Red Hot Deadly Peppers

by Paige Shelton

  “That’d be great. I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” Virgil said to the offer of samples. “Thank you.”

  I smiled. We were finally getting somewhere.

  “Becca!” called a voice from somewhere behind me. I thought I recognized it, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I mumbled as the image of a face formed in my mind.

  “Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Virgil said.

  “Is a tall blond man with a cowboy hat walking—with bow legs—this direction?”

  “No cowboy hat, but yep to the rest.”

  “Is he wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a T-shirt that’s seen better days?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh no. How did this happen?”

  Virgil stepped forward. “You want me to get rid of him?”

  I didn’t know exactly what he meant. Would he tell him to go away, or would he get rid of him permanently? It was a tempting offer either way.

  I reluctantly shook my head and then turned around.

  “It is you!” said the man in worn jeans and ratty T-shirt as he pulled me into a hug, lifted me up, and twirled me in a circle. “It is damn great to see you, sweetheart.”

  “Hey, Scott,” I said when I landed again. I didn’t want to smile, but his enthusiasm was infectious, and even though I’d never fall for that off-center grin and those overly happy green eyes again, it was kind of good to see him. That very same infectious enthusiasm had been the reason I’d stayed married to him about a year too long. Despite his many faults, he’d always been fun to be around.

  “How are you? You look great, the same as when you dumped me, actually. Becca and I were married,” he said to Virgil.

  “That right?” Virgil said, his face breaking into smile. He was amused. I liked seeing the smile take over his stern features. I felt another pull at the corner of my own mouth.

  “I’m fine, Scott. What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “The shooting gallery, right over there. Come over, I’ll give you some free shots.” He held up an invisible gun and shot it off to the side. “Boosh, boosh.”

  “Really? What happened to the dealership job?” When he and I had divorced, he’d left for Charleston and a mechanic’s job at a Toyota dealership. It was the best job he’d ever had.

  “Ah, lots has happened since then. The shooting gallery helps me be my own boss some of the time, Becca. You know all about that, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “I own it.” Scott crossed his arms in front of his chest and winked. “’Cept between you and me, and you, sir”—he looked at Virgil—“we picked a bad gig. This place is a graveyard.”

  I looked at Virgil. Though I’d yet to crack his concrete-wall exterior, I knew he had pride invested in the Swayton County event. Perhaps the feeling was merely the result of having worked there so many years, but I could tell he liked the fair. He liked working the Ferris wheel. He even liked the frightening and disconcerting noises the engine made. It wasn’t hard to see that he took his job seriously, even though there wasn’t much to it.

  The expression on his face told me I was right on target. His dislike for Scott was quick and obvious.

  “I dunno,” Virgil said. “We get to work outside. We get the chance to meet some inter’sting people. Some of us, like you, young man, get to have access to guns. It’s a win-win, the way I see it.”

  Scott blinked. He verged on annoying most of the time, and he wasn’t great at holding down jobs, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he’d insulted Virgil, a man who, though older than him, was built wide and solid like a good pickup, and had a spider tattoo on the side of his neck. Scott didn’t want to mess with Virgil, and he knew he just had.

  “Sorry, man. I just meant . . . shoot, I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re right, this is a great place. I hope it picks up, that’s all.”

  Virgil stared at Scott for a beat or two too long. If Virgil had continued to stare, I might have had to jump in and defend my ex and his copious talking skills. I’d done plenty of that when we were married, and I hadn’t wished for the opportunity to present itself again. Fortunately, Virgil let another smile sprout as he turned and pushed the lever so that the teenage boys could begrudgingly exit the ride.

  “I’ll see you later, Virgil. Come by for some jam.” As I spoke, I put my hand on Scott’s arm and directed him away from the Ferris wheel.

  “I didn’t mean to insult the guy, Becca. What is he, the owner of the fair or the land it’s on or something?” Scott said when we were far enough away from Virgil that he could neither hear us nor read our lips.

  “I don’t know who he is,” I said. “I’ve been trying to figure it out.”

  “I’ll go talk to him later, spread some of my Scott-charm. I’ll have him eating out of my hand by the end of the day.”

  His Scott-charm wasn’t quite what he thought it was, but he could be likeable enough, especially if you remained more an acquaintance than a good friend, or a wife.

  “Do you have a few minutes to walk with me? I need to check on my stall. Want some crackers and jam?”

  I could have been rude and told him I just needed to get back to work. But as I’d watched him aggravate Virgil, something became clear in my head: I was kind of interested in how he was doing, even if we hadn’t been able to stay married. I didn’t know if some preordained amount of time needed to pass before you could have a mostly clean slate with an ex, but this felt about right. I was also just plain curious; what had he done with his life since me?

  “Love some. Just like old times.”

  The Swayton County Fall Fair and Festival was located about half an hour from my hometown of Monson, South Carolina, right outside the even smaller town of Orderville. Monson wasn’t in Swayton County, but close enough that the hilly green countryside, now covered in the reds and yellows of changing leaves, was just like what I was used to.

  Scott and I wove around a few other quiet or mostly empty rides, a cotton-candy stand, and a goldfish toss. In the past few days, I’d spoken to a number of the fair workers, but the only one I’d wanted to really get to know was Virgil, so the free moments that I had—and there had been many—were spent chatting with my fellow Bailey’s vendors or trying to engage Virgil in a conversation.

  “How long have you been here, Scott?” I asked. I waved to the corn-dog vendor who I thought was named Jerry as we stepped around his small trailer.

  “Just set up yesterday,” he said. “Really, I had no idea how bad this fair was. I don’t think I’m going to stick around if it doesn’t pick up in the next day or so.”

  “The other Bailey’s vendors and I have been talking about that, too. We’ve been here all four days, since Monday. I feel bad for the organizers, but us being here isn’t helping anyone. Potential fairgoers couldn’t care less about us, and we’re losing money by not being at Bailey’s. We aren’t scheduled to be here this coming Monday, but I plan on bringing out some pumpkins Wednesday for the decorating contest. I could easily leave now and then come back for that.”

  “Who else is here?” Scott asked. During our marriage he’d met a number of the Bailey’s vendors. He’d actually become friends with a few of them, too. I hadn’t seen him visit Bailey’s once since our divorce, so I didn’t know if he’d kept in contact with any of them.

  “Remember Brenton, who makes and sells dog biscuits? He’s here. So is Stella, the baker, and a new vendor who is all about squash. His name is Henry, but I still don’t know him well. He’s quiet.”

  “Henry . . . squash? Is his last name Dennis?”

  “I think so. You know him?”

  “Yeah, I do. He’s a former mechanic, too. He used to talk about his farm all the time. Small world.”

  “I’d say.”

 
As we approached the short line of Bailey’s vendors, I observed some less-than-happy friends. Brenton leaned back in his chair, his hands on top of the baseball cap on his head and his eyes tightly shut. Stella had her hands on her round hips as she surveyed her table full of fresh bread. She’d brought less to sell today than the previous days, and it looked like she might still end up going home with too much inventory. Henry, the new vendor, seemed to be texting, the look on his face telling me either that he wasn’t sending happy words or, perhaps, that his thumbs were too wide for the tiny keyboard.

  “Scott, is that you?” Stella said as we approached. She looked at me quickly as if to see if it was okay to be friendly to him. I smiled. I didn’t relish the idea of hanging out with either of my ex-husbands, but I didn’t despise them either. I’d been the one to end both marriages, but neither Scott One nor Scott Two, this one, had been too heartbroken with the decision.

  “Stella, Stella, the most beautiful baker to any fella,” Scott said as he reached over her display table and hugged her tightly.

  “Oh, Scott.” She laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Well, I hope I’ve changed a little. Maybe grown up a bit, but I’ll always be me, I suppose.” He looked at me.

  I didn’t think he was searching for my approval, but I gave him a half smile anyway.

  “Scott, is that really you?” Brenton leaned out of his small stall.

  “Brenton, buddy,” Scott said as he sauntered over and shook Brenton’s hand.

  “I haven’t seen you for some time. What’re you doing . . .” Brenton looked at me. “Are you two back—”

  “No, heavens no,” I said too quickly. I cleared my throat.

  Scott laughed. “No, sir, we’re way over.” He winked at me. “I own the shooting gallery over there. I’m working the fair just like the rest of you.”

  “Are you having any more business than we are?” Brenton asked.

  “No, this place is as dead as a snake on the highway. I don’t understand why they even opened the gates,” Scott said.

  Henry had come out of his stall and stood next to me. I didn’t know if he was shy or just needed to get the lay of the land before he contributed to conversations, but he seemed comfortable just to stand next to me and listen.

  “Yeah, we were talking about leaving, but we might be stuck,” Brenton said. “We’re not sure if Allison wants us to stay no matter what.”

  “I’ve got a call into her,” I said. “I’ll give her the scoop. We’ll know soon.”

  Scott looked at Henry. “You might not remember me, but we worked together at a dealership in Charleston.”

  For a moment, Henry studied Scott doubtfully. He spoke right before his silence became uncomfortable. “Sure, sure, I remember you. You were great with brakes.”

  “I do have quite the brake reputation,” Scott said proudly, but I thought he might be mocking himself slightly. If that was the case, then maybe he had matured.

  “Didn’t you leave to—” Henry began.

  “Well, I’m most definitely buying some bread, Stella. What’ya got?” Scott announced, cutting off Henry’s question. I wondered what that was about, but I didn’t ask.

  “Ms. Robins, Ms. Robins.” A harried voice turned the group’s attention to a quickly approaching person.

  Lucy Emory was somehow an important part of the Swayton County Fall Fair and Festival, though she’d never made it clear just exactly what her role was. She carried a clipboard and always had a writing implement in her hand or threaded atop her ear. She rarely smiled and had one answer to almost every question: “I’ll check on that and get back to you.”

  I didn’t think she was much older than me, and from the first moment I met her I felt an immediate connection to her denim wardrobe and makeup-challenged ways. Her hair was brown, though, and cut even shorter—boyishly, in fact—than my blonde hair.

  “Hi, Lucy,” I said as she stopped next to Brenton.

  “Ms. Robins, I’ve heard you are all leaving the fair. Is that true?”

  I looked around at my fellow vendors and Scott. Either we had been overheard, or someone had told on us. I didn’t like that neither Allison nor I had had a chance to talk to Lucy before she got the information elsewhere, but the damage had been done.

  “Lucy, I’m sorry you heard that news through the grapevine rather than directly from us,” I began. I debated asking to speak to her privately, but it didn’t seem necessary. This was one of those situations that made me wonder what Allison would do. She could handle any situation with professionalism and grace. I wasn’t as polished, and I worried I’d offend someone, but I did my best. “We have discussed the fact that we don’t seem to be helping your business much. Maybe it would be better if—”

  “No, no, no, you can’t leave. You just can’t. I know we’ve been slow, but things will pick up.”

  I exchanged a silent look of doubt with Stella.

  “Does the fair usually start off like this?” I asked.

  Lucy’s eyes flashed, and she bit at the inside of her cheek. “Sometimes, yes, but tomorrow’s Friday. It always picks up on Fridays.”

  “That would be good,” I said as I looked at my comrades. No one was convinced.

  “Lucy,” Stella interrupted, “Becca’s being polite. I’m afraid I’m not on my best behavior, so I’ll just jump in here. We’ll stay tomorrow, but if things don’t look to be improving, we won’t be back. I’m sorry about that, but Becca’s right, we’re not helping the fair a bit. I’m mystified as to why y’all even wanted us here. I’m certain we haven’t brought one extra fairgoer.”

  “But you’re all part of Bailey’s, and Bailey’s is so popular.”

  “Maybe your customers aren’t the same as our customers. I don’t know what it is. Please don’t take it personally. We all have businesses to attend to. Not only are we not helping you, but our businesses are suffering, too,” Stella said.

  Lucy cringed. “Yes, I understand, but I would appreciate it if you do give us tomorrow and then reconsider Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Absolutely,” Stella said as she looked at the rest of us. “I’m sorry, Lucy.”

  “We’re all sorry it’s not working out,” I added.

  “Sure. Sure.” She smiled weakly until her eyes landed on Scott. “Shooting gallery guy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’ll probably be leaving, too?”

  “I’m gonna try and stick around,” Scott said enthusiastically. I could tell he felt her pain.

  Huh. Maybe he had matured. The Scott I’d been married to would have just said, “Yep, I’m outta here.”

  Lucy looked as though she wanted to say something else but couldn’t quite find the words. Piped-in organ music played cheerfully in the background and mixed with the whirr and rumble of the less-than-reliable machinery of the rides. A wave of corn-dog-scented air made me suddenly hungry.

  “All right, then. I guess I’ll let them know,” Lucy said before she turned and hurried away.

  I’d asked her a few times who she meant whenever she said “they” or “them,” but she’d yet to tell me. I assumed she meant her bosses, perhaps the fair organizers or owners, or perhaps a manager. I thought about following her and talking directly to “them,” but it wasn’t going to change the outcome. Even though I hadn’t talked to Allison yet, I knew we would have to pack up. It wasn’t fair to my fellow vendors. In fact, I suddenly wished I hadn’t agreed to stay through Friday. There was still a lot of Thursday left to suffer through. My gut was telling me that the next day and a half was going to be long, awful, and bad for everyone’s business.

  There were many reasons I’d come to wish I’d listened to my gut. The next day and a half was pretty awful, but not because our businesses suffered. In fact, Friday, early afternoon, busin
ess started to boom, and by then we all wished it hadn’t.

  Continue on for a special excerpt from Paige Shelton’s next

  Country Cooking School Mystery . . .

  IF MASHED POTATOES COULD DANCE

  Available in paperback October 2012 from Berkley Prime Crime!

  “They want us to keep them all here?” Gram said. “Where in the Sam Hill do they expect everyone to sleep?”

  “On the floor, I guess,” I said.

  “On the floor? In the kitchen? I don’t understand, Isabelle. How in the world did they even think to ask us? This is a cooking school, not a hotel, for Jack’s sake.”

  Gram had been cleaning. Her short gray hair was hidden by a red bandana, and her Harvard T-shirt had a giant wet spot right in the middle. She wore bright yellow rubber gloves and smelled of bleach. We were conducting our annual midsummer ritual of scrubbing every single spot of her cooking school. Midsummer was the perfect time. We were on a one-week hiatus from our nighttime classes, and our daytime classes weren’t set to begin for another month and a half. We’d already sent out acceptance letters to our fall students, and we had this small break before our night class on everything potatoes, “Mash Away, but Respect Me in the Morning,” was to begin.

  “I believe it was Jake’s idea,” I said.

  Jake was my best friend and Broken Rope’s fake sheriff and town historian. He was very active with the tourism bureau as well. When you’re a self-made millionaire you can do pretty much whatever you want.

  “Jake? What was he thinking?” Gram said as she snapped off one of the gloves.

  “He thought it would be bad business to turn away a tour bus. It’s only for one night and then the hotel will have the rooms available. Someone messed up the reservations. The tour group was going to cancel their stop, but Jake heard they were a bunch of foodies on a trip across country. He told them your school was here and thought we might work in a free lesson of some sort and have a sleepover.”

  Gram blinked. “I’ll ask again, what was he thinking? Sleeping on the floor and offering a lesson? Won’t we be breaking about a thousand food safety regulations? Come on, Isabelle, you should know this stuff.”