Jill Churchill: A Farewell to Yarns

“Now, remember, we can't tell anybody in the world about Richie Divine."

“I promise," Shelley said.

Jane wondered if she could keep the promise herself.

Twenty-four

On Monday morning, the bazaar began well. It had been a risk, having it so late in the year. Most craft sales took place in September or October, when people started thinking about Christmas shopping. The church committee had decided to catch people at the end of their shopping, when they had only a few gifts left to buy and were desperate to complete their lists. When Jane pulled into Fiona's driveway at eight-thirty, there were already a few cars parked on the street with women waiting for the bazaar to open at nine-thirty. It looked like the marketing ploy might just work. Fortunately, it promised to be an extraordinarily balmy day. That would help a lot.

Jane and Shelley doled out the signs to the group who had volunteered to post them. They went around to the various rooms making sure all the items were properly marked. Jane was to take the first shift in what they'd dubbed the "Wreath Room" because that's where most of those items had ended up. It was astonishing the things people made wreaths of; grapevines were the most popular, next to real or plasticpine boughs. But there were also wreaths made from pinecones, dozens of tiny foil-wrapped packages, and even one kitchen monstrosity made of pastel sponges tied in bow shapes and interspersed with dried flowers and miniature kitchen utensils.

Jane wouldn't have to actually sell anything. All sales took place at the long table by the front door where three women already waited. Everyone else did nothing more than stand around looking friendly and watching for shoplifters.

“It's amazing the things people will try to walk off with," Shelley said. "Last year I caught a woman stuffing a jar of potpourri into her coat pocket. It bulged like a horrible growth. I can't imagine she thought I wouldn't notice."

“It's astonishing to think people would take Christmas things from a church," Jane said. "What do you say to somebody who's stealing?"

“I just said, 'Let me take that to the front desk for you, and you can pay for it when you leave.' It worked; she hauled it out, slammed it down on the table, and stomped out as if I'd insulted her. I don't know what I'd have done if she'd denied it. What you have to look out for are the ones who come in pairs. One of them will engage you in a deep discussion about some item and stand so that you can't see what the other one is doing. That's why you need to be on your feet most of the time. So you can dodge around and keep an eye on everybody."

“I feel like a prison guard."

“Don't worry. There aren't that many who come to lift stuff. Mostly it's fun to stand around and gab with people. I guess it's time to open up.

There was a substantial line formed when they let people in. Some of the first were the barracudas—those canny shoppers, antique dealers among them, who came early and flew through fast with an eye out for an accidental bargain, something they could snatch up and resell at an inflated price. The quilt that had been marked so low would have been such an item if Shelley hadn't marked it up and purchased it herself. The early shoppers also included those women who were on their way to work and had to shop fast. The first hour, therefore, was hectic, but as the morning wore on, the pace became more leisurely, and Jane found herself enjoying the opportunity to visit with various neighbors she hadn't seen for a while.

At eleven, her replacement came, and she wandered off to the living room to see how Shelley was getting along. "My afghan's gone," Jane said, disappointed. It had looked so pretty draped over the piano, and she'd anticipated at least one last look at it.

“Yes, a woman bought it the first hour. Are you on a break? Suzie Williams was supposed to take over for me, and she actually had the grace to send a replacement. She's putting her coat away. I'll meet you in the kitchen when she's ready to take over.”

The kitchen and family room had been set aside for the use of the workers. Signs on the doors said: STAFF ONLY. DO NOT ENTER. Jane went to the kitchen, got a cup of coffee and a croissant and joined Fiona in the family room. It was only the second time she'd seen her this morning, the first being when she let them in the house hours ago.

“It's going wonderfully well, isn't it?" Fiona said. "I was just speaking to the women at the front, and they say they've got nearly a thousand dollars already. Well, I better get along. I've got to stand guard on the ground floor guest bedroom."

“Oh, no, Fiona. I didn't assign you to that. We don't want you to have to do any more than you already have."

“It's quite all right. Ethel Besley called and said her car wouldn't start. I'm just taking her place until she gets here.”

Jane made one more feeble protest, offering to take Ethel's duty, but was relieved when Fiona insisted on filling in. Jane desperately needed to sit down. She slouched into a comfortable leather sofa and nibbled her croissant as she stared at the pictures on the opposite wall. How different this room seemed now. The first time she'd seen it, she'd been shocked at the callousness of having a room devoted to Richie Divine that poor Albert had to look at every day and be reminded of his own lack of renown. Not it seemed a cozy, friendly place, a room where Albert and Fiona could recall the past while enjoying the safe, obscure lives they'd made for themselves.

“Jesus! This kind of thing brings out the best and the worst in people," Shelley said, coming in and flinging herself into a deeply upholstered chair. "I had a woman ask me to mark up a price, because it was such a good cause. Then I had a ghoulish threesome who made no bones about the fact that they'd come to see what they could ferret out about the murder next door. Didn't even pretend to want to buy anything, just asked me nasty questions."

“Probably undercover agents for VanDyne," Jane said. "I wonder if he's making any progress. It's terrible to admit, but I'd almost forgotten about it in the rush to get this thing going."

“Some detective. The day before yesterday you were going on about how you had the solution on the tip of your tongue. Now you've solved another little mystery, and you've forgotten the murders altogether."

“No, not altogether. I still think there's one little something that we already know that could unravel the whole thing. I just can't quite grasp it. As for the other—" She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone else was around. "—that wasn't the solution to anything. It was just a stunning revelation of an interesting fact."

“Interesting? That's an understatement. By the way, where's Albert? I haven't seen him all day."

“Probably hiding from the ravening hordes. I can't blame him.”

The question of Albert's whereabouts was answered for them a few minutes later when he came staggering in the back door with two Kentucky Fried Chicken barrels. "I thought the workers might need lunch," he said.

They stuffed themselves and returned to work. Jane took a two-hour shift at the front table, a busy job but one she got to do sitting down. When she was done with that and another hour filling in for a woman whose child had been sent home from school with chicken pox, she came back for another break.

There wasn't anyone in the kitchen or family room this time, and she was glad to be spared having to make conversation. Her voice was already getting fuzzy from all the talking she'd done. Her brain was getting even fuzzier. She sank back into the sofa, gazing sightlessly at the wall of pictures.

This had been one of the most frantic weeks of her life. Except for the quiet morning with Mike yesterday, she'd been running the whole time, ever since the day Phyllis and Bobby arrived. It wasn't just physical, it was mental exhaustion as well. Images of the past week were getting jumbled in her mind. Phyllis's body being taken away, setting up the bazaar, John and Chet Wagner yelling at Bobby, Mike's band concert, the church choir concert, the fight between Bobby and Mr. Finch, the funeral with Mel VanDyne rushing her past the news cameras. And someplace in all that mental rubble, there was something important they'd all overlooked. Something so small and ordinary that no one had noticed it in the pressure of the week's extraordinary events.