“I’ve been reading Mom’s diary about the wedding. I wish you two would’ve taken more pictures. It sounds so wonderful. Mom was so excited.”
“It was the best day of my life. And it’ll be that way for you too. Wolfe’s a good man, Ainsley. I’m glad you’re marrying him.”
“Me too,” she smiled. “I’ll call him when I get back from Indianapolis. I’m sure everything will be fine. By the way, don’t forget to go get fitted for your tuxedo, okay?”
“I already did. Yesterday.”
“Really? Thanks!”
Outside, a horn tooted. “Who is that?”
“Alfred. He’s taking me to Indianapolis.”
“Well, be careful,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll see you when you get back. Good luck!”
Ainsley looked at the baskets of cookies on the counter. “Um, Dad? I think I might need some help out with these.”
Martin Blarty sat in the middle of the floor of the town’s small library. Scratching his head, he rubbed his eyes and decided there was nothing more to find. This library contained everything except information about the town. The sun was now high in the morning sky. He walked down the street to the deli, once called Deli on the Dark Side, now renamed Deli on the Side, which actually fit since it was on the corner and there was always something “on the side,” like a pickle or potato chips. After ordering a large coffee, he decided to pay the sheriff a visit. He knew the sheriff usually tried to be at the station on Saturdays. But when he got there, the dispatcher said he hadn’t been in, so Martin decided to visit him at home.
On his way there, he noticed something very peculiar. There was a strange man walking through a grouping of trees. And as he drove by, he saw this man’s expression, and it nearly scared the daylights out of him. This man looked like a ghost! His face was pale, his eyes gaping, his mouth hanging open like it’d been that way for a decade. And he walked swiftly. Back when Skary was the horror capital of the world, Martin wouldn’t even have thought about seeing such a sight. But now—how creepy.
He quickly pulled his car over to the side of the road, locked his doors, and backed up a few yards. But when he got to the spot where he’d seen the man, there was nothing but trees. He could hardly catch his breath with his heart beating so erratically.
Should he get out of the car? Panting out his fear, he decided he might be able to see better if he stood closer to the trees. With trembling hands, he unlocked his door. But first he thought he should get a weapon. He looked around, but all he had in his car was a Kleenex box. He’d heard once that a man died in a car accident after being hit in the head by a flying Kleenex box. With enough fearful adrenaline pumping up his muscles, he had no doubt he could fling the thing hard enough to at least knock someone out.
Unless it was a ghost. Then he would need garlic. No, wait. That was for vampires. Maybe it was a vampire. He hadn’t seen any fangs, and granted, the apparition wasn’t wearing a black cape, but a blue flannel shirt. Still…
Grabbing the Kleenex box, he slowly got out of the car. He tiptoed along the side of the road and slowly made his way closer to the trees. Something moved behind some leaves. He gasped. Then he saw it. Just a cat. “Shoooo!” he hissed, and the cat bounded away.
He was beginning to get a grip. There was nothing to be seen out here. Maybe he’d imagined it. After all, he’d spent the last two weeks trying to find documents detailing the history of this town, but everything seemed to have vanished. Or maybe it had never existed. Whatever the case, he was a bit weary. He had lost a lot of sleep from the many concerns of his life: a town whose history had vanished, a mayor whose mind had gone mad, and residents who didn’t know what dire straights Skary, Indiana, was really in.
He pulled a tissue from the box and wiped his dripping nose. Maybe the mayor’s hallucinations were now his own. Scanning the trees one more time, he decided there was nothing more to see. He walked to his car.
And then a heart-stopping scream made him drop his box of Kleenex.
Melb’s double-decker sandwich was a work of art that defied gravity. Three kinds of meat, two kinds of cheese, plus lettuce, tomato, pimentos, and mayo, between two soft slices of French bread. Sure, probably a bowl of whole wheat flakes was a better choice for breakfast, but she’d decided that if she ate a lot in the morning, she wouldn’t be hungry the rest of the day. Plus, she needed a lot of energy. This was going to be the first day of her hobby. She hoped it would distract her from her diet, which so far had added seven pounds to her weight.
Just as she was about to take her first bite, someone pounded at the door frantically. Melb hopped up and answered it, only to find Martin Blarty standing there, his eyes wide and startled. “A ghost! Dead people! Screaming!” he was saying.
“Martin, goodness, come on in. I was just … um … fixing myself some rice cakes.” She opened the door, and Martin rushed by her.
“Is Oliver here?” he asked. She could see him shaking.
“No, he’s at the car lot. Martin, whatever is the matter?” Since he didn’t seem to be able to speak, she continued guessing. “Is it the mayor? He’s claiming to see ghosts? Dead people? My goodness, the poor fellow is just off his rocker, isn’t he?”
Martin was blinking and nodding and shaking his head all at once, and now eying the sandwich on the counter. “That’s for Oliver,” Melb said. “He likes me to bring him up a sack lunch sometimes.” She smiled, but Martin still looked terrified. Melb leaned forward on the counter, and in a hushed voice said, “Martin … whatever the mayor thinks he saw, it’s nonsense. Is he saying he’s seeing dead people? Because that was a very good movie, but dead people don’t really walk around, you know? People who are losing their minds often think they see things that they don’t. It’s craziness, Martin. Don’t be afraid, okay?”
“Craziness…,” he mumbled.
She didn’t seem to be helping. She knew it must be hard to see a friend fall off the deep end. Should she tell him about Dr. Hass? Should she admit she’d been to see a shrink? What would people think of her? Still … if she could help Martin and the mayor, she should. She knew that for sure. Telling herself to swallow her pride, she said, “Martin, I think I know how to help the mayor.”
Martin looked up at her from his own distant thoughts. “You do?”
“But you must promise not to tell anyone who told you this.”
Martin seemed to focus. “Okay.”
“There’s a new therapist in town. He just moved here. I went to see him because I’m having some … some … nightmares. Anyway, he’s really good, and maybe Mayor Wullisworth could use that kind of help. I would imagine one’s claim to have seen dead people would pretty much be reason to go see a shrink.”
“Yeah … right.”
She wrote down Dr. Hass’s address and gave it to Martin. “Listen, Martin. This is just between you and me, okay?”
Martin nodded, thanked her, and left. Melb, however, still had the task of deciding whether or not to eat her sandwich.
CHAPTER 15
WOLFE WAS JUST ABOUT to go to the bathroom to take off his thermal underwear that was doing nothing more than making him sweat in his cozy and warm office, when Oliver appeared with an enormous grin. “Well, today’s your big day.”
“Big day?”
“Just saw a car pull up. A woman is getting out. Think you’re up to the task?”
Wolfe looked out and saw the top of her head bobbing through the lot. “Sure.”
“Remember, the first twenty seconds are critical. That’s when you sell the car. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember the Road to the Sale. Remember the points?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Now grin real big, offer the correct handshake, and go sell me a car!”
Wolfe stood. His heart was actually pumping dramatically considering he was just going out to speak to this woman. Taking a deep breath, he tried to muster up some confidence as he walked to where she wa
s looking at a four-door sedan. “Hello!”
She looked up at him, gave him a smile indicative of annoyance, and looked back down at the car. “Hi.”
“Looking for a car today?”
“No, I’m here because I’m shopping for shoes.”
He swallowed. Ten seconds down the drain. He was just about to ask his next question when the woman suddenly started sneezing. Ten times. When she finally got ahold of herself, twenty seconds had already passed, and all he knew was that she was annoyed and apparently contagious.
“Sorry,” she sighed. “I’ve had this for weeks.”
“That’s okay,” Wolfe smiled, and then realized he needed to shake her hand, which had just managed to catch a million germs. He feebly stuck out his arm. “I’m Wolfe.”
“Barbara.”
“What can I help you with today?” No, that wasn’t right. He should have said, “I can help you today.” Good grief, this was falling apart by the second.
“My car broke down. It’s going to cost a ton to fix. So I decided I should probably buy a new one.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Something reasonable, but I don’t want compact.”
He tried to size the woman up. She didn’t seem to be the type concerned with image, and since she didn’t want compact, perhaps safety was on her mind. “Well, I’ve got a nice Mercury Sable over here—”
“Don’t bother,” the woman said curtly. And then she pulled out a folder from the large handbag hanging off her shoulder.
He tried not to gasp. A folder. A Folder! On his first try!
She handed him a sheet of paper. “Here is a list of features I want, the color I want, and the make I want. Do you have this car on your lot?”
He looked at the sheet. “Well, we’ve got this car with all these features, but we only have it in maroon.”
The woman scowled. “Maroon.”
He was getting cold, and this woman’s personality wasn’t warming things up. He handed her back the sheet of paper. “I’m willing to bet you already know the price we bought this car for.”
A smug smile was the only bright feature on this woman’s face.
“Tell you what,” Wolfe said. “It’s cold out here. Let’s save us both a lot of time. Why don’t you come inside, tell me what you’re willing to pay for this car, and we’ll go from there.”
The woman moved past him. “I like your style.”
“What?!” Oliver sat in his office, his face red with anger. “Did I not teach you anything?”
Wolfe rocked on his heels. “But she’s a Folder.”
“So what? You’ve still got to go through all the steps. Now we don’t have a snowball’s chance of making a dime off this lady!” Oliver glanced through the glass window in his office to the lady sitting in the “negotiation” room. “Look at her! Her shoulders are back. Her head is high. She’s got all the confidence in the world.”
“But you said Folders are impossible. And she had already done her research. What was I supposed to do?”
“Steps One through Ten!” Oliver stood, pacing behind his desk. “Now she’s got the edge. She knows we’re desperate. I guarantee she’s going to offer to pay a hundred bucks over invoice. A hundred bucks. Oliver lamented.
Wolfe’s gut swelled with desperation. “Let me work on her,” he said, hoping Oliver would settle down a bit. The last time he remembered anyone being so mad at him was six years ago when he’d missed a deadline three times. Alfred finally called and yelled at him. Rushing back into the office, he closed the door and tried to offer a professional demeanor.
“What took you so long?” the woman snapped. “I don’t have all day.”
“Sorry. Just going over some paperwork.” Wolfe sat down on the other side of the desk. “Now, whose name is the car going to be under?”
“Mine.”
“Okay.” He managed to find hope in that simple statement. “Well, let me do some figuring here.”
She slid another piece of paper over to him. “I’ve already done that for you. Just to save you the time and effort. I broke everything down by feature, and at the bottom you’ll see exactly what I am going to pay for this car.”
He took the paper. “Fifty-four dollars over invoice?” Dread washed over Wolfe for many reasons, not the least of which was the realization he’d spoken first.
Ainsley followed Alfred closely through the large Indiana Convention Center. Her nostrils began to fill with every delicious aroma she could think of as soon as they entered what was called the Sagamore Ballroom. In one corner of the building was the Casserole Bake-Off. In another was a contest for fried chicken. On the west end of the room was the cookie contest. With glee on their drive up, he had realized that she was going to be able to enter five different contests: chocolate chip, cookie with a nut, five-ingredient cookie, fifteen-ingredient cookie, and most original cookie, which was something she’d created years ago: Raspberry Orange White Chocolate with a Sprinkle of Ginger.
Alfred was also high on sugar, as he’d managed to eat the equivalent of an entire batch of cookies while driving. He was practically skipping along the convention floor as Ainsley briskly walked to keep up with him.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before!” she mused.
He slowed his pace and walked beside her. “Look at these women, Ainsley. Study them … their demeanor.”
“What for?”
“This is your competition. Don’t you think all these women want their own television show? Isn’t that the dream of every woman in this building?”
A tall and thin woman caught her eye as they walked past her booth. She wore a thinly striped blue apron, her hair in a perfect bob. She looked up at Ainsley as they passed. A kind smile warmed her eyes. Ainsley grinned. But then the woman’s eyes looked at the identification card around Ainsley’s neck, the one that read COOKIE BAKE-OFF #101. The smile faded, and her eyes flashed an equal measure of elite showmanship and severe competitiveness. A disapproving eyebrow rose while her eyes quickly scanned Ainsley’s outfit. Then she smirked and went on about her business.
“Alfred!” she said. “Did you see that? That woman gave me a dirty look!”
His attention was on finding where they were supposed to be, but he glanced down at her. “Get used to it. When you win this thing, you will be the most hated woman in Indiana.”
“Why?”
“Don’t all women want to be the object of envy for other women?”
She was just about to retort when he pointed. “There! It’s our booth! Come on.” They toted the cookies over to the booth. She looked around. All the other booths were elaborately decorated. One woman’s actually looked like a real kitchen! Another woman had music playing.
Alfred seemed to read her mind. “We’re going simplistic,” he announced. “Everyone has a theme. Your theme will be you. It will catch everyone’s attention. Believe me.” He lowered his voice. “Trust me.”
“Okay.” She smiled weakly at the woman next to her, who had a carousel of cookies spinning around on the counter. The woman didn’t bother to smile back, glancing at her as though she were as important as a fleeting bug. “Alfred, this place … it’s not me.”
“I know. This is the big time. You’re not used to the big time. But honey, you’re going to have to get used to it. And I didn’t tell you this before, because I didn’t want to scare you, but we’ll have company soon.”
“Company?”
“Remember that TV exec I was telling you about? Harper Jones is his name. And he’s due to arrive in about thirty minutes.”
Wolfe stared at the woman. Never had he seen such cold eyes. The lady wasn’t going to pay a dime above fifty-four dollars over invoice. Breaking the news to Oliver hadn’t been pleasant. After five minutes of ranting, Oliver said he had to go back in there and get more money out of her.
Now Wolfe sat behind the desk, shaking hands folded together, stomach sour with stress. The woman looked quite relaxed, he
r purse sitting delicately in her lap, her eyelids slightly lowered. She looked like a lioness deciding whether the rabbit in the bush was worth the effort to get up and go mangle.
“Ma’am,” Wolfe began, “I understand your thriftiness. It’s natural to want a good deal. I can truly appreciate that.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“But what you’re offering to pay here would barely cover processing the paperwork.”
“Since when did filling out forms cost money?”
Was that a growl he’d just heard from her throat? “Ma’am, the people working here need money. They need to make a living. Oliver works very hard at running a reputable car dealership.”
“Are you saying I’m taking advantage of that?” she purred.
“I’m saying that there’s a difference between being thrifty and being cheap. You pay what this car is worth, and we’ll take good care of you.”
“I’m paying that number,” she said, pointing to her handwritten figure on the piece of paper, “and not a dime more. Now, let’s fill out the paperwork and get me the keys.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I’m not selling you this car.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Sure I can.”
“You’re still making money off me! You’re saying you’re willing to throw away fifty-four dollars? I can leave here and you haven’t made a dime!”
“I understand that. But it’s the principle, ma’am. And the fact of the matter is that people have to eat. They have to make a living. I’m glad you’ve done your research. It’s respectable for you to come in here well prepared. But it’s ludicrous to think you’re going to drive a car off the lot so the dealer can lose money.”
The woman slammed her purse on the desk, causing him to jump.
“You can’t do this to me! I’ve spent an hour and a half here, and now you’re not going to sell me the car?”
“I will sell you the car, for this price.” Wolfe wrote a new figure down, five hundred dollars over invoice, and slid it across to her with a smile. “And ma’am, that adds two dollars a month to your monthly payment. But it adds food to the table for the people working here.”
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