Fatal Festival Days Page 5

  “I’ll see what I can find online about Jason Banks,” Logan said.

  “And I’ll stop home and get a well-earned nip of hooch,” Roy said, grinning from ear to ear.

  By that evening, Ed Stone’s live broadcast was the talk of the town. Walking through the crowds to the Grist Mill, I overheard the phrase mystery murder town more than a few times.

  “I’d like to ring Ed Stone’s neck,” I said, slamming my handbag on the counter inside the mill. Old Dan and his son Frank Gardner, made a bunch of hmm-ing and hawing sounds, but generally ignored my outburst.

  “We’re all set up over here in the corner,” Johnna said, waving me over to a desk behind the counter where Logan sat with his laptop. “We’ll tally the votes for the best sculpture, and get them all typed into Logan’s machine here so nobody will think we cheated somehow or added them up wrong.”

  “It’s a laptop,” Logan told her for the two-hundredth time.

  “It’s also a machine,” she said, clasping her hands and raising her brows in challenge.

  “In the most basic definition, yes.”

  “Basic works for me,” she said.

  “Where are Roy and Anna?” I asked.

  “Roy’s out schmoozing with the crowd,” Johnna said, “and we haven’t seen Anna yet.”

  “She’ll be here,” Logan said. “Her controlling nature won’t allow her to miss it.”

  “Well said,” I told him. “I’m going to go take a look outside.”

  The ice sculptures were amazing. The sculptors had been working on them since that morning, and were etching in the final details. There were elaborate Disney characters, bold sports team logos, a gigantic 3D snowflake, and a ballerina that even spun on her ice pedestal. One of the sculptors had given an introductory class and the proud novices stood beside their chiseled ice snowmen.

  The white lights strung up all over town cast a fairy-tale shimmer over the sculptures, giving the whole scene an aura of excitement.

  The Soapy Savant was doing a booming business selling their coffee and tea, and Betty, who I hadn’t yet had a chance to talk to, had made magic window cookies that looked like stained glass just for tonight. Kids and adults alike were oohing and aahing over the sculptures, debating which was the best.

  This moment was what planning events for the town was all about. This was the reward at the end of the long days and weeks of preparation. I strolled through the crowd and took it all in.

  I found Roy standing with Phillis and David Dixon. Phillis had undergone a costume change for tonight’s event and was wearing a flowing blue velvet coat with rhinestone buttons. She looked every inch the ice queen. I had to hand it to her, it did add to the festivities. Dixon even got into the act, wearing a sequined silver top hat.

  “You both look fabulous this evening,” I said, bubbling over with cheer. “Have you picked your favorite yet?”

  “I thought I’d take one more turn around the lawn and look them over again,” Phillis said. “Care to join me, David?”

  “Hmm? Oh, no, you go on ahead.” Dixon was scowling at his cell phone. “I think I’ll hit the little boys’ room before this thing really kicks off and Ed Stone makes his appearance. I’ll catch up.”

  “All right,” she said and wiggled her fingers at him, leaving us in a wake of blue velvet.

  “Excuse me,” Dixon said, and trotted off toward the facilities.

  Roy angled his head toward me, and whispered, “Keep your eyes peeled. Everyone’s a potential suspect.”

  “Right. I’ll just go in and see if Anna’s shown up yet.”

  Old Dan and Frank were sitting in rocking chairs on the mill’s wide side porch that was added for tourists, sipping a hot beverage that I suspected was spiked with moonshine. “How’s those bees, Cameron?” Old Dan asked.

  Last fall Old Dan helped me relocate a colony of honey bees that had taken up roost in my porch column. They now resided in my yard in a bee box Dan built just for them.

  “All balled up in a cluster like you told me they’d do.”

  “I’ll be ’round to sing ’em a song.”

  “I’m sure they’d like that,” I said. Old Dan insisted that bees had to be talked to and sung to and kept company or they’d swarm. I sat outside and practiced playing my clarinet until it got too cold.

  Who was I kidding? I did it until the whole town complained about the noise and Ben made me stop.

  I hadn’t completely given up the clarinet, but I put my lessons on hold while planning the festival. There was only so much time in a day. Anyway, Fiona Stein, who gave me lessons, suggested I take up a different instrument, like the triangle.

  I can admit, the clarinet wasn’t exactly my forte.

  Back inside the mill, Johnna startled when she saw me, and a pile of papers on the counter that she’d been perusing scattered in all directions. “What are you up to?” I asked her. Knowing her tendency to help herself to anything not nailed down, it was easy to jump to conclusions.

  “Come look at this!” she whispered with a rasp, holding up a sheet of paper.

  I crossed to the counter and took a peek. It was an order from earlier in the week for Clayton Banks to have a load of wheat ground into flour. She’d clearly been snooping under the counter.

  “Where would he get that much wheat?” she asked. “And why?”

  “That’s a good question. I’m not sure it’s tied to his death, but at this point, anything could be.”

  “Might have been poisoned,” Logan said, not taking his eyes off his laptop. “Others could die, too, if they eat it.”

  “We’re all going to die from wheat flour poisoning!” Johnna cried, throwing her hands to her chest and heaving breaths in and out like she was going to hyperventilate.

  “No, we aren’t,” I said, guiding her into a chair. “Stop jumping to conclusions. This is just one fact we’ve gathered about Clayton’s last week. It doesn’t mean this has anything to do with his death. We don’t even know if he ate any of it. Last we heard he was trying to trade it to Carl Finch.”

  “We need to find it and test it,” Logan said. “I’ll put that on our list.”

  “Good idea. In the meantime, we have an ice sculpting contest going on. Let’s enjoy the evening and we’ll circle back around to this after the festival is over. Did you tell Irene about Kittens In Mittens?” I asked, hoping to divert her mind away from being poisoned to death.

  “No, I haven’t. I’ll go find her. She’ll want to know right away.”

  I helped Johnna up and she scuffled across the floor to the door where she’d propped her exceptionally tall walking stick. “And I need to tell Monica,” she added, turning back to me, “that my darling Charlie loves the Beggin’ Bagels.”

  Johnna’s darling Charlie was a rescue greyhound who had gone by the racing name Good Luck Chuck in his past life. Retirement was treating him well, curled up by Johnna’s fireplace with a whole wardrobe of knitted and crocheted dog sweaters.

  “He’ll have to try the Banana Bonanza,” I said.

  “No, no. My Charlie’s not fond of banana.”

  After she’d gone, Logan swung around in his swivel chair at the desk. “We need to get into Clayton’s house. What do we know about his son, Jason? He had virtually no online presence, which isn’t normal.”

  “Other than he’s mean and wants the devil to rain down torment on me and this festival? Nothing.”

  “How old is he? If you had to guess.”

  “Early to mid-thirties.”

  “What kind of a guy does he look like? Is he rugged or sporty? Does he have a beard or wear khakis?

  “I’ve seen him once. I think he had on jeans. I didn’t get a good look at him. It was dark and I had snow all over me and I was bleeding.”

  “Bleeding?”

  “I slipped and fell into a pricker
bush by his front porch last night.” I pointed to the scratches on my face. “Remember I said he wouldn’t give me the flags? It was a whole thing.”

  “It usually is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  One side of Logan’s mouth cocked up into a grin. Was he joking with me? Mr. Literal himself, joking? Did he and Anna trade personalities or something? Not that Logan was ever grumpy. “So what’s going on with Anna?” I asked, since my brain landed on the topic.

  “Like I said earlier, she’s stressed about college.”

  “It doesn’t seem like her, though. Why is she having such a difficult time deciding?”

  “Don’t ask me. She was asking me a week ago if she should apply to Harvard.”

  “Harvard? Isn’t that in Cambridge? Like where MIT is?”

  “It is.” He nodded.

  “And? What did you tell her?”

  “I told her it was a little late to be applying to an Ivy League school for the fall.”

  It was all too obvious what Anna’s dilemma was, but Logan was oblivious. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. For a smart kid, he sure could be dumb.

  “Logan,” I said, trying not to shake my head in dismay, “have you and Anna talked about your relationship and what will happen when you go to MIT and she goes to wherever she ends up?”

  He blinked about a million times, eying me like I was suggesting he launch into space without any oxygen—jump off the high dive with no water in the pool. He was way out of his comfort zone and about to short circuit. “Don’t freak out,” I said. “I’m not suggesting you propose or anything insane like that. I’m just asking if you’ve had a conversation with the girl?”

  He shook his head. His fair complexion turned all ruddy, and I feared he’d break out in hives. I started digging in my bag for hydrocortisone. I kept it around for just this reason—the boy was prone to breaking out in hives.

  “All right. Calm down. It’s something you might want to do. She’s probably not stressed as much as frustrated and confused that you don’t seem to be concerned about the future of your relationship with her and if there is one.”

  “Should I be?” he asked, completely sincere.

  “Should you not be?” I asked back. “I realize you’re only eighteen. There’s no need to get tied down to a long-term, long-distance relationship, but since you’re in one now it’s probably a good idea to talk about what happens after graduation.”

  “That’s logical,” he said, fanning his face with his hand.

  “Can you do that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Without a trip to the emergency clinic?” I shot him a smile, hoping for levity before this conversation killed him and he never made it to one with Anna.

  “I know I’m not good at social conventions,” he said. “I don’t know what she sees in me. I never know what to say or how to act, or even what I’m supposed to be feeling.”

  I reached over and patted his knee. “Just be you, Logan. She likes you for her own reasons, just like you like her.”

  The Whitewater train blew its whistle, slowing on the tracks outside the mill and squealing to a stop in front of the depot. Air shot from the breaks and steam hissed. There was a lot of commotion and noise outside as a crowd of people disembarked from the train.

  But the whistle kept going long after it should’ve stopped.

  “What is that?” Logan asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “The train whistle?”

  “That’s no whistle,” he said.

  The door flew open, banging as it hit the wall and Johnna burst inside. “Someone’s screaming by the port-a-potties! David Dixon’s dead!”

  I shot out of my chair. “What do you mean David Dixon’s dead? He’s an Olympian! He can’t be dead!”

  “That has little to do with the fact that he’s dead!” she shouted.

  It was Phillis who was screaming. As I ran outside the mill, I caught sight of Carl Finch leading her away from the scene of the … of the port-a-potties. With Logan and Johnna on my heels, and Roy falling in behind them, we marched toward the apparent site of death, about ten yards behind the Fiddle Dee Doo Inn.

  Ben was already there, with Andy and Jefferson Briggs, the owner of Court House Antiques, keeping people back from the crime scene.

  And based on the blood spattered on Dixon’s sequined top hat and the ice pick protruding from the top of his head, it was most definitely a crime scene and another murder. “That’s two in as many days,” I said. “They have to be related.”

  “What would Dixon have to do with Banks?” Roy asked. “Like water and oil, those two.”

  “That’s what we have to find out.”

  Ben caught my eyes and shook his head, knowing what we were up to. He might not be a fan of the Action Agency, but he couldn’t dispute our track record. We might not be conventional in our approach, but we could solve a murder—or even two.

  • Five •

  I took a sip of my coffee and plucked a second chocolate chip cookie off of the plate I’d set in the middle of my kitchen table. The Action Agency minus Anna had adjourned to my house to get our facts straight.

  “When Dixon excused himself from Roy and me and went toward the port-a-potties he was upset or angry about something on his phone. He was texting or emailing, replying to someone’s message.”

  “That’s right, he was,” Roy said with a bit of a slur, pointing at me. His flask had been a permanent fixture in his hand since sitting in his chair. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Dixon’s murder had shaken him.

  It shook me, too. The image of that sparkly hat with the blood … I just prayed no little kids saw any of it. “Poor David,” I said. “He was such a nice man. So charming.”

  “He was quite an athlete back in his day,” Johnna said, wistfully. “I used to sit on my porch and wait for him to jog by just to get a glimpse of him in those little running shorts.”

  “Now you can’t see past the bottom of your porch steps,” Roy added. “A fella could streak right past your house in his birthday suit and you would be none the wiser.”

  “At lease I can blame my age for my poor eye sight. You’re always pigeon-eyed from the booze,” she said.

  He held up his flask in salute and drank.

  “Back to the facts,” Logan said, always one for keeping us on track. “Where is Dixon’s cell phone now? Did anyone see it at the scene?”

  “No,” I said. Roy and Johnna shook their heads in unison. “I’ll ask Ben if he found it.”

  “Do we know who had an ice pick?” he asked next, going down a list he’d typed.

  “Son, it was an ice carving competition,” Roy said. “They all had ice picks.”

  “Do you know that for a fact? Every single competitor had an ice pick?”

  “Of course he doesn’t know that,” Johnna said.

  “Since the rest of the festival has been canceled, we’ll start calling the ice sculptors in the morning,” I said. “Ben took my list of competitors to question them, but I know who was there. We’ll say we’re making sure they have all of their tools and equipment and nothing was misplaced during the commotion.”

  “I have their names and contact information,” Logan said. “I’ll assign us each a list to call tomorrow.”

  “Don’t tell me how to live my life,” Roy said, taking another sip.

  “We’re heading into the belligerent drunk phase,” Johnna said. “We better wrap this up before he passes out at your table, Cam.”

  “Roy, why don’t you have a cup of coffee and I’ll drive you home?” I said.

  He waved me away, and stood on wobbly legs. “I’m fine to walk.” He took two steps, stumbled, and fell into the wall, knocking down an antique framed drawing of the first Ellsworth House Thanksgiving done by one of Ben’
s many ancestors.

  “I’ll drive you,” I said again, more insistent this time.

  Logan was on his feet trying to help Roy back onto his, but Roy wasn’t having it. “I may be an old man,” he was saying, “but I’m plenty able to stand on my own!”

  Johnna had her yarn bag all packed up and was struggling with her coat, getting wound in about seven feet of monogrammed, knit scarf and turning over the plate of cookies.

  Logan’s phone rang in the middle of the melee. He took a couple steps back from Roy who was swinging his arms now to free himself from any assistance, and answered. “I assume you heard about the murder.”

  Right to the point. No greeting, no small talk. That was Logan.

  “We’re fine.” He dodged Roy’s arm with a grunt. “Fine being a relative term. Nobody’s hurt. Yet. Roy’s drunk, and Johnna’s throwing plates around, so I should say we’re the same as always.”

  “Is it Anna?” I asked, holding the left side of Johnna’s coat up for her to slide her arm into.

  He nodded and spoke into the phone. “We’re at Cam’s getting ready to leave.”

  “Tonight?” he asked her. “It’s getting late. No, if it can’t wait, I—I’ll see you soon then.”

  He hung up and tucked his phone back in his pocket. His face went pale and long, like it was drooping, or melting. “What is it, Logan?” I asked.

  “I think she’s breaking up with me. I’ve got to go.”

  He swiped his laptop off the table and strode toward the front door. I wanted to call to him, tell him something encouraging, but I found I didn’t know what to say to a teenage boy facing his first breakup. Before my mind could land on something, he was pulling the door shut behind him.

  “He’s never getting over that,” Roy said. “I’ll get him a batch of hooch to numb the pain. Works wonders.”

  “He’ll get over it just fine,” Johnna said. “He’s a smart boy, unlike you, you old gaffer.”

  “Takes one to know one,” he muttered back.

  It took some doing, but I got them both out the door. It was frigid, and I didn’t want Johnna walking home, especially with a murderer on the loose. “I’ll drop you off first,” I told her, opening the passenger side door.