Cook's Night Out by Joanne Pence Page B

clothier?”
    â€œYou’ve got a good eye, Angie,” Mary Ellen said, following her into the room. “Excellent, in fact. Here, you’ll appreciate this. A ruby necklace once worn by Elizabeth Taylor.”
    â€œYou’re kidding!” Angie hung up the dress and took the necklace. She studied it. “If Liz wore it, she was wearing red glass.”
    â€œVery good!” Mary Ellen cried. “Actually, she once owned the real one, and this was just a paste job to fool thieves. Here’s a photo of La Taylor with the necklace. The souvenir value should make it worth several hundred dollars, perhaps more.”
    â€œThese are real,” Angie said, lifting up one Rolex watch after another. Five watches lay in a cardboard box sitting on a two-shelf bookcase.
    â€œYes. We’ll have to find a decent way to display them. But Angie, here’s a photo of our pièce de resistance .” She handed Angie a snapshot of a Picasso charcoal sketch of a woman holding a guitar.
    Angie’s breath caught. “Is it genuine?”
    â€œQuite. He did many studies of this model. Not all are in museums. Reverend Hodge has it safely hidden away somewhere or I’d show it to you. This was an early study, but still, we expect this work might go for as much as a hundred thousand dollars.”
    â€œMy God!”
    â€œWe have vintage wines, antique vases including a Ming, furs, jewelry. If people are feeling generous, we might bring in close to a million dollars.”
    Angie was speechless.
    â€œIt’s going to be an outstanding auction, Angie. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be a part of it. Sheila Chatsworth and I have carried most of the responsibilities. She might seem a bit pompous, but she’s got a good heart and she can really get people to come through with huge donations. She’d grown a bit too friendly with the cook’s sherry before meeting the reverend. Then, suddenly, she quit—cold turkey.”
    â€œGood for her.”
    â€œIsn’t it? The other volunteers tend to come and go at will. We can’t count on them too much, but you seem different. You’re a take-charge person.”
    â€œI try to help.”
    â€œYou do. I hope you too will come to feel truly blessed,” Mary Ellen continued, “to work for the reverend and his benefactor.”
    Angie had wondered about the mysterious benefactor. “The reverend mentioned that someone had given him money to start up the mission, but he didn’t say any more about the man….” Her voice trailed off in hopes of encouraging Mary Ellen to fill her in.
    Not much encouragement was needed. “He’s incredibly sexy. And mysterious!” Mary Ellen said as she stepped back into the main room. “Even though he lives right upstairs, we rarely see him. But if you ever do see him, you’ll know it. He’s got a stare that’s to die for.”
    â€œThe reverend’s benefactor is sexy?” Angie could scarcely imagine such a thing. “I expected him to be some rich old gentleman.”
    â€œOdd, isn’t it?” Mary Ellen mused. “Two men opposite in every way. They met in Las Vegas and Reverend Hodge apparently saved the man’s soul.”
    â€œLas Vegas? Don’t you mean Minnesota?”
    â€œBelieve me, he is not a Minnesota-type guy.” She breathed deeply. “He has the look of a man who needed saving. Oh, dear, look at the time! I’ve got to go over to the café and help serve the lunch crowd.”
    Angie’s head was swimming. “You work next door as well as volunteer here?”
    â€œI volunteer there, too. The mission gets a cut of the profits.”
    As Angie watched Mary Ellen—she always thought of jams and jellies—head for the café, she realized she was quite curious about the mysterious, sexy benefactor—and the fact that despite all this talk about charity and good deeds, she