Food Fair Frenzy

by Abby L. Vandiver

  Aunt Martha nodded with a confused look on her face.

  Marigold had slipped out and was back in no time with a piping hot pie, a butcher knife and three plates. She laid them down and went and sat in one of the upholstered arm chairs.

  “Marigold,” Miss Vivee said taking the slice of pie Martha handed her. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “Oh, I’m just letting my grandmother enjoy her company,” Marigold said. “She doesn’t have much, she’s mostly baking and entering contests. She needs more people interaction.”

  “Well it’s good that she has you here to help,” Miss Vivee said.

  “And that she does!” Aunt Martha said. “She takes over everything around here. Paying the bills, getting me business for my baked goods. She’s the one that talked me into moving here in the first place, picked it out on a map right after her mother, my daughter Lynn, died. God rest her soul. Then she promised she’d come here, too, once she finished school.”

  “And she did?” Mac asked.

  “Sure did,” Aunt Martha said. “She is so good to me.”

  “You deserve it, Nana,” Marigold said. “You were meant to be taken care of better than I ever could.”

  “See what I mean?” Aunt Martha said. “I couldn’t ask for a better granddaughter. She even volunteered at the fair so she could be there with me early because you know they only let the contestants in before the gates open. It is so nice to have a friend. Even if she is my flesh and blood.”

  “I say,” Miss Vivee said and smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Opening the door, and walking into Miss Vivee’s room was like stepping into the past. She had big, dark wood furniture, burgundy colored walls, a high post bed with a thick, over-sized, silk brocade comforter thrown over it. My favorite piece of furniture was her vanity. It was grand with an old, faded mirror, tarnished drawer pulls, and a frayed, fringed golden stool.

  She was sitting on her bed when I walked by her room and she called me in. “Come here. I want to show you something,” she said.

  She had come up to her room as soon as we’d gotten back from Martha Simmons’ place. She had been quiet – not so much so as she’d been when we left the arboretum, but unusually quiet for her.

  “What do you want to show me,” I asked.

  She patted the bed for me to come and sit by her. I sat next to her and she handed me a scrapbook.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Memories,” she said.

  The book was filled with thick parchment-colored card stock, and every page was full of pictures, programs, and mementos.

  “Look,” she said and pointed to a picture that looked to be from the mid-nineties. “That’s me and Martha.”

  “Really?” I said. I bent over the book and got a closer look. They were standing next to each other on a beach.

  “That’s when she first came to Augusta County.”

  “How come she didn’t know Mac?”

  “She knew of him, but right after she arrived is when I became a recluse. Didn’t leave the house. But that didn’t stop Martha. She’d come and see me all the time.”

  “And look at this,” Miss Vivee said. She flipped over a few pages and stabbed at a black and white. “That’s me made up like a Voodoo Priestess.”

  “You’re not one,” I said. “Are you?”

  “Don’t act as if you don’t know me,” she said. “Of course I’m not. I’m an herbalist. I just add the moniker Voodoo on it. But you know one did train me.”

  “Yes. I remember you telling me that.” I rubbed my finger over Miss Vivee’s face. She was all made up with a feather headdress on. But I could see that she had been young when it was taken. Her now gray hair was dark and shoulder length.

  “Is that when you found out your destiny?” I said. “Our shared destiny.”

  “When that first murder happened here back in ‘51, I thought that’s when you’d come. Or at least the person that I was destined to meet. But then no one else got killed.”

  “You act as if that’s a bad thing.”

  She looked at me and frowned. “Of course it’s not a bad thing. I don’t want anyone to die. I’m a healer. But death is going to come, and for some it’ll be a violent death. So for some reason it was foretold to me that a wave of murder would blow through my way. And it would be up to me to help those souls find a peaceable cross-over. I prepared for it.”

  “I never heard you be so . . . I don’t know – spiritual.”

  She chuckled. “Nothing spiritual about it. Just prepared.”

  “I didn’t prepare,” I said. “If this is a real thing, that it’s my – our – destiny, then I didn’t sign on for it. I didn’t prepare for it, and I don’t want to do it.”

  “Sure you did.” She nodded at me. “Everything you did up to the point you found me was preparation.”

  “I always thought that I must’ve been meant to be here to meet Bay.”

  “Ah, because he’s your soulmate,” she said as more of a statement than a question.

  I giggled. “Is he my soul mate?” I scrunched my nose.

  She patted my hand. “It was all meant to be.”

  “If you say so, Miss Vivee.”

  “And you’ll take the things you’ve learned from the time you spend here with me, and they will help you to do great things in your life.”

  “I don’t care so much about that.” I looked at her. “At least, not as much as I used to.” I shook my head. I had so many emotions going on inside of me, I didn’t even know how to explain it out loud. I couldn’t even sort it out in my own mind. I went back to her idea of our so-called shared destiny. “So how many murders are there supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Lord give me strength,” I mumbled under my breath. “Well, do you at least know how long this ‘wave of death’ as you call it, will last?”

  “Nope.”

  “Crap.”

  “Only thing I know for sure was that the first murder here, not the first murder I’d seen mind you, way back when wasn’t the start of it.”

  “How do you know that for sure?”

  “Because you didn’t show up for another half century,” she said.

  I laughed. “Maybe it was meant as a forecaster. Of things to come,” I said. “Maybe you were supposed to learn something from it. Something that would help in the coming murders. Did you work on the case?”

  “No,” she said hesitantly. “But I did write a book about it.”

  “You wrote a book?” It was impossible, even with the time I spent with her, to know when Miss Vivee was telling the truth. “You never told me that,” I said. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You never asked.”

  “You get it published?”

  “No.” She got up and went to her closet. She pulled up a low stool with short stubby legs, and started to climb onto it.

  “What are you doing?” I laid the scrap book on her bed and rushed over to her. I grabbed her hand and helped her bring her one foot down.

  “It’s up on the shelf.” She pointed. “My book. I want to show it to you.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said. “That’s not safe for you to do.”

  “Pshaw,” she blew out in a breath. “I climb up there all the time.” She waved at the stool. “It’s not even that high.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t,” I said. “You could fall and break a hip,” I looked at her. “Or something.”

  “If I didn’t do it, who’d you think would?” She cocked her head and looked at me. “I can get along just fine without any help.”

  “I know, Miss Vivee,” I said, not wanting her to think that I thought she couldn’t. I had come to learn that even with her five-foot-nothing frame, tall orders weren’t too much for Miss Vivee to triumph over. “But, I’m here now,” I said. “So let me do it.”

  I stepped up on the three-legged stool, reached up and grabbed ahold of a box on the bottom row.

&nb
sp; “That’s not it,” she said watching me with an eagle eye. “It’s the one right there in the middle. Right there.” I turned and looked at her so she could guide me. “The black, square one with the white ribbon.” She pointed. I stretched, standing up on my toes to reach for it. “That one!” she said. “Get it. Give it to me.” Smiling, she reached her arms out and wiggled her fingers.

  “Hold on, Miss Vivee. I don’t want to knock the rest of these boxes down.”

  “If you do, you’ll be picking them up.” Her smile changed into a frown.

  “Yeah. I figured that.” I pulled out the one she wanted, and handed it to her. “Here,” I said. Then turned back to make sure the other boxes were still securely placed. She took the box and sat back on her bed.

  I stepped off the stool, and brushed my hands together. I made a mental note to come and clean that closet. I walked over and stood in front of her. “I don’t see how you would have gotten that box down by yourself,” I said. “I could hardly reach it.”

  “I can stretch nearly the length of my height,” she said and nodded. “I do yoga.”

  “You do not,” I said and rolled my eyes. “And no one can stretch that far.”

  “I can,” she said, brushing the dust off the box.

  I did wonder how she’d gotten all those boxes up there, though.

  “Come sit down,” she instructed. “So I can show you.”

  She had wanted to visit old friends, now she was going poring over memories.

  Tonight seemed to be one of nostalgia for her.

  She pulled the ribbon string and it unraveled easily. It had a stack of loose leaf onion-paper, all filled with words from an old typewriter. I ran my hand over the top page, I could feel the indentation of each letter from the key strokes.

  “Wow,” I said. “This took a lot to do.”

  “Yes it did.” I saw a twinkle in her eye as she spoke. “It was a big uproar because there hadn’t been any murders around here since the Civil War.”

  “People were murdered here during the war?”

  “It was a war, Logan. Soldiers died.”

  “I don’t think that casualties of war are called murders.”

  “Sometimes that scientific background of yours gets in the way of your thinking,” Miss Vivee said. “Stop being so literal. Anyway,” she took in a breath. “Her name was Lily. Lily LeGrande. Beautiful young thing. Black hair. Eyes so blue, when the light hit them, they looked violet. She looked like she could be Elizabeth Taylor’s twin.” She looked at me. “You know who Elizabeth Taylor is?”

  “Was,” I said. “She’s dead, but I knew who she was.”

  “No! Elizabeth Taylor is dead?” her eyes wide, lips pouty. “Couldn’t be. When did that happen?”

  “A while ago,” I assured her.

  “Well, anyway, Lily looked like her. Beautiful as I said. She had a young daughter, an infant. Her name was Bella Donna LeGrande. She was just as beautiful as her mother. The night Lily was murdered they found the baby home by herself. Everyone wondered what could have been so important that she left her child and went out in the middle of the night. I guess she never figured she wouldn’t be coming back.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I told you, somebody killed her.” She patted my hand. “Try to keep up so I don’t have to keep repeating myself.”

  “No. I mean how did she die?”

  “She was strangled.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “She was found in the field right there at the fairgrounds of Lincoln Park.

  “Why would they want to have the fair there then? That’s a terrible place to have it after a murder was committed there.”

  “No one is sure where the murder was committed. But her body was found there.”

  “Who found her?” I asked.

  She raised her eyebrows. “You’ll never believe this,” she said. “It was Lincoln Wagner.”

  “Am I supposed to know who he is?” I said and then thought about it. “Wait. Lincoln Park. Jack Wagner. Are they related?”

  “Lincoln Wagner and his son, Jackson found the body,” Miss Vivee said. I guessed that was the answer to my question, but even though she didn’t say it straight out, I got what I needed to know. “It was all over the newspapers.” She pointed at the scrapbook. “Hand me that.”

  I handed to her and she seemed to flip right to the page. “Here she said.”

  “Wow,” I said after reading the article. “That’s awful.” I looked at her then back down at the newspaper clipping. “So they dedicated Lincoln Park as a memorial?”

  “That’s why I knew about the flowers. That field of flowers that you insisted I look at in Lincoln Park,” she said and gave me a glare.

  “I just wanted you to be sure that those flowers from the note weren’t there.”

  “I told you that there was only one of those flowers on that note there. You didn’t believe me?” I opened my mouth to speak but before I could, she said “Or did you think me too old and senile to be sure.”

  “Never, Miss Vivee,” I said and smiled. “I’d never think that about you.”

  I scolded myself, because maybe that really was what I had thought, and there was no reason for me to ever think that about Vivienne Pennywell.

  “So like I said those lilies were planted in her memory and the fair started being there after that.” She said and closed her scrapbook. “That’s why it’s called the Freemont County Fair. It used to be in Freemont County. Moved it here in her honor.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She was the queen of the fair. Won every year with her pies. She had more ribbons than Woolworth’s Five and Dime.” Miss Vivee clasped her hands together, and licked her lips as if she was reliving the memory. “Dutch Apple, Cherry, Rhubarb. They were the best.”

  “All deadly,” I said under my breath. I had learned a lot in the past few days about everyday foods that kill.

  “They were delicious. So good, in fact, it was rumored that she’d gotten an offer to sell her pies through Flower Foods.”

  “Flower Foods?”

  “Yep.”

  “Everything about this is floral.”

  “The Flower brothers opened it up around 1919 over in Thomasville.”

  “Thomasville, Georgia?”

  “You know any other Thomasville?”

  “No.” I didn’t even know that Thomasville.

  “Yep, that was around the time they started freezing foods. Heard hers was going to be frozen and sold by their company. Instead, she died, and a Mrs. Smith up in Pennsylvania started selling them.”

  “Mrs. Smith’s Pies? Now I’ve heard of that.” I tilted my head. “I’m sure I’ve probably even eaten a few. They’re good.”

  “Lily’s pies were to die for,” Miss Vivee said. “No pun intended.”

  “No pun taken,” I said.

  “You should read it,” she said and put the box with her manuscript on my lap.

  “You want me to read it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I think you should.” She looked me in the eyes. “But you have to promise me you’ll read it tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I lifted the box, checking the weight. “This seems like an awful lot to read in one night.”

  “I have faith in you. I think you can do anything that you put your mind to.” She smiled and patted my cheek. “So you promise?” she said.

  “Promise,” I said.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Jack Wagner’s murder wasn’t about his land,” I said standing in the doorway to Miss Vivee’s bedroom early the next morning. I hadn’t slept all night. I wanted to keep my promise

  “No it wasn’t,” Miss Vivee said. She was sitting at her vanity. Her long white hair hanging loose. “And that note wasn’t a red herring.”

  “It really was a clue to the murderer.” I came into her room and sat the black box on her bed. I had neatly tied the white ribbon back, and tried to make the contents look undisturbed.
Cat was laying on the bed, she looked like she wasn’t ready to get up yet.

  “Just like you said, Logan,” Miss Vivee gave a nod. “Here,” she said and picked up her hairbrush. “Come and brush my hair.”

  I walked over and took the brush from her and ran it through her silky hair.

  So, you’ve figured it out then?” she asked looking at me in the mirror.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Good. Okay,” Miss Vivee said and took the brush. “Braid it, and help me get ready. We need to round up the culprit and get her here.”

  “You want them both?” I asked.

  “Yep.” She nodded. “First though, I need you to look up somethings for me on that phone of yours. We’ve got to have all our ducks in a row. After that I want you to get them here. Then call Bay and Sheriff Haynes. Tell them we’ve got the killer here waiting for them.”

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  “It was Lincoln Wagner who killed Lily LeGrande sixty-five years ago.” Miss Vivee announced. “And his son Jackson saw it happen.”

  “Grandmother,” Bay said slowly. “What are you doing?”

  “Solving your case,” Miss Vivee said then looked over at Sheriff Haynes. “And Yasamee’s only cold case.”

  I had called Martha Simmons and her granddaughter, Marigold and invited them to that lunch Miss Vivee had promised them. They readily agreed, but was taken aback when they walked in the door and saw the Sheriff.

  Bay was the last to come in. He had looked around the foyer, his mouth open, hands on hips. Miss Vivee and I were sitting on our beige tufted bench near at the front door. It was where we always sat when we solved our murders. Cat at her feet. Aunt Martha stood in the middle of the floor clutching her chest, surprise on her face. Marigold seemed to have a smirk.

  “Don’t go making accusations,” Bay said.

  “No accusations, Grandson. Just the truth. Sixty-five years later.”

  “The truth?” Aunt Martha said. “What is the truth, Vivienne?”

  “The truth is that Marigold killed Jack Wagner.”

  Everyone let out a collective gasp. Including me.

  Miss Vivee must’ve noticed the surprised look on my face. “You thought it was Martha, didn’t you?” she said to me.