carving?”
“Ready to do my best,” I said, “with George’s help. You haven’t met yet.” I introduced them.
“Welcome to Cabot Cove,” Richard said. “I’ve heard lots about you.”
“And all of it good,” I added.
“I’m relieved,” George said with a wide smile. “I’m also looking forward to being a part of this worthwhile event.”
“We all feel pretty good about serving up Thanksgiving meals to folks who are having trouble making ends meet,” Richard said. “It seems as Cabot Cove grows, there are more of them.”
Richard was right. Like so many communities across the country, we’ve experienced growth that while representing forward progress, at least from a financial perspective, creates its own set of problems. Not that the actual town of Cabot Cove had changed that much. The downtown—its core—had remained relatively unaffected. No national chain stores, no garish neon lights or outsized signs. Businesses were locally owned and managed, and a spirit of community prevailed. The same held true for most of the residential areas bordering the downtown, including mine.
But farther out, business had established a foothold and spawned industrial parks that had enticed many people to move to the area in search of new, well-paying jobs. When some of these start-up companies failed, their employees suffered the inevitable consequences, and many fell on hard times.
Too, there were some families who’d been residents for many years and who just never managed to make a go of it, usually through unforeseen calamities of one sort or another—catastrophic illness, business downturns, or myriad other reasons for falling into their precarious financial situations.
No matter what the reason for their misfortune, they were the people to whom the annual free Thanksgiving dinner was dedicated. Some would bring their families with them and enjoy their meal at the senior center. In other cases, meals would be packaged up and delivered to the homebound. Either way, the meaning and spirit of Thanksgiving would not be forgotten.
“Ah, my favorite writer,” Archer Franklin said as he and Willie came to where we stood.
“Good to see you again,” I said, sounding as though I meant it.
“Hello, Inspector,” Franklin said. “Been solving any crimes while here in Cabot Cove?”
“One or two,” George replied.
“Really?” Willie asked with eyes wide.
“No, not really,” George clarified.
“The English sense of humor,” Franklin said, slapping George on the arm. “Subtle. I like that.”
“Much like the Scots sense of humor,” George said, winking at me.
“Well,” I said, “I think we should join the others and get ready for our dinner guests.” I nudged George, and we went to the sparkling new, fully equipped kitchen, compliments of Wilimena Copeland’s largesse.
“Oh, Jessica, I’m so glad you’re here,” Susan Shevlin said from where she checked on turkeys roasting in the large oven. “We’re a little short on help. Fran Winstead is late. Wally forgot he was supposed to drop her off.” Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and cheeks, and she wiped them away with a handkerchief that was already damp.
“I’m here and ready to go,” I said.
“I am, too,” George said, resting our basket on a huge granite-topped prep table in the center of the room.
“It’s so sweet of you to pitch in,” Susan said to him.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said George, removing his tweed jacket and looking for a place to hang it.
“I’ll take that,” Maureen Metzger said as she appeared from a back room, a large stainless-steel bowl of stuffing in her arms. She put the bowl down and took George’s jacket. “I’ll find a nice, safe place for it out of the line of fire.” She disappeared into the room from which she’d come and reemerged a few seconds later.
“Much obliged,” George said.
Josh and Beth Wappinger joined us in the kitchen. “Haven’t seen you in a while,
“Ready to do my best,” I said, “with George’s help. You haven’t met yet.” I introduced them.
“Welcome to Cabot Cove,” Richard said. “I’ve heard lots about you.”
“And all of it good,” I added.
“I’m relieved,” George said with a wide smile. “I’m also looking forward to being a part of this worthwhile event.”
“We all feel pretty good about serving up Thanksgiving meals to folks who are having trouble making ends meet,” Richard said. “It seems as Cabot Cove grows, there are more of them.”
Richard was right. Like so many communities across the country, we’ve experienced growth that while representing forward progress, at least from a financial perspective, creates its own set of problems. Not that the actual town of Cabot Cove had changed that much. The downtown—its core—had remained relatively unaffected. No national chain stores, no garish neon lights or outsized signs. Businesses were locally owned and managed, and a spirit of community prevailed. The same held true for most of the residential areas bordering the downtown, including mine.
But farther out, business had established a foothold and spawned industrial parks that had enticed many people to move to the area in search of new, well-paying jobs. When some of these start-up companies failed, their employees suffered the inevitable consequences, and many fell on hard times.
Too, there were some families who’d been residents for many years and who just never managed to make a go of it, usually through unforeseen calamities of one sort or another—catastrophic illness, business downturns, or myriad other reasons for falling into their precarious financial situations.
No matter what the reason for their misfortune, they were the people to whom the annual free Thanksgiving dinner was dedicated. Some would bring their families with them and enjoy their meal at the senior center. In other cases, meals would be packaged up and delivered to the homebound. Either way, the meaning and spirit of Thanksgiving would not be forgotten.
“Ah, my favorite writer,” Archer Franklin said as he and Willie came to where we stood.
“Good to see you again,” I said, sounding as though I meant it.
“Hello, Inspector,” Franklin said. “Been solving any crimes while here in Cabot Cove?”
“One or two,” George replied.
“Really?” Willie asked with eyes wide.
“No, not really,” George clarified.
“The English sense of humor,” Franklin said, slapping George on the arm. “Subtle. I like that.”
“Much like the Scots sense of humor,” George said, winking at me.
“Well,” I said, “I think we should join the others and get ready for our dinner guests.” I nudged George, and we went to the sparkling new, fully equipped kitchen, compliments of Wilimena Copeland’s largesse.
“Oh, Jessica, I’m so glad you’re here,” Susan Shevlin said from where she checked on turkeys roasting in the large oven. “We’re a little short on help. Fran Winstead is late. Wally forgot he was supposed to drop her off.” Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and cheeks, and she wiped them away with a handkerchief that was already damp.
“I’m here and ready to go,” I said.
“I am, too,” George said, resting our basket on a huge granite-topped prep table in the center of the room.
“It’s so sweet of you to pitch in,” Susan said to him.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said George, removing his tweed jacket and looking for a place to hang it.
“I’ll take that,” Maureen Metzger said as she appeared from a back room, a large stainless-steel bowl of stuffing in her arms. She put the bowl down and took George’s jacket. “I’ll find a nice, safe place for it out of the line of fire.” She disappeared into the room from which she’d come and reemerged a few seconds later.
“Much obliged,” George said.
Josh and Beth Wappinger joined us in the kitchen. “Haven’t seen you in a while,
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