Canal Days Calamity

by Jamie M. Blair

  “There’s been a development,” I announced, setting my clarinet and handbag on an extra chair.

  “I’d say so,” Johnna replied. “My guess is a wedding by this time next year.”

  “My money’s on spring, with a bun in the oven,” Roy said. “Folks get bored and cold during the winter, find things to occupy their time, if you get my drift.” He shot me a wink.

  “What are you two talking about?” I asked, certain I didn’t really want to know.

  “Monica and Quinn Kelly,” Anna said. “The whole town’s talking.”

  “Not the whole town,” Logan said from behind his laptop. “The probability of the whole town talking about anything is—”

  “You know what I mean,” she said, bunching her red hair up into a ponytail.

  I wedged myself into my donated school desk. “They only met yesterday afternoon. Nobody knows what will happen, if anything. He’s from Ireland, so my guess is they’ll stay friends and keep in touch through email.”

  “What was your news?” Anna asked. “You said there was a development?”

  “Yes.” I leaned forward in my desk. “Arnie Rutherford came by my house this morning. He said he has a client interested in buying Ellsworth House. Arnie is John and Paul’s real estate guy. I don’t know what to do. I need to get information from him, but I never expected him to come to me.”

  “You have to play along,” Anna said, sitting back in her kiddie desk with her arms folded. “It’s the only way we’ll find out how he operates.”

  “Apparently, his client is looking for property on the canal. Since Ellsworth House is one of the very few remaining houses still used as a residence and not a retail shop, Rutherford’s clients are offering top dollar.”

  “Sell it,” Roy said. “Sounds like a no-brainer to me. Take the money and run.”

  “I’m not selling my house. I couldn’t even if I wanted to; it’s not really mine. It belongs in the Hayman family.”

  “Do you think he had anything to do with what happened to Butch?” Johnna asked, winding yarn around her knitting needle.

  “I don’t know. Butch said his name on Andy’s tape the morning he died. It has to mean something.”

  “Meet with him at a public place during the day,” Logan said. “We can be nearby so you have witnesses if anything happens.”

  Anytime I included the Action Agency in a plan, there was a high likelihood of a debacle of epic proportions.

  “The Soapy Savant,” Anna declared. “Call him and have him meet you there tomorrow morning. We’ll take a table in the corner and remain inconspicuous.”

  “We need a code word,” Johnna said. “Like pumpernickel, or rhododendron. You can work it into a sentence and say it real loud and we’ll know you need rescuing.”

  I couldn’t imagine working rhododendron into a conversation at random, but I suppose it could be done.

  “She needs a wire,” Roy said. “Ain’t gonna do us no good to get him to talk if we don’t get it on tape.”

  “I can take care of that,” Logan said.

  I often wondered if Logan was a plant from the CIA. A thirty-year-old who looked like he was seventeen and got assigned undercover to our high school.

  “We’ll go with rhododendron as the code word,” Johnna proclaimed.

  “It’s a solid plan,” Anna said. “Call him and set up the meeting.”

  “I will. I will. I have more to tell you guys.” I told them about Jim, Jefferson, and Steve talking about having to find a new place. “Do you think they were talking about gambling?”

  “Who knows?” Roy said. “Ain’t much to go on.”

  “We need an in with them,” Anna said.

  “We have one.” Johnna pointed to Roy with her knitting needle. “This one here. All he’s got to do is tell them he wants in and he’ll be in.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Roy? Can you do that? Can you get information for us?”

  “Now, it ain’t that easy. Those fellas are a tight-knit group. I can try, but I ain’t makin’ any promises.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “I think we’re making a lot of progress on this case. We’ll have Andy, John, and Paul released in no time.”

  “What about your other news?” Johnna said, lowering her eyes to her needles while she worked, a small, tight grin on her lips.

  “I guess the cat’s out of the bag. I was invited to be a member of the Daughters of Metamora.”

  Anna’s eyes popped open wide, and Roy smacked his leg, laughing like a loon. Logan watched them both, then told me congratulations.

  “So what does this mean for Canal Days?” Anna asked. “Are they—you—who’s in charge? What about the pageant?”

  “Well …”

  “No!” she cried, standing from her desk. “I will not be a part of planning any event that puts females on display and parades them around on a stage to be judged. It’s disgusting. I can’t believe you’re allowing this!” She grabbed her tote bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Logan, come on!”

  “Wait,” I said, as Logan looked desperately from me to her and back. “Anna, it’s not like that. It’s—”

  “It’s exactly like that! All pageants are. Women are more than what’s on the outside. Logan!”

  He hopped up from his desk, pushing his laptop shut as she stormed up the stairs. “Uh … sorry,” he said. “I drove. I’ll talk to her.”

  I nodded, unable to speak over the giant lump in my throat. Good gravy, I’d been chastised by a seventeen-year-old. The worst part was, she had a point. What was I going to do? I’d hurt Anna’s feelings if I went through with the pageant and Mia’s—not to mention Irene’s and my mom’s—if I didn’t.

  ∞

  I sat in Soapy’s office, a closet-sized space behind the area where he and Theresa made scented soaps and lotions. The aroma of the day seemed to be honeysuckle mixed with something minty. Maybe it was eucalyptus.

  “So how’s it coming along?” Soapy asked, flipping through a notepad where he’d jotted details for Canal Days.

  “Good. Thursday I have a meeting with the vendors to go over any last-minute needs they might have.”

  “And are the booths on schedule with Andy indisposed?”

  “The booths? What booths?” I flipped through my own notes to see what I missed.

  “I thought I told you about this,” he said. “Some of the town attractions, like Odd and Strange, and the train depot, and the canal boat, and of course, the Daughters, wanted display booths instead of tents and tables. I asked Andy to build them.”

  “Display booths? Andy?” This was news to me. My head was spinning. It was Tuesday and Canal Days started on Friday afternoon.

  “I’m sorry, Cam, it must’ve slipped my mind.” Soapy sat back in his chair and scratched his beard. “Well, this town has no shortage of wood workers. I’m sure I can pull a team of people together to get it done, but I’ll need someone to be in charge. I’m way too busy to oversee booth building.”

  A thought hammered itself into my brain. “Old Dan! He’s a great carpenter. He’s been helping me by building a bee box.”

  “A bee box? I thought you got rid of those bees.”

  “They’ll never leave. Dan suggested moving them to their own little luxury condo instead of my porch columns. That way maybe we can get some honey from them as rent.”

  He chuckled. “Good call. If you get some, put me down for a jar.”

  “I’ll talk to Dan. He’s taking over helping Monica get Dog Diggity ready, too.”

  “I’ll put a call in to his son to see if he can help out and keep an eye on Dan. Last thing I need is for him to overexert himself.”

  I waited until Soapy made a note for himself.

  “There’s something else,” I said. “I need your advice.”

  “What have
you gotten into this time?” he asked, grinning.

  “The Daughters. I believe my initiation is this afternoon.”

  “A little birdie told me something about that.”

  “Yes, well here’s the thing. Irene planned a Miss Corncob … Corn Husker … Corn Something pageant for Canal Days. Not everyone is so thrilled about it. I need a way to include it in Canal Days, but not really include it.”

  He waved his hand, dismissing my concern. “I know all about the pageant. Fiona was in here telling Theresa about it. She said she was asking her son if they could use the high school gym, so it won’t be downtown by the canal. Schedule it for Sunday afternoon when things die down.”

  “Perfect.” The waves of anxiety rolled off of me, leaving me relieved. We could have the pageant for those who wanted it and not upset any apple carts at the same time. Speaking of …“We’re planning on locating the farmers’ market behind the shops in the grassy area in front of the horse pasture.”

  “What about the electric fence? I know it’s normally off, but have you talked to anyone about making sure it is?”

  I made a note on my pad. “No, but I’ll do that today. Who owns that property?”

  “Good question. I haven’t heard what Butch Landow’s will stated, but you might want to start with his ex-wife.”

  “Phillis? That’s Landow Farm?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll find her number and give her a call.” This was my in—a perfect reason to make contact with one of the main people on my suspect list. And I didn’t even need to be nice to Fiona to do it. So much for honey.

  And clarinet lessons.

  Soapy opened his top desk drawer and pulled out an address book. “I’m the mayor. I’ve got everybody’s phone number.”

  He rattled off Phillis’s number, and I jotted it down. “Thanks.”

  “Go ahead and give her a call. I’ll go make you a pumpkin spice latte. You look like you could use it.”

  “You read my mind. Or my face.” I laughed. “Either way, that sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Pull the door closed when you’re done in here.”

  He left his office, and I dug my cell phone from my overstuffed handbag. My finger trembled a bit as I dialed Phillis’s number, but I wouldn’t let myself overthink this. For the next few minutes, she was any other citizen in Metamora whom I needed to contact about Canal Days. Getting info about who stood to gain ownership of all the Landow land was just a bonus.

  I ran my eyes over the walls of Soapy’s office as a distraction while the line rang. Magazine articles about the Soapy Savant with glowing reviews of their products were framed and hung with care. Photos of him and Theresa from when they were younger and newly married were grouped in a collage on a bookshelf. They looked so young. Soapy didn’t even have his beard yet.

  “Hello?” Phillis answered, startling me.

  “Hello! Uh, hi.”

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  “Cameron Cripps-Hayman. I’m calling about Canal Days.”

  “I make sure I’m out of town for that fiasco each year, but thanks for calling.”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up.” This wasn’t starting out well. “I work for Soapy. We need to speak with you or whoever has access to the electric fence that runs the length of the horse pasture behind the downtown shops.”

  I heard her inhale on a cigarette. “What does the fence have to do with Canal Days?”

  “We’re setting up the farmers’ market in front of the pasture this year. We want to make sure the fence is turned off so no one gets hurt.”

  “This is something my ex used to handle?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “You believe so, or yes?”

  This was one hard-as-nails woman to deal with. “This is my first year as an organizer, but from what I understand the fence is typically turned off.”

  “Hmm, let me think on it and I’ll get back to you. Cameron, was it?”

  “Yes, Cameron Cripps-Hayman.”

  “A Hayman. How nice for you. Well Ms. Hayman, I have your number here on my caller ID. I’ll be in touch.”

  And she hung up.

  I took my phone from my ear and stared at it.

  What in the world had just happened? I got zero answers. I didn’t even know if Phillis owned the farm, or if she could make sure the fence was turned off this weekend. It was Tuesday and the vendors would set up mid-morning Friday. The festivities would begin that afternoon. I had booths to get built and a pageant to keep from becoming an enormous spectacle. All I wanted was something simple—the power turned off on a fence so nobody got zapped buying zucchini. Was that too much to ask?

  • Nine •

  I stood at the edge of my front yard mesmerized, watching Old Dan squeeze the bellows on a bee smoker. At my feet, Metamora Mike twitched his tail and honked. He’d spotted me on my way home and followed. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to shake him. At least I could tell Monica her dog treats were a hit with ducks, too.

  The honeybees hovered in a trance while Dan pried open one of my porch columns. He’d cut a long rectangle along the back where, when patched, it wouldn’t be visible.

  “This is one old hive,” he said. “About eight years, from the size of it.”

  “Eight years?” That meant it had been here with Irene and Stan for four years before Ben and I moved in. Of course she would take the weathervane from the top of the house, but leave the bees for me.

  “Hand me that scraper,” he called, pointing to his toolbox. “Shoulda put it in my pocket.”

  It was all fine and good for him to be close to that many bees ready to sting to protect their territory, but I wasn’t the one with a hood on. Still, he was an old man putting his neck out to help me. I couldn’t stand there and pretend I hadn’t heard him.

  Could I?

  I shook the question out of my head. No, of course I couldn’t.

  Tip-toeing across the grass, I did my best to hurry. Mike, having a strong sense of self-preservation—no wonder he’d lived so long—didn’t follow. Bees flew lazily around the yard, landing heavily on the ground, like their wings were made of lead. “Will they be okay?”

  “Sure they will. Smoke just calms them down. Come on now, they won’t hurt cha.”

  I grabbed the scraper sitting on top of the jumble of tools in Dan’s metal toolbox. Getting only as close as absolutely necessary, I stretched my arm as far as it would go and allow him to grasp the tool by the tip.

  “Lookie here,” he said, waving me over.

  I eased closer and peered into the column. Sheets of honeycomb hung from the top of the column halfway down the length of the inside. “Whoa. That’s enormous.”

  “This section of comb here,” he said, tapping a whitish area, “is capped off honey.” He broke off a piece. “Here, now. Taste that.”

  He broke a small piece off for himself and tossed it in his mouth after handing the chunk over to me. Leaning his head back, he chewed the sticky, gummy honeycomb and stared up at the sky. “That there is heaven on earth.”

  I’d never eaten honey straight from the comb before. It drizzled stickily between my fingers. I touched it to my tongue first. The sweet, pungent taste made my mouth water. “I’ve never tasted anything like this. It’s so good.” I took the bit of comb into my mouth. It was chewy, a little like gum, and so sweet and tangy, but with a bit of a bite.

  “Goldenrod honey,” Old Dan said. “That’s what you get this late in the season.”

  He began to press the end of the scraper into the comb, cutting it straight across the top. I backed up and left the porch, giving him and the bees room to do their business. Soon he stepped away from the column holding a square of the honeycomb. He walked it down the porch stairs, slow and careful, and picked up a board of the same size.

  “What
are you doing?” I asked. I’d never seen anything like this before. My curiosity was piqued.

  “Might as well use their own comb in the new hive. There’s enough of it.”

  He fit the piece of honeycomb to the square board and slid it vertically into the bee box. “How many boards like that go in the box?” I asked.

  “Quite a few. This will get them started. They’ll have that box full of comb in no time. Best make sure they brood, though.”

  “Brood?”

  “The queen has to lay eggs for the hive to thrive.”

  “What does that involve?” I asked. The last thing I needed was a hive of testy bees to babysit.

  “Your mama never gave you the birds and bees talk?”

  “She most certainly did,” Mom said, coming around from the back of the house, jingling her car keys with Mia in tow. “We’re off, and we’re not returning without a dress.”

  “Women on a mission,” I said. “Have fun. Text me pictures when you try them on.”

  “Why?” Mia asked, cocking her head at me. “You and I never like the same things.”

  “Sometimes we do,” I said, but I knew she was right. Our taste and style were polar opposites. I was certain it was our age difference, but proof would be what Mom and Irene thought of the dresses Mia picked out.

  “Whatever.” She got in Mom’s car and slammed the door.

  “She’s always so happy,” I said, to no one imparticular.

  “Hormones,” Dan said.

  I wasn’t sure if we were talking about Mia or brooding bees, so I let the comment slide.

  “Go inside and help Monica,” Mom said, getting in her car. “She’s got hundreds of dog treats to bake before Friday.”

  Monica wanted her treats to be as fresh as possible, so she put off baking for as long as she could. Betty was baking cookies for the Grandma’s Cookie Cutter Canal Days table, so Monica couldn’t borrow her oven. The commercial-sized one we’d ordered for Dog Diggity wouldn’t be installed for another week. I could only imagine the condition my kitchen was in.

  “Go on,” Dan said. “Listen to your ma.”

  I didn’t really want to leave him outside on his own to coax a million bees into a box. What if they turned on him and started a stinging frenzy? Did honey bees do that, or was that the Africanized bees I heard about on the news? How did one tell the difference anyway?