“You blew out of the house so fast, I didn’t get the chance to give you your ticket for Friday night,” Lizzie said.
Matt didn’t like that word in any Keene’s Harbor context, be it parking or speeding or, far worst of all, admission. And even though this was Lizzie on the phone, he was damn certain that she was referring to the dreaded admission ticket to whatever Friday night benefit was planned at the Brotherhood of Woodsmen’s Hall.
“There’s a fund-raiser for Lester Pankram,” she said.
Matt winced. Lester was a nice old guy, but thrift had gotten the better of him. He’d been driving his tractor along the shoulder of a road when he’d seen a beer can. Hot for the ten cent refund, he’d stuck his tractor in neutral and hopped down. Blind to anything but that shiny can, he’d failed to note the road’s downhill slope and had pretty much run himself over. He’d come out of the incident with a broken leg, the sure knowledge that he’d become a Town Legend, and a Friday fund-raiser that would be held to help cover his medical expenses.
“I’m working Thursday and Friday this week,” Matt said. “There’s a private party at the brewery on Thursday, and we’re always slammed on Friday night.”
He rolled away from the nearly weekly fund-raisers the way Lester should have from his tractor. For some reason, at these events the older folks in town found it amusing to reminisce about the many dumb-assed moves Matt had made as a kid. The talk came with multiple elbows in the ribs, wry winks, and laughing. A lot of the stuff was funny when he heard it the first time of the night, but by the fifth or so time around, he found himself remembering why he’d decided to build his home deep in the woods. And why he liked to send an anonymous envelope of cash to the fund-raiser’s beneficiary.
“Let your staff do what you pay them for, and come to the fund-raiser,” Lizzie said. “You can meet and greet there, too.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“How about you don’t, this time? You skip ninety-nine percent of these things. It makes you look like a hermit.”
He smiled at the gap in her logic. “Only if you can find me to see me.”
“I’m not joking, Matt. This is a town tradition, and we Culhanes have been part of the town forever. Dad wants you there with the rest of the family, even if he’s too proud to say it.”
That was the thing about Lizzie-she’d always known just how to get to his soft spot. She had none of the noise of his other sisters and ten times the efficiency. Matt didn’t want to disappoint his dad. He loved the man, even if he had never been able to pull off working side by side with him.
“I’ll stop by,” he said. “But no way am I staying the whole night.”
“That’s up to you. All I did was commit to getting you there.”
Matt sighed. No doubt another of his siblings had the duty of making him stay.
He wandered out of the kitchen and back to his spot in front of the fireplace, where Chuck slumbered on.
“Anything else?” he asked his sister.
“It would be nice if Depot Brewing dropped off a keg for the event, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
At least then he could be sipping some of his favorite Scottish Ale while being retold the tales of his youth.
“Great. And Matt, pick up Mom and Dad on the way to the hall, okay?”
His mom and dad were fully capable of driving to the hall, not to mention circumnavigating the globe.
“What? You don’t trust me to show up?”
Lizzie laughed. “I just know you.”
“Fine, I’ll pick them up. But so long as we’re horse-trading, do you want to do me a favor?”
“What?”
“When you’re on night patrol, take an extra loop by Depot, could you?”
“Do you want to tell me why?”
“It’s nothing big, just enough small stuff going down that I’d like a little extra attention.”
“Define small stuff,” she said in a voice that was now one hundred percent business.
“One set of flat tires on delivery trucks and an open freezer door. The first definitely took place after hours, and the second, maybe. Either way, an extra drive-by or two would help.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure we swing by more often. There’s not as much to patrol this time of year, anyway. And I’ll see you on Friday, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Matt said.
He disconnected and looked down at Chuck.
“Dude, I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
Chuck briefly opened one droopy hound eye as though to say “no way,” then cruised back to napland. The canine king would not be deposed.
IN BED but not sleepy, Kate reached for the phone to pick up her conversation with Ella.
“I just wanted to let you know I was alive,” she said when her friend answered.
“When you didn’t call back right away, I figured maybe you were putting Matt Culhane to one of the better uses God intended.”
“It was briefly tempting, but no.”
“Do tell.”
“I’d rather not,” Kate said. “It wasn’t one of my better moments. How about if we take a look at my big social picture, instead? I remain in social limbo. I need to start getting out and meeting Ct aer not more people.”
“That, I can help you fix. This Friday there’s a fund-raiser at the Woodsmen’s Hall. Why don’t you come along with me? It’s nothing all that thrilling. There’s beer, potluck, and gossip, but it’ll give you a chance to meet a few more people.”
Kate smiled. “I think you’ve just given me incentive to survive the rest of the week at work.”
Including Thursday’s private Halloween-themed party being thrown by Shay VanAntwerp. Jerry had told Kate she’d be doing a lot of detailed prep work for the gathering. Kate didn’t know what that meant, but she expected it wasn’t good.
“Don’t get your hopes up too high about this fund-raiser,” Ella said, then yawned. Too late. Kate was primed.
WEDNESDAY HAD been little more than a blur of frenzied work as the Depot crew prepared for Shay VanAntwerp’s annual extravaganza. It was now Thursday evening, and Kate was exhausted. She stretched the cramped fingers of her left hand and looked at the jack-o’-lanterns leering at her from tables set up in Depot Brewing’s loading dock area. Wednesday morning, she’d viewed Jerry’s assignment of creating fifty pumpkin carvings as a gift. This was her fun, artsy reward for having become BFFs with Hobart. For the first dozen works of art, she’d been all about the details, shaving away paper-thin bits of rind for perfect translucent accents. Frankenstein and Dracula came to life, along with a tribute to Stella, her poodle. As she’d worked, Kate had enthusiastically separated pumpkin seeds from guts, thinking that salty roasted treats at each of the party tables would be an ideal accent to Culhane’s fabulous brew. But by the afternoon, her gag reflex had kicked in, and washing slimy mutant gourd seeds had fallen off her list of volunteer activities. She had left work and taken a series of long hot showers, both before bed and after she’d woken this morning. No luck. She still smelled like a giant pumpkin.
By 5:30 P.M., Kate no longer cared how she smelled and her artistic impulses had begun to sputter. No more tiny tools for her, just a nasty, sharp filet knife.
“Almost done?” Laila asked as she entered the storeroom.
“Just three more to go.”
