Shot Through the Tart

by Chelsea Thomas

  A large, somewhat greenish pond was the focal point of the community and dozens of cute, small cottages surround the water. Hastings Pond had thrived for decades after it was first built, but it fell into disrepair during my childhood. But young families started to move into the neighborhood because of its affordable access to good schools, and now the “lakeside housing” was part of an up-and-coming area in Pine Grove.

  Seeing the pond reminded me that the three of us were good amateur detectives. We’d been at this for a while now, and we’d never failed. I felt a surge of confidence.

  “We’re good at this,” I said. “The three of us. We always catch the killer.”

  Teeny clucked her tongue. “Don’t jinx us, Chels!”

  Miss May craned her head back to look at me. “Teeny’s right. We are talented sleuths. But we can’t start feeling too confident. The stakes are too high for us to make any arrogant errors.”

  So much for confidence. But I knew Miss May was right. Every time we went to someone’s house, it was a coin toss… would we be interviewing a harmless garden snake, or a deadly viper ready to strike and kill? “You’re right,” I said. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  Miss May glanced at me in the rearview mirror. We made eye contact. She smiled. “If my niece wasn’t so good at karate I’d be much more worried.”

  I chuckled. I wasn’t that great at martial arts, but adrenaline seemed to amplify my abilities in a useful way. I’d used a kick or a chop in a lot of our suspect showdowns, and that made me proud. Confidence, back.

  Zambia lived in a small, Cape Cod-style cottage right along the shore. Her house was gray with yellow detailing along the windows. A small chimney poked out of the roof like the end of the cigar. The place felt like it could be in a fairytale. The only question was… What kind of fairytale? And how did it end?

  Miss May parked our yellow VW bus on the curb. Zambia was already on her driveway, lugging a rolling suitcase toward her maroon Honda Civic. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown. Her hair was pinned in an elaborate updo and her skin looked dewy and sparkly in the light.

  Teeny gasped. “Oh my goodness. She’s making her escape. We got here just in time.”

  Miss May turned down the sides of her mouth. “I don’t think Zambia is going too far dressed like that.”

  “Why not?” Teeny said “If I were her I would want to look glamorous during my great escape. Otherwise, what’s the point? You can’t wear sweatpants to make a getaway.”

  I shook my head. “She’s probably headed into town for the second production of the play. Pretty sure she’s wearing her costume.”

  Teeny rolled her eyes. “That’s what she wants you to think.”

  Miss May opened her door and hopped out. “Let’s talk to her. See what we can find out.”

  Zambia popped the trunk of her car and heaved the small suitcase inside. “Go away. I don’t want to talk to any of you. I don’t care how many apple pies you have stashed in your purse, or how nice you pretend to be.”

  Clearly, Zambia had heard of Miss May’s wily ways. The actress closed her trunk with a thud and stomped toward the car door.

  Miss May held up her hands and spoke in a calm, warm tone. “I understand. And we’re sorry to bombard you like this.”

  Zambia snorted at Miss May. “You think you’re cool because you run around Pine Grove solving murders? You’re nosy and rude. You accuse innocent people of murder and you ruin their reputations. Don’t come anywhere near me.”

  “Your reputation is already ruined,” said Teeny. She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Did I say that out loud? Oopsy-daisy.”

  Zambia growled at us, “Go. Away.” She climbed behind the wheel of her car and slammed her door.

  Miss May looked over at Teeny. “Why did you say that?”

  Teeny winced. “Not my finest moment. And I’ve had a lot of not fine moments. Listen, sometimes me and Chelsea just have a case of foot-in-mouth disease.”

  “Don’t drag me down with you!” I protested. “I haven’t said anything.”

  Miss May took a deep breath and crossed in front of Zambia’s car to block Zambia’s path from the driveway to the road. “I’m sorry,” Miss May yelled over the hum of the engine. “Please. Give us five minutes of your time.”

  Zambia laid on the horn. Miss May plugged her ears. Zambia did not stop honking for at least twenty seconds. My hearing buds started to lose all sense of reality. I know, I know, hearing buds aren’t a thing. But you know what I mean.

  When the honking finally stopped, Miss May spoke. “We’re not here to accuse you of anything. One quick conversation and you can be on your way.”

  Zambia shook her head. She put the car in reverse, did a little three-point turn, and drove across her front yard and onto the street. Seconds later, she had disappeared around the corner and was gone from our sight.

  “Zambia’s not one to be slowed down by roadblocks, I guess,” I said.

  Miss May trudged back toward the VW bus. “Come on.”

  Teeny and I exchanged a confused look.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Miss May sighed. “We’re going to enjoy a night out at the theater.”

  16

  Loony Tunes

  The community theater was the site of an active crime scene investigation, so the play couldn’t be hosted there that night. Instead, Germany had convinced the local high school to rent out their auditorium for the performance. The stage at the high school was smaller, but it was the only other option in town. Germany was lucky that the superintendent agreed on such short notice. A student’s solo flute performance had been cancelled to allow for Phantom to use the space, but nobody, even the flautist herself, seemed too upset.

  There were only five or six cars in the high school parking lot when we arrived. A gray mist hung in the air. The American flag, hung at half-mast in memory of our local Broadway hero, waved vigorously in a gust of wind. Yellow streetlights cast an eerie glow over the ground.

  Miss May parked in a spot right out front. “Easy parking when everyone in town is too scared to see the play.”

  Teeny shrugged. “Works for me. If no one came to see the play tonight that means there won’t be a line

  at the candy counter I can take my time deciding what I want to eat. I think I’ll get a peanut butter chocolate candy bar with sprinkles on top.”

  “The candy you just described doesn’t exist,” I said.

  Teeny furrowed her brow. “Well that’s what I’m going to order.”

  I shook my head. “OK.”

  The energy inside the lobby was even more dreary than the energy out in the parking lot. The place was empty except for a pair of police officers who lingered near the water fountain. I didn’t recognize either of them and assumed they were a couple of Mayor Linda Delgado’s new hires. After the rash of murders that had happened in Pine Grove, Chief Sunshine Flanagan had demanded outside help to solve crimes. She said the force was spread too thin, but I was pretty sure she just wanted Miss May, Teeny, and me to stop showing her up.

  Miss May approached the cops with a warm smile. “Excuse me. Is the Phantom of the Opera being performed here tonight?”

  One of the police officers nodded. He was tall and skinny with a fresh face. Looked to be somewhere in his early 20’s. “That’s right. That crazy director is putting on the play even though his lead was murdered last night.”

  The second cop stepped forward. She was short and pudgy with a ponytail. “Pretty wacky, if you ask me. The guy seems out of his mind. Dresses like Mr. Rogers. Claims he spent a few years ‘learning the habits of lions’ in Africa.”

  “We’re both new here,” said the lanky cop. “Chief warned us this little town was filled with big time loonies. I didn’t believe her until we hit the streets.”

  The lady cop murmured in agreement. “Same. I felt the same way. No way one small-town can have so many crazies, so many murders. Flanagan says there’s a bunch of locals who t
hink they’re police officers, too. Creepy old ladies and some little karate sidekick who run around trying to solve the crimes.”

  Teeny scoffed. “They’re not creepy. They’re beautiful. And young. With very full lips.”

  The cops exchanged a look.

  I nodded. “Yeah. The local amateur sleuths have the fullest lips in town. And none of them are ‘sidekicks.’ They’re all equals.” Miss May cleared her throat, but I was feeling defensive so I plowed ahead. “Also, the director of this play is a nice guy. He did a lot to help the lions in Africa. That’s real. Plus, Mr. Rogers is cute. America loves him.”

  Miss May put one hand on Teeny’s elbow and another on mine. “OK, girls. Let’s leave these officers to their jobs. Nice to meet both of you.”

  The officers looked hesitant. The lanky officer narrowed his eyes. “Nice to meet you, too. Enjoy the show. I heard half the actors are playing it Southern, for some bizarre reason. So don’t be surprised.”

  Teeny scoffed. “Our local actors are very talented. If they choose to go Southern for Phantom of the Opera, that is their artistic right.”

  “OK,” said Miss May. “Let’s go get some candy. Nice to meet you, officers.”

  “You already said that,” the short officer said.

  “Well I really mean it!” Miss May practically yelled as she guided us away. “What is wrong with you two? Finally there are cops in this town who don’t know who we are and you act out like a couple of wackos.”

  “Told you,” Teeny said. “Foot-in-mouth disease.”

  “I’m not going to let people talk about Germany that way,” I said.

  “We all know he’s eccentric,” Miss May said. “Eccentric and odd and the stuff with the lions is weird. It’s just weird, Chelsea. I know you know that. From an outside perspective, he is a highly unusual man.”

  “Of course I know that. But I don’t want people to say that. Unless the people are me or you or Teeny.”

  Teeny nodded. “I’ll say it. The kid is strange. Sometimes I wonder what you see in him. But he’s sweet. I’ll give him that. Sweet like a little puppy dog who follows you around everywhere you go.”

  I spotted the candy table across the room and nodded toward it. “Let’s get some snacks for the show.”

  Miss May leaned toward me. “We’re not here for the show, Chelsea. We’re here to investigate.”

  I smiled. “Then snacks are even more important.”

  “Agreed,” Teeny said, already halfway to the concessions stand.

  The candy table had dozens of treats lined up on its surface. But no one was there to make the sale. Instead, a sign read: “Take what you want. Leave money.”

  Teeny turned down the sides of her mouth. “Wow. They couldn’t even get that grumpy candy girl to come out to the show tonight.”

  “The lead was murdered yesterday,” said Miss May. “Makes sense.”

  Teeny shrugged. “I like it this way. No one can judge me for what I buy.” She dropped a $20 bill in the bucket and scooped half the candy bars on the table into her purse. “None of these have sprinkles but I suppose they’ll have to do.”

  “Can I have one with peanut butter and caramel?” I peered into Teeny’s purse. “Or something with white chocolate, if you have it.”

  Teeny pulled her purse close to her chest. “I wasn’t planning to share.”

  I laughed. “You can’t possibly eat all of those tonight.”

  Teeny exhaled. “Fine. Take what you want. But if I run out before intermission, you’re buying me more.”

  “Once more,” said Miss May. “We’re not here to watch the play. We’re here to conduct an investigation.”

  Teeny rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

  Miss May grabbed one of Teeny’s candy bars, unwrapped it, and took a bite. “Here’s the plan.

  I opened my candy bar too and took a bite. “Can the two of you try to go find Zambia? I want to look for Germany before the show.”

  “Sounds good.” Teeny leaned forward. “But if you hear one of us scream, come save us.”

  I gave her a nervous smile. “I always do.”

  17

  He Loves Me Not

  I exited the lobby and headed down a long corridor in search of Germany. Being back in my high school had felt strange when I’d first returned to Pine Grove, but at that moment, I found the smells and sights of those familiar halls to be comforting. Reassuring, even. Like life was continuing, largely unchanged, in these hallways. Teenagers, with acne and insecurity and hopes and dreams, visited their lockers every day, rushed to class, skipped gym… there was something so nice about that idea.

  I’d started at PGHS as a freshman, just a few months after my parents had died in a tragic car accident. I was introduced to my classmates as “that orphan girl.” The vast majority of students had been kind to me but their kindness had made me uncomfortable. I had felt like a charity case in school and like no one had any interest in getting to know the real me.

  Over the years I’d made a few good friends, and a few frenemies. I’d settled into my life in Pine Grove and found a sense of comfort in town, thanks to Miss May and her generosity and warmth. She was my mother’s sister, so she’d also been grieving after my parents’ death. But she’d put that grief aside and focused all of her attention on parenting me and helping me feel supported.

  As I strolled down the hall, a row of class photos caught my eye. Each photo showed Pine Grove high school’s graduating class, stretching back fifty or sixty years. I walked from picture to picture until I found my own graduating class.

  I’d graduated with about 150 students. I scanned each row and remembered so many classmates by name. Then I found myself, right in the center of the picture. I barely recognized myself. There was my hair and there were my eyes. There was my small smile and there were my red cheeks. But who was that girl, sad and full of self-doubt and uncertainty about the future?

  I thought about my parents. They never got to see me graduate from high school. They didn’t know the girl in that picture at all. My eyes burned with the threat of tears, and I looked away from the picture.

  It had been so hard adjusting to life after the death of my parents. And in that moment, I wondered if I ever truly had “adjusted.” What does it mean to adjust to life after tragedy? How do you go on in the face of such a gaping, vital loss? I took a shaky breath, trying not to cry, but I felt a hiccuping sob shake my sides. At least no one was around.

  “Chelsea.”

  I turned. Germany hurried toward me from the end of the hall. “Hey. Hey,” he said. “You’re OK.”

  Germany wrapped me in a hug. He pulled me close to his chest and I rested my head on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m crying on your director shirt.”

  “I don’t care. Blow your nose in it if you need to.”

  I laughed through my tears. Germany was often deferent, long-winded, and quirky… but in that moment, he was just a solid presence. A figure of unwavering love. That felt good.

  “What’s going on?” Germany asked.

  Germany was also an orphan, and I didn’t really want to dump my emotions on him. So I tried to resist. “Oh, nothing. I just started looking at this photo and thinking about the past.”

  Germany nodded. “About how your parents never got to see you graduate from high school?” I looked up at him, surprised.

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “Because… we are the same in myriad ways, Chelsea Thomas. And for that reason, and so many others, I love you.”

  I stammered. I had not seen that coming.

  Did I love Germany?

  I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe? But I didn’t know what to say in that moment. I opened my mouth to speak, but then a shriek rang out from down the hall.

  Germany whipped his head in the direction of the scream.

  “What was that?” I asked. “Who’s screaming?”

  Another shriek exploded from down the hall.
Germany looked back at me and gulped. “Zambia. It sounds like she’s in trouble.”

  18

  Scream Queen

  Germany ran down the corridor. I jogged behind him, my heart racing. I wondered how much of the adrenaline rush I felt was from Germany’s unexpected profession of love, and how much was from the threat of danger. A niggle of guilt wormed into my psyche — even though something terrible might have happened, I was relieved that Zambia’s scream had bailed me out.

  Germany and I burst into Zambia’s dressing room in a panic. But what I saw was funnier and more terrifying than anything I would have anticipated.

  Teeny and Miss May cowered against the back wall. Zambia stood in front of them, brandishing a hairdryer like a loaded gun.

  “You two are terrible!” Zambia screamed. “Evil witches! I hate you both.”

  Teeny held up her hands in surrender. “OK, Zambia. You’re right. We’re horrible. Just, a couple of bad, bad witches. I admit it. Now please let us go.”

  Zambia shrieked, yet again. Germany took a careful step toward her. “Everything OK in here?”

  Zambia turned and pointed the hairdryer at Germany. “Does everything look OK? Why aren’t you protecting your actors? I’m trying to enter a calm headspace before my performance and these lunatics are bombarding me with questions. You are a bad director. Bad! You’re supposed to protect me.”

  “Let’s talk this through,” said Germany. “Can you lower the hairdryer?”

  “No. I will not lower the hairdryer. It is my only protection against these two, these two—”

  “Witches?” Teeny supplied.

  “Don’t finish my thoughts, you witch!” Zambia yelled.

  I cleared my throat and did my best to speak in a soft, calming voice. It came out like a squeaky, stressed-out mouse, but I tried. “Zambia. Hi, I’m Chelsea.”