When Beef Jerky Met Cherries Jubilee

by Lee Pulaski

  “Well, she’d originally intended to open around Christmastime, but the contractor got behind in his work,” Zachary explained. “It was the same contractor that was expanding the bookstore and building this house. The gallery took a lower priority than other projects, I’m guessing. Fortunately, Anne Marie had enough saved up to endure the delay and still be able to eat and pay her bills.”

  “At least her dream is coming true,” Gwendolen said. “When you have a dream, its power over you can be intense.”

  “Very true. When I opened The Literary Barn a few years ago—during the recession, no less—I had no clear idea how a bookstore was going to thrive in a tiny village like Gresham. Not only did it thrive, it went beyond my wildest expectations and forced me to expand to keep the momentum going.”

  Sasha chuckled. “Remember a year and a half ago when Harrison Sorenson tried to get you to sell your building on Main Street and move to a crappy section of town?”

  “He tried to convince me that it’d be better to let his wife have the space for some kind of shop. Of course, he stopped trying to run me out of my building after she wound up being murdered.”

  Gwendolen looked up with alarm. “Murdered?”

  Sasha put a hand on Gwendolen’s shoulder. “Yes, around the time of Applefest, when Granny Apple lashed back at all the people who had done her wrong.”

  Zachary glanced over at Alexander, who was looking very uncomfortable at where the conversation had gone. Alexander’s mother, Mary Damron, died at Applefest once Granny Apple, then the owner of a huge apple orchard and an amazing pie maker, laced her contest pie with peanut dust, knowing that Mary was deathly allergic to peanuts. Besides losing his mother, Alexander was briefly considered by law enforcement to be the murderer.

  “Hey, Angel of Death! Change the subject.” Zachary shot Sasha an icy glare.

  “What?” Sasha shrugged. “You afraid of making your newest employee uncomfortable?”

  “I’m more concerned about how uncomfortable my other, seasoned employee is right now.”

  Sasha glanced over at Alexander. “Oh, I didn’t even think!”

  Alexander stood up. “I think I’ll just call it a night. Sorry, Murphy, but I feel like we should go home.”

  Murphy smiled sympathetically. “We really must do this again sometime.”

  Zachary walked to the closet by the front door and opened it so Alexander and Murphy could retrieve their coats. “Guys, I’m sorry. I don’t know what...”

  “It’s okay,” Alexander interrupted. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

  After Alexander and Murphy hurried out the door, Zachary closed the door and turned to see Sasha standing a few feet away, looking like a puppy that had just piddled on the floor.

  Zachary slapped on a fake smile. “I’m so glad you were able to come over and liven up my little social gathering. Next time, you want to bring a couple of corpses along for visual aids?”

  “Zach, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think about what I was saying. I forgot that the murders of Primrose Sorenson and Mary Damron were connected. If I’d thought for a second, then...”

  “Sasha, maybe it’d be better if you went home. I think it’s safe to say poker night is over.”

  Sasha nodded. “We’ll talk soon. I’ll stop by the shop later this week and apologize to Alexander. Tell Newell and Gwen I said bye.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  Zachary walked back to the dining room table. “Hey, Gwendolen. I think the poker game’s over for tonight, so if you want to take off, it’s cool.”

  Gwendolen stood up. “No sweat, Zach. I’ll be at work bright and early tomorrow. By the way, you’re out of cheese puffs.”

  Zachary smiled as Gwendolen grabbed her coat and left. Newell walked in from where he’d been tending the fireplace, followed by Toby. He pulled Zachary into a hug.

  “That’s what we get for wanting to entertain in our new home,” Zachary said with a weak laugh. “Maybe we should build a barbed wire fence or dig a moat.”

  Newell shushed Zachary as he stroked the back of his head. “Trust me, honey. It’ll be all right in the morning.”

  Zachary looked in the mirror as he adjusted his red and white striped tie. It was almost time for the first opening reception of the White Eagle Art Gallery, and he wanted to look his best. Having a good friend opening up a new business, coupled with an exhibit that highlighted agriculture—a subject near and dear to Zachary’s heart—required attending in something other than casual attire.

  Newell peaked his head in the bedroom, a black Stetson adorning the top of his noggin. “Ready to paint the town red?”

  “I believe that would be an insult to the hostess and the artists, considering all the colors they used to create their brilliant pieces. However, I am ready to head into the village and check out the wonderful art. Can you grab my trench coat from the front hall closet while I put on my suit jacket?”

  “Consider it done. We’d better hurry if we want to get there by seven.”

  Zachary strode into the bedroom and put on his suit jacket, buttoning it up and taking another look at himself in the bedroom mirror. He walked into the living room, where Toby was sitting by the couch and Midnight on the arm of Newell’s recliner. Both animals were looking at him with curious expressions on their faces.

  “Hi, there. We’re off to see some pretty art. Don’t wait up for us.”

  Newell handed Zachary his black trench coat before putting his own on. The two men walked briskly to Newell’s truck as the frigid night air left angry sensations on their faces. Fortunately, the heater in the truck worked like a dream when they climbed in.

  “So are you excited to see the full exhibit, considering you’ve already gotten a sneak peek?”

  “Absolutely. The Reimers have been big supporters of Gresham. They gave three thousand dollars when we were trying to raise funds to renovate the Lonesome Pine Ballroom. I think Anne Marie chose well to have a special tribute to all they’ve accomplished in the county and in life. I hope we can live long enough to celebrate fifty-six years of being together.”

  Newell grinned at the suggestion. “So how did they get their nicknames, anyway?”

  “Well, Osgood’s family has been involved in raising cattle and making beef jerky since the turn of the 20th century, so it was easy for Osgood to be referred to Beef Jerky. As for Muriel, she came from a prominent family in Door County known for raising cherries. When she brought a steady stream of cherries from the peninsula to Shawano County, people quickly started to refer to her as Cherries Jubilee. From what Anne Marie and others have told me, the two were polar opposites from what you would expect in a couple. Muriel was bubbly and cheerful to a fault, while Osgood was a cranky, old man long before he’d developed any wrinkles.”

  “Yet they managed to build an amazing food processing empire right here in tiny Shawano County. Reimer Foods delivers to all the restaurants in town. I remember the night when Sigrid told us that the secret ingredient to what made her cherry pies so good was sweet cherries provided through Reimer.” Newell paused for a moment. “I wonder if any of their delights will be served at the reception.”

  “I believe Sigrid was going to serve snack sausages and cheese, with cherry tarts for dessert.”

  Newell whistled. “You might need to run to the feed store and get a forklift to haul me out of the reception if that’s the menu. It’ll be like I died and went back to Texas.”

  Zachary chuckled. Even though Newell had made it clear a number of times he planned to spend the rest of his life in Wisconsin, there were moments when it was obvious he was a Texas country boy through and through.

  Newell pulled the truck up to the curb next to The Literary Barn. The art gallery next door appeared abuzz with activity. Zachary was glad, as he really wanted to see Anne Marie succeed after all the work she put into it.

  He stepped onto the sidewalk and noticed the community quilt that Newell and others with the Gresham Community Associat
ion had been working on. It had a lump of clay starting to take form in the center, with a painter’s palette and brushes to the right and a bronze head to the left. The background was painted forest green with a yellow sun. Zachary stopped and admired it for a moment. His man had pulled out a beautiful work of art, and it made him excited to see what he and the GCA would come up with for his shop.

  As Zachary and Newell stepped through the front door, the sounds of the Shawano County Symphony Orchestra spiraled into the bitter Gresham night. Inside, some of the county’s elite, mostly from Gresham, were standing inside—talking in small groups, admiring paintings, nibbling cheese cubes. Zachary grabbed two glasses of champagne and handed one to Newell.

  “Looks like Anne Marie’s big opening is being well received,” Newell said after taking a sip.

  “I know. It’s so exciting having something new and different in town. I realize Gresham has gone through a bit of ‘plastic surgery’ so to speak—me expanding The Literary Barn, Sigrid converting her diner into a supper club—but it can be good to move the status quo off center.”

  Zachary felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw Miles La Rouche, who owned the community grocery store, standing next to him. “Good evening, Zachary. It’s nice to see so many people out for this wondrous occasion.”

  “I know. Let’s hope this kind of support for the gallery continues long after the champagne and caviar have been consumed.”

  Miles looked confused for a moment, and then smiled and chuckled. “Oh, you mean for the gallery. I was talking about the tribute to Muriel and Osgood! I think Jasper Walters has outdone himself, don’t you?”

  Zachary nodded. “It’s certainly some beautiful work. Who knew you could take something as simple as farm life and turn it into something so elegant?”

  “Muriel really translates well into art, doesn’t she? She really is a magnificent woman, so vibrant and alive, and I think Jasper’s painting captures her spirit perfectly.”

  Zachary looked at Miles for a few moments, unsure of how to respond. The way the elderly man was speaking seemed to indicate he was smitten with Muriel, but that couldn’t possibly be true. Could it?

  “I take it you and the Reimers are old friends.”

  Miles chuckled. “Fifty years ago, I was helping Osgood herd cattle in preparation for butchering and making into jerky. Long days out in the valleys of Shawano and Waupaca counties with the only sounds coming from birds singing and cows emitting lonesome moos as they wandered the terrain. I’ll tell you, though, it was always worth it, because Muriel would have a couple of her cherry pies waiting for us to have after dinner.”

  “Sounds wonderful. You must be so happy for the couple. Maybe Jasper Walters could do a painting showing the lifelong friendship you and Osgood have had, something with the two of you out on the range herding the cattle.”

  Miles’ face dropped. “Maybe after he does a brilliant portrait of Muriel in the kitchen, baking her cherry pies. She really is the heart of the marriage.”

  Newell looked confused. “Are you saying that your lifelong friend doesn’t supply any love?”

  Miles leaned in and whispered. “Let’s just say he knows how to handle cows better than people and leave it at that. Now, I’m off to find something to snack on. Good evening.”

  As soon as Miles was out of earshot, Zachary turned to Newell. “What the hell do you suppose that was all about?”

  Newell shrugged. “I think we ran into the token crazy person that has to be at every event, although I don’t remember him being so odd when we’ve gone grocery shopping.”

  “Let’s just hope he’s the only one, and let’s just hope what he said can be blamed on too much champagne. I will admit he came up with one good idea, though. Point me to the finger food!”

  “Finger food! When Sigrid caters, people do not have to settle for finger food!” Sigrid stood next to Zachary with a food tray. “Try the mini lasagnas. The taste of an entire meal in just a few bites!”

  “Definitely not fingers.” Zachary smiled as he took two small plates and handed one to Newell. “So what happened to the snack sausages and cheeses you were going to serve?”

  “They’re over at the food table in the corner, but I really wanted to serve something beyond the ordinary tonight.”

  “Looks like the opening is good for your business.”

  “Of all the exhibits Anne Marie could have come up with, I think this was the best. The Reimers are like the Shawano County counterpart to the Kennedys. So regal, yet so real.”

  Zachary bit his lip, knowing full well how the Kennedy family had more than its fair share of untimely deaths. The same could be said for Gresham, too.

  “I think it’s lovely,” Zachary said. “I just hope the allure extends beyond tonight’s event. People can be very fickle when it comes to art, and we’re in a slow part of the year.”

  Sigrid nodded. “I know what you mean, but Anne Marie has a lot of support in the area. The Menominee Tribe in particular is quite supportive. I mean, take a look at how many tribal members are here tonight.”

  Zachary scanned the room. He recognized Anne Marie’s brother, the tribal chairman, at least four members of the tribal council, a dozen elders, the director of the tribe’s cultural heritage center and at least twenty run-of-the-mill Menominee.

  Newell took a bite of his lasagna and moaned with delight. “Sigrid, you definitely have a winner here. These would make good appetizers at your supper club.”

  Sigrid blushed at the compliment and kissed Newell’s cheek before turning to Zachary and saying, “This man is definitely a better one than your previous ex-husband.”

  Zachary shook his head. “Sigrid, I don’t know any other way to tell you this, but Kevin and I were never married, and we were certainly never lovers. We lived together but had separate lives. I wish you’d understand that Kevin has never been anything more than a friend.”

  Sigrid smiled as she walked away with her food tray, like she didn’t believe Zachary’s protests. As nice as she was, this mistaken belief that Zachary and Kevin were once inseparable lovers was the only nagging thing that Zachary disliked about her.

  “Plus I’m a better dresser than Kevin.” Newell pursed his lips.

  Zachary scowled. “Not funny.”

  Newell held up his thumb and forefinger. “It’s a little funny.”

  “Yoo hoo! Zach! Newell!” Anne Marie motioned for the two men to come join her. “Are you two having a good time tonight?”

  “It’s been very interesting.” Zachary hoped Anne Marie didn’t detect the uneven tones in his statement.

  Anne Marie motioned to the other two people in the group. “I’d like you to meet Rose Garner, granddaughter to Osgood and Muriel Reimer, and her sweetheart, Sajen Hawpetoss. Sajen is a painter, and a very good one, from what family members have told me.”

  Sajen blushed and shook his head. “My work is pedantic. It lacks fire, passion.”

  Rose squeezed Sajen’s arm. “Sajen, you’re always too hard on yourself. You are your own worst critic. Your work is brimming with passion. The images that come through your brush are absolutely inspired.”

  Anne Marie put a hand on Sajen’s shoulder. “She’s not the only one who thinks so. I’ve received a number of calls and emails from people who think you should have your own show.”

  “Really?” Sajen looked nonplussed, like he couldn’t believe anyone would consider him to be a legitimate artist. “I guess it comes from being in a family where artistic talent of any kind is generally frowned upon. My parents thought I should continue the family tradition of working in the timber industry up on the reservation. Then again, my family consists of more than its fair share of raging drunks.”

  The silence in that small area was noticeable. At least, it was to Zachary, so he decided to change the subject.

  “So, Rose, you must be really proud of your grandparents and all they’ve accomplished.”

  Rose scoffed. “I’m sure the county
finds my grandparents to be radiant saints, but none of the other folks have had to live with them. They are so steeped in outdated principles, and they’re so against me having a relationship with Sajen that they actually forbade me from seeing him. Can you believe that? Like people do that anymore!”

  Zachary looked out of the corner of his eye and saw that Muriel was no longer standing next to her husband on the other side of the room. She was weaving through the crowd of people in the gallery, her eyes set on Rose and the forbidden boyfriend she was arm in arm with. Zachary was wondering if it was too late to go back to the topic of the drunken despots that make up Sajen’s family.

  “Young lady, you had better explain yourself!” Muriel forcefully pulled Rose away from Sajen. “I have warned you that I don’t want you associating with his kind.”

  “And what kind would that be?” Rose asked, anger radiating from her eyes. “Indian? Menominee?”

  “You know very well what I mean, Rose, and I am appalled that you would make look like a racist in public.”

  “You’re not exactly denying it, Mrs. Reimer,” Sajen said as he folded his arms.

  “You’re not the one I’m speaking to. How exactly did you get in here, anyway? I thought this event was supposed to be by invitation only!”

  Anne Marie stepped forward. “He’s here as my guest, Mrs. Reimer. I invited several promising young artists here to further expose them to a creative outlet where they can channel their talents.”

  Muriel raised a finger for emphasis. “That’s what I was referring to! Rose, I don’t want you to be corrupted by an artist!”

  Zachary could tell by the inflection in her voice that Muriel’s claim to dislike artists was not entirely truthful. There were definitely other layers to this wall between Muriel and Sajen.

  Sajen glared at Muriel. “And how exactly am I corrupting your granddaughter, ma’am?”

  “By using conjunctions to start your sentences, for starters. More to the point, artists are not known for getting a steady paycheck. If you were to take a real job and have a regular income coming into your home, you might be almost suitable for our kin, but when was the last time you had a job?”