Red, White, and a Dog Named Blue

by

Melanie Jackson

Version 1.2 – April, 2011

Published by Brian Jackson at KDP

Copyright © 2011 by Melanie Jackson

Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Contents

Red, White, and a Dog Named Blue

— Chapter 1

— Chapter 2

— Chapter 3

— Chapter 4

— Chapter 5

— Chapter 6

— Recipes

Ode to the Punk Who Stole My TV Set

Batter Up!

In Search of Christmas

Lights! Camera! Action!

Excerpt From “Due North” by Melanie Jackson

Chapter 1

Dread filled me as I stared at my cousin waddling across the field and realized that she had gone from hourglass figure to something more like a snowman while hiding under bulky winter coats and sweaters she had only recently shed. Althea wasn’t just getting fat on hot chocolate and café mocha, she was with child.

“Oh no,” I said to Blue.

This was cause for concern on many levels. First of all, I had some serious doubts about Althea and Dale Gordon’s fitness as parents if they were gifted with anything other than a poetry-spouting lardhead. After all, Althea was crazy and Dale Gordon’s mother was a serial killer. But my greatest worry was my mother’s competitive nature that would surely present itself as a desire for grandchildren of her own.

I am not completely against the idea of children. Someday, in the fullness of time, maybe. But right now I was busy with the Hope County Fair preparations and the 4th of July was almost upon us. I didn’t need this distraction and the possible accompanying nagging.

Since neither Blue nor I know when her birthday actually is, we have chosen the 4th of July to celebrate. That way Blue gets to have the whole town picnicking during the day and have fireworks at night. What could be better? Only this year I was also involved in another, more political way, with the fair.

It started innocently enough. Because I like baking and am a well-known cookie-pusher, it seemed normal enough for Mom to approach me about filling in for the domestic arts chairwoman, Norma Webb, when she developed some kind of flu and was unable to be head judge at the cookie baking contest. Of course, it turned out that her flu was related to the fact that she had two daughter-in-laws, Cathy and Kathy, competing in the cookie division and didn’t feel up to the task of choosing one or the other— or neither— as best cookie maker. Some might call this act craven, but I understood completely. If I had to judge a contest between say my mom and my Aunt Dot, I would probably immigrate to a foreign country.

But then Glory Rhodes, the judge for the pie contest, broke her ribs horseback riding. This was a genuine emergency and I didn’t feel that I could say no when Mom again threw me into the breach. It sort of figured that the two competitive daughter-in-laws would also be entered in this contest.

Then, a perfect storm of bad luck befell the other judges once they discovered Cathy and Kathy were entered in every cooking category since when one entered, the other followed, and I found myself also judging jams and jellies, cakes, candies and breads.

My fellow sufferers in gastronomic jurisprudence were Mrs. Graves- whom I like- and Rosemary Lincoln- whom I… er- um… who is my own mother-in-law. Neither Mrs. Graves nor Rosemary had any particular credentials for this job. Neither did I really, but we were the last three women in town ready to stand in the path of the Webb family feud and that got us the job.

Officially, I wasn’t needed until Friday, but there is always a lot of set up to do and the Chief had given me release time, so Blue and I were at the fairgrounds, lending a hand where needed. Actually, we were being bossed around by my mom, but I didn’t mind. The weather was nice, and Blue and I always had a good time whatever we were doing.

The Fair is a family affair what with Mom being on the organizing committee and Dad being mayor. It was turning out to be a work thing, too, since the police department had both a public safety booth that was manned with personnel from the police and fire departments, and also a dunk tank to raise money for the Police Athletic League. Three balls for a dollar and you can dunk a cop. The Chief had assigned Dale Gordon to duty there on Friday and I planned on getting in some licks. Dale had toned down the nastiness since marrying my cousin, but he is still far from my favorite person. And I owed him a few for his cracks about my athletic abilities when we were forced onto the same softball team. I’d been practicing. We’d just see who could or could not pitch a fast ball.

Blue and I walked into the first exhibition hall and saw Cassie sitting at a card table. She was frowning, red pen in hand as she went over the fair’s schedule of events. The fair only happens because of volunteers, but enthusiasm doesn’t mean that people can actually spell. Someone had to bat clean-up and the job usually devolved to her. Cassie is sometimes mistaken for me— from the back. Head on, it is clear that she is blessed with a bosom while I was passed over by the gods of plenty.

“How is it going?” I asked.

“How hard is it to spell ‘county’? Surely people know the difference between ‘county’, ‘country’, and ‘counted’. Who would even come to a ‘counted fair’ for ‘county cooking’?”

I shook my head. An editor’s work is never done. Blue woo-wooed softly and I patted Cassie sympathetically and moved on, glad that of my brain’s many quirks, a need for perfect spelling and punctuation was not among them. Bad grammar is everywhere; there would never be any respite.

I didn’t see Mom, but there were many other friends around, under tents and up ladders, and generally doing things with electrical wires that I would rather not know about. Since my wedding, I had been a bit leery of all things electrical.

“Hi, Maria,” I said, going over to help her and Holly hang up her giant quilt. Both women are in Mrs. Graves’ book discussion group, which I had been meaning to join. Holly had been teaching Maria quilting and for a first effort the quilt was— well, a good first effort. Dulcie, her cat, would enjoy it. “How is Dulcie? Did she survive having her teeth cleaned?”

“She’s fine, but I’m out seven bucks for a salmon fillet. I had to bribe my way back into her good graces.”

“Doesn’t the exhibition hall look nice?” Holly asked, patting Blue on the head. “I don’t think I have ever seen the floors waxed before. Your mom is a wonder. I wish we could get her to run the home and school club.”

This was the voice of sweet ignorance, from a woman who had never been on a committee with my mother. The hall actually did look wonderful with all the quilts and photographs hanging on the walls. Dottiebear’s quilt was especially impressive. The form was simple, just ‘drunkards path’ and ‘flying geese’, but the colors were something out of an impressionist painting.

“It’s impressive. And speaking of slave drivers, have you seen Mom?” I asked them.

“I think she is in Cascade Hall,” Holly said. “There was some problem with the kitchen sink.”

“Ugh. Well, I’d better go find her.”

I didn’t really want to know about the kitchen sink trouble and saw no need to hurry toward it since I had nothing to contribute. A detour by the stables seemed in order, since I hadn’t yet said hello to any of the four-legged, furred or feathered domestic contributors to the fair.

Dee and Ann were near the sheep pens. Dee breeds the loveliest Manx cats, but has a fondness for sheep which she uses for weed control on her property. Most of the sheep at the fair are white, but Dee’s are black. Ann was her main sheep-shearer and stood a good chance of winning the shearing competition again this year. I’ve learned that there is a real art to denuding a sheep with speed and not having the sheep hate you afterward. Ann had the touch.

I ducked into the first animal tent and squinted against the wind being generated by a giant fan. I love the weird chickens we get at the fair. I didn’t want to own any though. They seemed meaner than turkeys, which I had found to be surprisingly sweet natured. Best are the bunnies. They look so soft. I’ve heard you can litter box train them, but I was doubtful that Alex and I would be able to make Apollo and Aphrodite accept the big-eared interlopers. Anyway, I wouldn’t be able to let them out in the yard for fear of what they would do to my pumpkins. It was early days yet, but Jacky MacKay and I had a couple of monster pumpkins on our hands. I was sure that this year we would win the Halloween pumpkin contest and I wouldn’t let anything endanger them.

Blue and I left the back of the tent and found some other friends. Shannon was hiding around the back of the horse stables enjoying a funnel cake in the shade of the Mulberry tree. She is the new night manager at The Morningside Inn. She came highly recommended so the owners accepted the fact that she also arrived with two golden retrievers- Cole, who is more reddish, and Diesel, who is true gold, and also a black cat named Flash. Blue liked them all.

Frankly, I thought it was brave of her to jump right into things and volunteer in the first-aid booth at the fair, but I guess this was a quick way to get to know folks in town and some people are just joiners.

Marlene was next to her, also spattered with powdered sugar. Seeing the sweet sugar snow and smelling the yummy dough made me realize that I was starving. Blue woofed, expressing the thought that she would like some grilled chicken on a stick, only without the stick, and I agreed that this would probably be better than starting the meal with sweets. The funnel cake sure smelled good though. We were lucky a couple of food vendors had agreed to open a few days early to feed the volunteers.

I waved and continued my circuit. Next I spotted Andrea, her blonde hair up in a ponytail. I waved to her and the boys who were taking a break from setting up the sound system at the arena and petting the goats. The boys were a shoe-in for the watermelon seed-spitting contest. What can I say? It’s a gift. Not everyone can expectorate with both force and precision. Most of us are one or the other.

Speaking of watermelons, I knew that Mr. Jackman had some tomatoes and other squash entered in the produce contest. We have two categories— one for size and one for taste. It would not surprise me if he won both. His only competition was his neighbor, Mar. She had amazing watermelons and two kitties that were as pampered as any Hollywood starlets. Blue and I had met them while visiting Mr. Jackman. One seemed very Marilyn Monroe, the other was more Liz Taylor.

“Chloe!”

Uh-oh, Blue and I had been found.

“Hi, Mom. I was just about to get some lunch. Have you eaten yet?”

“No, dear. I have been trying to explain to the plumber why we must have a working sink by tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. If he has to drive to the far ends of the county to get a part, then that is what he needs to do. Some people have no work ethic.”

I was betting he had found some ethic though. Mom is very ladylike but she usually gets her way.

“Let’s get some chicken and then we can see what needs doing,” I said soothingly. “So far, everything seems to be going well. No complaints from volunteers and things look great.”

Mom looked pleased.

“I could use some lunch. Honestly, I don’t know why I get talked into these things.” Talked into them? Who was she kidding? Mom would rush in and wrest control away from anyone who didn’t look like they were on top of things, civically speaking. In the nicest possible way, of course.

We started for the big green school bus sporting the sign DAWSON’S DAWGS. The bus had been converted into a mobile kitchen when it was decommissioned by the school district. Blue was too polite to drool at the smell of grilling meat, but I was having trouble.

“What in the world is Sassy doing?” I asked reluctantly, as she began to drag a red and white tent toward the stables. Sassy used it for face-painting and it was popular with the kids who liked looking like cats and dogs. She claims to also do seals and squirrels, but no one can tell the difference.

“She found out that the steam calliope is going in next to her spot and her courage deserted her.”

“Oh. I guess I would move too.” Move, or risk loss of sanity and hearing. The old relic restored by Clarence Watts was a historic marvel but it was also loud. “Why don’t you order, Mom. I’m going to give her a hand. Two chickens sticks for me and Blue, okay?”

“And a drink?”

“Yes, please. And a cup of water, no ice.”

“Of course.” I’ve trained Mom about Blue’s preferences in the beverage department. It wasn’t blistering hot, but Blue’s fur is dense and she can overheat. It doesn’t take much for her to get thirsty.

Blue was torn between continuing on toward the lovely food smells and coming with me, but she is the best and most loyal dog and our mutual love won out over barbecue.

“Need a hand?” I asked Sassy.

“Yes,” she gasped. “It isn’t the weight so much as the wind.”

The breeze was light, but once un-anchored, the tent did show a propensity for going airborne. It took only a few minutes to get her moved to the far side of the bleachers set up for the magic show and by then Mom had our lunch in a nice brown box.

“I do hope that no one has tried to bribe you, dear,” Mom said as we settled in at a picnic table. We sat side by side with our backs to the sun. “It would be quite inappropriate, but some people are terribly unethical when it comes to the cooking competition.”

“Bribe me?” I finished unfolding my napkin.

“Yes. Rosemary and Mrs. Graves have already received several unsolicited cobblers, cakes and cookies from contestants. Mostly from Cathy and Kathy.”

“Nothing has arrived at our house so far.” If it had, surely Alex would have mentioned it when he called. Unless they had dropped stuff off after he left and it was still out there, giving the ants a splendid picnic.

“Those two girls are a handful. They are giving Norma fits. I hear that her boys won’t even come to dinner on the same night for fear of their starting a fight. It will all end in tears.”

“There won’t be any nonsense at the judging,” I assured Mom. “They’ll be polite and abide by the rules or I’ll disqualify them.”

Mom stared at me.

“I believe that you would do it.”

“I will do it.” Facing down a murderer or two, not to mention my own sister-in-law, had given me some perspective and some emotional muscle which I could use in a good cause. Norma’s feuding daughter-in-laws weren’t that scary in comparison. And if it angered people, they wouldn’t ask me to do the job next year, which suited me fine. I preferred being a casual visitor to the fair.

That didn’t mean I was looking forward to dealing with feuding family bakers. Any policeman will tell you that domestic disputes are often the nastiest.

Blue sighed and dropped her head in my lap. I understood completely. The fair was supposed to be about doggie birthday celebration, blue snow-cones and playing in the creek until it was time for fireworks at Courthouse Park. But duty was calling and I promised Blue that she would get to have some roast turkey leg, no matter how many jars of jams and jellies I had to stare down at the competition.

We dug into our chicken. It was delicious and fortified the inner woman and her dog.

“What is left to do?” I asked Mom, feeling capable of facing even plumbing woes.

“I believe we are actually prepared— if the plumber does as he has promised. There was some trouble with Ferris wheel and the haunted house, but they finally arrived last night and passed inspection this morning.” She sounded pleased, if a bit surprised.

I nodded, not caring. I wouldn’t be going in either. Ferris wheels and haunted houses are on my list of top ten most loathsome things.

“Will Alex be with you tomorrow?” Mom asked.

“Eventually. I thought that Mrs. Graves, Rosemary and I should meet a little early and make sure we are on the same page with rules and such. Blue will stay with Alex.” Thanks to those pesky health regulations that said a dog couldn’t be around food unless she was a therapy dog of some sort, I couldn’t bring her into the hall.

“What’s up first for you?” Mom asked.

The posted schedule went:

Friday, cakes(simple), cookies and pies

Saturday: Breads, jam and jellies

Sunday: Candies and decorated cakes

“It’s cakes at ten,” I said. “Cookies at twelve and pies at two. And rush me to the hospital with diabetic coma and impacted bowel at three,” I added.

“Just nibble,” Mom recommended. “There is no need to be gluttonous. Anyway, you won’t want more than a nibble of some of them.”

She was right. We had some very creative cooks in town. That didn’t mean their offerings were edible. I planned to pack my rucksack with a thermos of coffee, bottled water and some antacids.

“I’ll be in to see you around ten,” Mom said. “Your father and I have promised to join in the hoedown at eleven. They have had some trouble making up squares this year.”

Even in Hope Falls, square dancing just wasn’t as popular as it once was. That wouldn’t stop Mom from seeing that the tradition was upheld at least for this year.

Chapter 2

Judgment day dawned bright and it seemed rather early. Alex and Blue were up ahead of me though and Alex was making pancakes. This was pity feeding. While I was shut inside, eating enough sweets to rot my teeth, Blue and Alex would be out in the fresh air, seeing the sights, visiting with friends and having a lovely time. I sighed, feeling put upon.

Mrs. Graves, Rosemary and I met in Pacific Exhibition Hall and had a last look over the rules and judging forms. I handed them some water bottles and put a cushion on my chair. It saved me from discomfort but also made me appear a little taller.

I explained to them the situation with Cathy and Kathy, and Rosemary began to look dismayed. Her own daughter is overpowering and I knew she hadn’t sufficient backbone to deal with the daughter-in-laws. Mrs. Graves and I had plenty though, so I wasn’t worried.

The gates opened a little before ten. At first it seemed like no one was coming, but all in a rush the hall was full with contestants and baker-supporters. Holly, Maria and some others from Mrs. Graves’ reading group got seats in the front. I like seeing friendly faces that had no vested interest in the contest.

Though I knew it would soon pall, the smell of baked goods was appealing. I was feeling mildly optimistic.

We weren’t tasting blind— which was a shame, though I suppose this made it more suspenseful for audience and contestants alike. I would definitely suggest this improvement to Mom for next year if she chaired the event again. This wasn’t television. We didn’t need drama— and we would have more willing judges if they didn’t have to look their neighbors in their pleading eyes while deciding the fate of the buns and éclairs.

Contestants were called alphabetically. I called for Marnie Andrews and got no answer, so we moved on. Mrs. Carver stepped forward with her offering. I checked my cheat card and then checked my card again. It really said Sweet Pickle and Pineapple Cake. I allowed my eyes to dart once in Mrs. Graves’ direction and then forced a smile of welcome. I tried very hard to jettison every preconceived notion and prejudice the name conjured. After all, the cake might be delicious.

It wasn’t. It was weird though. I murmured aloud about creativity while drawing a skull and crossbones in the box reserved for rating taste. We were to combine the taste score with presentation and creativity and then rank the cakes 1 through 11 since we had eleven entries. Only the top three places would be made public.

Letty Daniels was up next. She had brought her Butterscotch Whisky Cake which I had had before and found delicious.

As we munched our way through the doughy offerings I was distracted by two things. One, the overhead florescent lights had begun to flicker, and two, I could see the daughters-in-laws Webb at the back of the fourth aisle of chairs, sitting a conspicuous distance apart and glaring at one another as they clutched their Tupperware boxes. Their husbands were not present.

Mom and Dad finally appeared in their matching patriotic square-dance outfits, and I don’t think it was an accident that she and Dad chose to stand at the back of the crowd near the two sister-in-laws. Mom was still looking out for her baby.

Cathy Webb went first. Cathy is almost pretty. She has lovely red-blonde hair and an athletic body. But she scowls a lot and combined with her red complexion she always looks on the verge of a temper tantrum.

Cathy offered us Barbecue Cake and I almost blanched until I realized she wasn’t offering us something flavored with barbecue sauce. The cake was really more of a sweet cornbread with peppers and intended to be served at a picnic or barbeque. Not bad. I gave it a seven since it was creative and still edible.

Then it was Kathy’s turn. She is also a pretty woman, though less tall than Cathy and darker of hair which is more auburn than strawberry blonde. Her offering was an Orange Cream Cake that tasted a lot like cream soda. I liked it and gave it a place right behind Letty’s Butterscotch Whisky Cake.

Feeling a little strung-out on sugar by the last forkful, I thanked everyone for their participation, explained that the judges would retire to add up our scores and then the winners would be announced. We hadn’t planned on retreating to do the judging, but I found the combined weight of all those hopeful eyes to be intimidating. I brought my thermos of coffee with me when we retreated into the kitchen and then into a broom closet where we wouldn’t be in the way of the 4-H who were making tacos.

We sipped our coffee out of paper cups and talked briefly about the entries, but we were pretty much agreed right down the line.

Our final placement from lowest to highest was as follows:

Rosiland Carver— sweet pickle pineapple cake 1

Marnie Andrews— chocolate surprise cake 2

Gracie Everett— apple surprise cake 3

Gillian Little— beet cake 4

Elvira Smith— Elvis honey cake 5

Bess Trader— date cake 6

Lydia MacKay— pumpkin cake 7

Cathy Webb— barbecue cake 8

Mary Grady— doughnut jam cake 9

Kathy Webb— orange cream cake 10

Letty Daniels— butterscotch whisky cake 11

Here is a hint if you are thinking of entering a baking contest, the downfall of many ‘surprise’ cakes was what the bakers had chosen as a surprise. I love Mrs. Everett, but her Gummi worms— while whimsical in an apple cake— were sticky enough after baking to remove fillings, and I am sure Marnie Andrews actually used Sugar Babies and Red Hots in hers. Mrs. Everett went after the fillings and Marnie cracked the teeth. Were they doing this as a joke?

We filed back to the judges table and I made the announcement of the third, second and first place winners. Rosemary passed out ribbons and Mrs. Graves gave out gift certificates donated by local merchants.

I watched Cathy and Kathy as the names were read, but other than a sneer of triumph from one and scowl of anger from the other, nothing was said or done, and I found myself giving a huge sigh of relief. At some point during the judging, I had begun to feel a cold wind on my neck. This feeling has nothing to do with stray breezes and everything to do with that inner voice that warns me when something is wrong.

*  *  *

“Have some turkey,” Alex said, offering me a slightly denuded leg. He and Blue had started lunch without me.

Truthfully, I wasn’t that hungry. I was in fact considering the merits of bulimia, but getting some protein in my body seemed like a better idea, so I forced a few bites down as I squinted at the painfully blue sky that was naked of even the smallest wisp of cloud. The forecasters had been making noise about possible showers, but so far the fair weather was holding steady.

The fairgrounds also felt a bit weird. I had gotten used to their near-emptiness in the days before the fair opened and they seemed crowded with alien faces— which isn’t surprising. I don’t know everyone in the county. But the sight of all these strangers made me a little nervous. I prefer predictable situations.

I waved at Sassy as we passed her booth, filled to capacity with underage customers who longed to be turned into cats and dogs. Their donations would go to cancer research and I was glad to see so many people supporting the cause.

Since the live plant displays had been set up at the last moment because of the potential damage from heat, I hadn’t been there to see the display. Alex, though black of thumb, was agreeable and we went to see the various gardening offerings now on display. As I suspected, Mr. Jackman’s produce looked perfect. He would be the man to beat at the pumpkin competition this Halloween. Like many of the gardeners, he was donating extra summer produce to the food bank.

There were also some amazing roses, so gloriously scented that you could smell them from a dozen feet away. They say a rose is a rose, but it isn’t true. Some of these flowers looked like they had come out of the glorious old illustrations of fairytales or The Arabian Nights.

I would have happily headed for home and our hammock, but I had cookies and pies yet to judge. There was also the matter of the Chief driving in the demolition derby that night. On our memorable first meeting, the Chief had been driving a ghastly car that he borrowed from his brother. The brother had decided that the car had reached the end of its days of faithful service and was now heading for the final round of gladiatorial combat.

At least I hoped it was final. It would be just like the Chief to drive the beat-up jalopy to work if he actually won the derby. I don’t believe in being frivolously wasteful, but some people carried things to extremes.

Alex and Blue walked me to the doors on the hall and I kissed him before forcing myself back under the flickering light. It didn’t help my mood that Rosemary was already there and clearly agitated.

“Your cousin is pregnant,” she said without preamble and with perhaps a little accusation.

Mom was on her best behavior and hadn’t so much as mentioned Althea’s condition. I liked to think that this was because Mom was sensitive to my feelings about not being ready for children, but suspect that after our runaway wedding, she was simply afraid that I would go out and get my tubes tied if pressed too hard.

Rosemary, in spite of the elopement, was not so wise.

“I’ll send a sympathy card immediately,” I muttered and then regretted it, though it shut Rosemary up. True, I wasn’t thrilled about this event, but not because I begrudged any child life. It was the quality of their life that I feared for. “Let’s take a look at the judging forms. Do you think they left enough room for comments? I am also wondering if we should talk to the newspaper about asking the contestants if they would like to share their favorite recipes. I know many cooks prefer to keep them secret, but some might enjoy the publicity.”

Rosemary had no opinions about this and I was relieved when Mrs. Graves arrived.

“Did you have some lunch?” I asked.

“If you call Pepto-Bismol lunch.”

“The cookies are much smaller— and should be less rich and creamy.” I hoped. I really, really hoped. What was needed was a shift in view. I needed to see this experience as a chance for personal growth— and not just in my hips and thighs.

But, alas, though many offerings were delicious, there were a few entries that managed to bring up the old gag reflex and that ruined it for me. On the surface, Raspberry Cream Cheese Cookies sounds lovely. But not when they are stale graham crackers sloppily spread with ‘lite’ cream cheese and raspberry jam.

All three of us judges exchanged glances when we saw the sloppy plate in front of us. What was Marnie Andrews doing? Trying to fit in by participating in the fair? But why be late for the first contest? And surely she would make more effort if fitting in was her intent. Absent any pickle cookies, hers was going to the bottom of my list. It wasn’t creative, tasty, or well presented.

Next on the list— Holy Rollers. I looked down at the ingredients (which had to be provided in the event that someone had an allergy) and hoped I wouldn’t find anything that belonged at the meal of the loaves and fishes.

No, just figs and pistachios and other yummy mid-eastern spices. Thank you, Father. These cookies might not have as much symbolic moral center as something with fish paste but they would probably taste good.

Since my brain tends to catalogue facts unless otherwise occupied, I noticed that all the entrants were married women, and I knew that most of their husbands didn’t cook. After tasting some of the offerings, I wondered how they stood life at home. Did they drown everything in tobacco until their taste-buds gave up and committed suicide? Personally, if I couldn’t cook, I’d try out a couple meals before offering my hand and picking out bath mats and a shower curtain for my picket-fenced cottage.

“It’s a good thing for these ladies that Mr. Jackman didn’t enter,” I said to Mrs. Graves and she nodded. He could have beaten them all, but I guess some bastions of prejudice remain and one of those is that men could enter produce in fair contests but not sweet baked goods.

“You could easily beat them too, Chloe,” Rosemary said softly and Mrs. Graves nodded. I hadn’t counted on the vote of support from my mother-in-law. I think that often my annoyance with her prevents me from seeing the good that is there. Hadn’t she given a home to cats so horrid no one else would have them? I needed to be more patient.

The tasting went on and by the end I was taking mouse-sized nibbles and feeling green. And we still had one more contest to go? I’d die— popped like a water balloon.

The lucky audience came and went as the pleased. I saw Dottiebear sporting a Blue Ribbon which she had doubtless received for her quilt, and Ann and Dee also wearing their blue ribbons of triumph. That meant there were naked but happy sheep somewhere nearby. I hoped that Alex had taken pictures.

The two Webb ladies were the last entries again. This time Cathy’s offering of Mallow Date Bars edged out her sister-in-law’s Oatmeal Cranberry Crispies, but neither cookie placed. It seemed most cookies we tasted were either long on innovation and short on flavor, or the other way around.

I smiled— weakly— and thanked everyone for coming and told them we would have a winner shortly, then the three of us trooped off to our favorite broom closet. I passed Cassie on the way and she handed me a can of ginger ale and a sympathetic nod. Mrs. Graves pulled out club soda and poured us all a shot. Maybe between the fizzy of ginger ale and club soda, we would survive. I was glad I had worn a sundress with an elastic waist though. This much carbonation was going to make me look like a blimp.

We had fewer entrants in this contest, but the list looked rather as it had for the single-layer cake competition. The same dreadful bakers made the same dreadful kinds of offerings.

Marnie Andrews— raspberry cream cheese cookies 1

Rosiland Carver— pickle relish cookies 2

Gracie Everett—apple oatmeal cookies 3

Bess Trader— persimmon honey bars 4

Kathy Webb— oatmeal cranberry crispies 5

Cathy Webb— mallow date bars 6

Elvira Smith— sesame cookies 7

Lydia MacKay— pumpkin spice cookies 8

Letty Daniels— holy rollers 9

We swigged the last of the club soda, did some discreet belching and then waddled back to the judges’ table. Again I said thanks to everyone for coming, congratulated the winners— in this I was sincere since I liked the cookies and also their bakers— and then said that I hoped to see everyone for the last taste off in an hour. About that I lied, lied, lied. I hoped that a natural disaster, war, or disease carried every last baker off to the hereafter so that I was spared the task of putting one more thing in my body.

Alex and Blue were waiting for me at the exit. Alex had won a purple teddy-bear for me, which the cats would enjoy dismembering.

We passed Shannon’s first aid booth and I was pleased to see it was mostly empty, just a mom with a toddler getting a bright purple Band Aid on her finger. Good, Shannon would be available if I needed my stomach pumped.

Thinking that some fresh air might help my tummy, we stayed outside and strolled toward the carnival rides which would open at four that afternoon, the theory being that children were in school until then and to open early would be to encourage truancy. I smelled food alley before I saw it. Usually I like the extravaganza of ill health offered at the fair, but that day the odor of pizza and corndogs was nauseating.

Quite surprisingly, I saw Mrs. Sellers, Hope Falls’ wealthiest and now merriest widow standing by the haunted house attraction. And she was with Principal Andrews. Standing way too close and pretending to pick lint off of his linen shirt.

I snorted with disgust. The school principal had been shot with an arrow last Easter by his wife when she found him in a lip-lock with another woman, Councilwoman Watts, out by the archery range where she was practicing. The wife had escaped prosecution because the Chief and I intervened and because her husband wanted to keep his job and having his wife on trial, spilling her guts to the press about his infidelity, would ruin it for him. Most people would take that close call as a clear warning not get involved with yet another woman in town. Especially not in a public place where is wife was actually in attendance. Andrews wasn’t most people.

Still, I had predicted that another public affair would happen eventually. Cheaters keep cheating, as I had cause to know, and Mrs. Sellers, like Councilwoman Watts, was blonde and thin and brittle, but wore a patina of wealth that some men find attractive. Principal Andrews had the same wealthy sheen. It actually looked weird in our little town because it was so rare to see this glossy type of glamor.

Why was that? I had never considered this before. It seemed to me that while many of my neighbors grasped the fundamentals of capitalism, they failed to translate that into any kind of workable monetary plan. Lots of people even lived in debt. I was only slightly better off, doing the buy-what-you-need-and-save-the-rest plan. Of course, I had married money— minor money— and we wouldn’t starve, so we had a leg up on many others. But I didn’t feel right about going for facials and manicures and playing tennis— or any of things that I would have to do to be like Mrs. Sellers— even if I could bring myself to spend money that way.

Neither did many other of the women I knew, though they were far from poverty-stricken. In fact, I suspect that the differences go far deeper than clothing. I could buy Italian shoes and designer clothes, but I would never buy the mind-set of confident arrogance and superiority needed to carry the intended look off. No matter what I did, I would never look pampered and glossy. I will never be confident, even smug, about being prettier and richer than anyone else. Smug about my mental gifts, maybe— though I tried not to be prideful— but not about something as transient as physical beauty.

I wondered then if Andrews came from money, or if it was his wife’s money he was burning through with his cars and his women. Marnie didn’t act ‘rich’ but she also didn’t seem poor or even middle class. She behaved the way real people behave. Discounting her weird cakes and cookies, of course. And shooting her husband with an arrow.

That cold wind touched my neck again.

I decided that I would call Mom later and see how things were going and if she and Dad would like to come and watch the demolition derby with us. Mom pays more attention to people’s romantic relationships than I do. And she would know if Marnie had taken up archery again.

“He’s a moron,” Alex said, as though hearing my thoughts. He does that sometimes.

“But not our problem, thank God.” That reminded me. “You know, Marnie Andrews may be the worst cook I’ve met. She can afford lessons. I wish she’d take some.”

“Really?”

“Really. In fact, there are a lot of really bad cooks this year. I am praying that they aren’t entered in the pie contest.”

“Speaking of that,” Alex said, glancing at his watch.

I groaned, but duty called so we turned back toward the exhibition hall. I needed the restroom anyway. Though I have mostly given up wishing to enlarge my body, accepting that I am short and small of bosom, one thing I still wish for is a larger bladder— a great big twelve hour model would be great.

“Maybe there is a conspiracy,” Alex suggested lightly. “All the bad cooks enter and set a new low culinary standard that anyone can live down to.”

Usually I am not a fan of local conspiracy theories. They require planning, organization and discretion, not things in the average Hope Falls resident’s skill set. If dishonest people helped each other, it was usually on accident. Still, I had no explanation for why the bad cooks had emerged this year.

“They’re being financed by the fast food chains,” I agreed lightly. “Burgers and fries are behind it all.”

The pie judging shall remain in memory as one of the most grueling events of my life. Rosemary, Mrs. Graves and I wore similar complexions of green and had made a silent pact not to actually eat anything Marnie put in front of us.

I groaned when I looked at the audience and saw Tara Lee there among the usual suspects. Cathy and Kathy I could handle. Tara Lee, founder of the Lit Wits, was another matter, and even Mar waving her red ribbon couldn’t cheer me up.

It isn’t that Tara Lee is mean or rude to me. Heaven forbid. Her tongue would probably fall off before she said anything that she considered impolite. It was just…. Tara Lee looked and acted elegant. She always does. Hair, clothing, extended pinkie, all of it screamed money. Old money. At least old enough for all the pioneer brutality and unscrupulousness to have washed off what were probably ill-gotten gains. I have often thought that Great Grandma Boston had been like this, and didn’t blame Grandma for running away from home.

Why was Tara Lee different than Alice Sellers or Marnie Andrews? Did it really have anything to do with actual wealth, or was it more that Tara Lee had a rare kind of arrogance that came from knowing her moral worth, and she measured her value in something more lasting than money? Whatever the cause of her superiority, she has always left me feeling slightly intimidated, something Alice Sellers can’t do.

I belched. It was stifled and the microphone was off, but my body’s rebellion reminded me that we had to get things under way.

Panicking slightly, I looked through the cards on the table and sure enough, there was an entry for Tara Lee. I looked to Mrs. Graves, but she had on her poker face. She has never said anything, but I don’t think she has a lot of warm fuzzy feelings for Tara Lee either. Mrs. Graves is like me— competent in her field but not sleek like a purebred cat. She wore her lines and wrinkles comfortably and didn’t inject them away. Her hair was the gray that God had planned for it to be. I hoped I would have that much dignity when I was her age.

Calling on reserves of character that I had not known existed inside of me, I smiled and thanked everyone for coming out to participate and to support our community by entering the competition whose entry fees would be going to help fund a scholarship to send some deserving but underprivileged child to college.

Marnie was up first. I saw with horror that her entry was grasshopper pie. Though I didn’t taste it, I suspect it was premade whipped dessert with food coloring and cocoa powder. There was no crème de menthe— at least I couldn’t smell any mint— and the plastic grasshopper sinking in the cream was so off-putting that it was all I could do to fake taking a bite.

Unable to endure anymore culinary assault, I looked out at Marnie and found she was looking straight back at me, her expression defiant, and suddenly I thought I understood what was going on. She hadn’t wanted to enter the contest. Her husband had pressured her into it— probably so he would have guaranteed free time for pursuing Alice Sellers. She was doing what he wanted, but under protest. It was the rebellion of the impotent. Obviously marriage counseling wasn’t working.

In spite of feeling ill, I found myself grinning at her.

After a moment, she smiled back.

“Marnie, this is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in a pie shell.” I said this clearly.

There was a gasp from Rosemary and then everyone in the room broke into laughter, including Marnie.

“You be sure and take all the leftovers home now and give them to your husband,” I said, and moved on to the next entry from Mrs. Carver. Peach Zucchini Pie sounded vile, but at least it didn’t have any insects on it.

Things went well until I saw the Cream of Wheat Pie entry form, but it turned out to be kind of like mincemeat and was actually pretty good, though more savory than sweet.

Lydia MacKay was hitting the pumpkin theme hard, so no surprise about pumpkin pie. I think it was her way of showing support for Jacky and I who were growing a rather magnificent squash garden. Jacky had taken to pumpkin pilfering last October after his mother forbade his growing any messy pumpkins in her manicured English-style garden. I had taken the ‘simple’ boy under my wing instead of reporting him and Lydia was needlessly grateful.

The only surprise— though I should have known that if Tara Lee did anything, she would do it right— was the Amaretto Pecan Pie. It was divine.

We slunk to our broom closet, chewed some antacid tablets, added up points— thankfully without debate. Here were the results.

Marnie Andrews— grasshopper pie 1

Rosiland Carver— peach zucchini pie 2

Gracie Everett— chocolate apple pie 3

Bess Trader— persimmon apricot pie 4

Kathy Webb— cream of wheat pie 5

Lydia MacKay— pumpkin pie 6

Cathy Webb— banana fluff pie 7

Elvira Smith— strawberry rhubarb pie 8

Tara Lee— Amaretto Pecan Pie 9

Barely able to stagger past the taco production line, we left our broom closet, went back to our table and passed out ribbons and congratulations. Knowing the task was done gave me a small spurt of energy, but I couldn’t stand to think that I had two more days of engorging ahead of me.

Never again, I vowed. Not even if it meant free college for every kid in town.

I was too sick by then to head over to the dunk tank and flatten Althea’s husband.

Chapter 3

Mom and Dad were happy to join Alex and me for the derby. I suspect in Mom’s case, it was less about enjoyment of the sport than a chance to sit down and rest for a while. Mom is usually a font of energy, but I could see that she was tired. The fair must be more work than she had bargained for.

We got good seats since we were there early and Dad and Alex enjoyed a beer and nachos. I pet Blue for a while, waiting for my stomach to settle. Andrea’s boys were there, I saw, but without their mom. The audience was predominantly male and I began to suspect that the entertainment might not really be my thing.

The water pumper came onto the dirt field, usually kept dry and used for riding or herding live-stock, and started turning the earth into mud. I am not sure why it is desirable to hold demolition derbies in mud, but Alex assured me that it was customary.

We saw the Chief standing by his blue Chevy Impala, a.k.a. the pimp-mobile. Like all the other cars, its windows were missing. It had been painted with #7 and looked better than most of the cars in the derby. The white Mustang next to the Chief looked deceptively slim and weak with its dented fenders, but I was not falling for it. The car was a known suspect in street races back in the day and #5 and its driver was still the one to beat.

The Chief talked to the other drivers and then scanned the stands, and waved when he saw us. We waved back enthusiastically. After a moment, the Chief came loping over and called for me to come down to him.

Blue and I went, already knowing what he was going to ask me. I thought about lying. Or claiming that I couldn’t make any predictions about the outcome, but Randy Wallace and I have a relationship built on honesty.

“Thanks for coming, Boston,” the Chief said and reached through the railing to pet Blue. “So, any feelings about who is going to win?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Five is your greatest competition. Really, your only competition, barring really bad luck.”

“The Mustang?” he sounded incredulous.

“Yes. I know the driver. Barry Habersham is from Monroe. He’s nuts and snake mean to boot. Don’t let the dents fool you. That car is a veteran street racer and he’s beefed it up. Look at the tires— especially the back end. It’s carrying extra weight. That thing is a virtual tank. In fact, those tires may be about his only vulnerable spot if you can’t get to his engine.”

“Hm.” The Chief looked more challenged than daunted by the news and I sighed at the male ego.

“Look, you need to either avoid him this round or take him out early. This guy is a scofflaw and he’ll be gunning for you just because you’re Chief of Police. I know it’s tempting to let him do damage for you out there but…. Well, it’s your call. Don’t take any insane risks, okay? One crazy man on the field is enough.”

“Okay,” the Chief was pensive. “I guess it’s good that I took all those evasive driving classes.”

Evasive driving? Yeah, right. This was probably going to be a duel to the death. Barry was going to figure out quickly that the Chief, in addition to being a representative of the law,  was his main competition and it would get ugly after that.

“Relax Boston. We’ll be lucky if we get up to five miles per hour out there. What could possibly happen?”

“Uh hu.”

I looked around the arena and was relieved to see an ambulance parked beside the stables. Regretting more than ever that my stomach was full of revolting food, I wished the Chief luck, climbed back into the stands and waited for disaster.

To while away the time, I talked to Mom about Alice Sellers and her romantic aspirations. I gathered from Mom’s rather tight expression that esprit de corp was being strained among the members of the garden club over Alice’s recent excursion into affairs with married men. Boiled down, the wealthy widow wanted sex but no chance of an entanglement that would lead to some man enjoying her inherited wealth. The latest candidate was— no surprise— Principal Andrews. Not that he was some poor innocent who was more sinned against than sinning. His name had been coupled with other women.

Mom also had a few choice things to say about Councilwoman Watts, who had not taken the end of her affair with Andrews with anything approaching dignity or tact and who had made a few unpleasant scenes in public places, especially at the gym and the deli Andrews favored for lunch. Personally, I figured he deserved any ill spoken of him, but agreed with Mom that people should show more dignity in these matters. Like me.

She didn’t know it, but I had punched out my ex-fiancé’s lights after our breakup— but only after he kidnapped and locked me in the trunk of my car. And there hadn’t been any witnesses.

A garbled voice came over the speakers. Engines were started. It is probably my imagination but I was sure that I could hear the Mustang and the Impala humming above the rest. Derby cars weren’t supposed to hum. They spluttered and growled, automobiles at the end of their life. They did not act like thoroughbreds at the start of Indy.

A flag was waved, engines were gunned and the cars moved onto the field, throwing up waves of mud. The Impala charged into an open space where there was room to maneuver and then began to wield damage. The Chief drove backwards with a finesse that many people never manage while facing forward.

I knew the Chief was carefully calculating odds even as he picked up momentum and went after a purple Charger that had followed him into the drier left field. He had the advantage of the heavier car with better traction in the lighter mud, but the Charger had better speed and maneuverability in the dry spots. The Chief’s car was an aged screamer and being close to the ground, it would corner well even in the mud. It basically came down to who was the better driver— and who got lucky with tire friction. I hate situations with lots of variables. It makes it hard to predict outcomes.

The Charger was lamed almost at once. The Impala spun about and attacked a yellow Chevette. If Habersham was taking this competition seriously, then so was the Chief.

Across the field, The Mustang was taking no prisoners either. While other drivers were doing doughnuts and goofing off, Habersham was picking off anything that strayed from the herd. The other drivers didn’t recognize the danger until it was too late.

I hated the noise. Hated the destruction too. But I was worried for the Chief and could not look away. My stomach and Alice Sellers’ home-wrecking tendencies were forgotten in my dread.

“He’s got to slow down,” Alex muttered. “The engine will starve for oxygen if he keeps pushing it.”

“Slow down?”

Cars could suffer oxygen deprivation? This news added to my dismay. I clutched at Blue who leaned into me with all her weight, sensing my distress and trying to comfort me.

The Chevette died and the Impala pulled away, engine snarling but sounding asthmatic. The field was empty now, except for dead cars and The Mustang. The Chief began to slow, but not so abruptly that the Mustang wouldn't have any advanced warning of his intentions. It was obvious to us in the stands, but would be less apparent on the ground where car windows were splattered with obscuring mud.

As expected, the Mustang was coming after the Impala with direct recklessness. Habersham was a bully and knew nothing of finesse. The Chief watched the rearview mirror where his adversary was coming up fast. The field in front of him was football wide, empty except for the hulk of the Charger, as perfect as it was going to get for whatever suicidal maneuver the Chief was about to attempt. It was time for the coup de grace, to plunge the vehicular blade into the enemy’s bosom.

“Now!” I breathed as the end of the field loomed, so caught up that I forgot to inhale after speaking.

The Chief hit the brakes as soon as he reached the shadow of the viewing stands, wincing as the tires made a pained protest that should only have been possible on pavement. He spun the wheel about, demanding the Impala make as tight a turn as mechanically possible and accelerate back the way he had come.

As soon as the Chief was turned around, he hit his brights and aimed the car straight at the Mustang.

“Are lights legal?” Alex asked, confusing me. “Maybe if they aren’t glass?”

Habersham panicked at the sight of the Impala rushing at him, no doubt just as the Chief expected him to. Unlike me, Habersham did not know about the Chief’s special training and that he would be able to avoid a crash. Probably. Barry stomped hard on the brakes, making the Mustang swing crazily and throwing up a tidal wave of mud on both sides of the car. Each sway brought another frantic over-correction, further eroding his control in the slippery mud. The Impala spun in a half circle and stalled.

The Chief slowed enough to turn his car and reversed gently enough to not cause death or probably even injury on impact, since the drivers were held in with safety harnesses. But it was the end of the Mustang. One hideous crunch and a lot of screaming from the stands and the Chief was the champion.

I grabbed Alex’s empty nacho tray and threw up in it.

Now there were two things on my ‘never again’ list.

Chapter 4

It would be an overstatement to say that I woke with happiness in my heart, but my stomach was at least untroubled. A glance at the window assured me that we still had sun, and a gentle symphony of snores told me that Blue and Alex were well.

Deciding to skip breakfast and start my day with only a caffeine bracer, I went quietly to the kitchen and put on the coffee. Then, joined by a cheery Blue, I went out to the garden to water and check on the pumpkins. Jacky had been doing a good job of watering only the base of the plants, keeping the fruit on dry ground. Actually on dry tarp. I had learned last year that giant pumpkins must be dragged rather than carried.

A sleepy-eyed Alex was tempted by the coffee and we had a short visit before I left for the fair. It wasn’t that I wanted to go back, let alone go early, but Mom had looked really tired last night and I wanted to make sure that she was feeling okay.

Since I was ahead of schedule, I took a tour by the stables and got to see ‘the biggest horse in the world’. It probably wasn’t really the biggest, but the black monster seemed as big as a brontosaurus to me. Fortunately, both the giant horse and the ‘world’s biggest cow’ were both very friendly, though the cow drooled a little on my head when I walked beneath it.

Mom found me petting rabbits and scrubbing my scalp with a paper napkin. She looked a lot better that morning and I was relieved. I wasn’t ready for my mother to be old yet.

We talked about nothing important while we strolled toward the exhibition halls. Today I was judging breads and jams and jellies. This was doable. There were more entries in these categories, but breads wouldn’t be as sweet as cakes and neither would be creamy. And Mom didn’t have any square dances to go to. We were both golden.

“That’s odd,” Mom said, staring at the haunted house as we skirted the calliope, which was blessedly still silent. Naturally I turned to look too.

“The door shouldn’t be open?” I asked, seeing the gaping black space where a grey door should be.

“No.”

“Maybe someone is doing clean-up and maintenance,” I suggested, but already we were walking toward the one thing in the park I really, really didn’t want to see up close.

My maintenance theory went out the window when I saw that someone had cut the lock on the door. The bolt cutters lay where they were dropped. There was also a lot of blood. But then, there would be. It was a haunted house.

“Don’t go in,” Mom said. Though she would have denied it, she was feeling fey.

“You got that right. You have a number for security?” I asked Mom as I began to fumble for my phone.

“No, but their office is just over there. Maybe someone is there.”

“See if you can find someone,” I said, the small hairs on my arms erecting themselves.

It was just the haunted house, I told myself. The last haunted house I had been in had been the scene of a murder and what I was feeling was some kind of post-traumatic shock.

“Don’t go in,” Mom repeated as I took a step closer and peered at the bolt-cutters.

Blood.

“I won’t. Believe me, I won’t.”

“Okay.” Mom turned and jogged for the security booth.

Deciding that I had to make some effort to not look like the coward I was, I called loudly: “Hello! Is anyone in there? Are you hurt?”

Naturally, no one answered. If this was a kid’s prank, he was probably long gone. If it was something else I probably wouldn’t get an answer.

To call, or not to call? Play my hunch, or play it safe?

“Screw it,” I said and got out my phone. This was no time to stop listening to intuition. I had assessed the situation and my sudden cold and goose-pimples said there was trouble.

The Chief answered on the second ring.

“Chloe?” The Chief only calls me Chloe when he’s worried. An early morning call from me on a Saturday was apparently cause for worry.

“Look, maybe I’m imagining something…”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Someone has broken into the haunted house out at the fairgrounds. There are bolt cutters out here and blood. Of course, there should be blood, but not on the bolt-cutters, right?”

“Don’t go inside.” The Chief and my mom see eye to eye more often than you would expect.

“I’m not. Mom’s gone to get security,” I added, so I didn’t seem completely paralyzed and incompetent. “I’m guarding the scene ‘til they get here.”

The scene. My gut was telling me this was a crime scene.

“Good. Stay there. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. Don’t go inside!”

“Okay,” I said but to empty air. The Chief had hung up.

I was going to feel like an utter fool if it turned out to be nothing more than some kid’s prank.

Mom and Burl Iverson, the daytime security guard, arrived a minute later. I told them that I had called the Chief and suggested that maybe we should wait for him rather than rushing in.

Mom turned pale and I realized that she had been hoping that this was just vandalism or a joke, and not something more serious.

“It might be nothing,” I said to her. “But just in case…. Let’s wait for the Chief.”

Burl needed no urging. He was old and round and not used to any crisis greater than a straying sheep or the late opening on Daddy’s Donuts.

Andrea and Cassie joined us briefly, but I suggested that maybe they would rather not stick around. Andrea looked toward the animal pens where her boys were and nodded quickly. I think Cassie would have argued, but the Chief came walking across the field, looking in no mood for public relations. Lawrence Bryce was with him and he was carrying a crime scene kit.

“You wait out here,” the Chief said to me. “Once I’m sure it’s safe I’ll call you in.”

He meant he’d call me if there was a body inside.

Mom took my hand.

“At least they will be able to move the body before the fair opens,” I said before thinking.

“You— you’re sure there is a body?” Mom asked.

“Maybe you should call Dad,” I suggested instead of answering. “He’d want a heads up if something is wrong.”

“But shouldn’t we wait until we know if—”

“Boston,” the Chief appeared in the door. “We need you.”

Looking at him standing in shadow he looked rather as Principal Andrews had yesterday while flirting with Alice Sellers.

A shudder wracked me.

“Is it Andrews?” I asked softly.

Mom was surprised by the question but the Chief wasn’t. He has just accepted that sometimes my brain can put things together and come up with answers even before others have started asking questions.

“Yes.”

I nodded, wanting to delay by asking for details, but that wasn’t what the Chief wanted. He didn’t want to tell me things; he was waiting for me to tell him what I saw.

I forced myself toward the dark door.

“Mom, call Dad and Alex. And then maybe you could bring me some coffee? I feel a little cold.” Bright sun, temps in the seventies and I was cold. Gee, could it be dread?

“Certainly, dear.” Mom sounded miserable. Isn’t that a parent’s worst fear, being unable to shield their child from bad things?

“It’ll be okay, Mom.” Though, of course, it wouldn’t be, at least not for Andrews.

The Chief touched my arm and then stood aside.

Sometimes, at a funeral, people say things like oh he’s so peaceful looking. It’s just like he’s sleeping. No one would say that about Andrews. His natty linen suit— the same one he had worn yesterday I note— was bloody and his head was misshapen. It had an odd U injury and had we been at the stables, I would have assumed a horse kicked him.

“Not an accident,” I said. We were in a room without furniture or anything that could cause such an injury. The walls were black and I imagine that they projected images on the walls when the house was open.

“It happened here.” I breathed slowly, five counts in and five counts out. I didn’t hurry and the Chief didn’t show impatience. “Probably last night. He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

“Okay.”

“The killer is left-handed. Or used her left hand to kill him.”

“Her?”

I thought about that. Andrews had gotten around, but he had confined himself to divorced, widowed or at least separated women. Maybe he figured he was committing adultery enough without dragging in another potential angry spouse.

“Yes, a woman. I think. Not Marnie,” I said, relieved. She was the most obvious choice, having already shot her philandering husband with an arrow.

“Why?”

“Too tall. Too weak. Right handed.”

“Okay.”

“Not Alice Sellers— right handed and again too tall. Strong enough though. Probably mean enough too.”

The Chief nodded, not necessarily agreeing, just telling me to go on.

“We need to go to the farrier’s stall and see if something is missing. He has a display of old cattle brands hung on a rack. One is in the shape of a horseshoe. It’s heavy enough to do this.”

The Chief jerked his head at Lawrence Bryce and he left the room.

I felt so tired that I was ready to lay down on the floor and fall asleep next to the body.

“The autopsy will tell you more, but for now you are looking for a woman a little over five feet tall, left-handed— and strong. Someone who works out. Probably divorced or widowed. He didn’t go for the married ones. Not often.”

“Why here?”

I thought of Andrews and Alice Sellers flirting out in plain sight.

“He might have thought it would be fun to have sex in this creepy place,” I said softly. “And since he was being blatant about flirting with Alice, another of his lovers may have seen him and decided to let the punishment fit the crime.”

The Chief grunted.

“Ambrose Bierce said: ‘There are four kinds of homicide; felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy.’” I hadn’t meant to say this aloud.

“Which kind is this?” the Chief asked, but I had no answer. Not yet.

The coroner arrived then and I was happy to leave the room. Mom, Dad, Alex and Blue were all waiting for me, carrying coffee, funnel-cake and a gyro. I made it to the nearest picnic table and then sat down with my back to the haunted house.

Blue put a head on my knee and Alex had an arm around my waist. We sipped coffee and nibbled for a bit and then I told them what I knew.

“It’s like last time,” Mom whispered. “Right down to the haunted house.”

“No. Last time it was an outsider who did the killing. This time it’s one of us.”

Chapter 5

The body left with the coroner. No crime scene tape was put up, just a new lock on the door and an out of order sign, keeping fair-goers away. We weren’t keeping the murder a secret, but there was no need to encourage gawkers or to ruin the fair for the children that would be there en mass since it was Saturday.

The gates opened, Mom and Dad excused themselves to attend to other duties— including arranging sympathy calls on Marnie Andrews— and not knowing what else to do, I went to go judge breads. But on the way Blue, Alex and I detoured by the dunk tank. Unfortunately it wasn’t being manned. Probably everyone— even Dale Gordon— had been called in to investigate this murder.

I kissed Alex goodbye at the door to the exhibition hall, promised Blue a grand birthday picnic on Sunday and then forced myself inside. Rosemary and Mrs. Graves were waiting for me at the judge’s table. Their still faces told me that the grapevine had been at work.

“I’m sorry, Chloe,” Mrs. Graves said and hugged me.

“It’s just awful,” Rosemary agreed and hugged me, too, which I appreciated. Sort of. My mother-in-law wears an awful lot of perfume.

“We just need to carry on and not let this ruin the fair. People have paid for a chance to be in this competition and we will give it our full attention. Until our stomachs can’t stand it,” I added honestly.

They nodded solemnly.

Breads has two categories— quick breads and raised breads. I was glad we began with the yeast breads. I needed to ease into things slowly. There were many excellent breads on offer and I was glad to see that Mr. Jackman had entered. The world might not be ready for male cake-bakers, but the door had cracked open on savory bread.

Of course, Mr. Jackman’s bread was the best. He called it Medieval Herb Seed Bread. It was rich and nutty and chewy, and though I knew that I needed to save room for other breads, I ate my whole slice.

Things were slower that morning, there being only five entries in the yeast bread category and many empty folding chairs, but they began to pick up when the sugar junkies and their frosted date loaves started to arrive. Looking down the list of competitors, I was stunned to see that Councilwoman Watts was entered. It had to be one of the unwritten laws of the City Council about participating in community events because she was not a baker. In fact, I was pretty sure her offering had come right out of a box.

Looking up from my slice of really mediocre gingerbread, I saw Lucy Watts herself. She was standing at the very back of the room, looking pale and nursing her arm. Her left arm. She had a bruise on her cheek, almost covered with make-up.

Lucy Watts who had risked her job and a chance at reconciliation with her husband to have an affair with Andrews— and to get him his job in town. Lucy Watts who had been dumped when Andrews chose his wife over the woman who got him his job. Lucy Watts who, according to Mom, had recently joined Althea’s gym and started working out on a punching bag.

“Excuse me,” I murmured to Mrs. Graves and Rosemary. “Nature calls.”

“Hey, my bread isn’t that bad,” someone laughed and I smiled and waved as though not feeling ill about what I had to do.

I went into the empty restroom and got out my phone.

“Boston?” the Chief answered immediately.

“Chief, the murder weapon, it came from the farrier’s booth, right?”

“Yes. At least an iron is missing.”

“And everything in there is covered with a light coating of soot. Which might leave traces, even in you washed after handling it.”

“Yes. What have you found?”

“Councilwoman Watts, short, Andrews’ ex-lover, left handed, nursing a left arm injury and facial contusion, and looking white as a sheet. She’s in the exhibition hall where the baking competition is going on."

“We’ll be there— and we’ll be discrete,” he assured me before I could suggest it.

“Thanks,” I said, but was talking to air.

I had almost reached the door when Althea rushed in and made a beeline for a stall.

“Hi, Althea. Gotta go.”

“Chloe, wait!”

I needed to leave, but what if she were sick or there was something wrong with the baby?

“Are you okay?” I asked, still edging toward the door.

“Yes, but I wanted you to know that I’m going to be a mom so you can start planning my baby shower.”

“Um— I gathered that. Congratulations.” Damn. “I’d love to throw you a shower. But I gotta get back to the judging now.” And the arrest.

“I’ve written a poem. It’s called To The Being In My Tummy.”

“Awesome— can’t wait to hear it.” Oh how I lied. “We’ll get together soon and talk. Bye now.”

And I dove for the door. The Chief was faster than I was and he and Lawrence Bryce were already escorting Lucy Watts from the hall. Her face was a picture of despair and guilt.

I was right about who had killed Andrews and it didn’t make me one bit happy.

Chapter 6

We celebrated Blue’s birthday on Sunday with a late afternoon picnic at Courthouse Park. The old manual pump fire truck was there, spraying both kids and dogs who wanted to get wet. I ate watermelon and little else, but Blue had her favorite bologna and wheat bread sandwich. She was adored by the child masses, soaking wet and in heaven.

I was feeling a little better, too, though I wasn’t looking forward to arranging a baby shower for Althea— or hearing her poem. I had already done a poetry-shower combo when she got married and none of my friends had forgiven me for dragging them to the world’s most excruciating party. I would have to think of some way to lure people into coming. Or else invite people who hadn’t heard about the last one.

“I’ve been saving some good news for when you were less busy,” Alex said, stretching out his legs on our car blanket and enjoying the fading sun.

“Now would be a good time,” I said, but already knew what he was going to say. I had seen the postcard from Nevada on the table night before.

“You know, don’t you?” he accused.

“Yes. And it will be great to see Elvis again.”

“Hm. Okay, smarty-pants, but there’s more.”

“What?” I love surprises of a non-homicidal nature.

“Hawaii is planning a visit too. He’ll be here next week.”

“That’s great,” I said. The Federal Marshall had turned out to be a fun guy. “At least, he isn’t here officially is he?” I asked.

“No. Well…” Alex began to frown. “You know, he didn’t say.”

“It’s probably just a vacation. He said he wanted to come see Hope Falls.”

“Yeah, probably,” Alex frown faded. “Who wouldn’t want to see Hope Falls?”

“You know, maybe I’ll invite the Elvises to Althea’s baby shower,” I said, inspired. “None of them know about the last one.”

Alex started laughing.

Recipes

I talked to the ladies at the fair and Mr. Jackman, and they agreed that I can share their recipes with you.

Ingredients for winning Butterscotch Whisky Cake

2 cups cake flour

1 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup butter, softened

1 cup sugar

3 large eggs, room temperature

2 teaspoons vanilla

3/4 cup milk

(or substitute 1 box of yellow cake mix which is easier)

1 (3.4 ounce) package instant vanilla pudding mix

If you are using a box cake mix then you will need:

2 additional eggs

If you are making this from scratch skip the additional eggs and continue with:

1/2 cup whiskey

3/4 cup butter, cut into pieces

1 (11 ounce) package butterscotch chips

1 cup chopped pecans

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease and lightly flour two 9 inch rounds.

In a large bowl, mix together dry ingredients (or cake mix) and pudding mix. Make a well in the center and pour in eggs, milk, whiskey and butter. Beat on low speed or by hand until blended. Scrape bowl, and beat 4 minutes on medium speed or by hand until smooth. Reserve a 1/4 cup each of the butterscotch chips and pecans for the top of the cake. Stir in the remaining butterscotch chips and pecans into the batter. Pour batter into prepared pan and sprinkle with remaining chips and nuts.

Pour batter into prepared pans. Bake in the preheated oven for 50 to 60 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Allow to cool and sprinkle with 1/4 cup whisky.

HOLY ROLLERS— winning cookie recipe

Ingredients:

1/2 stick butter

5 tbsp honey

2 tbsp dates, stones removed, chopped

2 tbsp pistachios,  shells removed

2 sheets ready-made phyllo dough

Pinch of cardamom, cinnamon and ginger

Preheat oven to 350*. Heat butter, honey and spice until simmering and smooth (about five minutes). Stir in dates and pistachios and coat evenly. Lay out phyllo on floured towel, spread mixture evenly over dough and then roll carefully. Cut into 3/4 inch thick rounds and place on cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. Bake 6-8 minutes or until golden. Let cool and dust with powdered sugar.

Amaretto Pecan Pie filling

¼ C butter

¾ C sugar, 1 tsp vanilla, 2 T flour

3 eggs

½ C amaretto

½ C corn syrup

¾ C evaporated milk

1 C pecans (I like whole but pieces will do)

Make pie crust (or cheat and get pre-made deep-dish crust in frozen food section) Preheat oven to 400*. Cream butter, sugar vanilla and flour. Add eggs one at a time. Stir in amaretto, corn syrup and evaporated milk and pecans. Pour into pie shell (there will be extra if you use small shell. Bake at 400* for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 325* and bake 40 minutes more.

Medieval Herb Seed Bread

2 pkgs. yeast

2 c. warm water

6 eggs

1 1/4 tsp. salt

6 tbsp. oil

1 tbsp. black sesame seeds

1 tbsp. sunflower seeds

1 1/2 tsp. rosemary

2/3 c. parsley

8 c. flour (4 white and 4 wheat)

1 egg for top

Dissolve yeast in water. Combine eggs, salt, oil, herbs, seeds and 3 cups flour. Add yeast and mix well. Add more flour to make dough and knead on floured board for 10 minutes. Place in greased bowl and cover. Let rise for 1 1/2 hours in warm place. Shape into two loaves on cookie sheet. Cover loosely and let rise for 45 minutes. Brush with egg and bake for 50 minutes at 375 degrees.

Ode to the Punk Who Stole My TV Set

by Althea Gordon

Oh woe is me who sits on my sofa and stares

At an empty wall where my TV used to be

How wrong and fickle to steal one’s VCR

And even take my sandwich from the fridge

Including the pickle

To not first eject my favorite episode of Magnum P.I.

To not take the mayo behind the sandwich that had gone bad

And other things of this kin

Your mother raised you wrong

Your mother raised you wrong

Oh how I search for one whose honor can be trusted

Those who will not leave you in a lurch

Not even at church

Stuck in your perch

Because you broke the heel on your shoe

Because you broke the heel on your shoe

Batter Up!

Everyone was standing in place at the morning orientation.  The Chief was talking with us about something or other, giving us a real pep talk.  I wasn’t paying much attention since I was intent on a conversation I was having with Jeffrey and generally lost in the summer doldrums.

“No, really?” I said to Jeffrey, who’d suddenly gone silent.

“Everyone not interested in the position, take a seat,” I thought I heard the Chief say.

All I know is that everyone in the room, including Jeffrey, suddenly took their seat.  This left me the only one standing. This hadn’t happened since the last time I played musical chairs.

“Alright, Boston,” the Chief said, “you’ve won the position by a unanimous decision.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I wasn’t listening,” I confessed.

The Chief wasn’t listening either.  In fact, he was already leaving the room.  I looked to Jeffrey for help and he returned a sympathetic smile.

“What have I gotten myself into?”

“Didn’t you hear the Chief call for volunteers to organize and coach the precinct softball team this year?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yep, you’ll be coaching alongside the new head coach, Dale Gordon.”

“Congratulations, Boston,” said Eddie Rounds of Traffic Services, slapping me on the back and chuckling as he passed.

“Softball? Oh Lord, what have I gotten myself into?”

I strode briskly to the Chief’s office and knocked on his door, which was already closed.

“Come in, Boston,” was the reply after the second barrage of knocks.

“Sir, I have to talk with you urgently about the precinct softball team.  You see, I wasn’t paying attention while you were speaking and didn’t hear your call for volunteers.”

“All the more reason for me to be grateful to you for jumping in and helping out, Boston.  That was big of you.”

“It was a mistake.” Sometimes you have to be blunt.

“Some might call it a mistake while others would refer to it as divine intervention.”

“I didn’t mean to be the last one standing.”

“And yet you were.”

“But, Chief, I don’t know the first thing about softball.”

“I bet you know more than you think.  Don’t worry, you’ll do fine. It builds character.”

“But, sir, my character is fine. And I don’t want to coach the precinct softball team this year.”

“Nobody wants to coach the softball team, Boston.  Hell, I’ve got to twist arms to get anybody to play on the team.  That’s why I’m glad you volunteered to coach it.  I owe you one, Boston,” he said with a wink.

Great, so the Chief owed me another one. So far that hadn’t translated into anything useful.

I suspected the Chief also wanted to pat me on the ass like all the jocks do to one another, only in my case he refrained.  I was glad he refrained so that I could refrain from karate chopping him in the throat.  Anyway, the conversation looked to be over.  I turned to go but was stopped by the Chief calling to me.

“Oh, and Boston.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have a good practice tonight.”

I eventually left his office but didn’t make it far before I had to lean up against a wall and take several deep breaths to keep from passing out.

Softball? Dale Gordon? Good Lord, what had I gotten myself into?

*  *  *

“Dad.”

“Chloe?  What are you doing here?”

I had abandoned my regular patrol route and tracked Dad and his knife sharpening van to a local neighborhood in which he’d set up shop, most likely without a business permit— hey, since I became a cop I maintain a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ relationship with friends and family.  On the way to my dad’s van, I stopped by Norm’s Sports Emporium and picked up a softball, mitt, and bat.  I was too embarrassed to ask at the store, so now all I needed was for someone to tell me what to do with these things.

“Dad, I need for you to teach me everything you know about softball before six tonight.”

“Chloe, can’t you see that I’m busy making a living?  I mean, it’s nice that you were able to take the afternoon off to talk softball with your old man, but maybe the next time you should phone ahead. Besides, it would take more than a few hours.”

“I was afraid you might say that,” I confessed.

I slumped down to take a seat in one of his empty customer chairs and began to scratch Blue behind the ears.  Dad insisted on hauling these cumbersome chairs around with him wherever he went, though customers rarely used them to wait while he worked.  I took advantage of one of them now.  The chair was exceedingly comfortable.  I barely noticed as I started to cry.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Dad said without diverting his attention from sharpening a set of shears.

“I made a terrible mistake and now I need to know everything there is to know about softball or I’ll make a total fool of myself come six o’clock this evening.”

“Oh, is that all,” Dad said, lightly.  “Then why don’t you go ask them to teach you?”

I followed Dad’s gesture and saw a group of boys headed my way carrying mitts and bats.  It was only then that I noticed the crude baseball diamond painted on the street before me.  Dad’s cart was parked, whether unintentionally or on purpose, directly behind the first base line.

This seemed like a great idea.

“Hi, boys.  Mind if I play?” I said walking up to the group of them with Blue by my side.

The group stopped.  They considered me, silently.  I looked up into the eyes of the tallest kid.  I suspected they had no idea I was an adult, instead thinking I was a new girl in town.  Half of them turned their backs on me so that they could form a crude circle.  I was now the subject of their powwow.  Voices were raised.  The discussion went on for some time.  Then the group broke up and the largest kid, the one who looked to be in charge, spoke for the rest of them.

“Sure, you can play,” he said.  “After all, we don’t have the right number of people to make even sides,” he added, apparently feeling the need to voice strong justification for such a chancy decision.

All in the extended group of boys nodded their heads in agreement and then continued to walk to the diamond, completely oblivious to me.  Several of them patted Blue on the head, so Blue walked away with them.  I was left to bring up the rear.

The game got underway quickly enough with a minimum of administrative details, which everyone except me appeared to be clued in on.  The two captains played a game using the bat between them until one of them grabbed the very end of the thing without dropping it.  After that, sides were divvied up, and I was soon the last person chosen.  My position: right field.  Blue joined me.  I couldn’t help but suspect that right field must be a very unimportant position.  And I was right.

But, at the same time, I didn’t care, because I was on the team.  I was included-- for the first time in my life.  I was on cloud nine.

A lot happened during the next two hours.  We ‘traded sides’ several times, and I even got a couple of ‘at bats’ before my team voted to replace me with a pinch hitter, someone to bat for me.  During my time left defending home plate from the dreaded slow pitch, I did little more than swat at the ball in a frenzy of activity as the ball flew unmolested across the center of the plate.  At somewhere around halftime, Dad joined the game, on our side.  That made all the difference and we ended up winning the game easily.

By the way, nothing was ever hit to me in right field, as I suspected would be the case.

By the end of the game, I was both exhausted and exhilarated.  Although I had undoubtedly developed a passion for the game, I still knew very little about how to play it; you know, the rules and such.  I was determined to spend the remainder of the limited time available to me this afternoon doing research at the library on this most American of pastimes.

*  *  *

I began with Babe Ruth, because I knew the name though I had no idea who he was.  Seven Hundred and fourteen home runs in a lifetime with a three hundred and forty-two batting average.  That meant that one out of three times up at bat he got a hit.  Impressive.  From him I learned about his team, the New York Yankees, and thus established the Yanks as my home team as well, though I’d never been to New York in my life.

At first, the simple symmetry of the diamond was all it took to get me excited and lure me in.  Then there were the men who played the game.  I wanted more.  I wanted statistics, and so I digested the most important of them with glee.  Team and player averages, ERAs, and RBIs were run through ANALYTICO to become part of my psyche.  I was fast becoming a baseball aficionado.

Henry “Hank” Aaron, Joe DiMaggio, and Willie Mays.  The Yankees, the Sox, the Giants.  Bunts, triple plays, and pop flies.  I devoured everything I could find in the Hope Falls Public Library on the subject of baseball and baseball players.  I learned the positions and the rules, the strategies of the big league managers.  I even learned that we had a more-or-less local team, the Mariners.  The last book I skimmed through provided coaching advice: exercises to put a team through during practice.  I checked this book out of the library with every intention of referencing it during practice that evening.

On the way to the baseball field, I stopped by Norm’s Sports Emporium again to get a jersey and a full set of baseball gear.  By the time I left the store, I was wearing cleats, that I had to figure out how to peddle my bike in, and looking through the bars of a catcher’s mask.  I tentatively considered the possibility that I may have over done it with the purchases.  I also realized I was late for practice.

*  *  *

“You’re late, Boston!” Dale Gordon bellowed as I trotted out onto the field lugging my recently purchased equipment.

I was carrying bags with balls and bats and extra mitts.  The softballs were bigger than regular baseballs and came in white and neon green.  The bats were both wood and aluminum.  I dragged accessories behind me such as a small broom for use in dusting off home plate and kneepads should I need to crawl around the field.  I was ready for anything, except…  I wasn’t ready for Dale Gordon. The man was my personal Nemesis.

“Boston, what is all of this crap you’re dragging onto my playing field?” the odious one wanted to know.

“Equipment,” I explained.

“Well, stack it over there with the rest of the equipment.”

Gordon pointed and I followed his direction to find all the equipment one could ever need, nicely organized in the dugout.  I dropped my additional supplies in a messy pile by the rest.

“Tell you what, Boston.  I’m going to make you my equipment manager.  Now, clean up this mess,” Gordon ordered in passing.

You might have thought that I’d be miffed, and to some degree, I guess I was.  But at the same time, I was delighted to be on a playing field preparing for practice.  So, I organized my equipment, reveling in the sound of the crack of the bat and the slap of the ball entering the cup of a mitt.  As I listened, I slipped on my new mitt and enjoyed the feel of the stiff leather as I flexed the thing in an attempt to work it in.  As it got darker, large spotlights came on to light the field.  The air became cool and the colors crisp.

I opened a fresh pack of sugarless gum, since I don’t chew tobacco, and placed several sticks in my mouth.  They were dry, but soon I had worked up a huge wad.  I had to spit the gum out when I nearly choked on it.  After I got rid of the gum, I was able to greet the other players and exchange pleasantries without them asking me what I was trying to say.

The members of the precinct team varied in size, shape, and dress.  Many wore sweats while some wore baseball jerseys.  I was the only one wearing cleats.  I made a point to return the cleats tomorrow.  Many of the players were out of shape— the danger of a desk job.

As I watched the players warm up, I made a mental note of who had gotten roped into playing.  The Traffic and Parking Division seemed to be well represented.  Traffic Services was in full force in the form of Eddie Rounds and Keith Regan who stood in the infield tossing a ball back and forth.  Most of the officers from the Enforcement Division were also in attendance.  I smiled when I saw Jeffrey come loping across the field to join me.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who couldn’t avoid volunteering,” I boasted as Jeffrey began helping me organize the bats by size.

“Just doing my duty,” Jeffrey replied with a smile. He was a good friend. I knew he was only there to look after me.

“Alright, everyone, gather round,” Gordon called out from in front of the dugout.

The players dutifully formed a circle around the coach and awaited instructions.  Those instructions were simple and sweet and didn’t take long to convey.

“Okay.  Let’s choose up sides and play ball.”

The group seemed ready to break when I tentatively raised my hand to interrupt.

“Yeah, Boston.  What do you want?”

“Where’s the pep talk?”

“The what?”

“Aren’t you going to provide a motivational speech brimming with encouragement and wishing us a good season?”

Everyone stared at me, dumbfounded.

“Alright, does anyone else have a question before we start?”

Again, I raised my hand.

“What is it now, Boston?”

“Perhaps we should conclude our warm-up by running a lap around the field.”

This actually drew snickers from the other players.

“Yeah, good idea.  You do that, Boston,” Gordon said with a leer.  “Okay, are there any questions from anyone other than Boston?”

Eddie Rounds raised his hand.

“Yeah, what do you want, Eddie?”

“I heard there was supposed to be a keg here tonight.  So, where’s the keg?”

“At games only, Eddie.  Not practice.  Sheesh.”

While the rest of the team chose sides, I was the only one to take a lap around the field.  Well, that’s not quite true.  Blue trotted along with me.

When I got back, I found out that I had been chosen last, again, and that I was to be on Dale Gordon’s team.  I was placed in right field and that was that.  I watched the rest of the game from a distance having been immediately substituted at bat with a pinch hitter and therefore having little to do.  No one hit the ball to right field during the game.  Blue and I didn’t care.  In fact, the only difference between practice and a real game seemed to be that no one kept score.  That and there’s no keg.

As I learned to do from the books, I called “Hey Batter,” repeatedly until I was asked to stop by our infielders who found the constant chatter annoying.

After the game, I found out what it meant to be Equipment Manager.  It meant you have to show up early and stay late at practice and games so that you can lug the equipment in and out of Gordon’s truck.

It was late when I got home from practice.  I barely managed to feed Blue and eat a granola bar before falling dead asleep on my bed with the TV set on.

*  *  *

The next day I showed up at the ball field, Blue glued to my hip, right after work so I’d be early for practice; only there was another team on the field.  And they were really good.  Blue and I watched in awe the precision with which the strangers executed their drills.  Their coach barked orders at the team as they dashed between bases, fielded grounders, and threw to first.  All the while someone was at home plate hitting fly balls to the outfielders.  Their moves were perfectly orchestrated and carried out with grace.

The intruders were dressed in matching team uniforms, their shirts proclaiming them to be from the Hope Falls Sanitation Department.  I had heard of these guys.  They were the best, winning the league championship every year.  I seemed to remember hearing that the police precinct team had yet to beat them.  I knew this was the kind of statistic that must irritate Gordon to no end.

Walking up behind the dugout, I found Gordon hanging onto the fence with his fingers laced through the wires watching the demonstration.  He was chomping on a toothpick and looking unhappy.

“They’re good, aren’t they?” I commented.

“The best,” Gordon acknowledged dreamily before he recognized who he was talking to.  “Boston, you’re late,” he then snapped.

“I am not,” I insisted.

“I was here before you, that makes you late,” he said, jabbing a finger at my chest.  “I have half a mind to take your equipment manager responsibilities away from you.”

I decided to let it go.  It was obvious that Gordon was upset about having another team on his field.  He paced back and forth a time or two, and then he crossed his arms and glared out onto the diamond, obviously unhappy.

“Come on, Thompson,” Gordon finally called.  “Your time is up.  It’s time to turn the field over to the professionals.”

“The professional greens keepers you mean,” a blond, Adonis of a man ran over to the fence to reply.

“Ha, ha.  Very funny.  Now, clear the field.”

“Suppose we’re not ready?”

“Suppose I don’t care?”

“Suppose I call you a whiner?”

“Suppose I call you a high-priced garbage man?”

This clearly pressed one of Thompson’s buttons.

“Suppose we play you for the field?” he said.

Though I had never encountered the phrase, I immediately recognized these as fighting words.  The blond Adonis had challenged Gordon to play a game to see which team won the right to the playing field.  I knew that no one in his right mind would accept such a challenge from such a team; so naturally, I laughed at the offer.

“Alright, you’re on,” Gordon replied.

Thompson smiled and turned to run back out onto the diamond and talk with his assistant coaches.  When they heard the news, there was an audible cheer.  Gordon continued to stand with his arms crossed grinding his teeth on a toothpick.  It looked as if he was having a waking fantasy of stomping the other team into the dust of the infield.

“Well, what are you doing, Boston?” he said, suddenly coming back to reality.  “Get the equipment out of the truck and set it up in the visitor’s dugout.”

As I stacked equipment, our team began to arrive.  Each member of the team responded with the same shock and dismay at hearing from Gordon that we would be playing the sanitation workers.  Regardless, they each soon recovered and donned their game faces in preparation for the big game.

As the home team, the sanitation workers got the first at bat.  And that proved to pretty much be the status quo for the afternoon.  Their team accidentally hit a pop fly to provide their first out.  The score was already thirty-five to nothing.  The sanitation workers had hit three singles, twelve doubles, nine triples, and eleven home runs.  All with only one out.  The second out came with a squeeze play at second.  Again, one of their players had made a mistake or we would never have gotten that second out.  Two more runs scored during the play.  The player who made the error was chewed out roundly by every one of the opposing coaches and his teammates as well.

The score was already eighty to nothing in the first inning by the time of the second out and Gordon had already yelled himself hoarse.  I thought he was going to split a vein in his neck he was yelling so hard.  It was actually kind of funny to watch him try so hard to garner discipline amongst a team for which he had spent no time establishing channels of discipline.  The police department played a disorganized, inept, and abysmal game.  Meanwhile, the garbage men were brilliant.

“Hey, Gordon.  I bet we score one-hundred points before you make the last out of the inning,” Thompson challenged from the far dugout.

“How much?” Gordon wanted to know.

“One-hundred dollars.”

“Make it a thousand,” Gordon challenged.

This took the police precinct team by surprise.  They all knew from experience that Gordon didn’t have that kind of money in the bank.  That meant they would all be chipping in when the team lost the bet.  However, before they could gather to challenge the bet, Thompson had agreed.

“You’re on, Gordon.  One-thousand dollars says we score one-hundred points or more before you get the last out of the inning.”

“Done!”

Now the pressure was on, and I felt it.  I began to actually feel sweat in my armpits, something I’d hardly ever felt before.  I worked to keep Blue from distracting me for pets as I tried to concentrate on the game.  And good thing I did; otherwise, I might have missed the most important play of my life.

The score was ninety-nine to nothing when a particularly brutish looking Neanderthal stepped up to home plate.  Our pitcher looked scared.  I was too.  Our pitcher tried a fastball just catching the outside of the plate.  This produced a swing and a miss.  Two more strikes and the behemoth would be out.  The second pitch produced a high fly ball out of bounds.  Just one more strike and we would win the bet.

By then, I already knew what was going to happen.  I tried to mentally prepare myself, but it was no good.  Time slowed down during the next pitch.  The ball left the pitcher’s hand, and then the batter swung.  I could clearly hear the crack of the bat against the ball, and then the ball was gone.  I saw the ball flying through the air toward me in right field.  I tried to position myself under it.  My teammates yelled, but I didn’t hear what they said.  I could see that the ball was going over my head.  I stumbled backward as I lifted my mitt into the air.  I fell.  When I rolled to get back up, I found that the ball was in my mitt.

My team went crazy.  Of course, I had just won a one-thousand dollar bet for them.  That’s enough to make anyone go crazy.  But this was a special kind of crazy that only America’s game can elicit.  My fellow players gathered around me.  Rather than having to stand on my own, I was lifted off the field and carried to the dugout.  We had produced the final out and now it was our turn at bat.  Not only that, but we had just won a cool thousand dollars in the process.

We all gathered in the dugout and congratulated one another on the play.  I was so happy I couldn’t stop from grinning.  I refused to let go of the ball.  I was determined to store the thing in a curio cabinet back home after I’d had everyone sign it, losers and winners alike.

Now all we had to do was score one-hundred runs to take the lead.

Officer Lawrence Bryce was our leadoff batter.  It didn’t take long to catch him swinging at a series of balls that were low and outside.  It looked as if the pitcher was toying with him by the time he garnered the third strike.  And that was out number one.  Our second at bat, Eddie Rounds, didn’t fare much better, flying out on the second pitch.  I was beginning to feel despair when I heard the coach call my name.

“Boston.  You’re up.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.  Gordon was actually telling me to take my place at bat.  The rest of the team groaned at the mere thought, but Gordon stood adamant at the entrance to the dugout, radiating confidence in his decision.

I stood on wobbly legs.  Someone slipped a batting helmet onto my head.  It was three sizes too big and the brim tended to fall down over my eyes.  I walked out to the batter’s box.  There I wiggled the bat around in front of me by way of warming up.

“Hey, Boston.  Swing the bat from right to left, don’t wiggle it up and down.”

That seemed like sound advice, so I switched to practice swings, but they felt awkward and I almost fell down a time or two.  I soon went back to wiggling the bat.

I stepped up to the plate.  The pitcher waved in the outfield.  This meant that he had everyone on his team move forward knowing that if there was going to be a hit it was more than likely going to be a bunt.  I wiggled the bat.  Thompson, the pitcher, laughed.  He pitched a slow, easy one to me.  I closed my eyes, wiggled the bat, and missed.

“Hey, Gordon.  Double or nothing says you don’t get a hit before the inning is out,” Thompson called.

The odds of me hitting the ball let alone getting on base were slim.  Everyone knew it, yet there was a collective intake of breath as everyone waited to see what Gordon had to say.  I must admit, it was his finest moment.

“We accept,” he said.

Our team groaned, several of them swiping off their hats and throwing them into the sand in the dugout.  I felt bad for them.  I also could have used the extra money we would have won.  Meanwhile, the other team celebrated.

I stepped up to the plate and closed my eyes.

“Pinch hitter,” Gordon called before things got out of hand.

I couldn’t believe my luck.  Gordon was calling for someone to bat in my place.  It wouldn’t be me after all who lost the bet to the sanitation workers.  But who could it be that would be willing to take on such a burden.

Looking back to the dugout, I could see that my team was standing in a ring clapping.  When that circle parted, none other than Dale Gordon emerged, trotting out to the plate wearing a batter’s helmet, that fit, and wielding a bat.  He looked like the mighty Babe Ruth himself stepping out to the plate.  At least he was certainly fat enough.  I walked back to the dugout dragging my bat on the ground behind me.  I felt a swat on my ass as Gordon passed.  I was too stunned to react.

The rest was, as they say, history.  Or more like it was much lauded lore the way they told the story around the station afterward.  Well, this is what really happened.

It all began when Gordon stepped into the batter’s box.  He didn’t stay there long before he backed out.  He then lifted his arm and pointed high into left field, calling his shot.  I couldn’t believe it.  Just as Babe Ruth had done at Wrigley Field during the now infamous game three of the 1932 World Series, Gordon was signaling that he was about to hit a home run over the left field fence.

After a few practice swings, Gordon stepped back into the batter’s box.  Thompson sized up his opponent and scowled, apparently finding him wanting.  He then entered his windup and delivered a blistering fastball straight at Gordon’s head.  Gordon was barely able to duck out of the way before the pitch hit him.

Our team was the first to respond by emptying the dugout.  The opposing team ran to the infield to protect their pitcher.  There was a tussle.  Heated words were exchanged.  I stayed behind scratching Blue behind the ears and let the boys sort things out.  Eventually, cooler heads prevailed and the players were forced back to their positions.

By now the opponent’s strategy was clear.  If they were to walk Gordon, he wouldn’t have a chance to get a hit.  The team could therefore cherry-pick the player they’d like to pitch to, probably me, by walking everyone else.  This was cheap-shot play and everyone knew it.  Thompson smiled when he stepped back onto the pitcher’s mound.

“What’s the matter Thompson?  Only willing to throw a ball across the plate if there’s a girl at bat?” Gordon taunted.

Thompson looked to be ignoring him.  But apparently he wasn’t.

Again, Gordon stepped out of the batter’s box and pointed high to left field.  Thompson waited for him to step back up to the plate.  He then sent another smoking fastball his way; only this one flew straight across the center of the plate.  Gordon was too shocked to even swing.  It looked as if he was going to get his chance at bat after all.

Strike one.

The action was becoming tedious the third time that Gordon pointed to left field.  However, it soon seemed less obnoxious when Thompson pitched another ball across the plate and Gordon got a piece of it, sending this one deep into left field.  Our team began to scream while the opposing team stood and watched the ball sail over their heads.  The ball continued to pull left until it eventually flew out of bounds, foul, well beyond the distance required for a home run.

Strike two.

Our team cheered and screamed the next time Gordon pointed.  Thompson looked utterly disgusted by Gordon’s shenanigans.  But you could also tell that his next pitch was going to be across the center of the plate.

And it was.

Gordon swung a mighty swing and in the process, stumbled and fell to the ground.  The bat connected with the ball and sent it flying high into left field.  Only, this time, it wasn’t pulling toward the foul ball line like the previous hit.  This one would stay in bounds.  And it was headed for the homerun fence.

Gordon didn’t bother getting up.  Instead, he lay in the dirt watching the ball fly through the night lighted sky.  Thompson watched for a time and then leaned forward, hands on his thighs, to hang his head in disgust.  The other team yelled and pointed.  I was nearly deafened by the shouting of my own teammates.  I screamed so loud I started to cough.  Blue licked my face.

The opposing team’s left fielder ran back toward the fence, but it appeared he would be too late.  The ball continued to fly in a high, majestic arc.  The fielder threw his gloved hand into the air as he collided with the homerun fence.

He caught the ball.

Gordon was out.  We had just lost the bet.  While my team let loose an agonized groan, our opponents started to celebrate.

I thought that would be the end of it, but then to my surprise I was lifted off my feet onto a pair of shoulders.  Gordon was also held aloft.  Our opponents were forced to watch as my team did a victory lap around the bases with their two heroes atop their shoulders.

Later, after packing up the equipment, I was walking Blue to my tricycle when I heard a voice from behind.

“Hey, Boston.”

It was Gordon.

“Yeah?”

“You were sharp out there tonight.”

To say I was flabbergasted by a compliment coming from Gordon is an understatement.  I almost fell over my own feet.

“You too,” I said

I was even more flabbergasted by my reply.

“Yeah, I was, wasn’t I,” he acknowledged boorishly.

We shared a brief smile before Gordon assumed his usual stony expression and walked away.  I went back to pretending he didn’t exist.  We’ve maintained the same posture toward each other ever since.

In Search of Christmas

Colored lights and candy canes, mistletoe and sleigh rides.  Eggnog, snow, and caroling.  Family and friends.  Christmas has always been a special season for me— one that I look forward to the whole year round.  It’s the time of year that gets my batteries recharged for the coming assault of the New Year.  However, in at least one respect, Christmas has always been a bit of a disappointment.  And oddly enough, though I love presents, it’s the gift giving aspect of the holiday that has always led to that disappointment.

You see, ever since I was a very young child, I’ve always known what people are going to get me.  Often, the gifts are wonderful, but much of the pleasure in receiving a gift— or so I’ve always believed— is in the anticipation.  On that account, I’ve always been left flat.

Of course, I pretend to be surprised when I open my gifts, and it works most of the time.  Dad knows it’s an act, but I doubt Mom does.  Alex and the Chief aren’t fooled either.  It amuses the Chief.  It frustrates Alex.

Early on Dad had taken to hiding gifts from me— not because I peeked (why peek when I already knew what was in the box?) but because I liked searching for things, and he liked trying to stump me.  I still recall the year that he hid my presents in the air space beneath the furnace.  I had figured out his top secret hiding place from the dust on his clothes (changing the filter wasn’t Dad’s favorite job and he often got dirty in the garage, but never dusty) but also because Mom complained about how the heater wasn’t working right and the air vent was making a funny noise.  A quick look through the grill with a flashlight had confirmed my guess.  I didn’t bother opening the hatch and lifting the filter.  It would get me dirty, and I already knew that the red box held roller skates and the striped one was a new coat— white faux fur.  Mom had dog-eared the corner of the catalogue she ordered it from.  Later she rubbed it straight, but the mark was still there.

This year, the where of my presents wasn’t the problem.  I knew exactly where my presents were.  They were right inside the connecting doorway that led to Alex’s office.  He hadn’t even bothered to hide the bags that held the boxes.  He was trusting upon my honor not to peek.  And of course I wouldn’t, but I still felt a bit frustrated and a little like I was being goaded on by those unknown packages sitting only one room away. An unknown gift was what I always hoped for, so why was I frustrated?

I knew certain things from standing in the doorway, talking to Alex about what he wanted to have for lunch.  I never stared directly at the bags, but I have excellent peripheral vision and got a clear look all the same.

The bags were brown, like those from a grocer, but without any writing on them.  The packages inside were all wrapped in dull gold paper that was not standard gift-wrap at any of the shops in town— okay, I had looked into the matter on my lunch hour on Friday— and there was no sign of any wrapping paper in the house.  Alex might have taken the gifts to his parent’s and wrapped the presents there, but I didn’t think so.  He wasn’t being exceedingly secretive.  If he had bought paper, he would have wrapped the gifts at home.

That meant they had arrived gift-wrapped, sometime between Wednesday morning and Friday morning.  That didn’t narrow the field much.  The mailman, UPS, and Fed Ex all delivered before four in our neighborhood.

Since I was alone, I took what little I knew and ran it through the ANALYTICO processor in my mind.  Several pieces of data were immediately TAGGED and STORED: “custom gold wrapping”, delivered between 0800 hours Wednesday morning and 0800 hours Friday morning, by either “mailman”, “UPS”, or “Fed Ex”.  That wasn’t much information to go on, and the list of this year’s possible gifts reflected this fact.  The SOLUTION DOMAIN was currently too large to quantify— consider it “infinity”.  It was clear, I needed more data.

ANALYTICO OFF.

What else did I know?  There appeared to be three boxes inside the bags.  One was about the right size for a pair of boots, but a little too thick.  Another looked like it might hold a baseball bat, but stood so easily upright that I suspected that the contents were lighter.  And there was one that might have held a dress or a bathrobe, though it was not standard sized and pushed against the bag as though it weighed a lot.

I entered additional data into my ANALYTICO processor.  The first step, as always, was to identify, quantify, and qualify additional data points.  The NUMBER OF boxes EQUALS three.  The odds that boxes ARE related EQUALS 78 PERCENT.  ACCEPT AS TRUE.  The first box size EQUALS a boot box BUT thicker.  The second LIKE baseball bat BUT lighter.  The third LIKE bathrobe BUT heavier.

After storing the data, I processed the current data space using my ever evolving rule set and reduced the PROBLEM to several million possible “gifts” in the SOLUTION DOMAIN.  I was honing in.  I decided to SHUTDOWN ANALYTICO and see if there was anything I was missing in the real world. Not all answers are found within.

Alex and I had a pleasant lunch together.  However, I had a hard time enjoying it because I was constantly being distracted by thoughts of my gifts.  Short of asking a barrage of obvious, probing questions, I tried to gather additional information from Alex but failed.

That night, before falling asleep, I let my mind wander across the eclectic SOLUTION DOMAIN that represented my Christmas present opportunities.  Some possibilities I found myself hoping for while others I spurned.  Tomorrow my efforts would need to be redoubled if I was to crack this case.

*  *  *

Snow was falling, cider was on the stove, and Alex would be home soon.  It had been a long, cold day and I should have been thinking about fixing dinner.  Instead, I decided that I needed to empty the wastepaper baskets and fast.  I started in the bathroom and worked my way through the duplex, stopping at last just outside Alex’s office.  Normally, I would have entered without any hesitation, but guilt was heavy on my mind.  I let my immature curiosity and adult responsibility grapple.  No great surprise: curiosity won.

I did not sort through his trash, but while the paper was slowly sliding out of the basket and into a trash bag, I did happen to notice a customs label.  It was wet, the writing under “Contents” indecipherable, but the label was clearly from Italy.

Italy.  What was Italy known for?  Leather.  Food.  Um….  I could look this up on the computer, but wouldn’t.  That would be breaking the rules.  If I could figure this out with the knowledge I had on hand, that was fine.  That made it fair.  Not snooping.  Unless I got stuck, of course.

Wine?  Olive oil?  Opera?  No, none of those made any sense.

This caused my brow to furrow as I went to the kitchen to see about dinner.  But before I made it there I’d slipped back into ANALYTICO and lost all sense of time and space.

Enter data point: “Italy”.  The SOLUTION DOMAIN was suddenly and drastically reduced to a mere few hundred.  I browsed for a time through the SOLUTION DOMAIN.  But then I pulled up short.  My God, what was I doing?  Would I never be free from my own mental powers?  Did I even want to know the answer to this puzzle I pursued at all costs?  It seemed sometimes-

“Chloe? Is something wrong?” Alex asked, shrugging off his coat.

“Uh… no.”

ANALYTICO OFF.

That evening I worked extra hard on putting together a nice dinner.  I tried to SHUT the current PROBLEM out of my mind, but had to come to a COMPROMISE instead.  So, I promised myself that I would RUN one OR two investigatory forays the next day IF ONLY my mind would give ME the “evening off”.  Surprisingly, that worked— more-OR-less.  Fortunately, Alex loved a roaring fire and did everything under his power to help me forget everything but him for the remainder of the evening.

*  *  *

The week before Christmas, Alex and I had friends and work associates over to our place for a tree lighting ceremony.  Ten people accepted the invitation which made for quite a crowd in our small duplex.  Everyone was on their best behavior, even Althea, who was her pre-motherhood gregarious self, and Gordon, who tended to stand in the corner alone a lot, but at least didn’t pick any fights.

We gathered in the living room to exchange small talk and catch up on each other’s lives.  I distributed brimming mugs of yet another attempt at a homemade eggnog recipe to looks of derision.  Everyone accepted my offering, most likely out of courtesy rather than desire. My quest for an agreeable eggnog amused my friends and they knew that I tended to be dogged when I set out to prove something. This year, the secret ingredient was a Scottish liqueur called Stag’s Breath.

“So, what are you getting for Christmas this year, Chloe?” Mr. Jackman asked playfully, casting a conspiratorial wink Alex’s way.

I noticed that he was the only one in attendance generous enough to actually be drinking my eggnog.  That is because he is an excellent cook and maybe also curious if this beverage can be palatable. I was touched since the abstainers included Alex (who had been forced to try too many versions of the drink this last week).  What a wonderful friend, I mused, already feeling tipsy. I don’t drink much and feel it when I do.

“I don’t know, yet,” I replied, with the same conspiratorial playfulness.  “So far, I’ve been stymied in all efforts to unveil the secret.”

“Uh oh,” Mr. Jackman challenged to everyone’s delight. “Can it be that our Chloe will actually fail?”

“Hm. I do know what you’re getting me,” I added, confidently.

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“A book.”

“So?  I get you a book every year.  What kind of book?”

“Considering your tastes and the direction in which you’ve been trying to encourage my reading, I’d say it has to be a classic.”

“Ah, but which classic?” he gloated, and everyone laughed— everyone except me that is.

“Let’s see, it was ‘Pride and Prejudice’ last year.  Knowing your penchant for female authors and distain for repeating yourself, as well as one or two other things I was able to pick up, that I’m unwilling to divulge, I’d say it’s ‘Wuthering Heights’.”

Mr. Jackman didn’t respond verbally.  Instead a frown slowly replaced his smile.  He drained the rest of his eggnog in a single mighty quaff then lowered his eyes to consider the empty glass he now clasped in his lap.

“This is better than last year,” he muttered. “But still not great.”

“I’m sorry,” I offered, placing my hand on his arm and giving it a comforting squeeze.  “I didn’t think.”

Alex tried to erase the tension that had descended over the room by offering to refresh everyone’s drink.  He found no takers.  Meanwhile, I really was crushed to have disappointed Mr. Jackman, but he had challenged me.  And in public.  What was I supposed to do?

Soon, Mr. Jackman looked up to me with that old mischievous smile that told me everything was alright.

“If you play with fire, you must expect to get burned,” he announced.  “Now, how about a scotch, young man,” he asked of Alex.  “And why not make it a double at that.”

All within earshot eagerly piped in with requests for the same, willingly setting aside their full eggnog mugs.  I felt a little hurt, but understood.  I made a mental note that I would need to search for yet another eggnog recipe for next year.  Meanwhile, as two bottles of Alex’s prime, single malt scotch were consumed by the revelers, the gathering became a great deal more boisterous.

It took no time at all for us to decorate the tree.  Mr. Jackman was the one to place the angel one top, my favorite ornament from my youth, an ornament that Mom had given me as a Christmas present last year.  Of course, I suspected I was going to receive the angel as a gift when I saw that Mom had neglected to include it on her own tree.  Gordon became more talkative the more he drank and almost fell into the finished tree while telling a particular flamboyant story to Tara Lee, who looked like she was willing to jump out a window to get away from the odious one.

The last step was to arrange the presents under the tree.  I felt my pulse race when Alex brought my three, gold wrapped gifts out to be displayed.  Several of our guests commented on the beautiful wrapping job and teased me about what a loving man I had.  No one asked me if I knew what was inside the boxes.

The night concluded with the singing of a handful of Christmas carols while Alex played the violin. It was a family treasure that I had given him on our first Christmas.  I didn’t have any sheet music to pass out and few people knew all the words, so it was a bit of a mess, but we all had fun and it didn’t even sound that bad in the end.  Dale Gordon had to be driven home by Althea since he was too drunk to walk.

All the while, from out of the corner of my eye, I considered my presents and planned my strategy for finding out their contents before Christmas.

*  *  *

I couldn’t sleep.  I got up and made myself some tea.  I carried the mug into the living room and took a seat.

And there they sat, right in front of me, my presents.  There were no longer any paper bags to obscure them, their bright, gold wrapping was now on full display.  I sat in my favorite easy chair and considered them.  It didn’t take long before I decided that I needed to jump into action.

I knew that I didn’t have long before Alex found out that I was no longer in bed and came looking for me.  I also knew that if I was to make any loud noise it would bring him running.  So, I jumped into action quietly.

The first thing I did was lift the boxes and shake them with greater and greater vigor until I’d clearly heard the response, but it was equally clear that I’d done no damage.  None of the boxes rattled.  The thick shoebox sized package slid and thunked as if there was something that just fit in the box and was hard.  The long box made the same noise.  The clothing style box made a clothing style response, but there was a strange tapping sound. Maybe something with large buttons?

The next thing I snuck off to do was retrieve the old postage scale from the top shelf of an unused kitchen cabinet and weigh each present individually.  This would allow me to compare the presents with the weights of various potential candidates I’d found while browsing through stores on the WEB when I had been shopping for gifts earlier. I hadn’t gone to any Italian websites, nor had I looked through Alex’s browsing history on his portable. I was playing fair.

I ran all of this information through my ANALYTICO processor while petting Aphrodite.  The machine within my brain was starving for new and more useful information.  I’d identified, qualified, and quantified a generous amount of data in the past few days.  I felt the individual synapses of the neural network which was my very brain open and close producing a complex series of logic gates.  The ANALYTICO processor worked hard to produce an answer.  There were now 25 possible answers in the SOLUTION DOMAIN and my mind was growing weary.

I slipped back into bed and sorted through the SOLUTION DOMAIN finding it odd the list of gifts from which I was about to receive.  At the same time, I was beginning to feel uneasy regarding the abuse of my power over such a trivial matter.

*  *  *

The next day was Christmas cookie day.  Every year, a few days before Christmas, I take an afternoon off from work to bake and distribute cookies to my neighbors, friends, and family.  It had gotten to the point that the recipients of my wares enjoyed this tradition so much that they would actually lay in wait for the doorbell to ring.

Part of the tradition that made it such a joy each year was an ever more decadent collection of culinary sensations.  This year’s menu promised no stinkers.  From Triple Chocolate Bomber Bars through Hot Fudge Swirls, the most important ingredient, chocolate, was well represented.  There were Butter and Jam Thumbprints, light and flaky, Caramel Moon Pies, out of this world, and even simple almond cookies to say nothing for the elaborately decorated sugar cookies in abundance.  I packed a selection for each recipient which was generous beyond any reasonable expectation.

Having stopped by the grocer at noon on my way home from work, I entered my kitchen with armloads of groceries and Blue at my heels.  It required two more trips to get the rest of the bags.  This was one of the rare times I was glad that Dad had built me such a huge tricycle. I could carry Blue and groceries.

Soon, flour was spread liberally over every surface in the kitchen.  Cooking was going on.  I’m a fine baker, but when I bake, I sometimes make a mess.  I always clean up after myself, so I don’t see this as a serious inconvenience to anyone but me.  And I must admit to being impressed myself with my efforts most times when I’m done.  And besides, I love the smell of something scrumptious baking in the oven.

When I was done, my counters were covered with hundreds of cooling cookies.  Some I was forced to decorate before they were completely cool, but the results were stunning all the same.  With plenty of time left for delivery, I tied the finishing bow onto my last cookie basket.

I’d always used the process of distributing cookies as an opportunity to catch up on the year’s most important events. This year, I had every intention of also using this hobnobbing occasion to gather a much needed piece of information regarding recent deliveries to my home.  My best source for this information was Mrs. Greer.  She was always home, and from her front living room she watched the neighborhood like a hawk.  The one danger in questioning Mrs. Greer was the slim chance of rousing her latent, but raging, paranoia about strangers and postmen who might also be robbers.

I visited Mrs. Greer first being too anxious to wait any longer.  Ringing her doorbell, I waited on the porch for Mrs. Greer to appear.

“Merry Christmas,” I called when the door was finally opened a crack.

“Who is it,” a suspicious voice called from the shadows beyond the door.

This was silly, I thought.  Mrs. Greer had surely seen me the moment I left my house.  She knew full well who was at her door.  Regardless, I played along rather than responding with the words I wanted to say.

“It’s me, Mrs. Greer.  Chloe.  I’m here to deliver this year’s batch of Christmas cookies.”

“Oh, Chloe.  It’s you.  Thank goodness.  I was afraid it might be some reprobate come to do me harm.”

While I rolled my eyes, Mrs. Greer closed the door so that she could undo the chain keeping the door closed.  She then opened the door just wide enough to let me in, and just long enough to not hit me in the butt with the thing.  I stepped into her foyer and handed her cookie basket to her.

“Oh, Chloe.  You’ve outdone yourself this year,” Mrs. Greer noted, hold her basket up to admire it from several angles.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” I said, feeling self-conscious about my own obvious skill.

“Come on into the living room while I make a pot of tea.”

I took a seat and fidgeted while I waited.  When Mrs. Greer returned, it was with a pretty china tea service.  She poured the tea and began talking of her worries.

“Did you hear about Mr. Devlin?  His car was broken into last week.  They stole his laptop computer.  I tell you, none of us is safe anymore.”

“Actually, I did hear about Mr. Devlin.”  I was getting just a little frustrated at once more feeling the need to remind her that I’m an official representative of the law.  “He found his laptop the other day.  He accidentally left it in his laundry room when he went in to fold towels.”

“Oh.”  She sounded disappointed.

“Speaking of goings on in the neighborhood, did you by any chance notice any deliveries to my house between last Monday and Wednesday?”

“Why, what have you heard?” Mrs. Greer asked as if I’d just told her the Russians were coming.

“Nothing special.  I just have a delivery I’ve been trying to track.”

“Ah, I get it,” Mrs. Greer said knowingly.  “You’re trying to track down the source of a Christmas present that you haven’t identified yet.”

I was shocked at how perceptive the woman could be.  I also didn’t know how to respond.  After all, I’d been caught with my fingers in the cookie basket, so to speak.

“That’s alright dear,” Mrs. Greer said, placing a comforting hand on my arm.  “The delivery you’re interested in was made by Northwest Delivery Services last Wednesday morning.”

Well now, that was simple.

My mission complete, I was able to relax and, if not enjoy my talk with Mrs. Greer, at least tolerate it.  By the time I left her home I was feeling like there was someone behind every bush waiting to jump out and get me.  But I also now possessed the one piece of information I needed to complete my investigation.

Next stop: Northwest Delivery Services.

*  *  *

I sat on a bench at the bus stop out in front of the offices of Northwest Delivery Services holding a folded sheet of paper in my hand.  The paper contained a photocopy of the invoice for the packages that had been delivered to my house last Wednesday morning, packages that could only have been my three Christmas presents.

Rather than feeling ecstatic, I felt sad.  I held the square of paper in my hand and wondered what I should do.  Inside was the answer I’d been seeking, the ultimate data point would render the SOLUTION DOMAIN contents to a single element.  But something was wrong.  At least for the moment, I’d chosen not to unfold and read the photocopy.

I tried to engage my ANALYTICO processor, hoping it would take over and decide for me, but all it produced was a mental SPUTTER and GASP.  I looked to Blue.  She just smiled and wagged her tail.  I was on my own to make this decision.  I decided to take Blue on a walk.

Walking through an old, established neighborhood, I was pleased to see kids on the sidewalks and in the street playing with new roller blades, the kind of skates with all the wheels in a line down the middle, and riding new bikes.  The snow had held off and the  joy that was written all over their faces was infectious.  I thought of the joy that I received from giving Alex his presents and having him open them without knowing what was inside.  I wondered if my need to know what I’m getting this year had not only ruined an important aspect of Christmas for me, but for my gift-givers as well.

Noticing that I was still carrying the photocopy in my hand, I came to a decision.  Crumpling the invoice into a ball in my hand, I slipped it into my pocket prepared to throw it away, unread, the next chance I got.  At the same time, Blue and I picked up our pace, anxious to be with people we love and to fully enjoy this Christmas.

*  *  *

We all woke early Christmas morning.  Alex indicated that he would rather have stayed in bed by throwing an arm across me and trying to pin me down.  I was too excited and managed to wiggle my way out of bed anyway.  Blue tried to ignore me as well.  Eventually, they both rose grudgingly to follow me out into the hall.  With me in the lead, we all marched out of the bedroom, ready to experience the joys of Christmas at four o’clock in the morning.

While Alex took a seat by the tree in the living room, I veered off into the kitchen to make coffee.  Blue lay down in the corner of the living room and went back to sleep.

Alex yawned and tried to clear the sleepy from his barely open eyes.  Apollo and Aphrodite, who were still wide awake from the night before, joined forces to attack the drawstring of Alex’s pajama bottoms.  Alex soon found himself with a lap full of clawing, biting cats.  While he screeched in the living room, I danced about the kitchen, unable to contain my joy.

You see, this was the first year that I was not going to know exactly what I was getting for Christmas.  Sure, I knew that my gift was one of two things, but that’s a lot better than knowing the exact thing.  Once the coffee was ready, I poured two steaming mugs and carried them into the living room, all the while unable to stop my heart from racing.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” I asked, handing Alex his mug of coffee.

Alex was standing by his chair and massaging himself in a most ungentlemanly fashion.  It looked as if he was about to cry.

“Your cats attacked me again.”

“I keep telling you, it’s the draw string.”

“Yeah, thanks.  That helps a lot.”

“Well, you enjoy your coffee, while I open my presents,” I suggested.

“Wait a second, who made you Santa Claus?”

“I did.”

“Well, don’t you think some of us others might like to open a present first?”

“Like who?”

“Like Blue for instance.”

“Give me a break.  Blue is asleep in the corner.  She doesn’t care about Christmas presents.”

“Well, why don’t we check and see?”

In this way, Alex usurped my position as Father Christmas and began distributing presents himself.  I had a marvelous time watching, and even got to open one or two small gifts of my own.  As it turned out, Blue was temporarily excited by her new Bully Stick, but soon fell back asleep with the chew toy hanging out of her mouth.  Alex pretended to like the new sweaters I got him.  Even though we both know he doesn’t like to wear sweaters, I keep trying to dress him up to my ideal of the perfect man.  I saved Apollo and Aphrodite’s presents for later since they had slipped into the bedroom to fall asleep on the still warm sheets of our bed.  We laughed together when I opened my girl tools, featuring a hammer, screw driver, and pliers painted white with pink and purple flowers.  Alex enjoyed the selection of pre-World War One violin music I had found at the antique store. All-in-all, a pleasant Christmas morning spent with the man I love.

At last, all the presents were unwrapped.  All but three of them, that is.  The gold three.  The three that had been sitting as the center piece under the tree the whole time that Alex distributed presents from around them.  I was expecting him to reach for one of them, but instead he reached into the breast pocket of his pajamas and removed a small, gold envelope that matched the wrapping paper.

“This will explain everything,” he said.

I held the card in my hands and couldn’t stop smiling.  I wanted to rip it open and immediately see what was inside.  Instead, I held it to my chest and considered the man who had given it to me.

“I love you, Alex.  No matter which present you got me.”

“What?”

I opened the envelope and removed the paper inside.  Unfolding it I found that I was looking at a college enrollment form for our local Hope Falls Community College.  The form was filled out to enroll Chloe Boston in a single class:

7:30pm  M-F  GYM10  Benson  Beginning Fencing

He had chosen the right gift!  I threw myself into Alex’s arms and squeezed him as tight as I could.  He accepted me willingly and even offered up his own expressions of love to go along with the present.  I fended off his most aggressive advances under the valid excuse of wanting to open my presents. It wasn’t enough to know. I wanted to see.

Sitting before my modest pile of gifts, I paused to give thanks and allow my ANALYTICO processor free rein one last time.  The final data point had been ACQUIRED.  The SOLUTION DOMAIN now contained ONLY 1 “gift”.  The “fencing mask”, “vest with metal bra cups”, and “foil” to go along with the lessons.  Problem solved.

ANALYTICO OFF.

I actually think I might have shrieked with glee a time or two after I opened each of my presents and tried them on.  All the while I played at being Captain Blood, I was so glad that I wasn’t having to listen to Alex explain why he had gotten me the other present instead.

Later that evening, after spending a good day with friends and family, I was finally alone before the Christmas fire with Alex— Blue and the cats having managed to occupy themselves elsewhere with their new toys.  Feeling something peculiar in my sweater pocket, I pulled out a wadded up paper ball that I recognized as my copy of the invoice which I had not pursued.

“What’s that,” Alex asked, slipping his hand over mine as he slipped his other around my back.

I simply smiled back and flipped the invoice onto the fire to burn.

“I don’t know quite how to explain it,” I replied.  “Maybe we should just call it faith.”

That Christmas was a turning point for me.  I’ve never again tried to find out the contents of a gift.  I block my brain before it can even start analyzing. As of that Christmas, I’ve been willfully and blissfully ignorant about my presents and have enjoyed receiving them almost as much as I enjoy giving them.  Now, I suppose, I love everything about Christmas.

Faith is a wonderful thing to have.

Lights! Camera! Action!

“But, Chief, that’s not fair!  Let someone else do it this time,” I said, slapping my hands to his desk and standing. Not that it gave me much advantage since the Chief was still taller sitting than I was standing.

“Sit down, Boston.  Let me explain.”

I sat, but he didn’t explain very well.

“I have this sister, and she has a daughter.  What I’m trying to say is, I have this niece.” I began drumming my fingers on his desktop.  “She’s an actress.”  Faster drumming.  “No, no.  She’s good.  Real good.  In fact, she’s so good that she landed this audition for a part on a pilot for a TV series.  Think about it Boston, an actual part on a TV series.”

“An audition,” I corrected.

“Yes, for a TV series.”

“For a pilot.”

“Yes, a pilot for a TV series.”

“What channel?”

He paused.  I suppose he was trying to determine whether I was kidding or not.  I kept a straight face and my lip buttoned.

“Boston, I think you’re missing the point here.”

“I’m listening.”

“Good, because, and get this, the part she’s auditioning for is a young, female detective on a small town police force. Naturally I thought of you.”

I was stunned.  Had my life really become the subject matter for a new Hollywood drama?

“Why me?”

“Well, I was over at their house last Christmas…”

“Oh, does she still live at home?” I asked revising the girl’s age downward.

“Yes, if it matters.  Anyway, I’d had a little bit too much to drink and I started talking.  By the end of the night, the kid was taking notes.  She loves you.  Anyway, she’s asked to spend a few days with you, that’s all.  What was I supposed to say?  I told her I’d ask.”

It seemed like as good a time as ever to start objecting again.  I had had a kid foisted on me before and it hadn’t been the best partnership in history.

“So, this is asking?”

“This is asking.”

“Chief, you know, you can’t make me do this.”

This was negotiating.

“Chloe, I would owe you the biggest favor in the world if you would do this for me.  The kid thinks I’m an uptight shmuck.  I’d like to be a better uncle, at least in her eyes.”

This touched my heart, just a little, as I am also a new aunt— well, cousin, but it applied.  It also got me thinking of how I might benefit from this situation.

“No more Officer Bill,” I said flatly.

“What?”

“If I do it, no more Officer Bill,” I demanded.

“But Chloe, you’re the only one who fits in the suit.”

“No more Officer Bill,” I repeated, rising from my seat. “It’s a deal-breaker.”

“Alright, alright.  Sit down.”  He thought for a moment.  “How about no more Officer Bill for the rest of the year?”

“Done!”  I slapped his desk again.  “So, how many days is she supposed to be with me?”

“Just a few,” he began.  “A week at most.”

“A week?  Chief, I can’t spend a week hanging out with some wide-eyed adolescent who dreams of playing Nancy Drew.”

The Chief cleared his throat.

“She’s standing right behind me, isn’t she?”

“Chloe, I’d like you to meet Miss Virginia Hall, my sister’s daughter, I mean…”

“I gotcha, Chief,” I said rising and turning, preparing to apologize to the kid I had just insulted.

Standing in the doorway looking both beautiful and miffed at the same time, which was a credit to her acting depth, was not the wide-eyed adolescent I’d expected.  It was something worse. Instead of a teenager, Miss Hall was a statuesque young woman with a figure built to stop a man’s heart at eighty paces and a face meant to haunt his dreams.  The wet ones.

“This is Chloe Boston?” Miss Hall pouted.  I’m sure that someone— male and without brain cells— had told her this was adorable.

“This is supposed to be me?” I gasped.

“You wish.”

If we had had fur it would have been bristling.

“Now, just wait a second, girls,” the Chief blundered.

From her refreshed look of indignation, Miss Hall liked being called a girl about as much as I did.  Instead of going after each other directly, we started by snipping at one another via our common enemy.

“Uncle Randy, you didn’t tell me she was a midget.  How can I play a midget?”

“Uncle Randy?  I just bet she’s your ‘niece’.”

Things broke down quickly from this point and the knowledge that my mother would be ashamed of me didn’t interrupt the exchange.

“Of course I’m his niece.  What exactly are you implying?”

“I don’t have to imply anything.  The cut of that dress you’re wearing is all the implication that’s needed.”

“And where do you get your clothes, off the rack in the little boys department at WalMart?”

“Chief, how could you do this to me?”

“Uncle Randy, you expect me to learn from this anorexic gnome?”

“Anorexic?”

The Chief, stunned into near immobility, tried to regain control, or at least to get out of the middle of things.

“Look, you asked for a week spent with Chloe, you got it.  And you wanted the rest of the year off from Officer Bill, you got that.”  The Chief stood and guided the two of us out his door.  “Now, why don’t the two of you take your differences out of my office and resolve them on your own.”

And with that, we found ourselves standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the hall staring at a closed door.  It was clear that neither of us wanted to be the first to have to look away from the door and address the other.  It was equally clear that we were beginning to look stupid staring at the door.

“Now, now, ladies.  No fighting in the corridor,” Gordon chuckled as he waltzed past.

I wanted to tell him what he could do with his sidearm, but figured I’d better be on my best behavior if said behavior was being closely scrutinized.  I looked to Miss Hall.  She was already looking at me.  Na-na, caught you looking, I wanted to say.  But I didn’t, further considering that behavior thing and all.

“Look, there are a few rules you need to abide to while we’re out together.  Rule number one: Do whatever I tell you to do whenever I tell you.”

“Why?  You’re not my mother.”

“No, but during the next week, while you’re in my cart, you are my responsibility.  I don’t want you getting hurt.  So, do you agree, or do we call it off?”

“I guess.”

“Yes or No?”

“Yes,” she hissed.  “What are the other rules?”

“That’s the only important one.  I’ll tell you the rest as we get to them.  Now, follow me, Miss Hall.”

And so we started our first day together.

*  *  *

“What’s that smell?”

“Oh, that.  I call it oduer de Bleu.”

“What?”

“It’s my dog, Blue.”

I pointed down to her thousand dollar Pradas just visible under the fringe of my dog’s fur.  She pulled her feet back.  It was late summer and things were heating up in town.  My dog was heating up too and tended to give off a pungent odor when things got too hot.  Miss Hall had at first objected to Blue’s presence in the vehicle, but when it was explained that Blue was part-and-parcel of the job, she acquiesced.  Since then she’d been riding around in my cart willing to pull her knees up under her chin rather than touch a hair on my dog’s hide with her toe.  I hoped her role didn’t involve any animal interaction.

“Your dog stinks.”

“She does not stink.  She smells like a dog.  It’s your perfume that stinks.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m wearing Parisian Nights.  It costs more per bottle than you make in a week.”

“I’d say you got ripped off then.”

As I drove, I laid the chalk on the tires using my extension pole with the removable chalk tip.  I had explained how I do my job before starting, but Miss Hall had taken no notes.  Instead, she looked stunned that I was actually taking her out for a day spent chalking tires and writing tickets.  What else did she think a meter maid did?

“So, Chloe.  Tell me about your last case.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Why?  Is the thought of it still too painful to recall?”

“No, I’m just not a very good story teller when I’m distracted.  At least, not as good as the Chief.  Especially not when he’s liquored up, apparently.  Anyway, I doubt I’d do the story justice.”

“Tell me about the time you had that fight with the murderer, Ryan Endicott, at the radio station, and he almost killed you before you killed him first. I’ve seen the video, but want to know your inner thoughts.”

“No!” I insisted.  I didn’t want to relive that horrible day and I especially never wanted to have to watch it on TV.  “Now look, here’s someone up ahead that’s been parked in their spot for longer than two hours, and I don’t recognize the car, so let’s ticket it.”

“Did you just imply that you don’t ticket people you know?”

Boy, she had a lot to learn.

“Follow me, Miss Hall.”

I explained, and even demonstrated, how to fill out a parking ticket.  I showed Miss Hall all the information to be gathered and the spaces on the form in which to record it.  She wasn’t paying attention.  Instead, she was watching an irate young gentleman who was stalking our way.  I turned to leave.  Miss Hall stood back and watched.

“Hey, you.  Did you just give me a ticket?”

“Yes, sir.  I did.”

“What for?”

“Sir, I cited you for violating municipal parking code 33 by parking in a restricted zone for longer than the posted, allowable time limit, that limit being two hours for this zone.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit, man.  I haven’t been here more than an hour.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.  Of course, you can always fight it if you disagree.”

With that, I turned and walked away.  I knew from the type that he wouldn’t be foolish enough to physically attack me.  I also knew from the type that our encounter wasn’t over.

“You know what you are, you city bureaucrats?  Heartless, that’s what you are.  Heartless.  Well, I’m not paying this.  I’ll see you in court before I pay your stinking fine.”

I sat waiting in my cart for Miss Hall.  When she entered, she was smiling.  She directed that smile at me.  I ignored her.  We continued to chalk tires.  The next time I looked, Miss Hall was gazing out the window.  But she was still smiling.

About an hour later, I was just getting into the rhythm of things while Miss Hall had fallen asleep.  That’s when I saw Mrs. Bukenbaker waving her arms at the corner in an attempt to flag me down.  I pulled to the curb to see what she wanted and Miss Hall woke to listen.

“Oh, Chloe.  I’m so glad that I found you.  Puss in Boots is stuck in the tree again and I can’t get him down.”

“More exciting police work to attend to?” Miss Hall asked.

“We are here to serve the community,” I said gently, getting out of the cart.

Puss in Boots was indeed high in the elm tree outside Mrs. Bukenbaker’s house.  This wasn’t the first time I’d retrieved this particular cat.  I knew from experience that Puss in Boots would respond to what all cats respond to; namely, food.

“Now, watch and learn, Miss Hall.”

“I’m watching, though I’m not learning much.”

Fully determined to impress my copilot, I reached into the back of the cart for a can of Fancy Feast that I always carry for just such an occasion.  But it was gone.  All at once I remembered that I had used the last can to retrieve a cat from a similar situation only last week.  Miss Hall was waiting.  Now what was I going to do?

“I’m still watching,” Miss Hall reminded me.

So, I started to climb the tree.  I didn’t run into problems until I was about half way up.  That’s when my arms and legs seemed to get knotted in some ivy and I almost lost my precarious hold on a swaying branch.  I was hanging upside down in the tree, Puss in Boots meowing at me from the top, when I saw Miss Hall step from my patrol cart.

“Come, Blue,” she said, and Blue dutifully followed at her side.

The two of them walked to the base of the tree, then Miss Hall stopped and faced Blue.

“Speak,” she insisted.

Blue spoke.  In fact, with little enough prompting, she let out a series of loud barks that was quite impressive.  I knew that it impressed Puss in Boots because he soon scampered down the branch he was on, across my back, and down the trunk to the ground where he ran through the open front door of Mrs. Bukenbaker’s house.

“Oh, thank you, young lady,” Mrs. Bukenbaker said, turning to follow her cat into her home.  “And thank you too, Chloe,” she added as an afterthought.

It took me some time to climb down out of the tree.  I was both dirty and embarrassed when I finally made it to solid ground.  Miss Hall was smiling again.  I would have to remember the barking trick for the next time I found Puss in Boots up a tree.  In the meantime, I said nothing as I led the way back to my patrol cart.

At lunch time, we stopped at the park near The Falls and Blue and I shared a sandwich.  Miss Hall bought a hotdog from one of the vendors and looked a little like she was being forced to eat a dead rat.  Blue got most of her hotdog as well.  We didn’t say a word to one another as we ate.

That afternoon, I wrote several more tickets while Miss Hall remained in the cart, studying her manicure.  It wasn’t until the end of the day that I ticketed a familiar car.  Sure enough, the same guy that had given me grief that morning came running out to his car just as I was leaving.

“No, no, no!” he called.  “This can’t be happening.  Not again.”

I said nothing and kept on walking.

“You bitch!” the violator called.

I was prepared to ignore the offense.  Apparently Miss Hall had had enough.  As the mouthy parking offender proceeded to tear up the ticket I’d placed on the window of his car, under the windshield wiper, Miss Hall exploded from the cart and walked purposely past me to face the man.

“Hey, you!” she called as she approached.

The man turned and when he saw her his jaw literally dropped.  He tried to speak but had been stricken dumb but the beauty who was approaching fast.

“You should learn to show some respect,” Miss Hall insisted.  “In fact, you should watch your language in general.  Can’t you see that there are ladies present?”

“Sorry,” was all the violator could manage to get out with his hanging tongue and drool.

Miss Hall stood considering the reply and apparently found it sufficient for her purposes.

“Alright then, just don’t do it again.”

Having vented her spleen, Miss Hall spun on her high heels and strolled back to the patrol cart.  Again we did not speak.  In fact, the mood was tense all the way back to the precinct house.

*  *  *

I was mad as hell and had decided that I wasn’t going to take it any more.  As I rounded the corridor on my way to the Chief’s office, I spotted Miss Hall coming the other way.  She spotted me as well.  For a moment, we stood considering one another.  Then, and I swear it’s true, we both started running toward the Chief’s door as fast as we could to be the first one there.

We tied, making it to the Chief’s door at the same time.  We also collided which sent me sprawling to the floor.  This gave Miss Hall the upper hand, and she used it.  Knocking rapidly, she barely waited for an acknowledgement before her hands were on the doorknob and she was entering the office.

“Now what?” the Chief challenged, sounding exasperated. He blinked as I got up off the floor.

“Uncle Randy, this is no fair,” Miss Hall began.

“I agree,” I said, following her into the office.

“Alright, alright.  One at a time, tell me what’s going on.”

“She’s simple-minded.”

“She’s obnoxious.”

“Her dog stinks.”

“So does your perfume.”

“Gnome!”

“Spoiled brat!”

We blurted out our complaints at the same time, each of us expecting, incorrectly, that the other would wait her turn.  The Chief ran a hand over his face as if he’d already had a tough day and it wasn’t getting any easier.

“Look you two, I’ve had about enough of this,” the Chief said, standing and walking around his desk.  “You’re acting like children.  What I want you to do is shake and make up,” he added, putting his hands on our shoulders.

We both glared at him, jaws set in rebellion.

“I mean it.  Shake hands and make up,” the Chief insisted.

I never even looked at her.  I’m pretty sure she never looked at me.  We did clench hands.  Rather than it being friendly, this simple handshake provided yet another chance to compete.  We both took advantage of the opportunity.  The Chief didn’t intervene until I was beginning to shake from the strain and sweat was popping out on my forehead.

“Alright, now.  That’s enough of that,” the Chief said, having to pry our hands apart.

I don’t know about Miss Hall’s hand, but mine hurt like the dickens.  Still, I refused to shake it and blow on it like I initially wanted.  I refused to give her the satisfaction.  Again we were guided by the Chief and soon found ourselves standing shoulder-to-shoulder staring at his closed office door.

We turned in opposite directions and walked away.  I was happy that I would most likely never see Miss Hall again.

*  *  *

The next morning, I was eating toast in the kitchen with Blue when I received a surprise phone call from Alex down in San Francisco.  He had taken a case for an old friend and was away for the week.  We talked over trivial matters.  He knows me well, so it didn’t take him long to recognize that there was something on my mind from my tone of voice.

“Alright, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.  Just something stupid that happened at work.”

“Tell me about it.”

So I did, right from when the Chief first told me about his plan through my last encounter with Miss Smarty-pants at the end of my shift.  I think more than anything, I was indignant about her saying that Blue stinks.

“Sounds to me like you need to chill out and go with the flow,” Alex suggested when I was done.

“What do you mean ‘chill out and go with the flow’?”

Unfortunately, I realized too late that I was lashing out at Alex over my frustrations at work.  That was the last thing that I wanted to do.

“I’m sorry,” I chimed in before he had a chance to speak.  “I guess this whole thing is getting to me worse than I thought.  I wish you were here.”

“I wish I was there too.  By the way, I still think that you need to relax and just do the job.  After all, it’s only for a week.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“You know I’m right.  So, let’s hear you sound cheerful about you’re upcoming day at work.”

“I’m cheerful,” though my voice made it sound like I was facing death.

“One more time, tell me how you’re going to approach this day.”

“I’m going to be excited and upbeat.”

“Good.  That will probably piss her off.  Now, go sic ‘em.”

Would it piss her off?  I hung up feeling invigorated and ready to face the day.  Blue and I had an uneventful ride to the station and I was just loading her into my patrol cart when a cute, little BMW pulled into the lot.  Sure enough, Miss Hall stepped out of the vehicle looking like a million bucks.  Remembering my plan to be nice, I didn’t push her against the dirty car beside us.

“Good morning,” I greeted her as she walked toward me.

“Yeah, right,” she commented as she walked past and into the station.

Okay, so maybe today wasn’t going to be so great after all.  After attending to Blue, I stepped into the precinct house to attend the morning meeting.  Miss Hall was there but didn’t acknowledge me when I stepped into the room.  I moved to the back to be with Jeffrey.

“So, how’s your new babysitting job coming along,” Jeffrey asked with a mischievous smile.

“Very funny.  I challenge you to spend the day with little Miss Sunshine and step away unscarred.”

“No way.  I can already tell that hellcat is too much for me to handle.”

“Me, too, but I don’t have any choice.”

After the meeting, I spent a considerable amount of time searching for the hellcat.  I didn’t find her.  Assuming that she had finally come to her senses, given up, and gone home to daddy, I strolled out the door with a broad smile on my face.  The smile quickly disappeared when I found Miss Hall waiting for me in my patrol cart.  I climbed behind the wheel without saying a word.

*  *  *

We’d logged a lot of miles and laid down at least a pound of chalk during our tour of duty together.  We’d even cited a handful of law breakers.  Still, Miss Hall was obviously bored.  She expressed her boredom through a series of snotty comments directed my way.  It killed me, but I kept smiling.

“So, when do you do any actual police work?”

“I keep telling you, I’m not a police officer.  I’m a meter maid.  I never do any actual police work.”

“Pity.  I have no idea how Uncle Randy talked me into this.”

“Yes, I’ll be having a long talk with Uncle Randy when this is all over.”

It was getting to be the end of my shift when we drove past an alley downtown that ran behind the shops on Main Street.  As we passed, I checked the alley to make sure no one was blocking it with a car or truck and noticed some suspicious activity.  Three boys were loading a van with personal possessions they were removing from an upstairs apartment.  That would not have been cause for concern, but that apartment had been unoccupied since Beatrice Small died last month.

“What’s going on down there?” Miss Hall asked, having noticed the same thing.  She actually sounded a little bit excited.

“I don’t know.  Maybe we’d better check it out.”

I turned down the alley and drove my patrol cart to within several yards of the back of the van.  The boys didn’t notice me until I stopped my cart and got out.  Little did I know that I was moments away from my first firefight.

“Blue, you wait here.”

As I walked toward the van which was jam packed with furniture and electronics, I noticed that Miss Hall was walking at my side.  Considering the potential danger, I would have preferred it if she’d stayed in the patrol cart, but I said nothing.

The first boy to notice me froze with a TV set in his hands.  The other two soon noticed his lack of movement and followed his line of sight to find me and Miss Hall watching them.

“So, boys, what do you think you’re doing?”

I had expected a response, but not for all hell to break loose.

“Tommy, it’s the cops!” the first boy called, setting the TV set in the back of the van.

Unfortunately, the boy’s hands didn’t stay empty for long.  Faster than you can say “Jack Sprat could eat no fat” the boy was reaching into the back of the van and distributing what looked to be assault rifles to his friends.

“Quick, get down,” I called to Miss Hall as I dashed behind a stack of wooden crates.

Miss Hall didn’t respond.  In fact, it looked as though she was frozen in place.  Her mouth was open and her eyes wide.  One of the boys pointed his rifle at Miss Hall’s chest.

“Get back!” he shouted.

“Virginia, get down!” I called, but it was no use.

It was probably due to the tension of the situation, but the boy accidentally ended up squeezing the trigger of his gun.  I could have sworn that I saw the bullet fly from the end of the barrel toward Miss Hall.  Rather than producing a bang, a loud whooshing sound came from the firearm.  And a paint pellet, containing day-glow orange paint, instead of a bullet exploded across Miss Hall’s chest.

“Ow!” Miss Hall exclaimed, raising her hands to check the extent of the damage.  “Is that blood in my hair?”

Of course, she was only feeling the paint that had splattered into her golden locks and across her silk blouse.  The boys were armed with paintball guns.  Regardless, they were thieves and I was fully prepared to take these fugitives down.

Sliding my back along the wooden crate behind which I was hidden, I worked my way to the corner of my cover.  Removing the air horn from my utility belt, I held it with arms extended and prepared to strike.  Turning the corner, I pointed the mouth of the air horn at the boys.  To my surprise, one of them turned the corner from the opposite side of the crate at the same time.  I found myself standing with my air horn pressed against the forehead of the surprised boy who couldn’t have been more than about thirteen.  Not knowing what else to do, I fired.

I swear that I saw the boy’s hair fly back from the force of the blast.  At point blank range, I shot the kid right between the eyes with a concussive wave of sound.  And I let the thing scream for quite some time.  My ears were ringing by the time I released trigger.  I could only imagine what the target of my wrath must have experienced.  Still, I was shocked when the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell straight away backward to the ground.  He didn’t even bend his knees.

“Tommy, the cop just shot Bert in the head,” one of the boys exclaimed.

And that was all it took to cause them to lay down their weapons and surrender.  I suppose the other two were afraid that they would be the next victims of my deadly air gun assault.

“Miss Hall, would you please pick up their weapons,” I asked.

But Miss Hall wasn’t responding.  Instead, she was sitting on the asphalt in the center of the alley trying to pull the gunk from the paintball out of her hair.  She looked to be in a daze.  I collected the boys’ weapons myself, all the time keeping my air horn extended at arms length in their direction.  Then I walked to my cart and called for backup.  Blue came with me to guard the suspects.  If you don’t know Blue, she can seem fearsome.

The crime scene became crowded and confusing when my backup arrived.  I lost track of Miss Hall.  Finally, I saw her being led away from the scene by the Chief.  Meanwhile, I was up to my eyeballs in paperwork.  I didn’t leave the precinct house that day until it was fully dark outside.

*  *  *

The next day I showed up early for work.  I spent the extra time at my desk going over the paperwork I’d generated the night before.  Everything seemed to be in order.  I was just getting up to turn in my case folder and attend the morning meeting when Miss Hall walked up to my desk.

“Good morning, Virginia.  How are you feeling?”

I actually was concerned.  She had appeared to be in shock yesterday.  Never mind that the bullet had held paint.  She had thought that she was shot and it had scared her badly.

“I’m fine,” Miss Hall responded, sheepishly.

“I’m sorry that I lost track of you yesterday.  Things got so chaotic so fast and there was so much to do.”

“Oh, that’s alright.  Uncle Randy made sure that I made it home alright.”

We stood wearing uncomfortable smiles and twisting our toes into the floor.  Blue whined.

“Well, the morning meeting is about to start.  After that, we’ll have a nice quiet day cruising my beat.  I promise.  We won’t even stop for treed cats.”

This offer was met with some awkward laughter.

“I’m afraid that I won’t be joining you this morning.”

“Oh?  And why is that?”

“After what happened yesterday, I’ve decided that maybe I’m not ready to play a police officer, even on TV.  To tell you the truth, I don’t think that I want anything to do with police work, real or imaginary.”

“So, you won’t be trying out for the pilot?”

“No, I guess not.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  I think you would have been really good.”

And I meant it.  Miss Hall merely smiled in response, but it was a sad smile.

“I guess I wasn’t cut out to be a Hollywood actress after all.  I’m more of a live theater person.”

Now I was frowning too.  I don’t like to see people beaten down by life’s ugliness.

“Anyway, I just wanted to stop by to say thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

And just like that we were hugging.  I felt terrible having only found out that I like this girl on the day of her leaving.  It almost brought a tear to my eye, but I quickly snuffed it out concerned that my tears tend to come in floods when they come at all.

Virginia pulled away, flashed a genuine smile, and then turned and walked out of the room.

I attended the morning meeting but have to confess that I wasn’t really paying attention.  Afterwards, I was headed to my patrol cart when my path was redirected by a bellow.

“Boston!  Get in here,” I heard the Chief yell.

Slipping into his office, I was surprised to find Dale Gordon was already there.  This immediately put me on the defensive and made me begin to sweat.

“Boston, you just barely made it out of your little incident yesterday with your skin intact.”

“Excuse me, but they were only carrying paintball guns,” I interrupted.

“Nevertheless, they could have been carrying AK-47s with the way things are going these days.”

I remained silent.  What could I say?  He was right.

“Gordon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to fix this.”

“Me?  But how, sir?”

“I want Miss Boston to be armed while on the job as of next month.  You will see to her training.”

I gasped while Gordon looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“Pardon me, sir, but you can’t arm Miss Boston on the job.”

“Oh?  Why?”

“She’s only a meter maid.  Only a sworn officer can carry a firearm.  Aren’t I right, Boston?”

Gordon was actually correct.  I was both surprised and impressed that he knew this.

“He’s right, Chief.  Only sworn officers of the law may carry firearms while on duty.”

Gordon smirked and seemed to stand a little taller.

“In that case,” the Chief said, pointing at Gordon’s chest, “I want Miss Boston to be a sworn officer of the law by next month.”

“But, sir,” Gordon exclaimed.

“But, sir,” I exclaimed right along with him.

“Enough!” the Chief barked and we fell silent.  “I want this to happen and I want it to happen now.  Chloe, you’ve been screwing around far too long.  Now it’s time to, pardon my language but, shit or get off the pot.  I want you to be a sworn officer of the law by next month or you’re out on your can.  It is too dangerous for you to go on as you have been.”

I didn’t know how to respond, but I also didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut.  I started making gulping motions with my mouth reminiscent of the koi during feeding time at the park.

“Sir?” Dale was timid.

“Gordon?”

“Why am I here again?”

“You’re going to make this happen or you’re out on your can too,” the Chief explained, menacingly.  “You will teach Chloe how to shoot, see that she is enrolled in self-defenses classes, and in general make her into officer material.”

Gordon was smart enough to not pursue this line of enquiry further.  He wasn’t smart enough to stop speaking.

“Sir?”

“Gordon?”

“Why me?”

“Because I can’t spare any of my other officers from their police work.”

Enough said, I thought.  So did the Chief.  He stepped around his desk and put a hand on each of our shoulders.  No doubt he thought the gesture avuncular.

“I want the two of you to work this out together,” he said, gently guiding us to his door.  “And I want a full report detailing your plan on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

And before I knew it I was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Gordon staring at the outside of the Chief’s door.

Neither Gordon nor I acknowledged one other.  We simply turned and went our separate ways.

Damn.  What was Alex going to say about this?

Excerpt From “Due North” by Melanie Jackson

Chapter 1: The Crash

Usually, when a plane falls out of the sky, it draws an immediate crowd.  But not in McIntyre’s Gulch, especially not in winter when it snows more than not.  The last storm had lasted three days and screamed like the damned the entire time.  A plane crashing would just be one more noise amongst a thousand others.  Breaking plane, breaking trees, breaking thunder— unless it had landed on someone’s roof, no one would notice anything until the spring thaw.  Because no one in their right mind would be out walking where I was until at least May.

After a decade of finding odd things while hiking, especially with Max, this discovery didn’t surprise me.  That doesn’t mean I wasn’t dismayed to find an out of place something blocking my way through the high meadow.  It is one of the few level places where one can look up at the sky, unimpeded by branches or rocks.  It felt a bit like a cathedral, a sacred and secret place.

“Uh-oh,” I said to Max, who cocked his pointy ears my way.  “This isn’t good.  Someone has dumped their junker out here.  Who would be such a pig?”

Max didn’t agree that finding junk was bad.  His eyes glittered with joy and he panted out doublewide breaths of steam.  He was full of energy after his game of canine hockey.  Max loved going out on the frozen pond and having me shove him over the ice.  Kind of like crack the whip, but I let go and he goes skating.  Unfortunately for him, I tire of the game long before he does.  Max still had plenty of energy to spare for exploration and I felt guilty enough after my human hibernation to be lured deeper into the forest.

I looked at the giant white hump of misplaced something.  Thick snow gives the scenery a certain sameness, hiding both landmarks and dangers, making it easy to get lost or fall into trouble.  I had learned to trust Max to be my auxiliary eyes and nose.  He always knew his way home.  At least by dinner time.

Still, we had ventured out further than I had planned and were in an area I rarely visited after September since a passing glacier had left deep, uneven furrows that one could fall into if the ice wasn’t strong enough to bear the weight.  I was rather wishing that I had stuck to my pattern and not found this eyesore, because now that it was discovered I would have to look into it.  After all, though it probably was someone’s abandoned piece of junk, it might be something— someone— else.

I began to circle the blob.  In the right light, ice is more beautiful than diamonds.  Certainly there is more of it, and with the sun shining on the crystals, weakening their bonds, snow can mumble and moan in ways that diamonds never would.  Unfortunately, what was glinting at me was neither ice nor diamonds.  It was glass.  And from the general outline of things, I knew it was a sheet of glass, like from a vehicle.

A new fear presented itself.  What if this wasn’t an abandoned truck but one that had had an accident?  What if someone had gotten stranded out here and then caught in the storm?  I hadn’t heard that anyone was missing in town, but maybe someone had come up from Little Fork.

“Damn.” After three days of near whiteout conditions and below zero temperatures with a broken window, chances were anyone inside would be dead.

Max, inclined to rush in where angels and humans fear to tread, dashed up the mound and began digging at what might be a door.  I hoped it wasn’t because he smelled carrion.  I love him, but he has some disgusting eating habits.

“Max, stop.  You’ll cut your paws.  Now,” I said and meant it.  Unless I am very clear about what I want, Max is inclined to do as he pleases.

Max backed off reluctantly, shaking snow from his fur and growling at the mound which had clearly offended me.  Three days spent indoors because of a late storm and left him seething with pent up energy and he was ready to tear that blob of snow into snowcones if that was what I wanted.

After the last three days I was too tired and cold to seethe.  When the wind howls, Max howls, lamenting the time indoors when he might be out chasing snowflakes and wind and maybe voles.  I let him out for short runs, but he is a social beast and prefers to be in my company— even if I am weak in body and prefer the indoors and baking bread to standing out in a blizzard like a proper wolf.

His choice would be flattering to me, but I suspect it is often about food and he doesn’t stop complaining until I feed him.  Day, night, he sighs and moans and whines.  Sleeping is difficult with a dog that seems to sigh on both the inhale and the exhale.

“Stay back, Max.  Stay.” I scrambled up the slope and began digging carefully.  The snow slipped away in soft crunches until I reached the inner layer of rime.  The snow had melted on the hot body of the vehicle and frozen into a solid ice sheath.  It took a few kicks to crack the icy cocoon and free the door of what proved to be a single-engine airplane.

“Double damn.” I don’t know a lot about planes, but no one flies anything less than a twin-engine up here in the winter, not unless they have a death wish.  This had to be someone from down south who didn’t know about winter in Manitoba.

Max, the big mouth, cheered me on.

As I feared, there was someone inside the plane.  Only one someone that I could see, but he was past all efforts of first aid.  I noticed longish dark hair, a crushed skull, a neck tattoo and hoarfrost all over the slender body.  But above all else, I found my eyes focused on the large duffle bag full of money in the passenger’s seat, and another one on the floor with a broken zipper that seemed to contain jewelry and some kind of bonds and stock certificates.

“Uh-oh, damn and damn,” I said again.  I peered around the body and looked in the backseat.  There was yet another large duffle, though this one was closed.  Maybe it had clothes, but since it looked like the other two and had what I thought was a gun barrel poking out of the tiny zipper opening, I kind of suspected that it wouldn’t be filled with sandals and suntan oil.

“Max, shut-up please.  I need to think.”

Max turned it down a notch but he was still quivering with the need to get into the plane and explore things for himself.

I will admit to being a little paranoid and try to take precautions against it.  Conspiracy theories thrive around here.  Mostly because the majority of us have participated in at least one conspiracy, and sometimes more, though not always voluntarily.  Paranoia is the cultural norm in McIntyre’s Gulch.

Leaving aside the wildest hypotheticals about the plane and its occupant, even innocent bodies meant police involvement if they were reported to the authorities.  Bodies with money, guns and jewels guaranteed prolonged police interest and might also mean other criminals looking for misplaced items.  I wanted nothing to do with either.

Nobody else in town would want to talk to strangers either.  I should just shut the door and walk away.  Someone else could deal with it in the spring.

It was a lot of money though.  A lot.  And how would I explain that find without mentioning the plane?  There was no way.  In a town this small, one didn’t have monetary secrets.  And once the story was known, someone might blab.

Maybe I was being too bleak in my thoughts.  After all, the plane had been out here for days with no one coming to look for her.  There hadn’t even been any reports of a plane going missing in the area, no requests for help at search and rescue.  So maybe there wouldn’t be any trouble even if everyone knew about it.

And it was a lot of money.

“What do you think, Max?  Should we go get help?  Go tell someone what’s happened?”

Max gave a low howl at my euphemism.

“Good point.  We shouldn’t leave all that money lying around where a bear might eat it.  I better make a sledge though.  It’s too heavy to carry.  You can help me pull it, right?”

Max danced excitedly.

Building a travois is an easy enough task if you have tree limbs, a blanket or tarp, and some string and a pocket knife.  The string and knife were in my pocket, the tree branches were all around.  The only trouble was finding a tarp, but there was a canvas plane cover in the back, stuffed carelessly behind the seat.  The pilot was dead and neither he nor the plane would be needing it again, so I cannibalized it.

Leaving fingerprints at the scene wasn’t a problem as I wasn’t about to take my gloves off and risk frostbite, but I made every effort not to touch the corpse anyway.  The man, even dead— maybe because he was dead— was repellant.  Something about that tattoo caused a bad vibe.  And I watch “CSI” when we get tapes at the pub.  I know about DNA evidence.  You can’t be too careful.  I did look in the other bag though and it had a machine pistol along with more money.  The machine pistol wasn’t something we would use for hunting or killing anything around here.  Except man.

Like I said; I’m a little paranoid.

“Okay, Max.  Let’s go to town— and no stopping for foxes or rabbits.  I mean it.”

Max raced away, leaving me to play oxen.

I didn’t run.  The sledge was heavy and the trouble with working hard in the cold is that it is too easy to overheat.  That doesn’t become a problem until you need to take a rest, in my case, somewhere around Potter’s Ridge when I was breathing hard enough to make a fog around my head.  If you wait too long, the sweat cools against the skin and begins to freeze.  Hypothermia can set in very quickly.  So, though I would have liked a longer rest and maybe some coffee and an apple fritter with butter, I allowed myself only a two minute breather before continuing down the hill.

Max would run ahead and then double back to check on me.  After the ridge, the way became easier and mostly downward sloping, though there was less protection from the wind.

On a good day, I think of McIntyre’s Gulch as being protectively cradled in the crescent of a majestic mountain range.  That afternoon, from where I labored up on the ridge, I was thinking that the town looked more like it had been shoved down into a sinkhole and left where it landed.  Certainly, it wasn’t the kind of place a city planner would be proud of.  Building sites were chosen because of flat surfaces that didn’t need dynamiting and not design esthetics.  There weren’t many of those sites either and buildings crowded onto them.

I began following a deer track, figuring that it was proven passage with no holes or fissures hidden by snow for me to drop into.  I also trusted Max to warn me if there were any other creatures stirring in the forest.  He is pretty good at frightening animals away, even bears and mountain lions.  I had a gun of course.  You don’t go out of town without a gun.  But usually Max was enough of a deterrent.  I hate shooting things.

“Brrrr.”

The winds had died back some as we reached the zenith of our short day, but it was picking back up again.  The occasional northern gust was violent, reminding me that we were on the tail end of the dark season, the one that tries earnestly to kill you when you get careless or disrespectful of its power.

A flock of white-cheeked geese came honking overhead, silhouettes in a darkening sky.  I figured that it must really be spring if they were coming back to the lake to scout out nesting spots and tried to take heart.  Sometimes it felt like winter would never end.

Max barked and spun in the air, as if he really thought he could catch the geese.

“Silly dog,” I said fondly.

About the Author

Melanie Jackson is the author of 23 novels.  If you enjoyed this story, please visit Melanie’s author web site at www.melaniejackson.com.

eBooks by Melanie Jackson:

The Chloe Boston Mystery Series:

Moving Violation

The Pumpkin Thief

Death in a Turkey Town

Murder on Parade

Cupid’s Revenge

Viva Lost Vegas

Death of a Dumb Bunny

Red, White and a Dog Named Blue

The Butterscotch Jones Mystery Series

Due North

Big Bones (Summer of 2011)

The Book of Dreams Series:

The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis

The Second Book of Dreams: Meridian

The Third Book of Dreams: Destiny

Club Valhalla

Devil of Bodmin Moor

Devil in a Red Coat

Halloween

Knave of Hearts

The Curiosity Shoppe (Sequel to A Curious Affair)

Nevermore: The Last Divine Book (Coming Soon)

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 1: The Crash

eBooks by Melanie Jackson: