Drizzled with Death(9)

“You think one of us would kill over a pancake-eating competition?”

Every year Celadon takes a lot of care writing each contestant’s name on a maple leaf shaped paper tag, which she then ties to a bottle of syrup. The tradition started years ago when Celadon wanted to show off that she had mastered cursive. Grandma even created a scrapbook with Grampa’s tag from each year mounted next to a photo of him holding his pewter pitcher trophy. The trophy meant a lot to all of us since Grampa loves to win, but none of us would kill over it.

“I think if anyone thought they could get away with murder in this town, it’s your family.”

“There are plenty of other people in this room who are happy to see Alanza buttered side down. If I were you, I’d start talking to some of them.” I stood and started to stomp away. It had been a rough few days, and the thought of being accused of murder was bringing on a headache that was much closer to a real migraine than I liked. Mitch grabbed my arm and held me in place.

“No matter what you say, I’ve got my eye on you. If you or any of your family had something to do with this, I’ll go right over the chief’s head to the state police if I think he can’t be objective.” Mitch shoved his pencil into his breast pocket so hard the tip punched through the fabric.

“I’ll be sure to let him know you said that. It will do your career a world of good for him to know you are a man of such integrity.” I wrenched my arm away. “And speaking of your career, don’t you think you ought to hurry up and question the Shaws? You don’t want to keep a seated selectman waiting longer than necessary.” Mitch scurried over to the table where Kenneth was seated with his wife, Nicole. Kenneth checked his watch twice in the amount of time it took him to cross the twenty feet of the grange hall.

I found a spot in the corner to sit and let my eyes wander the room. Everywhere I looked, there were people who might celebrate Alanza’s death. The snowmobile club had more members than the church; her neighbors Roland and Felicia Chick and even many syrup makers like the curiously absent Jill Hayes had good reason to celebrate her sudden demise. If she had been poisoned, suspects would be thicker on the ground than ticks in an unmown field. I sat wondering about how my family could stop being among them until Lowell came over to dismiss me about a half hour later.

“What do you think they’ll do about the pewter pitcher?” Grampa asked as soon as I slid the minivan door into place.

“What do you mean, do about it?” Grandma asked.

“Well, I won, didn’t I? I kept on eating after Alanza so I’m clearly the winner.”

“I’m not sure it counts as a win if the competition dies,” my grandmother said quietly. She isn’t given to a lot of words like her husband and never has much to say that isn’t worth hearing.

“I ate more than she did before she keeled over, too.” Grampa leaned forward excitedly, causing his seat belt to cinch tightly across his belly.

“But no one can be sure she wouldn’t have eaten more if she hadn’t died.”

“Ahh, but she did die, now didn’t she? Making me the winner. I shouldn’t think a thing like this should break my winning streak.” Grampa pulled at his beard, stopping to inspect a bit of dried food stuck in the end of it.

“But Mitch already asked me if we poisoned her to make sure you won the pewter pitcher. I think you’d better lie low with this for a bit,” I said, feeling a knot of worry tighten in my still empty stomach.

“Besides, Emerald, you know that is simply unseemly. You are absolutely without feeling carrying on like that.” Grandma smoothed her skirt the way she always did when she felt the unusual need to rebuke Grampa.

“But, Olive—” Grampa said.

“Don’t ‘but, Olive’ me. I will speak to Myra Phelps tomorrow after church but you will not, I repeat, not bring this up to anyone else. Dani is right. We don’t need that sort of headache. If you insist on behaving like that, we’ll all come down with one of Dani’s migraines.” Grandma skewered me with a knowing look that made me glad I had confessed earlier rather than having that to look forward to at the end of a long, hungry morning.

Grampa harrumphed and sank back against his seat, uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of the five-mile journey. It was too early in the season for potholes and I was able to get a good smooth view off into the woods along the side of the road. Maples and hemlocks filled the woods with scatterings of beeches, their dried leaves clinging to the branches like old people wearing the hairstyles of their youth. Through the trees I spotted something moving oddly. After my encounter with the mountain lion the night before, my senses were on high alert. I leaned forward, pressing my snub nose to the tinted glass. I blinked, then blinked again. Last night the game warden had said wine was the culprit for my hallucinations. Now I was asking myself if it was low blood sugar.