by A J Maybe
Otherwise, I had to appreciate the camp for the oasis it was.
The Millers had built a small but beautiful cabin, choosing to frame it with rough-hewn timbers of beastly size over the more obvious round log construction. The rear deck radiated an orange cedar hue, which combined with the half-octagon shape to evoke a sunset. Without front steps, I crossed that deck every time I entered or exited the camp. The yard was surrounded by tall maples and elms, densely packed, so you’d never see a sunset, but the tranquility of that back deck was unmatched.
It probably helped that the nearest neighbours were almost a kilometer away, and the “bustle” of downtown Carterton Cove nearly twelve clicks past that.
I shook off my reverie and was hefting the baking parcel from the basket of my bike when it finally dawned on me: Ty was the blond wrestler from the auction! He’d threatened Rex’s life, publicly. I couldn’t believe the police hadn’t picked him up yet. Surely someone had reported that Ty had said —no, shouted— that Rex would be a dead man.
I had to get this investigation going, pronto!
Even with my arms laden, I took the camp steps two at a time, eager to check my inbox. At least the wonky lock on the back door saved me from struggling with the keys. The door opened into a modest kitchen full of appliances that were either vintage or old, depending on who you asked. I deposited my load on the counter and retrieved my laptop from the pine slab island separating the kitchen from the living room. Flipping it open, I immediately sagged with that “no-new-messages” disappointment.
I decided to be productive while I waited for a reply from The Familiar. I could get that neighbourhood watch blog started, for one. Instead, I made a list of suspects, just for my own use.
There was LT, of course. He used to have a temper, and he’d given me that tour of the truck.
Not that I understood why the OPP thought the truck was such a big deal. So Rex had bid on it — so what? He’d bid on a million things. Although I guess the truck was the only thing he hadn’t won, thanks to LT.
LT had interfered with Rex’s bidding, and was certainly big enough and strong enough to force a mask over Rex’s head and yank the cords tight. The more I thought about it, the more I thought maybe the police were onto something.
And what about Kasper? He was too old and weak to suffocate Rex, the cops thought, but I had just seen that might not be the case. He was certainly eager to get the truck off Barry’s property, and to help get it into my name ASAP. Something didn’t add up about that. He had just conceded the lost auction, and then shifted to being in my corner, helpful as could be. Why?
Because he gave me cookies when I was eight years old? On that note, could I REALLY suspect the cookie mumster of murder?
Then there were all the other wrestlers, of course, though none of them held any specific motives aside from “Rex is a jerk.” And if we include everyone who crinkled their nose at the mention of Rex Bales, we might as well lock up all of Carterton Cove. None of the other wrestlers really stood out.
Just the up-and-comer, Ty. There’s that statistic that we’re more likely to be hurt by a family member than by a stranger, right? Ty was almost certainly on-hand for the argument at Soggy Notions — maybe the anger over Rex neutering their father’s business with that bylaw finally boiled over.
And then there was me. I know I didn’t do it, but as the only person to win an auction over Rex, I was sure to be on a list in some OPP filing cabinet. I’d turned off my flip phone all day, but the ancient camp phone would be ringing with a call from Detective Desmoulin any time now, I bet.
A three-note jingle woke me from my musing —boo-doo-bing!— and I opened my email page with a gasp of excitement.
“Oh,” I said. It was just the donut instructions from Sherry. I saved them to my hard drive for future reference, but my mind was on other things. There was still no reply from Brennan, and nothing from the Familiar Faces.
I clicked over to the click-bait laden news site. They had updated the murder story with more details.
Grisly Murder Started As A Bar Fight?
The Familiar has learned that the beefy men seen arguing with Rex Bales just hours before his death were, as suspected, the professional wrestlers. The performers were in town to pay their respects to the famous Covey grappler, Barry Bales, who recently suffered a tragic accident.
The individuals in question are “Blessed” Freddie Best, Roger “Trucker Man” Stanson, Darby “The Ring Rocket” Fuller, Jimmy Kiss, Luke “Lion Tamer” Turner, and Rex’s brother, Ty Bales.
Note that both Bale brothers live in the Cove.
“Tell me something I don’t know”, I told the computer screen. Then I clicked around, and read more, and clicked around, and saw a suggested article about action movies based on obscure comics, and before I knew it, the clock read 11:11.
“How’d that happen?” I mumbled.
Boo-doo-bing! Another jingle sounded and I flushed with excitement. Here was the reply from The Familiar Faces. Even before clicking it, I could see the first line:
Hayy! Yeah for sure! Let’s bust this thing wide open! National media will start tuning in real soon…
That’s how far I got before the lights went out. The screen remained lit, running on battery, but without an internet connection I couldn’t open the blasted email to see anything beyond the preview!
I grunted and walked to the sink for a glass of water. That was a habit from when I was a kid — any time the lights flickered, my dad would joke that ‘they’d finally shut off the power!’ and I’d go to the sink to run some water, and tell him that water’s all we really need anyway.
“Smart kid,” he’d say, “We can always burn the couch for heat.”
The camp was on a well though, and needed power to pump water out of the ground. For now, what remained in the pressure tank was all I had. At least the old-fashioned phone would work, if I needed it.
I peered through the kitchen window, as if I might spot the source of the interruption. Power outages in the sticks were common, but the weather was usually the cause and it was a beautiful night. Brennan had vented his annoyance about how often it went out for ‘scheduled maintenance’, but surely I would’ve heard the Coveys talking about something like that for days beforehand, describing how they prepped tubs full of water and reminding each other to keep fridges and freezers closed, conserving precious cold, in case the outage went on longer than expected.
This ‘service interruption’ was wholly unexpected.
THUNK!
I jumped. That thunk was unexpected too. In Guelph, raccoons would sometimes wake me up by pawing through the garbage cans. This sounded like a bear had fallen off the roof and through the back deck. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my palms.
Maybe a tree had fallen.
A softer sound followed: thu-thunk.
Footsteps? Was the neighbour checking in? Not at this hour, Piper. I clutched my axe head pendant as if it were a real, functioning protection rune.
I scanned the room, now dimly lit by my laptop screen, for a weapon. Not that I really thought the camp was under attack, but it’d make me feel better to be wielding something. There were knives in the drawer, but my dad’s words echoed in my head: “Nobody wins in a knife fight.” Weird advice to give a kid, but I guess it stuck. I grabbed the broom instead.
“Now you’re really a witch, Piper Mars,” I told myself, just to break the silence that had followed the thu-thunk.
I sat on the arm of the loveseat, far from any windows, clutching the broom handle, shaking, and waiting for the lights to come back on. I felt vindicated for having kept in my habit of locking the door, even if the lock was dodgy at best.
The laptop switched to sleep mode and I stifled a shriek in the sudden darkness.
After getting my breathing back under control, I felt my way to the laptop and reawakened the screen, then used that light to find the junk drawer and locate a flashlight.
“Okay Piper,
big girl pants.”
I had seen the big power breaker on the pole outside when I first arrived and snickered at the quirks of construction practices out in the country. Now, I concluded that some animal had tried to climb the pole and somehow managed to flip the big lever down in the process.
I held the heavy, metal flashlight like a cop on TV: with a reverse grip, and at eye height in front of my face so that my arm was held high like a fighter’s guard hand. Shining the beam through the door, I got a good look at the porch before unlocking it, and nearly fainted. Adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream and it felt like my blood vessels dilated to garden-hose size. Now I could hear my heartbeat, the sucking sound of blood rushing through my carotid arteries, just under the ear.
It was no bear, and not a human either. Perched on the back deck were the distinctive silhouettes of three beer bottles.
The unmistakable foil edges of Seshman’s Indian Pale Ale labels glinted in the flashlight beam. It wasn’t the Gwillimbury, like Rex had at the auction, but the cheaper stuff.
The brew of which I’d knocked over twenty pallets. Here was my troubled past in the form of a brown glass bottle vessel, having somehow stalked across the province, off the main highway and along country roads, and over the Familiar Island Bridge, now stationed at the back door of my supposed safe haven.
The labels looked wrong. I squinted and made out the characters scrawled across each label in permanent marker.
The first one read: 28,800. The exact number of bottles which fit on 20 pallets.
The second one was six numbers, separated into three pairs. I couldn’t quite read it, but I knew it was the date of my accident.
The last one said: STOP LOOKING.
13
Slumber Party (Tuesday)
My vision clouded and I grabbed for the counter to steady myself. Whoever left those bottles HAD to be the killer, and they were close. I couldn’t see them on the back deck, but where were they? Even if they’d left the bottle and run off, they’d be within a few hundred meters of the back door. Down the road? Or in the bush?
They could be trying to get in the bathroom window, for all I knew.
Who even knew I’d started my own investigation?
The Familiar Faces knew, whoever that was. But they didn’t have my name or know where to find me. I didn’t think.
Sherry knew, of course, but she was on my side. Who had she told? Could the wrestlers in the Dungeon have heard our conversation through the heating vent?
I should call her. Maybe she could help. At least if I actually had a stroke while I was on the line with her, she could call an ambulance for me. Except I didn’t have the phone number at Kasper’s or an internet connection to look it up with. My cell was voice-only and probably couldn’t connect anyway.
Did Brennan keep a phonebook in this place? Not that I actually knew Kasper’s address or last name anyway. It probably wouldn’t be listed under “Cookie Mumster”.
Ohhh man oh man oh man oh—
I snapped that thought shut, closing out the creeping panic.
Why not dial 9-1-1, right? This is embarrassing, but here’s why: if I dialed 9-1-1, they’d send a car around. Eventually. The nearest officer was probably fifteen, twenty, maybe even thirty minutes away. They’d come, and I’d either be massacred by then or just fine. The latter seemed more likely, since the bottles were clearly designed as a warning. But the police would have questions, and I’d end up explaining the significance of the bottles, revealing my history in the process.
And I didn’t want to do that, not even to strangers. Not to mention, half the guys I went to high school with wanted to be cops, so there was a decent chance that the officer would be someone I knew. And there was no way I was telling an old classmate what “28,800” on a bottle of Seshman’s IPA meant to me.
Maybe that sounds dumb, but I didn’t 12-step my way out of addiction and I’d never really done the whole ‘announce it to the world’ thing. I’m not even sure if that’s really one of the steps.
Plus, the forklift accident was actually a crime that, so far, I’d gotten away with. An operator is responsible for harm caused by her machine, and what I’d done was criminal negligence. Whoever left those bottles was threatening to have me charged, but I didn’t fear being arrested or even going to jail half as much as I feared everyone knowing about it. My auction addiction would come out, my so-called hoarding, and mostly, the fact that my life had never been as glamorous as I’d indicated to my online Friends and followers.
If I was charged, the truth would become a matter of public record.
Okay, Piper. Make a list. Do something productive. You’re safer inside than outside, surely. You should sleep.
Yeah, right. Like I could sleep.
“Might as well make those donuts,” I told the room, hoping it was as empty as it seemed. If the killer came back, I’d be better off if I was upright, fully awake, and near a selection of weapons.
I read over Sherry’s instructions. Apparently the leaven would be prime between 4 and 8 in the morning. It’d be bubbly and smell sour, and would float in water if I cared to test it. Then I could mix in more water and the rest of the flour and let it rest in this ‘autolyse’ stage, for thirty minutes minimum.
It wasn’t like I’d be sleeping tonight anyway. After the autolyse rested, I’d add some salt and a pinch of nutmeg, fold the dough, and let it sit for 4 hours before shaping donuts and frying them.
“Four hours?!” I read. What was I going to do for four hours? Maybe two would be enough.
The clock on my computer said it wasn’t even midnight. “Well, I guess we’ll find out what happens if you tighten up those timelines a little bit,” I decided, searching for Brennan’s largest bowl, and a deep pan. Sherry suggested peanut or flax oil, but I found a few jugs of canola oil under the sink, next to two kerosene lanterns. “These’ll help,” I said, sniffing the canola to make sure it wasn’t lamp oil.
A little after 2 a.m., I had a big bowl of something vaguely resembling dough, and a pan of oil heating over the stove’s blue propane flame. Dusting my hands with flour, I began rolling little snakes and shaping them into donuts by hand.
It didn’t go great. “Maybe oiling my hands would’ve been better coating than flour,” I said. Half the kitchen got covered in my mess as I wrestled with the uncooperative goo. “Whatever. They’ll taste good.”
And maybe they’ll even carry a little magical punch. I consulted Sherry’s instructions again, looking for another incantation, but there was nothing special. She probably didn’t want to send such secrets via email. Everybody knows it’s not the most secure medium in the world.
I picked up the first donut to be dunked, cradling it ceremoniously. “Ursa, nyctera, nudibera!” It dropped into the pan with a satisfying rush of noise, like a tiny rocket launching in Brennan’s kitchen.
Nothing particularly magical happened. Some oil splashed onto my hoodie but that’s it. I kept trying to feel something, but it didn’t feel anything different from frying eggs. At least it kept me busy. I shrugged and added three more donuts.
I stood there, trying not to look at the window, trying not to admit to myself that someone had been out there. Someone who didn’t like me, and who knew way too much about me.
“Are you donuts yet or what?” I said, poking at the cream-white top of one with a slotted spoon. I flipped it, revealing the chestnut brown underside. Maybe it was closer to black than brown. “Whoops.”
By the time I had found a cooling rack and had all the oily circles dripping onto some paper towels, I was exhausted. The adrenaline surge from earlier was followed by an adrenaline dump, and I crashed on the couch without even thinking about it.
I awoke to daylight, happy to see that I’d remembered to turn off the stove and tamp down the lanterns. I snuck from window to window, furtively glancing out each one to assess the yard.
Convinced it was empty, I ran past the bottles without touching them, to the utility pole
. I slammed the power breaker back to the ‘up’ position, then hustled back inside to flick a few light switches. Yep, that did it. With a shudder, I thought briefly of who my enemy might be before pushing out the thought.
I focused on what I could actually control: boxing up my (rather heavy) donuts and taking them to Sherry. In my head, they were like drugs to me and didn’t want to try them alone. I found an empty, clean-looking shoebox for them, lined it with parchment, and pulled on my Chucks.
I circle-checked my car and looked underneath, just like I used to do every day with my forklift. No slashed tires, no sliced break lines, no bomb strapped to the frame. Even after sitting idle for several days, my trusty little orange Nissan started without so much as a hiccup.
Arriving at Kasper’s place, I parked between Kasper’s truck and the jacked-up pick-up with the light bar. Hmm. Someone slept over.
Well, I’d made a baker’s dozen of donuts. Plenty for everyone.
Ty answered the door and my eyebrows shot up, betraying my surprise. Here was my prime suspect, right in front of me, with his broad chest stretching out a matching set of striped old-man pajamas obviously borrowed from Kasper. His eyes were bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept.
Like he’d been out all night, prowling the woods around the camp?
I stammered something unintelligible and staggered back.
“Hey uh, Piper right?” Ty said, easy as can be. “Sherry and Kasper like to sleep late but you can come in! I was just about to start on breakfast.”
Sure, why not enter a house with my main murder suspect? “I, uh, well, I don’t need to bother them, just wanted to drop these off!” An image flashed in my head of Sherry and Kasper slain in their beds.
Then Sherry stumbled by, passing behind Ty and wiping her eyes on the way to the woodstove. Relief flooded over me and I stepped in.