Not one of them, for example, was Mrs. Stone.
Charlie and I exchanged disappointed looks, then we heard the toilet flush and Charlie whispered urgently, no pun intended, “We have to go.”
We dashed for the exit and made it outside just in time.
“Do you think most of those black cars are still in use?” Charlie asked, once we were safely on our way to the Beetle.
“I have no idea,” I said. “All I know is that none of the names on that list were familiar.”
“Which is strange in a town this small,” said Charlie.
“We’d probably have better luck if we just started to keep an eye out for a black sedan,” I said. “Then again, I feel like I recognize cars around here pretty often, but I definitely didn’t recognize the one that nearly ran us over.”
“Are you sure it didn’t have an out-of-state plate?” Charlie asked.
“Positive,” I said. “Anyhow, we really ought to be getting back to see how Greer is doing. But at least now we know where the vehicle records are kept.”
“I like Tom,” said Charlie as we headed home. “He’s good people.”
“Of course you like Tom. You like anyone who gets you information,” I said.
“He didn’t want to do it,” said Charlie. Then she got a little smile on her face and added, “But I always get the information in the end.”
“But we already knew the fire started in the kitchen,” I said. “Truman told us that the night of the fire.”
“Tom didn’t know we knew, though,” Charlie said with a slight smile.
I just shook my head.
When we got back to the farmhouse we found ourselves walking into the middle of a baking crisis.
“It smells delicious,” said Charlie, sniffing the air as we came up the porch.
But then we heard a lot of banging coming from the kitchen, and when we opened the front door we both knew something was very wrong.
When we got a little further down the hallway we could see clouds of smoke billowing from the back of the house.
“Greer?” I called out.
“Is that smoke or flour?” Charlie asked.
“Might be both,” I realized now that she had pointed it out.
“I bet there’s no flour left in the entire county,” muttered Charlie.
“Greer?” she tried again when our friend didn’t answer.
“What?” came a harried voice from the depths of the clouds.
“You okay?” I said.
“What do you think?” she called back.
“Can we help with anything?” Charlie asked skeptically.
“Maybe find my baking talent wherever I left it,” came the discouraged voice.
Greer emerged from the depths of the kitchen with streaks of white on her cheeks and in her hair.
“You can bake. You came in third last night,” I pointed out.
“That isn’t going to be good enough to beat Mrs. Barb. Given that Fearne and Frannie are judges now, I was lucky to get even that,” said Greer, her shoulders dropping in a discouragement that was very unlike my feisty friend.
“I’m sure they don’t have anything against you,” Charlie argued.
“You should have seen Frannie’s face, then you’d think differently. Anyhow, I need a break,” sighed Greer. “Nothing I’ve tried to bake has remotely worked. So tell me about the morning.”
Paws, who popped up on the porch in a very faint outline just as we were settling in the living room, said, “Yes, let’s have a case update. I do believe it is time to discuss the suspect list.”
“I don’t even know where to begin,” I said honestly. I was starting to think that everyone in town was a suspect.
“Mrs. Cook,” said Charlie, after we filled Greer and Paws in on our visit to the police station. “Maybe she didn’t like how Tootsie and Tabitha were judging the fair.”
“If she did it, why would she have kept visiting Tabitha’s house for months after Tabitha disappeared?” I said.
“To keep up appearances,” said Greer. “If she didn’t visit, she might look guilty.”
“It’s possible, except that Mrs. Cook won the competition every year. If she was winning, why would she kill off the judges who were choosing her?”
“It seems illogical, I’ll give you that,” Paws agreed.
“I did see her burning the papers,” I said. “That definitely made her look guilty.”
“If only we knew what papers she was burning,” Charlie agreed. She hated to see good information that she wasn’t supposed to be privy to go to waste.
“Who else?” Greer asked, starting to dust the flour off her cheeks.
“We have to consider Fearne and Frannie,” said Charlie.
“Why?” said Greer.
“Because they were made judges as replacements. They could have killed the original judges as a power grab,” explained Charlie. “Happens all the time.”
“Baking really can lead to murder,” muttered Paws.
“Are we in agreement that whoever was driving the black car is our likely killer?” I said.
“Yes,” my friends chorused.
“What about Mrs. Barb?” said Greer suddenly.
“Yes! That makes so much sense to me,” Charlie cried. “She killed anyone and everyone who was keeping her from winning the competition.”
“I just don’t think this is only about winning the competition,” I said.
“She’s right,” said Paws through the window.
“I am?” I asked him in shock.
“Yes, definitely,” said the cat. “This is something more important than some silly baking competition. Maybe whoever killed Tabitha was after a lovely cat of her own.”
“And she wanted Honolulu?” I rolled my eyes. “Then why burn Tabitha’s house down?”
Just then the phone rang and Charlie sprang to her feet to answer it.
She wasn’t on the line long, and when she hung up she had a grim expression on her face.
“I have news. The house fire wasn’t set intentionally. There was a gas leak in the kitchen after a year of neglect. No one set it on purpose, it was completely an accident.”
We were all silent for a moment, trying to process that information. None of us could make anything useful out of it.
Finally Paws broken the silence. “Anyone else you’re suspecting of murder?” he asked.
“Who else in town should be on the list?” Charlie asked. “I just don’t think Mrs. Barnett is a killer.”
“I think it’s fair to say that the investigation is open, and we need more information,” I said.
“Or we need somebody to do something stupid before this weekend is over,” Greer muttered.
“What about Mavvie Davie?” I asked.
“She certainly wants to win badly enough. I could totally see her killing the people who always gave the prize to someone else,” Greer said grimly. “She’s nice, but she really wants to win.”
“Then we’ll add her to the list,” said Charlie. “When I see Hansen, I’ll ask him if he found out anything else about the murder.”
“When exactly are you seeing Hansen?” I asked curiously.
Greer suddenly looked very busy pouring herself some tea.
Charlie blinked several times as if she didn’t understand the question. “At the fair.”
Greer and I both nodded as if that should’ve been obvious.
“He’s coming?” I asked.
“He said he was going to be there for at least part of every day,” said Charlie. “I think he really likes writing pieces about people, and he thinks the fair is a good place to see and be seen,” she explained.
“We have a good list of suspects for now,” said Greer, “and I have to get back to baking. Tonight’s the second round of the competition and I can’t submit something foolish.”
Late that afternoon Greer had done all she could, and we were on our way again.
“Get in this car RIGHT NOW or we
’re going without you.” Charlie stamped her foot angrily as she stood next to the Beetle waiting for Paws, who was busy ignoring her as he said a long goodbye to Honolulu.
“I’ll write you. I promise,” he said. He was clutching a tissue but he had yet to use it.
“I’m not much of a writer,” said Honolulu softly.
“Carrier pigeon then?” asked Paws.
“Aren’t they afraid of us?” Honolulu looked confused.
“We’ll figure something out,” promised my ghost cat.
Honolulu looked relieved.
“Thank you so much for everything,” she said to me. “I really appreciate it. I know it won’t be long until Tabitha’s murderer is brought to justice.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
When we got to the fairgrounds, Greer hurried off to the baking tent without so much as a backward glance, her arms around her pie like a protective wrap. Charlie asked if I wanted to check in on Liam, and I did, but there was something else we needed to do first.
The shack at the edge of the fairgrounds with the sign advertising Ellie the Dark Witch of Puddlewood was still there. Just like the night before, there was no one in the booth. A creeping feeling tickled the back of my neck, and despite the hot weather I shivered.
“She’s still not here,” said Charlie in wonder.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Is it some sort of warning?”
“Maybe it’s a distraction? Like what happened last night?” Charlie suggested.
“Maybe,” I mused.
Everyone who walked past the shack was giving it a curious glance. Little kids pointed, and some even tugged on their parents’ hands. They wanted to know what was going on just as much as we did.
As we headed back to find Liam we were reminded that the theme of the fair tonight was local food and crafts. Many of the tents were selling locally grown and harvested food and food products, from blueberry jam to strawberry cobbler to applesauce, honey, and cornmeal muffins. There were bunches of flowers that I knew had come from around Mintwood Mountain because those flowers didn’t grow anywhere else in the vicinity. The same band that had been playing the night before was playing again, the Mintwood Old-Time Rockers.
“I think there are even more people here than there were last night,” said Charlie in surprise.
“It’s got to be the most popular year ever,” I agreed.
We spent the next couple of hours helping Liam, whose tent was overwhelmed with shoppers. He taught Charlie how to fold the clothes properly, while I was in charge of the money.
Liam had just come back from getting cotton candy, a new habit that he blamed on Jasper. Charlie and I were talking with Mrs. Barnett, who had stopped by to say hi. Suddenly we all realized that it was time to go hear the results of the second night of pie judging, and off we went.
Having heard the results of the first round of the competition, more people gathered to watch the second night of pie judging.
“They aren’t happy that someone from Caedmon won last night,” Charlie whispered.
We were strolling over to the big baking tent with Liam, who was straining to see who had come out for the festivities. From his excited gasps, I figured that almost everyone who was anyone was in the baking tent at that very moment.
“I hope they’re not mad at Greer,” I said.
Charlie shrugged. “They’re probably mad at all the Mintwood judges who gave the prize to someone else.”
“Are Jasper and Deacon here?” I asked.
“Yup,” said Charlie. “Greer said they were already at the tent, and we should meet them there.” After a pause while she decided whether to say the next thing, she took the plunge. “Let me know if you see Hansen wandering around.”
I just smiled.
We were nearing the big tent and the gathered crowd when someone stepped in our way.
“Hey,” said Truman Spencer, the Caedmon firefighter.
“Hey,” said Charlie, halting in surprise.
“We met a few days ago,” Truman explained, as if Charlie ever forgot a face.
“Right, you helped put out the big fire downtown,” said Charlie, nodding and smiling.
“Exactly right,” Truman smiled.
“Thanks so much. I’m so glad we can all stick together as neighbors,” said Charlie.
“We can when it’s important. Just not where baking is concerned,” laughed Truman.
“I suppose you’re rooting for Mrs. Barb?” I asked.
“Have to. She’s my mom,” said Truman with a grin.
Charlie and I exchanged glances. Given how unlikable Mrs. Barb was, it was difficult to imagine that this nice guy was her son.
“Don’t worry. I get a lot of questions about how we could possibly be related,” Truman laughed. “This competition is really important to her. She was thrilled that she could finally enter.”
An idea struck me and I went with it.
“Do you know how that came about? That the competition was opened up?” I asked.
“Sure. She’s been wanting to enter for years. Don’t tell anyone back home I said this, but Caedmonites don’t really know how to put on a fair. After years of asking and being turned down, my mother had given up. Then Tabitha went traveling, or at least as far as we knew, and the question came up again. I guess everyone on the committee had forgotten why opening up the fair was such a bad idea in the first place.”
“You mean Tabitha was the big sticking point all these years?” Charlie asked breathlessly.
“That’s right,” confirmed Truman.
“With her out of the way, the rules were relaxed?” I said.
“Right,” said Truman.
But Truman was no dummy. He could see where this was going, and he suddenly looked uncomfortable.
“I wonder . . .” But he didn’t get a chance to finish that thought.
“Evening,” said Deacon, strolling up to us and looking more casual than usual in flip-flops and a white T-shirt. His longish hair was down and curling around his strong jaw.
“Hey,” said Jasper. Both of our high school classmates were eyeing Truman, and it was not with pleasure.
“How’s it going?” Charlie asked.
“Good,” said Deacon. “How’s Greer?”
“Oh, your friend is in the baking competition?” Truman asked.
“Girlfriend,” said Deacon.
“You must have known that,” said Jasper through gritted teeth.
“Must’ve forgotten,” said Truman.
“She’s great,” said Charlie brightly, determined not to give anything away.
“I think so,” said Deacon. “I told her a long time ago that she had this in the bag.”
“I totally agree,” said Charlie.
Truman opened his mouth, then closed it again, excused himself, and walked away. “I should go check on my mom,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you all later.”
Deacon held up his hand for a high five. Charlie slapped it.
I shook my head in amusement. “Greer was such a mess today,” I told Deacon.
“I know. She called me from the landline while you guys were out. She was about to give up,” he said. “I came by tonight to offer moral support, and in hopes of getting to taste the pie, of course,” he grinned.
“I’m sure it’s delicious,” said Jasper.
“She’s never made anything that didn’t taste great,” said Charlie.
“Shall we go get a closer look?” I asked. I could see the press of people closer to the tent signaling that the next round of judging was about to begin.
We just managed to squeeze our way into the large white tent. Never in my life had I been in a space that smelled so good. Three small tables had been set up on a sort of dais, with Mrs. Stone, Fearne, and Frannie sitting behind them with an array of plates in front of them.
Two longer tables stretched half the length of the tent, each with a row of pies set out along it. Each pie had a little placard with a number on it instea
d of the baker’s name, so that personal likes and dislikes and town loyalties wouldn’t interfere with the judging.
The bakers stood along one side of the tent, looking anxious or eager depending on their hopes and expectations. Greer stood alone and as far away from Mrs. Barb as possible.
“Go, Greer!” Charlie cheered quietly.
I caught sight of Hansen Gregory in a far corner. When he saw me looking he waved, but he didn’t come over. Charlie looked hopeful, then slightly disappointed.
“Any news on the murders?” Jasper asked me.
“Why would we know anything?” said Charlie before I could get a word in.
“Don’t play games with me,” said Jasper, not buying Charlie’s act for a second.
“You three always know what’s going on,” added Deacon. “I’ve noticed too.”
“We know that the fire originated in the kitchen and that it wasn’t intentional,” said Charlie. “We don’t know any more than that.”
“I don’t suppose you know anyone who drives a black sedan?” I asked Jasper.
“Why do you want to know?” Deacon asked, but in a tone that said he didn’t expect me to actually tell him.
“Our friends are super secret spies, obviously,” said Liam.
Jasper and Deacon appeared to think for a minute, then Deacon said, “My dad used to have a black sedan, but he sold it years ago.”
“I don’t suppose he came to the fair yesterday?” said Charlie.
Deacon chuckled. “He’s not much of a one for fun.”
“My grandfather has a black car,” said Jasper. “I don’t think he drives it very often, though.”
Charlie and I exchanged looks. I supposed it was possible that Jasper’s grandfather had tried to run me off the road; he definitely had it in for Jasper’s and my budding relationship. Still, I didn’t think that was likely to be his way of dealing with the situation. He seemed like a more direct kind of guy, who’d be more than happy to confront me face to face when he decided it was time.
“Why are you asking about a black car?” Deacon asked again. “Is the driver the one who killed Tootsie?”
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