FORTUNATELY, HARVEST FOR ALL has more responsible volunteers than I. Megan and Aretha had finalized plans for the costume drop-off and giveaway without me. The Ocean Alley Press agreed to publicize that we wanted children’s costumes, as did the radio stations. We even have a Facebook page now, thanks to Daphne. Librarians think of everything.
I'm not an after-the-fact critic, but I was a little concerned that we had decided to do the drop-off and giveaway the same day. The donations were to come in during the daytime, and the giveaway would start at four in the afternoon, as kids were getting home from school. Aretha was probably right -- it would be easier for us to get volunteers on one day instead of two or three. We'd keep costumes on hand until Halloween, so stragglers could get them other days.
It was only a few days before the fundraiser. Our planning was really compressed. However, because we had the generous services of the country club, there was no need to hustle for food donations for attendees or volunteers to manage a lot of games. Kids know how to trick-or-treat, and they expect candy at a Halloween party, not action. Or so I hoped.
In any event, today I stood at the counter at Harvest for All accepting non-perishable food and costumes that sported spiders and what looked like zombie blood.
It didn't take long to realize that half of the families in Ocean Alley wanted to get rid of costumes that had taken up space in closets or trunks for years. A tall woman sporting a black sweatshirt with orange pumpkins brought in an armload of pastel-colored fabric. It turned out to be half a dozen princess outfits, in varied sizes.
"I didn't want to give these away, but my daughter has three boys and she says she's done being pregnant." She looked at the pile of costumes and sighed. "No sense hanging onto these."
I offered her a donation receipt, which she declined, and carried the clothes into the First Prez hallway that abuts the pantry. Sylvia had brought into the hall the rolling racks used to hold coats during Sunday services. "We need more hangers," she said, looking stressed. For her that meant her shoulders weren't ramrod straight.
"Scoobie's going to call when he gets done at the hospital just after three. He can stop and buy a few batches of wire coat hangers. They're cheap."
Aunt Madge was seated at a portable sewing machine in the conference room where we have committee meetings. She has a fancy one at the Cozy Corner, but transporting it would be a big deal. Harry had carried in the small machine, saying that he had bought it used yesterday and oiled it up. "Madge said there will be costumes with rips and tears. You won't want to give kids stuff that doesn't look good."
I looked into the conference room. Aunt Madge’s hair was orange today, with a streak of black from her forehead to the nape of her neck. "Thank you, Aunt Madge."
She stopped sewing and looked up. "I see a future weekend in Maryland with Harry’s family, with you minding the Cozy Corner."
"Everyone’s a clairvoyant near Halloween." I grinned, gave her a four-fingered wave, and started back to the pantry.
I had done two appraisal visits yesterday and one this morning, and even managed to get all the floor plan measurements in the computer. I envisioned a long day in the courthouse tomorrow to check for comps. I couldn't have a better boss. Another one would tell me to work my Harvest for All schedule around appraisals and not vice versa.
It wasn't long before I decided we needed those hangers well before three and dashed to WalMart and back. I was feverishly hanging costumes on the clothes racks when Lester announced himself. I glanced at the doorway and felt faint with apprehension. We’ll scare away the donors.
Lester was dressed in the pirate costume he'd used at our Talk Like a Pirate Day fundraiser a few years ago. He looked like a worker pirate ready to swab a deck. He wore a sleeveless white tee-shirt, knee-length cut-off jeans, and a bandana around his head. A large pipe dangled from his mouth in place of the customary unlit cigar. He had a canvas sack slung over his shoulder and a huge grin on his face. "So, whaddya think?"
I was pretty sure Sylvia gagged, but I beat her to a comment.
"Very authentic, Lester. But, uh, why today and not the party in a few days?"
He looked a bit uncomfortable. "The dirt bag head waiter at the club doesn't always wanna let me in."
"Imagine that," Sylvia said. Until she spoke I thought she might have frozen with a skeleton costume over her arm.
Lester gave her what he probably thought was a disarming smile but looked more like a leer. "It wasn't my fault."
I didn't bother to ask what wasn't. Instead, I said, "Maybe you can help go through the donated costumes to see if any need to be repaired."
He waved a long rubber sword. "Aye, aye, matey." He followed the whirr of Aunt Madge's sewing machine and walked into the hall.
Megan was behind Sylvia, trying to look busy so she didn't laugh too hard. Sylvia looked at me. "I wonder if we've got too many crab pots in the water?"
I wanted to say if she was worried I was leaving, but settled for, "No, just enthusiastic crabbers."
Scoobie came in about three-thirty. He was dressed in black jeans and a black tee shirt, with a skeleton mask on his head, ready to be pulled over his face. Why is it that guys always wear scary costumes?
Sylvia had gone to the church office to have a cup of coffee, so I put Scoobie in charge of ensuring the costumes were organized by size.
He looked at the rack. "Are you separating by boys' and girls' costumes?"
He was greeted by brief stares from Aretha, Megan, Daphne and me.
"I think you're supposed to think most of them are gender-neutral," Lance said. He had arrived a few minutes earlier, bearing a bag of donuts and Max.
Scoobie didn't miss a beat. "If you want to wear a tu-tu it's fine with me."
Megan tossed an apple at him.
"Scoobie, boys don't..." Max began.
"Joke, Max. Remember we talked about how not all humor is straight-out funny?"
Max thought for a moment. "Now I get what you meant." He took an apple from the counter. "But I don’t want a tu-tu."
WHEN WE SHUT THE DOORS at seven o'clock, Lance, Max, Scoobie, and I sat or sprawled around the conference room. Others had left in stages, based on when they had to cook dinner or pick up someone from work. Thankfully, Lester was scheduled to show a home at five-thirty. I didn't think he would have had time to change, but it wasn't my business.
I looked up at Lance from my spot on the floor. "How many left?"
"I'd say fifteen or twenty, varied sizes." He glanced at Scoobie. "No tu-tus."
"Dang," Scoobie said.
I stared at the ceiling. "We'll probably get more donations over the next couple of days. And more people wanting them."
"How is your foot, your foot, Jolie?" Max asked.
"It's okay. The baby in the stroller wasn't heavy." I wiggled my toes, thankful I'd had on sneakers and not a more flimsy pair of shoes. In her confusion after I yelped, the mom had rolled the stroller backwards so it had gone over my foot twice.
"Lance, you want to go to Newhart's Diner with Scoobie, Max, and me?"
"Only if Scoobie wears his mask."
SLEEP EVADED ME, so I listened to Scoobie’s gentle breathing and moved closer to him. It wouldn’t be fair to wake him, since he had to get up early to go to work.
Scoobie’s even breathing had almost lulled me to sleep when my eyes flew open. Two things happened the day Joe got shot and both of them were near Mr. Markle’s store. Morehouse had told me he initially went to Java Jolt in casual clothes because police were investigating a car accident. Later, Mr. Markle said one person had fled the accident scene. What if that person was the same one who later shot Joe?