Sherry left the bag open on the floor and set the punch tool in the middle of its cavernous belly. “Let’s go, Chutney. We’ve got a stop to make at the bank, then we’re off to the Founder’s Day celebration. Just one quick phone call first.” Sherry trotted back to her bedroom, collected her phone, and placed the call.
* * *
Chutney and Bean scampered around the grass before settling on a sunny patch to the side of the Ruggery’s Founder’s Day exhibit table.
“Amber, the display’s so pretty.” Sherry circled the rugs that lay side by side on the table. “Dad, you made great choices.”
Two rugs depicting outdoor picnic scenes rested on the grass in front of the table.
“We swapped one or two of my choices for Amber’s favorites but, all in all, I think we both did a fine job.” Erno held his chin high. “You know what I always say, two heads are better than one as long as one is twice as smart.”
“Dad, I’ve never heard you say . . .”
“Good morning, Oliveris and Ms. Sherman.” Truman Fletcher cast a shadow over the rug display. “Sherry, I got your message, and I brought my invention.”
“Mr. Fletcher . . .” Sherry paused.
“Truman, please,” the man said.
“Truman, thanks for bringing your rolling pin. I’m putting it right next to the pickle jars.” Sherry held out her hand to receive Truman’s colorful vegetable trapper.
Sherry caught her father shaking his head. “Do you have any literature or contact cards to leave?”
“No, I’m sorry. Your call caught me off guard, but I could write my phone number on a piece of paper. That’s the best I can do on such short notice.”
“No problem. We’ll take names of everyone interested. Amber is manning the table all afternoon, so we’ve got it covered.”
“Much appreciated. I’m off to meet Castle and Paladin for our live remote. We’ll be by for an interview later.” Truman turned and walked away.
“Did we discuss displaying Truman’s invention?” Erno asked his daughter. “I don’t mind, but I don’t remember making that decision. I’m giving myself partial credit if the contraption takes off in the marketplace since he used our hooking tool to create the perfect butter drip holes.” He repositioned the rolling pin on a cloth napkin. “Doesn’t look half bad, if you ask me. Another example of Augustin ingenuity.”
Her father’s joy yanked at her heart. She took a step back to admire their display, only to find herself within arm’s length of the neighboring group setting up the Scapegoats Weed Eaters exhibit. “How perfect. We’re all about gorgeous lamb’s wool, and you’re all about clearing weeds with goats. And who do we have here?”
Sherry stepped closer to a parti-colored baby goat with tiny horn buds sprouting on its forehead. She held out her hand and was greeted with a head butt. “Oh, not out of your teenage years I see.”
A woman in overalls and a straw hat arranging bales of hay straightened up and nodded to Sherry. “This is Billy the Kid. He’s a pygmy goat. Only six months old. We’ll have to make sure he doesn’t eat your beautiful rugs. He’s bred to clear-cut, and to him anything not nailed down or otherwise secured is fair game.”
A muted gasp flew out of Sherry’s mouth. “We’d appreciate that. I’m sure he’ll behave like a proper gentleman. I’m Sherry, and these two are Erno and Amber.” Sherry gestured toward her table, and Erno and Amber waved.
“I’m Sally, and this is my husband, Garrett. We live on Four Leaf Cloven Farm out on the northern border of Augustin.” The woman nudged her hat with her knuckles.
“You must be neighbors with the Dumont farm. I work with Frances Dumont. These are her pickles, as a matter of fact.” Sherry pointed to the two jars on her table.
“She’s a great person. Couldn’t ask for a better neighbor. I’m so glad she decided not to sell her farm.” Sally fed Billy a bunch of greenery that resembled cilantro.
“You must be mistaken. Frances would have told me if she were trying to sell the farm.” Sherry’s tone exuded confidence, while her stomach fluttered with a passing chill.
Garrett emerged from behind Sally. “To that couple, as a matter of fact.” He pointed down the row of exhibitors to a woman dressed in a pantsuit, donning a floral wide-brimmed sun hat. Next to her was a man in a business suit, arms crossed, legs set in a rigid stance.
“Excuse me. I need to finish setting up. Very nice to meet you.” Sherry left the couple and raced back to her father. “Dad, did you know Frances considered selling her farm to the Van Ardans?”
Erno spun his head toward his daughter. “She didn’t, so there’s nothing to know.”
“Dad, you’re so aggravating.” Sherry’s cheeks prickled with heat as she watched her father continue unloading small rugs. “I’m running to the ladies’ room. Amber, want to join me?”
“Sure. Erno, will you be okay?” Amber handed Erno the last rug to be displayed.
He nodded.
“Chutney and Bean will keep you company.”
“Beware, only portable potties are provided. Not the most elegant, but it’s the solution the committee came up with to satisfy the crowd’s natural urges.” Sherry led Amber down the rows of tables featuring an assortment of Augustin’s offerings. With her eye on her destination, Sherry kept her pace brisk as she passed each exhibitor.
On their return trip, Sherry slowed when she reached the Van Ardans’ table. Beverly was adjusting a sign that read “Knut Eklind, once Augustin’s largest land owner, first mayor, and distilled grain entrepreneur.” Her husband, Erik, still doing his best imitation of the letter A, stood behind her.
Sherry’s legs ground to a halt. “Mrs. Van Ardan, your table’s so inviting.”
“Thank you, dear. I haven’t had a chance to visit yours, but we will, right, Erik?”
“Of course. I’ve prepared a few words, concerning Knut Eklind, to address the attendees of the Trivselbit ceremony. I think the audience will be enlightened.” The silver streaks in Erik Van Ardan’s hair shimmered in the morning sun. He was dashing in his dark suit, so out of place in the casual atmosphere of the day, yet he wore it as if it were his second skin.
Erik picked up two tattered, leather-bound books from a huge tote bag and set them on the table in front of his wife. Next to the books he supplied a pair of white cotton gloves. One book was titled, Good Kettle Cookery: An Onion In Every Pot. The second book had a burgundy and gold cover emblazoned dead center with three capital letters and a word. Sherry squinted to make out the letters written with a flourish and was able to decipher EDK DIARY.
“Beautiful books. They’re so delicate; is that what the gloves are for?” Amber reached for the hand protectors, but then retracted her hand.
“Yes. The oils from human skin can destroy these relics. There are only two of these cookbooks known to remain.” Beverly gazed at the books. “This copy here is missing a page, which was torn out today by a visitor to our booth. Brett Paladin thought I didn’t see, but he had a reason to deface one of my treasured heirlooms. He put the page in his blazer pocket, and I have every intention of getting it back.”
“I think I understand what he wanted it for.” Sherry trailed her finger across her lips.
“I’ll come by later and have a closer look-see, Mrs. Van Ardan. Right now, I better go join Erno,” Amber said.
She and Sherry locked glances. “I’ll meet you back there in a few, Sherry. Nice to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Van Ardan.” Amber trotted away as Sherry returned her attention to the book.
“What does the D stand for?” Sherry’s finger hovered over the gold letter between the E and the K.
“I think you know, dear.”
“So it is true the Eklinds and the Dahlbacks are related? Why haven’t you made this public knowledge?” Sherry searched Beverly’s eyes during the elder woman’s dramatic silence.
“There’s a reason Erik and I don’t live in Augustin. The town wasn’t welcoming for our Eklind ancestor, and we took it qui
te personally. The man made his fortune bottling gin, and that was frowned upon by this community. Hard work afforded him the ability to become the area’s largest landholder, but he was also quite a humble man, as many pages of his diary attest to. He quietly helped many citizens in need, often anonymously, asking nothing in return. Where I have placed a bookmark in the diary is the page where Knut spells out the financial assistance his ex-brother-in-law Andre August Dahlback refused to accept when the onion crop couldn’t recover from the persistent blight. Months later, Dahlback came begging Knut to extend a second offer, and this time funds were accepted on the terms that the arrangement remain a secret. That way the very popular Dahlback could save face. Knut’s sister was married for a short time to Dahlback, but died young. She being Knut’s only close family connection, he left town, turning his landholdings over to be used as the town green, library, and river walk spaces, all under the name Augustin not Dahlback. Families have secrets, and this is a big one about a selfless man.” Beverly picked up a glove and used it to reposition the book farther from the Knut Eklind Gin bottle.
“You say Dahlback was his brother-in-law? And Dahlback was Knut’s middle name? That sounds a little too close for comfort, in the familial sense.”
“From what we could trace on the family tree, they were distant enough relatives. The families settled here together intentionally. They came from the same town in Sweden, and their intention was to move overseas to broaden opportunities. So, I would wager, if you found yourself related to one of these men, you were somehow related to the other.”
“It’s not a new concept that Augustin celebrates Founder’s Day every year, so why are you choosing this year to unveil the Eklind family’s involvement in the town’s history?” Sherry studied the woman. She was sure Beverly was about to tell her of MediaPie’s plan to acquire News Twelve in order to revamp the way the town got its subdued local news and entertainment spoon-fed to them.
Beverly leaned in. “If I tell you the reason, will you promise to keep the source secret?”
“Okay, sure, I promise. Seems a bit silly, though.” Sherry shrugged.
Beverly lowered her voice. “The time has come for the misunderstood and underrepresented Eklinds to reclaim their place in Augustin’s history. The Van Ardans are here to stay, and we want to be accepted as the contributors our family has always been. MediaPie’s move to acquire News Twelve is moving along on schedule with only a few hiccups. The one most opposed to the acquisition is a certain member of the Gadabee family, Brett Paladin. That man has done everything in his power to undermine the Van Ardan good name. Unbeknownst to Brett, his stepmother, Ruth Gadabee, has worked tirelessly to accelerate the acquisition process because it’s what’s going to preserve the station, not undermine it. Ruth puts on a show that Knut Eklind shouldn’t be recognized as a town founder. For heaven’s sake, her best friend, Frances Dumont, was about to sell us her farm so we had a home out here. That is until she realized she’d miss it dearly. Both ladies are all for the change. Your father, too, has been instrumental in providing strong networking connections for Erik and me here in town. Ruth’s wish is that Erno appear as if he’s against our efforts so he doesn’t suffer the backlash we have been going through, but he wants what’s right in the end. And, may I add, Erno has a vested interest in seeing Ruth happy if they’re going to spend the rest of their lives together.”
Sherry’s mouth dropped open.
“Beverly!” Erik placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “It’s not your place to talk about people’s personal business.” Erik softened his tone. “Forgive my wife. She’s a hopeless romantic.”
Sherry’s scalp prickled as a rush of cold blood flowed just beneath the surface. Bright dots danced across her vision until she realized she had forgotten to breathe in. “I have to get to work. Good luck today.” Sherry spun on her heels, whacking the edge of the table with her knee in the process. She fell forward, avoiding performing a full cartwheel by clinging to the side of a dolly the Van Ardans had used to transport their items from the car to the table.
“You’ve shocked the poor girl senseless, Beverly. You really must be careful what you say,” Erik said as Sherry dusted herself off.
Sherry trotted past the neighboring exhibits. “Where’s Dad?”
“Well, after we cleaned up the remains of the casserole you brought in to display on the local talent table, Mrs. Gadabee and Mrs. Dumont showed up and kidnapped him. I didn’t ask where they were headed. Should I have?”
“Did you say remains of my casserole? What happened?”
Amber pointed to the animal tethered to the adjacent table. “Billy the Kid’s not pregnant; that’s just a belly full of smoky steak fajita casserole. That contented creature over there might lose his job feeding on weeds now he’s tasted your cooking. He now knows the grass is literally greener on the other side. We turned our back for a moment, and the damage was done. Let the record show Bean and Chutney didn’t lift a paw to ward off the invader.”
Sherry’s gaze locked with Sally’s. The woman in the straw hat threw up her arms, surrender style. “Sure looked delicious. Wish I’d gotten a chance to try a bite. Sorry!”
“No problem. These things happen. Not the first time I’ve cooked for a goat, that’s for sure. . . .” Sherry’s face collapsed into a pout. She shifted her attention back to Amber. “I’m glad I remembered to bring some cook-off aprons for the talent table.”
Sherry surveyed the surrounding area. “Wonder where Dad went. He’s got some explaining to do when he returns, and I don’t mean about the four-legged raider.”
It wasn’t long before Erno returned from his jaunt with his lady friends. The morning became a blur of out-of-town visitor questions, instructional lectures on everything having to do with rug hooking, pickling, and inventions, and explanations of the ins and outs of contest cooking. If Sherry had received a dime for every time she was asked what she was making for dinner that evening, she could have bought the new ceramic knife set she’d been craving but felt she couldn’t afford.
As the time ticked closer to the noon hour, Sherry made mental preparations for leaving Amber so she and her father could head for the August-Tinies parade. There they would meet up with the others who would be honored at the Trivselbit ceremony. Lost in thought, Sherry didn’t see the man dressed in business attire approach.
“Sherry and Erno Oliveri, may we interview you for our live broadcast?” Brett Paladin asked.
Kirin and her camera were at his side.
Sherry checked the time. “I have to head over to the parade in about seven minutes.”
“We do, too. A quick discussion of your table contents is all we need. Kirin, are you set?” Brett offered up his empty hand, and Kirin filled it with a microphone.
The camerawoman hoisted her equipment up to her shoulder while she backed away from Sherry and Brett.
“Brett, are you getting a sunburn? I hope the camera doesn’t amplify your blazing complexion next to Sherry’s pale, I mean, muted coloring,” Kirin said.
“A flare-up. Can’t be helped.” Brett put the back of his hand to his cheek.
“Would you like some water?” Sherry reached under the table for a bottle. “That might calm the redness. You said stress triggered a flare-up when you had the same symptoms at the cook-off. Are things not going smoothly here?”
Brett stepped toward the table. “What’s this doing here?” He set the mic down next to Truman’s rolling pin. He held up the invention until Sherry made her way over.
“I thought the opportunity was there to showcase one more smart idea from an Augustin citizen. So much time and effort was put into its development. I think the concept’s quite inspirational. Truman has two companies interested in marketing it as soon as he can patent it.”
Brett groaned, set the rolling pin down, and scooped up the mic. He turned toward Kirin, who was shoulder to shoulder with Truman Fletcher and Damien Castle. “Good job, Fletcher. This day seems less abou
t the town’s founder and more about capitalism. I should have had you display my breakfast cookie. Now there’s an idea whose time has come.”
“Have you visited many of the other exhibits?” Sherry curled her words around a core of saccharin sweetness. “I was very interested in the MediaPie table. The Van Ardans have a compelling argument in favor of Knut Eklind’s having founded Augustin. They’re beginning to win me over.”
“That’s an appropriate display? A gin bottle? A diary of questionable origin? They had some land deeds, but I’m sure they were bogus. That family needs to get a hobby and leave the town and TV station alone.”
“You’re back on in thirty seconds, Brett,” Damien called out.
Brett inched closer to Sherry. “I brought you something.” He passed Sherry a cookie. “Save it for later.”
When Truman gave the thumbs-up sign, Kirin’s camera light bloomed red.
Brett’s face was enveloped in a broad grin. “We’ve traveled down the row of tables from the fantasy world of a family who wants to lay claim to something that’s not theirs to a real-life success story involving a blank canvas and some lambs’ wool. Erno Oliveri is the patriarch of the Ruggery, and we’re also joined by his daughter, Sherry. Behind them is an impressive sampling of rugs and one of the store managers . . .” Brett paused.
“Amber Sherman,” Amber called out.
“Right. Erno Oliveri, may I have a word with you?” Brett sidled up to Sherry’s father.
Sherry inched closer to Erno until there was no space between the threesome.
“As a loyal Augustinian, your business means more than financial gains for your family. It lends support and strength to this community.” Brett picked up a punch tool that lay on the table. “Not unlike the necessity of this tool in the rug-hooking process, without one you can’t have the other.”
“Thank you, Brett. You’re very kind. We value opinions like yours,” Erno replied.
“But, I’ve heard your loyalties may be shifting.” Brett’s inflection sharpened. “Can you substantiate the rumor that you’re supportive of outsiders buying up Augustin’s homespun businesses and transforming them into pawns of big business? Will this town be able to survive the change from a slower pace of doing business, one where shopkeepers know their customers by name, to an environment in which the only goal is to add to big corporations’ coffers?” Brett thrust the mic toward Erno’s lips.
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