Unbelievable

by Cindy Blackburn

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he does everything around here. He practically runs this town.” I counted off Oliver’s various jobs on my fingers. “Grocer, postmaster, fire warden, Avon lady—”

  “You were interested in some cosmetics right then?”

  I dropped my hands and gave the sheriff my most withering look.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Oliver’s the high bailiff,” he said.

  “Say wha—”

  Dad elbowed me, and I shut up.

  “Cassie knows,” he continued, “that Oliver Earle was elected our high bailiff last year. And Cassie knows.” Dad glared at me. “What the high bailiff does. Which I’m sure you do too, sheriff.”

  Gabe scowled. “He takes over for me in case of emergency.”

  “Exactly!” I smiled at my father. “And this was an emergency.”

  “Are you single, Ms. Baxter?” Gabe asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Your marital status, please.”

  “I’m single.”

  “Oliver’s single, too.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

  “How did Oliver react when you visited him in the middle of the night?” Gabe pointed to my pajamas. “Dressed like that.”

  “It wasn’t the middle of the night. It was bright and sunny. You know how early the sun rises up here in the summer.”

  “You just told me it was the middle of the night when your father woke you up.”

  “Maybe I exaggerated,” I said.

  “Figures.” Gabe clicked his pen on and off a few times. “What did you say to Oliver? When you showed up. In your pajamas.”

  I closed my eyes. “I said I was glad he wasn’t dead.”

  Gabe clicked the pen again. “That was an odd thing to say.”

  “Yes, it was.” I opened my eyes. “And the situation was odd. And I was flustered. And maybe I’m crazy. Just ask Chester Stewart.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll be talking to lots of people.” The sheriff looked at his watch and stood up. “Believe it or not, it’s only 8:30. Plenty of time to figure this out before the day’s through.” He offered me a hand as Dad and I stood up.

  “Will you call me when you know more?” I asked.

  “Absolutely, but one last question.”

  I braced myself.

  “Was there anyone else who might have seen you, Cassie? Anyone who might have seen this woman?”

  “Not unless you count the geese.”

  “And the goats,” Dad reminded me, and Gabe groaned out loud.

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Oden Poquette’s goats were on Evert Osgood’s lawn,” I told him.

  “I told you not to tell me.”

  “Do you have something against Rose and Ruby?” my father asked.

  “Only that Faith Chaffee calls me every other day complaining,” Gabe answered. “Those goats destroyed her lilac bushes this spring. And now they’re working on her lupines. Faith thinks I should arrest them.”

  “The goats?” Dad and I asked, and Gabe groaned again.

  He looked at me. “So you’re sure no one—no human being—saw you in Mallard Cove?”

  I shook my head. “No one in their right mind was up that early.”

  “Yep,” he said and closed his notepad.

  Chapter 5

  Here’s a bitter irony. I ended up eating waffles that morning.

  Dad drove home, and I kayaked. Which means he beat me by twenty minutes, and by the time I got home he’d already fired up the waffle iron. My father, in case you haven’t quite caught on, drives me nuts.

  “Sit down and eat,” he said as I walked in the kitchen.

  “Da-aad.” I remained standing while I struggled to free myself from my sweatshirt. “You realize waffles are what got me into this mess.”

  “Don’t blame the waffles. Blame me. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t gotten you all worked up.”

  “She’d still be dead,” I said from underneath the sweatshirt, which now clung to my face.

  Bobby was pointing me to the table when I finally freed myself. But my green torture chamber still had my full attention. I held it at arm’s length and read the “I’m looney for Lake Bess” slogan on the back.

  I dropped the stupid thing where I stood, and Charlie wandered over to sniff at it. Even he frowned.

  I washed my hands, grabbed our plates, and sat down. Meanwhile my father hovered over me like he had when I was ten.

  “Sit!” I said, and both he and Charlie sat.

  I started eating, but Dad continued staring at me.

  “What?” I said and passed him the maple syrup.

  “You’re exhausted, Cassie. You should have let me drive you home.”

  “But I needed to kayak. You know I can’t sit still when I’m upset.”

  “An understatement.”

  I got up for coffee. “You believe me, Dad?” I asked. “About the dead woman?”

  “Girl,” he scolded. “That goes without saying.”

  “One down,” I told Charlie. I poured coffee into two cups and added a ridiculous amount of milk to both. “Now to convince the other 599 Elizabethans.”

  “They’ll catch on.”

  “Yeah, right. You heard everyone—I’m Miss Looney Tunes.” I sat back down. “With my luck, Maxine will use that phrase in her newspaper article.”

  “She’ll do no such thing.” Bobby sipped his coffee and thought about it. “She came over the second I pulled in to find out how things went with Gabe.”

  “What a shocker.”

  “She means well.”

  “No, Dad. You mean well. Maxine’s a menace.”

  “Joe Wylie stopped by also.”

  I shook my head. “Speaking of menace.”

  “Joe’s a good neighbor, Cassie. He cares about us. He cares about you in particular.”

  “He was spying on us, you realize.” I pointed my fork Wylie-ward. “He was out there all morning with his binoculars.”

  My father reminded me lots of people had been watching with their binoculars.

  “Okay, so why didn’t Joe come join us?” I asked. “Maxine did.”

  My father insisted Joe’s more considerate than Maxine. “He saw that crowd, and he didn’t want to upset you any further.”

  “He’s upsetting, alright.”

  “He didn’t want to spook you—his exact words.”

  “He’s spooky, alright.”

  “He’s coming for dinner tonight. He wants to help us figure this out. ”

  I put my fork down. “No, Dad. Joe wants dinner. The man eats here every other night.”

  “I’m thinking spaghetti with Bolognese sauce. You’d like that?”

  Yes actually, I would. I thanked Bobby for thinking of my favorite meal.

  “It was Charlie’s idea. He thinks you deserve spaghetti after your ordeal.”

  I was thanking Charlie for his thoughtfulness when the odd machine our odd neighbor works with started beeping, burping, and chirping.

  Dad tilted his head. “Sounds like the FN451z is having a rough day, too.”

  If you’re confused here, don’t worry, so am I. Josiah Wylie is some sort of mad scientist. He works out of his home with a very bizarre and very loud invention he calls—don’t ask me why—the FN451z. Supposedly the FN will someday improve internet and cell phone access in mountainous areas such as Vermont. But so far all it does is make noise. A lot of noise.

  The FN continued belching and gurgling as I got up to load the dishwasher. “Are we even sure that thing is legal?” I asked.

  ***

  “Help me,” I said the moment Bambi answered her phone.

  “Oh, no. What’s Bobby done this time?”

  “He woke me up at 4:30.”

  “Nothing new there.”

  I finished toweling my hair. “Then he threatened to feed me waffles.”

/>   “Nothing new there.”

  “So I ran away.” I tossed the towel aside and finger-fluffed my curls. “And straight into a dead woman.”

  “What!?” Bambi shouted. “You hit someone? Are you okay, Cassie?”

  I realized what she thought, and quickly clarified that the redhead was already dead when I got to her. “And I wasn’t driving,” I said. “I hit her with my kayak.”

  Bambi hesitated. “Can we start back at the waffles?”

  I told her I was hoping she’d say that, climbed the winding staircase to my turret, and found a rocking chair.

  “So?” I asked after I summarized the saga. “What do you think?”

  “You should have stayed home and eaten waffles.”

  “Hindsight is everything. Which brings us to the Miss Looney Tunes portion of the story.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I explained the sweatshirt from hell. “Now everyone thinks I’m Miss Looney Tunes.”

  “Whereas some of us know for sure.”

  “Very funny. But it gets less funny since the sheriff thinks I’m crazy. He doesn’t believe me.”

  “The Cassandra Syndrome strikes again,” Bambi said.

  In case you don’t have a degree in ancient history, let me explain. Cassandra was a Trojan princess, daughter of Priam, and sister to Paris and Hector. According to Greek mythology, she refused to sleep with Apollo, the god of prophecy. Apollo got ticked off and cursed her with the gift of prophecy.

  Not a curse, you say? Well, Apollo added one small caveat. Cassandra could foretell the future, but no one ever believed her. For instance, she predicted the fall of Troy. But did anyone listen?

  Ever hear of the Trojan Horse?

  Which brings us to me. I don’t claim to foretell the future, and no god has ever tried to seduce me. But my name is Cassandra, and people seldom believe me.

  “Why don’t they believe me?” I asked Bambi, and she reminded me the pajamas probably didn’t help.

  “But you already know the real reason, Cassie. You’re too darn cute.”

  I groaned, but she was right. I’m teeny-tiny, with curly blond hair, big brown eyes, and a baby face. “I should have outgrown my cute phase by now,” I said. “I’m forty-four.”

  “Take heart. Maybe by age fifty you’ll be a wizened old hag.”

  “One can dream.”

  “Nope.” Bambi changed her mind. “You’ll still be too cute even when you’re eighty. It’s a curse.”

  “And you’ll still be cursed with your name,” I told her.

  My friend, Dr. Bambi Lovely-Vixen, faces challenges of her own in the being-taken-seriously department.

  ***

  “Speaking of cute,” Bambi said. “Is the sheriff right, Cassie? Do you have a thing for Oliver Earle?”

  “Spare me.”

  “He’s a hunky-boo.”

  “Spare me.”

  “Speaking of hunky-boos—”

  “We weren’t speaking of hunky-boos,” I said. “And can we please stop using that stupid phrase? We’re middle-aged, educated women, and you’re married, for Pete’s sake.”

  “And I tell Pete he’s a hunky-boo each and every day. He’d sink into a complete funk if I didn’t.”

  I rolled my eyes at Charlie, who had come upstairs to check on me, and told Bambi to say hi to Pete.

  “Speaking of hunky-boos.” She remained on topic. “Did you get Kyle’s mass e-mail?”

  I stood up, and Charlie and I gazed at the lake while Bambi reminded me my ex-boyfriend Kyle Caprio was in Greece, “pining away” after me.

  “Kyle isn’t pining away,” I argued. “He’s with all those students.”

  “He looked so sad and forlorn in that picture he attached,” Bambi continued. “And he was at the Parthenon and everything.”

  “I have news for you, Dr. Vixen. Kyle looked sad because he’s single-handedly herding fifteen undergraduates around Greece this summer.”

  “Because you bailed out on him. If you’d gone with him, he would have proposed, right at the Parthenon. Right now you’d be sipping ouzo and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes.”

  “And you wonder why I bailed out?”

  “Kyle’s company would be better than the dead redhead’s.”

  “Barely.” I got up and glanced down the stairwell. “Trust me, breaking up with Kyle was the right choice.” I lowered my voice. “But maybe moving here wasn’t.”

  “Your father is a sweetheart, Cassie. And he cooks.”

  I agreed that the practical arrangements between Dad and me were fine. Bobby cooks and charges me zero rent. In return, I do the cleaning, and pay the taxes, insurance, and utilities. We share the first floor, the second floor is his, and the third floor and turret are mine.

  “So what’s the problem?” Bambi asked.

  “How about a complete lack of privacy?” I whispered. “Between my father and the neighbors I’m surrounded by nosiness.”

  “The reporter-woman knows about the dead redhead?”

  I glanced down at Maxine’s place. “Yep.” I glanced down in the opposite direction. “My other neighbor knows the whole story, too.”

  “Josiah Wylie.” Bambi sighed. “Now there’s a hunky-boo.”

  Chapter 6

  “Girl!” Dad stood at the foot of the extension ladder. “What are you doing?”

  “Scraping the house.”

  “What!? Why?”

  “Because that’s the procedure.” I kept scraping. “Scrape and sand, then prime and paint.”

  “You’re painting the house?” Bobby was incredulous. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

  I looked down, registered the very long distance to Earth, and silently hoped that I did. “I know how to paint,” I said as I climbed down. “I paint old furniture all the time.”

  “This isn’t one of your rocking chairs.” Dad waved at the house, a three-story Victorian sort of thing with lots of Victorian-type trim. “Don’t you think you should have consulted me on this?”

  “Nooo. Not two hours ago you told me to find a use for my nervous energy. You know, while we wait to hear from Gabe.”

  “Girl! Gabe’s going to find the dead redhead long before you finish this project!”

  “I have lots of nervous energy.”

  Dad gave me a withering look.

  I shrugged and a few flakes of paint fell off me. “This is part of our arrangement, remember? You told me to do whatever I want with the place.”

  “But that was interior decorating. In-terior. Why don’t you paint a few more rocking chairs?”

  “First things first,” I said, and my father whimpered.

  “This is almost as kooky as your behavior when your mother died.”

  “I was ten,” I said in my defense.

  “Yes, and now you’re forty-four. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, really?” He pointed to the ladder, and then to the third floor, and then to the turret above that. “How are you planning to get up there? Our ladder doesn’t extend that far.”

  I studied the ladder, which was definitely as big as it could be, if I were the one who’d be hoisting it around. I gazed up at the third floor with my turret on top.

  “I’ll use a littler ladder,” I said eventually. “I’ll put it on the roof of some of your second story porches. That will work.”

  Dad stared at me, aghast. “Are you nuts?”

  “Wacko and Looney Tunes.” I waved at all the lime green looming before us and at some lemon yellow trim. “And the color of this house is one of the many things that makes me wacko.”

  “We like this color.”

  “It’s lime green!”

  “Kelly green,” Dad said. “And we Baxters like bright colors—your rocking chairs, your mother’s paintings.”

  My mother’s paintings. Let’s get that sad story out of the way, shall we?

  Like everyone else in my family, my mother had been a teacher
. She taught high school math, but when she got sick and had to give up teaching, Mom started painting. In that last year of her life she painted over a hundred pictures of flowers. What she lacked in talent, she made up for in bright and cheerful colors. “To keep us Baxters smiling,” she used to tell me.

  “Our house is cheerful.” Dad nodded at the expanse of green. “It’s jolly.”

  “It’s an eyesore,” I said. “It’s like living in the Jolly Green Giant.”

  “What’s wrong with jolly?” Dad said. “Jolly’s good,” he added, and Charlie wagged his tail.

  “Gray with white trim,” I argued, and the tail stopped still.

  My father reminded me we Baxters don’t like drab as I stepped away to move the ladder. This took a while, but I ignored the disapproving frowns from him and his dog and finally slid the stupid ladder three feet over.

  I caught my breath and started climbing.

  “How’s Bambi?”

  I stopped about six feet overhead. “How do you know I talked to Bambi, old man? You were listening.”

  Dad pleaded innocence and insisted he hadn’t heard anything specific. “But who else would you call about all this? Who else do you call to complain about me?”

  Good point. I gave up arguing and reached for the scraper I had left on the windowsill—almost, almost, out of reach.

  “Be! Careful!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why don’t you go bother Chance Dooley?” I said, and I could hear my father’s sigh even from my position two stories above.

  “Chance has gotten himself into a real pickle this time, girl.”

  I smiled at the lime green paint in front of me. “What’s happened now?”

  FYI, other than driving me nuts, putting Chance into pickles is my father’s favorite pastime. When he retired from being an English teacher, he took up writing science fiction, and Chance Dooley is the hero of Dad’s yet-to-be-published stories. Chance owns and operates Dooley’s Delivery Service: We Deliver Where No Delivery Service Has Ever Delivered Before.

  As you can imagine, or at least as Bobby Baxter can imagine, Chance and his Spaceship Destiny—the delivery service’s delivery device—get themselves into pickle after pickle, each pickle being a little more absurd than the pickle before.

  “Chance needs to get his hands on two new Turbo Thrust Propulsion Pistons,” Dad told me. I switched the scraper to my left hand to get at a hard to reach crevice, while he explained the critical importance of the Spaceship Destiny’s Turbo Thrust Propulsion System.