A Killer Maize

by Paige Shelton

  “Ian’s great at what he does.”

  Linda blinked, then crinkled her forehead.

  “What?” I said.

  “You sounded funny.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Okay,” she said doubtfully.

  “Really, I didn’t.”

  She laughed. “Sorry. So tell me about the fair. And your chin.”

  I described the day’s terrifying events, and she seconded Abner’s suggestion that I should have “hightailed it out of there” sooner, with no plans to return.

  I waved at Bo in his onion stall and at Herb and Don in their herb stall, but they were all too busy to chat.

  “Little sister, what are you doing here?” Allison said as she came up behind me.

  We were fraternal twins, but she’d come into the world a full minute before I had; she often noted this fact.

  We looked as different as two sisters could possibly look. She was the spitting image of our tall, dark, and handsome father, and I favored our short, blonde mother. She was the most put-together, well-organized person I knew, and most of the time, I just tried to keep up with her.

  “Looking for you,” I said.

  “Right here.”

  “Your office?”

  “Sure.”

  She was stopped for questions only twice as we made our way back to her small office, which was located in the only real building on the property.

  Once the door was shut, I again relayed the events of the day.

  “How in the world did they even get the permits to open the fair?” she asked when I was done.

  “Apparently, Orderville isn’t well regulated from outside authorities; at least that’s the impression I’m getting.”

  “Still.”

  “That’s what Sam said. He was going to try to get the county authorities to shut it down, but the breaking coaster tracks took care of it for him.”

  Allison blinked. “Sam?”

  I told her about the call he’d received when Virgil’s body had been found and then about his continuing curiosity, and then I told her about Scott.

  “Well, that’s . . . interesting. And Scott and Sam . . . I guess there would be no reason for them not to get along, but you certainly do attract a crowd.” She smiled.

  “Their being at the fair had absolutely nothing to do with me.”

  “No, I know but . . . holy cow, Becca, you leave an interesting history in your wake.”

  I waved away wherever she was going to take that thread of the conversation.

  “Hey, I wonder if you might be interested in having a corn-dog vendor here, at least for a little while, maybe just for a week, maybe longer.”

  “Hmm, not a bad idea, especially considering the cooling weather. The baked potato cart is really picking up business. I’d probably rather have hot dogs, but we could see how corn dogs went over. I need some references, though.”

  “I’ll call him and have him call you.”

  “Great.”

  “And do you by chance know someone named Walter Logan? He was going to set up a chocolate-covered pretzel stand at the fair, but he flaked. Since you know everyone, I thought I’d ask.”

  “Name’s familiar,” she said as she pulled open a drawer to the side of her desk. “Logan, Logan, oh here it is.” She pulled out a file.

  “Tell me he’s got a record, and I can call Sam and tell him that he’s our killer.”

  “Hmm, no, sorry to say, I don’t think so. In fact, he’s a very reputable guy who has a shop in Smithfield, not in Monson. It’s a chocolate and candy shop. He knows his way around chocolate. I tried to get him to consider setting up a stall at Bailey’s, but he wasn’t interested in anything long term. He does attend fairs and the like. I imagine he got a close look at the Swayton County event and decided it wasn’t for him.”

  “That’s it, that’s all you’ve got?”

  “That’s it. Sorry, but I don’t think he’s your guy.”

  “No, probably not.”

  We chatted a little longer about our parents and how good it was to have them back in town for a while, and I left to pick up Hobbit and go home.

  When I’d left my parents’ house the night before, it had been dark, so I’d been unable to clearly see the boulder on the town square park. Now, as I headed out of Bailey’s, I decided that rather than going directly to George’s, I would detour to downtown and inspect Jena Bellings’s alleged handiwork personally.

  Ten minutes later, I stood in front of the boulder, staring at the charred black mark on its top side. I didn’t know if it was from lightning or just some natural pigment of rock. My mother hadn’t seen Jena pull lightning from the sky, but her mother had told her she’d seen it. And Gramma hadn’t been a liar.

  I inspected the rock closely but could see nothing that told me much more than that there was a big black mark on a mostly gray boulder.

  Disappointed, I picked up Hobbit, made sure George was set for dinner, and went home. By the time I pulled into the driveway, the adrenaline had subsided and just as I’d expected, I was totally exhausted.

  I took care of Hobbit, made myself a sandwich, and headed to bed. Thankfully, I was so tired that images of gypsies and breaking roller coaster tracks stayed far away from my subconscious dreamworld.

  Fifteen

  “I tried to call him but got no answer. I’ll keep trying,” I said to Allison.

  “Sounds good. If he gets me his references, I’ll check them quickly, and he can probably be frying corn dogs by Wednesday or Thursday. The more I think about it, the more it sounds like fun.”

  “Good. Thanks,” I said. Hobbit and I were on a morning walk, and my cell phone reception was best on the small slope of land that abutted one of my fields.

  “You’re welcome. And if you see Scott again, tell him to stop by Bailey’s and say hello. Hope this doesn’t bother you, but I wouldn’t mind seeing him. I don’t think a shooting gallery would work here, but I’d still like the chance to say hi.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  “Gotta go. Good to see you yesterday. See you someday soon?”

  “Yeah, Ian and I are spending the day together today, but I plan to get back to Bailey’s next week.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re spending the day with Ian.” Allison’s voice was appropriately cool. She was the unhappiest of all my friends and family with me regarding my kissing Sam. She’d made it clear, both directly with words of tough love and indirectly with disapproving tones of voice and critical glances, that I needed to get my poop in a group and not lead anyone on.

  I’d posted notice that I would be away from Bailey’s for the entire two weeks. Though I’d thought about an early return, I had a few more ideas how to spend at least a couple more days away from the market.

  “We’ll have a good time,” I said, though it sounded forced and not completely true. I cleared my throat.

  “All right. See you later.”

  “I’m sure I’m a disappointment to her,” I said to Hobbit after I hit the end button.

  Ever on my side, no matter how oddly tilted my side might be, Hobbit nosed my knee, telling me that she thought I was perfect. I knew she was perfect, so we were good.

  Ian’s truck rolled down the driveway just as Hobbit and I exited my pumpkin patch.

  “I brought donuts,” he called out of his open driver’s side window. “Are we really going to Orderville?”

  “If that’s still okay,” I said.

  During my drive home with Hobbit the night before, I’d formed a plan for Ian and me to spend today traveling to and exploring Orderville. Though the town was close to Monson, I’d never been there; I was curious about it, and I thought it might be a fun way for us to pass the day, away from the distractio
ns of work and home.

  I knew Ian had a million and one more important things to do than visit a small South Carolina town, but I’d called him first thing this morning and told him everything that had happened at the fairgrounds yesterday, and then I invited him to go to Orderville with me. I didn’t tell him about my visit with Betsy. I thought I’d see how the day went first. I almost told him the Jena Bellings story that my mother had told me, but she’d said it could only be shared with family, and Ian wasn’t technically family.

  “I’d like to know more about the community, maybe more about Scott. So, want to come help me look around and be nosy?” I’d asked.

  I was pleased when he said yes, but something about that moment, about the tone of his laugh and his quick acquiescence had set off a warning bell in my head. I knew we’d have to talk about it. Eventually.

  That thing was that Ian was a great friend. We got along and always had a good time together. We had the physical attraction that went along with a romance, too, but more than anything, we were buddies.

  I’d told him a number of times that he should dump me. I’d even thought that Sam should never talk to me again. But Ian wouldn’t dump me. And Sam and I were again speaking to one another. Of course, if we were destined to run into each other in our small corner of the world, it was probably a good thing that we figure out how to get along.

  For now and for the first time in a long time, I was thrilled at the idea of spending the day with my friend.

  “It’s more than okay,” Ian said as Hobbit and I reached his truck. “It’ll be great to get out of town for a while. We’ve both been working hard. Even if we only road trip to Orderville, I think it’ll be good to take a break.”

  “Great!” I was thrilled that he saw it the same way I did.

  I didn’t want to be put in the position of having to leave Hobbit alone in the truck in a town she wasn’t familiar with, so we told her she didn’t get to join us but that we’d bring her back something and promised her another day with George.

  Ian would soon be moving out of the apartment above George’s garage, and George would then sell his old French Tudor, but the twist that none of us had seen coming was that Ian had redesigned the house he was building so that George could move in with him. George would have his own space: a bedroom, bathroom, small kitchen, family room, and another room that would be furnished with bookshelves, his own leather chairs, and a fireplace just like the library in his home. Ian said he was even going to scent it with some pipe tobacco. George’s current library still held remnants of the days when he would read gruesome mysteries, in his hand a magnifying glass or a pipe just like Sherlock Holmes’s.

  It had taken Ian about six attempts to convince George to move to the farm with him. George loved company but had recently been thinking he was a burden. That was definitely not the case, but convincing him of as much had been work, though well-rewarded work. Ian was just as excited to have George at the farm as George now seemed to be that he was going.

  “It looks like Scott and Sam got you put back together fairly well,” Ian said as we rolled down the state highway toward Orderville. “You’re pretty bruised. Does it hurt?”

  “Not all the time,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”

  “I hope I get to meet your ex-husband,” Ian added.

  “Actually, I do, too. We might have to drive by the fairgrounds just to see if we can find him,” I said before taking a big bite out of a giant chocolate-covered donut. Biting and chewing food hurt my chin, but the donut was worth a little pain. “Running into him was a surprise, but not a bad one really. Unless he’s a killer or something.”

  “I doubt he is, Becca, although I think what you found behind the shooting gallery is off-putting at best.”

  “I wish I’d just asked him about it, but I would have had to admit that I’d snuck in there.”

  “Well, I don’t think you should have told him, not without letting the police know first, or maybe having someone come along with you. Be careful.”

  “I will be.”

  “We’ll see how it goes today. I’ll be there, so if we find him, maybe you can ask him about it today.”

  I looked at Ian. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  Ian smiled. “Kind of. I like that you felt like you could talk to me about what you’ve been up to before you got shot at or a knife thrown at you.”

  My stomach sunk. Suddenly, the donut didn’t taste so good. “Do you think I don’t share because I don’t trust you?”

  “No, not really, not completely at least. I guess I’m just glad you trust me enough now.”

  “It’s because I don’t want you or Allison or Sam to try to stop me. Does that make sense?” Which is a form of distrust, but still.

  “I wouldn’t even dream of it,” Ian said.

  I was such a horrible girlfriend. I should have known that even though Ian would always try to be my voice of reason, he’d be as supportive as possible and not stand in my way.

  I bit into the donut again but didn’t taste anything.

  “Let’s change the subject,” Ian said, clearly noticing my discomfort.

  “Good idea,” I said with a full mouth.

  Though I’d told Ian about the fair events and about Scott, I hadn’t given him the details regarding my poker buddies. As he drove, I filled him in on as much as I could remember. I also mentioned Virgil’s house and asked him to drive by it before we went all the way into Orderville. I’d found the address easily with an Internet search. I didn’t think Virgil’s killer would be lurking in the bushes or breaking through a window, and I wanted to see the house that everyone thought Virgil had inherited but that Sam said he’d paid for. Maybe it was the connection I thought we’d had, the potential friendship, but something about Virgil drew me to him, something more than his spider tattoo and the fact that he manned the crippled Ferris wheel. Again, the lost potential and his unsolved murder haunted me enough to want to see where he’d lived.

  The country surrounding Virgil’s home was packed with trees and flowers. Even if he hadn’t inherited the house from an aunt, it was an easy story to believe. The house and the grounds were nothing if not fit for an old Southern lady.

  The bungalow that sat amidst nature’s abundance was equipped with a full, wide front porch where three rocking chairs held court along with several wicker side tables that had surely seen many glasses of iced tea. I couldn’t picture Virgil sitting on the porch, rocking and sipping. The setup felt funny. If he had inherited the house, it had happened twenty years ago, yet this furniture looked fairly new. But maybe he’d thought that leaving feminine white rocking chairs on the front porch would honor his aunt.

  Or maybe I was just wrong. Maybe Virgil had liked whitewashed rocking chairs, wicker side tables, rosebushes by the dozens, and bougainvillea with its sweet-smelling flowers. The house reminded me of my own grandmother’s home, not that of a man who did odd jobs to support himself and had a tattoo on his neck.

  “What do you know about spider tattoos?” I asked as Ian came to a stop in front of the house.

  “Not a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone with a spider tattoo. No, wait, I have seen one before. On a college friend’s arm. It was a spider coming down from a string of web. It was kind of cool, kind of creepy, but mostly interesting. I can’t remember if I even knew what it meant. I’ll think about it.”

  “Thanks.” I looked at the grounds. “Don’t worry, I don’t want to break in or anything, but I really want to look through those windows. You want to come?”

  “Sure. It’s not a crime scene, and you did say you wouldn’t be trying to break in.”

  I smiled.

  “Come on,” Ian said as he got out of the truck.

  There wasn’t another person or house or car in sight. Sooner or later, someone would dr
ive in one direction or the other down the road in front of the house, but it was unquestionably an out-of-the-way place. That fit with the Virgil I’d started to get to know. Maybe he had purchased the house twenty years earlier and just never had the energy to make it less feminine. Maybe he’d made up the story about inheriting it from an aunt because he didn’t want people to know he had money.

  This was a small community, though. Someone usually caught on to a lie like that in a small community. Eventually. If he had been less than honest, perhaps his lies had never caught up with him. Or maybe they had and he’d been killed for them, but telling people you’d inherited your house seemed like a pretty innocuous lie.

  There had to be more to him, more to the story than just how he’d acquired the house.

  A cobblestone path led to the front door. I followed Ian as we wove our way through the strongly scented yard. Again, the grounds and the scents reminded me of my grandmother’s house. Since the conversation with my parents Friday evening, Gramma had been on my mind. The setting only brought out more good memories. I liked thinking about her.

  “Should we knock on the door before we start looking in windows, just in case?” Ian asked.

  “Not a bad idea.”

  No one answered, and still a car hadn’t passed by in either direction. It wasn’t scary or uncomfortable—probably because Ian was with me. It was peaceful, and though the grounds had no open fields for farming, I liked peaceful.

  Two big picture windows, one on each side of the front door, afforded a clear view inside. I stepped to the one on the left, put my hand up to shade the glare, and peered in. The inside of the house was as masculine as the outside was feminine. I saw a decidedly neutral and utilitarian front room. There was a brown couch and a nonmatching brown recliner, a brown coffee table with two matching end tables, and a couple lamps with bases that must have been covered with brown cork. The television against the wall next to the window wasn’t a modern flat-screen but the older, boxy type, topped with rabbit ears.

  The room was well-kept, no messes anywhere; no piles of paperwork cluttering the tabletops, as was usually the case in some parts of my own house. Everything seemed neat and clean, but slight indentations in the cushions of both the chair and the couch told me it was probably also a much-used room.