Fatal Festival Days

by Jamie M. Blair

  Copyright Information

  Fatal Festival Days: A Dog Days Mystery © 2018 by Jamie M. Blair.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2018

  E-book ISBN: 9780738755328

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Shira Atakpu

  Cover illustration by Ben Perini

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Blair, Jamie M., author.

  Title: Fatal festival days : a dog days mystery / Jamie M. Blair.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2018].

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018020618 (print) | LCCN 2018022741 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738755328 (ebook) | ISBN 9780738751214 (alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3602.L3348 (ebook) | LCC PS3602.L3348 F38 2018 (print)

  | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018020618

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightinkbooks.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To Eddie, my little furry love.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to every reader who joined me and Cameron in Metamora over the course of three books. I hold all of the Dog Days characters near and dear to my heart. This one is dedicated to you and your fuzzy friends.

  • One •

  The devil must be selling snow cones, because for the first time in a decade, the Whitewater Canal was frozen over.

  Mayor Soapy Thompson scuffed his foot across the snowy bank. “Last time Metamora saw a winter this cold, everybody’s pipes froze except Judy’s and we all took refuge at The Briar Bird Inn.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was bunk down with the town. I made a mental note to dig around in the garage to see if Ellsworth House had a generator to keep the basement toasty and the pipes running. Seeing as how a century and a half’s worth of junk had accumulated in there, my odds were good for finding one. Of course being in possession of a generator would mean the town would come knocking on my door. Good thing I had five smelly, poorly trained dogs that jumped on anyone who stepped foot inside, attempting to lick them to death.

  Not that they were a great deterrent. They hadn’t kept my mother-in-law away. Which reminded me, I still owed her a new blouse since hers was ruined by giant, muddy paw prints.

  “We couldn’t ask for better weather for the Winter Festival,” I said, taking in the glittering ice and snow as far as the eye could see. “Do you ski, Soapy?”

  “No, never learned. I do ice skate, though. Played a little hockey in my younger days.” He eyed the canal with interest, scratching the scraggly white beard that hung to the collar on his coat. “Is it too late to add an event to the festival schedule? I think I’ll get Roy down here to clear this ice for skating. Maybe a friendly game hitting the old puck around.”

  “I’ve already made the flyers, but you know how well word of mouth works around this town.”

  He smiled, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of using the ice. “That I do.”

  “Well, good luck finding Roy.” Sober, I didn’t bother to add. Everyone knew where to find Roy. The Cornerstone Bar, three sheets to the wind. I had to give Roy credit though—he and the rest of my Metamora Action Agency—they really pulled this festival together. It kicked off the next morning, and for once, we weren’t putting out last-minute fires.

  Working for the town in an official capacity had been … interesting so far. The fall Canal Days Festival had had its obstacles. Notwithstanding murder and flooding, it ended up going off without a hitch. Planning the Winter Festival had gone as smooth as butter—which was worrisome.

  I tried not to be a pessimist, but there’s always a kink in the hose, so to speak. When there wasn’t, I walked around waiting for the sky to fall on my head. If something bad would just happen, I could get past it and not look for it. It wouldn’t be the specter on the horizon.

  And this event was the biggest the town had ever had, at least the coverage—it was to be televised! A local Indiana station was covering the skiing and ice carving tomorrow afternoon and evening, and I’d managed to wrangle local Olympian David Dixon into hosting the events. David competed in the giant slalom in the 1972 games in Japan. He didn’t medal, but he’s still an Olympian, and that’s as good as gold for hosting Metamora’s own winter games!

  I spotted Logan and Anna, two of my Action Agency volunteers, tacking up festival fliers in the town gazebo. They were one pair of my four seniors, the two that were seniors by high school grade and not age. “How’s it going?” I called to them, trekking over, my boots crunching through the shin-high snow.

  The only advantage to having the world frozen was that my knee didn’t give me grief like it did when it was humid and about to rain.

  “Almost done!” Anna called back, her auburn hair tucked behind her ears under her hat. “We have a problem, though.”

  And there it was, the specter, come to haunt my festival. “What problem?”

  “Paul Foxtracker and John Bridgemaker and their Mound Builders’ Association are making signs,” she said.

  “Signs for what? Just drop the bomb. Rip the Band-Aid off. I can take it.” I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders, prepared to face this obstacle.

  “They’re picketing the downhill skiing,” Logan blurted through the scarf covering the lower half of his face.

  “Logan!” Anna shouted, whacking him in the arm. “I told you I’d tell her.”

  Logan was brilliant and analytical. He got along famously with computers but wasn’t one for dealing well with humans.

  “Picketing the skiing?” I asked. “Why? What do they have against skiing?”

  “It’s not the skiing,” Anna said. “It’s where the skiing is taking place. That hill is one of the earth mounds their ancestors built.”

  “Oh … ” A hollow feeling sank into my chest. “That is a problem. Why didn’t any of us know that? Is there
a map or something of all the earth mounds? How did this happen? It’s on Clayton Banks’s private property. Wouldn’t he know it’s an earth mound?”

  “He said he didn’t think it was a big deal, and that it’s his earth mound to do with what he wants,” she said, frowning. “We’ve been trying to think of somewhere to move the event, but so far, I can’t think of anywhere else.”

  “Clayton likes the prospect of the town paying him to use his land for the event and parking,” I said. “I’m sure any thought about the earth mound and what it means to John, Paul, and the rest of the association members might have crossed his mind for a second, but the dollar signs would’ve cleared his conscience pretty fast.”

  Clayton Banks was a notorious swindler and tightwad. He’d do just about anything for a buck. Last week he tried to trade my sister, Monica, a dozen rusty cans of motor oil for a lifetime supply of her homemade dog treats from her shop, Dog Diggity.

  “I need to talk to Clayton,” I said. “Anything else come up that I should know about?”

  “Just Johnna—” Logan began, but Anna swatted him again.

  “Nothing!” she said.

  “Oh good gravy, what did Johnna do now?” I asked. She was the fourth member of my action agency, a senior in age, and had a proclivity for sticky fingers. She’d come to my group originally by way of the court system—service hours for stealing yarn. I was convinced she crocheted and knitted in her sleep. I’d never seen her without her needles clicking and clacking away.

  “She may have gotten the Daughters of Historical Metamora all wound up about the dog sled races,” Anna said.

  The Daughters of Historical Metamora were a group of women whose ancestors founded the town. My mother-in-law, Irene Hayman, was their ring leader. When she wasn’t doing everything in her power to drive me crazy, she was busy reclaiming her ancestral estate, Ellsworth House, where I lived, piece by piece. A weather vane here, a door knocker there. “What could the Daughters possibly have against a dog sled race? Are they allergic to Huskies?”

  Anna looked at Logan, who only shook his head. “It discriminates against cats,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?” I said. “What? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

  Anna winced. “Fiona Stein said you’re always planning events that exclude cats. Your pro-dog agenda is discriminatory.”

  “Pro-dog agenda? Since when do cats pull sleds? This is insanity!”

  “Don’t kill the messengers,” Logan said, adjusting his gloves to get a better grip on a tack.

  “I’ll just have to give her a piece of my mind. Discriminatory, my rear.” I stomped off shouting, “Thanks for putting out the flyers!” behind me as I went.

  Heading for the Whitewater Train Depot, which was owned and operated by Fiona and her husband, Jim Stein, I crossed the wooden bridge over the canal trying to calm down. I’d never been accused of being discriminatory in my life. How dare she!

  I hit the other side of the bridge just as my husband, Ben, came running out of the Soapy Savant, the coffee bar that also sold homemade soaps owned by our mayor, Soapy, and his wife, Theresa. “Your events are a jinx!” he shouted spotting me.

  “What? What did I do?”

  He yanked open the door on his police pickup truck, Metamora One, and Brutus—his giant, black Rottweiler/Doberman mix—darted from behind him and hopped up in the cab. “Clayton Banks was just found dead at the top of that ski hill of yours.”

  Stunned, I ran toward him as fast as my Storm Trooper–sized snow boots would let me. “I’m coming with you!”

  “Oh no you’re not. You’re always sticking your nose into these things—”

  “And figuring out who did it!” I shot back. “You’re welcome.”

  “And almost getting killed yourself,” he said.

  “I’ll stay in the truck.” I pulled the passenger side door open.

  Brutus stuck his wet nose in my face and wouldn’t budge from the seat. “Scoot over, you big slobbery—”

  Brutus barked, indignant.

  “That’s an officer of the law you’re talking to,” Ben said, jumping in behind the wheel. Brutus had recently become an official K-9 officer and Ben’s partner.

  “Fine. Please scoot your furry hind end over, officer,” I said, digging in my handbag for one of Monica’s newest treats, a Beggin’ Bagel. “Here,” I said, bribing Brutus with a snack.

  “You don’t give police dogs treats,” Ben said. “Here, Brutus,” he ordered, patting the spot in the middle of the seat. Brutus moved over. I climbed up and pulled the door closed behind me.

  The siren blared and Ben rushed us across town, past the driveway to Clayton’s house to the very end of his property, where orange snow fencing had been set up in his field to indicate the public parking area.

  Food trucks and port-a-potties were abandoned in the middle of being set up, their workers gathered together waiting for Ben to arrive. A few members of the Mound Builders’ Association stood by with their picket signs resting on the trunk of a silver car.

  Ben grabbed his radio receiver and spoke into it. “Metamora One on the scene. Over.”

  “Brookville two minutes out. Over,” came the reply. Officer Reins from Brookville PD would be arriving shortly. I’d had my experiences with Reins, seeing as how he made me a suspect in a murder last summer. This was Metamora’s third murder—if that’s what this was—in the past eight months. John Bridgemaker and Paul Foxtracker had been on the scene when the last body was found. Their luck was running about as well as my own. Maybe we shared the same specter.

  I was beginning to think the events I planned for the town actually were cursed.

  “Allen Henderson?” Ben called out, hoping down from the cab of his truck with Brutus on his heels. I rolled my window down to eavesdrop. I said I’d stay in the truck, after all. For now, I’d keep my word. No promises though when Ben was out of sight.

  “I’m Henderson,” a man said, striding up. “I’m the one who called.”

  “Take me to him,” Ben said, meaning Clayton.

  The whine of more sirens reached my ears. An ambulance and two police cars skidded into the makeshift parking lot, light bars flashing.

  Ben waved the paramedics to follow him. Reins ambled out of his cruiser, tugging up his police belt and holster. He headed toward the group of workers and stopped beside a man I recognized—by his white handlebar mustache and shiny bald head—as a school crossing guard who stood at the corner down from my house. I didn’t know the man’s name, but I thought of him as my nemesis.

  Did people have nemesises (nemesi? nemeses?) or was that only a thing in movies? Regardless, he’d yelled at me for stopping to wait for a kid on a bike and not taking a right-hand turn when he’d waved me on. The last thing I needed was to plow over a kid on a bike. When I did turn past Mr. Mustache, I did something I probably shouldn’t have and gave him a certain finger gesture to show my annoyance. Since then we’d traded glares and scowls whenever I passed his corner in the afternoon. Mornings are not my thing.

  I got out of Metamora One and strode over to Reins, Mr. Mustache, and the group of festival workers. “Mrs. Hayman,” Reins said, “this is a police matter. Not a wife of a police officer matter, no matter how many cases you claim to have solved.”

  “Claim to have solved? I don’t need to claim to have solved them, I did solve them. We both know it. So what’s the story here, fellas?” I asked the group. “I know you,” I said to Mr. Mustache. “You’re a crossing guard by my house. What are you doing here? Port-a-potty patrol?”

  “Directing them where to set up, yeah,” he said. “What of it? I know you too, lady,” he said. “You’re a troublemaker. Maybe you should

  listen to the officer and butt out.”

  “Hey!” I said. “That’s not very nice.”

  “I didn’t think you cared about nice,
Miss Middle Finger,” he said.

  “That’s enough,” Reins said. “This is an official crime scene. Mrs. Hayman, unless you have a statement to make, please return to your husband’s truck.”

  I was about to protest when my eyes landed on John Bridgemaker’s white SUV pulling in. “Fine. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  I didn’t know the men with the signs mulling around the silver car, but I hustled over as John parked beside it. “John,” I said, as he got out, the beaded fringe on his leather vest swaying. “I heard about the issue with the mound. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

  “Guess it’s not an issue anymore,” he said. “There will hardly be a downhill skiing event now.”

  “Right,” I said, just realizing the full implication of this situation. Pushing the panic aside—I’d worry about the festival later—I concentrated on Clayton’s death. “Did you speak with Clayton today?”

  “Briefly.” John shook his long black hair behind his shoulders. “He called and told me to get my goons and their signs off of his property.”

  Goons? Well, that wasn’t neighborly at all. Not that I had anything to say about nice, apparently, since I’d been dubbed Miss Middle Finger. “What did you say?”

  “I told him we had a constitutional right to protest. These mounds were made by our ancestors. They aren’t here to be desecrated for the town’s entertainment.”

  “I had no idea. I hope you believe me.”

  “I figured Clayton hadn’t mentioned it.”

  “No, he hadn’t.”

  We both turned our eyes toward the top of the hill. “I know what they’ll think,” John said.

  “You didn’t do it. I know that. Ben knows that.”

  “And Reins? He kept me in jail in Brookville for the last murder in this town until you figured out who really did it. I happen to have a good motive to be a suspect this time as well.”

  The last time, John and Paul had been trying to purchase Butch Landow’s farm for a casino when Butch ended up dead. This time John has a quarrel with Clayton and Clayton ends up dead. “It does seem to be a pattern,” I said.