by Janet Bolin
“Thank goodness Willow’s fingers work,” Naomi said through purple fur.
I was glad of that, also. Haylee and I tucked our hair underneath our hats.
Opal complained, “They still look like women.”
Edna cast a speculative glance around our booth.
Knowing the mothers’ penchant for involving me in preposterous schemes, I quickly said, “There’s no law against women wearing black shirts and hats, blending into the night, and wandering around the fairgrounds.”
They paid me no attention.
“I should have brought batting,” Naomi apologized. Her purple fake fur costume couldn’t fit into the booth.
Edna’s and Opal’s costumes could. The clown and giraffe swooped down on a couple of bolts of Naomi’s quilt fabrics—pastels printed to resemble cloth that had been painstakingly hand-dyed.
Outside, the PA system squawked out opening night speeches.
Inside, despite our complaints, Haylee and I developed batik beer bellies. And batik beer backs.
“There,” Opal, the improbable giraffe, said after Haylee and I were thoroughly bound in fabric. “You two don’t look like women anymore.”
That figured. Underneath our cowboy shirts, each of us had been padded in an entire bolt of cotton batik.
“How gratifying,” Haylee said drily. “We don’t look like men, either. We look like beach balls wearing cowboy hats.”
“All the better for blending,” Edna said, unfolding a map of the festival. “Here’s where Russ’s truck is parked, in the lot off Wheatfield Way, nearest where they’re going to shoot off the fireworks. We can loiter there. Not together, or we’ll be obvious—Haylee, that fake cough isn’t fooling anyone. We can tell you’re laughing at us. But this is a really good plan! We can pretend to watch the fireworks while we’re really observing Russ’s truck.”
Applause came over the PA system. Was the first speech over?
Edna urged us all to hurry.
“Wait!” Naomi rumbled through purple polyester fur. “They can’t carry those feminine handbags.”
Haylee’s and my simple, square bags could have been carried by cowboys if one of them liked plastic-laminated geometric prints and the other one leaned toward embroidered abstracts. We shoved our wallets and phones into pockets, then locked our bags in a display case.
Edna hustled us all out to Brussels Sprouts Boulevard and pointed down Cabbage Court toward the brightly lit Ferris wheel. Wheatfield Way and the parking lot where Russ’s truck was supposed to be were beyond the amusement area.
“Walk like men, you two,” Opal instructed. She put the giraffe head back on. If she said more, we didn’t hear it.
In our sneakers, attempting to walk like men, Haylee and I easily outpaced the other three, who couldn’t have been accustomed to wearing cowboy boots covered by clown shoes, giraffe hooves, or purple fake fur paws.
“How do men walk?” I asked Haylee.
“Think of Isaac.” She kind of rolled from one foot to the other. I was too polite to tell her she didn’t walk a thing like Isaac did. He never looked dead drunk. I bent my knees slightly, let my shoulders droop forward, and dangled my hands. Very Isaac-like, I thought.
Haylee giggled. “Good gorilla.”
I stuck my hands into my pockets and tried swaggering, but it came out more like swaying.
“Your padding’s showing,” Haylee warned. Unfortunately, the bolt of cloth the women had wrapped around my waist was pale yellow, not a nice blendy black. I tucked the loose end into my jeans.
Haylee pointed ahead. “Walk like that man.”
I knew that walk. I knew that man. “No,” I breathed. I’d been wanting to talk to Clay for the past two days. Now he was striding toward us.
And I was a hideous pear shape.
43
MAYBE CLAY WOULDN’T RECOGNIZE HAY-LEE and me in our cowboy outfits.
“Just keep going,” Haylee muttered out the side of her mouth in a nicely masculine way.
So we did. Right past Clay without looking at him. I held my bandaged hand out of his sight.
I heard him come to a halt right behind us. “Willow and Haylee, what are you two up to now?”
A miracle. For once, he hadn’t greeted me with his usual question—are you all right? The best policy might be to follow Haylee’s suggestion. I strode on as if he couldn’t have been talking to us.
Haylee, however, stopped and informed him, “If you walk between us, maybe we can pass as men.”
But Clay was laughing too hard to walk. He looked behind him. A clown, a giraffe with a floppy neck, and a giant purple fake fur teddy bear picked their way toward us between worn-down furrows. Clay stopped laughing. “Those are your mothers, aren’t they, Haylee? Don’t tell me you five are trying to solve murders and attempted murders.”
“How’s Tiffany?” I should have asked sooner.
“They say they’re about to let her wake up and she’s going to be fine. State troopers are with her. Investigating is their job.”
I asked him, “Did you hear about Felicity Ranquels, the sewing machine rep who was also hurt at the Coddlefields’?”
“They expect her to recover, too. And maybe one day, the gaps in her memory will fill in, and she’ll be able to say what really happened. I heard you pulled her out—”
Before he could scold me for my part in her rescue, I fired another question at him. “Have they arrested anyone for attacking those two?”
“Not last I heard.” He frowned. “You two—”
I interrupted, “Do you know where Russ Coddlefield is?”
Clay’s eyes filled with concern. “No. Last time I saw him, he was still at the fire. I left early, but Isaac told me he zoomed off in his truck after the fire was out, and the police are out looking for him. Poor kid. He must be frightened.”
“Come with us,” Haylee demanded. “My mothers think he’s in danger from his father. They want to rescue him, but they’re afraid he’ll recognize them and run away, so we’re all in disguise and about to go where we can watch his truck.”
Clay offered us each an arm.
I whisked both hands behind my back as best I could, considering my strange balloon shape. “We can’t walk arm-in-arm with you. We’re trying to pass as men.”
“And not exactly succeeding.” Clay was very close to guffawing again. “I’m surprised Haylee’s mothers didn’t make you wear fake beards.”
“Shhh.” Haylee giggled. “They might hear you.”
Knowing them, they were already on the lookout for improvements to our costumes. Failing beards or bandanas, they would rub dirt on our faces where five o’clock shadows might be. We sped our pace.
Clay pointed out that he didn’t have a disguise, and that Russ might see him and run the other direction.
I didn’t warn him that at that very moment, a short and energetic clown, a tall giraffe with potential swallowing problems, and a huge purple teddy bear were probably discussing which rent-a-mascot costume would suit him best. Instead, I said, “If Russ runs away from you, maybe Naomi, Opal, and Edna will catch him.” I’d been around Haylee’s three mothers so much I was beginning to think like them, which, considering their fondness for costumes, didn’t bode well for my future wardrobe choices.
Behind us something slapped on the ground. “Yoo-hoo! You two cowboys and Clay!” Edna’s voice. We turned around. The clown ran toward us, her oversized shoe coverings hindering her every step. “Wait,” she called, and promptly foundered in a furrow.
She didn’t fall. She leaned forward, yanked the shoe coverings upward until the elastic around their tops was above her knees, picked up her clown hat and its attached yarn hair, clapped it on her head, and hurried toward us with her big clown shoes, toes pointing outward, flapping near her brightly polka-dotted thighs.
“Glad I caught you,” she gasped when she reached us. “We had an idea.”
And I had a sinking feeling.
But the idea that she and
her best friends had come up with wasn’t too terrible, after all.
“We don’t have time to camouflage Clay.” Edna smiled an apology up into his face.
“That’s okay,” Clay said, ever the gentleman.
“So it will be your job, Clay, to look like yourself and flush Russ out. We saw his truck in the parking lot, so he may be hanging out at the carnival. Soybean Street cuts through the center, so you case Soybean Street. Haylee and Willow, you two stroll down the next street, Corn Alley, and watch for Russ to pop out between tents while fleeing Clay. Naomi, Opal, and I will go down Rutabaga Row to grab Russ if he goes that way.”
My hand throbbed. I continued hiding it and its cartoon character bandages from Clay. “What if we don’t find Russ?” I asked.
Edna had a plan for that, too. “We’ll go back to our original idea. We’ll all meet on Parsnip Place. It runs along the ends of Rutabaga Row, Soybean Street, and Corn Alley. Then we’ll wander to the parking lot near Russ’s truck and wait for him to appear.”
Great. We could spend most of the night in uncomfortable outfits and still not find Russ.
“Hurry,” Edna urged, wiping red yarn hair out of her eyes. “We don’t want to miss him. Someone needs to set that kid on a safer path.”
Opal and Naomi, mincing along in their strange footwear and even stranger costumes, were catching up. Haylee, Clay, and I hurried off in the direction Edna had sent us.
“You don’t have to participate in their schemes,” Haylee told Clay.
“I’d like to help the boy,” Clay answered. A red firework umbrella unfurled overhead, lighting the planes of his worried face.
Regretting my earlier refusal to take his arm, I had an almost overwhelming desire to whip my bandaged hand out of hiding and go into damsel in distress mode. Instead, I said calmly, “He’s more likely to trust you than the rest of us.”
Clay’s jaw tensed with determination. “He could be afraid I would turn him in to the authorities. Or to his father.”
Maybe, I thought, we should all be afraid of Russ …
With a quick nod good-bye, Clay turned down Soybean Street and disappeared among the lights, noise and crowds. Haylee and I started along Corn Alley.
About three booths down, a rifleman in a red cowboy hat shot at plywood ducks bobbing on plywood waves. The teenaged girl running the game looked flustered. No wonder. The rifleman was a good shot, and the girl would soon be out of prizes. Tall, with a muscular build, the rifleman didn’t look like a collector of stuffed toys. He looked like…like…oh, no!
He was.
Detective Gartener. Out of uniform.
No, that didn’t sound right. In plain clothes. Apparently, he was on duty. Some of that “muscle” was a bulletproof vest he wore underneath his cowboy shirt. Was he also searching for Russ? His cowboy shirt, unlike ours, was red plaid.
Haylee must have recognized him, too. She turned her head away from him, then stopped in her tracks.
On the other side of Corn Alley, a cowgirl wore an ankle-length denim skirt with police-issue boots peeking out from under it. She was making a disgusted expression at the huge fluff of pink candy floss she held as far as possible from her face and from the white cowboy hat perched on her head.
Chief Smallwood.
She didn’t notice us, either.
Where they both looking for Russ?
As one, Haylee and I sped our preassigned saunter in an attempt to get away before Gartener or Smallwood saw us and figured out that we might be dressed oddly so we could snoop in an investigation they’d told us to stay away from. Walk like a man, I reminded myself, still having no idea how to accomplish that feat.
It occurred to me that we could go back and tell Detective Gartener and Chief Smallwood that Russ’s truck had been spotted nearby.
But I had some pride. It was bad enough that Clay had seen us in our peculiar garb. He knew us—and that Haylee’s mothers were the ones who usually put us up to such antics—and had never suspected either of us of murder. Gartener and Smallwood, on the other hand…
Besides, Opal, Naomi, and Edna would be very disappointed and unhappy if police officers swooped in and falsely arrested Russ before they did whatever it was they thought they could do to set him on a safer path.
It was hard not to be drawn into the carnival atmosphere—fireworks, laughter, bright lights, and the smells of candy floss, caramel popcorn, and hot cooking oil. Booths sold deep-fried chocolate bars, ice cream, butter, pickles, and, of all things, strawberry gelatin.
“I’m hungry,” Haylee said.
I was, too, but not for deep-fried gelatin. “French fries?” I suggested. “Or fried jalapeño mozzarella balls?”
Haylee had a great solution. “I’ll get the fries. You get the cheese.”
Standing in line, I glanced up Corn Alley. No sign of Detective Gartener or Chief Smallwood.
But…was Jeremy Chandler in line for the bumper cars?
What was Jeremy really doing here? Last I knew, IMEC judges didn’t go around the world prejudging entries. I couldn’t remember seeing his name on the list of judges. I would have noticed because of the Chandler Challenge.
Carrying our hot snacks, Haylee and I met in the middle of Corn Alley and continued our slow inspection of booths.
We were almost at the end of Corn Alley when we spotted Clay.
With Russ.
44
ONE HAND ON RUSS’S SHOULDER, CLAY leaned down, his face serious as if he were trying to convince the boy of something. Even if they’d been closer, I wouldn’t have heard their discussion over the whistling, popping fireworks and the clashing music of the merry-go-round and the Ferris wheel.
Clay and Russ headed down Parsnip Place toward the parking lot where Russ’s truck was supposed to be.
Clay was a particularly nice and caring person. I looked down at my outfit. Ugh. Maybe someday I would look decent, not muddy or in a strange costume, when I was with Clay. With him and not only in the same restaurant.
Haylee said, “I guess we don’t have to stake out Russ’s truck after all.” We stopped and shared our yummy fried treats.
Two figures pushed through the crowd around us. Detective Gartener and Chief Smallwood were on a mission heading toward the spot where Russ and Clay had been only moments ago.
Haylee and I traded horrified glances. Smallwood and Gartener must be after Russ. And they were wearing bulletproof vests and police boots underneath their cowboy outfits. They were probably armed, also. What if Russ did something foolish and endangered himself and Clay?
His red cowboy hat askew on his head, Gartner picked up speed. Chief Smallwood held that giant pink ball of candy floss away from her face and clothes. The two officers dashed around the corner onto Parsnip Place and disappeared.
A crook-necked giraffe, a short clown, and a purple furry bear bumbled along Parsnip Place toward the parking lot.
Haylee muttered, “If they don’t recognize Smallwood and Gartener, they might interfere and get themselves into trouble.”
We stuffed the last of the French fries and jalapeño cheese balls into our mouths, tossed the paper containers into a trash barrel, jockeyed around a group of seniors wearing matching straw boaters with headbands that said Erie Mystery Tours, and rounded the corner onto Parsnip Place.
Beyond the giraffe, the clown, and the purple teddy bear struggling along in their ungainly costumes, Parsnip Place dead-ended in a vast parking lot. Roofs of cars and trucks reflected fireworks.
I didn’t see Gartener and Smallwood. Or Clay and Russ.
Haylee and I caught up with her mothers and jogged beside them.
Edna’s clown shoes were above her knees again, pointing forward this time. “Run faster,” she yelled.
Opal swung around, endangering Naomi with the giraffe head swinging from the bent neck. “They turned left.”
From inside the purple fur, Naomi yelled something. Mmmmpfhl?
Haylee and I dashed ahead and turned left at Whea
tfield Way. Several rows into the parking lot, Clay’s head and Gartener’s red cowboy hat showed above the roof of a van.
We zigzagged around vehicles until we were in the same row as Clay and Gartener. Slowing, we tiptoed toward them, although the sound of our approach had to be masked by the fireworks.
Next to Russ’s truck, Russ and Clay were being held at bay by a police chief wearing a white cowgirl hat and brandishing candy floss, and a tall detective wearing a red cowboy hat and brandishing…a baby?
Clay leaned against Russ’s truck in a casual pose, but his arms were folded and a muscle twitched in his jaw. Trying not to laugh at the strangely rotund cowboys, the red-haired clown, the jolly purple bear, and the pathetic goose-necked giraffe creeping up behind the two unsuspecting police officers?
Russ, however, stood stiffly with his back pressed against his truck, his ropy teenaged arms angled out from his body, his palms flat against the fender, as if the hard metal gave him comfort. He shook his head. “I didn’t do anything,” he wailed. “Someone’s trying to kill me! I had to run away.” In his rumpled jeans and dirty white T-shirt, he looked about eleven years old. A lock of his hair covered one eye.
Gartener asked in his made-for-radio voice, “Why do you think someone is trying to kill you?”
Bang! A rocket spiraled up into the night sky.
Russ flicked the hair out of his face, jutted his chin, and became sixteen again. “That sewing machine didn’t just fall on my mother. Someone slammed it down on her.” His voice broke and his chin trembled.
Smallwood started to respond, but Gartener interrupted her. “Did you see this happen?” He spoke with empathy and without talking down to the boy.
“No, but…dude, that thing was heavy, but not that heavy.”
“It wasn’t so much the weight,” Gartener told Russ, “as how it fell.”
Plus, I thought, all the trouble someone took to make certain that it did fall, making it run at top speed and partially detaching the front legs of the table it was on.
Russ looked bilious, possibly because of the green fireworks opening with a deafening crash above us.