Baby and the Billionaire

by Beverly Evans

  Glancing around to make sure no one sees me; I take the step and land in forbidden territory. I don't hesitate, but keep going around the back of the maze, toward where I saw the two men fight. She doesn't need to know right now. I'll just let her think the grocery store relocated the pumpkin puree, and I'm on a quest to save my muffins.

  Maybe in more ways than one. A chill rolls along my skin, and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck like someone is watching me.

  I don't let myself look worried. If someone is watching, I don't want them to see any fear. It's easier to be brave in the daylight. At least this way I can see what's around me and know what direction I'm going. I make my way around the edge of the maze to the back, where I'm sure I made my own exit. A few bent stalks confirm it. But just like last night, there are hay bales piled in the spot where the two men faced off. They were nowhere near there when I climbed out of the corn. This space was open, a stretch of coarse grass and weeds acting like a buffer between the farmland and the Ferris property. Now, right where there should be a body, someone haphazardly stacked six of the heavy, dense bales used in the maze to change the direction of the paths.

  The time between me witnessing the stabbing and getting back here couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes. That's not a terribly large amount of time to clean up after a murder and get rid of the body. I look at the hay bales again. Unless you sweep it all under the rug, so to speak.

  Putting my back to the stack of hay, I dig my heels into the ground and try to move the pile. It doesn't budge. I adjust my position, putting my shoulder into the hay, and shove. The top bales slip, but the ones on the bottom remain stubbornly in place. I have new respect for the cowboys that show up in all the sappy romances Sylvia loves and I tolerate with her in the name of friendship. They wear jeans they can barely breathe in, boots that have never seen dirt, and no shirt, and sling these things around like they're nothing.

  Another hard push succeeds in pushing my feet out from under me, and I slip, thudding not so gracefully to the ground. While I'm rubbing away the pain in my hip, I glance down and notice my full body weight hitting the bottom of the bale did manage to scoot it a couple inches.

  Flipping over onto my knees, I examine the grass revealed by the movement. Some of the blades are dark. My fingertips tremble as I touch them to the darkened grass. They come back tinged red. Pushing the bale over it didn't allow the blood to dry completely. There isn't much, but enough.

  The sound of a footstep makes my muscles tighten, and my ears ring.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  My eyes squeeze closed. As if it will protect me from the voice behind me.

  This is it. No masked man to rescue me this time. I might as well come clean.

  I didn't get along with my hamster as a child.

  I asked Sylvia to pick up extra trick-or-treat candy last year because so many children come to my house, but it was really because I ate half a bag of peanut butter cups on two consecutive nights.

  I ate them while watching the sappy movies. I say I only tolerate them, but they're secretly my favorite.

  Bracing myself, I whip around and stand up, preparing to at least attempt to not go out like a punk. The manager stares back at me.

  "Silver?" The name bursts out of me along with all the air I've been holding in my lungs.

  "Sterling," he corrects. "Didn't I tell you this area is out of bounds for customers? And that you need to leave?"

  "Technically, you told me that yesterday," I correct him.

  "Still off limits today," he fires back. "You shouldn't be back here."

  "This is where I saw the stabbing," I tell him, pointing down at my feet. "These hay bales were put over it. Look, blood." I hold my fingers out to show him the traces still on my skin.

  He shakes his head with the same condescending smile from last night.

  "Again, lady, this is a Halloween haunt. That means a lot of gore. But none of it's real. Just stage blood. It's all over the place. I'm sure you'd find smears and puddles in and around all the houses and the maze if you look."

  "If it's just stage blood, why would someone want to go to all the effort of covering it up with hay bales?" I ask.

  "Element of surprise. If you want another spook, why don't you come back when we're open? I promise you haven't figured out all our secrets yet."

  No argument from me on that.

  His wink lingers with me long after I cross back over the orange lines and scurry away from the empty haunts. They don't look nearly as imposing in the bright daylight that exposes all the seams, props, and details hidden by the dark. I put them behind me as fast as I can without breaking out into a full run. Hopping back into my car, I head directly to the police station.

  Ten minutes later, I've made no progress.

  "No, I didn't hear this story from anyone. I actually saw it," I repeat.

  The young officer across from me, a man I remember being a few years ahead of me in high school, reads over the notes he's made in his notebook. They can't be but so extensive considering we've gone over the same details a dozen times.

  "Inside the corn maze?" he asks.

  "No. Like I said, I wasn't inside the maze anymore. My friends were waiting for me, and I'd taken too long in the maze, so I took a shortcut out. I'd climbed out of the maze when I saw the two men," I tell him.

  "You climbed out of the maze? What do you mean?"

  I blink.

  "I'm sorry. I'm not sure which of those words are causing you difficulty."

  The officer folds his hands and looks at me with a terse smile.

  "Ma'am, I'm just trying to understand the story you're telling me. You have to admit; it's a bit outlandish."

  I fold my hands like his and lean slightly across the table.

  "Jimmy," I start.

  "Officer," he corrects.

  I let out a breath.

  "As far as I'm concerned, you are Jimmy Ray Boones, boyfriend to the captain of the chess club, beater on the unsanctioned, underground school Quidditch team, and boy who knocked over so many cows his Junior year he got the name Milkshake," I say in a low tone.

  He slides back, and some of the arrogant veneer leaves his face.

  "Bianca is doing very well, thank you for asking. Third baby just got his first chess set."

  "That's lovely."

  "Why don't you go back to the very beginning and tell me the whole story, all the way through, one more time," he says, his pen poised above the paper.

  "I went to the haunted houses. Went through the corn maze. My friends decided they were done. I tried to give Jackson some time alone with Betsy. Sylvia ruined it, but I had already said I was going through the maze again. Went in alone. Everyone else was gone. Got confused. Got lost. Went through the corn, climbed over a barrier, left the maze. When I was out of the maze, I saw two men arguing. Couldn't hear what they were saying, but I'm going to take an educated guess they weren't happy with each other. One pulled out a knife. Stabbed the other one. He saw me, and I ran. I thought I was heading toward the front, turns out I ran out onto the Ferris property. A guy found me and brought me back to the maze. The manager said it was part of the show, but there were hay bales where the murder was that weren't there yesterday. I went back today and found blood."

  "Thank you for the Reader's Digest Condensed version," Officer Jimmy says.

  I hold out my hands, then let them drop back to the desk.

  "Interest of time," I tell him.

  He scans over his notes again, then shakes his head. "Unfortunately, it doesn't look like there's a lot we can do."

  "What? What do you mean there isn't a lot you can do? I told you I witnessed a murder and found blood where someone is trying to cover it up. How can there be nothing you can do about that?" I sputter incredulously.

  "As far as I can tell, you went to a Halloween attraction, saw an intense part of the show, and got scared by it. Like the manager told you, there's stage blood everywhere. That
place is a mess every year. You didn't find a body; the manager identified the two actors who were in that area at the time. It sounds to me like you had a scare and overreacted."

  I can't believe what I'm hearing. My phone ringing is the only thing that stops me from spending the rest of the afternoon staring open-mouthed at the officer and waiting for the punchline.

  "Hello?"

  "Are you milling your own flour?"

  I wince at Sylvia's voice.

  "Sorry. I'll be right there." Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I meet Jimmy's eyes. "I know what I saw. Someone got murdered out there last night and no one is taking it seriously. If you're not going to do your job... maybe I will."

  Before he can say anything else, I storm out of the office and head for the grocery store. I need ingredients for pumpkin muffins and cinnamon coffee cake. This is going to warrant baked goods for strength.

  Chapter Eight

  Scarlett

  "Next time you are going to go sneaking around potentially annoying a murderer, you're going to need to tell me," Sylvia says an hour later as I pour the thick, spice-colored batter into muffin tins.

  "I figured you'd worry about me," I tell her.

  "Of course, I'd worry about you! What kind of terrible best friend would I be if I wasn't worried about you?" she asks.

  I lick leftover batter from my finger and shrug one shoulder.

  "Well, I mean, kind of a good terrible best friend."

  Sylvia thinks this through for a second, then shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed as she stops herself from going down that slippery slope.

  "The point is, if you are going off to wantonly fly in the face of danger, I would appreciate a heads up so I can be properly afraid for you," she says.

  "Wantonly fly in the face of danger?"

  The muffin tins go into the oven, and I turn my attention to the coffee cake.

  "What else would you call going back to a place where you think you saw a murder?" she asks.

  "Curiosity?"

  Her expression says she is not amused.

  "Does that mean you actually believe me?" I ask. She hesitates, and I let out a sigh of exasperation. "Seriously?"

  "I'm sorry, Scarlett. It just sounds crazy."

  "I know what I saw, Sylvia," I tell her.

  "You told me that already."

  "But it doesn't mean anything."

  "It's not that it doesn't mean anything but think about it. Now that you're out of the situation and it's daylight. Everything's clear. Think back on what you really went through last night. You said yourself the maze was scarier and more confusing the second time through. You were in there for a long time, and I'm sure not having anyone else in there with you made it more disorienting and freaked you out. You thought you had gone through the corn and gotten out of the maze, but maybe you didn't. Doesn't it make more sense that you were still in the maze and just stumbled on actors doing their job?"

  "I wasn't in the maze, Sylvia. I know what corn looks like, and there wasn't any in front of me. Besides, I told you the manager brought us back to the spot where I saw it happen."

  "Yeah, and you said that there was stuff there. You must have been turned around and gone to the wrong place."

  "Not stuff. Hay bales. The same exact hay bales that were put in the middle of the paths to change the direction of the maze. They were put there to cover up what happened. I found blood there this afternoon." I feel like I’ve had to tell this story a thousand times today.

  "Fake blood. I went through that maze. People were spewing fake blood everywhere. I'm pretty sure I got some of it on my shoes. They didn't choose subtlety for that particular attraction."

  "But if I was inside the maze when I saw the attack, why would there be fake blood in the no-customer area outside it? That area is supposed to be just for employees, so why would there be stage blood?" I point out.

  "An accident? Any of the actors could have spilled it."

  "And the hay bales?" I ask.

  "A coincidence."

  "You seem to be stretching pretty far just to take yourself out of believing me," I insist. "The simplest explanation is usually the right one."

  "Not when you think the simplest explanation is murder," she says firmly.

  I sigh and shake my head, turning my attention back to my coffee cake. If I was going to have to take on this situation alone, I might need the entire coffee cake to see me through.

  "You sound just like Jimmy," I sigh

  "Jimmy?" She gets a glint in her eyes and wiggles her shoulders playfully. "Is that the man from last night?"

  "No, that's the police officer I tried to tell about the murder, and he ignored me too," I tell her, feeling absolutely no shame bursting that bubble for her.

  "Milkshake?" she asks.

  "The one and only. He wasn't interested in believing me, either," I say.

  "You have to admit; it's a hard story to believe."

  "Nope. Don't have to admit that at all. I'm the one that had my ass chased down by a man with a bloody knife." The oven door slams over the tins of muffins and the Bundt pan. "Which brings me to my next point. This wasn't one of those haunts where the people are allowed to touch you or reenact abducting you and putting you through a horror experience."

  "Is that a thing?" Sylvia asks in shock.

  "Yeah. Tickets go for hundreds of dollars sometimes. You have to sign a release and everything."

  She shakes her head, holding up her hands to push away the very concept of getting anywhere near that release.

  "Nuh-huh. Not me. I don't have to sign anything. I will stick to making scarecrows and hiding in my brother's shirt to get through a maze, thank you."

  "Fair enough. But fans of these things go crazy over them. There are only a few slots during the season, and they always sell out way in advance. What actually happens inside is hush-hush, but they warn customers to wear clothes they don't mind getting ruined and to acknowledge they might get injured," I explain.

  "And this is supposed to be fun?" she asks.

  "Yes."

  "What the fuck is wrong with people?"

  I shrug.

  "It takes all kinds. My point is, this wasn't one of those things. This was a corn maze in a small town set up ten feet away from a funnel cake stand. So, who was chasing me?" I ask.

  "Are you sure someone was chasing you?"

  I glare at her. "Do you think I make a habit of screaming like a banshee and trespassing on private land just for the fun of it? There was someone chasing me. I saw it, and I felt it. I heard his footsteps on the leaves in the woods. He was there. I don't know when he stopped and turned around, but when I was hiding behind that tree, I know he was there."

  "This really shook you up, didn't it?" Sylvia asks.

  "You can say that. I know everyone thinks this is all just my imagination, but I'm not convinced. I've been through enough haunted attractions in my life to know what they look like. That wasn't it. I don't know who it was or why they were there, but I saw someone get stabbed last night. I just need to figure out who it was."

  “What about the man who helped you?” Sylvia asks.

  “What about him?”

  “Did the police want to know about him? Did they interview him?”

  “I told them he found me while I was running through the fields and came with me back to the maze. But that's really all I had to tell them. I don't even know his name. By the time I turned around to thank him for helping me, he was gone. I have no idea how I would even find him.”

  “You don't think it's possible…”

  “He is not the killer,” I assure her. “Trust me; the thought went through my mind.”

  “Saturday Special Edition 20/20?”

  “It might have occurred to me. But he was just as confused by the situation as I was. He told me he heard me screaming and came to make sure I was okay. It was just a few minutes after I saw the stabbing, and he didn't have any blood on him. And when he came back to the
maze with me, he didn't look like he was anticipating anything I was going to say or knew where I wanted to go. I believe he just wanted to help.”

  “And he came swooping in wearing a cape and mask to save you from the bad guy,” she says. “You have your very own real-life superhero.”

  I scoff.

  “It's Halloween time. He was just wearing a costume.”

  Sylvia shrugs and takes a sip of her pumpkin spice coffee.

  “I'm sure Superman would say the same thing,” she points out.

  “Alright, he was gorgeous, and from what I could feel when he grabbed me, he has an incredible body. But I'm not exactly focused on the sexy masked stranger, okay? Like I said, I don't know his name or anything about him. It was all so dark, so I might have misinterpreted what he looked like completely. In real life and without the cape and mask, he might be nothing special at all.”

  “Fine,” she relents, holding up her hands in surrender. “I got the message. I'll just wrap it up by pointing out not every girl gets her own superhero. But that's all I'm going to say about it. I'm done. What are you going to do now?”

  “Exactly what the manager told me to,” I say.

  She looks at me strangely.

  “What manager? What are you talking about?” she asks.

  “The manager of the haunts,” I continue. “You asked me what I was going to do now.”

  “I meant, were you going to make the streusel for the coffee cake, or did you want to get started staging the upstairs rooms?” she asks.

  “Oh. The streusel can wait. We should set up the rooms upstairs. One of the couples who expressed interest in coming tonight is expecting twin boys, so I thought we could take one of the bedrooms and add a few touches so they could envision the boys in there when they get a little older. I might have bought a couple of tiny Halloween costumes. I don't know what to do with them after the open house. Do you think Friedrich Von Whiskerpants might be interested?”