by Merrin,Blair
“At least someone gets it,” Dash says to me. I roll my eyes.
“You know, I think I know where this came from,” Bonnie says. “I was just talking with Cynthia yesterday, and she told me that her manor is hosting a traveling wax exhibit.”
“Really?” Cynthia is a middle-aged woman from one of Bandit Hills’ oldest families, the Middletons. She owns a Victorian mansion on the edge of town, not far from Bonnie’s ranch, that was declared a historical site just a few years earlier. Cynthia herself could be declared historic; every time I’ve seen her she’s been garbed in some old-timey gown, adorned with jewelry and her hair pulled up in a tight bun. She looks like something out of the Victorian era, at least to these eyes.
“Another Halloween attraction?” I ask.
“No, this one doesn’t open for a couple more days.”
“That would explain the wax Vincent,” Dash offers. “But why bring it here?”
“I’m not sure. You could ask them yourselves,” Bonnie tells us. “Cynthia may hire us to cater the grand opening.”
Dash and Bonnie continue chatting idly, but honestly, I’m not paying much attention. I’m too busy staring at Vincent Price’s enigmatic smirk and thinking about why he came to my shop.
But now I have a lead. Curious Cassie is on the case!
CHAPTER 3
You know that old saying, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”? Well, I’ve looked at a lot of horse’s mouths. Figuratively.
I guess most people would just be content to get a hundred bucks for doing nothing but keeping a creepy wax figure in their storage room. But me, I need knowledge. I need to know where this thing came from, why it’s here, and who dropped it off. It’s more than just a desire to know; I hunger to know. I need to know.
Back in high school, I had a less-than-flattering nickname, Curious Cassie. The root of it, in short, is that I was on the school paper and had a knack for getting myself into things that, you know, maybe I shouldn’t have. But a lot of good came out of that reporting, like the time I discovered that Mr. Trexler, the English teacher, was randomly assigning grades because he felt that reading through tenth-graders’ papers was too tedious.
My point is, if there’s a thing that needs knowin’, I need to know it.
Dash heads back to his office shortly after Bonnie leaves, and I putter around the shop for a while, helping customers and dusting shelves, when really I’m thinking about Vincent Price. Noon hits, and I tell Mom I’m going to Tank’s to grab some lunch.
“Sure thing, sweetie. Take your time.”
“Thanks, Ma. Be back in an hour, tops!” Of course I’m not going to Tank’s. Full disclosure here: I don’t make a habit of lying to my mother. There are just some situations in which it’s better to avoid the truth.
Rather than heading to Tank’s Diner down at the far end of Main Street, I instead drive my SUV up the hill toward Bonnie’s ranch, turning left about a quarter mile before her long, dusty driveway and going northeast on Castle Road.
Cynthia Middleton’s mansion is as grand and gorgeous as I remember it. The whole place has been fully restored and repainted in the last decade. A sign on the perfectly manicured front lawn reads MIDDLETON MANOR. This is the place where the wealthy of Bandit Hills—and those who want to pretend to be so—enjoy afternoon tea and small cakes made of who-knows-what as they sit around in, I don’t know, cummerbunds and bustles.
Shows how much I know about high society, right?
Every once in a while the manor house plays host to something genuinely interesting; last time I was here was for a fancy masquerade ball about two years earlier. And it seems that now it’s hosting a wax exhibit.
The long cobblestone driveway of Middleton Manor is almost entirely taken up by a long eighteen-wheeler. I park on the street and walk up the drive, examining the truck. I have no doubt this semi is used to transport the wax figures, but there are no distinguishing marks on it at all; the cab is a deep blue, the trailer itself is entirely white, and the license plate says it came from Arkansas. Could be rented, for all anyone would know.
A small cottage about ten yards from the manor house serves as Cynthia Middleton’s office, where she handles whatever business there is to handle. A small sign in the window says, “Out to lunch – back at 1.” I knock anyway. There’s no answer.
I wonder to myself where someone like Cynthia eats lunch. I’ve never seen her in Tank’s or Bonnie’s, or the Italian place on Main. Wherever it is, I imagine they serve tiny cucumber sandwiches on silver platters. As I laugh at my own ridiculousness, I hear a man’s voice coming from somewhere nearby—inside the manor.
As I step quietly up the porch, I notice that there aren’t any Halloween decorations anywhere to be seen in or around Middleton Manor. Figures; I imagine Cynthia’s the kind of person that thinks a little festivity would cheapen the place.
I try the front door. It’s unlocked. What’s a girl to do? I go inside.
The manor house smells like potpourri and Lysol. I tiptoe through the huge foyer and into an adjacent parlor, and gasp. At first it looks like there are a dozen people standing around in the wide, well-lit room. After the moment’s shock wears off, I realize they are all wax statues.
I take a closer look at some of the faces. I recognize a few—Ava Gardner, for example, since that was my mom’s favorite actress when I was growing up. There are a couple of US presidents, an Elvis Presley, someone that is either Frank Sinatra or Jimmy Stewart… Dash would probably be disappointed at how few of them I can name.
“We’re in the red, Sam.” A man’s voice startles me back to reality, and I quickly hide behind Elvis. Luckily it’s a later-in-life version of the King, and his ample belly hides me well. I peer around him, but I don’t see anyone; whoever is speaking is in the next room.
“I don’t know how long we can keep doing this,” the man says. His voice is nasally and, to be honest, a bit whiny.
“Vinnie, you worry too much,” a second man says. “I have faith that things will work out for the best. I have trust in the family.”
The first man, presumably Vinnie, scoffs. “The family. You know how you sound when you say stuff like that? They’re wax, Sam. Look… I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s time to look for alternatives, maybe even sell a few. That museum in New York was offering good money—”
“Vinnie, how could you even say that?” Sam (I assume) says incredulously. “Look, don’t worry. This town is the perfect place for this. They love this kind of stuff here! I bet once that Middleton lady sees how well we do, she’ll let us set up shop here for quite a while.”
Vinnie sighs. “I hope you’re right. Listen, I’m going to grab some lunch. You want anything?”
“Nah, I’m good. You go.”
I hear footfalls and I crouch lower behind Elvis. I hear Vinnie pass through the room, and then the front door of the manor house opens and closes again. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief.
“Uh… hey. You, behind Elvis. What are you doing?”
Eep.
CHAPTER 4
The other guy from the room, Sam, comes around the statue with an eyebrow raised, startling me. I think I actually squeaked out an audible, “Eep!”
“…What are you doing in here?” he asks, his hands on his narrow hips. This guy, Sam, is tall, his limbs lanky and thin. He has a boyish face that suggests he’s no older than I am, maybe even younger, but his hair has thinned almost bald.
“I, uh… sorry. I heard that the wax exhibit was here. Thought I would check it out. It sounded… cool.” My lie sounds super lame, but I’m guessing Sam buys it because his face breaks into a broad smile. I imagine that he believes it looks like a warm smile, but it really looks like a leering grin.
“Oh, it is cool! We don’t actually open to the public for two more days, but… oh, what the heck. Come here, check this out.” He turns and lopes back into the adjacent room. I’m already entrenched in the lie, so I follow. This Sam fellow seems a bit
creepy to me, but who am I to judge? I’m from Bandit Hills. Some folks probably think I’m a little creepy.
In the next room, he points out a wax bust of a jovial, gray-haired man. “Do you know who this is?” Sam asks eagerly.
“Uh… Roger Ebert?”
Sam furrows his brow, but his leering grin returns quickly. “Ha! You’re funny. No, it’s Roger Corman. The famous director?”
“Oh. Right, yeah. Totally looks like him.”
“It’s a work in progress.” Suddenly he smacks himself on the forehead, which startles me a little. “Where are my manners? I’m Sam Connor. I own and operate the exhibit.”
“Cassie Cleary,” I tell him, sticking out my hand. “I own a store in town.”
“Oh… um, I don’t shake hands. It’s nothing personal,” he tells me.
“Sure.” I slowly retract my extended palm. “So, Sam, you make all these?”
“Oh, yes. Me and my partner, Vinnie. Though since we’ve been traveling, I haven’t had much time or resources to make any new ones. Poor Roger here has been a work-in-progress for more than a year now.” Sam sighed heavily.
Okay, so the dude is a bit creepy. So what? And though he talks about his wax figures like they’re real people, clearly he loves his work. He seems harmless enough, and I have a pretty good sense about these kinds of things.
“Well, I hope the exhibit goes well,” I tell him, for lack of anything better to say. Sam just stares wistfully at the bust of Roger Corman.
“I’m sure it will—”
His words are cut off by a deafening crack! coming from outside. For the third time in as many minutes, I jump in fright, and then both of us run for the front door of the manor house.
Out on the front lawn stands a woman about my height. She looks fairly plain, except for an angry, nearly maniacal gleam in her eye and frazzled, frizzy brown hair. She wears a sundress with big brown boots, which more than makes up for her plain appearance.
In her fingers she holds a small firecracker, the fuse lit and sparking ever closer to her hand.
“Morgan!” Sam exclaims. “What on earth are you—”
The woman flicks the firecracker onto the lawn, prompting another earsplitting crack! I wince as a small patch of grass and dirt explodes, leaving a small divot in the otherwise perfect lawn.
Sam sucks in a breath. “Morgan! Stop that right now!”
Morgan says nothing. Instead she turns her glare on me, and as she stares me down viciously, she flicks a small plastic lighter and ignites the fuse on another thin firecracker.
Crack!
Cynthia Middleton is going to have a heart attack when she sees this.
“Who’s she?” Morgan says finally. Her voice is squeaky, like a child’s, and she points at me with the plastic lighter.
“I don’t know,” Sam says slowly, “I just met her.”
“Sure you did,” Morgan sneers. To me, she says, “You’d do well to stay away from the exhibit, and stay away from my husband!”
“Ex-husband,” Sam mutters under his breath.
“Morgan, get out of here!” a nasally voice commands. A short, odd-looking man emerges from behind the eighteen-wheeler in the driveway—presumably Sam’s partner, Vinnie. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and his eyeglasses are tinged yellow. He wears one of those vests with a lot of pockets, like the kind that film directors wear.
Morgan sneers and—no kidding—sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry at Vinnie before taking off down the road, her clunky brown boots thumping asphalt.
Internally, I decide I’ve had enough crazy for one day. Time to make my exit.
“Sorry about that,” Vinnie says as he approaches the porch of the manor house. “Nice to meet you. I’m Vinnie.”
At least this one shakes hands, I think as I introduce myself. “Cassie Cleary.”
“You’ll have to excuse Morgan’s behavior. She and Sam have a… long history.” Beside him, Sam turns beet red and stares at the floor. “She’s harmless, I promise. She’s just a little jealous.”
“She follows us, on the road,” Sam says quietly.
Yup, definitely enough crazy for one day. As much as I want to ask them about the wax figure of Vincent Price, I’ve already buried myself in a lie, met two (and maybe three) people who appear genuinely nuts, and to make matters worse, it’s Halloween—which around here means all the crazies come out, living and dead, so I know better than to push any further. Besides, this guy’s name is Vinnie. Short for Vincent, I presume. He must have been the one to leave it. I mean, duh—who else would have a life-size replica of an iconic-to-some horror actor?
Satisfied, I bid adieu to the strange fellows and head back to my car, doing a quick inspection to make sure Morgan didn’t slash my tires or potato my tailpipe. Nothing. I give Dash a call and ask if he wants to meet me at Tank’s for a bite.
As I drive away, I watch Sam and Vinnie head back inside the manor house. The divots in the front lawn smolder. Showbiz people… are they all so weird?
CHAPTER 5
Tank’s Diner has been a Bandit Hills landmark for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t always Tank’s, and most of the old folks still refer to it as “the diner,” but it’s still the best place in town to grab a quick bite for lunch and catch up on local gossip. During the tourist season, the place is hopping, but in the off-season it’s a very laid-back atmosphere.
By the time I get there, just about every seat in the place is taken. I’m glad to see that at least one Bandit Hills entrepreneur is in the full spirit of things; Tank’s Diner is absolutely decked out in Halloween gear. Skeletons hanging from the ceiling, fake spider webs around the light fixtures, pumpkins on every table… you know, the kitschy kind of Halloween décor. From somewhere near the back of the diner I hear Tank’s boisterous voice and his deep belly laugh as he regales some tourist group about a particular haunting or paranormal hotspot. It’s sort of his thing, and he does it well.
I find Dash seated at a stool at the counter, chatting with Tank’s wife. April is tall and blonde, with a southern lilt that makes her look (and sound) more like a Georgian belle than a Tennessee diner proprietor. She waits tables and serves customers with ease and grace, wearing a perfectly-pressed white apron that is always spotless, no matter how busy they are. I’m not sure how she does it.
“Hey, Cassie,” April greets me as I take the empty stool beside Dash at the counter. “Dash was just tellin’ me about your new wax friend.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I think he’ll tell anyone that’ll listen.”
“You have to admit, it’s kind of cool,” Dash shrugs. “And on Halloween no less!”
“You hate Halloween,” I remind him. “I thought you just wanted a nice, quiet day, handing out candy to kids and whatnot?”
He grins. “I’ve got a better idea.”
I tell him to hold that thought while I order a burger and fries, which doesn’t sound like anything special from any normal diner, but there’s something magical about a burger from Tank’s. He grinds and mixes the meat himself, with a secret recipe that involves seasoning, three kinds of beef, and who knows what else. All I know is they come out thick and juicy without being greasy, and if you ask for the “Bandit Hills Special” he’ll top it with a fried egg, which is basically heaven on a bun.
“Okay,” I tell him. “What’s your big idea?”
“We need to have a movie night. This whole thing with you not knowing Vincent Price is just… wrong.”
I punch him lightly in the arm. “You nerd. I thought you meant something serious. Fine, we’ll have your silly movie night.”
“Tonight?”
“Sure. Seems fitting. Oh, speaking of Vincent…” I quickly recount my experience with Sam, Vinnie, and the possibly-insane Morgan. By the end of it, Dash is shaking his head and grinning. “What’s so amusing?”
“Oh, you know,” he says. “We experience a lot of weirdnes
s here in town, but somehow the out-of-towners always manage to out-crazy us.”
“You’re not wrong.”
April sets a Coke and a white-wrapped straw in front of me, but her gaze is directed toward the door. “My, my,” she says quietly. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
I swivel my stool as the glass entrance swings open. A woman enters in a long dress, frilled at the bottom and a neckline up to her throat. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and her sharp eyes scan the diner distastefully.
They come to a rest on me, and she strides purposefully our way, her polished black shoes clacking against the tile.
“Ms. Cleary,” she says with a curt nod. “My apologies for skipping over pleasantries, but may I have a word?”
“Hi Cynthia.” I smile politely. “And sure. What’s up?”
Cynthia Middleton’s nostrils flare. “What is up is that I returned to the manor house to find my front yard destroyed. The gentlemen from the wax exhibit claim it was a third party that did the damage. They claim you can back up their story. I called your store and your mother said you would be here.” She stiffens. “So, can you tell me what happened, before I tell those two to pack up and leave?”
A pang of empathy runs through me for Sam and Vinnie. They seem like nice enough guys, albeit weirdoes. I’d hate to see them kicked out on account of that Morgan woman’s actions. “I’d be happy to. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Cynthia eyes the stool beside me with disdain. “I’m fine standing.”
I shrug and tell her what happened (leaving out the part where I sort of just wandered into the manor house, of course).
“So this woman is attempting to sabotage them? How do I know she won’t cause further damage?” Cynthia asks.
“I couldn’t say.” I definitely have the feeling that Morgan is lurking about somewhere in town. The crazed look in her eye told me that she wasn’t the sort to just give up.
Cynthia sighs and stares at the floor. For a moment she looks almost vulnerable. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice,” she says softly.