The Devil Wears Tank Tops

by Destiny Ford

  I pushed through the crowd until I could see what all the fuss was about. People were gathered around a sample tray and someone handing out cookies. Normally, I’d be the first in line for free sugar, but there were far too many people there for me to wait for samples when I could get plenty of other treats in less occupied aisles.

  I wandered to the bakery section and found some freshly made sugar cookies. If my mom knew I was buying store-bought, it would send her into conniptions, but I didn’t think it would be very nice to knock on her door at nine at night and ask her to bake—though she would have done so happily. Since I hadn’t been gifted with her domestic genes, store-bought would have to do tonight.

  “They’re not as good as your mom’s.” I looked up to see Annie Sparks standing next to me, looking at the baked goods selection. I’d met Annie soon after I moved back to Branson Falls. She was a local EMT, and often on duty during my mom’s misadventures. She was a member of the Mormon Church, but she wasn’t as zealous as the majority of other Branson residents. With her jet black hair, multiple ear piercings, and out-of-the-church thinking, we’d become fast friends. I never felt judged by her, and in a small Utah community like Branson Falls, that’s rare.

  “I needed comfort food and didn’t want to wake my mom.”

  “Ah, that time of the month?”

  “No, but I just had a run-in with Drake.”

  Annie grinned. “So you’re carb loading for later?”

  My mouth fell open. “No!” I hissed, my voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t say things like that here, Annie! Lady Spies are all over the place.” I waved my arms around in a circle, looking up for the location of security cameras.

  Annie laughed.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked her.

  “Grocery shopping.”

  It was practically the middle of the night. “At nine o’clock?”

  “It’s usually the best time to do it. Most people are home with their kids, and Rich is busy watching some sport on TV.” Rich was Annie’s husband. They didn’t have kids—yet—proving them to be rather defiant Mormons. I was surprised they hadn’t been called into church for a lecture about replenishing the earth. “Tonight’s kind of crazy, though,” Annie said. “It took me five minutes just to find a parking space. I thought they were having a spontaneous sale on something, but nope.”

  I nodded. “I was surprised, too. Especially since there was just an explosion at the sugar factory.”

  “I heard about that!” Annie said. “Do they know what caused it?”

  “Not yet. Bobby thinks it was sugar dust.”

  Annie tilted her head thoughtfully—like sugar explosions made sense, and I felt even dumber for not knowing what seemed to be common explosion facts. “It’s weird so many people are here instead of at the factory,” Annie pointed out.

  I’d also noticed the sheer number of people in the store and wondered about it. “Yeah, I thought that was strange, too,” I said. “Usually people love being the first to know what’s going on…especially when it has to do with something flammable. But it seems like everyone is here instead. I think most of the bottleneck is in the sample aisle.”

  “Ah,” Annie said, nodding her head. “That makes sense then. I usually avoid the store on sample day. It’s as bad as trying to find a parking space in Salt Lake City during a Utah Jazz game.”

  I picked up the box of sugar cookies and placed it in my basket with the non-fat, organic milk I’d grabbed earlier. “I guess I’ve never been here on sample day, but I’ll avoid it in the future.”

  “Good plan,” Annie said, grabbing some cookies herself and then steering away from the table and following me to the check-out line. “Hey, Rich and I wanted to invite you to dinner this weekend if you’ll be around.”

  I thought about my completely blank social calendar confirming that I was, in fact, the most boring person on earth before saying, “Sure, that sounds great! And the fair will be over, so hopefully things will have calmed down a bit.”

  Annie laughed. “Well, your mom will still be around, so there’s probably no chance of that happening—ever.”

  I laughed with her, as my items were rung up. “That’s probably true.”

  “I’ll text you the dinner info in a couple of days.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, taking my bag. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I was pleased with myself for adding an event to my social calendar that didn’t involve work, happy I had a friend, and even happier that it was one who wouldn’t get offended if I accidentally slipped and used a swear word—a real one, not the imitation swears most people in town utilized. I went home to my DVR, and a box full of frosted happiness.

  I pulled into my house—a rental that I could only afford because I was living in one of the smallest cities in Utah. I loved having my own space, though, and the cream colored siding with royal blue shutters made me happy. I pulled into my matching detached garage, and walked through the backdoor into my kitchen. The countertops were square and the color of eggshells, the floor was a cheap ceramic tile, and the walls were lemon-yellow. The color forced a minuscule level of perky into me every morning. My pot of coffee didn’t hurt either.

  I threw my bags on the table and walked into my IKEA decorated living room. I’d recently added some bright blue vases my mom brought over after telling me my house was in dire need of some personality. I knew this was in response to whatever show she was currently obsessed with on HGTV. I was worried I’d come home one day to a missing wall or two. Personally, I felt like my house already had personality—it was Scandinavian, like IKEA.

  I sat on my soft beige couches, put my food on the coffee table, and flipped on Netflix. I was half-way through my box of sugar cookies and had seen Jax Teller’s ass two times in as many hours—a win on all accounts—when my phone started playing “Sweet Caroline,” the ringtone that indicates the call is from someone I don’t know. It had a Branson prefix, but I didn’t recognize the number. I paused Sons of Anarchy and answered, “Hello.”

  “Kate, it’s Bobby.”

  “Hey,” I said, pushing my brows together. I’d just left him at the sugar factory a few hours ago, and hadn’t seen any other explosions recently, so I wondered why he was calling. “What’s up?”

  His voice sounded grim. “I thought I should let you know. A body was found in the factory.”

  “Oh no!” I gasped. “Do they know who it is?”

  “Not yet. It’ll take some time to identify.”

  “But all of the workers were home, right?”

  “Yeah, we’ve confirmed that so it must’ve been someone else.”

  I really hoped it wasn’t someone in town that I knew, but I felt bad regardless. I didn’t like to think about people dying, and death by fire would be a horrific way to go. “I’ll get my stuff and be there in about ten minutes.”

  “You don’t need to come down,” Bobby said. “The area’s been sealed off, and I gave you all the info we have right now. I’ll call you when we know more.”

  A sudden sadness washed over me for the person who had died. “Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate the call, and your help.” I put the phone down on the coffee table, and couldn’t help but think about how short life really is.

  There was enough glitter and crepe paper traveling down Main Street to supply a craft convention. And a lot of it—the glitter at least—was being worn by women who weren’t even Vegas Showgirls. Some of the horses were wearing it, too, and a few even had sparkly, painted hooves. I lifted my camera and took a picture; the horses’ pedicures were better than mine.

  I got some shots of the crowd in between parade entries. A float that was supposed to be a giant seagull, the Utah state bird, went by. Instead of a peaceful bird, however, this particular rendition resembled a pterodactyl, and the kids sitting under it looking miserable in the August heat didn’t help the perception.

  As a cute kid, I’d loved riding in the annual county parade. Whether I was si
nging on a float, sitting on a trailer throwing salt water taffy, or riding on top of a fire truck, I’d loved the attention. The parade marked the beginning of the last sweet days of summer freedom. By the following week, all the cute kids waving from the floats would be grumbling on their way back to school, and parents all over town would breathe a sigh of relief to have eight kid-free hours back in their day.

  As an adult, though, the parade held a lot less novelty. I got enough attention around my hometown of Branson Falls, Utah; I didn’t need to participate in the parade and invite more. I’d probably get eggs thrown at me—and since I’d already had eggs thrown at my Jeep recently, I definitely wasn’t interested in being egged myself.

  I’d managed to talk my way out of riding in the parade with the argument that someone needed to actually report on the parade for the Branson Tribune and take photos, and as the editor, that someone should be me. Then, Spence had gotten a car dealership in Salt Lake City to donate a bright yellow Viper convertible for the Tribune to use in their parade entry.

  Spence was driving it.

  I was pretty bitter about that.

  I would have gladly drawn the attention if it meant I got to pilot a sleek, 640 horsepower V-10. Spence had waved as he drove by me, air conditioning blowing full blast, a smirk on his lips. I wanted to flip him off, but that would have caused even more gossip about me, so I stuck my tongue out instead—a move that I belatedly realized probably held more innuendo than my middle finger.

  Officer Bob was riding on a police motorcycle behind Spence’s Viper. I waved at Bob, and he waved back. It had been two days since the explosion at the sugar factory, but the body still hadn’t been identified. Rumors were running rampant about who it might be. I’d checked, and all of the workers were accounted for, so it wasn’t a factory employee, and there hadn’t been any missing person’s reports in town.

  I wasn’t patient, and waiting for information was not one of my strengths. If Bobby didn’t get back to me soon, I’d call and bug him about it later this week.

  As I walked along the parade route and took photos, I noticed a woman shield her daughter’s eyes from me and whisper something in her ear. The little girl listened to her mom, then with a sharp scowl and finger-point in my direction, the girl said, “Bad lady!” She must have seen me stick my tongue out at Spence for his supercar stealing. As a rule, I tried not to take name calling personally, but when it came from a toddler, it was a bit more insulting than usual. And I’d been getting odd stares from people all day.

  I frowned as I thought about it, and pulled my wavy brown hair into a messy bun on the top of my head. It was too hot even for a ponytail. Hair reined in, I sat down next to Kim Jordan, a girl I’d known in high school, to eat my banana flavored popsicle. The popsicles had been a parade staple every year since before I was born. They were handed out by the local grocery store, and were one of my favorite parts of sitting in the sweltering August heat surrounded by people and asphalt. Heaven knows, I wasn’t there to see the horses poop, or watch the cleanup crew on four-wheelers with pooper scoopers behind them.

  I leaned over to Kim, who was attempting to stop her son’s cherry popsicle from soaking his shirt. “Can I ask you a question?”

  With red, sticky liquid dripping from her hands, she finally gave up and let the popsicle win. Her toddler son grinned in triumph then promptly wiped his face with his shirt. She rolled her eyes and turned toward me. “Sure,” she said, “as long as it doesn’t involve keeping kids clean, because I have no advice about that.”

  I laughed. “I think you’re doing a great job. Plus, they really seem to have a mind of their own.” It was something that terrified me about having children. That and the thought that the kid might be a boy and I’d have to deal with hormones, or a girl and I’d have to deal with hormones. And the chance that they’d inherit my mom’s disaster tendencies and the stress would shorten my lifespan significantly. I sighed inwardly, thinking it was a really good thing I didn’t have kids.

  “Yes,” she said, glancing down at her son who now bore a strong resemblance to Elmo, “they definitely do.” She looked back at me. “What did you want to ask?”

  Thinking about the absolute terrors of childrearing had almost made me forget. “Is it just me, or am I being glared at? By everyone.”

  Kim looked at me, her eyes quickly taking inventory. “I’m not sure. Have you made anyone mad recently?”

  I snorted. “A better question would be who haven’t I made mad?”

  She laughed and took the other half of her son’s popsicle for herself. “Things have definitely been more entertaining since you came back to town. It’s kept The Ladies occupied, so a lot of people are appreciative of that.”

  I tilted my popsicle in her direction. “I aim to please.”

  She licked a drop of cherry ice before it could fall to the grass. “You know about the Facebook group, right?”

  I pushed my brows together. “What group?”

  “The one the Ladies started about you.”

  I dropped my popsicle. The loss of my sweet, banana flavored treat made me even madder than I already was. “You’re kidding me!?”

  She winced. “Sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “How long has it been up?”

  “I got invited to it a week ago. It’s a private group.”

  As if it wasn’t hot enough, now my blood was starting to boil. “How many people are in it?”

  She tilted her head back and furrowed her brow in thought. “I don’t know the exact number, but there are quite a few.”

  I pursed my lips, trying to stop the string of profanity from exiting my mouth. When I calmed down, I managed to grind out, “Great.”

  “They mostly just post where you’ve been, and what you’ve been doing.”

  My lip curled involuntarily. “Like a bunch of Lady Stalkers.”

  “At least they’re not being as obvious about it now,” Kim offered.

  Ever since I’d moved back to Branson, the Ladies had decided my life—and love life, particularly—were Priority One. I kept hoping someone, or something, more interesting would grab their attention, but so far, it hadn’t happened, which was a surprise when they had fodder subjects as juicy as Hawke and Drake. I wasn’t used to the small town scrutiny, and didn’t like it. What I did, and who I did it with, was no one’s business. Sometimes I felt like I really needed to move back to the city. “I’d rather have them patrolling my house. I’d finally identified most of their cars.”

  Kim laughed. “I’ll let you know if anything horrifying is reported.”

  “I’m sure that won’t take long,” I said with a roll of my eyes.

  We watched a dance team swinging their hips down the road. The girls were covered in more sequins than Cher—and the glittery accessories were just as strategically placed. It always surprised me how Branson’s strict modesty codes didn’t seem to apply to the dance team or cheerleaders.

  A few tractors went by and I recognized the Paxtons’ combine from a recent incident when it had been stolen and my mom, in a misguided attempt to help, had tried to assist the thieves. I waved, and the Paxtons waved back. My mom still had the photo of her posing with the combine on her fridge. Farm equipment model wasn’t something on most people’s bucket list, but my mom had added it—and checked it off.

  As the last tractor passed, Opie Vargis, wearing a clown costume, drove by on his four-wheeler, pulling a wagon advertising his company, C.T.R. plumbing. C.T.R. stands for “Choose The Right.” It’s a motto taught to every Mormon kid. They even have rings with a shield and the letters to wear as a reminder. Using the motto in a business name just seemed wrong. Like they were trying to convey their trustworthiness based solely on their religious beliefs. Any student of history would know that never turned out well.

  I noticed the four-wheeler driving a little erratically. But this was a parade; he was supposed to weave from one side of the road to the other like someone crazy—or drunk. Even though
drinking, along with other fun things like watching R-rated movies, drinking coffee, swearing, or having premarital sex was strictly against the rules of the Mormon Church.

  I’d moved to Branson Falls as a child and like so many kids who aren’t religious in Utah, I’d joined the Mormon Church because I wanted to fit in. I attended half-heartedly until I was old enough to ask questions, and then I’d been asked not to come back. I didn’t mind, though; the religion worked for some people, but it wasn’t right for me. I respected their right to their beliefs, and hoped they’d respect mine.

  I pointed the clown out to Kim. “Opie’s really taking his role seriously.”

  Her brows pinched together. “Yeah. I noticed that too. I wonder what’s up?”

  I shook my head. “Who knows. Maybe he had too much sparkling apple cider before the parade.” If someone had managed to spike that, I wanted to know who it was, and I wanted to give them a high-five.

  She laughed. “Maybe. The sparkling apple cider really isn’t that bad.”

  My lips lifted. “You just think that because you’ve never had a nice glass of Moscato.”

  Another dance team went by wearing more glitter and sequins than the last, and less fabric. The speakers on the truck in front of them pounded out songs with a lot of bass and indecipherable lyrics. The music was blaring so loud that I almost didn’t hear the commotion. The screaming from a few houses down alerted me, though. I turned to see that the C.T.R. clown, Opie, had crashed right into a lemonade stand in front of a house.

  I ran over and pushed my way through the crowd gathered around the stand. The clown was on the ground. My friend Annie was giving him CPR. Not to be confused with the name of his company. I heard sirens in the distance. Luckily, the police station was only a few blocks away and with all the traffic blocked off for the parade, they were able to get to him fast. It was also lucky Annie had been in the vicinity.

  Annie was still doing CPR when the ambulance arrived. They stabilized Opie quickly and Annie jumped in the back. “Is he okay, Annie?” I asked.