Game of Scones

by Mary Lee Ashford

  “Thank you.” I turned to Max. “That was a wonderful evening.”

  “I’m happy you enjoyed it.” He got out and came around to open the door for me.

  There were no lights on next door at Mrs. Pickett’s. I hoped that meant she was already in bed or somewhere in the house watching television, and too busy to notice the kiss on the cheek I gave Max as I got out of the car.

  When I got inside, of course, Ernest had been close to expiring from starvation while I was gone and insisted on a snack before he herded me to the couch for a neck scratching session. I kicked off my shoes and sunk into the cushions of the couch. I couldn’t think of the last time I’d had such a great evening.

  Had that been a date? I wasn’t sure. If it was, I loved the concept. No dress-to-impress what to wear, no awkward small talk, no pressure.

  “Manage your expectations, Sugar,” I told myself. “If it was a date. It was just one date. No need to figure out what it means tonight.”

  Great. Now not only was I talking to the cat, I was talking to myself.

  I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dixie had coffee started when I arrived at the shop the next morning, I could smell the rich aroma as I opened the door. I sniffed again, hoping for a muffin, a breakfast roll, cookies. Nothing. There wasn’t any reason to bake today, but a girl can hope. Right?

  I’d given Dixie a spreadsheet of all the recipes and she’d selected which ones to test, and then together we’d decided which ones to photograph. Dixie and Max had finished up everything yesterday. Max would work at his place on the photos today.

  Everything was digital so we should have proofs in a couple of days, depending on what else he had in the hopper. The first order of business would be to make sure he had what he needed. If we needed to re-take anything, we’d want to know that right away.

  I pulled out my project folder and Dixie groaned.

  “I know my lists and charts make you nuts, but this is how I work.” I poured coffee into a mug and found a granola bar in my bag. It would have to do. Moto trotted over and gave me the puppy-dog-eyes look. I reached back in for my stash of dog treats and slipped him a couple.

  Dixie and I sat down at the counter to go over everything that remained to be done before we were ready to go to print. I’d talked with Liz, our graphics person, and sent her all the recipes and text. I was excited about the history bits and the historical photos and Liz was too. She had embraced the concept immediately and understood my vision for the history being interwoven with the recipes and the community. On the technical side of how to accomplish that, I’d connected her with Max and they’d been able to sort all that out. She would do the layout and add finishing touches once she had his photos from yesterday’s shoot.

  We were almost there. I had reviewed the sponsors’ logos and sent them off to Liz as well.

  “The only thing that’s left is the tribute to Elsie.” Dixie looked at me. “What do we want to do about that?”

  I slapped my forehead. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about and I completely forgot.”

  “What?”

  “When I was at the farm-to-table restaurant with Max yesterday evening, which was wonderful by the way. We’ve got to go there when they’re fully open. Anyway, while we were there I was thinking about family,” I began and then stopped at Dixie’s expression.

  “Stop it,” I laughed. “How old are you?”

  She shrugged, unfazed. “Go on.”

  “I was thinking about families in general and mine specifically. The fact I know little to nothing about my dad. My aunts and their strong sister bonds. Your family and how close you are. And suddenly I remembered Greer talking about Elsie and that she wasn’t from St. Ignatius and didn’t have any family in town.”

  Dixie nodded. “All true, but I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

  “I remembered Greer said she was from a town not far away called, Mars, but that she didn’t remember ever meeting any of Elsie’s family. Or them coming for a visit. Don’t you find that strange?”

  “A little, I guess.” She reached down to absently pat Moto who had followed us, undoubtedly hoping for more treats.

  “I got to wondering about it and thinking maybe we should do a little research into Elsie’s past. I checked for what I could do online, and the answer was not much. So, what do you think of a little road trip?”

  “I think it’s a wild goose chase.” Dixie crossed her arms. “But I am not going to let you try to get to Mars and get lost.”

  “Great. You fell into my trap.” I smiled. “How soon can you be ready?”

  Dixie sighed. “I always forget that you started out in sales. You seem nice, but under that innocent girl-next-door look, you’re a closer. And you’re good. Give me thirty minutes to finish cleaning up from yesterday, drop Moto at home, and I’m game.”

  I went back to my desk and took care of a few items I needed to finish up. I’d worked with a printing company in a suburb of Des Moines. They were able to give us the best price, and in projects like this one, the more you can keep costs down the better value you can offer to your clients. In this case, that meant the Founders’ Day committee would be able to sell the books for a reasonable price and would also make some decent money from their project.

  A call to my contact confirmed that we were still good as far as lining up with their schedule. I printed the little information I’d been able to find out about Elsie and tucked it in my bag.

  “Ready?” I called as I heard Dixie come in the back.

  * * * *

  Dixie gave directions and I drove. The town Elsie had been from was a little more than an hour away and in the opposite direction from where Max and I had gone the night before. She’d packed a bag of snacks for the trip. A large bag of snacks. From what I could see, the provisions would come in handy if we were somehow stranded in the wilds of rural Iowa and needed to live on junk food for a week.

  “Turn at your next left.” Dixie used a red licorice stick to point at a country road sign.

  I pulled off the highway and onto a much narrower road where she’d pointed. The sign said Deersville.

  “But—” I didn’t think we wanted to go to Deersville.

  “Just keep going straight until I tell you to turn,” Dixie directed.

  “Okay.” I slowed my speed and kept going.

  “Pressfield, population, two-hundred and fifty-seven.” I said the names of the towns aloud as we drove through them. Some were no more than a handful of houses. Others a little bigger. Most had their population on a sign at the edge of town.

  “Moose City, three-hundred and thirty-one.” I continued driving.

  Dixie laughed at me and handed me a cookie.

  “What?” I took a bite and glanced her way. “I like that they tell how many people live there. How often do you think they update the sign?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I mean if a baby is born, is the sign updated?”

  “Signs are expensive. I’m sure not.” Dixie rummaged in the treat bag and this time came up with cheese puffs.

  “I wonder.”

  I was tremendously entertained by the names of towns in my adopted neck of the woods. Sure, we had unusual names for towns in Georgia, but the names, like the people were sort of lyrical and, well, southern. Like they were named while folks were sipping mint juleps. Dewy Rose, Sugar Hill, Talking Rock, Burning Bush, and my favorite, Flippen, Georgia.

  But Iowa small towns had straight-forward monikers. Plain and hard-working but with a bit of wit and attitude stirred in. Names that made you curious about what the story was behind the name. There was What Cheer, Defiance, and Gravity. And then, Correctionville.

  Doesn’t that one just make you wonder if they were registering something exotic like Whisperville and
someone said, “Wait there’s a correction”?

  Then there was Diagonal, Lost Nation, and Last Chance. I especially loved the ones named for other places in the world like Jamaica, Peru, East Peru, and Nevada. Now, Jamaica was pronounced in the usual way, but not Peru, which was pronounced Pee-Roo, unlike the South American country. And Nevada was Ne-VAY-da, not at all like the state.

  I pulled into Mars, disappointed there was not a UFO in sight. There was a simple sign at the edge of town that said, Mars, Population, 1,397. Smaller than St. Ignatius, but still way more people than East Peru. And no red planet graphics to be seen.

  I wanted spaceships and planets. Maybe a Mars rover replica on the playground. I could hear “Fly Me to the Moon” in my head. (Or “Life On Mars,” if you prefer. Your pick.)

  “Where do you think we should start?” I drove slowly. Unlike St. Ignatius and many other Iowa towns, Mars had no courthouse or town square. The main street had a diner, which appeared to be closed, a laundromat, a hardware store, and a storefront that said Mars Public Library.

  “Let’s try the library.” Dixie suggested. “Maybe they’ll have old yearbooks or newspapers.”

  “Seems like a great place to start.” I parked the Jeep and we went in.

  There was a petite lady behind the desk; her short dark hair gave her a pixie-like appearance. She greeted us with a smile. Her nametag said, Mrs. Schwebach.

  “Welcome to the library,” she said. “Is there something I can help you find?”

  “We’re working on an article about a former resident and thought we might be able to find a little background information about her time here in Mars,” I explained.

  “I see.”

  “Do you keep newspaper articles?” Dixie asked. “Or yearbooks?”

  “The town hasn’t had a newspaper in years,” Mrs. Schwebach explained. “However, we do keep yearbooks. Up until we stopped being an independent school district, that is. Our children now go to Consolidated County schools. What year were you looking for?”

  “We’re not exactly sure.” I gave her a range of dates.

  “Let me show you where we keep those.” She moved from behind the counter and walked us to a back room with shelves of yearbooks. “They’re arranged by date.”

  “Thanks, we’ll look through these.” Dixie was already running her fingers over the spines.

  The years we were interested in were on the bottom shelf. It didn’t take long to find Elsie Banks in the yearbook, but there was nothing at all about her. No extra-curricular activities, no sports, no awards. Nothing. There was a blurry picture of a young woman, but I felt like we’d found nothing of who she’d been.

  We located some telephone books from the time she would have lived in town and found a Eula Banks listed. We wrote down the address, 318 Maple. Shouldn’t be hard to find.

  Thanking the friendly librarian, I dropped a few dollars in their Bucks for Kids’ Books jar, and then we went back to the car.

  “What now?” Dixie asked.

  “Let’s try the post office.” I pointed across the street to a small house that had a U.S. Post Office sign out front.

  “Okay, let’s go.” She opened her door. “Then maybe the diner will be open.”

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. I couldn’t believe she could possibly be after the junk food we’d eaten in the car.

  “A little.” She grinned at me.

  “Okay, after this we’ll check.” I walked across the street to the post office.

  A young woman with big hair looked up as we entered. “Hello.”

  “Hi, we’re in town doing a little research on someone who used to live here.” I explained.

  “Elsie Banks.”

  “Sorry, never heard of her.” She smiled politely.

  “Any Banks live in town?” Dixie asked.

  “None that I know of,” the woman answered. “Sorry I can’t be of more help, but I just started this job a month ago.”

  “Okay, thank you for your time.” I held the door for Dixie and we headed back across the street.

  “Now can we check the diner?”

  “Sure.” The diner was not at all like our own Red Hen Diner. There was no “cluck” as we walked in the door. In fact, there was no sound at all when we entered, and yet every one of the six people inside turned to look at us.

  We settled ourselves at a booth in the corner that had seen better days. Tan plastic was held together in some places with duct tape. A young woman in overalls stopped by the table with glasses of water.

  “The special today is our club sandwich.” She handed us each a menu.

  I’ve always found that if you’re not too sure about the fare in an eating establishment that the special is usually a good choice.

  We ordered and she headed back to the kitchen.

  “Okay, so maybe my idea of researching Elsie here in her hometown was a little ambitious.”

  “A little.” Dixie shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s been intense, so I think we both needed to get out a bit.”

  “I can do the bio on her with what I’ve got.” I leaned back in the booth and took a sip of my water. “I had a thought that if we couldn’t find any more than what was in her obituary that I might pitch the idea of doing something on the Farmer family instead, and include Elsie and Kenny in that. What do you think?

  “I think it’s the perfect way for the one who got us into the promise of having an Elsie tribute to get us out of it.” Dixie raised her brows.

  “You got me there.”

  In short order, the club sandwiches arrived. Though I wouldn’t put it up there with The Farmstead fare, it was good. The bread lightly toasted, the bacon crispy, and the tomatoes garden fresh. What the Mars Café lacked in ambiance, it made up for in good food.

  We finished our sandwiches and then stopped at the cash register to pay. A guy, perhaps the owner and I suspected the cook, came out from the back. He wore a burgundy sweat suit and a baseball cap. Pushing the cap back on his forehead, he said, “I hear you been asking about the Banks family.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Any of the family left in town?”

  “You could stop by and see Fred and Edith and I suppose Eula, too.”

  “Where would we find them?” I handed him our check and some cash.

  “You just go to the end of main and hang a right.” He gestured with the hand holding the cash. “And you’ll find ‘em right there in the town cemetery.” His smirk said he thought that was clever.

  “So I guess no living family left in town.” Dixie gave him a look that said she didn’t think so.

  “Nope.” He placed the money in the ancient cash register and handed me back my change. “Not for years. Eula stayed after her folks died. Had a daughter Jocelyn Jane. The girl got in all kinds of trouble after her mom died. Don’t know what ever happened to her.”

  “We’re working on a write up about Elsie Banks. Anyone still in town that might have known her?” I asked.

  “Nah, I don’t think so.” He raised his voice. “Darrell, you remember an Elsie Banks?”

  A man across the room, apparently Darrell, shook his head.

  “The family was dirt poor,” Darrell hollered back. The man that was with him nodded in agreement. “Used to live over on Maple. Nobody lives there now, it’s just a shack. I think the city uses it for storage. That right, Pat?”

  A woman on the other side of the restaurant answered, “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I think Eula’s sister’s name was Elsie,” the man across from her called out.

  “Could be,” Darrell agreed.

  Everyone seemed comfortable with a conversation that spanned the length of the diner. It felt a little strange, like we’d wandered into their living room, but the group was friendly enough.

  “Thanks for your help.” Dixie moved t
o the door.

  “Thanks,” I said to the guy at the register.

  “Wanna buy a ticket to the pancake breakfast?” He pushed forward a couple of tickets. “They’re only five bucks a piece. We’re raising money for playground equipment for the park.”

  “Sure.” I handed him a twenty and picked up four tickets. “Good luck with your fundraiser.”

  “Sugar?” Dixie stood holding the door open.

  “Coming.” I stepped outside and joined her.

  “Thought I’d better get you out of there before you gave them all the money you had.”

  “It was for a good cause,” I said as I climbed back in the Jeep.

  “I’m sure.” Dixie got in and buckled her seatbelt. “Let’s take a swing by the cemetery and then call it a wrap.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The cemetery was fascinating and I made a mental note to come back for a longer visit once the St. Ignatius cookbook was complete. There were old tombstones from the mid-eighteen hundreds. It was a good-sized cemetery and well-maintained, the bushes trimmed, the grass mowed.

  “I wonder if there aren’t more people in here than live in town,” Dixie mused.

  “I was thinking the same thing.” I turned back toward Main Street and took a small detour to go down Maple.

  The lady in the diner had been right. The house was nothing more than a shack. The windows were boarded up, the paint peeling, the cement on the front steps crumbling.

  We sat in the car and looked at it.

  “I feel sad for her.” I turned to Dixie. “It explains a lot doesn’t it?”

  “That it does.” She shook her head.

  “When you come from this I guess it makes you want to be more. Maybe her putting on airs had less to do being important and everything to do with Elsie’s own insecurities.”

  We were both quiet as we drove out of town.

  I stopped at Deersville to get gas before we got to the main highway, at the little convenience store I’d noticed when we’d turned off before. I probably could have waited but I was afraid to take a chance. When you have my sense of direction, or lack thereof, you learn to keep plenty of gas in your car.