Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [90]
A scissortailed flycatcher, twice as long in tail as in body, swooped over some buttonbush, catching insects on the wing and drawing Georgie’s attention to the plethora of exhibits lining the perimeter of the park and beyond.
Women manning vegetable booths set out trays of beans, peas, okra, cucumbers, and squash. A roped-off area held a stack of burlap sacks and a sign for races. Men crouched over a long log and soaped it with bars of lye.
The squeal of a pig caused many to turn toward a fenced-in area. One man held the animal by the head while another greased it up.
It was then she saw Mr. Ottfried’s exhibit. He’d brought hats of every color and style. Some chic, some dainty, some somber. All held flagrant bird parts. Attached to the roof of his tent, a painted sign with curlicues and fancy lettering swung in the breeze. Today Only . . . 2-for-1.
She wondered again if he had anything to do with the break-in. He hadn’t been one of the intruders, of that she was certain. Still, he stood to gain the most from her troubles.
Scanning the area for the Plumage League’s location, she whispered an “Excuse me” to Luke, then released his arm. On the opposite side of the park, their exhibit spanned two booths. One for the hats, another for the hat walk.
She veered toward it, stunned at the entries crowding every surface. High, puffy toques, tricornes with wavy brims, and stylish short-back sailors congested the tables. In the corner, summer leghorn hats spilled out of a chiffonier’s open drawers. Opposite it, an open steamer trunk sat on its end, box turbans and shepherdess-style hats stacked inside its compartments.
None had bird parts.
She stopped in front of the booth, unable to comprehend where such abundance had come from.
The mayor’s daughter, Rachel Zach, lovely in a white lingerie dress and matching Gainsborough hat, caught her eye and smiled. “Can you believe it? We’ve even more under the tables.”
Robbi Bittle, a recently wed League member, moved beside Rachel and pointed to an oak parlor stand. Atop it lay a ledger, pen, and inkwell. “Wait until you see our pledge sheets.”
Georgie angled the booklet toward her. Signature after signature filled its columns. She flipped back a page. More signatures. She turned back another and another.
Mrs. Bittle clasped her hands in front of her. “Three hundred thirty-seven so far.”
Georgie shook her head. “I don’t understand. How . . . ?”
“It’s all Mrs. Patrick’s doing,” Rachel said. “You know how she is when she’s on a mission. There isn’t a person on God’s green earth who can say no to her.”
Mrs. Bittle pointed toward the grandstand. “The winning hats—the ones Mr. Mistrot will sell in his store—are over there.”
She turned. A large pavilion with fresh robes of white sat amidst a wooded grove. Beneath its roof a thousand chairs provided ample room for those in attendance. To the right of the stage, a display of five hats rested on a cloth-covered table.
“Whose hat won?” Georgie asked.
“Janice Spuhler’s.”
She spun around. “Mrs. Spuhler? Really?”
At Mrs. Bittle’s affirmative nod, Georgie ran her gaze across the crowd, hoping to spot the unassuming widow who didn’t say much but had a sparkle in her eye and never missed a thing.
“She was late finishing it,” Rachel said, “and didn’t have time to bring it by your house yesterday.”
Georgie bit her lip. “So it wasn’t burned.”
“No. And it’s absolutely divine. It’s the one in the center on the highest hat form.”
Before she could look, Luke caught her attention.
Heading toward her, his strides were long and unwavering. The straps of his overalls divided wide shoulders clad in a white chambray shirt. The denim bib was small compared to the breadth of his chest.
Reaching them, he glanced at the women manning the booth and touched the brim of his hat. “Good morning, ladies. You’re looking lovely, as usual.”
“Mr. Palmer.