Marshmallows and Murder Read online

  I looked up at him. His salt-and-pepper hair was receding in that classic way that made him look like a young Ed Harris. He wasn't self-conscious about his hairline at all like my ex was. It was a refreshing change of pace.

  "I'll stand here at the foot of the walk and watch you go in to make sure you're okay. That way my loud-walking, big-energy self won't make too much noise."

  He was humoring me, and I was being silly, but I walked up to the door alone. I unlocked the front door, waved goodbye, and slipped inside.

  The house was quiet as I put my keys on the side table by the door. Mission accomplished.

  I slipped off my shoes and tiptoed through the living room. I turned into the hall and ran smack into a wall that came out of nowhere.

  Well, for a fraction of a moment, I thought it was a wall until the wall screamed like Mom's and my housemate, Dar-Dar.

  He screamed. I screamed. We all screamed, because we were walking down a dark hallway at five o'clock in the morning and nobody was supposed to be there.

  "Oh my God!" Dar-Dar said when he realized it was me.

  "What are you doing walking around in the dark?" I asked.

  "I never turn on the hall light so I don't wake everybody up. I have to be at work in forty-five minutes," he said.

  Of course, I'd forgotten Dar-Dar worked at the Mocha Muse, Fletcher Canyon's coffee shop that was built as an extension of our local bookstore. They open at six thirty.

  "Is there something wrong?" Mom called out from her room. Her voice was all tired and scratchy.

  "No," Dar-Dar yelled back. "It's just Christy coming in late from her date."

  Then he scooted by me to get ready for work as if he hadn't just totally busted me.

  The sound of Mom opening the passenger door woke me up from my nap. I'd driven her to her audition and told her that I'd wait for her in our van. I was exhausted from getting in so late this morning.

  "How did it go?" I asked Mom. "Do you think you booked it?"

  "Just another one where I make a sad face," Mom said. Mom's been an actress in commercials and television shows for over thirty years. But she specialized in looking forlorn. "The casting director said she loved it, but they always say that, and then they don't give you the job."

  "That's Hollywood," I said, starting up the van.

  "That's why I like living in Fletcher Canyon," Mom said.

  When I was younger, I wouldn't have agreed with Mom. But now that I was in my thirties and divorced, I appreciated our small town. Everybody knows everyone, and they're all looking out for you despite the fact that everyone is in your business all the time.

  "I can't wait to get home and shower," I said. I'd gotten majorly sweaty taking my van nap.

  "But we have to go to the committee meeting at the Fletcher Diner," Mom said.

  I shot her a questioning look.

  "About the fair," Mom said. "We have to finalize all the plans. It's in two months, remember?"

  "I hadn't realized that it was already this late in the afternoon, because I fell asleep," I said.

  Mom nodded, but we both knew I forgot.

  I hopped onto the 101 and headed deep into the San Fernando Valley. My father, who passed away years ago, had opted to live in Fletcher Canyon because he wanted a normal life. He was a Teamster, and he'd driven for the studios. He was the one who convinced my mom to become an extra. Her acting career took off from there.

  I'd already gone from the 101 freeway to the 170 to the 5 freeway before she'd mentioned DC. I knew she wouldn't let my coming home so late escape without comment.

  "How are things going with DC?" Mom asked.

  "Good," I said.

  Mom nodded and then made small talk about her audition and customers. But I knew that wouldn't be the last of our talk about DC and me. She'd wait until I wasn't expecting it and then ask.

  I exited the freeway, and five minutes and a half dozen turns later I was on Main Street—the two-lane, tree-lined street that marked the "downtown" area of Fletcher Canyon that ended at the foot of the Los Angeles Crest Mountains.

  "It looks like the parking lot over there is already full," Mom said, peeking over at the lot next to the diner.

  "I guess we'll park in the temporary one," I said, pulling into the makeshift gravel lot that the town had put in to handle the excess flow. The fair was to pay to have the lot paved and other improvements and extensions to Main Street.

  Ever since the Mocha Muse opened up and the town had gotten a bus that was painted like an old-school trolley, Main Street had gotten more crowded. The "trolley bus" was free, and it circled to the neighboring towns of Sylmar, which included Mission College, and part of the city of San Fernando.

  Some people in town also said that it was because of all the news stories covering Mom, Wenling, and me solving mysteries that had attracted some attention as well. The bookstore had prominently featured murder mysteries in the front window for most of the year and the diner had added its "mystery meat loaf" to the menu.

  Everyone thought the meat loaf name was hilarious and a really bad idea. But Al, the town mayor and owner of the diner and the Mocha Muse, said it was a "conversation piece."

  As we crossed the street, we ran into Todd Fletcher, the owner and editor of the Fletcher Weekly, our town paper, walking with Solomon Burns, Fletcher Canyon's favorite college student and jack of all trades.

  "Covering the meeting with Todd?" I asked.

  Solomon held up his camera and nodded yes. "I've got to do something," Solomon said. "My biggest Uber customer has you to drive her to auditions now."

  "You like working for the paper more anyway," I said.

  Solomon smiled. "So what are guys going to sell at your booth? Your world-famous mango cake?"

  "It is famous," Mom said with a small laugh. "But it will be too difficult to sell it by the slice and give out paper plates and all of that."

  "So are we going to do cookies or brownies?" I asked Mom. She'd been pretty tight-lipped about what our concession stand was going to be able to sell. Mom's homemade treats were well-liked in Fletcher Canyon even before Mom started solving mysteries.

  "Yeah, what's the scoop, Jo?" Todd asked.

  "I'll give you an exclusive," Mom said, chuckling. "Since the church booth is going to sell brownies and cookies, we're going to make gourmet marshmallows and marshmallow pops."

  "You mean like s'mores?" Todd asked.

  "That will be one of our flavors, but they'll be more!" Mom said.

  I had no idea how to make marshmallows, but I didn't worry. My contribution to our catering and baking business was mostly driving the van, carrying stuff, and finding the occasional dead body.

  The four of us stepped into the diner. I welcomed the refreshing whoosh of air-conditioned air rushing to greet me. The Fletcher Diner looked as if it was decorated in an old-school style, but the truth was it was just well-kept old. The diner had been here in Fletcher Canyon since the early fifties. I never met the original owner. Al had bought it back in the eighties. The only thing that had been here longer than the diner was the barbershop pole in front of the barbershop. The original shop that had gone with it burned down in the seventies and was rebuilt.

  "Looks like a packed house," Todd said.

  "Refreshments," Solomon said, which was my exact thought.

  "I guess he took the hint when everybody complained at our last meeting that he had us meet at the diner but expected us all to pay to eat," Mom whispered in my ear. "I think people liked it better when we catered the meetings."

  Before Al was elected mayor, we did cater some town meetings, but between Mom's auditions and our catering/mail order treat business, we didn't have time anymore.

  Mom loved growing the business. She'd added those business makeover reality shows in between her usual repertoire of shows on the crime network.

  Then it struck me where Mom had gotten the idea for making marshmallows. "You saw that company on TV that made a fortune selling marshmallows onl
ine," I said to Mom.

  "They're easier to ship than cakes. So much lighter. They're all air," Mom said. "The man on the show said you need to have higher-margin items to increase the profitability of your business."

  "Can you make marshmallows?" I asked. Growing up, Mom had never made anything like marshmallows before. She mostly did baked goods, and marshmallows seemed more like candy to me.

  Mom shot me a look. "I can make anything."

  I smiled. What had I been thinking? Never doubt Mom.

  "Hi!" Wenling said, entering the diner.

  Mom and I were both surprised to see Wenling here at the meeting. She wasn't on the committee for the fair. She usually refrained from being on committees because she would be too busy running the Lucky Dragon.

  "Did you need us at the restaurant?" Mom asked.

  Sometimes if they got overloaded, Mom and I helped out. I'm the worst waitress, but I can refill drinks.

  "Mom has to stay for the meeting," I said, "but I can come to help."

  "The restaurant is busy, but Jennifer has it under control. I thought I'd come over here and see what's going on," Wenling said.

  Mom and I exchanged looks. It was unusual for Wenling not to be at the restaurant unless it was to help us investigate.

  "Do you think someone is going to die here?" Mom asked, as if she could read my mind.

  Wenling's mood brightened. "Did you hear something? Was there a fight?"

  "No," Mom said.

  Wenling's excitement faded. She looked bored, which was unusual for her. A part of me even wondered if she was sad. I'd never seen Wenling sad.

  "Let's go look at the food," Mom said to her friend.

  Wenling smirked. She knew what Mom meant. It's not that Mom was mean. It's just that she knew one of Wenling's favorite pastimes was criticizing her competitors.

  We made our way to the refreshments. Wenling's face brightened when she saw the sandwiches.

  "Mystery meat loaf sandwiches," she mumbled to Mom. "It's no mystery why nobody is eating them."

  Mom laughed. "You're so bad."

  Mom, Wenling, and I were the only ones anywhere near the meat loaf sandwiches,

  We all grabbed one and took a bite. Mine tasted so dry. I looked over to Wenling and Mom. They both were smiling.

  Al must've seen them, because he crossed the diner and came over. "The mystery solvers love the mystery meat loaf," he said loudly.

  He'd misinterpreted their smiles. I knew those smiles meant that they were delighted that the sandwiches were as bad as they hoped.

  "What do you think, ladies?" Al asked.

  "It's so mysterious," Wenling said without missing a beat.

  "Yes, it lives up to its name," Mom agreed.

  The happy tone in their voices made what they said sound like a compliment even though it wasn't.

  "Solomon," Al said, calling him over. Solomon came over, not knowing what he was getting himself into. "Try one of the mystery meat loaf sandwiches."

  "Black people don't eat meat loaf," Solomon said.

  "Really? I didn't know that," Al said.

  "It's common knowledge," Wenling piped in.

  For a moment, I was confused, but once Wenling had joined in I knew Solomon was pulling Al's leg. Al had recently gone through a "diversity training for leaders" seminar. He'd come back with the goal of trying to, as he put it, "get woke, bae." No one had the heart to explain to him how that phrase didn't work like that.

  "And I appreciate that. Thank you for sharing that cultural difference," Al said and went back to the kitchen.

  "Anytime," Solomon said. and the four of us walked away.

  "Guys, I don't know if that's a good idea," I said, feeling a little bad for Al.

  "I think it was hilarious," Wenling said.

  "Good one, Solomon," Mom said.

  "But now he's going to think that black people don't eat meat loaf for the rest of his life," I said.

  "If that's the meat loaf, I don't really even see that as a bad thing," Solomon joked.

  Solomon went back to work taking photos, and the three of us snagged some seats.

  The meeting was called to order, and Al introduced Wayne Boggs and his partner Blake from the carnival rental company. Blake waved from his seat and remained silent. Wayne Boggs, a greasy-haired man with a paunch and sallow complexion, explained to us how the carnival rental would work.

  He explained that the bigger rides like the Ferris wheel would have to be operated by his own employees, but the simpler games like the whack-a-mole, the dunk tank, the shooting gallery, and others could be partially manned by volunteers from the town to save us money.

  Al explained that Wayne's company, Bakersfield Carnival Rentals, had graciously allowed us to save money by taking a small percentage of our sales in lieu of higher rental fees. He also showed us the official Fletcher Canyon Fair T-shirts that were going to be available for sale as well. I didn't know if anyone would buy them, but they looked nice enough. They were blue with the fair logo Solomon had designed on the front.

  "That way it takes away the risk of your first fair not getting enough customers and giving you a greater assurance that this venture will be profitable," Wayne said, interrupting Al.

  "But if the fair is a big success," Mom mumbled to us under her breath, "he'll make even more money."

  That was my thinking as well, but it was good that it limited our risk, and I hoped that the small percentage was indeed small.

  "I don't trust this Wayne Boggs character," Wenling said. "Maybe it's that short-sleeved shirt with a tie look."

  I hadn't even noticed his short-sleeved shirt. It did look like the sort of outfit that Dwight Schrute from The Office would wear, but I didn't think that was a good reason not to trust him.

  "After the meeting we'll make sure to talk to Al about how the receipts for the fair are being calculated," Mom continued. "Make sure that this Al and his partner that doesn't seem to talk much aren't trying to sheist us."

  A Jewish director had introduced the word "shyster" into Mom's vocabulary thirty years ago, and somehow the word had morphed into a verb. But every time Mom used the word "sheist" I paid attention. She had a way of sussing out suspicious characters. Now, I had a good reason not trust Wayne Boggs.

  Gossip and Gaffes

  It was half-past noon. Mom, Wenling, and I folded wontons at our back booth of the Lucky Dragon. Jennifer, Wenling's daughter and de facto manager of the Lucky Dragon, had bought a set of dumpling folders. She and Chef Li had used them while the three of us had gone to the Philippines to solve a case.

  Mom and Wenling opted to use chopsticks as they always had, but I was happy to use the new kitchen gadget and contribute to the operation. Without the nifty gadget, I never managed to make a useable wonton.

  Main Street has been cordoned off to allow the equipment to be delivered for the fair, and even though the trolley bus was running from the parking lot down the street, business was slow.

  "It's a shame we had to park on the lot on Gently Boulevard to get here when they haven't delivered anything yet," I said.

  "They said they'd need to deliver some heavy equipment and to keep the street clear," Mom said.

  "But I haven't seen anything come by. No equipment. No elephants. Nothing," Wenling said.

  "Why would they have elephants?" I asked.

  "For the show in the big tent," Wenling said.

  "That's a circus, not a fair," Mom said.

  "They said there would be rides and cotton candy. They have those with the clowns and the tent show," Wenling argued.

  "They do, but that's a circus," Mom explained.

  "What's the difference? Circus, fair, all the same thing," Wenling said.

  "A circus is mostly a show and sometimes rides and games. A fair is sometimes a show, but mostly rides and games," Mom said.

  Wenling was disappointed.

  "Besides, we don't want any animals. All that poop. And elephant poop is so big."

  Th
e lack of poop seemed to mitigate Wenling's disappointment. "Does this fair have a show?" she asked. "Like acrobats? Clowns?"

  Mom shook her head no. "No acrobats or clowns. Christy's afraid of clowns."

  I was, but I didn't know why Mom needed to bring that up.

  "The makeup isn't real," Wenling explained to me. "It's just regular people under there."

  "I know. I just don't like them."

  Wenling gave me her explain-yourself stare. Mom had the same expression. It amazed me how much I buckled under that look.

  "They have a weird smell, and they creep me out," I said.

  "They do have a smell," Mom agreed.

  "So there's no show? Just a few rides and games?" Wenling said.

  "I think there will be a stage for a magician and some kids' dance and music," Mom said.

  "Kids are so cute, but their music and dancing is so bad," Wenling said.

  "I know," Mom said. "All my kids were in band and orchestra. So painful."

  "I'm right here, Mom," I said.

  "You got better," she said.

  "I think that's one of the trucks!" Wenling said.

  Mom and Wenling rushed over to the window.

  The three of us were wearing hairnets, which wasn't a good look for me. I walked closer to the window, but not all the way up to glass so no one could see me.

  "I'm surprised they can get that Ferris wheel onto the back of the truck," Wenling said.

  I looked out and saw what she was talking about.

  "I thought it would come in smaller pieces," I said.

  Mom stared out the window with a serious look on her face.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "That truck is so high off the ground, and I'm worried they'll have some—"

  Mom was interrupted by a loud bang, and then the power went out.

  A few restaurant patrons rushed for the door, but Mom stopped them.

  "Don't go outside! There could be a live power line down," she said.

  Mom turned to me. I knew what she was going to say, and I was already dialing 911.

  Mom and Wenling had propped the front door to the restaurant open so we could all hear what was going on outside as we watched from the window. Even Chef Li had come from the kitchen to listen and watch.