The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club (19 page)

Dan slammed down the phone, called for the guard, and bolted from the room. He would have kept going until he was out of the building, but Valentina waylaid him again.

“Oh, Danny, I can see that didn't go well.” She came around the counter and literally stood in his path. “I'm so sorry.”

Not as sorry as Daniel was. He never should have let her talk him into sitting down with the man.

“Well, just one more thing and then I'll let the matter drop,” she said with a pat on his shoulder. “Did you even read the report the Walmart security guy sent over?”

“No.” He'd been in such a hurry to get Lester off his hands and into custody, he'd punted the paperwork to the duty officer.

“Then you don't know what your father was trying to shoplift, do you?”

How many times did he have to say it? Lester Scott was
not
his father. “Beer, most like.”

“No. He was caught with a little teddy bear stuffed in his shirt. A teddy bear,” she repeated. “Three guesses who he had in mind when he tried to lift that.”

“I don't want him thinking about Carson,” Daniel said through clenched teeth. “And I sure as heck don't want him to use my son as an excuse to steal.”

“Yeah, it was wrong. I know that. You know that. But at least Lester wasn't stealing something for himself,” Valentina pointed out. “Doesn't that sort of change things, even a little?”

“No.” Dan pushed around her and steamrolled out the door. “Not even a little.”

 

—Heather Walker, registered nurse and founding member of the Coldwater Warm Hearts Club

 

 

 

T
he trio of bells jingled merrily over the Green Apple Grill's front door at precisely 7:30 a.m. on Tuesday morning. Lacy let the door swing shut behind her. She clutched a pen and notepad. Wanda had warned her against using her tablet when she conducted interviews.

“Too high-tech for around here. Might put folks off and you want them talking, kid,” Wanda had said. “Quotable stuff. That's always good copy.”

As opposed to the community announcement posts that rolled into the
Gazette
office with regularity. Those were Wanda's fault. She encouraged her readership to submit short items of public interest so she could decide whether the event or announcement was worth assigning Lacy to do a full-blown story or if they'd just print the group's press release as it was taken down verbatim from a phone recording.

Like the little gem that came in yesterday:

After Lacy stopped laughing, she rewrote the piece to make it clear that the Friends of the Opera House were soliciting financial donations to buy the new carpet, not encouraging the desecration of the old one. Then she thought about it for half a minute before she deleted her new version. She sent Wanda an e-mail encouraging her to print the original announcement instead.

In Lacy's opinion, the quirky bits that cropped up in nearly every edition of the
Gazette
were the only things that made it worth reading. Besides, everyone in Coldwater Cove would understand the intent of the original and if they donated money to the Friends of the Opera House with one hand while hiding a smile with the other, whom would it hurt?

Wanda hadn't assigned Lacy to write a piece on the Coldwater Warm Hearts Club, but she was ready for her first meeting anyway. This stealthy group of do-gooders was ripe to be subjected to a little investigative journalism. Surely they harbored another motive beyond the “feel-good” reward of helping others.

She just wished they met someplace other than the Green Apple. After Jake's kiss last night, she wasn't ready to face him so soon.

She felt ridiculously shy about it. As if he'd somehow caught her naked.

Only a kiss that had exposed her loneliness. Single. Solitary. Only-ness.

But if Jake had given that kiss a second thought, he didn't show it. He was hard at work before the grill, his broad shoulders turned from the rest of the place. The breakfast rush was in full swing, so maybe she'd be in and out before he even noticed she was there.

Heather Walker was already seated at a couple of tables that had been pushed together. A few others were gathered beside her.

“Lacy, come join us.” Heather motioned to her and then turned to the others. “You all know Lacy Evans. She writes for the
Gazette
as Dorie Higginbottom.”

So much for keeping a low profile. Oh, well.
Chances were none of them were in communication with the O'Leary brothers of North End or the Boston DA's office.

“Lacy, you remember Virgil Cooper.” Heather lifted a hand toward a thin, fiftyish fellow with a disastrous comb-over and a kind smile. “He runs the hardware store over on Elm Street.”

She nodded a greeting to Mr. Cooper, who returned it in a slow, dignified manner.

“I knew your mother back when she was a Higginbottom, Lacy,” he said.

That might be worth a private interview or two.
Lacy's mom had never talked much about her early years.

“Next to him is Ian Van Hook,” Heather went on. “He's our youngest member.”

“Not so young. I'll be a senior next year,” the boy protested.

Lacy grinned at the kid. Teenagers were always in such a hurry to grow up. She wished she could convince him to enjoy his life now. There wasn't always an upside to getting older. He probably thought he'd be in more control of his life, but Lacy put the lie to that. She was the poster girl for unexpected pivots.

“Take a load off, honey.” Ethel bustled around the tables and pulled out a chair for her.

“Thanks, Ethel.” Lacy settled into her assigned seat and reevaluated her previous notion.

Ethel disproved the idea that there was no upside to getting older. The Green Apple's waitress was a whirlwind with feet, albeit one that twirled a little more slowly than most. Ethel obviously enjoyed what she was doing. The woman greeted, seated, and served. She even bussed tables for the grill's diners. And all with a smile on her wrinkled winter-apple of a face.

“How do you have time for all the things you do around here?” Lacy asked.

“Never you mind about that, sugar. If I don't have time, I don't have nothin'. Now, can I start you'uns out with some coffee?” Lacy cringed a bit at the local equivalent of “y'all,” but “you'uns” was as much a part of Ethel as her casual endearments. Ethel lifted a pot from her rolling serving cart and filled all the cups in front of the gathered Warm Hearts in a jiffy. Except for the one in front of Ian. “It'll stunt your growth, sweetie-pie. I'll bring you some orange juice in a minute.”

Before the kid could complain that he liked caffeine as well as the next man, she was off, pushing her cart back to the kitchen for the next orders that had come up.

The bells over the door jingled again. Heather waved at the newcomers. One was Marjorie Chubb, Lacy's fellow employee at the
Gazette
and captain of the Methodist prayer chain. The other was a woman in sheriff's office khaki. Her lustrous dark hair was so black it shone with blue highlights.

“You already know Marjorie,” Heather said. “This is Valentina Gomez. She's the dispatcher over at the sheriff's office.”

“Lacy, you're not here to do a story on our club, are you?” Marjorie eyed her notepad with suspicion.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Don't you want your good works to be a matter of public record?”

“I do not.” Marjorie plopped into her chair with the force of an exclamation point. “The people we help, they might not appreciate their private business being plastered all over the media.”

As if the
Gazette
could be classified as media!

“Anyway,” Marjorie continued, “I'm not sure we want to shine a light on our activities. It might make folks hesitant to accept our help.”

“Marjorie, you're the captain of the Methodist prayer chain. Don't the people you pray for get a light shone on their problems when you pass their information along the chain?” Lacy asked. “What's the difference?”

“The difference is it's God's light we're shining on the problems. And most of the people we pray for have
asked
for prayer themselves or else their family has requested prayer on their behalf,” Marjorie explained. “And anyway, being prayed for is confidential. It isn't like being in the paper where anybody can read all about it.”

“Wait a minute. When I first started writing for the
Gazette
you told me that you'd have some ideas for human interest stories based on the prayer chain.”

“Only about
good
things. I was thinking I could share praise stories after answered prayer, not requests during times of trouble.” Marjorie drew her lips together in a tight line. “Every time you spread gossip, it's a prayer to the devil.”

“If that's the case,” Lacy muttered, “Coldwater Cove must keep the old boy awfully busy.”

“Easy now,” Heather intervened. “Let's leave the devil out of it, shall we?”

“How about if I agree to leave the names and specifics of the people you help out of any article I write?” Lacy said. “Unless I get permission from all parties involved.”

That seemed to mollify Marjorie. “We need to get the meeting started. Where's Charlie?”

“Oh, he'll be along,” Valentina said. “I saw him talking to Alfred Mayhew in front of the Opera House.”

“Then you'uns may as well go ahead and order.” Ethel had reappeared beside their table before Lacy realized she was even there. “Charlie Bunn likes to talk folks' ears off. He's always the last Lutheran to make the lunch crowd on Sundays.”

“Well, at least I'm not the last Lutheran in line for breakfast,” came a rumbling bass from behind Ethel.

The waitress turned around and gave the tall older gentleman a playful swat on the shoulder. “Make a liar out of me, why don't you, Charlie. Sit down and I'll get you some coffee.”

Lacy recognized Charlie Bunn from the year in her childhood when the Methodists and Lutherans had teamed up for Vacation Bible School. The gregarious Mr. Bunn had brought his lawn tractor to the churchyard, hitched a small wagon to it, and gave hay rides to VBS kids of all denominations. He even included those who just sneaked in for the fun stuff and intended to sneak back out before the teaching could begin. However, by the time they rounded the first bend in the track Mr. Bunn had laid out, he had all the children singing silly songs at the top of their lungs and very few of them skedaddled once the ride was over.

They were afraid they might miss something.

“How's the Royal Order of Chicken Pluckers going?” Ethel asked him as she filled his coffee cup.

“Fine as frog's hair.”

“Royal Order of Chicken Pluckers?” Lacy asked, scenting a human interest story she might be able take to Wanda. “What's that?”

“Oh, it's just my little Warm Hearts project. We all take one on,” Charlie explained. “For instance, Heather's is Mrs. Chisholm, though I don't know how she does it. That old woman is the poster girl for crotchety, bless her heart.”

People could get away with saying anything about someone else so long as it was followed by some version of “bless their heart.” “Tell me about your project, Mr. Bunn.”

“Well, as you probably know, the Lutheran Ladies make and sell chicken pies to raise money for mission work. This year we plan to fund a new community well for a little town up in the hills that needs it yesterday.”

“Best pies in the state,” Ian said. “Just wish they were bigger though. I can eat a whole pie in one sitting.”

“That's 'cuz teenage boys all have hollow legs. Hungry as wolves, the lot of 'em,” Ethel said, and then quietly took Ian's breakfast order, promising to bring him an extra plate of toast and marmalade.

“Anyway, back to the Royal Order of Chicken Pluckers,” Mr. Bunn went on. “Making pies is hard work and the ladies were bearing the brunt of it. I tried to get a few fellows to come help. Not to cook, of course. The ladies are great, but they needed some help lifting the big baking pans, boning the chickens, and doing general cleanup. But when I sent out the plea for volunteers there were no takers. So I decided, what if I could think up a way to make the work fun?”

Lacy always thought carving meat off the turkey at Thanksgiving was the worst job in the kitchen. “If you can make boning a chicken fun, my friend, you are a miracle worker.”

“No, I'm just well acquainted with One.” Mr. Bunn laughed. “However, you should never underestimate the power of silliness. I donned a paper crown one Sunday and declared that only a few worthy souls would be admitted to the Royal Order of Chicken Pluckers. After that, I had more volunteers than I knew what to do with. I gave all the jobs special titles—Lord High Bottle Washer, Mayor of Basting, Knight of the Wishbone—things like that. We even lured a few Methodists and Episcopalians into popping by to help when the ladies bake pies. The Chicken Pluckers are entirely ecumenical.”

“But even so, what you're describing is a church ministry,” Lacy said. “How do your Chicken Pluckers count as a Coldwater Warm Hearts Club project?”

“Ah. Well, you're right in part. The pies fund a mission. Thanks to the Lutheran Ladies, a little hamlet of about twenty-five souls will get a chance to enjoy clean drinking water. That's their ministry. But everyone needs an opportunity to feel useful. The Royal Order of Chicken Pluckers gives men the nudge they need to help and have fun while they're doing it.” Mr. Bunn smiled. “Spreading fun is
my
ministry.”

As if fun was something that could be broadcast like seeds. Maybe in Mr. Bunn's case, it was.

“I'd like to come over and take a few pictures of the Chicken Pluckers in action if that's OK.”

“Sure. We're usually at the church by eight on Thursday mornings,” Mr. Bunn said. “I'll make sure the boys all have fresh paper crowns to wear. They get a little wilted after a day of fetching and carrying, you know.”