“So you do think I did it?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Who then? One of those guys?” he asked, nodding toward his friends with their signs, leaning against the car.
“I don’t know them, so I can’t say. But I’m sure Reins and Ben will want to talk to all of you.”
“I know the drill,” John said.
Just then I spotted a disturbing sight. Two paramedics were walking back down the hill with a stretcher between them, a body-bagged figure strapped on top. “Good gravy,” I whispered. “How did this happen?”
My cell phone rang in my handbag. I’d recently ditched my organized bag with pockets hidden behind zippers and snaps, for my big, old, reliable bag where everything sat in a jumble at the bottom. As difficult as it was to find things in my jumbled mess, it was easier than when I was organized.
I dug around for my phone in the bottom of my bag, dredging up a candy bar, a travel sewing kit, and a tin box of breath mints before finally finding it. The caller ID showed Soapy. I had a feeling he’d heard about Clayton. Like I’d told him earlier, word travels fast in this town.
“Not to sound insensitive, but what can we do?” he asked. “We have a television crew and an Olympian coming tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll think of something,” I said. “Don’t worry. And I know you’re not insensitive.”
“Have the police contacted Clayton’s son?”
I knew he’d had one kid. Ben had gone to school with him. I didn’t know his name or where he lived, only that he was an adult who’d left Metamora.
“I don’t think they’ve gotten that far yet.” The paramedics loaded Clayton’s body into the back of the ambulance. The coroner hadn’t yet arrived.
Ben eyed me from across the yard with a shrewd expression that silently told me to hustle my way back to Metamora One, close myself up inside, and stay out of police business.
These cops were all alike: didn’t think they needed help from anyone.
“We need to regroup and make a plan,” Soapy said. “Get your team together and I’ll meet you at your house in an hour.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.” I hung up trying to shift gears in my brain from Clayton’s death and possible murder to finding a different event and getting people to compete in it before morning.
It was going to be a long, long night.
• Two •
The dogs were extra rambunctious. It was like someone had told them I was having an important meeting and they should be wild beasts.
“Cross-country skiing!” Anna shouted, and wrote it on the white board with a squeak of smelly dry-erase marker. A master of organization, she’d brought her own whiteboard and easel from her bedroom.
Gus, my giant Newfoundland, barked his approval at the suggestion while my nameless duo, the twin terrier tanks who I’d been toying around with naming after famous TV twins, chased each other around our feet, barking their pint-sized brains out underneath my kitchen table.
“My yarn!” Johnna cried, as one brownish tank darted out from between her ankles with a ball of pink yarn in his mouth that she’d been using to make a teapot cozy.
“Nicky!” I yelled, getting up to chase him down the hall but tripping over Isobel, the senior canine in my pack, a crabby German Shepard. She snarled and growled at me. “Don’t look at me like that,” I told her, “you never stray from beside the fridge. How was I supposed to know you’d be sitting by the back door?”
The second twin monster took chase. “Alex! You two get back here!”
“Nicky and Alex? Let me guess. Full House?” my sister, Monica, said, following the yarn trail toward the front door. “I’ll get them. You get on with brainstorming.”
“This place is a circus,” Roy said out of the side of his mouth to Soapy, then took a swig of whatever was in his flask—most likely moonshine, the specialty of Old Dan, town patriarch. Soapy accepted the flask when Roy offered and took a long drink, wincing as he swallowed.
“Where would we put the cross-country ski course?” Logan asked Anna, ignoring the antics going on around him.
“I don’t know, Logan,” she said, snottily. “You think you know everything, so what’s your idea?”
Good gravy, a teenage love quarrel was not what I needed right now.
“I know!” I said. “I’ll see if we can use Landow Farm.” After being chased by a murderous duo around that farm myself not long ago,
I knew the sloped land would be perfect. “Let me call Phillis.”
Phillis Landow had ended up owning the farm after her ex-husband was murdered. She was a cantankerous old bat who, I knew, would only let us use her land if I owed her a favor of ten times the magnitude at some point in the future. But, seeing as how I had few hours left to come up with an alternative and was almost to the point of selling my soul, Phillis seemed like the ideal fiend to come to terms with.
I grabbed my cell phone off the counter and hurried into the dining room, sliding the pocket door closed behind me for a bit of privacy. “Phillis!” I said with the most warmth and enthusiasm I could muster when she answered. “It’s Cameron Cripps-Hayman. I have a favor to ask you.”
“Of course you do. A town shindig can’t be pulled off without me being pulled in, can it? What is it this time?”
I let her attitude bounce right off me and plunged forward with my request. “Well, you may have heard about the tragedy that happened this morning. Clayton Banks was found dead on his property.”
“Shame,” she said with no feeling behind the word. Did the poor man not have one friend who would mourn his passing?
“Yes, it is a shame. The thing is, it puts the town in a real bind since we were going to use his land for downhill skiing.”
I swore I heard her chuckle. “What a mess for you. I hear there’s a TV crew coming and you have that old Olympian, Dixon, hosting and everything. What will you do to pull this off?”
“I’m hoping that’s where you come in.”
“Me? What on earth for?”
“We’d like to use Landow Farm for a cross-country ski course to replace the downhill event.”
“Oh, I see.” She hummed and I pictured her drumming her fingertips together as she contemplated how to best use this scenario to her advantage.
“The event would take roughly four hours and since your farm butts up to the center of town where there’s plenty of parking and room for vendors to set up, it seems like a perfect solution.”
“Perfect for you maybe,” she said. “But I have to put up with all those people on my property. With people comes trash and cigarette butts, destructive teens trying to break into my barn and harass my cows, kids climbing my trees and breaking the limbs. No, no. I don’t think I can allow it.”
Soapy opened the dining room door and stepped in. “How’s it going?” he whispered.
I shook my head.
“Let me talk to her.” He held out his hand for the phone, and I handed it over.
“Phillis, dear, it’s Soapy. The farm’s looking as good as ever.”
Whatever she said, he closed his eyes and stroked his white beard.
“Yes, I’ll get right down to business,” he said. “The town will pay you for the use of your land and … yes, an hourly rate … yes, cleanup included, and what?” His brow creased. “I’m not sure we can … well, yes, we want to use … okay, okay,” he said, turning weary eyes to me. “We’ll let you cohost the event on television with David Dixon.”
“What?” I shouted. “No!”
“Yes,” he hissed, covering the phone with his hand so she couldn’t hear him. “We’re up against a wall and the clock, Cameron. We do it this way or there will be no event.”
“Oh, it’s going to be a nightmare,” I said under my breath.
Soapy made the final arrangements with Phill
is as I slumped back into the kitchen.
“She said no?” Anna asked, her face dropping from hopeful to defeated.
“Of course she did,” Johnna said, looping her yarn around her hook. “That crotchety old bag wouldn’t let a starving person have a ham bone from her trash.”
“She agreed,” I said, plopping down in my chair at the table.
“What did you agree to, Cameron Cripps-Hayman?” Roy asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Nothing. Soapy did the negotiating.”
“And?” Johnna asked. “How much damage?”
“She cohosts with David Dixon.”
Roy started laughing so hard he snorted. Johnna whipped her yarn around, crocheting a chain at the speed of light, muttering something about how she should be the one to cohost if any old person could do it. Logan turned to Anna and started to say something, but she held out her hand, stopping him. “Not a word,” she said. “You didn’t have a better idea, did you?”
My Action Agency was coming apart at the seams. “Okay,” I said, slamming my palms on the tabletop to get their attention. “Granted, this isn’t ideal, but it’s what we have to work with. Look on the bright side, we have an event! We still have David Dixon. We still have TV coverage. We’ll deal with Phillis. It’s going to be okay. No, it’s going to be great! The greatest event we’ve put on yet. And beggars can’t be choosers, right?”
They all nodded, reluctantly.
For better or for worse, this festival was kicking off in the morning, and Phillis Landow was now a major part of it.
A little after five o’clock, Ben came into the house with my step-daughter, Mia, on his heels. “Want me to order a pizza for dinner?” he asked. “Assuming you don’t already have plans,” he added.
We’d been separated for about a year, but we spent more time together now than we had when we were living together. Overall, marriage to Ben was better when he lived in the gate house at Hilltop Castle and I stayed here at Ellsworth House, his ancestral home. When we spent time together now, we were actually present in the moment and not just in the same room.
“That would be great,” I said, sending off a quick text message to Soapy reminding him to meet David Dixon at the mayor’s office in the morning. “I have a ton of little ends to tie up tonight.”
“I can help. I’m good at taking orders.”
“You’re good at giving them, copper.”
He laughed and gave me a peck on the cheek.
“Dad, you have to take me to the school, remember? I’m cheering tonight!”
“Oh. Right,” he said. “What time was that again?”
“I have to be there in an hour!” Mia’s hands shot to her hips and she stormed up the stairs.
“Guess I’m on my own for dinner, huh?” I said.
“I’ll come in when I drop her off after the basketball game and see if you’re hiding under the dining room table.”
“You know me so well,” I said.
Actually, I was getting better at managing the stress of living in a small town full of quirky characters who seemed to live to throw a wrench into every well thought out plan I put together.
“Monica home tonight? Or is she off with Quinn?”
“She’s off with Quinn, and has been every night. I hardly see her anymore.”
My sister and her boyfriend, Quinn Kelly, a former K9 trainer in Scotland, and new owner of a training facility/kennel up the road in Connersville, Kelly’s K9s and Kennels, had become inseparable in the few months they’d been together.
Ben’s phone rang. “Hayman,” he said, answering, and held up a finger to me to give him a minute. “Yeah … Okay … Thanks.”
“What was that about?” I asked as he hung up.
“Clayton’s cause of death has been determined. Don’t ask what it is. It’s not being released to the public yet.”
“I’m not the public. I’m your wife.” I knew this argument would get me about as far as a bike with no wheels, but it was worth a shot.
“I don’t believe for one second that after I walk out of here you won’t be on the phone with everyone you know and be aware of the cause of death before Clayton’s family is told.”
“Don’t blame me because your law enforcement pals blab. If they didn’t love to gossip, I’d never find out.”
“Law enforcement officers don’t gossip. I can’t speak for everyone in their offices, though.”
“It’s a small town, and not everyone keeps information from their wives.”
“I do,” he said, punctuating it with raised brows and a stiff upper lip.
“I know. I get nothing out of you. It’s a waste of having a husband who’s a cop.”
“I’m a waste now?”
“For information? Yes. Overall … I suppose not.”
I laughed, and Ben chuckled. “Good to know,” he said.
I grabbed a pack of Monica’s freshly baked dog treats off the counter and tossed them to him. He caught them and looked over the packaging. “New kind?”
“Dogs Dig Banana Bonanza,” I said. “Let me know if Brutus likes them.”
“That’s Captain Brutus to you,” he said.
“Oh, did you promote him? Does he have a team of K9s who report to him now?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Good gravy. That’s just what this town needs. More bossy dogs.”
After Ben and Mia left, I grabbed the phone and called Andy Beaumont, town documentarian, my handyman and one of my loyal friends, even if he was only twenty-two.
“Hey, Cam, what’s up?” he answered. “Let me guess, you’re having a panic attack about tomorrow morning. Well don’t. This festival is going to go off without a hitch. We’ve made sure—”
“Clayton Banks is dead,” I said, stopping his claim of things going smoothly this time around. Andy and his girlfriend, Cassandra Platt, the owner of the Fiddle Dee Doo Inn, had gone up to Indianapolis for the day to do some shopping. I figured they hadn’t heard about the murder.
“Banks is dead,” he repeated, and I heard Cass say, “You’re not serious!”
The phone rattled on Andy’s end and then Cass spoke. She’d taken it from him. “Cam, how did this happen? When? I dropped off some flags to mark the ski course just this morning before we left for Indianapolis! He was fine!”
“You saw Clayton this morning? What time?” I grabbed a pen and notepad from my junk drawer to write down what might be my first clue to figuring out what happened.
“A little after eight. Andy and I wanted to get to the mall around nine so we’d have all day to shop.”
“You mean you did,” I heard Andy say. I couldn’t imagine him spending an entire day in the mall. Then again, he’d do anything for Cass.
“He answered the door and I went inside for a couple minutes. He was drinking coffee and eating toast and was the same as ever. What happened to him?”
“He was found at the top of the ski hill,” I said. “Or what we were using as a ski hill but turns out is an ancient Native American mound. The police are treating it as a homicide.”
“A homicide! Another one?”
The phone rattled again and Andy came on. “How was he killed, Cam?”
“That’s what I don’t know. Ben was just here and got a call telling him the cause of death, but of course he’s not going to tell me.”
“Of course not, but after the last murder in town, I did some interviewing and filming at the medical examiner’s office. Let me see if I can find out anything.”
“It pays to have a documentarian as a friend,” I said.
“It pays to be a documentarian in this town. I’m thinking of shifting the premise to true crime since everyone keeps getting themselves whacked.”
“You’ve been watching The Godfather again, haven’t you?”
“You caught me. I’ll do some digging and call you back when I have some info.”
I hung up feeling antsy. I wanted to start questioning everyone in town, but I had a million little things to get in order before morning.
However … We would need the flags Cass dropped off at Clayton’s house for our cross-country course. It probably wouldn’t hurt to just drive over and see if anyone answered the door.
There was a car in the driveway when I pulled up at Clayton Banks’s house, and a light was on inside. As I made my way up the sidewalk, each hesitant step was taken in doubt.
I shouldn’t be here, I told myself, but took one more step.
It’s too soon. What will I say? But again, I kept moving forward.
Until I got to the porch steps and reality hit me. A man died this morning. Whoever was inside was grieving, and I had no business being on their doorstep.
I turned and took two quick strides before my boot caught on the pole of a shepherd’s hook on the edge of a flower bed, tripping me up on the icy cement and sending me careening into the Barberry bushes.
My handbag went flying. I cried out as thorns poked me from my cheeks to my shins. The more I moved to get free, the more the prickers caught on my coat.
I was vaguely aware of the porch light flickering to life and the front door squeaking open. A dog was barking to high heaven. Then someone was grasping my arms and tugging me free and up on my feet.
Through the snow-covered hair flopped across my face, I made out a man of about my age glowering at me. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, then turned to a red bear-like dog on the porch. “Quiet. Sit.” The dog obeyed, but scowled and showed her teeth, threatening me to watch myself. The dog could only be Clayton’s Chow Chow, Ginger.
I tried to smile while brushing snow from my face, but I really needed a box of Band-Aids from all the cuts inflicted by the evil bushes. If only I knew where my bag had landed.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “My name is Cameron and I’m in charge of the winter festival that kicks off in the morning.”
Fatal Festival Days Page 2
