“That would be great. I’ll only be five minutes. I desperately need to brush my hair.” Taking two steps at a time, Sherry bounded upstairs.
When Sherry returned to the kitchen, Amber was seated at the table reading the newspaper. She stood and met Sherry at the counter. Amber picked up a small card next to Sherry’s grocery list.
“Damien Castle’s business card. I’m curious why you have two copies.” Amber pointed to the identical card remaining on the counter.
“I saw him at the farmer’s market yesterday. News Twelve was doing a story there, and he was with the crew.” Sherry paused. “He asked if I would pass his number along to you. He didn’t want to seem too forward, so he went the indirect route through me. He’s interested in having dinner with you sometime. I meant to give the card to you at the store earlier, but I have so much on my mind.”
Amber’s forehead pinched tight. “I guess it’s good I noticed it, or I might never have had the option to call him.” Her gaze lingered on Sherry until Sherry blinked. “Sherry?”
“Amber, Damien Castle is way up high on my suspect list. Both he and Steele Dumont have the most blatant reasons for animosity toward Carmell. Steele has dropped down a notch on my list because someone tried to kill him at the station yesterday morning. In all likelihood, the same person who killed Carmell struck again, and, in both instances, evidence left at the scene implicated my father. How can I not be concerned that Damien wants to socialize with you? How am I supposed to know whether he’s a nice person or truly dangerous? It gives me shudders to think he might have sabotaged the closet shelving, then proceeded on to the farmer’s market to film a segment as if all were right with the world.”
Amber put the card in the pocket of her shirtdress. “I know you’re coming from a good place, but I’ll be fine. You have plenty on your mind. Don’t give my social life another thought. I promise, if I do see him, I’ll make sure to be in a very public and safe place.”
“Asking me not to worry is like asking an avocado not to turn brown twenty minutes after you slice it open. Can’t be done. Be that as it may, you’re an adult and welcome to hang out with whomever you see fit.”
Sherry went to the cabinet, removed her white dinner plates, and set them next to the casseroles. She swatted at the hair dangling across her forehead with the back of her hand. “I need one more spritz of styling mouse to hold this rebel in place. If you want to get place settings of utensils out of the drawer, that would be so helpful. I’ll be down in a minute or two.”
“Of course,” said Amber.
Sherry scurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her bathroom. She squirted mousse into her hand and stroked the white foam through her hair. “Not bad,” she said as she saw her reflection smile back at her.
When Sherry reentered the kitchen, she caught sight of Amber stuffing her phone back inside her purse. With only steps to go before she reached the counter, Sherry caught her foot on the edge of the area rug. She regained her balance by clutching the wall she collided with.
“That was quite an entrance.” Amber laughed. She pushed her purse to the side and turned to the flatware drawer. “You didn’t give me much time to get my job done.”
Sherry’s gaze drifted from Amber’s purse to the cutlery drawer. “We’ll knock this job off together. Otherwise all that’s left is to put out cocktail glasses and the paper and pens for the voting ballots. We can get to that in a bit. There’s one thing I’d like to do before the party starts. I’d say we have thirty minutes before Eileen and her husband appear. Follow me.” Sherry led the way to the living room.
“By the way, how do you know your neighbors will be arriving in exactly thirty minutes?”
“They’re always at the door exactly on the nose of the stated start time, and they’re also the first to leave. Standard operating procedure. I’d be a wreck if they weren’t the first here after all these years. Bad karma.” Sherry grinned, but her dry lip stuck on her teeth. “I could use some water, but this is more pressing.”
“What are we doing in here?” Amber asked as she took a seat.
“We’re going to review the cook-off video I recorded. I haven’t had a chance to view it yet, and, with you watching too, we can double the chance of spotting what might be a red flag. We don’t have much time, but let’s see what we can come up with. It’s Marla’s idea, and I think it’s a good one. I don’t feel confident about my ability to recognize any unusual behavior Carmell, or anyone else for that matter, might have exhibited. She wasn’t involved in the cook-off, so she’ll only be on in the moments prior, and, hopefully, some after, until the station’s power loss.”
Her friend’s cheerful expression turned dour.
“It’s worth a try to see if we can tell if she was fearful, irritated, or anxious. My sister said that might be valuable, although I’m hoping it won’t drum up more questions than answers.”
Sherry punched the buttons on the DVR and took a seat next to the recliner Amber was seated in. The television burst to life with the musical introduction of the News Twelve morning program, Sunny Side Up with Carmell and Brett. Sherry and Amber sat in silence as the program moved through traffic reports, school announcements, weather, and local police blotter activity. The anchors were calm in their demeanor and polished in their delivery. Sherry pinched her lips shut to stifle an impending yawn.
“I don’t see any red flags. Maybe I’ll speed through the boating news unless you see any reason not to. We’re running out of time.” Sherry put her finger on the fast-forward arrow on the remote control.
“Hold up one second. I have one observation.” Amber pointed to the television.
“You do? What is it?”
“Not about the anchors themselves, but why does the producer let them keep so many knickknacks on the desk. Makes for a cluttered scene.”
“In all the years I’ve been a viewer of the morning show, I’ve never noticed that detail.” Sherry sat up a little straighter. “You’re right. Cell phones, laptops, papers, eyeglasses, drinks. So messy. I’m off my game if that didn’t bother me.” Sherry let out a clipped chuckle. “See on the side of the anchor desk? That travel mug has a familiar logo. Where have I seen that before?” Rather than fast-forwarding, Sherry rewound the playback slowly until she found the best frame of Carmell’s tall beverage mug. “When I was in the studio, she had a green smoothie in a clear container on the desk during her segment on Founder’s Day, but that mug’s different.” Sherry clicked the pause button. “The sports car roof!”
“What does that mean?” Amber asked.
“That’s where I saw the same logo as is on the mug right there.” Sherry walked up to the TV and put her finger on the screen. “Remember Steele left his mug on the car’s roof, and we returned it to him when we went inside the building?”
“That one. I do remember. I never zeroed in on what was on the mug. You’re very perceptive,” Amber said. “Do you think that’s important?”
“Provides a connection between the two, I guess. Maybe Steele and Carmell bought them together. Or maybe they share a mug, which would be both cute and unsanitary at the same time. Let’s see if I can make out what’s written across it.” Sherry leaned in so close to her TV her statically charged hair rushed forward and clung to the screen. “Says MediaPie. Anything with the word pie as one of the syllables is all right by me. Let’s take a break and revisit this later. We only have a few minutes before the guests arrive, and I need to preheat the oven.”
As Sherry was turning off the TV, Chutney began barking. She peeked at the little clock on her DVR. Six o’clock on the nose. “Why am I not surprised? Would you mind turning on the oven?”
“What temperature?” Amber asked.
“Three fifty. Thanks.” Sherry headed to the front door, stopping first to check herself in the hall mirror. “I forgot earrings. Too late now.” She fluffed her hair until her under-accessorized earlobes were fully covered. She shushed the dogs and yanked open the door.<
br />
“Welcome, welcome. Hope the traffic wasn’t horrendous.” Sherry craned her neck forward and surveyed the street up and down. “That joke never gets old. Come in, Eileen. J. Foster, I haven’t seen you out and about in days. Thanks for coming.”
Eileen’s husband, J. Foster, bowed his head. His black glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. He used the knuckle of his index finger to guide them back in place. “Good evening, Sherry. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather, but I wouldn’t miss this evening for anything.” He unwrapped a cough drop and popped the lozenge on his tongue. “I don’t think I’m contagious, but I won’t give you a kiss as a precaution.”
“He’s a hypochondriac, dear. He always gets a tickle in his throat when the seasons turn over.” Eileen unbuttoned the top two heart-shaped buttons on her black cardigan sweater. “We’re so excited to taste your latest creations. We do have such a hard time voting for a favorite, though. It’s like picking a favorite child. All your recipes are delightful and worthy of entering in a contest.”
“That’s why we’re here, Eileen, to help her whittle down her choices. She can’t enter every single recipe. We haven’t let her down yet.” J. Foster laid his hand on his wife’s back and gave her a gentle push forward. “I personally have no problem making up my mind.”
“My friend Amber will pour you a drink if you wouldn’t mind finding her in the kitchen. I see a car pulling up, so I’ll stay put.” Sherry shut the door behind the couple, but kept her grasp firmly on the knob. A moment later she opened the door for Erno, Ruth Gadabee, and Frances Dumont.
“Come in. Come in,” Sherry sang. She gave her father a hug.
Ruth edged over and gave Sherry an air kiss. Frances blew Sherry a kiss from behind Erno. A fourth person emerged from the shadows. Larson Anderson, a man Sherry imagined used an immeasurable amount of sunblock every summer, extended a nod in Sherry’s direction. He was as fair-skinned as a white peach. His squinting sapphire-blue eyes were in a losing struggle with the setting sun’s glare as it peeked from under the porch overhang.
Larson’s hand was on the small of Frances’s back as the group passed Sherry on their way into the house.
Once inside, Frances turned back toward Sherry. “Sherry, I believe you know Larson. He said he met you at the Ruggery. Since his wife passed away last year, he hasn’t had the occasion to pop back in. Hooking rugs was her hobby, of course, and she was the reason he spent time at your father’s store, but he mentioned how lovely your family was to her during her illness. He’s been successful with the honorable task of recruiting you and your father for the Founder’s Day ceremony, right?”
“Thank you for that introduction, Frances,” Larson said.
“Yes, that’s right. So nice to see you again, Larson.” Sherry glanced side-eyed at her father. “Dad didn’t mention you were the date Frances was bringing tonight. I’m so happy to have you. Let’s have a drink on the patio while the sun sets, that is, as long as we’re warm enough. It’s a small group tonight. I couldn’t get my act together to accommodate a larger crowd. Follow me.”
As Sherry reached the kitchen, Chutney began another round of barking in harmony with Bean’s higher pitched yap.
“Who could that be? Everyone, this is Amber Sherman. She’s helping us out at the store until Dad returns to work. I’ll be right back. Let me see who’s here. Amber, would you mind pouring a few more glasses?” Amber welcomed the newcomers with glasses of wine as Sherry reached across the counter and helped herself to a glass of pinot grigio before making her way back to the front door. She stopped at the door’s sidelight with her hand in mid-reach for the knob. When she saw the silhouette outside the window, her other hand jerked upward, spilling wine on her welcome mat.
Sherry sucked in a breath, turned the knob, and opened the door. “Damien Castle. What a surprise.”
Amber walked up beside Sherry. “I hope it’s okay. I invited Damien.”
“Come in. Welcome.” As Sherry backed away from the door to let him enter, the heel of one foot caught the toe of the other, and she lost her balance. The result was a collision with the doorframe. The remainder of her wine jettisoned from her glass and saturated the already moistened welcome mat. “I need to get back to yoga. My balance is way off these days.”
Damien extended his hand, in which he held a small bouquet of chrysanthemums. “Thank you, Sherry. I was sure surprised when I got the call from Amber inviting me to come over. Surprised in a pleasant way, of course. Hopefully you, too.” Damien tipped his head to Amber, who delivered a half-smile back. “Thanks for giving her my card.”
“The more the merrier.” Sherry heard the trite comment bubble out of her mouth and grimaced at her lack of originality. She accepted the flowers and put them up to her nose for a sniff. The musty smell of the mums made her eyes water. Fall flowers never boasted the sweet perfume of summer blossoms, but they offered the promise of a last gasp of summer.
“I’ll put these in water. Amber will show you where to get a drink, and I’ll mop up this mess before the front hall smells like a frat party. I’d better pop the casseroles in the oven first, though.”
“Already done,” Amber said.
“Lifesaver.” Sherry carried the flowers to the kitchen, but not before taking one more peek outside the front window. She found a glass vase in a cabinet, filled it with water, and set the flowers inside. “Pretty dusty-rose color,” Sherry said as she spun the vase around to inspect the bunch from all angles. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was buttering me up. But for what?” Rather than set the flowers out on a more visible table, she left them on the kitchen counter. She collected a sponge and a spray bottle of homemade white vinegar cleaning solution from under the kitchen sink and attacked the wine spill in the front hall.
When Sherry was satisfied her front hall smelled less like a winery and more like salad dressing, she peeked out the sidelights. She shrugged. “Guess he decided not to come.”
Sherry scooped up a new glass of wine and headed out to the patio. She was dismayed at how crisp the air had become and how the sky had emptied itself of sunlight. Before joining the conversation, Sherry assessed the party’s dynamics and decided on joining the trio of Erno, Frances, and Larson, who were huddled around the hors d’oeuvre tray.
Frances put her hand on Larson Anderson’s shoulder and leaned in. “Sherry, you’re finally out here. We were discussing Larson’s role as committee chairman of this year’s inaugural Trivselbit presentations. We unofficially decided he has such a strong Swedish connection, he must be related to Andre August Dahlback and was the obvious choice for the position.”
“That may be overstating the truth, Frances, but I did settle in Augustin because the local history spoke to my family’s Swedish heritage. I admit I was inspired by that connection to lend the term trivselbit to the ceremony,” Larson said.
“What does trivselbit mean, and why is the term part of Founder’s Day?” Amber asked as she and Damien approached the group.
“Good question.” Larson wriggled away from Frances’s arm and turned to face Sherry. “You’ll appreciate this, Sherry. Our Trivselbit presentation ceremony will commemorate accomplished citizens who we feel best represent the town’s spirit of attaining goals by exercising the highest level of excellence. That’s what Augustinites are best known for. The Swedish word trivselbit refers to the last piece of cake or pastry left on a serving tray. It’s meant to remain on the tray, as a symbol of comfort and security, and leaving that last morsel is a sacred rule of Swedish table manners. The symbolism of that last piece is the essence of our Founder’s Day celebration. What’s left when the last disappears? Where’s the continuity? The legacy? Nothing. Protecting our town’s values, striving for the good of everyone without compromise, and never letting the well of community spirit run dry is what we’re all about.”
“You’ve got to love that philosophy,” Erno said. “As I always say, you need only taste a crumb to know whether it’s a
great recipe.”
“Dad, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say—” Sherry began.
“Erno, your words are as precious as caviar,” Ruth said, interrupting Sherry.
“The point is,” Larson continued, “I wanted my committee to choose Augustin citizens who represented the variety of what this town has to offer. Sherry and Erno are two of the finest examples. You two would leave the last piece of cake on the tray. You two care about Augustin’s staying the same Connecticut town that helped mold you into the successful citizens you are. Your success didn’t come at a cost to the town’s integrity.”
“Larson, you’re lecturing.” Erno’s shoulders dipped.
“I’m hoping nothing changes, even if the grass is greener on the other side,” Larson said.
Erno backed away from the group and reached for the lone pita chip on the tray. He picked up the crispy triangle and drew it to his lips. He set it back down on the tray.
“My goal is to have the day go off without a hitch, with the culmination being the Trivselbit presentations, but the Van Ardans aren’t making that easy. Right, Erno?” Larson reached around and gave his longtime friend a pat on the back.
Erno plunged his hands in his pockets. “The success of the day isn’t up to me, thank goodness.”
“That’s not what Beverly has been spreading around town. She’s told anyone who’ll listen that Erno Oliveri is onboard with her family’s ancestor, Knut Eklind, being recognized as the true founder of Augustin,” Larson said. “Though, their claim that the ‘spirits’ he brought with him in the late seventeen hundreds laid the foundation for future riches for a settlement barely eking out a meager existence is somewhat farfetched. First of all, the fact that the Van Ardans don’t even live in Augustin themselves speaks volumes. Second, the spirits I’m referring to aren’t the ghostly, floating vapor variety or even the rah-rah cheering kind. Rather, it’s the eighty-proof liquid that can paralyze a community as fast as its citizens can become inebriated. Third, nowhere is the legacy of Swedish distilleries less evident than in Augustin. I dare anyone to find me an artifact from Eklind’s heyday. They can’t because there aren’t any. It wasn’t a period the town wishes to relive or, heaven forbid, celebrate. And finally, even if the scenario were fact, who would want to live in a town named Knutville or Knutport?”
Final Roasting Place Page 14