by Destiny Ford
“You would, but I understand.”
Ringo was tilting his head to the side as a hint for me to scratch lower. I moved my hand down and rubbed his tummy. His tongue hung out even further in delight, making him look like he was smiling.
“Are they both rescues?” I asked.
“Bono was, but we got Ringo while I was helping scent train several dogs for K9 units in Salt Lake. He got hurt during training and couldn’t continue.”
My eyes went wide. “Really? I didn’t know you helped with that type of training.”
“Yeah. Dogs are such a huge asset to the officers. Ringo was almost finished with training before he got hurt. We’re more than happy to have him, though,” she said, reaching down and rubbing his back. “He’s a great dog.”
Michelle pulled a bowl from the bag she was carrying, and gave the dogs some water. Then she pulled out some treats that looked a lot like cookies.
“I didn’t know dogs could eat cookies.”
She shook her head. “They’re special treats I make at home. I don’t like the processed treats at pet stores, so I make my own.”
“That’s impressive!” I said, surprised. I could barely make cereal. “For a minute, I thought they were getting the same cookies as everyone else in town.”
Michelle laughed. “No. Ringo hated them.”
It seemed Ringo hated Saints and Sinners Cookies as much as my mom. I rubbed both dogs behind the ears again one last time before standing up. “Well, they must just like your treats best.”
She laughed and emptied the bowl of water, shaking it out on the park strip grass we were standing next to. “I wish my kids thought I was that good of a cook. It’s not too much of a self-esteem boost, though, considering the plethora of horrible things I’ve seen Bono and Ringo eat.” She put the empty water bowl back in her bag. “Have a good day, Kate.”
“You too,” I said, and went home to get ready for work.
I edited some stories when I got to work, then answered emails. After that, I placed a call to Bobby.
“Hey,” I said when he answered. “It’s Kate.”
“I know. You’re in my caller ID.”
Good to know. “Have you heard anything else about the body yet?”
“Nope. Still tryin’ to identify it.”
“It’s been more than a week.” Not much more, but still. Things like that usually moved faster in Branson because the town was small and there weren’t as many major crimes or strange deaths to process.
He snorted. “It was pretty unidentifiable, Kate.”
That conjured up an unpleasant image, and I was a little sorry I’d pressed. I decided to switch topics from the burned remains. I wondered if Bobby had heard the same rumors as Ella, and if those rumors were being investigated. “Ella said the sugar factory wasn’t doing well, and Kory Greer was having financial problems.”
“That’s what we heard, too, but Kory said that’s not the case.”
So they’d already talked to him. “Did you believe him?”
“The investigator seemed to.”
“Okay, thanks Bobby.”
“I’ll call you when I know more.”
I rifled through the notes on my desk for Kory Greer’s number, then called him. His assistant put me right through.
“Hi, Kory. It’s Kate with The Branson Tribune. I’m just following up on the fire. Have you received any more information yet?”
His voice was smooth and calm on the other end. “Not yet. They said the investigation could take several weeks, especially because of the body that was found.”
Dead bodies did tend to complicate things. The answer gave me an opening to ask about the sugar factory’s finances, though. “That has to put you in a bad financial situation since you probably can’t rebuild until the investigation is closed and the insurance money comes in.”
“It would have,” Kory said, “but we got some new contracts a few months ago that have really helped us out. That’s why we were buying the new machines. We were planning to expand production and try to take on more new clients. We’re still able to fulfill our current contracts with our satellite facility, so we’ll be okay until things get settled, and we can rebuild.”
Huh, that answered that question. Even if they’d been in financial distress before, the new contracts must have been enough to keep them pretty far in the black, even with the explosion.
“I’m glad to hear it. Thanks, Kory. I’ll probably call back again once the police know the identity of the body.”
“That sounds fine. I’ll talk to you then, Kate.”
I hung up, and noticed the message light on my voice mail blinking. It was from Annie asking me to call her back as soon as possible. I picked up the phone and dialed her number. “Hey, Annie, it’s Kate.”
“Hey!” She sounded rather perky. “Sorry about the other night. Rich didn’t know about your history with Drake, or he wouldn’t have invited him over.”
I leaned back in my chair and fiddled with a paperclip on my desk. “It’s not a big deal. I have to deal with him all the time. I’m getting used to it.” And now I had to deal with him on an actual date.
“Still, I felt bad. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable and never come over to my house again. You’re one of the only normal friends I have in Branson.”
“I feel the same way about you, so you don’t have to worry about that. You’ll probably get sick of me and eventually ask me to leave you alone.”
“Won’t happen.”
“We’ll see.”
“Trust me, it won’t. There’s another reason I was calling you, though.”
“Oh yeah? What’s up?”
“Opie Vargis—the clown who crashed at the parade—his blood work came back. I heard about it from one of the nurses.”
Hmmm, I was sure that crossed some sort of privacy line, but I wasn’t going to question it when she was sharing the information. “What did the nurse say?”
She paused for a second like people do when they have important information to share…or when a reality TV show is about to reveal the winner. “Opie had high levels of THC in his blood.”
I dropped the paperclip, and immediately picked up my pen. “Does he smoke pot?” That seemed unlikely given the prominent religion Opie was a member of. Drugs were a definite no-no.
“Nope,” Annie said, her tone confused. “The doctors asked him about it, but he said he’s never had anything worse than Lortab after a surgery five years ago. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or do any drugs. And he’s not around anyone who does.”
Lines formed between my eyes. “How did the THC get in his system, then?”
“No one can figure it out.” Her voice sounded perplexed.
“Is it possible Opie’s lying because he doesn’t want people to know about his drug habit?”
Annie paused like she was thinking. “I don’t think so. I’ve known Opie for a few years. He was pretty distraught when he heard the news about the pot. He even called his bishop to repent for somehow getting it in his system.”
“How else could it have gotten there?” As far as I knew, you either had to inhale or ingest it. It didn’t sound like Opie had done either.
“I’m not sure,” Annie said, “but I thought you’d want to know about it.”
“Do you think the THC had something to do with his crash at the parade?”
“Yeah,” she said. “He had heart problems anyway, and marijuana can increase heart rate. It put him at a greater risk for a cardiac event.”
Huh. I was baffled about how the THC got in his system if he hadn’t smoked it—or even been around people who were smoking it. I wanted more information about it, though. I’d have to pay a visit to Opie. “Do you know when Opie will be released?”
“Probably sometime in the next few days. They just have to make sure he’s stable.”
“Okay, I’ll try to stop by and see him. Thanks for the heads-up, Annie. Having an EMT friend sure is handy.”
&
nbsp; “Especially considering who your mom is.”
I laughed, thinking she hadn’t had anything crazy happen in the last few days—so she was probably due for an event. It was kind of like waiting for a volcano to blow: you knew it was coming, you just didn’t know when, or how bad it would actually be. It wasn’t a comforting feeling. At least I had Annie to mend her, though. “I couldn’t agree more.”
I hung up and went back to work until I was called out to the scene of a stand-off.
With a deer.
That’s right, a deer. I didn’t believe it when I heard the call come in over the scanner either. When I got to the campground in the mountains ten minutes outside of Branson Falls, Officer Bob was already there. I looked around at the campground in complete disarray. Food, mostly junk food, was spread out all over the table and the ground. Chips littered the dirt like potato confetti. The birds and wild animals in the area would appreciate that. I peeked into the back of the ambulance and saw George Tuttle being treated by an EMT.
I walked up to Officer Bob. “Hey, Bobby. What in the world happened here?”
Bobby hiked up his pants, then rested his thumbs in the belt loops. “More crazy people.”
“More than usual?”
“Shoot, Kate! Usually the only crazy person in town we have to deal with is your mom. We’ve been dealin’ with crazy on an even higher level for the past few weeks. On the Catasophie meter, we’ve hit save-your-families-and-get-outta-Dodge.”
I arched a brow. “I didn’t realize things were so serious.”
He took a deep breath and kicked at some of the food on the ground. “All emergency responder staff’s been puttin’ in overtime. Everything from weird phone calls and disturbances, to more car accidents and health problems.”
“That’s weird. What do you think is causing it?”
“Satan, probably.”
Yes. Because it couldn’t be something rational. “What happened here then?” I asked.
He rocked back on his heels. “George Tuttle tried to wrestle a deer.”
I blinked, not sure I’d heard right. “I’m sorry, did you just say George tried to wrestle a deer?”
He nodded his head definitively. “Sure did.”
“Why?”
“Who the blazes knows?” Bobby said, throwing his hands in the air. “We tried askin’ him, but he’s got even less sense than usual right now.”
“Were there witnesses?”
“Nope. Near as we can figure, George stalked the deer for a good hour. The deer ‘round here are used to people. They feed ‘em, so the deer aren’t afraid of humans. George used that to his advantage. He jumped on the deer’s back and tried to wrestle him to the ground.”
“How did that go?” Not well, I’d imagine.
“Deer broke two of George’s ribs, fractured his arm, and kicked him in the eye.”
“Good for the deer,” I said, meaning it.
“We’ll have to ask him more questions again when he’s awake,” Bobby said.
I nodded, thinking I’d have to follow up with him when he was more coherent. I couldn’t figure out what would have possessed him to try to wrestle any animal, especially one that was wild with pointy horns.
I took some more notes while I talked to Bobby, asked the EMT’s when George would be feeling well enough for me to interview him, then drove back to the office to finish work for the day. I couldn’t help thinking about what Bobby had said, and all of the strange news stories—my own strange behavior the night of the lingerie, included. Something was going on, I just couldn’t put my finger on what.
Hospitals freaked me out. They always had. Even as an adult, I had to wait until after my annual physical to have my blood pressure taken or the doctors would try to admit me immediately. They called it white-coat syndrome. I couldn’t believe it actually had a name, but I was happy I wasn’t the only one to suffer from an irrational fear of stethoscopes.
Still, I avoided hospital visits for myself whenever possible, but occasionally, I had to go there for a story. Which was why I’d spent the last fifteen minutes lost in a maze of hallways before finding the right room and knocking. I heard a low voice tell me to come in.
Opie looked a bit less clown-like without the wig and makeup he’d been wearing during the parade, but his welcoming smile indicated he was kind. I hoped he’d also shed some light on the mystery THC.
“Hey, Opie. I’m Kate Saxee with The Branson Tribune.”
“Heya, Kate.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better. I’m working on a story. Can I ask you some questions about what happened at the parade?”
He shifted in his bed, and used the remote to move it so he could sit up. “Sure.”
I sat on the chair across from him and pulled out my notebook and pen. “I heard that THC was found in your blood, and it could have contributed to your heart attack. Do you have any idea how it got in your system?”
He shook his head and seemed completely befuddled. “Nope. I feel horrible about it, too. I’ve sinned and I didn’t mean to.” He looked sincerely horror-stricken. “I really didn’t.”
I believed him. I had the urge to tell him I wasn’t his bishop and didn’t need to hear a confession, but figured he just needed to get his story out. “What were you doing before the parade?”
He folded his hands in his lap, thinking back on the day. It probably wasn’t a pleasant memory. “I was at the fair. I was one of the judges.”
“What were you judging?”
“Baked goods.”
My eyes widened at that. That made him one of the people on my mom’s “doo-doo” list. She really had a list. It was hanging on her fridge. “How long have you been a baked goods judge?”
“Five years.” He winced. “I heard your mom was pretty upset about the cookie results.”
I nodded slowly. “I don’t think she’ll get over it any time soon.”
“Well, I’ve voted for her every year for the past five years, but the Saints and Sinners Cookies were just too good not to recognize.”
That interested me, because I’d had them, and really didn’t think they were great at first. But then during my memory lapse / fit of blasphemy, I’d apparently declared they were better than my mom’s. “How does judging work?” I asked. The judges couldn’t possibly eat all of the food entered. If I did that, I’d have to run a marathon every day for a month.
“There’s a team of judges for every food entry. I was judging cookies with four other people. Each cookie entry is rated on appearance, then it’s sliced into pieces, and we all rate the taste of each entry.”
“How many entries do you usually have?”
“Around two hundred.”
I took back my previous estimate. I’d have to run a marathon every day for five months. “That’s a lot of cookies to sample.”
“Yeah. We judge them over the course of two days.”
Silently, I questioned the wisdom of a patient with known heart problems eating two hundred cookie samples over the course of two days. “And you only take one piece of each of them?”
He blushed slightly. “Well, usually. But if they’re real good, sometimes we have more.”
“Whose did you have more of this year?”
“Your mom’s are always popular. But this year, everyone was taking multiple pieces of the Saints and Sinners Cookies.”
“Who were the other judges?”
Opie rattled off a list of names, one of which I recognized from recent events: Fred Young, the ill-fated hot air balloon pilot. Ryan Miles was another name, and one I remembered from my mom’s rant during her cookie tirade. I needed to call the other judges and see if they’d had any side effects from the Saints and Sinners Cookies as well.
I flipped my notebook shut and put my pen back in my purse. “Thanks for talking to me, Opie. You’ve been really helpful.”
“No problem.”
“When will you get to go home?”
“Probably tomorrow. My wi
fe’s home with the kids right now. It’s kind of nice to have some peace and quiet.”
I smiled. I couldn’t agree more. I cherished my alone time. “I totally understand. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Thanks, Kate. Let me know if you need anything else.”
As I walked through the waiting room, I noticed it was much busier than usual. Some people were bent over, clutching their stomachs. Considering how much a few of them were sweating, they looked like they were on a tropical island with two hundred percent humidity. Others had blood shot eyes and looked like they hadn’t slept in days. It seemed like the flu was going around. Regardless of whatever they had, I didn’t want it. I got out of the hospital fast.
I went back to the office to call the other judges. The more I heard about this situation, the more I thought there was something fishy about Saints and Sinners Cookies.
I called Fred Young first. I already knew he’d had problems with the cookies since he’d stolen—and crashed—a hot air balloon, then danced around like a fairy and chortled like a hyena. “Hey, Fred. This is Kate Saxee with the Branson Tribune.”
“Oh…uh…hi, Kate.”
He seemed like he wanted to talk to me about as much as he wanted a colonoscopy. He probably thought I was going to ask him why he stole a hot air balloon while laughing like a wild animal. “I’m working on a story about the fair,” I said, trying to ease his fears—though I really did want to ask him what in the world he’d been thinking when he’d done his thievery— “and I was hoping you could answer some questions for me.”
“A story? About the fair?”
“Yeah. About some of the food entries. I understand you were a judge?”
His voice took on a tone of relief. “Yes. Yes I was.”
“I’m specifically wondering about the cookie entry that won. The Saints and Sinners Cookies.”
“Ahhh, the cookies.” His tone took on a wistful, loving tone. “They are amazing.”
“Did you have a lot of them?”
“Well, I had the ones that we judged, then I went over and bought a couple of bags.”