quite a nice one, with the Peterson Dairy Farm logo on the driver’s side door. The rear bed was filled with an assortment of scythes, hay forks, a butter churn, and half a dozen old metal milk jugs. Marge paused halfway into the driver’s seat. “So what d’ya think that lot’s worth?”
“Quite a lot, I should expect,” Quill said diplomatically. She hoisted herself into the passenger side, which was partly obscured by Marge’s purse and a tattered copy of a price guide to antique farm tools. She picked it up and handed it over. “Actually, you know I haven’t a clue. Do you think you have something valuable?”
Marge shoved the catalogue under the seat. “Well, we’re going to find out what some people think, anyways.”
The high school sat between the southern border of Peterson Park and Maple Avenue, the last residential street within the village limits. It served around seven hundred students, much reduced from the tide of postwar babies in the ’60s. The two-story brick school complex always reminded Quill of a movie she had seen with Meg when she was six and Quill was twelve. It was set in a two-story brick insane asylum. Meg had nightmares for a week.
The brick was a grouchy orange red. The roof was an uninspiring asphalt shingle. English ivy straggled around the foundation in a dispirited way. The trim around the double-hung windows was an off-white doing its best to look lively. The whole school was saved by the grounds. Black walnuts, oaks, aspen, mountain ash, and birch surrounded the school on three sides. The lawns were patchy, but the magnificence of the trees gave the school a glad serenity.
The administration offices, gym, and auditorium were in the middle, with the wings containing classrooms stretching out either side. The parking lot in front of the admin building was full, as both women had expected. A couple of kids in orange vests were directing traffic to the athletic field to the rear, which, Marge remarked philosophically, was just fine because the auditorium entrance was around the back, too.
They followed the single lane around the east end of the building
“Good grief,” Quill said as they came to a halt behind a line of cars waiting to park. “How can they possibly hold classes with all this commotion?”
“They aren’t,” Marge said. “The current mayor—who isn’t going to be mayor long—talked to the school board and everybody got the day off.”
“Looks like they didn’t take it.”
The athletic field was jammed with cars, vans, pickup trucks, SUVs, and even an old bus. A steady stream of people walked toward the large double doors to the auditorium. The doors were propped wide open. Two large men in sunglasses, sports coats, and chinos stood on either side of the entrance, arms folded. They looked so much like airport security guards that Quill expected them to pat down the people trying to get into the auditorium.
Most of the people in line carried an astonishing variety of stuff: paintings, vases, lamps, old books, small tables, ladder-backed chairs, antique boxes, old clothes, tote bags, wrapped parcels. A smell of mold drifted through the air. The mood of the people streaming in was cheery and hope-filled.
A smaller but equally steady stream of people came out the side door of the auditorium. They were also carrying stuff. Most of them looked huffy. A few were indignant. One or two turned and shouted into the auditorium. All were sour-faced. Quill began to see how Edmund Tree might feel the need for two hefty guys as a matter of defense.
“Rejects,” Marge said with interest. “I wondered how they were going to handle this. Must be another guy right inside the door. Takes one look at what you’ve got and you either get the old heave-ho or the go-ahead.”
“Uh-oh.” Quill opened the passenger side door and got out. “Look at that bus.”
“What bus?” Marge eased herself out of the pickup and squinted at it. “That bus? It’s an old
“Quite a lot, I should expect,” Quill said diplomatically. She hoisted herself into the passenger side, which was partly obscured by Marge’s purse and a tattered copy of a price guide to antique farm tools. She picked it up and handed it over. “Actually, you know I haven’t a clue. Do you think you have something valuable?”
Marge shoved the catalogue under the seat. “Well, we’re going to find out what some people think, anyways.”
The high school sat between the southern border of Peterson Park and Maple Avenue, the last residential street within the village limits. It served around seven hundred students, much reduced from the tide of postwar babies in the ’60s. The two-story brick school complex always reminded Quill of a movie she had seen with Meg when she was six and Quill was twelve. It was set in a two-story brick insane asylum. Meg had nightmares for a week.
The brick was a grouchy orange red. The roof was an uninspiring asphalt shingle. English ivy straggled around the foundation in a dispirited way. The trim around the double-hung windows was an off-white doing its best to look lively. The whole school was saved by the grounds. Black walnuts, oaks, aspen, mountain ash, and birch surrounded the school on three sides. The lawns were patchy, but the magnificence of the trees gave the school a glad serenity.
The administration offices, gym, and auditorium were in the middle, with the wings containing classrooms stretching out either side. The parking lot in front of the admin building was full, as both women had expected. A couple of kids in orange vests were directing traffic to the athletic field to the rear, which, Marge remarked philosophically, was just fine because the auditorium entrance was around the back, too.
They followed the single lane around the east end of the building
“Good grief,” Quill said as they came to a halt behind a line of cars waiting to park. “How can they possibly hold classes with all this commotion?”
“They aren’t,” Marge said. “The current mayor—who isn’t going to be mayor long—talked to the school board and everybody got the day off.”
“Looks like they didn’t take it.”
The athletic field was jammed with cars, vans, pickup trucks, SUVs, and even an old bus. A steady stream of people walked toward the large double doors to the auditorium. The doors were propped wide open. Two large men in sunglasses, sports coats, and chinos stood on either side of the entrance, arms folded. They looked so much like airport security guards that Quill expected them to pat down the people trying to get into the auditorium.
Most of the people in line carried an astonishing variety of stuff: paintings, vases, lamps, old books, small tables, ladder-backed chairs, antique boxes, old clothes, tote bags, wrapped parcels. A smell of mold drifted through the air. The mood of the people streaming in was cheery and hope-filled.
A smaller but equally steady stream of people came out the side door of the auditorium. They were also carrying stuff. Most of them looked huffy. A few were indignant. One or two turned and shouted into the auditorium. All were sour-faced. Quill began to see how Edmund Tree might feel the need for two hefty guys as a matter of defense.
“Rejects,” Marge said with interest. “I wondered how they were going to handle this. Must be another guy right inside the door. Takes one look at what you’ve got and you either get the old heave-ho or the go-ahead.”
“Uh-oh.” Quill opened the passenger side door and got out. “Look at that bus.”
“What bus?” Marge eased herself out of the pickup and squinted at it. “That bus? It’s an old
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