“Will the judges accept a pumpkin in pieces?” she asked. “Or in a bunch of cans?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “But before we ask them to consider doing so, we need to save every bit of this poor boy’s pumpkin. Before something starts eating it.” And another thought hit me. “For that matter, it’s also evidence and needs to be collected no matter what the judges decide. So Deputy Vern will be here in a few minutes. He can supervise the collection, and when the police are finished with it, we’ll see if we can get the judges to accept it.”
“Okay.” She sounded glum, and appeared to be studying the size of the pumpkin mound with dismay.
“After all, the kid had to work hard enough to grow it,” I said.
“Work hard?” She frowned slightly. “I’d have thought the vine did most of the work.”
“Not with a pumpkin this size,” I said. “They have to start the seeds indoors early so the seedlings can get big by the time the last frost is over. Then they plant them and hand-pollinate them. And once a likely looking pumpkin sets, they have to go around every day plucking all the other blossoms and fruit so the plant puts all its energy into the one pumpkin. And I gather growing a half-ton pumpkin takes at least half a ton of water and fertilizer. And after all that work for months, this happens.”
“Mercy,” she said. “I never knew it was that involved. We’ll get every speck up; don’t you worry.”
Vern arrived just then, and I turned the case of the pummeled pumpkin over to him. I needed to find Randall and warn him that we were having a rash of problems.
Okay, two was a small rash. But the day was young.
Chapter 3
I ducked out of the produce tent and strode rapidly through the fair, tossing off hurried greetings to all the friends I met. I finally spotted Randall over near the front gate, shaking hands with a lanky man in khakis and a navy sports jacket.
“There you are!” Randall was in a jovial mood. “We were just talking about you. This fair wouldn’t even be happening if not for Meg. Any real work gets done, she’s probably done it.”
The reporter probably thought Randall was flattering me. Randall and I both knew he was only telling the truth. Not that I particularly blamed Randall, who also had a town and a construction company to run.
The reporter and I shook hands and exchanged names and pleasantries.
“So, getting back to my questions,” the reporter said, turning toward Randall. “This isn’t just a county fair, then?”
“No, it’s a statewide agricultural exposition,” Randall said. “This is our second year.”
“What inspired it?” the reporter asked.
“The possible demise of the Virginia State Fair,” Randall said. “Oh, I know it’s not really dead now, but last year when we started planning our first event, the nonprofit that was running the official fair was in bankruptcy, and no one knew if there’d be a fair that fall. And we thought that was a shame, so we organized our own event. And since it wasn’t officially the state fair, we decided to call it the ‘Un-fair.’”
The reporter chuckled at that, as most people did.
“And you kept on with your plans even after the state fairgrounds and the right to hold the state fair were sold after all?”
“We did,” Randall said. “The folks who bought the rights to hold the official Virginia State Fair own a bunch of state fairs and other events. They know how to run a nice fair, I’ll give ’em that. I enjoy going there. But they were out of state, and a for-profit company, so last year we weren’t sure what their event would look like. We decided there was room for another kind of event, locally run, and with a different focus.”
“What kind of focus?” the reporter asked.
“Heritage animals and heirloom crops,” Randall said. “For example, in the chicken tent, we probably have twice as many different breeds of chicken as you’ll find at most events. Here, let me show you.”
Damn.
“I’d wait on that if I were you,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Why?” the reporter asked. I didn’t like the slightly sharp tone of his voice.
“Because the chickens have been there all night,” I said. “And the farmers are only just trickling in to clean up. You might want to avoid all the livestock barns and tents right now. Everything’s supposed to be clean as a whistle—or at least as clean as barnyard animals get—by opening time.” I glanced at my watch. “Two hours from now.”
“Good point,” Randall said. “Let me take you over to the arts and crafts building. No cleanup needed there. Or would you like to get a backstage tour of the event stage?” He dropped the name of the minor Nashville luminary who would be giving nightly concerts there for the run of the fair. I’d never heard of her, but I wasn’t much of a country music fan. Randall, who was, assured me she’d go over big, especially with the over-fifty crowd.