Finally we rode back onto River Road at the Bridgewater Inn, where the veranda was full of people enjoying brunch. We took a right to head south on Swamp Pike, bounded by acres of golden corn shimmering in the heat.
Once in a while, there was a clearing between the cornfields with a brick Cape Cod and a wishing well on the front lawn, or a farmhouse where somehow the owner had managed to find the time to plant a few marigolds as well as attend to all their farm chores. A red and gold painted sign advertising custom furniture, millwork, and cabinetry stood at the end of a winding drive. Outside an old hotel that was now a bar, a sign hung saying, BIKERS WELCOME. From the Harleys and Schwinns outside, it obviously catered to both the motorized and the manpowered varieties.
Here and there I saw signs for the country fair tacked to a telephone pole or a building. Cee Cee had done a great job on the design, and Martha’s marketing committee had been busy. When we passed a nursery displaying a bounty of summer vegetables and flowers, I finally remembered to tell Joe about our part in the fair.
“Oh, by the way, Joe, I volunteered you to supply vegetables for a farm stand at the benefit for the Kratz children. Sorry I didn’t mention it before.”
“That’s okay,” Joe gasped as we headed up a slight hill. “I’ve got more rhubarb than I have recipes for, and there’s plenty of spinach, cabbage, and scallions coming up. Think there’s still some snap beans, peas, and strawberries, too.”
I didn’t know the exact address of the auction, but it was easy enough to spot. Cars were parked along both sides of the road, and a crowd had gathered on the grass in front of the white ranch house on its large corner lot. Also it would have been tough to miss Patsy’s voice coming over loud and clear on the microphone. It was a sure bet that no one in this neighborhood was sleeping in.
I grinned at Joe, and he smiled back, in the tender way of men and women who have just spent a passion-filled night together. I got off my bike slowly. Ow. Whose idea was it to ride bikes today?
Patsy and Betty looked like they were working well as a team. There was a break in the action as a couple of guys brought a mahogany tilt-top pedestal table up to the front. Patsy leaned down and gave me a high five. She clicked the off switch on the microphone. “Glad you’re okay, Daisy. Heard about what happened at the store.”
“Thanks.” I turned to Betty. “Hey, Betty, did you hear there’s a new detective on the case now? Maybe it’s good news for Angus?”
Betty made some sort of murmured agreement and then turned away to direct the men where to put the table. I couldn’t decide if she was distracted or simply not interested.
Seeing as the auction had started at 10 a.m., Joe and I had missed the preview, so we took a quick walk through the rows of tables set up under the attached carport to check out the remaining merchandise. Betty had lucked out with this house by not having to bring in tents to provide relief from the sun blazing overhead.
It was obviously an estate sale by the age of the furniture and the kitchen utensils, which must have been purchased when the person got married in the fifties. A hint of mothballs still clung to some of the fabrics, even out in the fresh air. Items were displayed on trays with a number attached to each one. Joe was intrigued with an antique coffee grinder from Brussels, until I reminded him we were riding our bikes.
The relatives were chatting with one another, and helping out with the auction by carrying sold furniture to people’s trucks. Even in their grief, you could sense the love, the connection, the great joy they’d shared with the person who had died. I knew there was a good foundation that would see them through the dark days ahead. That was the legacy the loved one left behind.
Not so with the Perkins boys.
Eleanor was right. That grandmother must have been a real harridan, no matter how accomplished a quilt maker.
Suddenly I became aware that people were staring at us, in particular a group of elderly women in the next row. We didn’t look that bad, did we? A little sweaty, and our hair might be messed up from the helmets, but bicyclists weren’t that unusual a sight around here.
Joe moved on to another table, but one woman was still staring at me, as if she could bore holes right through my cycling tank top. She looked vaguely familiar. I caught snatches of their voices under Patsy’s chanting. Not that they were bothering to keep their conversation private.
There’s that busybody teacher who trespasses on people’s private property.
She should mind her own business, instead of poking her nose where it’s not wanted.
I was ready to grab Joe and leave when I saw Liz Gallagher walking across the grass with two of her five children in tow.