Corpse on the Cob

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  I twitched my nose, hoping my husband could feel my annoyance through the phone. “No, but I’m in front of her house right now, and no one’s home.”

  “Then you can’t come home.”

  “I’m a grown woman, Greg. I’ll come home if I damn well want too.”

  He laughed. “If that’s so, then why are you asking my permission?”

  “Smart-ass.”

  He laughed again, this time with more gusto.

  I could picture Greg sitting in his wheelchair behind his big desk at Ocean Breeze Graphics in Huntington Beach—three thousand miles away. Wainwright would be hunkered down on the floor nearby. It was eight fifteen in the morning in California, three hours behind my current time. His pared-down Saturday staff would be there, and the place would be humming with activity and good-natured ribbing. Greg’s employees love working for him, and no wonder. He treats them great and, thanks to an inheritance from his grandfather, even offers scholarship assistance for those who choose to attend college while working for him.

  But I was still annoyed. After all, he’s the one who insisted I travel to Massachusetts to meet my mother. He’s the one who’d bought the ticket and used frequent flyer miles to upgrade it to first class. On top of that, he’d arranged for me to stay at a charming country bed-and-breakfast while here. And he’d talked my boss, Michael Steele, obnoxious attorney-at-law, into letting me have a last-minute mini-vacation.

  All I had to do was get my fat ass on the plane and travel by rental car from Hartford, Connecticut, to Holmsbury, Massachusetts, the small town where my mother lived. Oh—and place a call to my mother beforehand to let her know I was coming. Which, by the way, I had failed to do. So now I was sitting in a rental car on the Saturday morning of Labor Day weekend on a lovely village road in front of a sweet house that supposedly belonged to my long-lost mother.

  Just minutes before I called Greg, I had taken the long walk up the short path to the door of the house and rung the bell. When no one answered, I let out the breath I was holding and hightailed it back to the car, ready to catch a flight back to California.

  “Did I tell you,” I said into the phone, “that I rented a GPS with the car?”

  “And what does this have to do with you facing your mother, Odelia?”

  Ignoring his question, I continued down my own path of conversation. “According to this gizmo, the Ben & Jerry’s factory is just a short three-hour drive north of here. If I left now, I might make it in time to take a tour.”

  “Uh-huh. You got a hankering to visit the promised land, do you? Wouldn’t it be easier and more time-efficient to go to the grocery store to get your fix?”

  “But it could be fun. More fun, though, if you were with me.”

  I had mixed feelings about Greg not coming with me. Even though he was swamped at work and short-handed while some of his key people were on vacation, he would have traveled with me had I asked him. On one hand, I thought it would be easier to deal with this meeting, or my inability to deal with it, without his cheerful encouragement and pushing. On the other hand, I missed him terribly, including his support and not-so-gentle nagging to just do it. Ever since waking up this morning alone in the big antique canopy bed, without Greg and without our furry four-legged children, I’d been out of sorts. And not just this morning. Ever since discovering my mother’s whereabouts, I’d been crankier than usual—something Steele didn’t hesitate to point out. Nor had Zee Washington, my best friend, minced words about how helpful and healthy it would be for me to get to the bottom of my mother’s disappearance.

  “Maybe,” Greg suggested, “after you meet Grace, you can take a road trip to Vermont. Kind of like a reward.”

  A reward. I thought of Wainwright’s beloved Snausages. Outside of verbal praise from us, our golden retriever considered Snausages the absolute gold standard in reward treats. When it came to Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, I wasn’t all that different. I wondered if they gave factory tours at the Del Monte plant where they made Snausages.

  I was about to ask Greg about the animals when I noticed, and not for the first time, someone watching me from the house across the street. I could see a face peering out at me from behind frothy curtains framing a window.

  “Greg, I’m being watched.”

  “What?”

  “I’m being watched. Someone across the street is watching me from their window.” I glanced over at the neighbor’s house again, but the face had disappeared.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Maybe I should be moving along. I wouldn’t want someone to think I was casing the joint for a robbery.”

  He laughed again.

  “Why are you laughing? I wouldn’t want them to call the police.”

  “Well, sweetheart, that wouldn’t be a consideration if you’d called Grace first like I’d suggested.”

  “Are you giving me the old I told you so line?”

  “I told you so.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “What?” Greg’s jocular mood turned serious in a flash.

  “Someone just came out of that house and is walking towards me.”

  With Greg still on the phone, I watched as a white-haired woman left the house across the street and made her way down her driveway towards my car. She was wearing a white tee shirt and pink sweatpants with a gray stripe down each leg. Draped across her shoulders was a matching pink cardigan-style sweatshirt. On her feet were bright white sneakers. In one hand, she held a leash attached to a long-haired rat. As she got closer, I identified the rat as a long-haired miniature dachshund. The dog, its coat the color of stale baloney, marched in double-time at the end of the leash. When the woman got to the street, she picked up the dog.

  “It’s a little old lady in jogging clothes,” I whispered into the phone. “What’ll I do?”

  “Is she toting a gun or a baseball bat?” I could hear him snickering.

  “Just a wiener dog.”

  He snickered louder. “You’re making this up.”

  “Afraid not. The woman’s gotta be in her late seventies.”

  “Sweetheart, you’ve stared down the barrels of loaded guns and kept company with serial killers. I doubt if a septuagenarian and a dachshund are going to be much of a threat.”

  “How do you know? She could smother me with the dog. Did I say it was long-haired?”

  As the woman approached my car, I gave her as warm a smile as I could muster. The cell phone connection was still open—just in case.

  “Hello,” she said to me, her homey face displaying open curiosity. The dog let out a low growl.

  “Hi,” I answered, eyeing the animal with suspicion. “How are you today?”

  She didn’t respond to my question, but instead asked her own. “May I help you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “May I help you, dear?” she asked again. “I’ve noticed you sitting out here in your car for some time and wondered if you were lost.”

  If this were Southern California, no elderly woman in her right mind would saunter out to question a stranger hanging about her neighborhood, at least not without firepower or pepper spray. And a tiny dachshund is hardly a pit bull.

  The woman was slightly built and would have been considered tall had she not been bent with age. Her face was lined and rosy, and she was wearing a lovely shade of pale pink lipstick. Her hair capped her head like the end of a fluffy white Q-tip. I had no doubt that her home across the street was just as perfectly groomed. Even the dog’s coat glistened in the sun.

  “Um, I stopped by to see Grace Littlejohn. But no one appears to be home.”

  She leaned forward and studied me through thick lenses with pale pink and silver frames. The dog growled more as it drifted closer. I leaned back in my seat. The woman broke into a big smile. “Why, you look just like Grace.”

  “I do?”

  “Spitting image. You must be a relative. Are you a niece or something?”

  I hesitated. In my tote bag was
a photo of my mother taken when I was a child. She always hated having her picture taken, so I didn’t have anything more recent. It was hard to tell from the photo if there was a strong resemblance.

  “Yes, something like that.” Then I added, “I’m just visiting, but it’s a surprise, so I didn’t call first.”

  If Greg was picking up the conversation via the microphone in my earpiece, I had no doubt he was rolling with laughter and mouthing I told you so.

  “I’m Cynthia Rielley. I’ve lived across the street from Grace for over thirty years.” She picked up one of the dog’s paws and waved it at me. “And this is Coco.” Coco growled again. “Shh, Coco,” the woman commanded in a low voice before turning her attention back to me. “He’s so protective of me.” She smiled.

  I smiled back. “Nice to meet you both. I’m Odelia Gre—Stevens. Mrs. Stevens.” I glanced at the Littlejohn house. “I guess I could leave a note on the door and let them know where I’m staying.”

  “This is Labor Day weekend, dear. Grace won’t be back home until very late tonight.”

  “Did she go out of town?” A hopeful tone crept into my voice.

  “Oh, no. Labor Day weekend is when we have the Autumn Fair. Grace always works at the fair.”

  I remembered the owner of the B & B telling guests something about a local fair this morning over breakfast, but I hadn’t been paying close attention. I had been too busy trying to swallow my nerves along with my blueberry pancakes.

  “Is that like a county or state fair?”

  “Yes, but on a smaller scale. Several of the small towns around here put it on to raise money for various local charities. It started more than ten years ago and grows every year.” She straightened her shoulders in pride. “We now draw folks from as far away as Nashua and Boston. Why, there’s even a corn maze.”

  “A corn maze?”

  “Yes, every year Old Man Tyler plants a field of corn near the fair just for the maze and runs it every weekend for the whole month of September and most of October. It’s very popular.”

  Awkwardness crept between us. I wasn’t quite sure what to do or say. No matter what I’d just said to Mrs. Rielley, I had no intention of writing a note to leave on the door. But clearly she expected me to do something. The dog had stopped growling but was still keeping his big brown eyes fixed on me in case I tried to assault his mistress.

  “I know,” Mrs. Rielley said with a burst of excitement. “Why don’t you drive on over to the fair and find Grace? She’ll be so surprised.”

  You have no idea.

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to disturb her while she’s working.”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Rielley turned to face down the road in the direction my rental car was pointed. “You just go down this street a piece until you come to a small rotary. Take the second turn off the rotary; that’s Old Mill Road. Go straight until Turner Junction. You can’t miss it. There’s a Dairy Queen and a Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner. Turn left and keep going until you see the fair. There should be signs for it along the way.”

  “Um … thank you very much, Mrs. Rielley.”

  She turned back towards me. “You’re quite welcome, Mrs. Stevens. Just check the food booths. Grace is always in charge of things having to do with food.”

  Like mother, like daughter.

  I started up the car, and Mrs. Rielley stepped back. Coco looked disappointed that I hadn’t given him reason to sink his teeth into me.

  “Maybe we’ll see you there.” She gave me a small wave goodbye. “My husband and I are going tonight. They always have country music on Saturday night, right after the fireworks.”

  “Did you hear that?” I said to Greg as soon as I was several blocks away from Mrs. Rielley.

  Greg was laughing. “I even heard the dog growl. I hope you’re heading to the fair.”

  “Are you nuts? I can’t meet her in a public place. What if she makes a scene? What if she faints? Has a heart attack?”

  “Which could have been avoided had you just made that call.”

  “Greg, are you going to nag me forever about this?”

  “Nope, just until it stops being fun.” He paused. “I really do think you should go to the fair, sweetheart. Think about it. You could check your mother out from a distance before actually meeting her.”

  As if on autopilot, the car was following the directions given to me by Cynthia Rielley. I was about a mile beyond the rotary and could see the Dunkin’ Donuts sign in the distance.

  “I’m heading towards the fair now, honey. I’m not happy about it, but I can’t seem to help myself.”

  “You’re doing the right thing, Odelia, and I’m proud of you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  He laughed.

  “By the way, Greg, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Anything, sweetheart.”

  “The next time you get the urge to buy me a first-class air ticket, could you make it to Bermuda or Hawaii?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He laughed again.

  I was glad he was so amused, because I wasn’t. I was serious.

  “I’ll let you get back to your driving,” he told me with enough reluctance in his voice to make me feel sad and tingly at the same time. “Call me in a few hours with a progress report. And please find out what a corn maze is. I’m dying to know.”

  He gave me a sloppy kiss over the phone, and I returned it.

  Well before I actually reached the fair, I started seeing cars parked along both sides of the road. I wondered if I should stop and park myself, but I didn’t know how much farther the fairgrounds would be. I decided to keep driving, locate my destination, and then decide where best to park. A bit down the road, I saw a sign touting Autumn Fair Parking $3. Obviously, the folks parked alongside the road thought the hike was better than paying $3. They should see our parking back home, where lots charge $3-plus per fifteen-minute increments or $25 a day.

  The parking lot for the fair was a huge, uneven section of field. I pulled in and paid my $3 to a pimply faced kid wearing an orange reflective vest over a tee shirt and scruffy jeans. Another kid, dressed the same, directed me to an open parking spot between a Ford pickup truck and a Dodge minivan.

  At first glance, the Autumn Fair looked like any country fair. Not as large as a county or state fair, but much larger than I’d expected. Booths and the usual cheap carnival rides were set up across the street in the large adjoining parking lots of a farm machinery retailer, a country market, and a Veterans of Foreign Wars post.

  The field used for parking seemed to be part of a large farm. There was a huge barn and matching house on the far edge of the field. The entire area was surrounded by fields occupied with various crops. A short dirt road led from the parking area away from the fair to another cleared spot surrounded by a low wooden fence. Beyond that fence was a large corn field. Within the fenced area were stacks of pumpkins, wagons and hay, a couple of concession booths, and picnic tables. Newly arrived visitors were heading in both directions, towards the fair and down towards the corn field, though most headed towards the fair. It didn’t take a genius to know that this was the corn maze, especially since there was a painted sign on the edge of the field with Corn Maze and Hay Rides emblazoned across it in red letters that were nearly four feet tall.

  As I got out of the car, I was thankful I had dressed casually and worn good, sensible walking shoes. Back at the Maple Tree Bed and Breakfast, I’d tried on a couple of outfits this morning, not sure which I should wear when meeting my mother for the first time in over thirty years. I had only packed enough clothing for four or five days. Had I been home instead of on the road, I was sure half my closet would have been strewn across our bedroom. At first, I had opted for a cute summer dress and medium-heeled wedge sandals. The weather when I’d arrived yesterday had been nearly eighty degrees with high humidity, but the hostess of the B & B advised everyone this morning that they expected lower temperatures today with rain later. That tid
bit of information caught my attention. So before leaving, I’d scooted back to my room to change into khaki pants, sneakers, and a light green, short-sleeved sweater. I also made sure I took along my lightweight hooded jacket. Looking at the drifting clouds above me and the uneven ground below me, I was glad I’d changed.

  Screwing up my courage, I walked across the road and headed into the hubbub of the fair. It was crowded with people of all ages, including countless families towing several children and pushing strollers. I stood still a moment, surveying the layout. The rides were all clustered in an area of the farm machinery parking lot. That’s where many of the young families appeared to be headed. Mrs. Rielley had said Grace Littlejohn worked with the food booths, so I immediately checked the ride area off my list.

  Following my nose, I headed in the direction of the VFW lot, where I discovered the usual fair-type food booths, along with displays of homemade canned and baked goods for sale. Most of the booth food looked and smelled greasy—and delicious. Fair and carnival food should be in a category all by itself, like the sixth basic food group. It’s not the type of stuff you’d eat in day-to-day life. I mean, fried dough, deep-fried Snickers, and corn dogs are hardly healthy eating, but it’s fun to go to these events once in a while and eat the junk you’d normally eschew.

  And I was getting hungry.

  I am an emotional eater, meaning that when the going gets tough, the not-so-tough pick up a knife and fork. And considering that I was about to come face-to-face with my missing-link mother and all the emotions attendant to that, it was quite possible I could put this shindig into a food drought. But, I reasoned, perusing the food booths would also be a sly way of looking for her.

  If Grace Littlejohn was in charge of the food booths, she could be working at any of them or flitting from one to another, making sure they were all running smoothly. Trying to look like any casual Saturday fairgoer, I picked my way through the crowds at each booth and checked out the people cooking and serving at each one.

  Most of the food booths were staffed by middle-aged and older women, with the occasional man or teen helping. Most of the women were dressed in slacks and short-sleeved or sleeveless shirts with colorful print aprons. None of them had name tags, which would have been helpful.