For a second Vera wished she was a teenager again, so she could roll her eyes. ‘And yet, here I sit, still clueless.’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Marigold.
‘Give her the short version,’ said Kev. ‘Girl’s got a business to run.’
His wife nodded. ‘You’re right. Okay, here’s the thing. Kev and I are on the committee of the Hanrahan and District Community Association. We have a hall down at the southern end of the Esplanade; it’s one of the oldest buildings in town and dates back to 1870. It’s in the parkland beside the historic town cemetery, and council leases the building to us on the condition we keep it restored. The community hall was the courthouse back when this district was a gold rush town, and we’ve all put in a lot of work refurbishing it back to its glory days. The cemetery, too … it has some treasures we look after: notable headstones, a few pioneers, even a woman who legend says was hanged for bushranging.’
Kev cleared his throat. ‘Even more exciting than the bushranger … there’s the roses.’
His wife patted his hand. ‘Yes, Kev does the roses. Problem with historic buildings, though, is they don’t keep pace with change. We’ve just had to close the hall to functions while we get some emergency repair work done. Turned the lights on yesterday and you’d have thought Lucifer himself was tap dancing in the wiring.’
Kev nodded. ‘Sparked like diesel chucked into a bonfire.’
‘The electrician says we can’t use it until we’ve had the ceiling down and the lights rewired.’
Vera nodded. ‘Okay. You can’t use your hall.’
‘Mrs Juggins is the problem.’
She pursed her lips. She should so have let Graeme handle this. ‘Mrs who?’
‘Hold your horses, Marigold. The girl’s not a local; she doesn’t know about the Jugginses.’
The woman gave her husband’s hand a pat.
‘Mrs Juggins is tucked up in her coffin at the funeral home waiting for us to send her off. She was one of ours, a community hall regular who ran our craft stall for, golly, I don’t know how long. Ever since I sold up the florist shop, and that’s been a goodly number of years now.’
‘Umpteen, shouldn’t wonder,’ said Kev.
‘Is umpteen a number, love?’
Kev scratched his head. ‘More than ten, at any rate.’
Vera coughed, just gently, and forced herself not to look at her watch. The lamb shanks in her kitchen crockpot must be calling her name by now, begging to be rescued. ‘Mrs Juggins in her coffin,’ she prompted.
‘Funeral’s next week to allow for her daughter to get back here from London,’ said Marigold. ‘Thursday, half past ten. The tea-and-cake afters should have been in our hall an hour later, but the wiring’s thrown a spanner in that idea. We need a venue that can cater a function after the funeral. And all the functions coming up until our hall gets the devil stripped out of its wiring. Your back room is perfect. We move the table to the side and set up a buffet, bring a couple of chairs in for the folks who aren’t so steady on their pins, the rest can stand. We’ll fit thirty in here at a pinch.’
Vera nodded. Next Thursday gave her a chance to set up a menu, think through her supplies of milk and tea and heaven knew what else. And what an opportunity to bring some locals in to sample what The Billy Button Café had to offer! ‘I might need to borrow some of your hall’s cups and saucers—I’d struggle to keep thirty sets clean and have customers in the main room being served too.’
Kev gave a satisfied humph. ‘Knew this was a great idea.’
‘Now then, Kev. Save your bragging for when you’ve brought a load of crockery over here in the ute. Maybe the big urn, too. Some of our regulars can drink tea like it’s bingo juice.’
Vera needed a pen, paper, maybe a spreadsheet. She’d need to bring forward her plan to secure a waitperson, too. Perhaps a teenager? ‘Chicken ribbon sandwiches. Mini lamingtons, mini quiches, perhaps a fruit cake and a gluten-free slice. That sort of thing?’
‘Perfect. And don’t you be thinking we’ll be skimping on payment. A hardworking girl with a business to run needs cash as well as the next person. Kev can go rustle up some crockery while you and I crunch numbers.’
Vera smiled. ‘Marigold, I’m beginning to see why Graeme was so happy to see you drop in today. You were right. My plan was good, but your plan is way, way better.’
CHAPTER
6
‘The complaint sayswhat?’ Josh looked into the cup of coffee he’d made for himself and wondered what was off: the milk, or his culinary skills. He’d worked ten-hour days for a week straight and been called out during the night a half-dozen times. His pantry was so bare, soon he’d be eating microwaved rice for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner.
‘Some by-law about farming chickens in urban areas within five metres of another dwelling.’
‘Farming chickens? Here at the vet clinic? Is this some sort of joke?’