by Dana Mentink
Ruth noticed a slim metallic cylinder on the table. “What’s this?”
“It’s a digital recorder for recording my observations as I check the polytunnel. Hugh gave it to me. Wasn’t that nice?”
Ruth nodded. “It looks expensive.” Maybe Hugh had finally come up with a moneymaking idea after all.
“Ruth,” Dimple began, gazing absently out the window.
“Yes?”
“Why do you suppose a barbecued chicken just came flying out the opening of that tent?”
Ruth stared out the window into the lot next door. She was unable to fathom a reasonable explanation as a plate of jelly doughnuts followed the chicken.
Chapter Nine
Jack’s car squealed to a stop, followed closely by Nate’s and Mary’s vehicles. They could see the sides of the tent undulating and the sound of screaming.
Alva came trotting out of the tent opening, a red stickiness dripping from his hair down the front of his plaid shirt.
“You’re bleeding!” Jack said. He grabbed the old man and pushed him away from the tent.
“Nah, just hot sauce. I got off ten shots with the squeeze bottle before I took any.” His face was wreathed in a huge grin. “It’s a frenzy in there. Ain’t seen anything like it since Korea.”
Jack handed him to Mary, who steered Alva out of harm’s way. The two uniformed officers then stood ready at one side of the tent opening, and Jack, in jeans with a badge clipped to his belt, moved to the other side. They did a slow count to three and plunged into the craziness.
Bodies were flying everywhere. Some launched food at each other; others hid behind overturned tables. Hugh stood on top of the long rectangular serving table shouting something at the top of his lungs, whopping anybody he could reach with a soup ladle. Jack could just make out Bing crouched under the table next to him.
“What in the world—?” Mary shouted as a square of lasagna hurtled through the air and hit the side of her head. “Who did that?” She grabbed the nearest human form, which turned out to be a dark-haired youth, one of the Coastal Comets acrobatic troupe. Hauling him to a nearby table, she cuffed him to the metal legs.
Nathan was attempting to intervene between the Sassie sisters and the giant of a man they were bouncing up and down upon.
“Get off me, you sacks of lard. I ain’t even from this jerkwater town,” the man wheezed.
“Sacks of lard?” one of the gray-haired women said in between bounces. “Just who do you think you are?”
“Ladies, let’s just take it easy here,” Nate began. “I’m sure the guy can apologize if you let him get some oxygen in his lungs.”
Jack saw Evelyn crawl under tables along the peri- meter of the tent, trying to feel her way to the exit. “Oh yuck,” she muttered. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Jack jumped over puddles of chili and smears of barbecued chicken carnage as he made his way over toward the only fully upright people in the tent. He slipped on a ketchup-dampened patch of grass and slid on his belly, coming to a stop at the feet of Maude Stone and Bubby Dean.
“My fault?” Maude shouted over the din. “How is this my fault?”
“Because,” Bubby shouted back, “this was your crazy idea to put up a tent for these lunatics. Some of them aren’t Finny people, Maude. You can’t predict what these nutcases will do in our town.” A glob of custard quivered on the edge of his left eyebrow.
“Alva saw a bunch of them wackos headed up nose last night. Wearing bandannas and all. He says they think people are ruining the earth, and they’re looking for a sacrificial victim to make an example of. I’m beginning to think he’s right,” Bubby bellowed. Then he added, “Maybe we should offer you up.”
She ignored the last comment. “That’s a load of hogwash. Alva is a crazy old geezer, and you are, too, for believing him.” Maude ducked to avoid an airborne biscuit. “And what about you? It was your idea to host a luncheon in a tent, for Pete’s sake. What about that cockamamy idea?”
“That’s enough, you two,” Jack said, clambering up from his prone position. Neither one looked down.
“That was a great idea. The council approved it. Don’t try to shift this fiasco to my door.” Bubby ducked too slowly to avoid the chicken thigh that followed the biscuit. It splatted on the back of his neck and slid forlornly down his T-shirt.
Maude finally noticed Jack. “Jack? It’s about time. Just what in the world are you going to do about this mess?” Maude said. She flicked some spaghetti off her shoulder. “Is this the sort of behavior we tolerate in this town?”
“That’s pretty highfalutin of you to say,” Bubby yelled to the top of her head. “Finny was doing just fine before this idiot festival.”
Jack slid back down to a kneeling position as he temporarily lost his footing again. “Just simmer down.”
“Fine? You call finding a toe fine?” Her voice rose to a spine-tingling screech. “It’s only a matter of time before they find the body that goes with it, you knucklehead. Then we’ll have two murders on our hands.”
“Knucklehead?” His face turned crimson. “You are the most—”
Jack made it to his feet. “Enough already!” he exploded. “Take it outside and sit down until I get there!”
Bubby and Maude started, looking at the detective. Without a word they both made their way out of the tent.
Jack put his fingers into his mouth and blew. Hard. The blast pierced through the din. The entire congregation froze in various awkward positions as if they were engaged in a violent Twister game.
“Listen up. I’m Detective Jack Denny from the Finny Police Department. You will all remove your hands from each other and walk out of this tent. When you exit this area, sit yourselves down outside on the field and wait until an officer tells you to go. Now move it!”
The sticky horde ambled out of the tent until only the officers and the young acrobat handcuffed to the table remained.
Jack’s T-shirt and jeans were soaked and grass stained. Mary Dirisi was trying in vain to push the stringy cheese out of her face. Nathan was covered from forehead to boots with a combination of cherry cola and potato salad.
“And they say nothing ever happens in Finny,” Nathan said. A drop of soda collected in his mustache before it fell onto his shirtfront.
“Yeah, well,” Jack said, “I’ll take murder and mayhem over a food fight any day.” As the words came out of his mouth, he felt a quiver of unease deep in his gut.
He slogged after the greasy crowd streaming out of the tent. Mary and Nate plopped the messy people into groups and wrote down pertinent information in their slightly sticky notebooks.
Jack noticed Evelyn and Rocky standing away from the group, talking quietly with their heads together. He edged closer when he noticed Ruth sidle up to them. He stopped to help a teen with noodles in his hair pick up several plates off of the ground. All the while Jack kept his ears tuned in to Ruth’s conversation.
“Are you all right?” Ruth asked.
Evelyn looked up, her face smeared with a tomato- based product. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t mean to start a brawl. I just got so mad, I threw a dinner roll at him and it smacked some other guy instead. Before I knew it, there was food flying everywhere.”
“Who were you angry with?”
Rocky answered first. “That jerk, Mitchell,” Rocky barked. “He deserves a lot more than a dinner roll in the face.” He swiped at a strand of spaghetti hanging from his narrow chin. “Where is he? He needs to be taught a lesson.”
“Never mind, Rocky. It’s over for now.” Evelyn took a steadying breath. “I told you about the man who mutilated Peanut. Bing is the one. I was going to file a complaint with animal services, but he threatened to report me for having too many animals on my property.”
“And he did anyway, Evelyn. You know it was him.” He glared through the smear of mustard on the lenses of his glasses.
“I’m pretty sure, but there’s no way to prove it,” she said, wip
ing her eyes.
“If it wasn’t for that low-down slimeball, I’d still have my car, too.”
Jack finished stuffing the paper plates into the kid’s plastic bag and came closer. “Well, it looks like we’re all going to need some dry cleaning services. I couldn’t help overhearing. How did Bing get your car, Rocky?”
Evelyn and Rocky looked at each other.
“Oh, it’s a long story. Bing, uh, had something of ours that we wanted back, and we had to sell the car.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, it’s water under the bridge now.” The silver strands in her dark hair shimmered in the waning sunlight. “He’s just so arrogant, so cruel. He asked me about my ‘crippled mongrel’ as if he had nothing to do with it. I just couldn’t stand it.”
“It’s all right, Ev.” Rocky put his arm around her shoulder. “Nothing awful happened, just a food fight.” Rocky took several deep breaths. “Let’s center ourselves.”
Jack looked at the mottled flush on Rocky’s face and figured he would require much more than deep breathing to center anything. They moved away and sat down on a log to wait for their turn with the police.
“Not bad,” Jack said.
Ruth looked at the sticky detective. “What’s not bad?”
He brushed a lettuce leaf out of his hair. “You are a pretty good snoop, I must admit. I don’t think they’ll be inclined to share that much information with law enforcement.”
“Maybe not when you’re dressed like a salad.”
“Funny. I think they’d clam up even without the garnish.”
“It’s the motherly aura I exude,” she said with a grin. “For some reason, people share their secrets with me.”
“Let me know if you need some contract work with the Finny police.” He smiled and walked back into the throng, wondering what Bing could have taken from the Bippos that would require them to sell a car to buy it back. He took another glance at the chaos. The misty air seemed to envelop the group, leaving Rocky and Evelyn framed against the foggy backdrop. Rocky reached to hug her and his shirt rode up in the back. Jack made a note to find out why Mr. Rocky Bippo had a knife tucked in his waistband.
As he turned away, his heart skidded to a stop. Bobby stood there, looking very clean in a white T-shirt and sweat pants. She flashed him a wide smile.
“Hello, Detective. I was just going for a run, but I couldn’t resist poking my nose in all this mayhem.” Her eyes traveled across his splattered shirt. “Looks like you’ve been right in the thick of it.”
He felt a sudden shortness of breath. “It’s been an interesting morning.” He looked at her bob of silky hair and remembered the goo that was no doubt coating him from head to toe at the moment. Conversation. Make some conversation, he told himself.
“So, uh, running, eh?” He shoved his hands into his pockets, ignoring the avalanche of noodles that fell to the grass as he did so. “Running is good, yeah.” That was smooth, Denny.
She laughed. The sound was high and musical. “It’s good, yeah. Do you run?”
“Me?” He tried to remember the last time he went jogging. It might have been the fitness test at the police academy. “Running. Yes, I do running. I mean, I jog. Yes.” It was only when he needed to chase down a suspect, but that was running, wasn’t it? He tried hard to think of a way to extend the conversation.
“Maybe we could go running this week. On your day off or something,” she said.
His heart began to jackhammer again. “Yes,” he said too loudly. “Yes, let’s run this week.”
She nodded. Then she leaned forward and raised a hand to his hair. He held his breath as her fingers brushed his cheek. She smelled like vanilla.
“Okay. But maybe you should leave the pickles at home.” She handed him the slice of dill and jogged off, her laughter trailing behind her.
Chapter Ten
The morning shower was as hot as Ruth could stand it. As she watched the suds swirl around her toes, she could not get the memory of the crumpled balloon out of her mind. It was Wednesday, a scant five days after the balloon accident, and she could still hear the awful thump as the basket hit the ground. She had seen Ed so very much alive a few hours before the launch that she could not reconcile the picture of the congenial bald man with the twisted mass of flesh imbedded in Finny’s Nose.
The food fight the day before did nothing to ease the atmosphere. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the thought of all those grown-ups hurling food at each other like a bunch of preschoolers.
Idly she wondered what the cultured Meg Sooner had made of the whole sticky mess.
Ruth stayed in the shower until the water became tepid, but she still could not focus her mind on anything but the current string of worries. She wished Monk was home, but the catering business demanded plenty of hours. Determined to snap out of her funk, she prepared a cup of near-scalding coffee and sat down at the table with the decrepit journal.
August the 25th, 1923
It’s all coming back to me now. It was two months ago when the old lady showed up. No one remembered letting her in, but there she was, a wizened old China lady. Her front teeth were gone and most of her hair. She was dressed from head to toe in a dreadful black shift with a huge crocheted shawl that seemed to swallow her up. She pointed a bony finger at me and croaked, “Where is she? Where is my Ling?”
I told her Ling was gone. Slats sent her away a month ago because she wasn’t able to keep up with the dance steps. Ling wasn’t much of a looker to start with, and she just kept getting thinner and thinner until there wasn’t anything left to do the kicks and turns. Her dance costumes hung on her like rags. I felt bad for Ling, but she took it well. Just packed her bags and left.
“You get her back!” the old lady shrieked, still jabbing her finger in the air.
By then all the girls were crowded around on account of the screaming.
I told the old gal that Ling was gone, and I didn’t know where, but she continued to scream in a most unholy way. Finally, my piano man grabbed hold of her arms and drug her out. The screams echoed throughout the restaurant.
I don’t know why it’s come into my mind again. Maybe it’s this evil fog that has been smothering us in darkness for weeks. I can’t get her screams out of my mind.
Ruth read the passage twice, struggling against the loops and curves of the penned script. It was a fantastic tale so far. A Finny woman, working for a gangster, watching the developing loves and lives of her dancing girls. It had all the makings of a tragic soap opera.
Reading the journal was an attempt to distract herself, but it had only stirred her mind even further. Could the woman’s story be true? Ruth knew that in the early twenties there was indeed an eating establishment on the outskirts of Finny. And it was certainly true that Finny was named after an unsuccessful rumrunner. Ruth needed to find out if the journal was fact or fancy. She remembered her earlier idea to visit Ellen Foots.
Picking up the phone, she dialed the Finny Public Library and made arrangements to sit in on Ellen’s next presentation later in the afternoon.
After hanging up, she waded through her birds in the backyard. “All right, everyone. Here’s breakfast.” She heaved a tray full of bread scraps and vegetable chunks onto the patio and left the birds to their squabbling. While they were distracted, she turned her attention to her business demands.
The worms in the fattening bed were in wiggly ecstasy as she fed them their mash. She tried to keep her mind fully engrossed in the task at hand as she moved from feeding to harvesting. The standing orders for worm castings needed to be filled regardless of the latest Finny catastrophe.
The regular beds were moist but not sticky. Just right, she thought with pride. With a flathead shovel she carefully removed the first five inches of soil where most of the worms congregated. She placed the shovelfuls on a plywood sheet covered with plastic and switched on the halogen light that dangled just above the wood. As the worms sought to escape the brightness, they began burrowing down
nearer the bottom.
Ruth whisked away the top two inches of soil with a small broom and dustpan, emptying the contents into gallon drums. She waited patiently for worms to burrow down deeper and repeated her whisking. Eventually she had the required amount of worm compost for the latest orders and a solid mass of grumpy worms on her plywood.
“Go away, Teddy,” she said, shoving a plump gray gull away with her shoe. She slid the worms back into the concrete bins and covered them with bird manure, topsoil, and garden compost. The cleaning up was not quite finished when the phone rang. The voice on the other end came through the receiver with piercing decibels.
“You’ve got to get to the tent. The Bippo woman is doing a presentation for the natives, and you have to get a few pictures.”
“Maude, are you sure? The last event turned into a culinary brawl. Maybe we should cancel the rest of the festival activities.”
“Ruth Marilyn Budge. If you think for one minute we are canceling the rest of the festival, you’ve gone around the bend. We’ve spent big bucks on that tent, and the booths, not to mention the cotton candy and popcorn machines, and that jumpy house thing— which now needs to be repaired.”
Ruth held the phone away from her ear to lessen the screech. “I see your point. I was just thinking about propriety.”
“Who cares about propriety? Ed Honeysill is past caring, and we’ve got craftspeople from up and down the coast who paid for two full weekends of festival. We will carry on as planned until we wrap up Sunday at 5:00 p.m. Besides, the next batch of visitors won’t even know there’s been a murder unless we make a big deal about it.”
Ruth found that hard to believe. “Okay, Maude. I can stop by the tent on the way to snap a few pictures.” She hung up hurriedly before Maude had time to ask her to wear the Mrs. Fog costume.
