Beware False Profits by Emilie Richards

administration offices and conference room were excluded from the tour. I imagined that Chad had little to say about what happened there. But by the time he walked us over to the VIP tent, I thought everyone was impressed by the food bank and by Chad himself. I was even more worried about Joe.
    “Please enjoy our hospitality,” Chad said as he ushered everybody into the tent, which had been set up beside the warehouse, out of Mayday! traffic.
    Clearly the food bank valued their VIPs. I had hoped for a plate of brownies, but there were tea sandwiches and delicate pastries, platters of fruit and cheese, and best of all a chocolate fountain with cubes of pound cake, fresh strawberries, and other assorted goodies.
    “I like this VIP stuff,” I told Ed. “If I’d known there was a chocolate fountain in my future, I wouldn’t have squawked so loudly when I discovered what you planned to do with your life.”
    That was meant to be a joke, but Ed wasn’t paying attention. I followed his gaze to the table. My first glance had stopped at the fountain. Now it stopped at the punch bowl, where his was riveted.
    “That looks like the Women’s Society punch bowl.” He glanced at me. “Why would our church punch bowl be at Mayday!?”
    I understood why Ed was looking at me for the answer. The punch bowl and I have a history. Not exactly this punch bowl, since its two predecessors more or less collapsed into a million pieces. But since the last time, I’ve sworn off relationships with cut glass. I stay ten yards away. I have nightmares about Waterford crystal.
    I held up my hands. “If it’s ours, I had nothing to do with it. Nothing.”
    “If you want punch, let me get it, okay?”
    “I would die of thirst rather than get too close.”
    “Don’t look now, but the chocolate fountain is right next to it.”
    “Then I’ll stand on the opposite side. I promise.”
    I looked over and realized that Sally Berrigan, a member of our church and Women’s Society, was standing to one side of the table with a small group of volunteers, looking proudly at their handiwork. Sally is involved in almost every social justice organization in town, and they’re all lucky to have her. She always gets things done, and obviously had been instrumental in creating the spread before us.
    I walked over to her as everybody descended on the food and gave her a hug. “This looks yummy.”
    Sally beamed. She’s an attractive older woman in a no-nonsense, Ivory soap sort of way. You only have to look at Sally to know you’re in the most capable of hands.
    “I wanted the VIPs to feel good about their trip to Mayday! Of course if Brownie Kefauver bites his tongue instead of my cucumber sandwiches, I won’t be sorry.”
    I knew the context. Sally ran for mayor in the last election and was soundly defeated. Her platform was thoughtful and well considered, which apparently was the problem.
    I looked over my shoulder and saw that indeed, the Kefauver family had arrived. They hadn’t been on the tour since Hazel knew everything she needed to about the way the food bank worked—and planned to throw her axe into those gears anyway.
    “That woman,” Sally said softly. “You have no idea how much trouble she caused with this reception. We had everything planned, then she came in and slashed the budget.”
    I tried to soothe. “Well, it looks like you did a wonderful job.” I hesitated. “You even thought to borrow the church punch bowl.”
    “Not because I wanted to. We had everything set to rent from Quite the Party, and Hazel cancelled our order. She said we would have to borrow whatever we needed. So we did, with a lot of effort. And the chocolate fountain? We had one on order that came with an attendant. They aren’t as easy to operate as you might think. But Hazel decided we could learn.”
    “It looks great. You learn fast.”
    “Yes, and as long as the bees don’t find it, we don’t have strong winds, we got all the lumps out of the