“Are you okay?” I asked my friend.
“Smashed both knees on the way down,” Vance groaned. “That hurt. A lot. What happened?”
“Uh…”
“Oh, come on, pal. You can’t possibly say what I think you’re gonna say.”
THREE
The following morning the dogs and I were on our way to Cookbook Nook to help Jillian get ready for Cider Fest. She had talked incessantly about how excited she was for the upcoming harvest festival. Now that it was finally here, she couldn’t wait to visit the farms, sample the food each of the farms were going to offer, and so on. Turns out this was an event all of PV looked forward to each and every year.
In case you need a refresher course in French, the ‘Pomme’ in Pomme Valley translates to ‘Apple’, turning the literal translation of my hometown into ‘Apple Valley’. As you might have guessed, that means this town has apple farms galore. Turns out once a year PV holds a three-month long harvest festival – appropriately named ‘Cider Fest’ – celebrating anything having to do with that juicy red fruit. Roadside fruit stands popped up overnight. Every half a mile or so, around every bend in the road, was a mini farmers market.
I also should clarify that we’re not just talking apples. Pears, apricots, peaches, oranges, lemons, and a myriad of assorted fruit also beckoned invitingly. The enticing aroma of freshly picked fruit is usually all it takes for me to stop and make a few selections. There are also bags of pistachios, sunflower seeds, pecans, walnuts, and almonds. Many of the shops inside the individual farms also stocked fresh preserves, canned fruit, candy, and baked goods.
Oh, the baked goods. I mustn’t forget that sweet manna from heaven. Holy cow. Fresh, ready-to-bake apple pies, or berry pies, or turnovers, or… Do you know what I found in one of the coolers, just waiting – begging – to be purchased? A twenty-pound Dutch apple pie. Did you get that? Twenty pounds! That’s 20#, or 20lbs, or ‘one honkingly huge-ass pie’! Who in their right mind needs a pie that big? You’d have to be cooking for at least a dozen people, if not more.
Of course I bought one.
Last Saturday, in anticipation of Cider Fest’s grand opening this weekend, Jillian took me to one of the largest farms, Greentree Gardens. This sprawling farm covered hundreds of acres and was the farthest from town. According to Jillian, Greentree Gardens typically opened two weeks earlier than the competition, due to the simple fact that there was more to do and set up. Of course, it couldn’t hurt that the farm typically hired several dozen seasonal workers to help them out, most of which were high school kids.
I remember pulling up the long driveway to the farm and seeing several neighboring pastures in the process of being converted into parking lots. Teams of kids were roping off lots, marking spaces, and removing rocks, branches, and anything else most cars typically hate. I whistled in amazement. From the looks of things, they would be able to easily accommodate a hundred cars. I had to wonder what the appeal was. Why would they need that many parking spaces? Was their fruit that good?
Turns out the people weren’t just coming for the freshly picked fruit. As I mentioned earlier, most farms had a variety of other products to sell. Not only did Greentree Gardens have fruit, nuts, preserves, and freshly baked goods, but they also had some type of craft fair. As many as forty 10’x10’ tents had been set up in four rows of ten each. The vendors offered everything from delicate hand painted eggs to oil paintings. I saw an impressive collection of silver jewelry in one tent while another had cutting boards of all shapes and sizes. Lucky for us most vendors had already set up shop. In fact, we had stopped at the tent where the cutting board vendor had just finished unpacking his wares and was settling down to enjoy his coffee.
“Good morning!” a friendly older gentleman announced, abandoning the crossword puzzle he had just pulled out. “Can I interest you in one of these fine bamboo cutting boards?”
“Did you make all these yourself?” I asked, amazed.
The shopkeeper proudly nodded, “I did. These were all hand made by me. Hello, Jillian.”
Jillian smiled, “Hi, Max. Max, this is Zack Anderson. Zack, this is Max Steadwell. He’s been making these cutting boards for as long as I can remember. Max, I’ve always wanted to ask you something.”
“And what would that be?” Max asked as he smiled and shook my hand.
“Who is your supplier of bamboo?”
Just then Max looked down and noticed that both Jillian and I were holding leashes.
“Ah! Would one of these two be the famous Sherlock I’ve heard so much about?”
I pointed over at Sherlock, who was returning the shopkeeper’s gaze.
“That’s him. And this is Watson,” I added, pointing down at the little red and white corgi who was, at present, gazing up at me and wondering why we stopped.
Max retrieved a familiar bag of bagel dough doggie bits and offered a couple to each of the dogs. Seriously, did everyone have a bag of those things handy? Taylor Adams must be making a killing in this town.
“To answer your question, Jillian,” Max said as he straightened back up and tossed the bag of treats on the table, “I can’t speak for my competitors but as for me, I harvest what I need from my own farm.”
“You grow your own bamboo?” I asked, impressed.
“It’s easier than you think,” Max assured me. “Once you get the bamboo started it grows like wildfire. To tell the truth I’ve got so much of it that I sell the surplus off to anyone who wants it. I’ve seen it made into furniture, mats, even clothes.”
“You’ve got a lot of cool designs,” I observed as I looked around the insides of his tent. “I see states, animals, fish, geometric shapes, and so forth.”
“Do you have any dogs?” Jillian asked as she looked down at Sherlock.
Max nodded, “I do. They’re over there, next to the Pacific Northwest states. Is there any breed in particular you’re looking for? No, wait. Don’t answer that. That was a foolish question.”
The shopkeeper hurried over to the table and moved a few trays around. He slid a large bin over and started flipping through the boards, as though he was flipping through a crate of vinyl records. Max gave a grunt and slid one board out and presented it to us. It was a full body profile of a corgi, complete with a nub of a tail.
I grinned, “I’ll take it.”
“All of my boards feature formaldehyde-free glues, so you never have to worry about anything leeching into your food,” Max explained as he wrapped up the board.
I looked over at Jillian and shrugged, “Good to know.”
I thanked Max and we continued our tour. This farm was so huge that they had their own trout-stocked fishing pond, if I cared to try my hand at fishing. I didn’t. I’m no fisherman. I’d get squeamish if I had to jab a hook through a poor worm’s eye. Blech.
They also had pony rides – which would open in a few days – for the children and an actual eatery, in case you wanted something besides fruit. It looked like someone had simply parked a food truck nearby and built a wooden ramp and deck right next to it. Either way you look at it, these people took their festivals seriously.
But I digress. As I was saying, my day had started early when Jillian had called, asking for help. She had said she brought in several boxes of decorations from home and needed some help setting everything up in her store. Here was a lady, I decided after Jillian informed me she had ten boxes waiting to be hauled in from her SUV, who enjoyed decorating. Everything was labelled. Everything had its place. Entire themed displays were stored in separate boxes and were carefully unpacked. She was not only decorating for the festival, she explained, but also for Halloween, which was less than a month away.
Now Halloween is a holiday I can get on board with. I love the spooky decorations. I love the candy. I love the cooler temps at night. I really love the candy. I love seeing people dressed up and having a good time.
Did I mention I love the candy?
No, believe it or not I don’t have a
sweet tooth. You might be thinking otherwise after hearing about my fascination with candy. What can I say? There’s something about walking into a room and seeing an open candy dish filled to the brim with assorted goodies that makes me smile. I like walking by said candy dish and snagging one when no one is watching, pretending like the calories I’m about to ingest don’t count. Which, let’s face it, on holidays they don’t.
Three hours later, after we had finished setting up round one of Jillian’s decorations, the dogs and I were running errands. Jillian had gone home to get a few more things so we decided to take advantage of our free time. We were just leaving Gary’s Grocery, having turned left onto Stagecoach Drive, when Sherlock jumped up on his seat and started sniffing the air. I groaned. Had Watson dropped another bomb on us? I cautiously took a few sniffs of my own and kept my finger hovering over the controls to the windows in case an emergency venting was necessary. No, she hadn’t, thank heavens. So what had attracted Sherlock’s attention?
We passed by Gary’s Grocery almost immediately after passing the giant wooden “Pomme Valley Welcomes You!” sign. To this day I don’t know how it took me so long to find the grocery store. There it was, sitting out in the open with a huge parking lot all around it. Yet I distinctly remember that I spent nearly an hour driving around town looking for it. And there, on the corner, was PV’s one and only convenience store, Square L.
I never could understand why a town this size would have both the grocery store and the convenience store in the same parking lot. Why not put it on the west side of town, so people heading east into PV could have a convenient place to stop and fuel up? I could only assume it was attributed to some type of zoning issue.
I kept scanning the immediate surroundings, looking for some indication of what Sherlock had been barking at. Naturally, by this time the little corgi had fallen silent. I shrugged and let the matter drop.
As I was driving down Main Street I noticed that the city had its maintenance crews busy decorating for Cider Fest and for Halloween. Large fuzzy orange and black spiders were being suspended from lamp posts. Purple lights were being strung around windows. Fake cobwebs were stretched across street signs. All in all, everywhere I looked I could see people getting into the spirit of this Cider Fest festival. From the looks of things everyone in PV got in on the act and decorated their stores to some degree.
I was approaching an orange road sign that wasn’t there 30 minutes ago. It was a transportation notice, stating that Main Street was going to be closed for several hours a day for the next week or so. What would they possibly need to do that for? What were they planning on doing, holding a parade? How? Main Street was less than a quarter of a mile long. Trying to host a parade here in PV would be like trying to land a 747 in a parking lot. There just wasn’t enough room.
For some inexplicable reason my thoughts drifted back to the events of last night. I recalled the look of terror on Dr. Tarik’s face once he saw that the mummy was gone. He had later denied it but I had seen the fear in his eyes. For a moment, however brief it had been, the good doctor had believed the mummy had been responsible for the theft of the necklace.
The necklace. What had the doctor called it? Nekhbet’s Pendant? I remembered the picture of that jeweled vulture thing I had been shown last night. Had King Tut really worn that when he had been alive? If so, wouldn’t that allow the necklace to fall into the uber-rare ‘priceless’ category? How much would the right collector be willing to pay for it? What other treasures might the mummy, er, perpetrator be after? All this talk and speculation about Egyptology had me eager to learn more.
I looked at my watch. Jillian wasn’t due back to her store for a while. Her next appointment, I knew, wasn’t until 1 pm. She and another lady were teaching some type of cake decorating class upstairs. Therefore, I had a few hours to kill.
I remembered driving by a quaint little bookstore several weeks ago that I wanted to visit. Perhaps they had some books about Egypt. What were the chances that I could find some information about mummies – and the curses involved should one reawaken – in a small town like this?
All I had to do was find the flippin’ place. I had thought it was close to Jillian’s shop. Clearly my memory and sense of direction were just as shitty as ever.
Ten minutes later I found it, after I finally remembered the picturesque store wasn’t on Main but off of Oregon Street. Turns out it was less than two blocks from Cookbook Nook. I parked the Jeep, patted both corgis on the head, and stepped out into the fresh cool morning air. I heard the creak of a wooden sign swinging in the breeze and automatically looked up. I was looking at a hand-painted sign. A Lazy Afternoon. What a perfect name for a book store.
The store had a weathered brick façade, a large bay window, and a huge green awning stretching out over the entire width of the store. A whiskey barrel full of fragrant yellow petunias was sitting next to the door. I caught sight of the store hours as I pushed the door open. 9am to 2pm Tuesday through Saturday.
A bell dinged loudly, announcing my presence. I glanced up, expecting to see a small brass bell mounted just inside the door like I’ve seen in countless other stores. Nothing. I then glanced down, expecting to see infrared sensors throwing an invisible beam across the entry. Nothing there, either. Shrugging, I moved deep into the heart of the store. I could hear the twang of a modern country song coming from somewhere close by and I instinctively headed towards it.
Then I heard the chime of the bell again. I glanced back at the door to see who else might have come in. Much to my surprise, I noticed the door was still closed and no one was there. Confused, still staring at the closed door, I heard the chime again. And again. I stared around the store in confusion. Someone had to be playing a trick on me.
“Don’t worry about Ruby. He’s been foolin’ people for years.”
I turned at the sound of the voice. A short elderly woman had appeared between two racks of books. I guessed her age to be late fifties to early sixties, although to be fair, I will admit that I sucked at guessing ages. She was as skinny as a rail, had inch long fake nails (painted glittery red), and was wearing an outfit I usually saw on the younger crowd. The much younger crowd. Skin-tight jeans adorned with rhinestones and a button down light blue blouse showing way more than I needed to see. I got the impression this woman was trying – futilely – to reclaim her youth. I also had to refrain from whipping out my sunglasses. This woman had to have the brightest, palest, biggest mop of hair that I have ever seen on anyone. I managed to catch myself before I started to stare. Was it a wig? Hair that color, in that volume, couldn’t possibly be natural.
“I’m Clara Hanson. Who might you be, sweetie?”
“Uh, Zack Anderson.”
“Ah! So you’re the guy I’ve heard so much about. Why’d it take you so long to stop by and introduce yourself?”
“Uh…”
“Oh, honey. All the store owners know everything about you. We know you were set up when you first moved to town. Why would anyone want to frame a handsome young thing like you, anyway?”
My sense of self-preservation kicked in and I took a few cautious steps back. Clara’s arm instantly snaked out and hooked itself through mine, pulling me uncomfortably close to her. She leered up at me and smiled, displaying a mouth full of stained teeth. There’s yet another reason why I’ll never drink coffee.
“Oh, relax, darlin’. You have nothing to worry about. I don’t bite. At least, not yet.”
My eyes shot open. Holy crap on a cracker. I could feel my face flaming up. I had to get away from this woman.
“We all know you were set up,” Clara continued, pulling me deeper into her store. Thankfully she hadn’t noticed my face yet. “I knew there was no way you could be guilty of murder.”
“How?” I asked, genuinely curious. “You don’t even know me.”
“True,” Clara nodded, sending ripples up through her hair.
I was briefly reminded of someone dropping a rock in a pond and
watching the ripples make their way across the surface. Her hair teetered precariously, convincing me I was looking at the most elaborate wig I had ever seen. However, the hair defied the call of gravity and stayed in place.
“It’s a hunch, sweetie,” Clara told me as she guided me over to a small counter complete with an old-fashioned push button cash register that belonged back in the 50s. “I’m a wonderful judge of character.”
Yeah, I bet you are, lady. If I didn’t hurry up and ask her where to find books on Egypt, then I had the distinct impression this woman would talk my ear off. I cleared my throat, but before I could say anything Clara’s mouth was off and running.
“Ever since I lost my Leroy a few years ago to cancer,” Clara said, as she led me away from the counter to give me an uncomfortably slow tour of her store, “I’ve decided to change my life. I’ve cut out sugars, carbs, and caffeine from my diet and replaced them with organic fruits and nuts.”
I grunted as way of acknowledgement. Somehow this didn’t surprise me.
“I’ve never felt better. I’ve never looked better, not even when I was forty years younger. I…”
“Do you have any books on Egypt?” I quickly asked as Clara paused to take a breath. “Pyramids, pharaohs, er, mummies. You know. I’m looking for that kind of thing.”
Clara threw back her head and laughed, “Honey, you and everyone else! Ever since that mummy made off with King Tut’s necklace last night I’ve had a run on anything having to do with Egypt. I’ve already contacted my distributor and talked them into overnighting me another selection of books. I can’t keep them on the shelf!”
My hopes fell.
“Oh. You’re completely out? That stinks.”
Case of the Fleet-Footed Mummy Page 6
