“You’re not my mom.” She turned and stomped off.
“This day is going so well.” I jabbed Mia’s cell phone number on my screen.
“Do you know how early it is?” she asked, answering with a groggy voice.
“Not very. The whole town is at Landow Farm getting ready for the first event. I need your help. I’m in a serious bind.”
She groaned. “Fine, but I’m getting a trip to the mall out of this. A real mall. Not the strip mall in Brookville.”
“Deal.” I told her I needed her to ski and after some haggling about new boots we came to terms. “Grab Stephanie on your way. You both can ski.” Stephanie was Elaina Nelson’s youngest great-granddaughter and Mia’s best friend. I knew I’d end up lugging her along to the mall with us anyway, so I might as well get some skiing out of her, too.
Next I got Andy back on the phone. “I need you and Cass to ski. I’ll explain later. Come to the starting line.” I wasn’t giving them the option to say no. I’d do it for them, and I’d most likely end up doing it for myself.
“Cam!” Monica called, slogging through the snow toward me. Quinn was right beside her. “We were too late. Reins was already there when we got to Clayton’s.”
“How can we help?” Quinn asked.
“Can you two ski? I need to replace my contestants. Do they ski in Ireland?” I asked Quinn.
“Of course! I’m not great at it, but I’ll give it a go.”
“Do you have skis?” Monica asked.
“I brought the skis,” Ben said behind me, scaring the daylights out of me. I spun around, startled. “I figured you’d need them, so
I asked everyone who was planning to compete if I could borrow their skis for whoever you got as subs. Not like they could take them to jail anyway.”
“You really are a hero,” I said, as his phone rang.
“Hey,” he said answering. “Pick you up? Mia, I can see the house from here.” He shook his head and walked, back toward his truck.
“Okay, we’ve got Mia and Stephanie, Monica and Quinn, Anna and Logan, and Cass and Andy. That’s eight.”
“This course really isn’t big enough for very many, anyway,” Johnna said. “It gets pretty narrow after that first turn into the trees.”
“I’ll run and give the news to Phillis and Dixon before Ed Stone gets wind of what happened.” I hurried across the snowy field toward the tent at the first turn, getting wafts of bacon and waffles as I neared. My stomach rejoiced, but I told it not to get excited. There was no time for breakfast.
I broke into the tent just as Ed Stone was going on-air with his first live promo of the events to come. “I’m live in Metamora,” he said into the microphone, flashing his brilliant white smile for the camera, “the little town known for its music, merrymaking, and now murder. We’ll be back at the start of their first Winter Festival event. Back to you in the studio, Martha.”
Panic exploded in my chest. Music, merrymaking, and murder. That’s what he’d said. On live TV.
Good gravy, there was no recovering from this. The event had been hijacked by something more newsworthy happening in town. There was a murder to sensationalize. Jason Banks would have my head for this.
“None of the skis fit Logan,” Anna said, crossing her arms.
“I have large feet,” he said, hanging his head.
My substitute skiers had all made their way into the tent, lured by warmth, food, and problems for me to try to solve.
“I have skis, but no boots,” Monica said. “Skiing was never a pastime of mine.”
My mind whirled. I caught their complaints in my ears, but my thoughts were still stuck on Ed Stone’s broadcast. “Phillis!” I called. “Can I talk to you for a moment, please?”
“Isn’t it exciting?” she said, rushing over. “Our town, the center of mysterious murders that will capture the imagination of the nation! That’s what Ed Stone said. The murders happening here will capture the imagination of the nation.” She splayed her hands out in front of her, fanning her fingers through the air while stars danced in her eyes. “We’ll be famous!”
Soapy threw back the tent flap and stormed inside. “This is a disaster, Cameron. How could you let this happen? We have no choice but to cancel this event.” He ran a hand up over his white beard to his flaming red face into his snowy hair. “We’ll be the laughing stock of the state!”
I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and took deep breaths.
Who was I kidding? I could count to a million and still not be calm.
“Attention, everyone!” I shouted. “Attention, please!”
Ed stone motioned to his cameraman to start taping.
“Due to circumstances that have arisen, we’ll need to cancel this first event and resume this evening with the ice carving. I apologize for any inconvenience this causes. I’d like to thank Phillis Landow for her hospitality, and for allowing us to use her farm. We’ll see all of you tonight beside the old Grist Mill, where we’ll witness the best ice carvers this state has to offer, right here in Metamora.”
Ed Stone rushed over and shot his microphone in my face. “Is this event canceled due to the grisly murder of Clayton Banks, owner of the property where this first event was originally slated to take place?”
“I wouldn’t call it grisly,” I said, looking around for help. Where was Ben when I needed him?
“Do you have information about the murder then?” Ed asked.
I wasn’t even sure the police had made it known that it was a murder. “No. Why would I have—no.”
“But it was in fact a murder? You can confirm that much?”
“I can’t—ask the police for a statement. My business is this festival. I hope everyone will join us this evening—”
“So you’re not concerned about a possible serial killer on the loose in your town threatening the lives of festival goers?”
Ed Stone was on my very last nerve now. “Serial killer? What on earth leads you to believe that Clayton was murdered by a serial killer?”
“So it’s verified. Clayton Banks was murdered.”
“No! I didn’t say—”
“You said he was murdered. How? There has been rumors of a disagreement between Mr. Banks and the Mound Builders’ Association. Are they to blame for his murder?”
I looked to Soapy, pleading with my eyes for him to intervene, but he was shocked silent and still, frozen like he himself had been carved from ice.
Finally, Dixon took the microphone from Ed Stone and stepped in front of the camera. “Now, now,” he said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Just allow the police time to investigate the matter. Once they know more, I’m certain they’ll release an official statement.”
He gave his golden boy smile to the camera, the one that had captured the hearts of every redblooded American back in 1972. “In the meantime, we invite everyone in the area to come out to the Grist Mill tonight for hot chocolate, music, and ice-carving demonstrations. It’s sure to be fun for all!” He dropped the mic to his side and the cameraman stopped recording.
“What do you call that?” Soapy, who’d suddenly snapped back to life, asked Ed Stone. “Certainly not responsible reporting.”
“Murder does wonders for ratings,” Ed said, patting Soapy on the back. “You wait and see how many show up tonight just because it’s the mysterious murder town.”
“Don’t say that again, I’m warning you.” Soapy’s expression was lethal. He pivoted and left the tent.
Slowly, my hodgepodge of skiers followed suit, pushing the tent flap aside and heading off for home. After Monica exited, she stuck her head back inside. “Cameron, you have to see this.”
“What is it? An avalanche? I don’t want to know.”
“Nothing like that. Come look.” She was smiling, so I figured it couldn’t be all that terrible.
&n
bsp; Outside, once news had spread that the cross-country event had been canceled, the kids in town had grabbed their sleds and made their own use of the course. “Where did they all come from?” I hadn’t seen this many kids under twelve in the nearly five years I’d lived in Metamora. “Phillis is going to have a cow.”
“Not on camera, she won’t.” Monica pointed to Andy with his camera, recording the whole thing.
“This is what the TV crew should be filming.” I turned to find Ed Stone filling a plate over at the caterer’s table. “Ed, there’s something wonderful going on outside. You’ll want to get it on tape.”
“What’s that? Unless it’s another murder, I’m eating.”
I wanted to mess up his dark, slicked back hair and choke him with his perfect Windsor-knotted tie. “The town kids have come together to use the ski course for sledding. In the wake of tragedy, the youth are keeping everyone lighthearted. That’s a news story. A feel-good story.”
“It’s weak. Only the sensational stuff can get on the radar these days.” He chomped into a sausage link as I kept myself from shoving his face in his plate. There was no reply that could be uttered without using words that would make a sailor blush. So I kept my trap shut and strode away.
It turned out Ed’s cameraman followed me outside, took up a spot beside Andy, and started rolling. At least one of the professionals from the TV station had good taste in news stories.
Soapy and Theresa brought giant thermoses of hot cocoa from the Soapy Savant and passed out steaming cups to the sledders and their families. There was a reason Soapy had been mayor for so long. He truly cared about the town and the people who lived here. Many were like family to him and Theresa.
The first festival event might have been canceled, but this was the true story of Metamora, coming together in times of need with comfort and cocoa.
• Four •
You know, Cameron Cripps-Hayman,” Roy said, sidling up next to me through the crowd getting cocoa, “we have a few hours until the ice carving. Time enough to start digging into Clayton’s murder.”
“And don’t bother telling us we shouldn’t,” Johnna said from beside him. “We’ve heard it before, and it’s never stopped us or you.”
“That’s right,” Roy said. “Don’t be hypocritical.”
Anna and Logan popped up on my other side. “I’ve made a list of Clayton’s known enemies,” Logan said.
“They didn’t all necessarily want to kill him, Logan,” Anna said.
“I never said they did.”
I ignored the troubled teens, and turned back to Johnna and Roy. “I wasn’t going to say that. I mean, it’s true. We shouldn’t get involved, but of course we will. We’ve proved our ability and would be doing Clayton’s family a disservice if we didn’t try to find his killer.”
“It’s decided then,” Roy said. “I’ll just pop home for a quick refill,” he patted the flask in his inner jacket pocket, “and we’ll meet in one hour in the church basement.”
The church basement was our lair. We’d been forced out of it at times, like when I was a suspect for murder, myself. But we always ended up back in that damp, musty basement.
“Let’s just head over now,” Anna said. “You can go without alcohol for a couple hours.”
“Blaspheme,” Roy muttered.
“Everyone will think we’re regrouping for the festival,” I said. “It’s the perfect cover.”
“Something good comes from this debacle after all,” Johnna said, “And here I was betting on the hockey match being the only saving grace.”
Ignoring her jab, I led the way toward the bridge over the canal. If anyone wondered where we were headed, nobody stopped to ask.
Much to my horror, Mr. Mustache was shoveling the church sidewalk. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I would never place you in a church.”
“I could say the same for you. Anyone who yells at a woman for not plowing over a kid on a bike—”
“What are you saying? That kid was nowhere near crossing the street when you were at the intersection. You—”
“That’s enough now,” Johnna said, stepping between us.
“That’s right,” Roy added. “We’ve got important Action Agency business to discuss. If you’ll excuse us, sir.” He nudged Mr. Mustache out of the way and opened the door, holding it for the rest of us to enter.
“Thank you,” I said, once we were all inside. “I don’t know what that man has against me.”
“You seem to bring it out in people,” Johnna said, holding on to the railing and taking each step down carefully. “Speaking of which, I hear we have a cat competition to plan.”
“Thanks to you,” Anna shot back. “If you hadn’t got those women all riled up about the dog sled race, we wouldn’t have this problem.”
“I don’t know what bee’s gotten into your bonnet, missy,” Roy said, holding up a finger to her, “but you best respect your elders.”
“There’s no bee in my bonnet,” she said. “I’m just sick of all of this.” Once again, she turned and stomped off, shoving past Logan and back out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
“Logan,” I said, “what’s wrong with her? It’s so out of character for her to act this way.”
“She’s stressed out. She has to decide which college she’s attending, and should’ve done it months ago.”
“She’s usually so decisive about things.”
“She’s letting emotion dictate. She refuses to go by pros and cons alone.”
“I see.” My little robot, Logan, was off to MIT in the fall. It had been his destination since he was old enough to build with Lego blocks.
Downstairs, Johnna lowered herself into one of the old-school desks we used. “Kittens in mittens!” she shouted.
Roy shook his head. “What in the name of John Wayne’s boots are you talking about, woman?”
“The cat competition, you old coot. We’ll do something with mittens since it’s a winter festival.”
“You want to stuff cats into mittens?” he asked.
“Just their paws. Little kids mittens. The last cat to keep them on wins.”
“What if they all keep them on?”
She tilted her head and pressed her lips together, giving him a look that could sour milk. “Do you even know the first thing about cats? They hate having anything on their paws.”
“Fine,” he said throwing his hands in the air. “The cat problem is solved. We’ll do the mitten cats, or whatever it was you called it.”
With that out of the way, I proceeded to tell them what I knew. 1) Clayton was poisoned. B) Cass saw him that morning and he was just fine. And thirdly, Jason Banks was to be avoided at all costs, or we’d end up in jail with the skiing trespassers.
“Poisoned,” Johnna said, pondering the idea. “What type of poison?”
“I’ve got Andy on the case. He’s got a friend who works for the medical examiner.”
“Clayton was down at the Cornerstone yesterday trying to talk Carl Finch into trading him a year’s worth of chicken dinners for a year’s worth of wheat flour.”
Johnna began knitting. “That man was always trying to wheel and deal.”
“And always with stuff nobody wants,” Roy said. “What on earth would someone want with a year’s worth of wheat flour unless you were a baker.”
“I wonder if he tried to trade Betty for something,” I said.
Betty Underwood, Cass’s grandma, owned Grandma’s Cookie Cutter, the bakery a couple doors down from my house and the reason I could stand to lose twenty pounds.
“I’ll add it to our list of leads,” Logan said, typing away on his laptop.
“Betty isn’t a lead though,” I said. “She had no reason to want to poison Clayton Banks.”
“We don’t know that,” Roy said, waving a finge
r at me. “We can’t dismiss suspects because they’re friends of ours.”
“She’s not a suspect. We don’t even know if she talked to him about this wheat flour.”
“Fine, a lead then, but everyone is a potential suspect, Cameron Cripps-Hayman,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I suppose you think I had a motive?”
“Time will tell. Time will tell.”
“Roy,” Johnna said, shaking her head, “you’re as slick as sandpaper, you are.”
“You just keep to your knitting over there.”
“Who do you have down as an enemy, Logan?” I asked.
“The obvious at the top of the list—John Bridgemaker and—”
“Paul Foxtracker,” I said. “I don’t think they’re our killers. It’s too obvious. And they’re not murderers, anyway.”
“Everyone’s a potential suspect,” Roy repeated.
“Who else?” I probed, nodding to Logan.
“That’s all so far.”
“Well that wasn’t a long list.”
“Not yet,” he said.
“Nobody liked Clayton Banks,” Roy said, sneering at the thought of the deceased man. “He was crass and dirty and a no-good swindler.”
“Did you kill him, Roy?” Johnna asked, pulling a loop through with her needle.
“Nah, but I’m not upset he’s gone neither. I’m man enough to admit it.”
“What do you think happened to him?” I asked.
Roy leaned back in his chair. “Well, he wandered up on top of that hill and keeled over now, didn’t he?”
“Who do you think would’ve poisoned him?”
“Maybe his own kid to get that house and land. Do we know when his boy showed up? Had he been there all along?”
“I don’t know. Logan—”
“On the list,” Logan said, tapping away on his keyboard.
“Good deduction, Sherlock,” Johnna said, poking Roy in the side with her knitting needle.
“Every now and then the old noggin churns up something worth thinkin’ on,” he said, tapping his head.
“First thing’s first since we can’t get into his house. I’ll talk to Betty.”
Fatal Festival Days Page 4
