Foul Play at the Fair (2 page)

Dolly laughed. “I would never forget such a sweetie.” She handed Liv a smaller paper bag.

“Just a little D-O-G biscuit recipe I’ve been working on. Shaped like little bones, they’re so cute. And no sugar. I’m going to talk to Sharise over at the Woofery about maybe stocking them for her clients.”

“That’s a great idea. You may have a whole new industry on the horizon,” Liv said.

Dolly beamed, and Liv and Whiskey hurried next door to the Buttercup Coffee Exchange. The proprietor, Betty Ford, known as BeBe to distinguish her from the other Betty Ford, was waiting at the door with a large latte and a decaf tea. BeBe was a lush thirtysomething, half country girl and half urban entrepreneur. She and Liv had bonded the first day Liv had come into the store.

“Saw you coming. Knew you’d be in a hurry this morning.” BeBe handed Liv the cardboard carton of drinks. “And I saw what Janine just did. Somebody oughta tell her nobody wants sour grapes at a harvest festival.”

“Well, I did take her job.”

“No reason to try to run over you. If she wanted to keep being the town’s event coordinator, she should have done a better job. She was driving us to the poorhouse, and everybody knows it, whether they say so or not. I’ll put the coffee and tea on your tab.”

“Thanks, BeBe. You’re a dream.”

She’d made the right decision to move here, Liv thought as she hurried toward her office in town hall. Celebration
Bay was the epitome of Yankee ingenuity. It had survived several wars, the depression, a flu epidemic, and two recessions. When the cannery, the major source of employment in the county, closed, they threw a party. Fifteen years later, Celebration Bay was a thriving destination vacation spot, delivering family entertainment at affordable prices.

But the festivals had grown too big for volunteers, and when Liv saw the ad for a full-time event coordinator, she jumped at the chance to do something really worthwhile. For the most part, people were congenial, helpful, and polite. And if they liked getting their own way, well, who didn’t.

Ted Driscoll was already at work in the outer office. He was a man of a certain age, tall and thin with thick white hair, mild blue eyes, and a dry sense of humor. He also had his finger on the pulse of Celebration Bay gossip. That alone made him indispensable. His computer skills and willingness to work on Saturdays made him a gem.

He stood up as Liv entered, and Liv, being a well-trained dog owner, dropped Whiskey’s leash. Whiskey darted forward, and Ted leaned over and vigorously scratched behind both doggie ears. “Who’s my favorite daw-aw-awg,” Ted yodeled.

“Arr-roo-roo-roo.”

“My favorite daw-aw-awg.”

“Arr-roo—”

Liv rolled her eyes, deposited the scones and coffee on Ted’s desk, and picked up a thick manila folder.

“I’ll be in my office when you two goofballs are finished,” Liv said. Neither goofball paid any attention to her as they yodeled through their morning ritual.

Liv’s office was a big square room with two tall sash windows and a high ceiling. The walls were painted an unwholesome beige, though someone had tried to spiff things up with travel posters of Bermuda. Liv meant to do a little redecorating as soon as she got this first festival under her belt.

Ted came in with a tray, set it on her desk, and sat down across from her. Whiskey followed, his treat from Dolly held delicately between his teeth. And, finally remembering that he’d been trained at a very expensive obedience school, he headed for his pillow where he stretched out and made short work of Dolly’s dog delicacy.

Liv glanced at the tea tray. In addition to the hot drinks, the scones arranged on two china saucers, the knives, forks, and paper napkins, today a folded newspaper lay on top. “We’re getting way too civilized, Ted.”

“Never, but the newspaper is strictly business.” He handed it to Liv, who unfolded it to the front page. It was the local weekly, the
Celebration Clarion.

“‘Fishing Suspended to Protect Spawning Salmon’?”

“Next page.”

Liv opened the bifold paper. An article on tractor advancements, a report on the county fair, a Weight Watchers meeting announcement, a twofer coupon for Otis Deal’s Texas Wieners. On the opposite page was an article about arrowheads found by a Boy Scout troop while hiking in the foothills. And below it was a half-page advertisement for the Harvest by the Bay Festival and a listing of the weekend festivities.

The ad was strictly clip art, designed by her predecessor, but there were no obvious mistakes; dates, times, activities were all there. She lifted her eyebrows at Ted.

“As I understand it, the ad should have been a whole page, not half.”

“I don’t suppose there’s an invoice?”

Ted shook his head. “Janine didn’t keep records.”

Liv sighed. “I’ll go have a talk with”—she looked at the masthead—“Mr. Bristow. I should meet him anyway if we’re going to be doing business in the future.” She checked her iPhone. “I have to go out to Waterbury Farms. Joss wants me to see the antique apple press exhibit that he’s put together before he opens it to the public this weekend. Then I’ll
stop by the Miller farm to get an ETA on the corn maze for Haunted October, but I can drop by the newspaper office this afternoon.”

“Be sure to get there before three or he’ll have closed up to go fishing.”

Liv rolled her eyes. “So that’s why festival news got bumped for salmon eggs.” She entered the
Clarion
’s address into her address book.

They worked their way through the folder, dividing up jobs until there was one paper left. “Zoldosky Brothers,” Liv said thoughtfully. “The jugglers?”

“Yep. I saw their Airstream drive by on my way to work. Probably going out to Andy Miller’s farm. That’s where most of the vendors and entertainers camp.” Ted reached for the paper. “I’m glad they got here early. I’ll have to get out there and remind them that they’re paid a very nice fee and panhandling is strictly forbidden. I’d ask Bill Gunnison to go out but he’s down with sciatica.”

“A hell of a time for the sheriff’s back to go out,” Liv said. “Do you think he’ll be okay by Saturday? I might be a bit overzealous, but Manhattan doesn’t have the monopoly on perverts, pickpockets, and psychopaths.”

“No,” Ted agreed. “But we usually lock ours in the attic.”

Liv choked on her coffee. “Don’t do that,” she said, blotting coffee off the manila folder.

Ted raised his eyebrows, all innocence.

“I’ll talk to them. I’m going out there anyway.”

Ted hesitated. “Okay, but make sure to take Andy with you. The Zoldoskys are ex-carny folk. They come every year and never cause any trouble, but they’re a bit rough around the edges.”

“Not to worry. You should have seen some of my clients in Manhattan. Money and an East Side address don’t automatically give a person good taste or good manners.”

Ted barked out a laugh. “Hon, you’re a breath of fresh air. But you don’t need to do everything yourself.”

“I know. It’s a nasty habit I intend to break…once the harvest festival is a resounding success. Then I’ll go into strong-arming-for-help mode for Halloween.”

Liv gathered up hard copies of the permit forms and added them to the manila folder, which she slid into a canvas shoulder bag.

“If I leave Whiskey here, you have to promise not to keep feeding him.”

Ted widened his eyes innocently. Whiskey cocked his head—innocently.

“If you get fat, I’ll have to send you to doggie boot camp.”

“Maybe we can get a twofer,” Ted said, patting a nonexistent stomach.

“Behave. Both of you.”

Liv managed to hide her grin until she reached the hallway. She couldn’t imagine any of her former Manhattan colleagues, even the dog lovers, putting up with a dog at work, much less enjoying him. She loved her new job.

She stopped in the ladies’ room for a quick look in the mirror: makeup, neat, understated; slacks, loose jacket, casual but businesslike; hair…burnt sugar? Whatever. She twisted it onto the top of her head and fixed it there with a claw clip. Even more businesslike, in case she needed the extra clout with the Zoldosky brothers.

Her first stop was Waterbury Farms, two miles out of town on the county road. It was a working farm, but its claim to fame was the Waterbury store. The store had taken over the original cider mill when they built a larger, updated mill a mile away. There was still one huge working press housed behind a plate glass window where visitors could watch the apples being pressed into juice. The mill’s fresh cider and cider doughnuts had been reviewed in magazines up and down the East Coast.

Liv pulled into a parking space at the front of the red clapboard building. Even on a midweek morning there were several cars in the lot. There was an additional parking area
around back. Plenty of room for the weekend overflow. And if they had someone directing traffic, things should go smoothly.

That was the area Liv was most concerned about. Ted had told her of gnarled traffic jams and fumes smelling up the park as cars waited for parking spaces.

Not on my watch,
she told herself. She didn’t have much experience directing vehicular traffic, but she had a plan that she would present at the Traffic Committee meeting that night.

She slid her bag across the car seat and went inside. She was immediately surrounded by the sweet aroma of apples and frying doughnuts. Joss Waterbury, dressed in denim overalls and a red plaid shirt, was a walking advertisement for the American farmer. He was manning the doughnut maker, but he handed off the job to his teenage daughter, Roseanne, when he saw Liv.

“I got the back room all set up for the antique exhibit. I think you’re really gonna like it. Educational as well as fun.”

He led her down an aisle between wooden shelves that were filled with foodstuffs, books, and kitchenware, and past the electric cider press. Liv couldn’t help but slow down to watch the chunks of apples rushing out of the giant delivery tube into the cloth-covered frames, the juice running out the bottom into troughs that would carry it away to be processed.

“Kinda mesmerizing, ain’t it?” Joss said.

“It’s fascinating,” Liv agreed.

They stood watching for a few more seconds; then Joss started off again.

“You’re about to step back into history,” he said, gesturing to a room that until a few days ago had held quilts, T-shirts, and homespun linens, as well as a huge granite apple mill.

“I hope you’re going to lead the tour yourself,” Liv said. “You just sent a shiver up my spine.” She stepped inside and took in the collection of old and unusual devices. Machines
with slatted barrels, metal colanders, and giant hand cranks. An apple saucer, a fermentation vat, and a row of pottery cider jugs.

“This baby,” Joss said, stopping by an old cast-iron and wooden press, “dates back to the late eighteen hundreds.” He ran a hand lovingly over the round press wheel. “Took three of us to get it in the truck.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Buddy Powers’s got an ‘antique’ place over on Route 9. Mostly junk and such a mess that you couldn’t find nothing if you tried. Except I knew he had this; he tried to sell it to me for a fortune years ago. Course, nobody ever bought it. When you got this idea for an exhibit, I remembered him. Went over there and got it for a song.

“Now, this one,” he said, moving to a much larger contraption that was about five feet high and spread out over several feet, “is on loan from Fenway Farms up the road. Belonged to Fenway’s grandfather. He don’t want it, but his wife won’t let him get rid of it. So he was happy to oblige.”

Liv peered into the collection barrel, then examined the heavy iron press and the series of cogs and wheels along the side.

“How exactly does it work?” she asked.

“It works on the same principle as the big electric press, only you do it by hand.” Joss flipped a heavy iron latch. “You put your apples in this funnel. Then you position the stone disc on top.” He grabbed hold of a heavy-looking crank handle. “You turn the crank, which presses the stone down and crushes the apples. Takes forever. Even with the big double ones.”

“They’re safe, aren’t they? No kid could get a mashed finger or anything?”

“No,” Joss said, as he returned the latch to the iron eye. “I’ll have them locked off, though I’m thinking about having hourly demonstrations on the weekends. Just a little added attraction.”

A man after her own heart, Liv thought.

“I think this is going to be real interesting.” He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and looked around. “Might even build on an extra room and keep an eye out for some unusual mills to add to the collection. Found something real nice on eBay the other day. Shipping it would break the bank. But you never know.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s going to be a big hit,” Liv said.

No one was home at the Miller farm, but Liv could see the field where a handful of trucks and trailers were already settling in for the weekend.

A battered silver Airstream trailer was parked at the farthest edge of the field near the woods and away from the other vendors. She drove across the field, following the tracks made by the trailer. She parked several yards away and read the sign painted on the side in large black letters.
Zoldosky Brothers.
And underneath,
Juggling, Tumbling, Balloon Animals.
She beeped the horn to warn them they had a visitor.

When no one appeared, she got out of the car.

The trailer had two metal steps leading to the door and two small windows on either side, covered by thick curtains. There was a pickup truck parked next to the trailer, so someone must be home.

“Hello?” she called as she approached the trailer. “Hel-lo-o.”

The hair on the nape of her neck lifted; she could feel someone watching her, but when she turned around, no one was there. She suddenly felt very isolated at the edge of the woods; the few other vehicles were too far away to even hear her if she screamed.

Wuss
, she thought. She turned back to the trailer; the curtain abruptly fell back across the window. So, she hadn’t imagined it; someone
was
watching her.

She climbed the two metal steps to the door and knocked. “Mr. Zoldosky? Anyone home?”