Free In Search of Sam by Kristin Butcher Page B

Farrow, Saturday, March 22nd. Don’t miss it! That certainly wasn’t there before. I start to get the feeling that the spring bazaar is a big deal.
    I know George is at the community hall setting up, so I drop in to see if she needs help. From the look of it, every last resident of Farrow is there. I’m tempted to make inquiries about Sam, but everyone is so busy, they probably wouldn’t welcome the interruption. According to the diagram on the wall, there is a carefully laid out plan for all the booths and exhibits, but you wouldn’t know it from the chaos. The place is a giant mishmash of boxes, tables, electrical cords, balloons, banners, props, merchandise, and bodies.
    I hear George before I see her. She whistles to get my attention. Her table is on the fringes, so I dodge some little kids playing tag and slide around a couple of men carting what looks like a miniature swimming pool, and make my way over.
    â€œIt’s crazy busy in here,” I say. “Do you need a hand?”
    â€œThat would be wonderful.” She smiles wearily and drags the back of her hand across her forehead. Then she takes a deep breath and shakes the folds out of a big blue gingham cloth.
    I catch an end of the billowing fabric and between us we spread it over the table.
    â€œLooks good.” I nod. “Very homey.”
    George waves away the compliment. “Hopefully it will be when we’re done.” She lifts a chicken-wire crate onto the table and angles it on its side near one end. Then she pushes a bulging green garbage bag toward me.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œHay,” she says. “We want to stuff some into the crate — decorative-like, if you know what I mean. You can spill a little onto the table too. Makes a nice display for the jams and jellies.”
    â€œWhat’s your best seller?” I ask.
    She gestures to a long cardboard sign on the wall behind the table. George’s Fruit Jars: Sweet & Savoury Preserves. Best Apple Butter in B.C.
    â€œDo you offer samples?”
    She blinks in surprise. “In all the years I’ve been doing this, the thought never crossed my mind. What a good idea!” Suddenly rejuvenated, her eyes sparkle with genuine excitement. “Let’s get this finished. I have to get home and bake some bread.”
    That night I sleep like I’ve been drugged, and when I wake up the next morning, George is gone. There’s a key and a note on the kitchen table.
    I’m at the bazaar. Fresh baked muffins in the basket on the counter.
    Orange juice in the fridge. If you want something else, help yourself. Please lock up when you go out.
    â€” George
    I check the time. It’s already nearly ten o’clock! The bazaar started an hour ago. I quickly down a glass of juice and grab a muffin to go.
    Two blocks from the community hall, the road is already lined with vehicles on both sides. It’s even more congested at the hall. Luckily for me, a car pulls out just as I approach, and I snag a spot directly across the street from the front door.
    In the foyer, there’s a table manned by two elderly women. Between them is a very large glass bowl and a sign that says, Admission by donation . Inside the bowl there’s a healthy assortment of coins and bills. I fish a five from my wallet and drop it in.
    â€œThank you, dear,” smiles one of the old ladies. She tears twin tickets off a roll, drops one into a decorated metal wastebasket, and hands me the other. “Keep this safe now,” she says. “You could win a prize.” She gestures to an impressive display of items behind her. “The draws will be made at three o’clock, so be sure you’re here.”
    I thank her and move into the main room of the hall. It is totally transformed from what it was yesterday. Now the tables, booths, and other displays are arranged in orderly rows, decked with colourful signs and mountains of sale items. The