by Gayle Leeson
“Cool.” The drawing together of his eyebrows belied his nonchalant reaction.
“Is anything wrong?”
Scott took a step closer to me. I’d have moved backward if my legs weren’t already against my car. “Can I confide something to you?”
I nodded.
“Between you and me, I believe somebody set that fire on purpose,” he said. “And I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that the somebody who set it was Malcolm Pridemore.”
“Really? Why would he do that? Nadine told me he’d already asked her and Harry to sell him the property. Why would he set fire to something he wants to own?”
“To make Mr. and Mrs. O sell, dude! The fire wasn’t bad at all.” He shook his hair out of his eyes. “The fire department had the blaze under control in a matter of minutes, and nothing important was damaged.”
“Is that what the Ostermanns said?” I asked.
“It’s what happened.” He spread his hands. “I know because I was there.”
DRIVING TO THE FIRE station, I considered what Scott had told me. He hadn’t seen Malcolm Pridemore on the property, so was his shifting blame to Gladys’s brother-in-law merely a way of trying to cover his own tracks? After all, Scott readily admitted he was on the property. Had I made him nervous with my talk of Aunt Bess’s photos? Maybe he’d seen her there and had correctly guessed he’d show up in one or two of those captured images.
I parked the car in front of the firehouse, got out, and went around to the passenger side to get the cookies. A group of firefighters sat in a large open area reminiscent of a den or game room. There was a sectional sofa, a couple of mismatched chairs, a television, a ping pong table, and a jigsaw puzzle in progress on a coffee table.
When I approached the glass door, a man facing that direction hopped up from his chair and came to give me a hand.
He pushed open the door. “Hey, there. May I take that box?”
“Please.” I gratefully relinquished the package.
“Whatever is in here sure does smell good.”
I smiled. “It’s an assortment of cookies. My aunt crashed your work at Gladys Pridemore’s house yesterday evening, and I wanted to bring you a token of my appreciation for being so kind to her.”
“You’re Amy?” he asked.
I nodded. How in the world does he know who I am?
“Come on inside.” He called to the others. “Hey, everybody, Bess’s niece—the gal who owns the Down South Café—is here.”
They know Aunt Bess?
They ushered me into the kitchen and gathered around the long wooden table where the man who opened the door for me had deposited the box of cookies.
A tall, thin woman took a peanut butter cookie from the box. “We love Bess. Her Lord Have Mercy board is the best.”
“And...how do you know her?” I asked.
“She followed our Facebook page,” said the man who’d brought in the box, helping himself to a chocolate chip cookie. “She’d comment on our posts, message us to commend us on our service to the community...”
“Oh, and she ordered pizzas for us one evening,” the woman with the peanut butter cookie added.
“I’m glad she got some new pics for her Crime Scenes board,” a young man said. “It was awfully sparse before.”
I recognized him as the firefighter who’d taken a selfie with Aunt Bess.
“That photo of the two of you together is fantastic,” I told him. “She got another interesting shot or two as well.”
“Really?”
Although the selfie guy had asked the question, I noticed the entire group had stilled and was looking at me.
“Yeah. In one, you can see a man who appears to be running away from the house.”
They looked at each other and then left the kitchen. I trailed after them. One opened a laptop, and the others gathered around his chair for a closer look.
Like me, the laptop operator had Aunt Bess’s Pinterest page bookmarked. He clicked the Crime Scenes board and began examining the photographs. “Here.” He enlarged the image. “Look familiar to any of you?”
“He did to me.” I cleared my throat when the crew looked at me for clarification. “I thought he was this guy named Scott who came into the café with HJ Ostermann yesterday. In a roundabout way, I asked him about it. He admitted to being on the property but said he believes someone else—Malcolm Pridemore—set the fire.”
“Did you believe him?” the laptop operator asked.
“I don’t know.” I lifted and dropped one shoulder in a half shrug. “I did offer him a few hours work at the café tomorrow so that, hopefully, I or one of my staff can find out more about him and what he knows about the fire.”
Ms. Peanut Butter Cookie pressed her lips together and raised one hand to her throat. “Bess must be so proud of you.”
{ }
Chapter Eleven
I
’d previously planned to ask Mom to loan us her SUV for the excursion to the corn maze, but since John also had an SUV and volunteered to drive, I thought that was a better option. We were all in high spirits on the way there, but Jackie still vehemently refused to go through the corn maze.
“The rest of you have at it,” she said. “I’ll be sitting by the bonfire eating s’mores when you’re finished. Or you can call me from inside the maze, and I’ll ask someone to fish you out.”
Roger volunteered to stay with Jackie.
Although the corn maze was designed to look like a tractor from the sky—as evidenced by the drone photographs the Ostermanns had commissioned—it just looked like a bunch of foggy paths between corn stalks from our perspective. Fog machines kept the ground spookily covered and helped hide the wires attached to animatronic spiders that jumped out at us as we entered the maze.
Within the maze, there were more creepy things, such as tombstones with hands that rose from graves. Some paths led to dead ends, and some led to more choices...which either led to even more dead ends or more choices. Navigating the labyrinth somehow wasn’t as fun as I’d expected it to be.
John and Sarah were both analytical. John had a notepad and a pencil, with which he documented our every wrong turn so that we could go back and get on the correct path. To me, this made no sense whatsoever. We were still just as lost. The only way John’s directions would help us was if we decided to go through the maze again...which I definitely did not want to do. On the other hand, if we got lost, the directions could lead us backward out of the network of paths.
At various points within the labyrinth, actors would pop up and either scare you or offer you a riddle to guide you along the way. I was fairly sure Scott was supposed to scare us since he popped out from behind a hay bale in a werewolf costume with his arms raised up over his head.
But when he saw us, he broke into a wide grin. “Amy! It’s me—Scott!”
“Hi, Scott. How do you find your way out of here?” I asked.
“I just walk through the corn, dudes. If you get tired of following the maze, just start moving toward the outside.”
“Right or left?” The corn stalks were higher than our heads. “How do you know where you’ll come out?”
“You’ll come out wherever you come out, Amy-girl. It’ll be somewhere on this farm. Then just look around and get your bearings.”
“Makes sense,” Ryan said. “But we’d like to try it the old-fashioned way first.”
“Cool. Go back and take the right turn and also take the next right,” Scott said.
“Thanks.” I smiled, relieved that those were two dead ends we wouldn’t run up against.
“It’s the least I can do.” Scott gave us two thumbs-up. “See you tomorrow morning.”
John dutifully recorded the two turns Scott had given us on his notepad.
Ryan waited until he was sure we were out of Scott’s range of hearing to ask, “What did he mean by see you tomorrow morning? Is he helping the Ostermanns at the farmers’ market?”
“Actually, he’ll b
e helping me out in the café,” I said. “But I don’t think this is the time or place to discuss it. Why don’t we talk about it once we get out of the maze?”
“Oh, we certainly will.”
I knew that, like Jackie, Ryan would not be happy that a suspected arsonist would be helping out at the café. I wanted to put off any discussion about that for as long as possible.
After we finally made it through the corn maze, we went to the bonfire to find Jackie and Roger. John offered them his notes on how to get through the maze quickly and without facing any dead ends.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Roger asked. “I might steal a kiss at one or two of those dead ends.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Sarah said. “They have actors jump out at you in most of them to try to scare you or to annoy you with some silly riddle.”
“Why don’t we get some ice cream?” Jackie suggested. “This fire has made my throat scratchy.”
“Sounds good to me,” John said. “Let’s head for Abingdon.”
Ryan and I remained quiet on the drive. When we arrived at the ice cream parlor, we decided to sit outside on the patio. Since it was a cool night, the six of us were the only people out there.
I’d hoped Ryan would wait until we were alone to bring up the issue of Scott working at the café tomorrow, but he didn’t. Right there in front of everybody, he asked, “Now, Amy, would you like to tell us why you hired a suspected arsonist to work in your café?”
I blew out a breath. “It’s only for tomorrow. I’m hoping he’ll let something slip about the fire...or Ms. Pridemore’s death.”
Roger looked at Jackie. “Are you all right working with this guy?”
“I tried to talk Amy out of it,” Jackie said. “But she knows what she’s doing.”
I appreciated the valiant effort, but I also knew Jackie wasn’t as sure about me knowing what I was doing as she was trying to let on.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” I smiled at Jackie. “And, in fact, Scott has already admitted to me that he was at the Pridemore house at the time of the fire.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “He did?”
“He did. He caught up with me today in the parking lot of the Down South Café when I was on my way to deliver cookies to the firefighters who were so sweet to Aunt Bess last night,” I said. “Scott said he was there and that he believes Malcolm Pridemore set the fire.”
“Scott could be employing a classic defensive maneuver,” John said. “He could be providing an alternative suspect to deflect suspicion.”
“I agree.” Roger wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Did he realize you believed he was there before he mentioned Malcolm Pridemore?”
“I don’t know.” I stirred my sundae with my spoon. “I told him Aunt Bess was there taking photographs and that I’d made cookies as a show of my appreciation for the fire crew’s kindness to her. Scott then told me that he believed the fire was set deliberately by Malcolm Pridemore in an attempt to get the Ostermanns to sell the property to him.”
“If Scott has evidence against Malcolm Pridemore, then he needs to go to the police,” Sarah said.
“If he did have any evidence, he’d have come to us with it already,” Ryan said. “I don’t trust the guy. Either he’s guessing or shifting blame, and I don’t know why either of those scenarios would induce Amy to offer the man a job.”
“He’ll be working at the café for one day,” I said. “And I’d made my decision about that before Scott ever confessed to me that he’d been at the Pridemore house at the time of the fire.”
“As busy as we were last Saturday, what do you hope to learn from Scott in one day?” Jackie asked.
“Maybe nothing,” I admitted. “But, at least, he’ll be an extra pair of hands tomorrow. If we are as busy as we were last Saturday, we’ll need all the help we can get.”
ON SATURDAY MORNING, the farmers’ market proved to be even more of a draw than it had been the week before. Word had spread; and by eight a.m., the crowd circulating among the vendors had already doubled what it had been all day the previous week.
I waved to Madeline Carver, who was selling Landon Farms honey. She merely smiled, having both hands full and being unable to wave back.
I saw the Ostermanns selling produce like crazy, but Nadine waved me over.
“Amy! Get over here!” she called.
I went over and bought some tomatoes, apples, peppers, and a pumpkin from the Ostermanns. I then bought fresh eggs and cucumbers from another vendor. I didn’t have time to stop at Ryan’s mom’s booth, but as I passed by, I told her I’d try to get back out later.
She gave me a cold shrug and turned to greet a couple of browsers.
I told myself she wasn’t actually giving me the cold shoulder...that she was just busy. But a nagging feeling in my gut told me otherwise.
I hurried into the kitchen using the café’s back door and began putting away the produce I’d bought. Jackie was working at the grill.
“I’ll take over for you as soon as I get squared away,” I told her.
“Don’t worry about that,” Jackie said. “It’s going to take us both to keep our heads above water today.”
Shelly appeared at the window between the kitchen and the dining room. She had a stack of orders for us. “Amy, that gorgeous man who was with HJ Ostermann the other day is here asking for you.”
“That’s Scott,” I said. “Send him back.”
“To the kitchen?” Shelly asked.
“Yes.”
Scott entered the kitchen with his arms outstretched. I was glad to see he had his hair pulled back.
“Good morning! How can I help?” he asked.
“You’ll need an apron and an order pad.” I handed him one of each. “Oh, and a pen.” I looked around frantically.
“By the register,” Jackie said.
“I’ll get it,” he said. “If there’s anything else you need, let me know. I’m a whiz at chopping.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“We might actually need a chopper soon,” Jackie said. “It’s going to be all the two of us can do to handle the grill.”
AT AROUND TEN-THIRTY that morning, Scott poked his head through the window into the kitchen.
“Guru Guy is here for his sausage biscuit,” he said. “Told me there was no need to waste a sheet of paper on it.”
“He’s right,” I said. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”
“Cool.”
When I had Homer’s sausage biscuit ready, I took it out to him. Scott was refilling Homer’s coffee cup.
“Who’s your hero today, Homer?” I asked.
“Les Brown,” Homer said.
“Dude has some powerful words of wisdom,” Scott said.
I frowned slightly. “Homer or Les Brown?”
“Exactly.” Scott jabbed an index finger into the air and took the coffee pot around to see if other patrons needed a refill.
“New hire?” Homer asked.
“For today.”
“I kinda like him.” Homer poured creamer into his coffee.
I turned to go back to the kitchen but saw Ryan from the corner of my eye. He was striding toward the counter, and his mouth was set in a hard line.
“Hey,” I said. “Coffee?”
“No. I need to get back outside in a second and try to pacify my mother.”
“About what?” I glanced toward the door, but I couldn’t see the vendors very well from where I was standing.
“When you agreed to allow Hilda Dinsmore to participate in the farmers’ market, did you realize she sold the same type of merchandise as my mom?” Ryan asked.
“I don’t think I even asked Ms. Dinsmore what she was selling. I mean, I’m sure I glanced at her registration form, but I didn’t give it a lot of thought.”
“Hilda and my mom go way back. I don’t suppose you’d consider asking Ms. Dinsmore not to return next Saturday,” he said quietly.
My jaw dropped. “You are
kidding, right?”
“Yeah. I am.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.
“Is it really that bad?”
As if in answer to my question, I heard a shriek of anger.
“There it is,” Ryan said, as he turned and strode out of the café.
I followed close on his heels.
“You always have to act like you’re so much better than everyone else, Michelle,” Hilda Dinsmore was shouting at Ryan’s mom.
Michelle, her russet red hair gleaming in the sun, leaned closer to Hilda’s face. “I might not be better than everybody, but I am better than you!”
“Ha! You’d better be glad my arthritis is acting up today, or else I’d come across this table and slap you silly.” Hilda raised her chin.
Given her wide stance and clenched fists, I thought Ms. Dinsmore did look ready to fight. I, for one, was glad her arthritis was acting up. But apparently, Ryan’s mom was not.
“Oh, yeah?” Michelle scoffed. “You and what flock of old hens?”
“Ladies, please.” Ryan stepped between his mother and Hilda Dinsmore’s table.
“Uh-huh.” Ms. Dinsmore snorted. “Good thing that boy of yours came to rescue you.”
Michelle tried to push Ryan out of her way. “Let me at her.”
“Mom, come on.” His voice was quiet but firm.
Ms. Dinsmore hurled a blue hacky sack across the table at Michelle and hit her in the face. Michelle growled in frustration and somehow managed to reach around her son and flip Ms. Dinsmore’s table over.
“I’ll sue you for my damaged merchandise!” Ms. Dinsmore screeched.
“Like I’m going to miss that one-dollar bill. I’ll have you arrested for assault.” Michelle looked up at Ryan. “Go on. You saw her throw a projectile at me.”
I stepped forward. “Ding, ding. That round is over. Please go back to your respective corners.”
“Amy’s right,” Ryan said. “You weren’t injured, Mom, and Ms. Dinsmore’s merchandise appears to be intact. Why don’t we go back to your table?”
With one last look of disdain at Hilda Dinsmore, Michelle said, “Fine.”
