If I could’ve time-traveled through my own life, there were a lot of moments I would have changed, big time. But there were also a lot of moments I would have liked to just visit for a while.
What a privilege it would be, I marveled, to be a tourist in your own childhood.
I snapped out of my nostalgia with a shiver and straightened my shoulders. Grown-up Chelsea had a job to do. That barn wasn’t going to interior design itself. “Alright!” I said. “I should go. Don't get up to any trouble in here."
“We won’t,” KP said. “As long as those big city snobs don't come poking around again.”
I guffawed. “How could I forget?! You met the Turtles yesterday! I would’ve paid good money to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.”
KP dipped a Granny Smith in caramel. “Pay up, and I'll tell you all about it.”
Miss May shook her head. “Normally turtles are such gentle creatures.”
“Those two are a couple of snapping turtles. Only way to turn ‘em nice is to cut off their heads.” KP lowered his apple and turned to me. “So I'm out in the orchard yesterday. Minding my own business, working on a new irrigation ditch near the pumpkin patch like May had asked.”
“Thanks for that, by the way,” Miss May said.
“Of course,” KP said. “Anyway, I'm running pipe out there by the pumpkins, and this fancy little couple charges up, walking like they're in the White House. Normally I would have pretended I don’t speak-a-da-English, but I'm working on my customer service attitude. So I said ‘hey.’”
“It'd be better to say ‘Hi! How can I help you?’” Miss May said.
“Can I tell the story?” KP asked.
Miss May gestured for him to continue.
“So these two snapping Turtles charge up, and the woman demands I open the bakeshop. ‘I can't open that shop,’ I said. ‘Can't you see I'm running pipe?’ Then the woman mutters something about how I'm a sweaty farmhand, and I gave her a suggestion about where she could shove it.”
“KP!” Miss May said.
“I know,” KP held up his hands in apology. “But she deserved it. I wasn't even sweating that much.”
“So then what happened?” I asked.
“I told those Turtles to get off my back or I was going to bury them in the ditch I had just finished digging.”
Miss May hung her head. “These are the kinds of things that hurt us in online reviews, KP.”
“And I'm sorry for that, but I'm only human. Customer service is not my forte.” KP rolled a caramel apple in crushed peanuts to underscore his point.
Miss May groaned. “Whatever. Those people would have left us a bad review no matter what.”
“They were the absolute worst,” I agreed.
“Amen to that,” KP said. “I want them to go to their fake land in the Netherlands and never come back!”
I laughed. “They told you about that, too?”
“Talked my ear off,” KP drizzled ganache in an elegant crosshatch over the crushed peanuts. “Told me about the Netherlands. Told me about their spoiled kid studying varmints in Africa or some such nonsense. Complained about Pine Grove the whole time! I said, ‘If you don’t like it here, I’ll happily show you to the exit. Right there in that ditch. Just lay still while I pour on the dirt.’”
“Alright, KP,” Miss May said. “You're over-drizzling.”
“Am not!” KP turned away from Miss May and kept drizzling the ganache. It was definitely too much, but he wasn’t about to stop.
“Well, it’s getting late,” I said. “I'm off to the event barn. Do you two need any help from me in here?”
“We're fine,” Miss May said. “You've got a lot of work to do in there. Get moving already!”
“All right,” I said. “KP, if the Turtles come back, I'll tell them you said hi.”
KP scoffed. “Tell ‘em I said ‘die’ instead.”
MISS MAY HADN’T SAID anything, but I could sense she was nervous about the hoedown that year. Business had been slower since the murder on the orchard the previous fall, so we needed the candy apple release to get the ball rolling for a busy season.
Yes, we had sold out of hoedown tickets months in advance, like always. But if guests didn't have a great time, they wouldn't come back to the orchard for apple-picking later. Nor would they visit the pumpkin patch around Halloween. Nor would they return to buy their Christmas trees that December.
Thus, I had resolved weeks prior to knock the town’s collective socks off at the event, and I had worked all month to formulate and execute a sock-knocking design. The party was called a hoedown, so I’d chosen a country theme with a Chelsea twist.
In the center of the room, I had placed a 1950s-style dance floor. People would not dance if there was no dance floor, and I wanted people to dance.
I had also painted each dining table with vivid images of candy apples. And I’d strung market lights from the beams to give the event an air of sophistication.
Outside, I’d used hay bales to create a maze for the kids. I’d set up an elegant claw-foot bathtub as an apple-bobbing station. And I’d constructed a new makeshift fire pit beside the barn where people could sit and chat during the party. The circular pit was built of stones from the Pine Grove quarry, and I was proud of the intimate gathering space I had created.
That morning, I’d felt pretty bigheaded about all the work I’d done to prepare. But when I approached the event barn, my shoulders sagged, and my gait slowed. The barn looked lame, inside and out. I’d woken up thinking a few nips and tucks would complete the look I wanted, but it turned out that I’d have to perform something closer to reconstructive surgery to pull the thing together.
I took a few deep breaths and tried not to panic. This was not my first design nightmare, nor would it be my last. “You can do this,” I said aloud. “You are a capable, resourceful woman.”
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I set to work. The first thing I noticed was that the dining tables were too far apart, as if to discourage socialization. I rearranged the tables and scooted them closer to the dancing area, which helped.
Next, I tackled the market lights, which were sparse and blah. My intention had been for the strands to suggest a minimalist aesthetic. But I had forgotten that the party was supposed to be a hoedown, not a New York City gala. There was nothing minimalist about a hoedown, so I broke out some of my more festive decorating tricks.
I kept the market lights up on the beams. But I also added strands of red apple cut-outs. And brightly-colored streamers. And sparkly silver garlands, which I draped from beam to beam in generous lilts. Shiny was my go-to texture in dire design straits, and a reflective silver or gold accent never failed to brighten and liven a space.
Plus, every hoedown needs a little bling, am I right?
After three frantic and frazzled hours of re-decorating, I stood back to evaluate my progress. The barn had transformed from slapdash mediocrity into a bonafide party room. I smiled. Mission accomplished. Except the outside attractions were still missing pizazz.
In the last hour before the guests arrived, I dug up some old wooden planks from behind the event barn. I painted each plank with the name of an attraction, and I nailed the planks to a two-by-four that I shoved into the ground. The end result was rustic chic (even if all the hand-made signs weren’t pointing in the exact right direction). I beamed at how I’d managed to tie everything together in such a short time.
Fixing a bad job is much more fun than doing a good job in the first place.
But no interior designer could overcome a dead body at her party. And that was a lesson I was about to learn for the second time.
3
Old Friends, New Enemies
MISS MAY SMILED AND waved as the first guest, a middle-aged woman, approached the hoedown.
“Noreen!” Miss May cooed. “So glad you made it.”
“Made it!? I came back from India early to be here for this!”
“Noreen! This is my beautiful niece, Chelsea. I'm not sure if you've met.”
“No, I don’t think we have. It’s a pleasure, Chelsea! You certainly are beautiful.”
Noreen hugged me, which was unexpected. I stiffened but then reciprocated, relaxing into the haze of her warm and flowery perfume. It was a scent I could only identify as ‘Woman of a Certain Age.’ It reminded me of my mother.
When Noreen stepped back, I took a good look at her for the first time. She was plump, short, and red-faced, an apple of a woman. Her cropped gray hair framed her crinkled hazel eyes, and in spite of her crooked teeth, she had a dazzling smile. I assumed Noreen was one of Pine Grove’s many residents descended from Irish stock. And I wondered if she was lucky, like a leprechaun.
“It's great to meet you, Noreen.” I smiled back. “You have very striking eyes.”
“Oh, well. I don’t know about that. But they still see straight, so I can’t knock them.” Noreen turned to Miss May. “That reminds me! I got you something in India. Something you're going to love.”
Miss May laughed. “You did not have to get me anything, Noreen.”
“I wanted to. Besides, how else am I going to make sure you keep slipping me free pie?”
Noreen dug through her purse, then pulled out an ancient-looking book. Leather bound, with gold trim. I leaned forward.
“That's a cool book,” I said.
“Cool indeed.” Noreen handed the book to Miss May. “Go ahead. Give it a look.”
Miss May opened the cover of the book. She smiled and shook her head, dumbfounded. “This is too much. You got this in India?”
What is it?! What’s the book?
“Tiny book store. Next to a spice shop on a little street in New Delhi. I was shocked they had books in English. But they had tons. Saw this sitting there. Thought of you. Had to pick it up.”
Miss May handed the book back. “Noreen. I can’t.”
Oh my goodness, somebody say the title!
Noreen pushed the book away. “Too bad! No returns, unless you want to fly to India and do it yourself.”
Miss May opened the book again. “I didn't even see this. There's an inscription?”
Noreen grinned. “Just a little note.”
Miss May read the note to herself and laughed. “You are too sweet.”
I couldn’t hold it in anymore, and I blurted out, “What book is it?”
Miss May grinned, “An Agatha Christie novel. And Then There Were None. My favorite.”
“The original US edition,” Noreen added.
“You know I love a good mystery,” Miss May said. “This really means a lot to me. Thank you."
“Enough," Noreen said. "I just like to show my appreciation for the good people in my life.”
“And your disdain for the bad ones?” Miss May asked with a smirk.
Noreen furrowed her brow. “I don't know what you mean...”
“Well, I was talking to Teeny, and she had been talking to Deb, and Deb said she saw Linda Turtle, that fancy newcomer, having a fit inside your dry-cleaning shop.”
“Ohhhhh! Turtle, is that her name? I was too busy listening to her yell to make a proper introduction.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, that was Linda Turtle. ‘Of the Manhattan Turtles.’”
Noreen shook her head in amused disbelief. “And that meek little husband of hers. I almost felt sorry for him, poor guy. The only time Linda stopped yelling at me was to yell at him.”
“Oh, so you met them both, then?” Miss May said.
“Well, ‘meet’ is a strong word. The husband was mostly sulking in the corner,” Noreen said. “First, they parked that ridiculous luxury car in front of a hydrant. Then they paraded in right before my lunch break, lugging two enormous suitcases of clothes. Each!”
“That’s a lot of dry-cleaning,” I said. “Do they only own silk or something?”
Noreen turned her nose up and extended her pinky, doing her best Linda Turtle impression. “These suitcases contain our summer clothes. They must be dry-cleaned and preserved by next year before we place them in storage. We will be back in twenty-four hours to pick them up.”
Miss May grunted. “They 'preserve' their summer clothes!? Like you would with a wedding dress? What did you tell them?”
“The truth,” Noreen said. “There's no way I can do that in under twenty-four hours. And I've never heard of ‘preserving’ normal clothes before.”
“KP got into it with them too,” Miss May said. “Almost shoved them in a ditch.”
“It's always interesting when city people move up,” Noreen said. “Puts me in the mood for a candy apple!”
“Well,” Miss May said. “I think you’re in luck.”
Linda and Reginald had made a lot of enemies in a little time. It seemed like everyone in town hated the Turtles.
Good thing turtles have a protective shell, I mused. Otherwise, those two might get crushed.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, a big crowd had arrived, and the party was in full swing. A few bold twenty-somethings cut a rug on the dance floor. Older folks munched on candy apples at their tables. And Tom Gigley’s cover band played “elevated classics” up on the band stand, each member wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt.
By day, Tom was the erudite town lawyer. So the sight of him rocking out behind the organ tickled me. And when he introduced the band as “The Giggles,” I couldn't help but laugh out loud.
Miss May had asked Tom’s band to adapt their usual set to an orchard setting, which Gigley and crew had obliged by replacing key words in their songs with the word apple.
“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” became “Lucy in the Sky with Apples.”
“Bohemian Rhapsody” became “Bohemian Apple Tree.”
Bing Crosby's “Pennies from Heaven” became “Apples from Heaven.”
And my personal favorite... “Makin' Love in an Elevator” became “Makin' Applesauce in an Elevator.”
Familiar faces dotted the crowd. Local architect Sudeer Patel indulged in a giant apple and tried not to drip caramel on his newborn baby. Brian from the Brown Cow Coffee Shop busted moves on the dance floor with his husband, Mr. Brian. And my cousin Maggie flirted with a cute guy by the apple-bobbing station.
People seemed to be having fun, and the whole room was abuzz with energy. And gossip. Everyone was talking about the infamous Turtles, and no one had anything nice to say.
According to Brian, Linda had yelled at him for making her coffee “taste of the bean.” And Reginald had supposedly asked Mr. Brian for directions to the “closest world-class museum.”
Even Mayor Linda Delgado, ever the polite politician, couldn’t disguise her distaste for the Turtles. Apparently, Linda Turtle had called Town Hall fifty-one times to complain about the color of Pine Grove’s fire hydrants. Seems they were “too red” for Mrs. Turtle’s sensitive retinas. When Mayor Delgado had refused to change the hue of the hydrants, Linda Turtle accused the mayor of “besmirching the good name of Linda.”
Still, most people were good-natured about the Turtles and optimistic that the snobby couple would spend whatever money they had left at local businesses. Plus, we all had a good time doing impressions of Linda and Reginald's hoity-toity accents.
But then the Turtles showed up at the barn. And the entire evening took a turn for the dead.
4
Hoedown Homicide
WHEN LINDA AND REGINALD entered the barn, they looked around as if they had just landed in a bad neighborhood on Mars. Linda clutched her purse like someone might steal it. And Reginald wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders.
Miss May crossed the dance floor to welcome them. The Turtles may have been snappy, but they were still customers. And Miss May had the best customer service attitude in town.
I followed behind my aunt fo
r moral support, and because I wanted to witness more Turtle madness. Miss May spread her arms wide in greeting.
“Linda, Reginald! Welcome to the hoedown! How are you this evening?”
Linda clutched her purse closer to her chest. “We're not well, if you must know. Reginald tweaked his elbow practicing his wretched golf putt this morning, and I've had to deal with his whining ever since. Isn't that right, Reginald?”
Reginald looked down. “That's right, darling. I have been a wretch.”
Linda's eyebrows shot up. “See? He doesn't bother to deny it. He knows.”
Miss May and I exchanged a look. The Turtles did not disappoint. “I'm sorry to hear about your elbow,” I said.
Reginald rubbed his elbow and grimaced. “It's my own fault. I'm an aggressive putter.”
“Aggressive and inaccurate, Reginald. Don't forget to mention what little talent you have on the green.”
“I'm not good,” Reginald said. “I've been beaten by a one-armed man.”
It took all my willpower not to burst into laughter. Reginald’s likeness to an actual turtle didn’t help. “Is that true?”
Reginald nodded, but offered no further explanation. Linda clapped her hands together and turned to Miss May.
“Enough about this drooping excuse for a husband and his pitiful loss to a one-armed man. Tell me. Where can I buy candy and/or caramel apples? And what discount can you offer me as reparations for the way your farmhand treated me yesterday?”
Miss May blinked a few times, then regained her composure. “So sorry. We can't offer any discounts. But you're welcome to purchase as many apples as you like. KP is selling them, just over there.”
Miss May pointed across the room. KP stood behind a folding table, selling his creations one at a time to a long line of waiting customers.
“KP runs this farm, all by himself,” Miss May said. “And he actually decorates our famous candy apples. He's much more than a farmhand.”
Candy Apple Killer Page 2