Fat Cat Takes The Cake

The Minny Batter Battle was being held in the gymnasium at Hammond High School. Chase experienced a shiver of fear when she first entered the vast room. But gone were the long table and punch bowl, the banners declaring Richard Byrd as a candidate for mayor, and the rest of the reunion trappings. In their place were ten workstations, lined up in a neat row, as they were every year, according to Julie’s whispers. From seeing other baking competitions on television, the setting seemed familiar to Chase.

From the bleachers, which had been set up on one side of the gym, Chase saw Bill stashing Anna’s ingredients in the cupboard under the counter. Everyone had the same standard equipment: mixer, bowls, utensils, measuring spoons and cups, and baking pans, which were out and ready for use. Each baker was required to bring her own ingredients. His own ingredients in the case of the only man competing.

The room sizzled with energy. The stands buzzed with conversation as the crowds found seats, their footsteps drumming with a hollow sound on the aluminum treads of the risers.

Anna was chatting amiably with the woman to her right, appearing completely at ease. Neither one was actually at ease, Chase was sure. She looked for Grace Pilsen, but didn’t see her. Eight of the workstations were occupied. The two to Anna’s left were empty.

As the contestants got their things stashed, they then sat on the folding chairs provided. Chase knew they would sit there only until the starting buzzer, then would be standing and working for the rest of the time, maybe sitting while their concoctions baked, if they were caught up with all the other prep work.

A man with a handheld microphone introduced the five judges. One was a food columnist for the local paper, two were local restaurant owners. Chase and Julie quit listening and speculated on where Grace Pilsen could be and if she would show up. One of the places to Anna’s left was no doubt hers.

A red-faced woman rushed in, her arms full of grocery bags, the coattails of her open coat flying behind her, and quickly settled herself on Anna’s left. She peeled off her coat and plopped into the chair, breathing hard. But the station next to hers, the one on the end, remained empty. There were numbers on each station rather than names, but Chase was sure the empty place was Grace’s. Where was she? Chase glanced at the wire-caged clock. Five minutes remained before the contest was to start.

A horrid vision rose, unbeckoned, in Chase’s mind. She pictured Ron North lying in the parking lot outside at night. Then she pictured Grace in the same position. She had an urge to run outside to check it out, but couldn’t leave when the Batter Battle was starting up in—she threw another glance at the clock on the wall—two minutes.

THIRTY-EIGHT

When thirty seconds remained until starting time, with all nine bakers perched on the edges of their chairs, ready to spring up and swing into action, in rushed Grace Pilsen. The white streak in her coal black hair waved as she sprinted across the room and skidded to a stop at her station. She shoved her materials into the cupboard, shrugged off her coat onto the floor, and, as her bottom touched her seat, the buzzer sounded.

All the bakers leapt up and extracted their bags and bins, clattering the equipment, intense concentration on each face, hands flying to put their concoctions together as quickly and flawlessly as possible. Judges strolled up and down the row, taking notes on electronic pads, their faces giving away nothing.

All the bakers except Grace. She pushed herself up and proceeded slowly, her hands limp and her face haggard.

“So she came. Even though she’s obviously still sick,” Julie said.

“I think you’re right,” Chase said. “I’ve never seen her look that bad.”

“At least she’s not next to Anna,” Bill said. “But that poor woman beside her might catch whatever it is that she has.”

As he finished his sentence, Grace reached into her apron pocket and stuck a wrinkled tissue to her face, letting out a mighty sneeze.

That caught the attention of the judge nearest her, a woman in an old-fashioned pantsuit. Chase wondered if it was polyester. The woman turned and stalked to the end of the row.

“That’s Mrs. Prebbles, isn’t it?” Julie said.

Realization dawned and Chase nodded. Mrs. Prebbles had been their home economics teacher in junior high school.

“She might be wearing one of the same pantsuits she wore to our classes,” Julie whispered.

Chase tried not to giggle.

The other judges swiveled their heads toward Mrs. Prebbles and Grace Pilsen and watched.

Mrs. Prebbles reached Grace and began talking softly to her.

Grace shook her head and threw out her hand. Unfortunately, that was the hand that held her used tissue. The tissue flew to the floor at the feet of Mrs. Prebbles, who grimaced and stepped back.