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Drizzled with Death(34)

By:Jessie Crockett


“Well, at least the construction on her property should grind to a halt. That should be good news for you and Felicia, shouldn’t it?”

“It’s great that nothing more is likely straightaway, but I don’t know what whoever gets the property now will do with it.”

“So you don’t know who will be getting the property then?”

“No idea. I didn’t know Alanza until she had settled into the house over there and started introducing herself around town as the owner. If I had known how things were going to go, I would have sold the business and headed south like all the rest of the geezers.”

“You’re not a geezer and you know it.” Felicia Chick, Roland’s wife of thirty-something years, emerged through the doorway, her arms full of folded table linen. “Are those from your grandmother?” She nodded toward the pickles.

“They are. She wanted me to bring them by so you’d be sure to have them for Thanksgiving. And she said to tell you she was sorry to have missed the quilting group Friday evening.”

“Tell her we missed her, too. Come on back to the kitchen. I’ve got the ones to trade on the counter.” Felicia thrust the stack of tablecloths and napkins into Roland’s outstretched arms. “Be a love and spread these round while I tend to Dani. And try to think of something pleasant. Your face looks like a blood sausage.” I followed Felicia’s slim frame to the back of the house, where the kitchen stood, warm and smelling of cinnamon and yeasted bread.

“I tried something a bit different this year. I hope your family will like it.” Felicia handed me a jar of crabapple pickles. I turned it around in my hand admiring the color as the fruit swirled gently in the rosy pickling liquid.

“Whatever made you think of these?” I asked.

“My mother used to make them and I was feeling nostalgic. You’re probably still too young to get that way, but someday once you’ve gotten older, those things your parents used to do will mean a great deal to you.”

“They already do. That’s why I’m so committed to making a success of Greener Pastures.” Making my father’s favorite thing, maple syrup, let me feel closer to him even though he was gone.

“How insensitive of me. I’m getting old and run at the mouth sometimes. Forgive me?” Felicia’s warm brown eyes crinkled with concern. She might have been ten years older than my mother but you couldn’t guess it looking at her.

“No need. I understand. So why did your mother make these?”

“She competed religiously at the local county fair, and Millicent Marcotte used to beat her for the blue ribbon every year. Finally, she had had enough and decided to go all out with something different.”

“Crabapple pickles?”

“We always had a bumper crop and she thought they were so pretty. She decided to tinker with them a bit at a time until she got the flavor just right. I’ll bet you can guess the secret ingredient.”

“Maple syrup?”

“You got it. She went to a neighbor who tapped his trees and got a gallon of it. Then she set to work in earnest.”

“How long did it take her to come up with something?”

“We ate a version of the darn things every night for at least a month.”

“But the crabapples wouldn’t have come ripe until after the fair, would they?”

“Well, that was the worst of it, waiting almost a whole year to enter them into the fair. Mother started picking fruit about a week after the fair was all over.”

“Did she enter anything at all that year?”

“No. She didn’t get around to it since she was so busy putting up trials of the new recipe. Millicent told everyone Mother had finally given up because she realized she just couldn’t win.”

“Please tell me she got back at her.”

“In spades. Mother won the blue ribbon, best in show, prettiest, and they even made a new category for most creative. After Mother died, they named the prize the Norinda Bett Folsom Ingenuity Award.”

“So your mother was a Bett, too, before she married?” There were more Betts coming out of the woodwork in Sugar Grove than carpenter ants.

“She was indeed. Between the Betts and the Greenes, we make up the majority of the population. When it comes down to it, Myra and I are cousins of a sort.”

“Speaking of Greenes, if I don’t get these pickles back to the house and start giving my grandmother a hand with the Thanksgiving preparations, I am going to be in big trouble.” Felicia walked me to the door, and in no time I was zipping along the road, headed for home and all the whirlwind of preparations for the upcoming holiday the family was stirring up.