War and Peas

nothing left to form a personality.“
    “So she was really good at being a museum director? What does that entail?“
    “I’ve no idea,“ Shelley said. “Administrative stuff, I guess. But everybody at the museum deferred to her with what seemed like real respect. I know she managed to bag a couple of traveling exhibits that were a big deal in museum circles.
    Well, in little pea-museum circles, at any rate. And she was in charge of getting the new building and organizing the move. Which is why I dragged you in, Jane.“
    “We’re moving things next week? But, Shelley, there’s nowhere to move to. The ground-breaking for the new building is tomorrow. Or it was supposed to be.“
    “Jane, the museum’s been in the same building since 1907. The basement alone is stacked with ninety years’ worth of—stuff. People give their old junk to museums and it piles up. It all has to be cataloged and evaluated and packed up for the move when the building is ready. It’s months and months of work. I imagine half of the stuff, at least, will just be pitched. Or given to some even more downtrodden museum.“
    “But, Shelley, I’m antiques-impaired. I don’t know valuable from dreck. And you’re not much brighter than I am about it.“
    “We don’t have to make decisions. Just write down what we can recognize, store it in boxes with labels, and leave everything else for the experts.“
    “You’re saying we’re the bottom of the food chain, aren’t you? The poor slobs who dust things off and sweep up the mouse droppings?“
    “Just about. But it’s the necessary first step.“
    “And we start that on Monday? How long is our sentence?“
    “I only volunteered you for next week,“ Shelley said. “I knew you’d be busy the week after that, getting Mike off to college.”
    Jane almost offered the comment that her son Mike was doing quite nicely at preparing himself for college, but feared that might get her condemned to yet another week in a dusty, musty basement. For the past two weeks he’d been taking his own inventory of possessions, passing down many of his treasures to his soon to-be-seventh-grade brother, Todd, and high schooler-sister, Katie. To give them credit, they received his offerings with a polite pretense of gratitude. Mike had also generated a mountain of trash. His bedroom was eerily tidy now, with most of his belongings stored in cartons in the garage, ready to be put in the back of his brand-new, graduation-gift pickup truck and Jane’s wheezing old station wagon when moving day arrived.
    A day Jane dreaded.
    Since her husband had died in a car accident several years earlier, Jane’s practical, sensible oldest child had been her mainstay. She was realizing the truth of something her mother often said: that about the time your kids get to be real people whom you like, they go away.
    “Quit daydreaming,“ Shelley said. “I think we have a customer.”
    A man was approaching, slapping a Snellen Museum brochure against the palm of his hand. He was plump and vaguely unhealthy-looking, with graying blond hair and a sparse Douglas Fairbanks-style mustache. He wore baggy plaid shorts and a Snellen Museum Pea Pickin’ T-shirt that was much too tight. He strolled along the length of the counter, critically surveying the merchandise, picking things up, setting them down, shaking his head as if angry.
    Shelley asked him cheerfully if there was anything in particular he wanted, and he merely grunted a rude negative. After examining everything, he said to her, “So what do you sell this junk for?”
    Shelley’s eyes flashed, but she answered pleasantly. “The prices are marked on each item.“
    “Yeah, but what does the museum make on each thing? What percentage?”
    Shelley drew herself up indignantly. “I have no idea. Nor can I imagine why you need to know.”
    He wasn’t cowed. “I’m interested ‘cause I’m a Snellen, lady. My family funds this operation.”
    But Shelley wasn’t easily intimidated, either. “Then you surely have access to that information without being rude to a volunteer.“
    “Yeah, I’ll ask Georgia. She’ll know.“ And without any apology, he shambled off.
    “What a jerk!“ Shelley muttered.
    Sharlene Lloyd came through the tent flap at the back of the booth. “Is he gone?“ she asked quietly.
    “The Nightmare Customer? Yes, he’s gone. Who is he?“ Shelley asked.
    “He’s Miss Daisy Snellen’s nephew, Caspar. He’s always giving somebody