“These salads are too many.”
Pastor Debs surveyed the buffet. She nodded her agreement. Choirmaster Patty Fawley, who evidently was quite far along in this month’s book club selection, Jude the Obscure, was correct; the salads were too many.
“It’s a matter of ice,” said Pastor Debs. “We just don’t have enough of it to keep this picnic from becoming a botulism nightmare.”
Choirmaster Patty folded her arms across her bosom and studied the table.
“Let’s stack them for now,” she said. “We’ll pack the ice that we already have around them, and send someone out to get more. There’s Sheriff Dawbs. Perfect.” She waved wildly at the good sheriff who responded by trotting up to the two ladies. “Sheriff Dawbs, could you be a dear and run into town to fetch more ice? We don’t have enough to keep the salads cold until lunchtime. They should have plenty at the park office. You’ll be reimbursed, of course, from the Church Activities Fund.” Patty and Sheriff Dawbs looked to Pastor Debs.
“Of course,” said Debs. “Bring me a receipt. In the meantime, . . .” She pulled a $20 bill from her pants pocket.
Sheriff Dawbs jogged off on his quest, then zipped away in his car, happy to serve.
AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHHEEEEEEEE!!!!!
The bloodcurdling scream nearly launched Pastor Debs right out of her skin. It came from the direction of the fishing pier where the children were preparing a Maypole. It didn’t appear anyone had fallen into the water and the Maypole was still standing.
“I’d best check on the children,” she said. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
“No worries,” sang Patty. “I can manage here. Go ahead.”
By the time Pastor Debs reached the Maypole, a full-scale shoving match was in session.
“We’re supposed to wrap the ribbons around the pole in one direction as we dance around it together!” snarled Marlys, who was frequently at odds with Wiley, who frequently caused disorder. (It was bound to happen with a name like that. What were his parents thinking?) “We can’t all run wherever we want to. It’ll just make a huge tangle!”
Wiley, feeding on Marlys’s jangled nerve, raced with his ribbon around the other children, creating quite a hitch until the gentle strong hand of the pastor brought him to a stop.
Pastor Debs looked with compassionate consternation into Wylie’s eyes. She leaned towards him and whispered, “Can you see, Wylie, that soon the ribbons will all be one big knot? Let’s see what we can do to get them all loose again.”
Wiley and Pastor Debs went back and forth between studying the knot and retracing his steps to unweave it. The other children began to enjoy the puzzle and called out who to go before or behind next. Even Marlys relaxed and joined in as she understood the end result would be the order she craved.
With peace eventually restored to the kingdom, Pastor Debs returned to Patty and the salads. Patty had stacked them and packed them with ice. Now a sturdy tablecloth covered the neatly contained salad bar. Patty brushed her palms together, as if removing crumbs, pleased with her handiwork.
“Excuse me,” said Patty. “I’m off to the ladies.” And so, she embarked down the winding path, away from the picnic shelter, towards the bathrooms down by the beach.
Pastor Debs looked after her. To be frank, this whole church picnic was on Patty’s behalf. It had been a morbid transition from winter to spring. The groundhog had seen its shadow not once but twice and the snow and cold had lingered far longer than even the most ardent winter enthusiast could abide. Her flock had long lost their Christmas joy. They now tapped their feet and drummed their fingers during sermons. Every hymn became a dirge. During the recessional, where once the parishioners had gladly filed out and bid her adieu with warm handshakes and warmer smiles, they now raced past the bewildered reverend, barely wagging their soggy mittens at her.
In the midst of it all, choirmaster Patty’s poor husband Perceval went into a decline both physical and mental. His baritone once wound its way through the choir’s weekly serenade like a brook. Over the winter, however, it began to stray from the melody like a rusty leak from the church basement pipes. By Valentine’s day, his singing resembled a coyote’s howl. His behavior likewise transmogrified. He was chipper enough to be sure, but his mind occupied a distant plane.
Pastor Debs suggested to the Fawleys at the time, as gently and subtly as possible, that the new psychologist in town, Sharon, was in dire need of clients. A person would be doing her a great favor by making an appointment. When this fell on tone-deaf ears, Pastor Debs outright asked them to see the therapist for her own sake as well as theirs.
They shrugged off each attempt saying they hadn’t been happier in all their born days. At the last book club that Patty hosted (selected book was Return of the Native), Pastor Debs had stayed behind to encourage them to therapy one more time. Patty offered her a beatific smile and pressed a spicy cookie into Perceval’s hand. Perceval was the only person in town who liked—indeed craved—Patty’s baked goods. Perceval accepted the cookie, grinned, and gazed into space. Pastor Debs thus made an appointment with Sharon herself to discuss Perceval’s behavior. Alas, before the appointment was realized, Perceval realized a perfect-ten swan dive off of the widow’s walk of the Fawleys’ stately Victorian home.
Ever since that fateful dive, Patty paced said widow’s walk rubbing her hands a la Lady Macbeth, staring off to the horizon as if Perceval would someday sail back to her on a magical boat. Pastor Debs and Sheriff Dawbs had discussed Patty over decaf coffee following the next month’s book club. (They’d read Far from the Madding Crowd.)
“She’s called me to her house on the lake eight times since Percy died,” Sheriff Dawbs had said. “For all kinds of reasons. There’s a skunk under her deck; an intruder in the hedge; a peeping Tom at the parlor window. I check each complaint thoroughly, but I never find a confounded thing. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a threat, but whatever’s stalking her isn’t leaving any traces. I suggested she get a big dog or a roommate. Then she starts batting her eyelashes at me and says she’s just baked a cake or some such thing.” Here Sheriff Dawbs put down his coffee cup and lowered his eyes. “I’m not one much for sweets, not hers anyway.”
Pastor Debs made sure not to look at the plate of petit fours between them. Sheriff Dawbs had polished off three with his two cups of decaf. She smiled to herself with pride. She had fussed making the pretty wee cakes.
“The woman can’t cook,” Sheriff Dawbs had continued. “No matter what she brought out, they were just the weirdest tasting things you ever tried. I always tell her I’m on duty and have to leave on another call. I take one of whatever she’s offering with me. I try a small bite, but it never tastes right. I always end up putting it in the garbage. I don’t even give it to my spaniel.”
“She must really be taking Perceval’s death hard,” the reverend had said. “I’m going to invite Sharon the therapist to the May Day picnic. I really want a professional opinion on this—even if it’s just from watching her play volleyball.”
“And don’t get me started on those pelicans,” said Sheriff Dawbs. “She must be feeding them—what I don’t know. They can’t be eating her cookies, I know that much, but there’s always three or four of them in her backyard down by the dock every time I’m called over there. My job is to protect and serve, but those birds are big. Gives me the willies. They’re the prettiest things you ever saw out there on the lake. I just don’t recall ever seeing them on land before. Doesn’t seem right. Did I mention how big they are?”
So, Pastor Debs and Sheriff Dawbs had planned a happy and hopefully helpful church picnic. A pleasant day out by the lake at the state park would do the entire congregation good. It may not fix Patty Fawley, but it might dissipate the dreadful malaise that was blanketing her congregation. And what better day than May Day?
Pastor Debs bestowed a benevolent smile upon the children now dancing harmoniously around the Maypole. They were working up quite an appetite. Pastor Debs chuckled. So many salads! So many bowls and tubs of macaroni and mayonnaise! Good thing she’d taken the precaution of bringing all those hotdogs and marshmallows. If the children balked at the salads, there would still be plenty of kid-friendly picnic standbys.
And, true enough, once Sheriff Dawbs returned with the ice and the table was set up and the children called to eat, balk they did—every last one. Sheriff Dawbs built a grand bonfire at the center of the Sit & Learn Amphitheater, and so the kiddoes roasted their food and fed themselves and were content. The parents were pleased. The children were pleased. Pastor Debs was pleased. A May Day picnic was no time and place to worry about nutrition.
The children were lucky. The salads left much to be desired—much too much. At first, Pastor Debs worried that they had in fact gone off. Then she realized that they all tasted rather Christmassy, like pumpkin spice lattes or eggnog. Perhaps it was the pumpkin muffins Patty had brought for dessert. Pastor Debs thought they were more cupcake than muffin. They had cream cheese frosting for crying out loud. Muffins don’t have frosting. Patty insisted they were muffins; she also insisted that they were for adults only. She was adamant the children should not touch them. This induced the adults to deduce that they were laced with something fun like rum. Pastor Debs tipped off Sheriff Dawbs who was a steadfast attendee of AA meetings. In solidarity with the good sheriff, Pastor Debs forwent any of the wayward muffins.
The afternoon progressed and all were fed. The parishioners began to truly enjoy the picnic. Ginny Saxhaug, the second grade Sunday school teacher, lead them all in a rousing rendition of “Bill Grogan’s Goat.” Curtis Branche, the church’s lead usher, started up a game of statues. Helene Renfrew, who, toward the end of Perceval Fawley’s life, had whispered most urgently to Pastor Debs about his errant baritone, was now frolicking through the oak savannah. She’d never get those skorts clean again. As the adult activities heightened in raucousness, Pastor Debs and the Sheriff herded the wee lambs of the flock back to the Maypole. They encouraged the children to play grey duck and ring-around-a-rosy. Every so often, Pastor Debs cast an inquisitive eye to the adults. From afar, what with the statues game and what not, it seemed the parishioners were pretending to be humans and not quite succeeding. They danced and hopped and played tag. After such a long winter’s nap, Pastor Debs did not wish to stop the merriment; but, it was becoming a tad bit unsettling.
Then Sharon the therapist climbed a catalpa tree with an armload of pumpkin muffins and began pelting them at the picnickers below. Pastor Debs would have figured on letting this run its course. Sharon’s pitches, so far, had only made contact with Deacon Strauss, whom Pastor Debs had long wanted to pelt herself. Sharon could only hold a finite number of muffins after all. However, a particularly accurate and forceful pitch just then connected with cemetery caretaker Francis Conners who was in the midst of a rather accelerated pirouette and it caused him to spin towards the bonfire nearly falling into it. Only the equal and opposite force of Hector Bonsworth spinning into him from the other side of the bonfire averted calamity.
Action must be taken.
Leaving Sheriff Dawbs to attend the children, Pastor Debs capered to her flock to do what she could do. She first grabbed a nearby cooler, removed its remaining number of beverages, then dumped the melted ice onto the bonfire, effectively extinguishing it. One by one, she sequestered each parishioner in their respective automobile, first securing their keys and making note as best she could which key went with which car. She gave them each a juice box or can of soda pop with the idea that this would keep them occupied until help arrived.
She then looked to the Maypole area in hopes that Sheriff Dawbs would help her summon the appropriate emergency services. Ah, Patty was with him. She could help too. They were feeding bites of muffin to the pelicans. That’s odd, thought Pastor Debs. She’d never seen pelicans so close to shore before.
URRRKK-ICKK!!! URRRK-ICKKKK!!! URRRKK-ICKK!!! URRRK-ICKKKK!!!
EEEEEEEEEEK! AHHHHHWWWWHHHHH!!!
Children began running every which way. Pelicans swooped over their heads. The birds grabbed stray ribbons and flew around the Maypole creating a knot even young Wiley had never envisioned. It was a scene not far removed from Hitchcock’s The Birds, excepting the pelicans seemed more interested in the muffins than in the children.
Pastor Debs sped down to the Maypole melee. Together, she and Sheriff Dawbs herded the youngsters into one group; and hastened them to the safety of the sturdy, granite, WPA-built bathroom buildings. She did a headcount. One, two, three . . . One missing. Who? Wiley—of course! Pastor Debs looked back to the Maypole. Not there. The bonfire? No. The pier! He was at the very end of it, looking for all the world like he was going to jump. And there was choirmaster Patty advancing towards the boy. What was she thinking? Her posture indicated she might push the tyke into the cold May waters.
“Stay with the children!” she loudly whispered to Sheriff Dawbs. She struck out from cover, racing as fast as her pastoral legs could take her towards the water’s edge.
Patty reached out towards Wiley. He looked back at her over his shoulder. He started, jumped, and spun to face her. He was guarding something with his hands inside his windbreaker. Patty reached for it. Wiley swept his hands and the object behind his back. A pelican swooped down over both of them. Wiley ducked. Patty lost her balance. She teetered. Her left foot slipped on the wet dock. She waved her arms about in search of balance. Whilst Patty teetered, Wiley lurched below her windmilling arms and sped up the dock to land.
Pastor Debs ran to the boy. Wiley stuffed whatever was in his hands back inside his windbreaker and zipped it up tight.
Patty regained her footing. She charged towards Pastor Debs and Wiley. They turned to flee to the WPA bathrooms.
“Marlys! No!” Pastor Debs saw and heard Sheriff Dawbs calling. She noted he was a baritone. He called out again. “Marlys! Come back!” Pastor Debs turned her head just in time to see young Marlys—she who craves order—jumping, waving her arms, and pulling faces. Her antics had momentarily stopped Patty in her tracks. Young Marlys took the opportunity to scoop up a muffin, one of the few that the pelicans hadn’t eaten yet. Patty changed course and ran in the direction of Marlys. Marlys heaved a baked good torpedo at Patty with all her might, striking the choirmaster in the temple. A pelican then swooped down to gather up the muffin. The tips of the feathers on the pelican’s wings came within centimeters of Patty’s crown. Patty stumbled backward. By this time, both Marlys and Wiley had collected armfuls of muffins and lobbed them in full assail at their pursuer. Patty slipped on a squashed muffin remnant, resulting in a swift pratfall. She lay stunned beneath the Maypole, ribbons fluttering above her. The children leapt upon her arms pinning them steadfast to the ground. Pastor Debs grabbed one of the fluttering ribbons, tore it from its source, and bound Patty’s ankles.
Sirens wailed in the distance, then closer and closer. Hurrah! The EMTs were here! Sheriff Dawbs waved to the advancing highway patrol car and gestured towards the Maypole. Little chaos-loving Wiley reached inside his windbreaker and extracted a jumbo container of nutmeg.
“I saw her shaking this into the salads.”
#
Book club was cancelled this month. Several members were still feeling queasy after their encounter with nutmeg poisoning. Pastor Debs and Sheriff Dawbs met anyway, this time at his house for coffee and sweets.
“Apparently,” said Sheriff Dawbs, “there was an extraordinary amount of nutmeg in everything except the children’s food.”
“She must have added it to the potluck salads while you went to the park office for ice and I was settling the feud between Marlys and Wiley,” said Pastor Debs.
“The lab reports showed the muffins had the highest concentration. It was in the frosting as well as the muffins themselves. Enough to cause delirium in anyone who ate a whole muffin, plus salad.”
“Oh, yes,” said Pastor Debs. She put down her cup to think. “I’ve heard that nutmeg has hallucinogenic properties at high enough doses. Where did I hear that? Hollywood Squares?” She took a sip of coffee. “Still, I’m surprised that it affected everyone to such an extent.”
“The report says there may have been a bit of something called ‘mass psychogenic illness’ involved,” said Sheriff Dawbs. “Apparently, sometimes, if one person exhibits symptoms of an illness, or poisoning, or intoxication—you get the idea—the symptoms can spread throughout an entire body of people. In this case, a park full of church picnickers.” Sheriff Dawbs dunked a shortbread biscuit into his coffee and ate the dowsed end. He furrowed his brow. “It looks like they’re going to do an autopsy on poor Perceval. They suspect he might have been hallucinating when he jumped off the widow’s walk. I may have dodged a bullet by not eating Patty’s baked goods. Or, I should say, I dodged a muffin. Poor Perceval.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing, I’ll never touch anything with nutmeg in it whether I’m in a group or all alone—unless I made it with my own hand . . . or you did.” Pastor Debs lowered her eyes and sipped her coffee.
Sheriff Dawbs smiled his shy smile.
They nibbled their nutmeg-free shortbread, gazed out the window, and watched the pelicans fly over the lake.
“Those pelicans are too many,” said Sheriff Dawbs.
© DMS Fick 2018