by Maia Chance
“Um.” I peeled the Post-it note off the envelope in my hands and held it up. “And it is on behalf of the Chamber of Commerce that I would like to extend a warm welcome to Hugh Simonian, the esteemed judge of the VitaGrain Peeper Prize!”
Lots of applause, and then a man trotted up the stage steps.
Hugh Simonian wasn’t the three-piece-suited balding guy I’d pictured. Nope, he was youngish—about my age—built like a jockey, and dressed in skinny jeans, a plaid shirt, lace-up logger boots, and black-framed hipster glasses. He clutched a smartphone the same way a baby holds a binky.
“Um, welcome,” I said, plastering on what I hoped was a Miss America smile. I extended the bouquet and the orange envelope.
“Yeah, thanks,” Hugh said, grabbing the bouquet and the envelope. He edged me out of the way to get to the microphone. “Hi. I’m Hugh Simonian, the judge of the VitaGrain Peeper Prize.” He spoke in a brisk, nasal monotone. “I just want everyone to know that although in past years, Peeper Prize judges may have gotten a little too cozy with the business owners of their towns, that’s not the way I do things. Everything is going to be aboveboard with me, okay? So if you see me around, sure, say hi, but don’t go offering me free meals at your restaurants, or”—he pulled a grimace—“for the love of Pete, no more free maple fudge. Okay?”
Crickets. This guy had as much charisma as a graphing calculator.
“Oh,” Hugh said, as though in an afterthought, waving his smartphone, “and if you’re at all interested, check out the app I developed, PrimoLeafPeep. Only two dollars and ninety-nine cents will get you all the latest information, including foliage maps, weather forecasts, and the best places to eat, drink, and stay. Hands down, it’s the number one leaf-peeping app in North America. Ciao.” He made a limp wave and left the stage.
Dad stepped forward to the microphone. “Well, folks, I think that about sums it up, so without further ado—let the twenty-fourth annual Naneda Harvest Festival begin!”
Cheers, orange and yellow confetti. Festive fiddle music from the sound system. The crowd began to disperse.
“You did a great job, honey,” Dad said, patting my shoulder. “Who knows, maybe someday you’ll follow in my footsteps as mayor.”
“Me? Mayor?” I was looking around, distracted, searching for Otis. I needed to tell him how Lo’s yelling to the crowd that I was single had not been my idea.
“Can you come to dinner tonight?” Dad asked. “Cordelia said she’s making your favorite dessert—sugar-free Jell-O.”
In my opinion, sugar-free Jell-O is a preschool craft supply, not a food, and furthermore, Cordelia knew it. But Dad couldn’t see Cordelia’s passive aggression. Love goggles. “I’d love to, but we have some guests staying at the inn—”
“Without an innkeeping license?”
“We’re not charging them. It’s more like a Good Samaritan type of situation.”
“Oh, okay. Stranded folks from that motor coach?”
“Exactly.”
“By the way, how is Otis holding up? With the, uh, the—”
“Mikey Brown’s death? I’m not … I’m actually not sure how he’s holding up.” Maybe you should ask Delilah Fortune.
“And who was that lady yelling about you being single and making a good Gourd Queen?”
“One of our guests.”
“What a character.”
“Tell me about it.”
Dad’s attention was sucked away by other people, so I walked down the stage steps and looked around for my shoulder bag and coffee.
I was intercepted by Hugh, the Peeper judge.
“So,” he said, “you’re the liaison for the Chamber of Commerce?”
“Um, yeah?” Hadn’t I just announced that?
“What’s your name?”
“Agnes.” Hadn’t he been listening?
“Agnes,” he said. “I went to a Catholic school where there was a Sister Agnes. She taught PE. Doesn’t it mean ‘little lamb’ or something?”
“Yeah.” I hate it when people know this awful fact.
“So, Agnes, these flowers are really great, but they’re not really my style.”
“What kind of monster doesn’t like chrysanthemums?” I said, trying to sound witty.
“And the card?” Hugh waved the orange envelope, which he’d opened. “A pug peeking out of a pumpkin? Seriously?” He tossed the bouquet and card onto a nearby folding chair and sidled closer. “I’m a man, little lamb. I don’t like pugs. And anyway—” He was really, really close. I could see every bristle of his sparse designer stubble. “—don’t you think flowers make a pretty lame gift?”
Gross. What did he expect, that I’d kiss him or something to butter up the Peeper Prize judge?
I dodged to the side. “Well, Hugh, I’m sorry you don’t like the card and flowers, which of course were more of a ceremonial symbol than a gift to you. Good thing they’re recyclable and compostable! And since you made it pretty clear that town business owners should stay away from you, and since I help run the Stagecoach Inn, well, I guess I’d better dash.” There was my bag and coffee. I snatched them up and darted away.
*
I hadn’t gone more than ten yards when I found myself face-to-face with Effie and the gaggle.
Effie beamed. “Wonderful speech, Agnes! Simply wonderful!”
“And now it’s party time,” Chester said. “I’m entered in the pie-eating contest, which starts in five minutes.” He smooshed a handful of caramel corn in his mouth.
“Don’t you want to save room for pie?” I asked him.
“This is my warm-up.”
I turned to Lo. “What was the deal about you yelling to the crowd that I’m single?”
“Only trying to help, honey.” Lo sounded hurt. “Don’t forget, he kissed you on the top of your head.”
Chester said, “Haven’t you heard of guerrilla matchmaking, Agnes? It’s all the rage.”
“I don’t need matchmaking, because I…” My voice trailed off as my eyes fell on Otis, talking to Delilah in front of her shop. She was passing out miniature cupcakes. He was smiling.
Maybe I should have Lo play matchmaker … and match me up with own flipping almost-boyfriend.
*
Honestly, I tried to have a good time with Effie, Chester, and Co. I made an effort and stubbornly ate my way through caramel corn, a caramel apple, and a Zweigle’s hot dog in an attempt to forget Otis smiling at Delilah.
The ensuing stomachache did take my mind off it. Sort of. Except for the time I saw Delilah shrieking, clapping, and jumping up and down with delight because she’d won the binoculars raffle at the outdoor gear store.
What was this, The Price Is Right? And, as a local business owner, was she even supposed to have entered that raffle? I kinda doubted it. But evidently, that’s how Delilah rolled. She just helped herself.
I didn’t see Otis again. I thought about texting him and asking to talk, but didn’t. I just kept eating instead.
Meanwhile, Effie and the gaggle buzzed around like bugs, tasting samples, buying souvenirs, and trying their hands at the games. We cheered on Chester as he competed in the pie-eating contest. He came in third, behind a waifish teenage girl and a guy who was called—I am not kidding—Anaconda.
After the pie-eating contest, I got separated from Effie and the gaggle. The crowd was really thick, and everyone was wandering around with corn dogs and cider doughnuts, and the hot caramel corn truck was pumping out fragrant smoke.
I searched all three floors of Doug’s Fine Antiques. No gaggle. I checked in the bakery, the coffee shop, and the bookstore. No sign of them.
Where were they? I kept stopping and turning around in slow circles on Main Street, peering into the crowd. I had the spooky sense that I was being watched, but I brushed it off as a sort of residual paranoid feeling, left over from having had to make that stupid welcome speech.
All I wanted was to change out those pinching boots and that dress with its gastric-bypa
ssing belt. I stopped in front of the BOBBING FOR APPLES! tent in a far corner of Fountain Square, which was unoccupied now. I dug out my phone, dialed Aunt Effie’s cell, and listened to it ring.
The apple bobbing seemed to be done for the day. Puddles shone on the brick pavement. A scattering of apples gleamed red on the ground. A tent flap fluttered in the breeze. I picked my way around the puddles, pushed the tent flap aside, and peered in.
Empty. Nothing but crates of apples and a big tub of water right in front of me. A couple of apples floated in the dark water.
Aunt Effie’s phone went to voicemail, so I punched END CALL. She never retrieved voicemails.
Suddenly, I was grabbed by the arms from behind and, in the same powerful motion, shoved headfirst into the tub of water. It was icy and dark and the very definition of panic. The hands holding my arms—man, they were strong.
I tried to buck my head.
Stabbing neck pain. Sloshing water.
I tried to scream.
Gurgles.
I don’t know how long I was held under—long enough for my contacts to dislodge and my lungs to burn and the little voice inside my head to say, Welp, I guess this is it, then. Too bad about all those unrealized dreams. You never did try an apple-pie milkshake. Or have a family.
Then suddenly the pressure on my arms was gone.
I swept my head out of the water and stood there for a minute, dripping, gasping for air, and making choky splutters that I couldn’t believe were coming from me. My attacker had left throbbing, fingertip-sized dots of pain on my arms. I was only vaguely aware of footsteps tapping away.
Only when enough oxygen squeaked back into my brain did I swing around. There was motion on the other side of the fountain. But since my contacts were now floating in the apple tub, all I could see was a round bobbly orange thing on top of a reddish blur of plaid.
A Headless Horseman mask.
“Hey!” I tried to shout, but it came out limp, and water trickled out of my nose.
I was standing there shaking and trying to force my brain to come up with a plan when I heard Chester and Effie’s voices.
Effie: “Goodness, Agnes! You look like a drowned rat!”
Chester: “It’s not a wet T-shirt contest, Agnes.”
Effie: “Shush, Chester—look, she’s upset.” Then they were beside me. “Agnes! What happened?”
“What happened?” I smeared water out of my eyes. “I think someone just tried to kill me.”
Chapter 10
Effie rushed away to find a policeman, leaving me with Chester. He was noisily eating a caramel apple.
“How are you eating a caramel apple after participating in the pie-eating contest?” I asked, alarmed at the quaver in my voice.
“I need some fresh fruit.”
“Wait,” I said. “Where’s my bag?” I stumbled around a little. “Chester, do you see my shoulder bag? I lost my contacts—”
“Nope.”
“That psycho jerk stole my bag! My wallet was in there!” I spotted the white blur of my phone on the pavement beside the apple barrel and snatched it up. Thank goodness I’d been holding it when that creep came up behind me.
“Then that means whoever dunked you was possibly trying to mug you, Agnes.” Chester took another crunchy bite. “Not murder you because you’re such an awesome sleuth that you should have been recruited by the CIA in the seventh grade.”
“They wanted to kill me. I think.” I lowered myself shakily onto a stool inside the apple-bobbing tent. Chester untied the sweatshirt from his waist and passed it to me. I took it gratefully and put it on.
The thing was, I was no longer convinced it was a drowning attempt. I’d been wired with pumpkin spice latte, snappy with adrenaline left over from my welcome speech, and weirded out about Otis and Delilah. Maybe my imagination was getting carried away.
“Did you see anyone?” Chester sat on a stool next to me.
“Yes. But I’m pretty sure they were wearing one of those Headless Horseman pumpkin masks that Harries Stationery has been hawking.”
“Cu-reepy.”
“I know. I also saw plaid. A blur of plaid, with some red in it. Running away. I think.”
“Plaid is the unofficial fall uniform of Naneda, so that could’ve been approximately half of the people currently roaming downtown.”
“Clifford Prentiss was wearing plaid today,” I said, wiping a trickle of water out of my ear. “He always wears plaid.”
“Hey, wasn’t Otis wearing plaid today?” Chester tipped his head to strategically gnaw caramel.
“How can you even suggest—”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Agnes, I’m merely saying that your plaid clue isn’t very useful. In fact, didn’t you see all the plaid hunting jackets for sale at the Army Navy Surplus? But you could go and find out who purchased a Headless Horseman mask.”
“That’s actually a pretty good idea.”
“Stick around. I’m full of them.”
“Oh, and whoever dunked me had pretty small hands. Smallish, but strong.” Those fingerprint-dots of pain still throbbed on my upper arms. I felt so violated.
“A woman?”
“Well, yeah, I guess it could’ve been a woman. A strong one. Or a dude with little mitts.”
After a few minutes, Effie showed up with some policemen, who took a statement. I sat there, hair dripping, shivering in Chester’s sweatshirt, and told the police about the dunking and how my bag had been stolen.
“All righty,” one of the policemen said. “We’ll do what we can.”
“You don’t seem overly concerned,” Effie said.
“We are concerned, ma’am.” The officer wiggled his hat. “It’s just that we can’t exactly send out an alert for all our forces to look for—” He glanced down at his notebook. “—a pumpkin mask and a ‘blur of plaid.’”
“Told you,” Chester whispered to me.
“Shut up,” I told him through clenched teeth.
*
Effie, Chester, and I walked to Harries Stationery, where all but one Headless Horseman mask had been sold. I elbowed, still dripping water, through the shoppers inside, and spoke to the cashier. “Excuse me, but can you describe to me every person who purchased a Headless Horseman mask this afternoon?”
The cashier snapped her gum. Because I had lost my contacts, I couldn’t see her too well, but I did see that she had pink hair. “No. What happened to you? You’re getting water everywhere.”
I ignored her question. “Why not?”
“Number one, do you see how insane it is in here today? And number two, I heard from my manager that one of those masks was shoplifted about an hour ago.”
Well, it had been worth a shot.
*
We found the gaggle and Effie drove us back to the inn in the Dustbuster. Chester was driving the Caddy back. Since I was dripping water, I had no choice but to explain what had happened to everyone as we went.
“A mugger?” Lo gasped. “Upstate?”
“What,” Myron said, “you think there’s no crime upstate?”
“I doubt it was a mugger,” Hank said from the third row. “You don’t look wealthy.”
“Um, thanks?” I said.
Hank went on, “It was probably the murderer.”
“Brilliant thinking, Dr. Li,” Dorothea said. She was buckled in the third row next to Hank.
“What?” I yelped.
“That’s what I thought, too,” Effie said, rolling through a stop sign.
“Why?”
“Obviously, you spooked the murderer,” Hank said, “going around asking questions and intruding in people’s personal space.”
I guess it had crossed my mind that Mikey Brown’s murder and my dunking could be connected. Of course it had. But I hadn’t had time to think it through, and hearing it said aloud made me feel icy cold. “You think the murderer dunked me?” I asked Hank over my shoulder.
“Who else?”
Good qu
estion.
The dunker had had small hands. Clifford Prentiss fit the bill. So did Randy Rice, for that matter. Belinda Prentiss was surely too frail and wimpy. Karen Brown and Alexa Rice weren’t. And then there was Delilah Fortune … But Delilah ran her cupcake shop single-handedly. She wouldn’t have left it unattended.
It was around five o’clock when Effie parked the Dustbuster in front of the inn. The Bermans were going to meet their Tom Clancy–reading friends for dinner at the Thai place, and the rest of us agreed that hearty Italian food at six thirty sounded like an excellent plan.
I got my bathrobe from my room, went down to Aunt Effie’s bathroom, undressed (boy, was I glad to take off that belted dress and those pinching boots), and took a long, hot shower. It took three shampoos to get out all the Aqua Net.
After that, I plodded wearily back up to the attic. I stood in the bathroom doorway and looked sadly at the original-yet-rotted floorboards. I could see it, now, a splotchy sponginess that made the wood grain look fragile.
You know, those boards would be a cinch to pry up with a crowbar, a little voice said in the back of my mind. It wasn’t the pompous bug-voice of my conscience. It was a new voice, as bubbly and go-get-’em as a gymnastics coach: Do it! Do it! Do it!
I turned away from the bathroom. I didn’t have time to go ripping up wood floors. Although there was a crowbar in the tool shed … nah.
As I was pulling on my jeans, my phone buzzed with a text message. I shoved on my glasses.
Otis: MEET ME FOR DINNER? A COLLEGE BUDDY OF MINE IS IN TOWN. YOU’LL LIKE HIM.
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a romantic date if Mr. College Buddy was in the mix, but hadn’t I agreed to have dinner with Aunt Effie, Chester, Hank, and Dorothea anyway?
Me: SURE, AS LONG AS I CAN BRING THE GAGGLE. HOW ABOUT THAT’S ITALIANO?
Otis: GREAT. WHAT TIME?
Me: SIX THIRTY?
Otis: SEE YOU THEN.
He wasn’t going to mention the thing about Lo saying I was single, then. Maybe everything would be okay.
Or maybe he wanted to talk about it in person.
I spent the next hour canceling my stolen credit cards and ordering a replacement driver’s license online. Fortunately, I hadn’t had more than fifteen or twenty bucks cash in my wallet, but what really ground my gears was that my Black Drop punch card had been in there. I had been just one punch shy of a free sixteen-ounce pumpkin spice latte.
