The Bible school library was a small room filled with donated biographies and commentaries. The dusty, almost vanilla, smell of old books greeted them as Jane opened the door. She sat at the library table. Isaac straddled a chair across from her.
“Okay, I’m just going to lay this out there. Missions work, in the end, is like any other job. You either need experience or skills.”
“And that’s what my time at Harvest was for.” Jane folded the corner of her schedule back and forth.
“That’s what you intended it for, but it’s not enough. I know, you want it to be enough, but I think if you are serious about missions you need to consider short-term work.”
“I went on short-term trips in high school. I don’t want to go backwards when I could spend my time learning the language and the culture. It will take a long time to be fluent enough to preach in a 10/40 language. Wouldn’t more short-term stuff just waste time?” The corner of the paper ripped off in Jane’s hand. She rolled it into a ball between her thumb and finger.
“Untried missionaries waste time too. High school missions trips are equal parts helping the teenagers grow up and helping the community they travel to. What if you got to your dream closed country and you just weren’t up to it?”
Jane pressed the ball of paper until it was tiny and hard. “Do I look like I wouldn’t be up to it?”
“Couldn’t say until you try. You keep saying ‘short-term,’ but a full year immersed in a new culture won’t feel short. I think missionaries need to try it before they throw themselves into a dangerous field.”
“And I think they don’t. So one of us is wrong.” Jane pressed the small paper ball onto the table. When she picked her finger up again it stuck. She looked at the small white dot pressed into her fingertip. It wasn’t what she had anticipated when she took out her nervous energy on the paper, but it was what happened. She turned her finger over before she made too much of it. She couldn’t always predict results, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t sometimes predict them, when given enough information.
“Yup. One of us is wrong.” Isaac was still grinning, basically from ear to ear. His happiness, in spite of her saying he was wrong, was infectious and she found herself smiling again. “That’s more like it. They call this a Missions Fair, after all. Not a Missions Gauntlet.”
“Maybe they just named it wrong.”
“From the crowd in the other room, it sure felt like it! Where are you going next?” Isaac pulled the abused schedule from Jane.
“What long-term organization is hosting a break-out session?”
Isaac laughed. “You could sit in with Pioneers. You’d like them.”
“I do like them,” Jane said. “Are you coming?”
“Wish I could. I’ve got to get back to my school. Seminary waits for no man.” Isaac stood up.
“I’ll walk you to your car?” Jane stood up as well.
“Please do.” Isaac opened the library door for her. “Take good notes today and show me after class on Monday.”
“Will I get extra credit?” Jane looked up at him from lowered eyelids.
“Ha! You know, for a second there I kind of forgot you were the student and not another instructor.” They were at his car. He picked up her hand and squeezed it. “See you Monday?”
Jane nodded, smiling. He forgot she was a student. That was definitely a good sign. In fact, she felt pretty sure he was interested in her, a novel twist to the end of her Bible school era. With that happy thought she went back to the missions fair. If she kept her heart open to God’s plans, she couldn’t help but succeed.
Chapter 10
Monday morning came even though Jane had hoped that it wouldn’t. The Missions Fair had left her head swimming with contradictory ideas. Go, right after graduation, with a short-term organization and get tons of experience fast. Stay, and learn a trade that she could take with her as a tentmaker. Go, right away, and serve while she still had her verve and energy, before she got tied down by life at home. Stay until she had developed the wisdom and maturity she would need to have a life-long career overseas. And above all else, serve your current calling faithfully, because those who are faithful with the small things will be blessed with more opportunity and responsibility.
Jane had peeled herself out of bed an extra fifteen minutes early just to have some time alone in the kitchen. She tried to turn off her whirling thoughts so she could focus on serving the Crawfords faithfully. She had slipped in and out of church on Sunday, trying to go unnoticed. She didn’t want to have to attempt to summarize her missions fair experience in casual conversation with friends. It was much too soon.
Jane shut the door to the kitchen in the hopes that the rich aroma of fresh coffee wouldn’t travel upstairs to wake up the rest of the household. Over a breakfast of leftover cinnamon rolls and cold cuts, Jane watched the morning news on the little kitchen TV. The Human Liberation Party was picketing a Roly Burger, blaming the animal fats for the deaths of the Crawfords and for the obesity epidemic in America. It was a long shot since the Roly Burger Franchise hadn’t spread East of Idaho yet.
The reporter held a microphone up to a skinny, leathery woman with feathers hanging from her ears. “We were promised these temples of human depravity would be closed and we demand they be closed!” Her blue eyes looked huge in her skeletal face. The text running under her picture read, “Rose of Sharon Willis, local head of the HLP.”
“What does Help plan to do to force the Crawford family into keeping their promises?” The reporter asked. The reporter was about twenty-five. She had shellacked black hair and a face that looked like her skin and lips and eyelashes were made of plastic. Jane was fascinated by how the reporter could speak without appearing to move. She was also aggravated by the way the reporter assumed the HLP (or Help, as they were called locally) was correctly reporting the Roly Burger situation.
“Help will Help!” The crowd behind “Rose of Sharon” were chanting.
Rose of Sharon glowered over her microphone. “We shall overcome!” she shouted.
Non-answers like these drove Jane crazy. Were Rose of Sharon, or HLP making a real threat? Were they planning to keep protesting? To do a sit-in? To vandalize? Their current activity plus several local “unsolved” cases of vandalism at fast food restaurants indicated each of these were a possibility.
“Is there a message that Help wants to send to the people of Portland and the Crawford family right now?”
“The Crawfords may be dead, but their legacy of crimes against humanity live on in these corrupt places and Help won’t stand for it. Today we picket—tomorrow we conquer!”
The plastic faced reporter turned to the camera. “Back to you, Francis.”
The TV flipped back to the news desk. “We’ll keep you updated with the latest as the Human Liberation Party enacts their policy of forcing businesses known to harm the health of the citizens to shutter their doors.” The newsman shuffled his papers and smiled into the camera as the TV turned to a commercial for toaster strudels.
Jane turned it off. She should know better than to watch television news. The Roly Burger location that was being picketed was not too far out of the way on her drive to the Larson’s house, which she had to clean today. If nothing came up before she had to leave she’d drive past it to see how long HLP’s picketing energy had lasted.
Jane rinsed the crumbs from her plate and racked it in the dishwasher. She could hear Marjory coming down the hall.
“Good morning.” Marjory didn’t sound happy, per se, but she didn’t sound angry either. Jane pulled a stool up to the kitchen island and sat down.
“I’ve been going through all of Bob and Pamela’s papers and came across this.” Marjory slid an enveloped marked “March Housekeeping” across the table. “According to their Quicken records they pulled this cash out for you the night before they died.”
Jane stared at the envelope.
“I’m sorry you had to wait so long for your pay.” Marjory cleared her throat.<
br />
Jane looked up. Tears brimmed Marjory Crawford’s eyes.
Marjory slid another piece of paper across the granite. “We’ll be having the reception at the house, right after the memorial service. I’ve made the list of jobs that need to be done.” Marjory laid another envelope on top of this list. “I expect it won’t take you more than fifteen hours to get through this list. I calculate that this would be half down, as per your request.”
Jane stared at the pile accumulating before her. It looked like it would be enough money for everything she needed, plus some.
“Do you have time in your schedule to fit in fifteen hours of work if the memorial is Saturday afternoon with the reception following?”
Jane nodded. Saturday was six days away. She could make it happen.
Marjory stared over Jane’s shoulders as she spoke. She appeared distracted and tired. “I should say, four of those fifteen hours are for setup, service and cleaning after the reception.”
Jane nodded. That meant she had to fit fewer hours of cleaning into her regular schedule. That would be more than fine.
Marjory pulled her eyes back to Jane. “Saturday will be formal. Please wear black.”
Saturday. Jane’s heart sunk. She had a date for Saturday night. She’d have to call Isaac. She had his number on her phone now. Or maybe she could text him. Was that too impersonal? She couldn’t remember. In the three years since she’d left high school behind her she hadn’t dated at all. Did she text to reschedule to show that it was a casual thing and not any kind of drama, or did she call to show that she still really, really, wanted the date but the change couldn’t be helped?
“I’m sorry.” Marjory was shaking her head. “I’m at sixes and sevens today. I really am. This is all for Saturday in two weeks. Make a list and leave it on the desk in the office if you are going to need anything from me.” Marjory left the kitchen without waiting for a reply.
Jane stared at the small stack of papers in front of her. Money. Lots of money. And she could still make her date. She was glad she was sitting down. If she hadn’t been she might just have fainted.
On the way to the Larson house, Jane drove to the bank to deposit her windfall.
She was back to the Crawford kitchen by lunch. She had driven past the protest on her way home. News helicopters were hovering over the scene and two television news vans were parked out front, so it was hard to see anything. Perhaps that was HLP’s plan: block all of the driveways so no customers could get in. The crowd of protesters looked less impressive in person. There were about a dozen skinny, dreadlocked hippies lounging on the sidewalk in front of the door. Jane was flipping through the television channels to find the newest report on HLP, but she figured they had assumed positions of fatigue to illustrate that they were making a hunger strike. It was the same move they had played at the end of last summer right before the last Pig-N-Pancake packed up and left town. At least a hunger strike wasn’t destructive.
Before Jane could find the station with the news, Jake and Fitch from building-and-maintenance sauntered into the kitchen.
Jane straightened up.
“At ease,” Jake said.
“Can I get you all anything?” Jane motioned to the refrigerator.
“Just coffee. We’re having a business meeting, aren’t we Fitch?”
Fitch shrugged. “You called. I came.”
“That’s right, I called. We need to get those yahoos off of my property.”
Fitch raised an eyebrow. Jane leaned against the sink, trying to be inconspicuous. Jake had property? This was news to her.
“The courts always decide with Help, Jake.” Fitch took a stool.
Jake pulled three coffee cups out of the cupboard. He filled them, adding plenty of cream in one and a dash of Irish Crème in another. He handed her the coffee with cream and kept the coffee with liquor for himself.
Fitch accepted the black coffee. “I mean it. We can’t make them leave. The police won’t touch them after that last lawsuit.”
Jane took a sip of her coffee. Just the way she liked it.
“You are right, but you can do something.”
Fitch gestured with the hand that held the coffee cup. Coffee sloshed onto the counter.
“Show a little respect for Janey here.” Jake wiped the coffee spill with his shirtsleeve.
“Spell it out for me, Jake. Pretend I’m the dumbest man in the business. Tell me exactly what you think I can do.”
Jake snorted. “Pretend?”
Jane blushed. Poor Fitch. She had never heard her father call him dumb.
“Condemn my building, building-and-maintenance man. Get the hippies off of my property.”
“Is that one yours?” Jane asked.
“You can bet your sweet bippy it is. I could care less about HLP, but they are standing there talking nasty about my parents who aren’t even cold in their graves yet. I want them gone.”
“Condemning property doesn’t really work like that, and, um, you know, I just handle the equipment and stuff.”
“If the restaurant is full of rats they’d condemn it,” Jake said.
“I wouldn’t know.” Fitch stared at his coffee cup.
“If you want your business to keep running you don’t really want it overrun with rats.” Jane took another drink of her coffee. If Jake owned a Roly Burger of his own and he didn’t want it to be shut down…was that a good motive?
“I don’t care if the business runs, Jane. Dad was buying back all of the franchises so he could shut them down. I’m good with or without the burgers, but HLP cannot spread their filth all over my business while talking smack about my dead parents.”
“Your dad could afford to buy back all of the franchises?” Jane’s hand shook. She set her coffee cup down.
“Yes. We’re rich. Bet your parents wish they had stayed in the game a little longer.”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”
“The Adlers did just fine in their deal,” Fitch said. His thin lips were pursed. Had Fitch done well too? Jane wondered if building and maintenance paid as little as managing fast food restaurants did.
“If you can’t condemn it, what can you do?”
“I can.” Fitch looked up and to the left. Jane watched him think with fascination. His mouth moved in tiny subtle motions like he was sounding out his ideas before he spoke. “I could order new equipment. Lots of big trucks to haul in and haul away. They’d have to clear the property if I ordered enough.”
“Make it so.”
“It will be expensive, and unnecessary.”
“We’re very, very rich, Fitch. Money is no object, and I’m the one who decides what is necessary. I want new everything from every vendor. Understand? I’m not selling my franchise back to the family.”
“But I thought you didn’t care…” Jane watched Jake. His thoughts didn’t play out on his face like Fitch’s did, but his body spoke volumes. He stood with his chest out and his shoulders squared, almost bouncing on his toes like he was about to take off on a fast run. He wasn’t thinking—just taking action.
“That was five minutes ago. Keep up.” Jake looked from Fitch to Jane and back again. “That’s it. Make it so. You can reach me on my cell.” He turned back to Jane, “And you know where you can reach me.” He winked. Then he bounded out of the dining room.
“Well!” Jane said.
“No kidding.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Might as well. It would clear out the protestors, and if Jake wants to keep running the business he might as well have new equipment. That location was his graduation gift and he hasn’t done much with it yet.”
Jane got a laptop for her graduation. Jake got a restaurant. The Crawfords were really, really, rich.
“So, I guess I’d better get back to the office.” Fitch hesitated, sliding his cup back and forth by an inch on the counter top. “Will your parents come up for the funeral?”
“I suppose s
o,” she said. “I guess I’d better give them a call.”
Fitch nodded. “Say hi for me.”
“Sure, I will.”
Fitch nodded again and left.
Jane turned the TV back on. She found a channel playing the news. She’d watch it while she had her lunch just to see what else they had to say about HLP.
Jane wondered if HLP might have had an interest in killing Bob and Pamela. Of course, it was their deaths that were keeping the businesses open, so technically HLP wouldn’t have liked that. Unless HLP wanted the publicity more than they wanted the hamburger industry to disappear.
Chapter 11
“Jacob Terwilliger Crawford, you cannot put it off any longer.”
“I’m terribly busy, ma’am.”
When Jane had passed through the mudroom, Jake hadn’t looked busy. He had been spread across the mudroom bench with his feet propped against the floor-to-ceiling shelves. He had been poking at his iPhone with one hand and holding a steaming cappuccino in the other. The aroma of coffee mingled with the odor of rain boots and wool sweaters that hung around the mudroom all winter had followed Jane to the rack of velvet curtains she was steaming at the far end of the hall.
Marjory stood in the mudroom doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. Their loud, if obscure, conversation was as clear as day, try as Jane might to not eavesdrop. So far Marjory had repeated the demand to “not put it off” and Jake had repeated how busy he was. It sounded as though they had already been arguing for some time before their voices rose to the point that Jane could hear them.
Jane put the steamer wand down and slid the wrinkle-free velvet curtain down to the “clean” end of her clothes rack. She pulled the next curtain into place and picked her wand up again. Marjory was so loud she could be heard over the hiss of steam and the whirr of the machine.
“We have the funeral home booked, the caterers scheduled, and the announcement ready to print in the newspapers. You need to get down there today and sign the papers.”
Jane had hoped the argument was about something a little more interesting than that.
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