Tomorrow's Vengeance by Marcia Talley Page A

believe I know your husband, Paul? We met at the Rotary Club crab feast last week.’
    If the annual Annapolis Rotary Club crab feast didn’t have a place in the
Guinness Book of World Records
as the largest crab feast in the world, it ought to. For sixty bucks, you, too, could be one of the twenty-five hundred folks who filled the Navy-Marine Corps stadium and chowed down on four-thousand crabs, thirty-four hundred ears of corn, a hundred-and-thirty gallons of crab soup, God only knows how many hot dogs, and barrels and barrels of draft beer. You could buy T-shirts, too, natch. ‘Sorry to have missed it this year,’ I lied. Picking crabs just wasn’t my thing, not even for charity.
    Tyson’s blue eyes considered me curiously from behind his aviator glasses. ‘Paul and I were working the Budweiser truck,’ he said. ‘Sixty kegs consumed, more or less.’
    â€˜Not much left for the ticket holders, then,’ I joked.
    Tyson laughed. ‘Well, can’t claim we didn’t sample the merchandise, but somebody had to make sure it was potable.’
    â€˜A tough job, but somebody has to do it,’ Naddie said.
    â€˜Will I see you at the board meeting this afternoon, Mrs Gray? Something just came up that we need to discuss.’
    â€˜With bells on,’ Naddie replied, sounding grim.
    â€˜Nice to have met you, Hannah.’ Tyson extended his hand.
    â€˜Likewise,’ I said, shaking it, thinking Masud Abaza hadn’t wasted any time taking his complaint straight to the top of the food chain.
    After Tyson disappeared into the lounge, Naddie took a bite of her sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, then said, ‘To tell you the truth, Hannah, I can’t
stand
board meetings. If they simply read what’s been sent out with the agenda ahead of time, what the hell is the point? Should be spelled B-O-R-E-D, if you ask me.’
    I’d been the records manager for a large accounting firm in Washington, D.C., so I’d attended my share of ‘bored’ meetings, too. It was another thing I didn’t miss about not having a career ‘outside the home’ – that and the punishing commute.
    â€˜I think you’ll find there’s an item on the agenda that wasn’t included in the email,’ I said. Over the soup, I gave Naddie a head’s up on the vandalized
musalla
and Masud’s tussle with Balaclava Man.
    Naddie dabbed her lips with her napkin then threw it down on the tablecloth. ‘Damn, damn, damn!
Just
what we need.’
    â€˜Do you think Tyson will report the incident to the police, Naddie?’
    â€˜I’m
sure
of it, Hannah. If it were simply an act of vandalism …’ She looked thoughtful. ‘… probably not. But you say Masud Abaza was attacked by this guy?’
    In spite of the seriousness of the conversation, I smiled. ‘According to Masud, it was quite the other way around, Naddie. Masud caught the guy in the act and tackled him. That’s when the fist fight broke out.’
    After a pause, during which Naddie seemed to be marshalling her thoughts, she said, ‘So, other than that, Colonel Custer, how was your first day on the job?’
    â€˜Uneventful,’ I fibbed. ‘At least nobody yelled or threw things, or decided to take off their pants like Paul’s great uncle William used to do whenever things at the nursing home didn’t go his way.’ I slid a homemade potato chip into my mouth, bit down and sighed with pleasure – crunchy, nutty, just a hint of salt. ‘Why me, though? Are you short-staffed or something?’
    Naddie frowned. ‘Not at all, it’s just that we’ve found that the residents benefit from the extra one-on-one attention they receive from somebody not in a uniform. Our volunteers tend to serve as an extended family for the residents, and they look forward to every visit.’ She waved a dill pickle spear over her plate.