Macaroni and Freeze Page 3

  “In about August,” someone quipped from one of the red vinyl booths.

  That joke never got old in Sandy Harbor.

  “You got that right,” Megan said, then turned to me. “I’ve got some news about the library fund-raiser, Trixie.”

  “Great. Let’s get a booth in the back and we can talk.” I handed Max the mop, hoping that he’d get the message to finish up. “When you’re done, maybe you should put the air machine on to dry it.”

  Max nodded and shuffled to the small maintenance closet near the restrooms, dragging the wet mop behind him. Max had come to visit my uncle Porky way back in the day and had never left, so my uncle had hired him as a maintenance man. The same thing happened with Clyde, incidentally. Clyde and Max are inseparable, and they miss my uncle Porky something awful.

  “Cup of coffee?” I asked Megan.

  “Please.”

  She seated herself in the last booth as I went and got two coffees and two of the cherry hand pies I’d been dreaming about the other day. Oh, I was still on my diet. It’s just that I didn’t think it was polite to let Megan eat alone.

  “Trixie, I’m so excited!”

  “Spill!”

  “My mother got the Countess of Comforting Comfort Food, Miss Priscilla Finch-Smythe, to agree to come and judge and to host the winner on an episode of her show! She’ll be returning to Sandy Harbor after an absence of more than forty years!”

  “Why has she stayed away for so long?” I asked.

  “She’s been busy with her TV show!”

  “Oh.”

  I had to wait until Megan finished fixing her coffee and took her first sip to hear more. By then I was just about ready for another hand pie.

  “I can hardly believe that Mabel Cronk—I mean, Priscilla—is going to judge our macaroni and cheese contest. Wait until I tell the Tri-Gams!”

  “The who?”

  Megan grinned. “Gamma Gamma Gamma. The Tri-Gams. It’s a sorority at Sandy Harbor High School that started before my time. The first president was Antoinette Chloe Brown. I believe you know her.”

  “Antoinette Chloe Brown, or ACB for short, is a good friend of mine. We’ve had some crazy times together.”

  “Well, Antoinette Chloe started the Tri-Gams to reach out to the real rural gals on farms. She thought that they needed to socialize more, have more friends, and get more involved in the Sandy Harbor community. The Tri-Gams are actually still active in the high school.”

  “That’s ACB, for you. She has a heart of gold.”

  “The best thing is that Priscilla was a Tri-Gam herself, and she specifically mentioned that the sorority must host a tea for her so she can see everyone again.”

  “Must?”

  “Oh yes. Mab—I mean, Priscilla—was very specific. And it has to be at your house.”

  “My house? Why? I don’t even know Priscilla . . . well, except for her TV series, which I watch every Monday night—Totally Comforting Comfort Food. Why my house?”

  Megan took a loud sip of coffee. “You know, Priscilla used to work for your aunt Stella here at the diner. My mom told me that she always loved the old Victorian. Over the years she’d constantly nag your aunt Stella and uncle Porky to sell it to her, but then she moved permanently to California for her TV show. I think she still holds a torch for the house.”

  “I see.” I thought about it a bit. “You know, Megan, I suppose it’s good publicity for my diner and my housekeeping cottages to have a celebrity chef such as Priscilla Finch-Smythe visiting the Big House.”

  “The Tri-Gams will help you set up everything, of course. Oh, and Priscilla has some other demands.” Megan helped herself to the last cherry hand pie before I could snatch it up.

  “Oh?” Something told me that I’d probably need another pie after this conversation was finished. Blueberry this time—or maybe peach. Maybe both.

  “We can’t call her Mabel. We can call her either Priscilla or Cilla, for short. Or Miz Finch-Smythe. After all, the world thinks she’s British, and she wants to keep her TV persona safe.”

  “Won’t they find out that she’s from Sandy Harbor? I mean, someone is bound to tell the press,” I said.

  “Her press kit says that she was born in Sandy Harbor but was raised in England for most of her life—that’s why she has the accent. Then she came back to Sandy Harbor for high school.”

  “Oh, I see. I guess.” But I wasn’t so sure I did.

  “It’s not that she doesn’t care about Sandy Harbor,” Megan said defensively. “Did you know that Priscilla donated her whole cookbook collection to our library?”

  “No. I didn’t.” I did know that the library’s cookbook collection had been extensive—I’d visited that section of the library on numerous occasions. I loved going through the cookbooks for new ideas and had copied down several recipes.

  Megan’s eyes pooled with tears. “We had the biggest collection of cookbooks in the whole county. And now they’re all ruined.”

  “Well, we’ll have a successful contest and will be able to restore the library to all its former glory. I’m sure of it, Megan. Try not to worry.”

  “You’re right, Trixie.” Megan blotted her eyes. “So, we’re having a tea party in her honor, and— Oh, I forgot to tell you this, but she wants to stay—”

  “Not at the Big House!” I blurted. I’d had enough people staying at my house lately to last me until menopause and beyond.

  “No.” Megan chuckled. “And I wish you’d stop calling it the Big House. It sounds like a jail.”

  I called it that simply because that’s what it was—a Big House. With its eightish bedrooms, about the same number of bathrooms, wraparound porch, massive kitchen, and other expansive rooms, it was easily one of the biggest houses in Sandy Harbor.

  “Actually, her assistant, Jill Marley, told me that Priscilla has a fancy motor home she likes to stay in. It’s like a rock-star bus,” Megan said, clearly enthralled. “She plans on staying just a couple of days, but she wants to plug in to the Victorian for water and electric, if that’s okay with you. She said she’d pay you a stipend to cover the costs.”

  A stipend?

  Megan pulled out a piece of yellow legal paper from her purse, put on a pair of green rhinestone glasses, and pointed to the middle of the paper.

  “Priscilla will also need a cottage for her motor-home driver, Peter McCall. Peter is her stepson from her second marriage.”

  Megan looked over her glasses at me. “I think Peter’s father was some Hollywood big shot named Francisco, or something like that. If I remember correctly from what I read in the tabloids, he invested in a few movies and had a couple of hits. He drowned in a hot tub at some party Priscilla didn’t attend. Her third marriage was a quickie. After he got back from their honeymoon, he ran off with Priscilla’s maid.”

  “What happened to her first husband?” I wondered.

  “That’s all been hushed up, but I understand he was a married man who worked with Priscilla in New York City. At the time Priscilla was prepping for another chef. I heard he left his wife and ran away to California to be with Priscilla when she took another job. I think they lived together until he got divorced from his first wife—which Priscilla paid for. Soon after, about a year later, she threw him out.”

  “Wow! That’s so awful!” I knew all about husbands who cheat with other women, from personal experience. I looked down at my dirty sneakers so Megan wouldn’t see me tearing up. Deputy Doug’s betrayal still hurt, and I was all set to dislike Priscilla for taking up with another woman’s husband—although he was clearly to blame, too.

  I shouldn’t judge. What did I know? Only what Megan “heard,” which was probably just local gossip—or tabloid gossip.

  Also, I really needed to get on board with all of these plans, at least for the sake of the fund-raiser. But even though Megan was
enchanted with the thought of TV royalty coming to Sandy Harbor, I was beginning to think that Priscilla was going to be a pain in my ample butt.

  “In addition to a cottage for Peter”—Megan pointed to her list—“Priscilla would like a cottage for her assistant, Jill Marley. There might be some more people in her entourage, but she’ll let us know how many to expect as the date gets closer.”

  Megan pushed her glasses to the edge of her nose. “Trixie, maybe you should reserve all of your cottages for Cilla’s entourage.”

  Entourage?

  I motioned to Nancy that I needed more coffee and more hand pies right away. Actually, make that a pot of coffee and a dozen pies!

  Barely listening, I nodded numbly as Megan continued with the list of Priscilla Finch-Smythe’s demands.

  “Wait. What was that last one?”

  “She wants you to name a breakfast, lunch, or dinner special after her. She might create the dish or let you do it, but she wants you to feature it in the Silver Bullet a week before she arrives and a week after she leaves.”

  “That’s clear as mud,” I mumbled, thinking that no one would judge me too harshly if I began whining. “Just so you know, Megan, if Priscilla does decide to create something, someone should tell her that my customers don’t like a lot of fancy stuff.”

  “Uh, Trixie. She’s the Countess of Comforting Comfort Food, remember? She wouldn’t cook fancy.”

  Yikes! In my stress, I’d forgotten that key point.

  “Maybe I should name a dessert after her, too,” I joked.

  “That’s a brilliant idea! What a nice touch for Cilla. I can’t wait to tell her.”

  There goes my big mouth again!

  “Uh, Megan, could you e-mail me her list of demands so I can keep them all straight?”

  She smiled. “Don’t you mean her requests?”

  “Yes, that’s what I meant. Her requests.”

  “I’ll write them down for you.” Megan clasped her hands in front of her. “Oh no. I forgot to tell you that some of the Tri-Gams and I were talking, and we thought that the macaroni and cheese contest should be held at the Culinary Building at the county fairgrounds. There’s lots of counter space there and more than enough stoves for the chefs who will be participating, in addition to plenty of restrooms and chairs for spectators. There’s parking, too. It’s a perfect venue.”

  “Perfect,” I echoed, thankful that the contest wasn’t going be held here at the point. If the contest were held here, it would be a logistical nightmare.

  Is Megan going to eat that peach pie or not?

  She continued. “The Tri-Gams will see to it that Cilla has fresh flowers in her motor home and transportation to and from the county fairgrounds. We will also order a corsage for her so she can wear it to the tea. And we’d like everyone to wear hats and gloves to the tea, maybe even period costumes.”

  Period costumes? They can’t mean that!

  Was the queen of England arriving or just the Countess of Comforting Comfort Food?

  “Period costumes would be a nice touch—don’t you think so, Trixie? It would be so much fun!”

  Ugh. If there was anything I hated, it was wearing costumes.

  I took a deep breath. “I guess it depends on what time period you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, you know, something from the Downton Abbey period. Before they started wearing short dresses.”

  “I see.”

  I signaled Nancy for another hand pie and dunked it into my coffee. My two favorite vices in one.

  “Oh, I’m so nervous, Trixie. Priscilla Finch-Smythe is the first real celebrity I’m going to get to meet. I want everything to be just perfect!”

  “I saw Dolly Parton at O’Hare Airport in Chicago once,” I told Megan, but she was worriedly looking over her list again. “Megan, please relax. Sandy Harbor will welcome Priscilla with open arms. We won’t breathe a word to anyone that she isn’t British. We’ll have the tea for her with the Tri-Gams and it’ll be nice, with or without Downton Abbey period costumes. I’ll name some kind of dinner special after her. She’ll judge our contest at the fairgrounds, and then she’ll drive her rock-star bus out of Sandy Harbor and onward to another adventure. Easy peasy!”

  “Don’t forget her entourage. You need to save room in your cottages!” she said as she pushed her unfinished cherry hand pie away.

  Is she crazy? Or just frazzled?

  “Oh, Trixie, what if I forgot something really important?”

  “I think we have everything covered except a parade,” I joked.

  But Megan didn’t see it as a joke.

  “Oh, Trixie! What a fabulous idea! I’m going to call an emergency meeting of all the Tri-Gams who are still local, and we’re going to plan a parade!”

  Megan jumped up from the booth, rewrapped her scarf around her neck, and slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat. She ran out of the diner without zipping up her parka, powered purely by the thrill of a parade.

  A parade in the dead of winter? Where would everyone stand? In the ten-foot snowbanks that lined the streets of downtown Sandy Harbor?

  And just think. It was my all idea.

  Chapter 4

  It was the day of the parade and Priscilla’s tea, and, of course, there was a raging blizzard outside.

  It was Friday the thirteenth of February. The awful weather was not due to bad luck—not really—it was just a typical winter day in northern New York.

  Despite everything, I was ready to tackle the rest of the events. Ty insisted that I looked tired and should get some more sleep. But no, not me. I promised him I’d relax after this event, but while I was cochair, I would totally immerse myself in my duties and do my best to make the contest as successful as possible.

  In the meantime, Ty promised me he was going to train the Tri-Gams’ husbands in what needed to done to help with the parade.

  We had sleet, rain and snow, which Heather “Flip a Coin” Flipelli said would end before the parade started—unsurprisingly, they didn’t. But the streets of Sandy Harbor were plowed to the bone and sufficiently coated with salt and sand. Bravo to Ty again, and to Karen Metonti and Bruce Barker, the other snowplow driver.

  Just as I suggested, Karen and Bruce led the parade with the town’s two plows, scraping away any rogue snowflakes that dared to fall.

  The Sandy Harbor High School’s marching band came next. They walked with a banner that said WELCOME, PRISCILLA FINCH-SMYTHE!

  From my position on the bleachers, I could hear the chattering teeth of the poor girls in red sequined jumpsuits. They were sleeveless, no less, and snow was accumulating on the front of their jumpsuits. Poor kids.

  They needed winter uniforms! And that was just what I was going to suggest to the bandleader after the parade wrapped up. I’d fund them myself if I needed to, just to avoid being elected chairperson of another fund-raiser!

  Then came the Amish horse-drawn wagon with Priscilla Finch-Smythe in it. The two draft horses were covered in blankets of red silk flowers, as if they’d just won some kind of prestigious draft-horse derby.

  The parade watchers went crazy cheering, craning their necks and clapping their gloved and mittened hands. It was muffled clapping, but Priscilla got the idea.

  She looked thinner in person than she did on TV, and much older. She had on a red wool coat, complete with a wrist corsage, probably from the Tri-Gam Corsage Committee, a white hat and gloves, and a red-and-white-flowered scarf that she knotted stylishly around her neck.

  I thought she looked fashionable, though my good friend ACB would say that she was a boring dresser.

  Priscilla blew kisses to the spectators sitting in the bleachers and waved her hand like Queen Elizabeth.

  Red would be the color of the weekend due to Valentine’s Day. Currently, the Big House was decorated in enough red crepe paper, pa
per hearts, and red twinkle lights to light up the sky for Santa.

  I had found several red tablecloths in Aunt Stella’s linen closet as well as red napkins. And I had polished enough silver trays, coffeepots, teapots, sugar bowls, creamers, and pitchers to make pawnshops weep.

  The Tri-Gam Tea Committee was giddy with excitement over my finds, and they added yet more silver and crystal plates covered with little tea sandwiches, sans the crusts, and delicate pastries.

  I don’t know where Priscilla parked her motor home. It hadn’t arrived in my parking lot yet, nor had her entourage, but that was the job of the Tri-Gam Motor Home and Entourage Committee.

  I cleaned the Big House from top to bottom, since there was no Tri-Gam committee for that. And Blondie was under orders not to shed one single hair.

  The snow finally did stop and the sun came out just as Heather Flipelli predicted that the snow would fall for the rest of the day and that it would be dark and gloomy. I could see the volunteers of the fire department exchanging money. They probably had bets on Heather’s weather report.

  The only glitches were a couple of baton twirlers who slid on a patch of ice and skidded on their butts for part of the parade. They quickly got up and kept on twirling.

  The parade turned at the Gas and Grab on Route 3, and then it proceeded back the way it had come, basically because there was only one main road in Sandy Harbor’s downtown district, and the Gas and Grab had a driveway that went around the building—which was perfect for parades.

  Spectators stood their ground, knowing they’d get a repeat performance.

  This time the baton twirlers were careful and the Boy Scouts that were sidelined for throwing snowballs were allowed to return to the parade with strict instructions not to make or throw a snowball under any circumstances.

  Priscilla still smiled and waved, warming her hands intermittently under a purple velvet lap blanket. When one of the horses took care of business near where I was standing, Priscilla pantomimed a hearty laugh, waving her hand across her nose.

  The spectators loved it. And they loved her. And why shouldn’t they? Priscilla was going to help save their beloved library.