Food Fair Frenzy Copyright © 2016 Shondra C. Longino
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Food Fair Frenzy is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, organizations, real people - living, or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. All other events and characters portrayed are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Cover Design by Shondra C. Longino
Chapter One
Freemont County, Georgia
Annual Possum Pickin’ Food Fair
I stopped, fork mid-way to my widely-opened mouth, and let my eyes dart around the inside of the crowded tent. People had suddenly started moaning and groaning. A handful of them were bent over grabbing their stomachs. Faces a fluorescent pink, there were beads of sweat popping up on their foreheads as they coughed and spat. I couldn’t be sure if the droppings of red dribble coming from their mouths were from what they ate, or blood.
What the hey . . .
And then the first one dropped.
It was a man. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, gray pants, and a straw hat that fluttered away as he fell. He hit the ground hard, clutching his chest. He started writhing around in the dirt, grunting and panting, his body twitching, seemingly wrenched in pain. Laying next to him was a red-rimmed paper plate with a slice of pie that looked eerily familiar.
I glanced down at the plate in my hand. It had a huge slice of flaky-crusted, shiny, sugary cherry pie. Same kind as “Sick Guy.” The red stain of that last bite still smeared across his lips.
Oh crap.
I dropped the fork onto the plate, and chucked it, pie and all, into a nearby 10-gallon, garbage lined, plastic trash can as I trotted over to see about Sick Guy. I reached him just as another pie partaker hit the dust with a thud and a whimper. A woman this time – her pie sliding across the dirt floor, landing near where I knelt.
How could something that looked so good, be this bad?
I stole a quick glance in the newly sick person’s direction. She’d have to wait, I determined, as I dumped the pie off of Sick Guy’s plate and used it as a fan. He had been the first to fall.
“Can someone call for help?” I yelled to no one in particular. I was trying to stay calm. “Anyone that’s not sick,” I said, thinking I should clarify. “Please,” I eked out an octave higher. “Someone, please get some help.”
People were staring at me, the well ones, mouths gaped open, seemingly not knowing what to do. “It’s the pie,” I said, ninety-nine percent sure that it was. “We need to get a doctor in here.”
Now even the sick ones, glassy-eyed, turned to stare at me, silently seeking help as another one hit the ground. Faces confused, pie plates still in hand.
I let out a long sigh and looked around. No one had died yet, thank goodness. But with all the bodies that had been piling up around me in the last few months, I was sure that Death #6 was imminent.
I was inside a huge red and white striped tent. I had followed a steady stream of fair attendees past a gigantic sign near the entrance flap that had welcomed us to “A Plethora of Pies.”
It was the 105th Freemont County Annual Possum Pickin’ Food Fair. My first, and from the look of things as I knelt beside Sick Guy, his crimson-colored face pouring with sweat, it would be my last.
A hot August day, clear blue skies and a small breeze off the Savannah, it had been the perfect day to be outside. Lincoln Park, where the fair was located, was filled with scores of tents to visit with a vast array of delectable dishes. I hadn’t run into any possum dishes yet, but then again, I had steered away from the meat-on-a-stick peddlers just in case.
Some contestants had brought their wares from as far as six counties over, or so I’d been told, to enter the coveted contest held every year. Three days of tasting that would culminate into a winner in each of the three “S” categories – Sweet, Savory, and On-A-Stick. As I glanced toward the trash overrun with red-rimmed plates, I was pretty sure the cherry pie wouldn’t make it into the finals.
There were at least a dozen of pie booths underneath the big top, all with catchy names and offerings of every kind. The sign over the counter at ground zero though, said it all. It read, “Aunt Martha’s Cherry Pie to Die For.”
Looks like that sign just may be literal.
And it was a brown haired, wide-eyed, Aunt Martha, I guessed, that came running. She had emerged from a curtain at the back of her pie area that I figured must be used for prep. Her face flush, hands flailing, she was donned in a frilly, salmon pink apron tied neatly over a yellow blouse, and brown polyester slacks. Her black orthopedic shoes came to a halt next to the prone body of Sick Guy where she promptly let out a loud grunt.
“Did you call for help?” I asked glancing up at her from my fanning.
She dropped to her knees and placed her hand on Sick Guy’s chest, and then looked at me. “What in the tarnation is going on?” she screeched.
“Seems like your pie is making them sick,” I said.
Isn’t that obvious?
“There’s no way my pie did this,” she cut a look at me. “You’re fine and I just served it to you.”
“I didn’t eat it,” I said. “Not after it turned out to really be ‘pie to die for.’”
“You hush up now,” she hissed at me. “That’s ridiculous. My pie couldn’t hurt anyone.” Aunt Martha’s face turned as red as her pie. “My pies have won awards. Lots of them. I have a curio filled with blue ribbons,” she said, her voice lowered, her tone turning indignant. “I’ve taken top prize every time I’ve entered them in any contest.”
“Well, I don’t think you’ll be winning any ribbons this go round,” I said halting the makeshift fan over Sick Guy just long enough to wipe his face with a paper napkin I found nearby. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you and your pie landed in a jail cell.”
She huffed, and with another grunt pushed herself up from the ground. “There is no way my pie could have done this.” She brushed her hands over her apron, spun on thick soled shoes, and marched back behind her counter. “Marigold,” she yelled.
“Can you get some help?” I shouted after her as I crawled over to Aunt Martha’s second casualty. “I saw a medical tent out there.” I pointed to the fairgrounds and took to waving the plate in front of the woman’s face.
“Marigold!” she shrieked again.
Why she was shouting for “Marigold?” Was Marigold a doctor? Or at least a nurse?
Hopefully she is, I thought as I waved the paper plate more fervently. Because as I watched another cherry pie eater hit the ground, I knew I couldn’t keep this fanning up much longer.
Chapter Two
“She said it was my pie,” Aunt Martha said to a security guard, pointing her finger at me. “My pie is the best in the fair.” She wiped her eyes, then dabbed at her nose. Her dour persona suddenly transformed into one of vulnerability, complete with tears. The performance, I was convinced, was to just raise suspicion on me.
A younger woman, blonde, with eyes that looked purple as a glint of sunlight hit her glasses, and bubble gum colored glossy lips stood next to her. She wore a vibrantly-colored, flowered mini sun dress. I chuckled. I knew if Miss Vivee saw her she’d say, “That dress is so short, I can see all the way up to Christmas.”
Bubble-gum Girl rubbed Aunt Martha’s back, seemingly to help settle her spurious emotional upheaval
, all while Aunt Martha’s baby blues shot daggers at me. I assumed Bubble-Gum Girl must be Marigold. She had come to Aunt Martha’s aid, and it appeared took her word without any evidence that I was to blame for the uproar.
I guessed from her actions, or rather non-action as Martha’s pie eaters still fell all around her, she had no medical training. It didn’t matter to me. I had given up on fanning once the medics arrived.
I tried to brush the dirt off my white jean capris pants that I had been so careful all day not to get dirty. I wanted to look cute for Bay when he arrived.
My FBI boyfriend, Bay Colquett, was driving down from the Atlanta field office where he was stationed, and was supposed to meet me and his family at the fair. I had been so conscientious not to get anything on my pink and white checkered shirt, and had stood practically the whole day so my pants would stay clean. Now everything, including my pink Keds tennis shoes, was covered in dust, sweat, and pie guts.
I could forget about looking cute now.
I blew out a breath, and tugged at the ponytail holder on my hair, pulling it off, I tried to redo my hair. It was all sweated out and had started to frizz up. There was really no hope for it.
I walked by the cherry pie killer and her precious Marigold on my way to the exit and tried not to let them draw me into their drama. I kept my focus straight ahead and walked at a fast pace.
“Excuse me,” the officer pointed his finger at me. “May I have a word with you?”
Geez, I thought. Is he really going to question “me” about the killer pie?
I let out a sigh and headed over toward the guard. This was ridiculous. Here I was, once again, talking to the law about my activities. Luckily, this time they were legal. What am I doing? I’m an archaeologist, graduated at the top of my class, and I’m lollygagging around at the “Freemont County” Possum Festival located in all places – Augusta County, when I ought to be on a dig discovering something important about our history.
I should have ditched out the tent when I ditched the pie, and never have stopped to help Sick Guy.
I saddled up next to the security guy and glanced at Aunt Martha and Marigold’s smug faces. They were slowly nodding their heads as if saying, “Yes. She’s the one.”
“How can I help?” I said to the guard, forcing myself to keep my eyes stayed on him. I dug my hands down in my pants pockets.
“What do you know about these people getting sick?” he asked.
Oh. My. Gosh. Really?
“I don’t know it for sure,” I said with the most innocent face I could muster. “But from the circumstances surrounding them getting sick, I’d say it was Aunt Martha’s pie that was making them keel over.”
The guard had to put his arm up to block Aunt Martha from lunging at me.
“Logan.”
I heard my name, and turned around to see Mac, leaning on his cane, limping my way. He hooked the cane over his arm, lifted his hat and ran his handkerchief over his head, his usual shock of white hair lying flat on its own. Probably from the sweat I noticed glistening on his forehead.
“Thought I’d come and see if I could be of some assistance,” Mac said as he approached, placing his straw Panama back on and tugging at its brim. “Seems as if there are more people getting sick then there are people to help.” Mac looked around the tent as the medics busied themselves with the fallen pie prey.
“Dr. Whitson,” the security guard seemed to recognize Mac. “Glad you’re here. Not one of those first aid people are actually doctors.”
“Hello, my good man.” It was evident that Mac didn’t know him. “Glad to be of assistance.”
“Do you know her?” the misinformed guard said pointing to me.
“Of course I do. She’s my granddaughter,” Mac said with a proud face. He probably felt that way about me, but everyone else did a quick jerk of their heads. I was sure they wanted to know how Mac could be my grandfather when I was black, and his tale-tell pale skin under his hat, showed he definitely was not.
“Your granddaughter?” Aunt Martha said, skepticism in her voice. “I don’t know about that, but I do know that she is the devil.” She leaned in toward me as she spoke. I leaned away.
It’s true. No good deed goes unpunished.
I looked into her eyes and could see how much she was upset with me. I just wanted to scream at her, “Why are you mad at me? It’s not my pie that’s killing everyone.”
“Calm down, Martha.” The security guard made his arm blockade stronger. “Marigold, you want to help me with your grandmother?”
Mac looked at me and then at the guard. “I came to see if I could help,” he said. “But I think my best effort would be put toward rescuing my granddaughter. C’mon Logan. Let’s find Grandma and make sure she’s okay.
I chuckled. I guess “grandma” is Miss Vivee.
We walked out of the tent and found people clutching their chests, holding their heads, and throwing up. Everywhere. There was a steady stream of bluish-colored people heading toward the Porta potties. Many more, it seemed, than were at the Plethora of Pies. And, I might add, a whole different color. A quick scan of the area, and it was obvious that Aunt Martha’s pie wasn’t the only food people were dying for. I glanced over and saw a lethargic group near one of the Meat-on-A Stick tents. Turning, I headed in the opposite direction.
“What is going on around here?” I said to Mac.
“I don’t know.” He looked around the fair grounds. “But be sure to stay away from fair food.”
I chuckled and said, “No problem there.”
“Vivee packed me some goose liver and onion sandwiches,” he smiled and patted my arm. “So don’t worry, you won’t starve. I’ll be happy to share one with you when we get back.”
Lord give me strength, I thought and tried to return the smile. But I was sure, if I ate one of those things, I’d be the next one to turn blue and pass out.
Chapter Three
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” we heard a man say as we walked up to our picnic area. “I have something for Vivienne Pennywell.”
Mac and I had pushed past the tide of fairgoers that had become frenzied after pie eaters and others had gotten sick. I was happy to be back. I wanted to make sure no one in our group had eaten any of the Freemont County Possum Pickin’s deadly fare.
The fair grounds were huge, and we had picked an area on the outskirts and pitched a canopy tent with flap drop walls. We had several small tables, a cooler for water and Miss Vivee’s food – her usual egg salad and now I’d discovered, goose liver and onion sandwiches. There were several folding quad chairs and a prep table for Renmar’s entries into the cooking contests.
The man wanting to give Miss Vivee something was probably somewhere in his early twenties. Trying to get her attention, he couldn’t seem to get past her daughters, Renmar Colquett and Brie Pennywell, who stood rooted firm as oak trees in front of her. Arms crossed, they created a protective, unmovable force field.
“May I help you?” Renmar asked, eyebrows raised, lips pursed.
Renmar was the epitome of a southern belle. Her hair was always in place, her clothes smart and stylish. Today, she had on a white tennis skirt, and a navy blue Polo shirt. I’d never seen her without make-up, or a ready smile, and a kind word while around others.
For the most part, she ran the Maypop Bed & Breakfast, the family owned business where we all lived, but she also was a cook extraordinaire. And she was Bay’s doting mother and, particularly protective over her mother, Miss Vivee, who could be a real firecracker.
Juxtaposed against Renmar, the Fair Ground Guy looked grubby. He wore a scruffy stubble on his face, and had a mountain of curly black hair. He was long-legged and slim. His clothes – khaki pants, and a ceil blue, button-down shirt with a Freemont County logo on it – looked rumpled. But there was an “Official” badge on a lanyard around his neck, seemingly making his intrusion authorized and someone not to be ignored – at least by fairground standards.
Nonethe
less, he couldn’t get through. He seemed anxious, and aiming to circumvent the Wall of Guardian Daughters solicited an appeal to Miss Vivee. “I have something for you, Mrs. Pennywell,” he said and flapped a piece of paper.
“Who are you?” Renmar questioned.
“I’m Gavin Tanner,” he said looking flustered. “A fair official.” He wiggled his badge, and sighed. “I have something for her.” He emphasized the last part of his sentence and pointed at Miss Vivee.
“What is going on?” I said and stood next to Official Guy Gavin Tanner.
Miss Vivee leaned to one side of her chair when she heard my voice, peering around Brie’s large curves and looked at me.
There she was. Grandma.
I noticed the little grin on her face. Whatever was going on, she was enjoying it. She had on two pairs of glasses – her sunglasses sitting atop her prescription ones. She wore a straw hat, with a floppy, frayed brim, and a blue ribbon tied around it. Even in the 90 degree heat, she had on her signature round collar, blue coat. Her long white braid was pulled over her shoulder and Cat, her wheaten Scottish terrier, sat at her feet.
Looking much more “elderly,” than her usual self-professed Voodoo herbalist, take-no-mess-from-anyone, nonagenarian self, I knew Miss Vivee was up to something.
Official Guy looked at me with eyes that pleaded for assistance.
“What do you need?” I asked.
“We need Mrs. Pennywell to see if she can understand what this means.” He rattled a piece of paper covered in plastic in front of me.
“What is it?” I said and tried to pry it from his fingers. He wouldn’t let it go.
“It’s for Mrs. Pennywell. No one else.”
“We’ll take it,” Brie said, and stuck out her hand.
“What is it about?” I directed my question to the fair official, but Brie answered.
“Who knows,” she said. “Who cares? Momma can’t be burdened with all these things.”
What things? I thought. It’s just a piece of paper.
Food Fair Frenzy Page 1
