Boo Who (36 page)

Martin leaned back in his chair, folding his arms together, looking around the donut shop to see if anyone else was listening. Oliver was practically stretching all the way across the table, staring at him for any sign of reaction.

“Oliver, this is crazy!” he whispered.

“I know, I know,” Oliver whispered back. “I’m scared out of my mind!”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “This Dr. Hass … There seems to be something off about him, doesn’t there?”

Oliver shrugged.

“You didn’t ask why he wanted us to catch these people?”

“He didn’t seem to want to give the information. In fact, the money was incentive to trust him.”

“Trust him.”

“Yeah.”

They sighed at the same time, then studied each other. Finally Martin said, “I have a theory.”

“You do?”

“Yes, about all these people. I don’t think they’re ghosts or goblins or even possessed.”

“That’s what he said!” Oliver exclaimed.

“There’s only one thing that makes sense to me.”

“What is it?”

Martin shoved his half-eaten donut out of the way. “They’re clones.”

“Clones?!”

“Shush!” Martin said.

Oliver whispered, “Clones?”

“Yes, clones. Don’t you remember what Missy Peeple has always said about Garth?”

“Garth Twyne the vet?”

“She’s always maintained that he cloned pigs. Some even thought cats, until that little mystery was solved.”

“It was just a crazy rumor!”

“Maybe, but maybe not. From all I can tell, Missy Peeple holds a lot of secrets about this town. You’ve said it yourself: These people don’t look normal. Perhaps they’re clones, throwaways, experiments that went awry.”

Oliver’s eyes bulged. “Dr. Hass might be involved with this cloning experiment?”

“It would make sense as to why he was so secretive about it. And why he has suddenly shown up in town.”

Blinking rapidly, Oliver covered his mouth in a frightful, private thought. Then he looked at Martin. “Could be why that guy thought he was from Kentucky. He was cloned from somebody in Kentucky!” Oliver gasped at his own words.

Martin stared at the table. “I don’t know if I can believe it myself, Oliver. But I intend to find out the truth. As soon as Missy Peeple wakes up.”

Oliver swallowed. “And I intend to catch myself a clone. And then use it for ransom to find out what Dr. Hass and Dr. Twyne are up to.” Oliver gobbled up his donut, chewing through one thought after another. He then said, “It is a little odd to think of Dr. Twyne cloning, though. I mean, from what I understand, he has trouble performing basic neutering operations.”

“True,” Martin said. “But it could just be a disguise. And now he’s cloning people. Except the experiment isn’t going well. He’s got to figure out what to do with all the duds.”

Oliver shook his head in disgust.

“One thing I know, Oliver. I will find out what’s going on with this town, and what happened to it long ago, if it’s the last thing I do. It’s the only way to save Skary and Mayor Wullisworth.”

“How is he, by the way?”

Martin shook his head. “Well, last time I saw him he was sitting in his bathtub on the ‘beaches of Bermuda.’”

“Goodness,” Oliver said. “It’s sad to see someone lose his mind.”

Martin nodded and smiled. “At least
somebody
around here is thinking clearly.”

They reached across the table and shook hands.

Ainsley could not stop sobbing. For at least thirty minutes now, all she was able to do was sit on her bed, look through her wedding planner, and cry. Her dream wedding was falling apart piece by little petit four. Whenever she finally got herself together, she would turn the page in her wedding planner and start to cry all over again.

Marlee was going to be wearing blue taffeta.

The wedding cake was going to be coconut something-or-other. The cake lady assured her it would be terrific. Terrific for a luau.

She still hadn’t found a suitable place for the reception. The only spot in town she liked was mysteriously booked. The woman wouldn’t
say who’d booked it, only that it was firmly in the schedule. Ainsley thought it was a tall tale if she’d ever heard one.

She still had hopes for a caterer. She’d called one about thirty miles away; they thought they could do it and said they’d get back with her. Her groom-to-be wouldn’t call her back.

Uncontrollable sobs filled the bedroom again. She lay back on her bed and turned on her side. When the tears cleared enough for her to see her bedside table, she noticed her mother’s wedding diary. Picking it up, she dried her tears and flipped open the diary to May 9, which would’ve been about three weeks before her parents’ wedding.

She laughed, sitting up on her bed.

Tears rolled down Ainsley’s cheeks. How could her mother have known how very short her lifetime of love was going to be? And Aunt Gert, too. Wilbur was lost just as tragically, before they even had children.

She whispered to her mother, pouring out her grievances and fears.
“I love him,”
she cried. She did, more than she could say. But did he love her anymore? Could he accept who she’d become? Could he accept who
he
had become?

Grabbing at a tissue, she wiped her tears and blotted her cheeks, gasping for fresh air that was not polluted by her self-pity. How she was going to pull off this wedding, she didn’t know. But she would do it. She
had
to do it. She’d dreamed of this day her whole life.

She just hoped the groom would show up.

The phone rang, and she eagerly grabbed it.

“Hello? Wolfe?”

“Ainsley, hi. It’s Alfred.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Well, what did you think of Indianapolis? Did you ever dream you’d have two elite chefs at your beck and call?”

She shook her head. “It was quite an experience.” She didn’t know what else to say. They’d already talked all the way back that night.

“Ainsley, there is a lot of buzz about this. People are talking, and in this business, talk is good. Everyone is waiting to see what you’re like, who you are, what you’re up to. And I think I’ve come up with a tag line for the show: Ainsley Parker: This Isn’t Your Mother’s Kitchen.’ What do you think?”

She closed her eyes. She didn’t know what to think. “You’re the expert, Alfred.”

“I think it delivers the message that this show is new and fresh, that you’re new and fresh.”

“Like a ripe tomato plucked off the vine,” she sighed.

“Anyway, I may be out of touch for a few days. I have to fly to New York to tie up some financial backing. Ten days, my friend, and you’re on your way to the top.”

“Alfred, um … I need to talk to you about something.”

“Yes?” Urgency made the word almost a hiss.

“It’s just that … well …” Her fingers tore through her hair. She wanted to quit all this! All of it! What did all this matter in the light of her love for Wolfe?

“I’ve waited my whole life for a talent like you, Ainsley. I was born to make stars out of fire. And you’ve got the fire, the passion, that is needed to make it big. And now, behind you, is the person who can put
all the pieces into place. Of course, I don’t have to remind you how much of my own money I’ve invested into this.”

She couldn’t say a word.

“My darling,” Alfred said, “you are the next domestic diva. I’ll talk to you soon.”

She hung up the phone, rolling her eyes and throwing herself backward into her pillows. She plopped her mother’s diary onto the bedside table. A flurry of papers swooshed to the ground. Retrieving them, she flipped through a handful of articles that Alfred had clipped for her to use as inspiration. In between articles on “Feng Shui for Your Backyard Barbeque” and “I ♥ Vintage T-Shirts,” she noticed the cookie bake-off rules from the competition in Indianapolis. She couldn’t remember reading them the night before the event when she was mad at Wolfe and baking nine different kinds of cookies. That seemed like such a long time ago. In an effort to distract herself, she tracked her weary eyes over the fine print.

But her mind reeled with anger toward Alfred, who certainly didn’t care about her feelings or concerns. All of his friendliness, had it been a setup to woo her? to trap her? Her fists clutched the papers.

He wanted a domestic diva? Then he was going to get one.

Wolfe sighed, hanging up the phone in the back room of the bookstore. It was busy. He’d been thinking of Ainsley all day, but he had been in charge of distributing stock onto the shelves and had not had an opportunity to call her. Now Martin was waiting at the front of the store for him, eager to go explore the secret map.

Wolfe shook his head and decided he couldn’t delay Martin any longer. He’d have to call her again later tonight.

“Have a good evening, Wolfe,” Mr. Bishop said with a wave as Wolfe left the store. He waved back and joined Martin on the sidewalk.

“Let’s eat an early dinner, and I’ll show you the map,” Martin said.

After they’d ordered at The Mansion, Martin took the map out of his briefcase and laid it on the table. He turned it to face Wolfe.

“These are the five shacks I found,” Martin said, pointing to their location on the map, indicated by a box.

“How far apart are they?”

“I’d say about a half-mile from each other.”

“It’s odd, they look like they’re in a circle.”

“I noticed that too,” Martin said. “Probably coincidence.”

“I don’t know,” Wolfe said. “It could mean something. What about this X here in the center? What was this?”

“Nothing from what I could tell. There was not a shack there.”

“What is there?”

“I think just trees and brush.”

“What have you ever heard about these shacks?”

Martin shook his head. “Nothing, really. We’ve talked about tearing them down, we don’t want kids getting hurt. But for the most part, nobody seems to bother them.”

The waitress brought their meals and Wolfe folded up the map. “As soon as we can, let’s get up there. It’s going to be hard to see in the dark.”

“I brought flashlights.”

Huffing and puffing her way up the small hill, Melb murmured her discontent with the owl. She’d tried everything. She’d read books at the library, hoping she was simply using the wrong dialect of owl. She’d spent hours owling softly, in order not to intimidate Mr. Sensitive. But nothing worked. The owl would not have her. And it was ticking her off.

Every book she’d read said that a little patience and a whole lot of hooting would get an owl to connect. But this owl was stubborn beyond belief. Well, he hadn’t met stubborn.