’s house?” I hoped Danielle hadn’t changed her mind about using a DJ. If Mother Lucas had a problem with me, wait until she got a load of Pompadour Pop.
“Russell White fell out of his hayloft and broke his arm yesterday,” Danielle said, cutting the engine. “I called around and got lucky when your father agreed to handle the photography.”
“Lucky” wasn’t the word I’d have chosen. The only photos I’d seen my father take were from my childhood. Those were either blurry or had thumbs in them. He’d had more practice since then, but still … I wasn’t about to let his new get-rich-quick scheme ruin one of my best friends’ wedding day.
I planned on telling him that, but I stepped into the kitchen and stopped cold. Scattered around the room were boards filled with photos. Pop in his Elvis getup. Ethel grinning while holding Jimmy Bakersfield’s hand. Ginny reclining on a chair with a book in her lap. Agnes Piraino curled up with six of her cats. Not only were the photographs not blurry, they were good. Very good. I’d been wrong about my father’s skill. As we drank coffee and created a list of photographs Danielle wanted in her wedding album, I was forced to wonder what other things about my father I’d misjudged.
After an hour, Stan glanced at his watch and rose from the table. “I hate to cut this short, but Ethel, Jack, and LouAnn want a few pictures taken before they leave town Friday. Feel free to call or leave me a note if you come up with any other ideas. Oh, and, Rebecca, would you mind if we moved up the time for dinner on Thursday? My date’s worried about being away from home after it gets dark. Between the thefts and the murder … well, you understand. Thanks, honey.”
With a wink, Stan scooted out the door, effectively cutting off any chance of protest. Just when I thought Stan had changed, he was back to his self-centered ways. Here I was cooking dinner for almost two dozen people and Dad wanted me to shift the time because of a woman whose name I didn’t even know? Moving the time for dinner up would give me less time to cook and …
Wait a minute. Maybe Dad was onto something. Moving up the dinner would eliminate cooking time, but it would free up my afternoon and evening. Ha! I knew how I was going to host Thanksgiving and catch a crook.
Danielle sighed, cutting off my triumphant moment. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Had my father’s early departure upset her?
“Rich was hoping Ethel would postpone the Florida trip until after the wedding. He thought it might pull her out of the depression she’s in. I’m probably not supposed to say anything, but he’s been counseling her for the last week. Ginny’s death hit her hard.”
“She probably fell for the nonrefundable ticket scam,” Jasmine said. “The airlines charge so much less for those tickets hoping you’ll end up in traction and cancel. Then they walk away with your money and get to sell your seat to someone else for twice the price. It’s a racket. That’s why I won’t travel by plane.”
“I thought it was because you were afraid of heights,” I said.
“Well, yeah. There’s that,” Jasmine admitted. “Although, even if I weren’t, I still wouldn’t give the airlines my money. Unless I was going to Paris. Then I might have to reconsider.”
While Jasmine and Danielle discussed travel destinations, I mulled over my new plans for Thanksgiving. Over the next several hours, we stopped by Tilly’s for our dresses, then drove to the mall to pick up engraved beer mugs, decorations, and the new table favors. For our last stop, we tooled into the bank parking lot five minutes before closing. Did we know how to have fun or what?
“I need to start changing all my account information into my married name,” Danielle explained. “You wouldn’t believe how much work it is.”
I did after watching Danielle write down her new address, name, and ten-digit account code more than a half-dozen times …
Holy smokes. Ten digits. I pulled out my notebook and looked at the numbers I’d copied off Ginny’s teapot note. Yep. There were ten digits in the first set of numbers. I asked the teller, Mrs. Flax, if the numbers belonged to a bank account and was told she couldn’t give out that information. If I wanted to know the answer to my question, I’d need to bring a warrant or, at the very least, Sean and his badge.
The good news was that all those hours running errands had given me time to think about my Thanksgiving Day logistics problem. By the time a dozen St. Mark’s Women’s Guild and EstroGenocide volunteers had unloaded the dozens of bags of decorations into the St. Mark’s fellowship hall, I’d made a phone call for reinforcements and was ready to put my plan into effect.
Pop strolled into the hall five minutes after Papa Dom’s delivered twenty large pizzas. The man might not have the best singing voice, but no one could fault his timing.
While women wrapped chairs with white slipcovers and purple bows, Pop piled pizza on a plate and shuffled over to me. My grandfather popped a piece of pepperoni in his mouth and winked. It was time to start the show. “Have you talked Bryan and Reginald into changing their minds about Thursday?”
“Shhh.” I glanced around the room as though concerned we’d be overheard. Several people were angling their heads in our direction. Perfect. “We don’t want people to know they’re leaving town. I feel bad enough as it is. If anything happens to their house on Thursday night, it’ll be all my fault.”
Pop frowned. “You told them leaving town is a bad idea.”
“Yes, but they made their plans after I was asked to track down the thief. They believed in me, and I haven’t gotten any closer than Sean or Sheriff Jackson has. I did convince them to wait until the last possible minute before hitting the road. If they turn all the lights on, there’s a chance no one will ever know they left home.”
Pop patted my arm and gave me a glee-filled smile. “I’m sure you’re right, Rebecca.”
“Thanks, Pop,” I said, hoping the hushed whispers and lack of work in the room meant that I wa
s completely wrong. Now all I needed was to notify my guests that dinner had moved to noon and have Bryan and Reginald confirm their phantom travel itinerary to one or two unsuspecting gossips and my trap would be set.
Pop grabbed another slice of pizza and flashed a smile at a group of women hanging white Christmas lights. “I’ll tell your father and the Pilgrims about the time change for Thursday’s dinner.”
I blinked. Pilgrims? “What Pilgrims?”
“For Thanksgiving dinner. I mentioned them last week. Folks dressed like Pilgrims bring all sorts of authentic Thanksgiving food like corn bread, duck, and roasted pumpkin to people’s houses. Then you get to take photos with them before they head off to deliver stuff to the next house. I was lucky I could get them on such short notice. I figured with all the people coming to dinner, we could use the extra grub.”
Not a bad plan. Besides, I already had half the town coming. I might as well add Pilgrims to the mix.
Once the hall was decorated and the pizza consumed, Pop was nice enough to drive Jasmine and me to Slaughter’s Market so I could get food for Thursday’s Pilgrim-enhanced meal. Once the mountain of grocery bags were safely in my apartment, Pop headed out for a date, which left Jasmine and me to wonder how come my grandfather was off to score and we were putting on pajamas. Life was strange.
The sky was gray and soggy when I woke. A bad day for going outside, but a great day for cooking. Thank goodness Jasmine was willing to hang around and help out.
“Are you sure?” I asked as she tied an EstroGenocide apron around her waist. “One of the derby girls can come keep me company if you want to go home. I’ve kept you away from your family long enough.”
Jasmine shook her head. “I’m not leaving until I know who killed that woman. This is like a real-life version of Clue. I gotta know if it was Colonel Mustard in the television room with the spatula.”
Fair enough. Although from the way Sean talked when he called, Colonel Mustard would be an easier catch. Jimmy was still in the wind. No new leads had emerged. The case was stalled. The only encouraging news came from Pop, who said the gossips were spreading the word about Reginald and Bryan. If the thief was listening, he’d have heard the house would be empty after five o’clock. Only it wouldn’t be, since I planned to have the cavalry there to jump him.
Three pans of stuffing, four containers of cranberry chutney, and eight pies later, we showered, changed clothes, and headed downstairs for Danielle’s bachelorette party. Since Danielle was marrying a minister, barhopping and sexy lingerie prewedding rituals were out. Roller skating was in.
My new disco ball sparkled. Strobe lights flashed. Music blared as twenty women, half wearing EstroGenocide jerseys, rolled, laughed, and stuffed themselves with junk food. Danielle beamed as she did the Hokey Pokey decked out in white jeans, a purple shirt, and a BRIDE baseball cap complete with veil. Jasmine tripped and fell when she tried to turn herself all about. As I reached down to help her up, I noticed Pastor Rich’s mother standing in the rink’s entrance, watching me. The next time I turned myself around she was gone.
Twenty-three
Creepy.
Mrs. Lucas acted equally creepy at the rehearsal the next night. Or maybe I was just imagining her staring at me as I stood next to the altar and ate overcooked steak at the Elks Club. Peeling potatoes for hours leading up to the rehearsal could cause anyone to hallucinate. Right?
Had Mother Lucas arrived in Indian Falls before the murder, I’d have been completely wigged out. Still, I made sure to stay close to Erica the Red just in case.
As we were about to call it a night, Danielle gave me an even better gift to go along with the engraved picture frame. “Mother Lucas insists on cooking tomorrow. She says there is no reason Rich and I should spend the holiday with people who aren’t family. Sorry.”
I’d have performed a happy dance, but I figured Danielle might take my happiness as a commentary on our friendship instead of an expression of delight that her scary mother-in-law wouldn’t crash the party and try to poison me. Now if only a few more people canceled, I might be able to serve my Thanksgiving meal at a table that would fit in my dining room instead of on the one I’d enlisted George to set up on the rink floor.
Even without Danielle’s mad mother-in-law to worry about, I tossed and turned all night. With a massive dinner to prepare, a murderer on the loose, and a trap to catch thief to be sprung, who could blame me? When the clock hit 4:00 A.M., I gave up on sleep, donned jeans and an oversized sweater, and cranked the oven. It was time to stuff vegetables and herbs into turkey butts, which looked way easier on Food Network demonstrations than it turned out to be. Once the birds were in the oven, I gave my attention to the dozens of other things on my list. If I managed to finish all of them, it would be a miracle.
By the time Jasmine rolled out of bed around nine, the long table stationed in the middle of the rink floor had been set with table cloths and flowers. Another table, next to the wall that divided the wooden floor and the sidelines, was filled with pies, cakes, and whatever else didn’t need to stay warm.
After cleaning up a cranberry spill, I put the potatoes on to boil and called Bryan and Reginald to go over the plan once more. At 10:30 A.M., Pop would pull his Lincoln Town Car around to Bryan and Reginald’s back door. Bakery box in hand, Pop would walk around the house to the front door, where Bryan would greet him. Meanwhile, Reginald would open the back door and help Pop’s bass player sneak out of Pop’s backseat into the house. Bryan and Reginald would then take the band guy’s hiding place in the car, and Pop would walk out the front, warning the boys to stay home tonight. Bass-playing Carlos would spend the day guarding the house and turning lights on and off so people would think Bryan and Reggie were still home. Since Carlos was originally from Mexico, he didn’t mind missing the day’s festivities, especially since Bryan had promised to stock the fridge with gourmet munchies and beer.
Pop would then bring Reggie and Bryan through the rink’s back door so they could celebrate Thanksgiving with us. Once our Thanksgiving lunch was over, Stan would drop Reginald and Bryan back home so they could make a very large production of loading up their car. At five o’clock, they’d drive off. By then I’d be staking out the house from a spot Bryan swore was impossible to see from the road. Since Thanksgiving had put me in a sharing kind of mood, I planned on giving Sean Holmes a call while en route. I wasn’t interested in playing hero. The man with the badge had signed up for that job. I was more than willing to let him do it.
When I went downstairs with a steaming tray of stuffing, Bryan and Reginald met me at the door. Phase one of Operation Catch a Turkey was complete, and I’d added several helping hands to the meal’s preparation. Holiday planning didn’t get any better than that.
Or maybe it did.
“What do you think?” Bryan asked as he began setting the table with the china he’d brought. “Are they fabulous?”
Fabulous wasn’t the word I’d use. The white china was rimmed with a gold scalloped edge. That’s where the plates’ tasteful appearance ended. In the center of each was a turkey sporting a Pilgrim’s hat, a wide smile, and a large shotgun. The turkey looked like he was delighted to have just shot his annoying bird cousin and was waiting for me to serve him up.
“I couldn’t believe the store had these marked down to half price,” Bryan said.
I couldn’t believe the store hadn’t reduced them further. Still, the plates had three things going for them: They were large, they were sturdy, and, as long as I didn’t burn anything, the picture of Terminator Turkey would soon be covered by heaping mounds of food. Which is why I could say, “The plates are wonderful,” to Bryan with a straight face.
With the table set, I raced back upstairs to perform my duties as chef. While Bryan and Reggie set food on warming trays, opened wine bottles, and selected dinner music, I removed the turkeys from the oven, scooped mashed potatoes into a large chafing dish, and slid a tray of green beans and peppers into the space once occu
pied by the birds. So far, I hadn’t burned anything. Hoping that streak would continue, I grabbed a cookie sheet filled with rolls, turned toward the oven, and caught sight of my reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator.
Holy crap.
Strands of hair were coated with flour, mashed potatoes, or both. A streak of something orange (sweet potato, I hoped) lined my forehead, and the rest of my face was flushed and sweaty. I was a wreck.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
I turned and spotted Lionel’s mother standing in the kitchen doorway. Her perfectly pressed deep red blouse and gray trousers made her look as though she’d just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine, and I looked as if I’d been in a food fight. My ability to impress never ceased to amaze me.
Tucking a strand of food-caked hair behind my ear, I said, “Almost everything’s ready. I was about to change clothes so I don’t scare my guests.”
Mrs. Franklin laughed. “You should see my family’s Thanksgiving photos. This is the first time I’ve looked presentable in thirty-nine years. I think mashed potatoes in the hair is a rite of passage.”
I searched for signs that she was humoring me and smiled at the genuine warmth in her eyes. Smiling back, I said, “I’m sorry I haven’t had more time to spend with you and your husband. Things have been a bit crazy with Danielle’s wedding and this dinner.”
“Not to mention your investigation into a string of break-ins and a murder.”
I cringed. “I know those kinds of activities could make you worry about your son’s involvement with me.”
“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “Lionel’s always looked for safety above excitement. Even when he was a little boy. If the rest of my children were hanging upside down from tree branches, he’d be warning them of the dangers with his feet firmly on the ground. My son thrives on order—sometimes too much so. Being a large-animal vet allowed him to move to a community where everyone knows everyone and life is mostly predictable. After he came here, I worried that he was getting too set in his ways. Too afraid to explore the possibilities of life or hang upside down from a tree. Then you came along and changed all that.” She took my flour-crusted hand in hers. “I couldn’t be happier.”