Canal Days Calamity

by Jamie M. Blair

  Admittedly, Mom and Dad’s divorce was a lot to handle on top of what was going on with Ben and me, on top of finding another murder victim.

  On top of planning Canal Days.

  On top of Andy being in jail.

  So maybe Monica was right. Maybe she and Mom were looking out for my best interest by not telling me. But for a year?

  “Earth to Cameron!” Elaina shouted, waving a wooden spoon in my face. “Gracious, Grandma Diggity is not getting any younger here. Do you have real butter or just that plastic-flavored margarine?”

  “In the vegetable crisper,” I said. “It’s the only empty spot I ever have.”

  “The whole fridge is empty!” she said, swinging the door open. “How about an onion?”

  “Look under the sink?”

  “Under the sink? With the borax?”

  “Borax?”

  She wagged a finger in my direction. “Your mama and I have to have a talk.”

  Was that supposed to be a threat? Was I going to be grounded for keeping my onions under the sink? Mom was getting a second tour of Hilltop Castle and a complimentary chicken dinner at the Cornerstone, anyway, so Elaina would have to wait to get her word in. “Can I help you with that?” I asked.

  “I don’t need help. All I gotta do is toss a stick of butter, an onion, and a jar of tomatoes into the pot and let it simmer.”

  “What about the garlic and oregano? Basil?”

  “You want to taste the tomatoes or not?”

  At least she wasn’t smearing the sauce into polka dots all over my kitchen walls.

  Not yet, anyway.

  “Sounds perfect,” I said, watching Dan gum his way through a cookie. The precious old man had all of three teeth in his head. It didn’t seem to stop him from enjoying Betty’s butterscotch oatmeal cookies, though.

  Through the French doors, I saw my sister trod onto the patio hefting grocery bags.

  “Monica’s back from the store. I’m going to help her bring the groceries inside.”

  “Now, you sit,” Dan said, putting a hand on my shoulder and using it to balance as he stood from his chair. “I’ll bring in those bags. Then I’ll take a look in that shed of yours to see what tools you have and what I’ll need to bring of my own. You ladies can sit and chat a while.”

  “Really, it’s no trouble.” The last thing I needed was the town’s patriarch breaking a hip on my patio. “Monica and I can handle it.”

  “Won’t hear of it.” He hobbled out the back door faster than I could have imagined him being able to hobble. Gus and the boys were on his trail, the four of them using his exit as an escape into the backyard.

  I heard Monica exchange greetings with Old Dan before she shoved the dogs aside and made her way into the kitchen. “What a nice surprise,” she said, setting the bags on the counter. “Are you cooking, Mrs. Nelson?”

  “That’s Grandma Diggity to you,” Elaina said, waggling her wooden spoon again, this time covered in tomato sauce, which flung across the room.

  Monica let out a choked laugh. “Grandma Diggity? Well, okay. I’ll have to come up with a catchy name, too.”

  “I’ve got you covered!” she said, flinging sauce a second time. “Diggity Cripps!”

  “Diggity Cripps?” Monica and I said at the same time.

  Monica wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like British chips.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, easing the spoon out of Elaina’s hand and steering her toward the table and her iced tea. “It has a ring to it.”

  Elaina grabbed a pile of cookies and sat down. “It’s young and hip!”

  “You’re lucky she’s sitting,” I whispered to Monica, “or you’d get the butt shake.”

  “If I’m Diggity Cripps, what does that make you?” Monica asked, pulling a bunch of bananas from a bag.

  “Sister Diggity, I guess.”

  “You think you can get off that easily?” Monica quipped. “What are you making, Mrs. Nelson—I mean, Grandma Diggity? It smells amazing.”

  Elaina mumbled something through a mouth full of cookies.

  “Sauce for the lasagna,” I explained. “It’s her special recipe.”

  “Oh. I thought the ricotta cheese on the list was for dog treats.”

  “You have Dog Diggity brain,” I said. “I guess we can have spaghetti and you can use the ricotta for your dog treats.”

  “Good Luck Chuck,” Elaina muttered, absently. “It makes their coat shiny.”

  “What does?” Monica asked.

  “Ricotta cheese. Makes dogs’ coats shiny.”

  I’d never heard that, but what did I know?

  “Or maybe that’s tuna and cats,” she mused, stuffing another cookie in her mouth. “I used to have a cat.”

  “So I hear.” I resisted the urge to laugh. Old age would get me one day, too, if I was lucky.

  Old Dan stumbled in the door, arms laden with grocery bags. “Big one got a bag,” he said, breathing hard.

  “Big one? The dogs?” I hurried to the door and looked out to find a broken grocery bag, food all over the ground, and Gus in a tug o’ war with Fiddle and Faddle, the twin trouble makers. Little Liam jumped up and down yipping like a demented cheerleader, egging them on. The victim of their battle? My brisket.

  “Stop that!” I yelled, stomping across the patio. Gus saw me coming and his eyes grew wide. With one hard yank, he had the brisket and was galloping across the yard with it, the twin tornados giving chase.

  Exasperated, I gathered up the few other items that had been inside the broken bag. Liam challenged me for a pack of hot dogs, but proved to be no match for me.

  Back inside, Monica was boiling a pot of water for pasta. “Mom’s joining us for dinner. She just called. She’s on her way.”

  “What about the Cornerstone?”

  Monica bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to grin. “Apparently, Mom feels the same way I do about the Cornerstone’s chicken.”

  “Too much pepper,” I said. “You two are crazy. It’s the best fried chicken I’ve ever eaten.”

  At the table, Elaina and Old Dan were debating about something. “That big one would outrun either of those other ‘uns,” Dan said.

  “Not Chuck,” Elaina said.

  What was with her and this Chuck person? Wait a minute … “Mrs. Nelson, is Chuck your cat’s name?”

  “My cat? Heavens no! Chuck’s a dog’s name. Who would name a cat Chuck?”

  “You have a cat?” Monica asked.

  “Don’t ask,” I mouthed, making the universal sign for zipping my lips.

  “I guess I do,” Elaina said, shrugging. “I always thought I was a dog person.”

  “I doubt you’d forget you had one,” I said, refilling her tea.

  The front door opened and Mom came in. “It smells divine! Is that pasta sauce I smell?”

  For a split second, I forgot about her deception. Then it hit me like a baseball bat. This was going to leave a bruise that would ache for quite a while.

  She breezed in and gave everyone air kisses before coming to me and taking me by my shoulders. “Cam, I have great news.” She glanced over her shoulder at Dan and Elaina, making sure they weren’t giving us much attention before lowering her voice and continuing. “I got you an in with Fiona Stein to find out more about Phillis Landow.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, getting an uneasy feeling about this.

  “Did you know they give music lessons in the back of the train station? Fiona teaches clarinet. I signed you up for classes. You start in the morning.”

  I blinked a few times. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I think I misheard you.”

  “You didn’t mishear anything. Clarinet lessons. Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. Take your honey-sweet attitude with you.”

  I was still searching for my
honey-sweet attitude. The last time I spent time with Fiona Stein—outside of the Daughters of Metamora meeting when they socked me with a fine—was when I fell flat on my hoop-skirted rear during a Civil War re-enactors’ dinner. Not my finest hour.

  Who was I kidding? That was better than being dragged into the muddy canal by my brood of hairy beasts—twice.

  “Mom, I can’t go to a clarinet lesson tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure you can!”

  “No, I can’t.”

  She batted her eyes at me, dismayed. “Why not?”

  “A) I have to work. Canal Days is less than a week away. And 2) I’m tone deaf. You know this about me. I can’t sing ‘Jingle Bells,’ let alone play an instrument.”

  “Psh!” She waved my arguments aside. “Work can wait an hour. You get a break, don’t you? And that’s what lessons are for! You’ll learn! Don’t be so negative, Cameron.”

  “But I don’t even have a clarinet!”

  “No worries, dear. I bought you one. Fiona will have it for you tomorrow.”

  “Great. You’ve taken care of everything.”

  “What have you done without me?” She kissed my cheek. An actual kiss, not her usual near-miss kiss. “It’s so nice to be here with both of you girls.”

  “It’s nice having you here,” I said. Even though it had been roughly twenty-four hours and she was already running my life.

  Suddenly, I was back in high school again.

  • Six •

  I held the reed between my lips, softening it before clamping it onto the mouthpiece of the clarinet. Fiona circled my metal folding chair, eyeing me like a predator. Hair pulled back in a bun, with sharp, eagle eyes, she reminded me of an old schoolmarm. I was afraid she’d pull out a ruler and whack me with it.

  “It was so surprising when your mother told me you were interested in learning to play clarinet,” she said, coming around to stand in front of me. “You’d never given any indication in the years you’ve been living here.”

  “It’s taken me a while to get settled in and comfortable,” I said. “Now seemed like a good time to take up an instrument.”

  Even to my ears, it sounded like a stretch.

  She nodded slowly, eyeing me. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but it couldn’t be good. “Put the reed in place and let’s get started,” she said.

  I managed to get the reed secured like she’d shown me, and sat on the edge of my chair with the clarinet in both hands. Fiona sat beside me with her own clarinet and showed me where to place my fingers and thumbs. “The first thing I want you to do is blow into your instrument,” she said. “Try to make sound and not squeaks. Place the tip of the mouthpiece behind your front teeth, place the tip of your tongue on the reed and blow a steady stream of air through it.”

  I did as she said and blew. A high-pitched screech wailed from my clarinet. “Let me try again,” I said, sheepishly.

  I blew. My clarinet was possessed. A howling, shrill banshee cry echoed through the tiny train depot. We were set up in the back of the building, where folding tables displayed ancient musical instruments and the walls were adorned with photographs from historical times in the town. It was a museum, of sorts, of Metamora’s history.

  Fiona squeezed her eyes closed. “You need a more controlled release of air. This isn’t blowing up a balloon, it’s playing an instrument. Try again.”

  I tried again, and got a dull, breathy note, that reminded me of knocking on a hollow gourd. A kind of thud that turned into a squeal.

  “You’re getting there,” she said, looking toward the front of the station as a man walked in. “I’ll be back. Keep going.”

  I was able to make a few toots and a lot more whistles and squeaks before she returned. “Well, that’s enough for today,” she said. “Practice at home. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Same time. Call if you need to cancel.”

  She sounded hopeful that I’d cancel. “Practice blowing into the horn?” I asked. Seemed like she should teach me a few notes at least.

  “You can’t run before you walk, can you? When you get to the point where your instrument isn’t making keening death knells, we’ll move on.”

  Keening death knells? I wasn’t that bad, was I?

  Remembering my true purpose for taking lessons, I smiled. “Thank you for teaching me. I’ll practice every day.”

  I shot her a bright smile. I needed to practice keeping my expressions in check, too. Normally, they showed every thought and feeling that zinged through my head. If I was going to play nice, I needed to train my face to play nice and not give me away.

  I packed up my clarinet and stepped outside, thankful that I’d made it through my first half-hour lesson. One hour a week wouldn’t kill me after all.

  Across the bridge, in the grassy park area where the playground and gazebo stood, I spied Ben and his dog, Brutus, with the stranger Monica spotted on Saturday with the big gray dog. The two men and their best canine friends stood facing each other. The tall man with dark wavy hair turned to his dog and gave a command. The dog sprinted to the gazebo, ran around it once, then darted inside, sniffing around like he was searching for something. The man called out, and the dog ran back and sat at his side.

  I’d never seen such an obedient animal in my entire life. Not that I was an expert, but I was amazed.

  As I neared, I lifted a hand in greeting. Ben saw me and waved me over. “Cam, this is Quinn Kelly and his dog, Conan. Quinn, this is my wife … umm …”

  I was still his wife, even if we weren’t living under the same roof. Did he feel doubtful that I’d want him introducing me as such? “Cameron,” I said, holding out my hand to shake Quinn’s. “That’s an enormous dog.” Brutus and Gus were the largest dogs I’d ever been around. Conan was a few heads taller than both.

  “He’s an Irish Wolfhound,” Quinn said. “Ex K9 unit. He’s my training partner.”

  “K9, as in police dog? I thought police dogs were all German Shepards?”

  “They are, for the most part. Some are Labradors or Springer Spaniels, even Dobermans, like Brutus.”

  “Brutus is a Doberman Rottweiler mix,” I clarified.

  “Right, well, Conan was a training dog, so he didn’t do field work very often. I preferred working with him over the other breeds, so he was given an exception.”

  “Where are you from?” I asked. His lilting Irish accent gave away the fact that he wasn’t from around here originally.

  “County Cork in Ireland,” he said, and laughed. “What gave me away?”

  I smiled. “What brings you to Metamora of all places?” I couldn’t imagine how someone from Ireland could end up here in our tiny town hidden in the trees off of Route 52 in southeast Indiana.

  “Carl brought him here to train Brutus,” Ben said. “He has quite a reputation in the training community. We’re making Metamora One the first K9 unit.”

  “You? You’re going to be a K9 unit? You and Brutus?” My eyes fell to his dog who was salivating over the nearby flock of ducks.

  “Brutus will be every bit as obedient and loyal as Conan when we’re through,” Quinn said.

  “How long are you staying? Forever?” I laughed. There was no way Brutus was going to be half the police dog Conan was, even if he had saved my life from a killer a few months back. He had the drive, but it was the self-discipline I questioned. And I knew a little bit about self-discipline—just ask the twenty boxes of cookies in my pantry.

  Quinn grinned, probably aware of the fact that this project would take him until next summer at least. “As long as your town will have me.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’m Carl’s guest at the moment,” he said, “but I’m planning on taking a room at the Briar Bird Inn for my extended stay.”

  “What’s with the case?” Ben asked, prodding my clarinet.

>   “I’m taking clarinet lessons from Fiona.”

  His brow creased and he bit his bottom lip. If he were any more confused, or ready to bust out laughing, his head would explode.

  “Don’t ask,” I added. “My mother …”

  He nodded. “Right. Well, good luck with that.”

  “And good luck to you and Brutus. I’ve got to get to work. Nice to meet you, Quinn. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

  “It’s a very small town, so the chances are good,” he said. “Nice meeting you, too.”

  I left them to their training and traipsed across the grass to the road. Overhead, thunder rumbled and fat, dark clouds loomed. My knee had been acting up lately, so I knew a storm was coming, I just hoped it didn’t hold out until the weekend and Canal Days.

  ∞

  The Metamora Action Agency was in an uproar when I stepped onto the peeling black-and-white linoleum tiles in the church basement. “About time you graced us with your presence, Cameron Cripps-Hayman,” Roy said, stalking toward me. “That mother-in-law of yours is in cahoots with your own mother.”

  “What does that mean?” An ominous sensation whipped around in my stomach like a tornado.

  “It means they’re taking over Canal Days,” Johnna chimed in. “Which is fine with me; I’m too old for this anyway.”

  “What do you mean they’re taking over? Anna, translate please.”

  Anna, my red-headed fireball with a brain the size of Quinn’s dog, Conan, stood from her little donated school desk. “The Daughters of Metamora reassigned the tables, declined some of the vendors we had approved, and added a pageant.”

  “A pageant? What kind of pageant?”

  Anna swallowed, keeping her composure. “They’re calling it the Miss Cornstalk Pageant.”

  “Mia!” I said. “She and Irene cooked this up, I’m sure. But what does my mother have to do with it?”

  “You tell us,” Roy said, sinking back into his chair. “She was standing right here with Irene ten minutes ago giving us our marching orders.”