Murder as a Second Language by Joan Hess Page B

Frances said. “This shouldn’t take too long. There’s a copy of the agenda among those papers. Old business, committee reports, new business, and then we can all go home. Isn’t that right, Willie?”
    â€œHallelujah.”
    Sonya came up behind me and patted my shoulder. “We’re so grateful, Claire. You must be very busy solving crimes, and it’s so wonderful of you to take the time to serve on the board.”
    Frances gave me a sharp look. “Crimes?”
    â€œThe only crimes I’m aware of are happening in my own kitchen, and I’m the perpetrator. Ask my husband.”
    â€œClaire’s husband is the deputy chief at the Farberville Police Department,” Sonya explained to Frances, who seemed unsettled. “Claire has helped them solve all sorts of murders.”
    Frances’s eyes narrowed. “Murders?”
    I was relieved when Rick and Austin came into the room. Austin was carrying bottles of gin, vodka, and vermouth. Rick had a silver cocktail shaker, an ice bucket, and a stack of plastic cups. “No wine,” Austin announced as he set the bottles down on the counter. “We wouldn’t want to upset the Muslim students, would we?”
    â€œThat is not what I meant!” Frances forgot about me as she pointed her finger at the miscreants. “Rick, I thought you had a smidgen of common sense.”
    â€œI do,” he murmured, “but no olives. Would you prefer a gin or vodka martini, Your Honor?”
    Willie was wide-awake. “Gin, thank you, and go easy on the vermouth.”
    Sonya wiggled her fingers. “Me, too.”
    I admitted a preference for vodka. Frances continued to mutter under her breath as Austin mixed martinis and Rick delivered them. When Drake arrived, he chose gin. I decided I could survive the meeting.
    The minutes were approved without comment. An addendum acknowledged my election to the board. Nobody bothered to vote. The old business included the dismal attendance at the last open house, the inconclusive results of a student poll on night classes, and generalized rumbling from those present. I was toying with the idea of a refill when Keiko and Gregory came into the room. Keiko twinkled as best she could as she rattled off the numbers concerning students, tutors, volunteers, and recent library acquisitions. When no one had any questions, she left the room with an audible sigh.
    Gregory smiled broadly, but his face was flushed. “I spoke to a Rotary Club last week and came away with checks totaling three hundred dollars and change. The United Way is demanding more paperwork before they decide on the grant. The Otto Foundation will give us another eight thousand dollars, but money has to be used for an in-school program for non-English-speaking mothers of elementary school children. Leslie says she doesn’t have time. None of our tutors are certified to teach ESL.”
    â€œWhat did we do last year with their money?” asked Rick.
    â€œWe did our best to comply.”
    Sonya was flipping through the financial report. “I don’t see how we’re going to stay open this summer. If anything breaks—the air conditioner, the hot water heater, the vacuum cleaner—we’re broke, too. I don’t understand, Gregory. Money is evaporating. When we set the budget at the first of the year, we had all the anticipated expenses covered.”
    Frances nodded. “I’d like an explanation.”
    â€œThis happened last year,” Gregory said. “A lot of our grants come in the fall, along with our annual fund-raiser. Summers have been a problem since I started here. We’ll survive the next ten weeks.”
    â€œYou didn’t answer my question,” Rick said.
    Willie rapped on the table with her knuckles. “He said that we did our best. That’s all we can do, unless you’d like to get certified to teach ESL.”
    He held up his hands, feigning