Food Fair Frenzy

by Abby L. Vandiver

  “Hey, big brother.”

  As soon as I said his name, Miss Vivee started hitting me on my arm. “Make it so I can hear,” she said.

  “Hold on, Micah,” I said. “I’m going to put you on speaker.” I hit the icon. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “Well your images didn’t come over too clearly,” he said, “but what I could make of it was that Jackson Wagner had set up a pour over will-”

  “A what?” Miss Vivee yelled into the phone.

  “He can hear you, Miss Vivee. You don’t have to yell.”

  “Well, I can hardly hear him,” she said in a normal voice. “Can you hear me?” She leaned in and yelled.

  “Yes ma’am,” Micah said. “I can hear you just fine. So a pour over will is one where the decedent’s – uhm, the dead person’s – assets are poured from the will into a trust so that those assets won’t go through probate.”

  “Why would someone do that? Make a pour over will.” I asked.

  “Probate is costly and time consuming. Sometimes people don’t want to make grieving loved ones go through the process. It’s a lot of tedious paperwork. And one reason, the reason I’m guessing here is that trusts are not public record, so no one will know who is getting what. That way no one can contest it.”

  “But someone is contesting it, right?” I said. “Didn’t I email you a copy of that?”

  “You did, and someone is contesting it, but it probably won’t hold up in court.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you can only contest a trust for certain reasons, like fraud, or incompetence at the time it was drafted. But from what I gathered the pour-over will was just a safeguard in case anything else was later added. There appears to have been a living trust set up a long time ago. It leaves some land, uhm, let me see . . . Oh here it is, Lincoln Park to someone.”

  “Who?” Miss Vivee and Mac asked in unison.

  “I’d have to see the trust papers to know that,” he said. “But remember, trusts aren’t public record, so it’d be nearly impossible for you to see those.”

  Please don’t put any ideas in Miss Vivee’s head.

  I could hear Micah shuffling through some papers. “But from the motion to contest, it appears that the trust may have been set up for the unknown heirs of someone that wouldn’t’ve been an heir to Mr. Wagner. Someone I’m guessing that was named in the trust, but was already deceased.”

  “How is that?” Miss Vivee asked.

  “If you mean, why they did that,” Micah said, “then it would probably be because either the heirs weren’t born yet, like a pretermitted child or children, or that the name of the heirs were not yet known.”

  “Could it have been the wife who the land was left to?” Miss Vivee asked.

  “Not if her name is Camren Wagner. Because she’s the one contesting the trust. And . . .” Micah paused. “Yep, looks like this was filed the day after he died. Time stamped at 8:30 am. Right when court opened.”

  “She sure didn’t waste any time, huh?” I said.

  “Like she knew he was going to die,” Miss Vivee muttered.

  “Nope, looks like it was already ready to go, too,” Micah said, evidently not hearing Miss Vivee’s comment. “I mean they wrote the motion and got it filed in less than twenty-for hours. What time did he die?”

  “Mid-afternoon,” Mac said.

  “What about all that other stuff in there?” I asked. “I sent a lot of stuff.”

  “Yeah, I know. So. Uhm. This just looks like stuff to open probate – application to administer the estate, appointment of appraiser, notice of probate, list of next of kin who would inherit intestate – usual, ordinary stuff.”

  None of it sounded ordinary to me.

  “Okay, brother. I guess that’s it then. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Glad to help.”

  I hung up and Miss Vivee gave me the evil eye. “What?” I said.

  “How do you know I didn’t have more questions?”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” she said. “But he was talking so fast, it was taking a minute for my brain to catch up. I might’ve come up with a question.”

  “Then we’ll call him back.”

  “One thing I did get,” Miss Vivee said. “Is that I need to talk to that lying Camren Wagner again.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Now,” she said. “Take me to Krieger Arboretum.”

  Oh brother.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I kept my fingers crossed that Robert Bernard hadn’t hopped into that pretty red roadster of his and was headed over to see Camren Wagner to check on that lie Miss Vivee had told him. He would’ve made it there before we could and we would have been busted. Although, in my heart, I believed that Miss Vivee could talk her way out of anything.

  I brought a map of my land,” Miss Vivee said and waved the blue print container at Camren Wagner. “But I’ve gotten a little worried.”

  “Worried?” Camren Wagner asked. We had arrived at the arboretum and drove straight over to where we’d seen her before, if Gavin Tanner was in the office, we didn’t stop to check. We parked in the lot by the side of the greenhouses and found her sitting on her three-legged stool planting flowers.

  “Well, I know that you’re going to let that freckled fellow that was here the other day develop some land that you inherited from your husband. Build condos on.” Miss Vivee shook her head. “Tsk. Tsk Tsk. I thought you were going to plant flowers. We don’t want our land to be used like that.”

  “Why whatever do you mean?” She said, her accent heavier than ever.

  “I mean the land over there at the fairgrounds. We saw Robert Bernard at the Probate Court in Augusta. He told us that you were selling him that land.”

  Why does she keep telling these lies that are so easily verified?

  I knew, just as soon as we left, Widow Wagner was going to call Freckle Face and the two of them would compare notes and out all of Miss Vivee’s lies.

  “I’m not selling him-” she started in a huff.

  “It is your land, isn’t it?” Miss Vivee asked. “Lincoln Park?”

  “Of course it is. I’m his wife. Was his wife,” she corrected herself. “Who else would it go to?”

  “Do you need money?” Miss Vivee asked. “We could help you if you need it. Although, my husband here told me that your husband was pretty well off, even without the land.”

  “Now you’re meddling in my personal business. I have my own money.” She put her hands on her hips. “I’ve never needed anything from Jack. Still don’t.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that.” Miss Vivee put a hand on Camren’s arm to calm her. “That’s why my daughter’s got me going to that doctor for the elderly.” She looked at Mac.

  “Geriatrician,” he filled in the word.

  “Geriatrician,” Miss Vivee repeated.

  The last time we were here she told that woman she didn’t have any children. Geesh.

  “I have to go see one because I don’t have a filter. I just say whatever pops into my brain.” She tapped herself on the temple with her little bony fist.

  “Well,” Camren Wagner started to speak.

  “Please, Dear,” Miss Vivee said. “Don’t be upset, and hold this against us. This is real.” She held up her container. “And we just want it to be well taken care of when we’re gone. You said you have your own money, right?” Camren nodded. “So, then you know what it means to try and protect what you have.”

  “I think she understands, Dear,” Con Artist Mac said.

  “But I was wondering, who is this Krieger person that the gardens are named for?” Miss Vivee said. “They won’t get our land will they? You’re the gardener here, that’s obvious, and I want you to have it.” Miss Vivee smiled at her. “Is Krieger your maiden name?”

  “Oh no.” Camren shook her head. “My maiden name is Smith. Actually, Krieger is my late husband’s mother’s name.”

  Had
n’t Gavin told us that?

  “Oh,” Miss Vivee said. “Is that the Smiths of Savannah?”

  “Savannah? No. We’re from Pottstown.”

  “Well, when we leave you our land, we’re going to have a section named after you. Smith Gardens we’ll call it.”

  “Aww, thank you,” Camren said. I think she evened blushed. Miss Vivee rubbed Camren’s arm lightly.

  “And yes. I do know what it means to try and protect what you have,” Camren said.

  “So maybe you can help me with the other thing I was confused about.”

  “There’s more?” Widow Wagner lifted an eyebrow.

  “Yes. I spoke to Martha Simmons the other day. You know, Aunt Martha?”

  “Yes,” Camren said. “Of course I know her.”

  “And she told me that your husband had planned on not allowing the fair to be held in Lincoln Park anymore. She was really quite upset about it. In tears and all. You know she’s always been the star of the Sweet Contest.”

  Now where did that come from? I thought. We never did find out why Aunt Martha was crying that day we went back to the fair grounds.

  “Well that’s a lot of bull crap,” Camren Wagner said. She folded her arms across her chest.

  “I don’t know . . .” Miss Vivee let her voice drift.

  “You see.” Mac took up her yarn. “The fair not being held there anymore just went with what Mr. Bernard told us about bulldozing the place. Another piece to the puzzle, so to speak. We wouldn’t want Martha not to have a place to sell her pies.”

  “That’s her only source of income, those pies,”

  “Well I won’t have any control over that,” Widow Wagner said. “I’m not going to stop the fair from being there. But, I’m going to have it surveyed and hopefully named an historical district. So it’ll be up to the State of Georgia whether it’s ever held there again or not, not me.”

  “Can’t you still do whatever you want with it? As the owner, I mean,” I said. “The National Historic Registry doesn’t place any restrictions on the use by the owner.” I had learned something from my research the night before.

  “Yes. I know. And I . . . Well when the time comes, I’ll decided what I’ll do. But to rest your mind, Mrs. Caspard-Whitson, I won’t be putting any condos on it.” She jutted out her chin. “I’m quite fond of that land. And I don’t know about Martha’s sources of income. She has her granddaughter and she’s got that cookbook coming out. Or so I heard.”

  “A cookbook?” Miss Vivee said.

  Ahhh, something Nosey Nellie doesn’t know about.

  “Yes. Family recipes or something. I don’t know how well that’ll go though, because it was Jack that made sure she won every year.” Camren sucked her teeth. “So that’s all she needs to worry about now – can she bake an award winning pie without Jack’s help.”

  “Do tell,” Mac said. Miss Vivee had gotten quiet.

  “Look,” Widow Wagner blew out a breath. “If you want to leave the land to me, do that. Draw up the papers, have you lawyer call my lawyer, or whatever it is that needs to be done. But really, I have to get back to work.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  We left the arboretum and I got Miss Vivee buckled in and held the door open for Mac. Miss Vivee was quiet. She hardly had said a word the last few minutes of the interrogation of Camren Wagner. But then, halfway back to Yasamee, she said, “I want to go and see Martha.”

  “Martha?”

  “You know, Martha Simmons.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Don’t start that with me,” she said. “Martha is an old friend and I’m worried about her. I never did find out why she was crying that day.”

  “You told Widow Wagner it was because of her worrying about where the fair would be held.”

  “Well, if you don’t know by now that I lied, shame on you.”

  I chuckled. Miss Vivee tries to act as if she doesn’t care about things. But I know she has a big heart, even if she doesn’t show it often.

  “Where does Aunt Martha live?” I asked.

  “On the Augusta County line. Out past the fairgrounds.”

  “I’ve already passed that exit,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Mac, you okay with taking a detour?” I asked.

  “Of course he is,” Miss Vivee said. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and Mac looked content looking out the window. He had so much patience with Miss Vivee. I decided I could, too.

  I sighed, and got over in the far right lane so I could get off at the next exit and turn around.

  ɛɜɛɜɛɜɛɜɛɜɛɜɛɜɛɜ

  Martha Simmons’ Peace Mobile was sitting in the dirt driveway of a huge, yellow farmhouse. And before I could get Miss Vivee and Mac out of the car, she and Marigold were on the porch waving, welcoming us with a smile.

  “Vivienne!” Aunt Martha said and held out her arms to hug her. Miss Vivee braced herself for Martha’s grasp and patted her on her back.

  “Okay. Okay, Dear,” Miss Vivee said pulling away. “I want you to meet Mac.”

  “Oh! This is your Mac?” she said and went to hug him.

  Mac stepped back. “My pleasure, Martha,” he said and tipped an imaginary hat.

  “And you remember Logan,” Miss Vivee said.

  “Bay’s girl,” Aunt Martha said.

  I guess my only claim to fame.

  “Are you going to invite us in,” Miss Vivee asked.

  “Oh goodness,” Aunt Martha said and clutched her chest. “Where are my manners. “Come on in.” She pulled open the screen door and waved us past. We milled around in the front room, until Martha directed us to the living room.

  It was big, with big furniture. All, I was sure, from the early 1900s. We stood in limbo as she gave Marigold instructions. “Go and get that pitcher of sweet tea from the icebox, and bring glasses with ice,” she said. “You want some tea, don’t you Vivienne?”

  “That would be nice,” Miss Vivee said. “I’m parched. Been talking to crazy people all afternoon. And Mac and Logan would like a glass, too.”

  Marigold had waited to make sure her tea getting wouldn’t be in vain. After Miss Vivee confirmed, she headed to the back of the house.

  “Bring the tall glasses,” Aunt Martha shouted after her. She turned back and looked at us. “Have a seat. Oh my! You’re just standing around. Sit! Please, sit.”

  “We just thought we’d pop in for a spell, Martha,” Miss Vivee said.

  “Well, you stay long enough to drink your tea, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” Miss Vivee said. She wiggled down in her seat and got comfortable. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since I saw you at the fairgrounds that day Logan and I happened upon you.”

  “We’re too far up in age not to keep up with friends, Vivienne. We’ll have to make plans, and not just visit when we bump into each other.”

  “I think that’s a good idea, Martha. And I want to have you, and Marigold, out to the Maypop for lunch. Real soon. Soon like tomorrow or the next day. Give you a chance to let someone else do the cooking.”

  “Renmar’s a great cook,” Aunt Martha said. “But I know she learned all she knows from you.”

  Miss Vivee laughed. “You could never convince her of that. She thinks she knows it all.”

  Miss Vivee can cook? Who knew?

  Aunt Martha laughed just as Marigold walked in with a tray filled with our drinks.

  “Pass them out, Marigold.”

  Miss Vivee took a sip of her iced tea. “Mmmm good, Martha.”

  “You like it?” Aunt Martha asked.

  “It hits the spot,” Miss Vivee said. “So, I was wondering, Dear.” She sat her glass down on a coaster on the table next to her. “Why were you crying the last time I saw you?”

  “Crying?” Aunt Martha tilted her head thinking. “Oh,” she said. “I remember now. I had lost my diary.”
r />   “Not a diary, Nana,” Marigold spoke for the first time. “It’s a journal.”

  “Marigold with her fancy words,” Aunt Martha said and waved her hand. “A journal with my recipes. Marigold found it at a yard sale. All filled with pie recipes. It’s very old, mostly handwritten with some that are pasted in. You wouldn’t believe the wonderful pie recipes in it. Unbelievable.”

  “I say,” Miss Vivee said a smile came over her face. “And you had lost it?”

  “I thought I had, but Marigold found it. I’m getting so old, I lose everything. My glasses, my keys. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached,” she said.

  “But you’ve got Marigold,” Miss Vivee said.

  “Oh yes. She can get a little bossy sometimes, but I know it’s for my own good. And she always thinking of me, like giving me that journal of recipes. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

  “So you weren’t sad that day?” Miss Vivee asked.

  “Oh no!” Aunt Martha said. “Those were tears of joy.”

  “Seems to me, I smell something baking now,” Mac said.

  Oh please, God, don’t let it be a cherry pie . . .

  “Good nose, Mac,” Aunt Martha said. “I just took an apple pie out of the oven. Dutch Apple.”

  And did your recipe call for apple seeds, too?

  “How would you like some pie?” Aunt Martha asked.

  “Yes!” Miss Vivee said and clapped her hands together. “Mac and I would love a piece.”

  “I’ll get it, Nana,” Marigold said. “And how about you, Logan? Would you like a piece?”

  “None for Logan, thanks Marigold,” Miss Vivee said. “She’s on a diet, she’s got a wedding dress to fit into.”

  There she goes, making me an unwanted participant in her tall tales.

  This time I didn’t care though, I wouldn’t touch Martha Simmons pie with a ten foot pole.

  “You’re getting married?” Aunt Martha asked.

  “That’s what I’m hearing,” I said.