Shake Down Dead (2 page)

“No, I’m settled here and the residents
depend on me. They have so many people in and out of their lives as
it is.”

As if on cue, the back door creaked as
it opened. “When are you coming back for the picnic, Whitney?” A
short woman in a pink wig peeked around the door.

“It’s not a picnic, Marsha.” Whitney
set down her tablecloth and looked directly at the forty-something
woman. “It’s a cook out. We’ll eat inside.”

The diminutive woman came in and slid
into the chair next to Whitney. She put her elbows on the table,
and cradled her head in her hands. “Why can’t we eat at the picnic
table?”

“It’s too cold and windy today.
Remember its September. Sometimes September days are cool,” Whitney
calmly explained.

Marsha’s forehead wrinkled as she
frowned and said, “Not as cold as the Christmas month.”

“Yes, December is very cold, Marsha.”
Whitney patted Marsha on the shoulder. “Right now, I’m taking a
break so you need to go back to the house and see how you can help
with the cookout. Okay?”

Marsha’s bottom lip stuck out. “Okay.
Harold wants me to get a Mountain Dew for him.” Marsha looked at
Trudy and held out her hand to show five quarters.

Trudy looked at Whitney who shook her
head.

“Sorry, Marsha,” Trudy said. “Harold
needs to come in himself to get his pop.”

Tucking the coins in her pocket, Marsha
turned to Whitney. “He’ll be mad at me if I don’t bring it to him.”
Arms at her side, she rolled her hands into fists.

“You tell him to come talk to me then.
Don’t let him be mean to you. Okay?”

Marsha hung her head, opened the door,
and turned back to Whitney. “If Harold gets mad at me, it’s all
your fault!” Then she slammed the door and we watched her run
across Trudy’s back yard to the group home next door.

“Is she going to be alright?” I
asked.

Whitney said, “Oh, sure. Harold yells a
lot but he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’ll amble over here in a little
while, if he really wants a bottle of pop. Pete won’t let him drink
it before dinner anyway.”

“Who’s Pete?” Lisa asked.

“Oh, darn, Lisa,” said Whitney with a
scowl. “I meant to call you about that. Pete’s the new house
manager. Can you fit him in for a TB test?”

When I looked puzzled, Whitney
explained. “Lisa is our RN for Mary’s Haven Group Homes. She checks
prescriptions, makes doctor appointments, and does any other
medical things we need done at the homes.”

“Sounds like a busy job,” I said to
Lisa.

“It is,” Lisa said, “but not busy
enough to be full-time yet, so I still have to put in some hours at
the ER. Hope I can quit that job soon. The hours are
terrible.”

“It shouldn’t be long before we open
the sixth home,” Whitney said. “Sister Bernadine thinks she’s found
a house. Just like the last three group homes, Charlie Jackson will
be buying the house and leasing it to Mary’s Haven.”

Charlie’s recent philanthropy was
purchasing large homes precisely for the purpose of leasing them to
Mary’s Haven Group Homes, Inc. Charlie always had a soft spot for
Bernie and since she became the director, the rent on those home
dropped appreciably.

Whitney looked at her watch and gave a
little squeal. “Oh, darn, I have to get going,” she said. “I have
some paperwork to finish and I’m meeting some friends for drinks
later. I need to get out of these social-worker clothes and into
something with a little more attitude.”

Whitney dropped the tablecloth she had
almost finished crocheting into her backpack and swept out the back
door with a backhanded wave to us.

Lisa began putting her things into a
flowered tote bag. “I should get going, too. Randy’s mother is
watching the kids. He had to work today. The joys and sorrows of
owning your own business.” Randy was a mechanic and had opened his
own garage about a year ago.

“How’s the garage doing then?” asked
Trudy. “Is this bum economy hurting his business?”

“Not at all,” Lisa said, a smile
playing across her face. “Lots of people are fixing up their cars
instead of buying a new one. We’re probably one of the few people
making money in this economy.”

“Well, good for you,” Trudy exclaimed,
giving her a little hug before Lisa left by the front
door.

“Last to arrive, last to leave,” I said
to Trudy. I didn’t want to leave yet. I was feeling so serene
sitting here crocheting with a friend.

“Stay a while longer, Jennifer,” Trudy
said leaning toward me. “It’s kinda nice to just sit here and
quietly crochet. I don’t know how those two are ever going to get
along working together. Miss Sunshine and Miss Gloom.”

I chuckled at Trudy’s apt description
of my crochet buddies—cheerful Lisa and churlish Whitney. I held up
my project. I had completed a series of three double crochet
clusters and they looked neat and even.

“Way to go, Jennifer, I knew you could
do it,” encouraged Trudy.

Our next class was two weeks from
today. I hoped I could stay confident in my crochet ability until
then.

2

Two weeks later, I was serving coffee
and cookies at another of Charlie’s rallies. The speeches were over
and I was waiting for the crowd to move toward the exit.

A small hand tugged at my shirttail.
Looking down I saw a raven-haired girl, about six years old. “May I
help you?” I asked.

“Can I have a Coca-Loca?” She looked at
me and smiled, showing huge dimples in each cheek.

I dug in the ice cooler and pulled up a
red Coke can, opened it and handed it to her. “There you go,
Honey.”

She took a big gulp of the cold liquid
and gave me another smile. She’d be a heart breaker one
day.

“Thank you. I just love Coca-Loca.” I
was giggling aloud while watching her skip away. I watched a
well-rounded woman with a flawless complexion take her hand. When
they left the room, I went back to packing up the refreshment
table.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The
screeching voice startled me, and I dropped the plate of cookies I
had just picked up from the table.

I turned to see gray-haired Henrietta
Wentworth, Whitney’s mother, looking regal in a purple dress. I
thought the wool dress was a bit too heavy for the mid-September
weather. Mrs. Wentworth had a sheen of perspiration covering her
slightly wrinkled face.

“I’m just cleaning up, Mrs. Wentworth.”
I noticed that there were now only a handful of people left in the
large room. The grand hall of the Benevolent Order of the Shining
Stars (BOSS) building was where the political “town hall” had taken
place.

“I will take one last glass of that
delectable wine you brought today, my dear,” Henrietta said with a
crooked smile. She was tilting a little to the left when she held
out her plastic cup.

“I’m sorry,” I said, scooping up the
cookies and the plastic tray I had used to serve them. “Everything
is packed, except for a few cookies.” I held out the tray of
cookies toward her.

“Well, then unpack it!” demanded the
stout woman waving away my offering. “You should never refuse a
guest. You serving girls aren’t very well trained.”

Okay, I’d taken lip from this prima
donna all afternoon. I looked her straight in the eye, put my hands
on my hip, and said, “I am not a serving girl, Mrs. Wentworth. I’m
not a girl, I’m a woman. I’m catering this event and the wine has
been put away—”

“Mrs. Wentworth!” my friend, Megan
Murphy, called out, moving between us from the kitchen. She was
also the candidate’s girlfriend. “How is your lovely daughter,
Whitney? Here, let me get you a little more wine. Do you have a
ride home?”

Megan pulled a half-empty bottle out of
the box I had just packed.

“Of course I have a ride,” retorted the
society dame crossing her arms across her generous bosom. “Yvonne
Jackson is my driver today.” I couldn’t believe that she somehow
had turned the mother of the candidate for Governor of Minnesota
into her personal chauffeur.

Megan filled Henrietta’s glass. “A
plastic glass is a terrible way to serve wine,” Henrietta Wentworth
continued her inebriated rambling. “Although it’s a cheap wine, so
I guess it doesn’t matter.”

I was about to tell her a thing or two
about being grateful for what we have when a voice called
out.

“Henny, are you ready? I’m leaving.
Let’s go if you want a ride.” The candidate’s mother, Yvonne
Jackson came over and took Mrs. Wentworth by the arm. Mrs. Jackson
sported a brand new permanent and her short grey hair was in tiny
ringlets. The tall, slim lady wore a cotton print dress that my
mother had called a housedress. “Good Lord, Henny,” Yvonne Jackson
said. “You’re soused. Can’t you ever drink socially?”

“My dear,” replied the corpulent woman,
“I am just being sociable. And stop calling me Henny. I hate
nicknames. They are so crass.”

“Well, la-te-da Miss Hen-re-it-ta,
excuse me for living!” With that, Mrs. Jackson sashayed in a small
circle, grasped Mrs. Wentworth by the arm, and dragged her toward
the exit.

I watched the two gray-haired women
traverse the length of the hall to the exit, wondering how they had
ever become friends, if that’s what you could call their
relationship.

Mrs. Wentworth obviously came from
money. Her clothes, although out of style, were expensive. She wore
a heavy gold chain around her fleshy neck. Mrs. Jackson probably
didn’t own any jewelry except for the simple gold band that
glistened on the third finger of her left hand.

“How did those two ever become
friends?” I asked Megan who had her ear to the ground for any and
all gossip in Hermann.

“They haven’t been friends for long.
Henrietta wouldn’t have given Yvonne the time of day a few years
ago. Charlie’s success and Graham Wentworth’s death changed
everything. When Graham committed suicide and there was so much
gossip about the money missing from the bank, Yvonne started to
visit Henrietta. She takes her to lunch and brings her to these
political events, and generally looks after her.”

“Interesting,” I said. “It looks like
Yvonne related to Henrietta’s situation in some way.”

“I guess so,” Megan said, looking
around the hall.

I turned back to packing up the remains
of the refreshments we had served at the rally, expecting Megan to
pitch in and help. I should have known better.

Megan was looking in the direction of a
group of people near the exit from the hall. “I need to speak to
these people,” she said, moving in their direction.

“Why did I ever let you talk me into
this?” I said to Megan’s back. “Come back here and help
me.”

Megan waved me off over her shoulder.
“I have to meet with the Grand Master. We need the hall again next
month.”

I tucked in my white blouse that Megan
had insisted I wear and thought again, about how Megan had
shanghaied me into this catering business. I was a coffee roaster,
not a caterer. If Megan hadn’t been my best friend since second
grade, I’d be enjoying a day off instead of cleaning up this mess.
And Megan would be showing houses to potential buyers. She was a
top-notch realtor and the only reason she was baking cookies and
putting together cheese and cracker platters was because she was
head over heels in love with Charlie Jackson, Independent candidate
for Governor of Minnesota.

Looking at my watch, I realized that I
needed to get going. My crochet class at Trudy’s Lace Haus would be
starting in just over an hour. Megan had started the crochet class
with me but dropped out when she couldn’t learn the basic stitches.
She even had trouble holding her crochet hook. She laughed about it
and said her talents lay in other areas. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t
talking about her baking abilities.

I put the last of the leftover food in
plastic tubs and was about to tidy up the kitchen when Megan
returned to let me know the date and time of Charlie’s next event
in this area. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had
conveniently disappeared while I cleaned and packed up. I dug into
the soapy water and started washing platters and other serving
dishes, thinking about my date tonight.

Hmm! My date with Decker. I had met
Jerry Decker last summer when I discovered the dead body of a
trumpet player at the Polka Daze music festival, which took place
at the Maron County fairgrounds just outside of Hermann. Ever
since, we’d been going out to dinner almost every Saturday night.
We usually got together a few times during the week when our
schedules allowed. He’s a detective with the Maron County Sheriff’s
Department. The first time I laid eyes on him last summer, I went
weak in the knees. He still had that effect on me. I guess you
could say we were dating. Do people still date?

I wondered where we would go for
dinner. There are only so many restaurants in Hermann. Maybe we
should branch out and go somewhere new. The drive to Mankato would
take less than an hour.

I put the container holding the
leftover food into the trunk of my little Honda. The backseat held
several big grey tubs packed with paper plates, plastic utensils,
and cups. Two large coffee urns filled the passenger seat. I really
needed a bigger vehicle. I promised myself to make it a priority to
do more than just drive slowly past the car lots in
town.