“Pandemonium is about to break out,” Ben said.
“I don’t think so. It’s like he’s invisible to the dogs. I don’t know how he does it.”
“Maybe he really is some kind of phantom cat.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” I said, spotting the boxes of honey sitting on top of a couple old milk crates against the wall. “There they are.”
We each hefted one into our arms and headed back upstairs. “That was too adventurous for this early in the morning,” Ben said, once we were back in the hallway. He lowered his box so I could set mine on top. I took the flashlight out of his hand and opened the front door for him, following him out to Metamora One to stash the boxes in the pickup bed.
“What’s with the duck?” he asked, eyeing Metamora Mike sunning himself in Old Dan’s lawn chair beside the bee box.
“He thinks he a dog. He’s joined the pack.”
“You’re running a zoo here, Cam.”
Didn’t I know it.
“Daddy!” Mia ran across the yard and into Ben’s arms.
“Morning, beautiful,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I have time to grab breakfast before work, want to come with me?”
She’d already gotten dressed and pulled her hair up into a pony tail. “Can we get pancakes?”
“Of course. Let me grab Monica’s biscuits and we’ll go. Cam, want to come?”
“I think I’ll let you guys have some father-daughter time. I’ve got a million things to do today anyway.”
“Call if you need me to help with anything,” he said.
Over the past few years Ben had been too busy with work to worry about what I was doing, or if I needed help with anything. It seemed he had turned over a new leaf after all.
“I will.” A warmth overtook me, and I reached up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. “Thanks.”
He smiled and gave me a wink. “That’s what husbands are for, right?”
Every day we were separated brought us one step closer together.
Odd how that happened.
I was just glad it did.
• Sixteen •
In the backseat of Monica’s car, Mom was making pom-pons out of brown yarn. If this was going to be my costume, I didn’t want to think about what it was turning into. Something with spots perhaps? A giraffe or a cheetah? Grandma Diggity?
Connersville wasn’t far, only one town away. The Whitewater Valley train came and went from Connersville to Metamora a few times each day. In the next couple of days, it would bring in tourists, and the conductor, Roger Tillerman, would be dressed as a vampire, like every other year during Canal Days.
“Mon, up here next to the Kroger is McDonald’s, see it?” I pointed up ahead. “I need a cheeseburger. I’m having withdrawal symptoms.”
“Like what?” Mom said from the backseat. “Did you lose a pound or two from not eating fast food?”
I scowled out the window and waited for another yoga comment. McDonald’s cheeseburgers were one of my vices. Cookies and cheeseburgers, so sue me. I didn’t drink like Roy, or gamble like the recently departed Butch. Food was my weakness.
Monica turned in and cruised into the drive through lane. “Mom, do you want anything?” she asked.
Reluctantly, Mom ordered a yogurt parfait and an iced tea, while Monica and I got burgers and fries. We took after Dad—and most of America—in our love of unhealthy eating. Mom was on her own with her yogurt. Well, she always had Mia, I guess. They could console one another over the lack of vegetables in my refrigerator’s vegetable drawer.
We scarfed down our lunch as Monica drove and had just finished when she pulled into the parking lot of Bantum Kennels. We were the only car there. It was eerily familiar. The last time I’d been here, the place had been ransacked and Cory Bantum lay shot out back by the dog runs.
“Slow day, I guess,” Monica said, turning off the car’s engine.
“I’ll stay here while you two run in,” Mom said, consumed with her yarn project.
“We won’t be long.” I got out of the car and waited for Monica to collect the basket of samples from her trunk.
The sky over Connersville was dark and cloudy, too. “If this rain doesn’t break or pass over us, I’m afraid it’ll hit tomorrow,” I said. “That’s the last thing we need after all the hard work we’ve done.”
Monica patted my arm. “The vendors will bring tents to put their tables under, and everyone else will have an umbrella. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
But my knee begged to differ as pain shot through it on the way to the kennel entrance. This storm would be a doozie.
We walked inside to absolute silence. Nobody sat behind the front desk. The place was a ghost town.
“Why aren’t there dogs barking?” Monica asked. “Have you ever been to a kennel and not heard dogs barking?”
“No.” I searched the desk for a bell to ring for service, but there wasn’t one. Oddly enough, there was a computer with a security monitor showing the parking lot on screen. I could make out Mom sitting in the back of Monica’s car.
“Hello?” Monica called. “Anyone here?” She headed behind the desk toward the swinging double doors leading to the kennels.
Curious about the security cameras and sensing that something wasn’t what it seemed, I sneaked around to the other side of the desk for a look at a few printed documents lying beside a keyboard. The first was a receipt from the kennel to a boarder for seven days, $420. Good gravy, that was a lot of money.
I shifted the receipt aside. Underneath was a certificate of deposit to an account in the kennel’s name to Connersville First Bank for over three thousand dollars. I picked up the copy of the boarder’s receipt again, and my blood froze. The $420 paid to the kennel was from Stewart Hayman. My in-laws didn’t even own a dog.
“There’s nobody back there,” Monica said, coming back through the swinging doors. “And not one dog.”
“Something’s going on here,” I said. “Something—” My eye caught on the corner of a bank receipt sticking out of the top drawer of the desk. The account was for Track Times, Inc. I reached for it.
“Can I help you?” a man asked, pushing through the doors behind Monica.
I dropped my hand, clasping it with my other in front of me.
“There you are,” Monica said. “Avery?”
The tall, light-haired man who looked to be in his early forties glanced between us. “Yes. Who are you?”
He wasn’t exactly friendly for a business owner, but the fishy pieces of this mystery were swimming laps in my head and almost fitting together.
“I’m Monica Cripps, and this is my sister, Cameron—”
“Cripps-Hayman,” he said. “You found my brother’s killer.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “I’m glad you were able to keep the kennel open.”
His eyes widened. “Right. It’s been hard. Not a lot of business since Cory was found in the back. Some months I’m not making ends meet, unfortunately.”
Monica thrust the basket of samples into his hands. “I make dog treats. I thought your customers might like some free samples for their pets.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll set them here on the desk.”
“Great! Cameron, didn’t you have something to ask Mr. Bantum?”
My mind hit a wall. Didn’t I have something to ask him? I had several questions to ask him, like why was there a bank receipt with Track Times written on it? Track Times, which now owned Butch Landow’s farm. How could he afford a deposit of three thousand dollars and not be able to make ends meet?
“Cam?” Monica said, eyeing me warily. “Grooming?”
“Oh! Right! Do you happen to know of a good groomer? I’m on the hunt for one.”
“No, I don’t.�
��
He was very direct, almost alarmingly so. “Too bad,” I said. “Guess we’ll get going.”
I shot Monica a look that said, Let’s get the heck out of here, turned for the door, and came face-to-face with Nick Valentine. “Nick!”
“Cameron. Hi. Haven’t seen you for a while.” His eyes shifted nervously between Avery and I.
“Not since you finished your community service hours,” I said. I didn’t know if he was nervous because I’d found out about him and Mia, or if it had something to do with Avery. “How’ve you been?”
“Good. I’m working here a few hours a week. Keeping busy.”
“Good. Staying out of trouble then?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Trying to.”
“Well, it was good seeing you,” I said. “Monica and I were just leaving.”
“Hi, Nick,” she said, on her way past and out the door. “Bye, Nick.” She laughed and jogged to catch up with me, her feet crunching on the gravel behind me. “What’s going on with you?” she asked when we got to her car.
“Get in. There’s a camera on us.”
“A camera?”
“Get in the car, Monica.” We both hurried into our seats, yanking the car doors shut behind us. “Hurry up and get out of here,” I said.
She threw the car in reverse and gunned the engine, throwing rocks.
“Not that fast, Luke Duke! Good gravy, let’s not give it away that we know anything.”
“I don’t know anything!” she said. “You told me to hurry, so I’m hurrying.”
Back out on the road, I breathed a little easier.
“What on earth is going on?” Mom said, picking up yarn pom-pons that had rolled to the floor when Monica peeled out of the parking lot.
“That kennel’s not a kennel,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” Monica said. “It looked like a kennel to me.”
“There were no dogs. Don’t you find that odd?”
“He said he’d been having trouble with business.”
“He had a bank deposit slip on the desk for three grand. If he’s doing three grand worth of business, he should have at least one dog in there, shouldn’t he?”
“Slow week?”
“What about the receipt sticking out of the desk with Track Times written on it?”
“Track Times?”
I couldn’t keep straight who I’d told what information to, the Action Agency or Mom and Monica. “Butch Landow’s farm went to a company called Track Times.”
“Money laundering,” Mom said, half paying attention in the back seat. “Oldest trick in the book.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, swiveling around to face her.
“I mean the kennel is a front for a dirty business, probably whatever Track Times is. That’s why there weren’t any dogs in there. It’s the legal entity used to keep money in the bank so it doesn’t look suspicious.”
“Good gravy. What has Stewart gotten himself involved in.”
“What about Stewart?” Mom asked.
“He paid the kennel over four hundred dollars to board a dog.”
“I didn’t know Irene and Stewart had a dog.”
“They don’t,” Monica said. “Irene hates dogs.”
“Oh,” Mom said, “right. He’s involved in this somehow.” She made a tsk tsk sound with her tongue. “How are you going to break it to Ben?”
“I have no idea.”
Ben would be devastated to find out his father was involved in illegal activity, and I would be devastated telling him.
∞
I woke up later that afternoon after giving in to a raging headache, taking two Tylenol, and collapsing in bed for a nap. The house was quiet for a change. Traipsing downstairs, the dogs were in the family room, snoozing in front of a fire in the fireplace. Mia was curled up in a chair texting, with Liam and a soft blanket over them. Mom and Monica were sipping hot tea and working a puzzle on the coffee table. It was a picture of tranquility.
“Every day needs to be like this,” I said, pouring myself a cup of tea from the heavy cast iron tea pot sitting on its warmer before plopping down on the couch. It was a nice respite from the busy days leading up to tomorrow’s Canal Days kick off.
“Your costume for tonight is on the kitchen table,” Mom said, fitting a piece of the puzzle.
Before I got too comfortable, I got up and went in the kitchen to take a look. I held up my now totally unfamiliar sweatshirt in front of me. “What on earth is this?” It had the brown yarn pom-pons sewn all over the front and back with long pieces of off-white and red yarn hanging from everywhere else.
“Spaghetti and meatballs!” Mom said, clapping her hands together. “Isn’t it clever? You wear a strainer on your head!”
“No,” I said. “I’m not leaving the house as spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Come on, Cam,” she said. “I saw it a few years ago in a Family Circle magazine and always wanted to try it out.”
“Then you wear it. I’m not five years old anymore, Mom.”
“Well, I’m most definitely too old to wear it. It’ll be perfect for you. You have that kind of personality.”
“What kind is that?”
“Random,” Monica said, while at the same time, Mom said, “Whimsical.”
“Huh. I think you both have it out for me.”
“Grandma Irene canceled the pageant,” Mia said.
“Why?” I tossed the yarn-covered sweatshirt aside and gave all of my attention to my stepdaughter.
“Because I’m not going to be in it.”
“Did you tell her why you aren’t going to be in it?”
“I told her I didn’t want to.”
“So she canceled it? Because you don’t want to be in it?”
“Why else would she be having it at all? Do you think she cares about any other girl winning?”
“No, not even a little bit.”
I hadn’t wanted the pageant to begin with, but now that it was canceled last minute I wondered how many girls and their parents were put out after buying dresses and shoes. And how many of them would blame me? I had to do something for them.
Jekyll, or maybe it was Hyde, it was hard to tell them apart, came up to me with my spaghetti and meatballs sweatshirt over his head. “You want to wear it?” That’s when it struck me like lightning. A pet parade. The Metamora teens and their pets! The girls could still wear their dresses and parade their costumed pets along the canal. “Here,” I told my bristly-furred friend, “let me help you.” I lifted each paw into a sleeve and tugged the shirt over his head. It was a little big, but it worked. “Hey Mom, how fast can you make a couple more of these?”
“What on earth for?”
“A Canal Days Pet Parade!”
“When did you plan this?” Monica asked.
“Just now. Mia, ask your grandmother to get me the list of girls who were planning on being in the pageant, please.”
“Why, so they can dress up like dogs and parade around?”
“No, of course not. Please just get me the list.”
“Okay, whatever you say.” She rolled her eyes and began texting again.
Mom got a bag of yarn from the hall closet and set it on the couch. “Well, let’s start making meatballs, girls.”
∞
We worked until six o’clock, only taking a break to make sandwiches for a quick dinner. Mia pitched in, giving up some of her old shirts for the dogs’ costumes. For Liam, we used one of Ben’s old sweat socks and cut off the toe.
Instead of using strainers on their heads, we made elastic headbands with one giant yarn meatball that would sit right between their ears. Liam’s tube sock made him look more like a slice of lasagna than spaghetti and meatballs, but he fit right in with the re
st of them.
“Now what are the three of us going to wear to Brenda’s party?” Mom asked.
“I’m not dressing up,” Monica said.
“Oh yes, you are. Don’t be a party pooper.” Mom tugged playfully on a lock of her hair.
“Mom, we have to be there in an hour,” I reminded her. “There’s not enough time.”
“I know what to do,” Mia said. “Get dressed in normal clothes, and I’ll get your ‘costumes’ ready.”
I was afraid to ask. I think Mom and Monica were, too, so we did what we were told and hightailed it upstairs to change for the party.
As I dressed in jeans and a sweater, I started worrying about Stewart and what he’d gotten himself tangled up in with Avery Bantum. How was he involved in Track Times and what Mom believed was a money-laundering scheme? And what did it have to do with Butch Landow? Could it be tied to his murder somehow?
The phone rang, breaking my string of mental questions. “Hello?” I answered, picking up the ancient rotary phone on my nightstand.
“He’s out!” Cass screamed. “Andy’s out of jail!”
“What? Cass, are you serious?”
“She’s serious,” Andy’s voice said. I could hear Cass having fits of happiness in the background. “All I know is that there’s new evidence and they let me and John and Paul go.”
“That’s fantastic! It’s so good to hear from you! Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?”
“Just to get behind my camera again. Cass told me Old Dan’s been helping you out over there.”
“Did she tell you about the beehive?”
“In the porch column?”
“It’s not in the porch column anymore. He built a bee box and moved them in. We have honey for days.”
“Wow, the old man showed me up. I’ve been battling those bees for months.”
“Well, now you can find a way to get Metamora Mike out of my yard. He’s a dog treat addict.”
“How did that happen?”
“Long story involving a clarinet and a model train.”
“I don’t want to know,” he said, laughing.
“I guess this means we won’t be seeing Cass at Brenda’s party tonight.”
Canal Days Calamity Page 15