Blackwork (3 page)

That was the last meeting Betsy had attended. She wouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place, except that Billie was a good customer at Crewel World so Betsy saw her often—and she’d proved vulnerable to Billie’s blandishments. But Betsy was glad to be the sole member of her committee, and relieved that her assignment was simple. She was to set the order of the units in the parade, and to be there on the night in question to make sure they set off in that order. Since she didn’t get to choose the “units,” and since the final list would not be available until near the date of the event, she couldn’t see how her attendance was helpful, much less essential at the big meetings. So every other week she sent a letter saying that planning on the parade order was coming along nicely, and assumed that her report was read into the minutes.

Then a letter arrived, one sent to all members: The second-to-last meeting was mandatory, as the entire event’s planning would be brought under review and finalized. Because Billie had to work, the meeting would take place at The Barleywine.

Betsy told Godwin that she had to leave work at three, but hoped to be back in time to help close up at five. “Where’s the meeting?” he asked.

“The Barleywine. Billie can’t get away.”

“Oh? Well, maybe drinks will be served. Try the stout. It’s strong but good.”

Actually, Betsy thought there might be a little celebratory drinking. The planning was done. This was simply a review, Billie had assured everyone, to make sure each person’s assignment was complete, that nothing had been forgotten, and everyone knew what he or she was responsible for.

Rainy and chill as it was outside, Betsy nevertheless elected to walk to The Barleywine. It was only a couple of blocks up Lake Street, then not even a block up Water.

Not that long ago, it had been the Waterfront Café, and Betsy still felt a nostalgic sense of loss that the old-fashioned restaurant was gone. She was glad the current owners were still offering some of the original country café entrées. Sometimes the taste buds insisted on an old-fashioned hot turkey sandwich awash in gravy.

Betsy lowered her umbrella and ducked into the pub. The interior hadn’t been changed a whole lot. There were still two booths in the back, and small square tables in the main seating area, though now each was ornamented by a big pottery beer stein, the kind with a pewter lid. But where there had been a hardwood floor, there was rough-cut slate; and the lunch counter was now a bar, one of those massive freestanding antique ones with carved corners and a brass rail. There was a young man behind the bar, polishing glasses. Behind him was a clear glass wall, through which the microbrewery setup could be seen.

It looked like a factory or a laboratory in there, with three big stainless steel kettles and four tall tanks, an even bigger tank shaped like a silo, and a control panel with red and green lights. Leona was amid all the equipment, wearing rubber boots and thick rubber gloves, feeding a fat tan hose into one of the kettles.

“Here you are!” said a voice, and Betsy turned to see Billie Leslie offering her a sheet of paper. She was a short, slender person, but vibrant and cheerful. “Here’s the agenda!”

Betsy took it and her heart sank. The sheet was covered with small type, top to bottom, single-spaced, with lots of bullets. Surely D-Day didn’t take this much planning. And Billie didn’t even look apologetic, Betsy noted resentfully.

Betsy was the last arrival. Now all fourteen planners were present—plus a nonmember, a man Betsy recognized as her auto mechanic, Ryan McMurphy. But he was seated off by himself in one of the booths, lingering thoughtfully over a soft drink.

Billie, clearly anxious to get started, gestured at Betsy to find an empty chair. Then she came herself to stand at the head of the tables.

Billie’s real first name was Wilhemina—she was named after her great-grandmother—but anyone who called her that was liable to get a look so cold icicles would form on his earlobes. She was in her late forties, with graying auburn hair plaited into a pair of thick braids pinned up on her head. Her hair was very fine and determinedly curly, pulling out of its confinement to form a kind of mist around her head. She wore The Barleywine uniform of a dark-blue T-shirt and trousers, under a linen-colored apron two sizes too big for her. She had a strong, straight nose, electric blue eyes under level brows, and a wide, thin mouth bracketed by deep lines and weighted down at the corners by life’s hard lessons.

Billie took a seat herself and looked around the table with that mouth and those eyes, and mutiny at the long agenda died aborning.

Finally
, thought Betsy.
She’s going to assert her authority.

But alas. First came Old Business. The finance subcommittee reported that sales of ads in the souvenir program had finally increased enough to cover the printer’s charges. Two other members expressed satisfaction at the news, while another wanted to know if the fees were tax-free and started the one lawyer on the committee off on a long exposition on nonprofits and city events. Finally, another committee member cut him off with, “Can we
please
stick to business?”

The head of the food committee reported at length about the two people who would be selling fresh popcorn, and about the candy apple vendor, the pork chop setup, and the hot dog stand.

The security committee presented the very tall, fair-haired Sergeant Lars Larson of the Excelsior Police Department, who announced that Excelsior PD was going to ask for assistance from other jurisdictions and that there might be as many as a dozen sworn peace officers in attendance. Or as few as eight, depending on what else was going on. Billie cut off a discussion about whether or not to ask the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Department for assistance.

“With all that, are you going to have time to drive your Stanley in the parade?” asked Betsy.

“Oh, yes. But I’d like to ask to drive it close to the back, so if something comes up, I’ll either have it already handled or can cancel without disturbing the order of the parade.”

“Couldn’t Jill drive?” asked Betsy, making a note. Lars and his Stanley Steamer were famous in Excelsior; it would seem peculiar not to see it at this event.

“Not with two little ones to watch over,” said Lars. “They’ll be riding in it, of course, along with the mayor.”

Jill and Lars had two children, toddler Emma Beth and a new infant son, Erik.

The next agenda item was a surprise. Billie called on Ryan McMurphy, who had been sitting quietly in his booth. He rose and came to the table. Ryan was about thirty-five, or maybe younger—years of heavy drinking had lined his face and given him a paunch that his faded blue jeans could only underline. He wore an open red plaid flannel shirt over an old black T-shirt. His hands were thick and a little grimy, but he looked freshly shaven and his dark brown hair was slicked back.

“Well, I guess she’s ready to rock ’n’ roll,” he announced in a sandpaper voice. “The fire truck, I mean,” he explained when he saw some puzzled stares. Their faces cleared. Ryan had found an ancient fire engine in a shed on an abandoned farm a few years ago and had been restoring it. He claimed it was the first motorized fire truck in Excelsior. It dated back to the early twenties, and if he was right, it was a piece of Excelsior history. He had offered to drive it in the Halloween parade. His offer had been accepted—if he could get it running reliably.

“Got ’er so she starts right up and runs pretty smooth,” he continued. “Kind of noisy, but reg’lar fire trucks don’t have mufflers, so that’s all right. I found a bell—might even be the original bell, it’s got ‘Excelsior’ cut into it, but no date, or it might be a school bell. I got the ladders cobbled back together, but you can’t climb on ’em, they’re just for show. An’ I can’t get the siren to sound right; sounds like it’s got a head cold.”

He looked around the conjoined tables and a smile slowly formed. “An’ guess what? Joey Mitchell came for a look at the truck, and he heard that siren, an’ he says it sounds like the ghost of a siren. Then he says the fire department was cleanin’ out their storage area and found a dozen old rubber coats, like they used to wear? He says they’re half rotted, sleeves fallin’ off, and he says he can get ’em for nothin’ and if we give ’em a coat of white paint, and get four, five men to wear ’em ridin’ on the truck, then . . .” He stopped and looked around the table again. “See?” he demanded, raising his hands. “Don’cha
see
?”

Betsy suddenly saw. “Why, I think that would be terrific! A 1923 fire truck, a creepy siren—and ghost riders!”

Then the rest of the committee saw, too, and there were excited exclamations. Praise was heaped on him, and Ryan stood basking in it for a minute, then said, “That’s all, I guess,” and went back to his booth. He took a sip of his Coke and looked everywhere but at the committee, still smiling.

Betsy was smiling, too. As she looked around the table, though, she was surprised at the expression on Billie’s face. It was of extreme satisfaction. Obviously she was pleased that Ryan had come up with such a great idea for the torchlight parade, but what was she so smug about?

Betsy wondered if the fire truck’s ghost riders had been Billie’s idea. How nice of her to let Ryan take the credit!

R
YAN’S fantastic idea made the next item to be discussed, the Men’s Precision Folding Lawn Chair Marching Unit, seem mundane by contrast.

But as usual, the discussion surrounding it took longer than anyone wanted, though no one seemed inclined to give up his or her chance to voice an opinion.

They were into a deep discussion of whether the unit would supply its own music from a boom box or just move to whatever the band ahead of them was playing, when the door opened and a man with a withered left arm came in, shaking rain from his shoulder-length hair. He wore a dark leather jacket, jeans, and boots.

“Hello, Joey!” called Billie. “What brings you out?”

“A sandwich and a beer at The Barleywine,” the man replied cheerfully. Eyeing the crowded tables, he remarked, “Looks like business is good.”

“No, it’s a meeting of the Halloween Committee. Give Roger your order.” Billie tilted her head toward the bar, where the young man stood, putting silverware away.

But Joey had caught sight of Ryan in his booth. “Hey, Rye!” he called.

“Joey,” said Ryan in a wary voice.

Joey swerved toward the booth but didn’t go all the way to it. “Whatcha drinkin’?” he called over the sound of a committee member talking.

“Coke.”

“Coke?” Joey sounded surprised.

“Coke!” Ryan spoke in a defiant tone.

“Hush, you two!” ordered Billie. “We’re trying to have a meeting here.”

“All right, all right,” Joey said, and quietly to Ryan, “Buy you another?”

“Okay.”

“Want something to eat?”

“Nah.”

That made Betsy look at her watch and wait impatiently for the committee member currently speaking to stop. When he did, she asked Billie, “How much longer are we going to be here? It’s after five o’clock. We were supposed to be done by now.”

Billie looked distressed. “Is it five already? We’re not even halfway through the agenda.” She lifted the sheet in her hand and turned it over to show it to the committee. Some of its members groaned softly, not having noticed that the back side had as long a list as the front.

“All right, settle down, whining isn’t going to help any,” she said. “But how about we take a break? I’ll bring us all a snack and something to drink. Or would you rather just keep working?”

As usual, this set off a discussion, which might have gone on for some while if not for Betsy. She reached back in her memory for remnants of Robert’s Rules of Order, and said loudly, “I call the question!”

“What does that mean?” asked someone.

“It means she wants an up or down vote on the question,” said Billie. Betsy was surprised; she didn’t think Billie would know. “Which is, snack or work?”

“Snack!” shouted half the committee, and most of the others nodded or shrugged acquiescence. The two who disagreed sighed but said nothing.

Roger, whom Betsy recognized as Billie’s older son, came from behind the bar with a tray bearing an assortment of crackers and cheeses, and tiny sourdough sandwiches filled with chicken salad. He put it at the junction of the tables and pulled out a notebook.

“First drink’s free,” announced Billie. That broadened the smiles.

“Summer ale?” requested someone.

“Out till next summer,” said Roger.

“Red ale, then.”

Betsy was dismayed when almost everyone ordered beer or ale. Nothing, in her opinion, was more likely to further slow things down than a round or two of beer.

She ostentatiously ordered apple cider, and because she was thirsty, she drank almost half of it at once before she realized it was hard.

To soak it up, she ate a miniature chicken salad sandwich and two crackers—the cheese on them was a pale Irish cheddar—and asked for a cup of tea.