Jill Churchill: War and Peas

“Can you tell if she was shot up close or at a distance?" Jane asked.

“That'll be for the coroner's office to determine, but there weren't any visible powder burns."

“At least you're not in charge," Jane said with an attempt to cheer him up.

“Jane, I'm out in the middle of nowhere on what is probably the hottest day of the year, if not the hottest day in recorded history, and I'm trying to be authoritative and official while wearing shorts and a silly green T-shirt that says, 'The Best Pea-Pickin' Festival in the World.' Not being 'in charge' isn't much comfort."

“But you've got great legs," Jane said, unimpressed by his complaints.

He glared at her for a minute, then laughed. "I do, don't I?”

Three

Jane arid Shelley went to the Snellen booth, where a couple of museum volunteers wearing pea-green T-shirts were anxious to be relieved. They were also desperately eager to know what all the sirens and police were about, but Shelley and Jane pleaded ignorance.

The booth not only was shaded, it had aluminum lawn chairs and, more important, a big floor fan humming along under the counter that made everything almost pleasant. Shelley set to work sorting out and stacking up the brochures, which were randomly spread all over the counter. Jane tidied up the sale items — little enamel pea-pod lapel pins and matching earrings, peashooters, jump ropes that were a string of green plastic peas with pod handles, and ceramic dishes with ceramic peas and carrots. There were necklaces made of dried, shellacked peas that were actually rather pretty, and a Chinese checkers game with brightly painted peas for players that wasn't pretty at all. And there were a great many of the green Pea Pickin' T-shirts like the ones Jane had unwisely persuaded Mel to wear.

“Did you know this Palmer woman?" Jane asked Shelley as they finished their work and sat down to wait for customers.

“Not well. We'd met when I started working as a volunteer at the museum, and I'd seen her around. Probably hadn't exchanged more than a hundred words with her."

“Did she strike you as the type of person somebody would want to kill?"

“You think it was deliberate?" Shelley asked. "Surely it was just an accident."

“I don't see quite how it could be. Like Mel said, everybody had guns out there, but none of them were supposed to have real bullets. I don't know anything about guns, but I wouldn't think anybody who knew about them could mistake a blank for a bullet."

“I think you can get killed with blanks, too," Shelley said. "Maybe that's what happened. And to answer your question, no. She seemed like a very nice, bland person. In fact, my impression was that she was one of those earnest, boring individuals who use all their energy to do their job very well and have nothing left to form a personality."

“So she was really good at being a museum director? What does that entail?"

“I've no idea," Shelley said. "Administrative stuff, I guess. But everybody at the museum deferred to her with what seemed like real respect. I know she managed to bag a couple of traveling exhibits that were a big deal in museum circles.

Well, in little pea-museum circles, at any rate. And she was in charge of getting the new building and organizing the move. Which is why I dragged you in, Jane."

“We're moving things next week? But, Shelley, there's nowhere to move to. The ground-breaking for the new building is tomorrow. Or it was supposed to be."

“Jane, the museum's been in the same building since 1907. The basement alone is stacked with ninety years' worth of — stuff. People give their old junk to museums and it piles up. It all has to be cataloged and evaluated and packed up for the move when the building is ready. It's months and months of work. I imagine half of the stuff, at least, will just be pitched. Or given to some even more downtrodden museum."

“But, Shelley, I'm antiques-impaired. I don't know valuable from dreck. And you're not much brighter than I am about it."

“We don't have to make decisions. Just write down what we can recognize, store it in boxes with labels, and leave everything else for the experts."

“You're saying we're the bottom of the food chain, aren't you? The poor slobs who dust things off and sweep up the mouse droppings?"

“Just about. But it's the necessary first step."

“And we start that on Monday? How long is our sentence?"

“I only volunteered you for next week," Shelley said. "I knew you'd be busy the week after that, getting Mike off to college.”

Jane almost offered the comment that her son Mike was doing quite nicely at preparing himself for college, but feared that might get her condemned to yet another week in a dusty, musty basement. For the past two weeks he'd been taking his own inventory of possessions, passing down many of his treasures to his soon to-be-seventh-grade brother, Todd, and high schooler-sister, Katie. To give them credit, they received his offerings with a polite pretense of gratitude. Mike had also generated a mountain of trash. His bedroom was eerily tidy now, with most of his belongings stored in cartons in the garage, ready to be put in the back of his brand-new, graduation-gift pickup truck and Jane's wheezing old station wagon when moving day arrived.

A day Jane dreaded.

Since her husband had died in a car accident several years earlier, Jane's practical, sensible oldest child had been her mainstay. She was realizing the truth of something her mother often said: that about the time your kids get to be real people whom you like, they go away.

“Quit daydreaming," Shelley said. "I think we have a customer.”

A man was approaching, slapping a Snellen Museum brochure against the palm of his hand. He was plump and vaguely unhealthy-looking, with graying blond hair and a sparse Douglas Fairbanks-style mustache. He wore baggy plaid shorts and a Snellen Museum Pea Pickin' T-shirt that was much too tight. He strolled along the length of the counter, critically surveying the merchandise, picking things up, setting them down, shaking his head as if angry.

Shelley asked him cheerfully if there was anything in particular he wanted, and he merely grunted a rude negative. After examining everything, he said to her, "So what do you sell this junk for?”

Shelley's eyes flashed, but she answered pleasantly. "The prices are marked on each item."

“Yeah, but what does the museum make on each thing? What percentage?”

Shelley drew herself up indignantly. "I have no idea. Nor can I imagine why you need to know.”

He wasn't cowed. "I'm interested 'cause I'm a Snellen, lady. My family funds this operation.”

But Shelley wasn't easily intimidated, either. "Then you surely have access to that information without being rude to a volunteer."

“Yeah, I'll ask Georgia. She'll know." And without any apology, he shambled off.

“What a jerk!" Shelley muttered.

Sharlene Lloyd came through the tent flap at the back of the booth. "Is he gone?" she asked quietly.

“The Nightmare Customer? Yes, he's gone. Who is he?" Shelley asked.

“He's Miss Daisy Snellen's nephew, Caspar. He's always giving somebody trouble. Was he nasty to you?"

“Only moderately," Shelley admitted. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

“I came to see if you've had anything to eat," Sharlene said. "I'll get you some lunch."

“No, no!" Jane said. "If you'll sit and rest a minute here with Shelley, I'll get us something. You don't have to wait on us."

“But the volunteers are supposed to be fed at Snellen expense and I need—"

“Have you had anything to eat, Sharlene?" Jane cut in. "No? Well, I'll get everybody something and we'll sort it out with the museum later." She got up and practically forced Sharlene into her vacant chair. When Jane returned a few minutes later with hot dogs, chips, a few limp celery stalks, and drinks, Shelley was waiting on a customer and Sharlene was reorganizing the small cash box.