"Well, we should start with Fiona," said Abe, thinking out loud. "She'll be sensible, and if Mary doesn't want to do it, she'll get her out of it." Nobody was going to walk over Mary if Fi had anything to do with it.
"What are you guys talking about?" asked Gregory.
They both jumped; neither had noticed his approach. He stood there now, smiling, looking down at them fondly (especially Abe), and ran an arm across his brow to wipe off the sweat of honest toil. "Sorry," he said. "I wasn't trying to make you jump."
"Ha-ha," said Winnie nervously. She smoothed down her skirt.
"There's going to be a baking competition. We're talking about how to stop it." Abe squinted up at his boyfriend, frowning a little. Did he have to be so perfect? And silent on his feet?
"I really didn't mean to startle you," said Gregory, dropping down in a perfect squat and plucking a few weeds from the herb garden as he spoke. "It does sound like a bad idea, but I'm sure there won't be anything like last competition. That was a year ago, and an entirely different situation. Unless...they're not inviting a celebrity judge who's secretly a total jerk and used to live here?" He grinned.
"No," said Abe. He did not grin.
"I'd best be going," said Winnie. She hopped up. "I'll talk to you later!" She hurried back towards her house, which was a large stone building and had no doubt been quite expensive for her husband to buy. She lived in it now with her Rick, and from everything Abe knew about her dead husband, she'd earned every bit of it the hard way.
They didn't talk about abusive spouses, Abe and Winnie. But there were more things than one that they had in common—a love of handsome, muscular men, superstitions about competitions, and abusive spouses in their pasts. Abe suppressed a sigh. He felt stupid and small every time he thought about that sort of thing. There had been good times with Lenard. And some truly awful ones. At any rate, he didn't want to live in the past. He wanted to move forward and be happy with Gregory, in the here and now.
Abe squinted at Gregory. "How can you think it's not serious, averting another competition?" he demanded. Surely, if this neighborhood was enough of a powder-keg to incite one murder, it was only fair to avert circumstances where that could happen again!
Gregory plopped down on the bench beside him. It groaned a little; he was a big, muscular guy. "Come on, Abe. You're being silly." He slung an arm around the back of the bench, including Abe in the gesture.
Abe bristled.
Gregory looked at his face and laughed. "It's superstitious, isn't it? It's not a real danger. There aren't secretly murderous neighbors here, and nobody's inviting a jerk of a judge. So it's just a fun thing. Enter if you want, stay out of it if you don't."
While Abe was trying to figure out what to reply to that dampening speech, Gregory caught sight of the sketchbook and gestured to it. "Hey, can I see what you're drawing?"
Abe pressed his palms to the sketchbook, holding it down. "No." He didn't want to share the uselessness of blank paper with Gregory—or the sinking insecurity and despair that his creative days might all be behind him.
Gregory huffed softly and drew Abe to him. "Don't be mad. Just think this through reasonably. Nobody's going to get murdered, and you can stay out of it if you want. There's no need to try to fix everything or stop anything."
Abe, grumpy and upright at first, slowly melted against his boyfriend. 'Boyfriend' didn't feel like a very mature term for the man who'd become so important to him. But they weren't at a stage in their relationship where Abe expected Gregory to propose to him, and he wasn't exactly picking out rings either.
Not that he didn't love and want to stay with Gregory as long as possible, as long as they had any real chance. But part of him wanted to run screaming from the idea of marrying anyone again, ever. His previous marriage had been so miserable, it had changed his perspective on the whole thing.
But Gregory could be very comforting, and he made Abe feel safe. Abe found himself relaxing into the embrace, his breathing growing easier. Marauding bees and blank pages momentarily forgotten, he allowed himself to sink gratefully into the comfort of Gregory. He smelled of sweat and man, and safety and home.
But he was strong and handsome and restless. How long was he going to want to stay with timid, dull Abe? It was probably for the best they hadn't moved in; definitely for the best they hadn't made any official commitment. He didn't think he could live through another divorce—not if it was from Gregory this time around.
Chapter two
Despite Gregory's reassurance that nothing was going to go wrong, Abe went to speak with Mary for himself, to find out if she actually thought that or had been bullied into helping Hannibal.
If Mary thought it was all right, and Gregory thought it was all right, maybe he shouldn't stick his nose in and try to stop it. Just because he and Winnie were nervous about it—well, they'd had bad experiences, but they could just avoid the situation if there was no real reason to stop it.
In truth, he was trying to work on being a busybody. There was plenty going on in his life that could use adjustment without trying to fix everyone else's, and he wanted Gregory to be proud of him, not get that vaguely disapproving look when he got too nosy. Not that Gregory had been trying to change him. He'd been very good about not doing that. But still.
Abe headed over to Mary's as soon as he'd finished his work for the day. He'd cut back on his schedule a bit recently in a desire to make more time for creativity, which meant he had even more time to be nosy and interfering if he didn't occupy himself with other things. He was beginning to think he should re-load his schedule as full as humanly possible, since trying to get back his creativity was so far just making him feel useless, old, and miserable.
Since Fiona had moved in with Mary, other people had bought Fi's place and moved in. A surprising number of other people had moved in and out of the neighborhood over the last year. Abe felt as if he didn't know most of his neighbors—though, in fairness, that had always been the case.
The gardening club was an exception, with mostly older people from the neighborhood cherishing the excuse to get together. Sometimes they even talked about gardening. He had thought the club would shut down after the murder, but instead it had gained a few new members. To be fair, he hadn't quit, either.
This was not truly a very friendly and sociable neighborhood of backyard get-togethers and community yard sales. Most people simply didn't know one another or have the time or inclination to meet. The silence of the suburbs could be a kind of daytime death for a man working from home, surrounded by pristine lawns and big, empty houses with staring eyes. He hated the feeling of being in a ghost town, with everyone away at school or work except for him. It had shaken him a great deal when he first moved to the suburbs. It was better now, although he still sometimes felt it.
Mostly, it was better because he'd made a few friends—and there was Gregory. Gregory didn't work a nine-to-five and was often around at odd hours as well. He could make any neighborhood feel like home.
This upcoming bake sale was a highlight of the social calendar in a severely unsociable neighborhood. That, and the twice-a-year chicken barbecue fundraisers the nearest fire department ran, were about the only times one would see one's neighbors, unless you happened to run into them in the grocery store, where you might not even recognize them, you saw them so rarely. Half the people who lived here, he'd never met, wouldn't recognize on the street, and had no clue what they did for a living.
Perhaps it was just as well. He was trying to be less nosy, wasn't he? Still, he wished that he was better about sociability and making friends. The world could be a very lonely place sometimes.
It was a short walk to Mary's, so he didn't have long to be mired in his thoughts. He slowed to admire her garden as he passed it: large and healthy, with some very green-leafed vegetables organized in a way that suited his neat-freak nature, in regimented, attractive rows. If there had been a gardening competition this year, he didn't see how she could lose. But
hopefully there never would be again. It had left too many scars.
Mary answered the door looking wholesome and pretty with her white hair, pink cheeks, and decorative pastel floral apron. (It must be decorative; he couldn't imagine her ever making a mess with her baking.)
"Abe! Hello. How lovely to see you. I was just thinking of calling you."
He blinked. "You were? Why?" Then he bit his lip. Had that been too abrupt? And why did he keep doubting everything about his personality and reactions lately?
"Of course. Come on in, and we can talk about the bake sale. I'm quite shameless in asking for help, you know—I should warn you."
"Help?" But he didn't want to be involved in the competition! He'd specifically decided he would avoid it. In fact, he'd come here to make sure she didn't need help getting out of the entire project—in case it was as dangerous and doomed as his superstitious thoughts insisted that it was.
"Well, not for the competition part; that's all sorted out. But I hope you can help by making some extra things to sell. Obviously, the big draw is the competition, but we want people to spend money to support the library as well, and for that they need things to buy. We're likely to have quite the crowd this year," she informed him proudly.
"Are we?" He didn't know what to say. He'd been so worried about the competition aspect that he'd forgotten about the bake sale part—the main event—and being asked to help threw him for a loop.
"Yes, and we need to sell them baked goods. You're a good baker, Abe. You're the first person I've been meaning to ask for help."
Abe wasn't sure what to say. Still, there were worse projects. He would never be the sort of baker Mary was, where everything one touched turned to gold. He didn't have a lifelong, traditional housewife's length of experience, but Abe could whip up some mean brownies, cakes, muffins, and cookies—and he wasn't too bad at pies, either.
Most importantly, he really did enjoy the process, and it was slightly creative, wasn't it? There was something satisfying about baking, about knowing you'd made something with your own two hands, even if it wouldn't last long. It was satisfying to have things turn out right—and to have people want to eat them.
He decided to just come out and share his concerns before he agreed to put his shoulder to the task with her. "Aren't you worried about having another competition so soon after everything that happened last year?"
She stared at him. "Oh, dear, you mean that dreadful murder? Why, I hadn't even thought of that." She sat down and wiped her forehead, looking distressed.
Abe felt terrible for reminding her, if she really had forgotten. (And why couldn't he?) "I mean...don't you think it's bad luck, or something?" He felt vaguely ridiculous. Bad luck wasn't quite what he meant, but he couldn't think how else to word it. Something like tempting fate, or waving a red flag in front of the bull of the gods, perhaps. Was there some kind of vengeful bull god in old mythology? He couldn't remember. Perhaps his memory was slipping, as well as everything else that was failing in his old age.
Mary pulled herself together quickly. "No. I see what you mean, but I think it's quite all right. We haven't invited anyone famous, and Hannibal and I will be running everything—all quite aboveboard and friendly. There's no place for nastiness, and Hannibal is determined to be quite firm that this is a welcoming, friendly event. There won't be any hatefulness about beginners doing poorly." She gave him an apologetic look, perhaps thinking of how Clarence had excoriated his amateur zinnia garden last year.
He blushed and looked down, ashamed of himself for still being bothered by that. It had been so long ago! But he didn't grow flowers anymore; he grew herbs. And there was no one to judge him for it now anyway, except for Gregory, who had helped him put them in.
Gregory really was an incredibly supportive boyfriend—about herbs, creativity, cooking, everything—although probably he would figure out that Abe wasn't really good enough for him at some point and move on. Abe tried not to think about it, because it made him feel wretched when he did.
"I don't mind baking some things if you want me to," he told Mary. "I've got the time. Just let me know how much and when you need it by. But please don't make me front a stand or take anyone's money." He was terrible at that sort of thing.
"No, no, baking is plenty!" Mary assured him, putting a hand on his arm and smiling up at him affectionately. Mary had always been kind to him, and she didn't seem to think he was pathetic, either.
He smiled to show he wasn't upset with being roped into this project. After all, if all he had to do was bake, it was no hardship. "In that case, what would you prefer?"
After Mary had given him a list of the things that usually sold the best at the bake sale, he headed back home, feeling better. Gregory and Mary had done a lot to reassure him.
Since the bake sale wasn't for another week, he didn't start baking anything yet—it would all be stale before the sale—but he got out some cookbooks and marked a few recipes he would use, as well as finding a few new things online. He'd try them out on Gregory first and see how they went. Gregory was always encouraging, but he'd tell Abe if they weren't very good. He'd just be exceedingly tactful. Abe could trust Gregory to be both honest and kind about his cooking.
When Gregory got back from his job that evening, all sweaty and manly from the hard physical labor he did (even if only part-time), he gave Abe a quick kiss and inhaled deeply. "Making me something special? You shouldn't have." Of course he didn't mean that; the gleam in his eyes made it obvious.
Abe patted his chest affectionately, smiling. "Well, I have to try out some recipes for the bake sale."
Gregory did a double-take. "You mean you—"
"I'm not entering the contest, no, no!" He waved his hands nervously to ward off that suggestion. "But between you and Mary, I'm not so worried anymore, and, well, she asked for my help so there's enough items to sell. So I've got to try some recipes out on you first."
Gregory looked pleased—and proud. "Well, I'm sure I'll sacrifice myself to the task somehow." He gave Abe a swat on the backside before hurrying away to take a shower. "Don't eat without me!"
Abe wouldn't. He almost never did; even when Gregory was working, he'd much rather have something light or instant, or do without, than bother cooking when he didn't have someone to share the meal with. Having Gregory in his life had spoiled him. He hated eating alone these days.
Humming quietly, feeling quite satisfied with his lot at the moment, he started putting out the food he'd made. It was easier to make more complicated things when he didn't have any looming deadlines, and he didn't at the moment.
Sometimes he felt as if he'd been born to be a house husband; he would never say that out loud or admit it to anyone, though. He loved to cook for people, though, not just cooking in general, although it was nice—but cooking for someone. Well, for Gregory.
ABE WAS TENDING HIS herb garden, which had fewer bees hanging around it on this overcast day, when he caught a glimpse of the new neighbors—the ones who lived where the Lockwoods had lived before they were charged with murder and sold their house to pay for the best legal help they could get. Abe had been naturally wary (or was that superstitious?) about the new neighbors, figuring anyone who didn't mind moving into such a home would either be evil themselves, or at least eccentric. In the second guess, at least, he had been correct.
Unlike Gregory, who had decided to dig up his lawn and plant all sorts of trees and bushes and edible things instead, Rufus Rongst had begun filling his backyard with art pieces. Some were kitschy to the extreme: faded plastic flamingos in a row, one tilted over in a strong wind and never set straight again; and some were alarmingly expensive-looking and strange. Huge chunks of metal created abstract art pieces, like boulders fallen from the sky, or strange symbols from some ancient past. It was beautiful and creepy in equal measures; Abe didn't know yet if Rongst made the pieces himself or simply collected them.
Seeing him out today, his first instinct was to freeze, not to walk over and
talk with him about the weather, or art. He'd never actually met the man, and facts on the grapevine were few and far between. Abe was curious, and not unfriendly, but his foolish nerves, or superstition, or general cowardly nature, stopped him from investigating. He held still and hoped the man wouldn't glance in his direction.
Rongst didn't appear to be in a looking-around mood. Instead, he was humming quietly as he carried something large outside to his lawn. There was a loud thump as he plopped it down. More art? Abe couldn't see over the fence. The thing was squat and low, whatever it was. The man looked around, walked over to the flamingos, and straightened the crooked one. Then he spotted Abe.
"Hello!" he said, raising a hand in a wave.
Sheepishly, Abe raised his hand in return. He felt like a fool, half-bent over his herb garden, trying not to be nosy, trying not to attract attention. He straightened up and took a tentative step forward, brushing his hair back nervously, hoping not to be too weird—although it was probably far too late for that. "Hello. Abe Arnett. Nice to meet you."
"You too. Rufus Rongst." He shook Abe's hand over the fence, a firm shake. He probably thought Abe's was too limp, though Abe always tried hard to give a handshake that a straight man wouldn't find too weak. Like so many other areas of his life, Abe wasn't quite able to fool anyone. The man pulled his hand back and looked at Abe sharply.
Rufus Rongst was an aging white man with a very large frame and graying hair. He didn't seem angry, but Abe was still nervous. He wished he could get over this stupid nervousness. He forced a smile onto his face. "I like your art."
Closer now, he saw what the man had plopped down: it was a large, squat clay jug with an ugly face on it, ears for handles. He tried not to show his revulsion. "Oh, a face jug. How interesting." It had grotesque teeth, too many of them, and wide, staring eyes. "Is it, um, a modern one?" he guessed.
He generally knew enough to talk art with people, even if he wasn't involved in the art scene and did nothing artistic himself anymore. But he couldn't imagine anyone would keep a truly old and valuable face jug outside on their lawn. It would be a lot easier to steal than the huge metal sculptures—and worth a lot, too, if it really was old.
Poison at the Bake Sale Page 2