Foul Play at the Fair Read online

  “Celebrate Shelley Freydont’s new mystery series in Celebration Bay, a city of festivals where the event coordinator plans everything. Except solving murders.”

  —Janet Bolin, author of the Threadville Mysteries

  “Foul Play at the Fair is a fun romp of a story about Liv Montgomery, who gives up her irritating life of handling bridezillas and finds the perfect job in Celebration Bay, New York, with her Westie, Whiskey. A delicious read filled with interesting characters and good times.”

  —Joyce Lavene, coauthor of the Missing Pieces Mysteries

  “Event coordinator Liv Montgomery is doing her best to squash any obstacles to a successful Celebration Bay Harvest Festival, and when a body crops up, she’s not going to let her plans be plowed under.”

  —Sheila Connolly, national bestselling author of the Orchard Mysteries

  Foul Play

  at the Fair

  Shelley Freydont

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL,

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

  establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over

  and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  FOUL PLAY AT THE FAIR

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Shelley Freydont.

  Cover illustration by Griesbach/Martucci.

  Cover design by George Long.

  Interior text design by Tiffany Estreicher.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or

  electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of

  copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58954-0

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group

  (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is

  stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the

  author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  For Judi McCoy, writer and friend,

  who loved dogs and left us far too soon

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter One

  Liv Montgomery wiggled her toes in her new Sperry Top-Siders and breathed in the fresh country air. The day was crisp, the sun was shining, and Liv felt great. It was hard to believe that only a month ago she’d been standing in the Plaza ballroom, sleep deprived and patience hanging by a thread, while the bridezilla from hell ranted at her because the oysters they were serving at the reception were Atlantic, not Pacific.

  Even after Liv showed her the order sheet where she had signed off on Atlantic oysters, the woman continued to yell. Liv had gritted her teeth and wondered how soon she could get out of her four-inch heels from hell.

  The bride, now the wife of some poor soul who had disappeared into the men’s room right after the first dance, made one final dramatic gesture, throwing both arms wide and taking out a waiter and two thousand dollars’ worth of Dom Pérignon.

  And something in Liv snapped. She’d had enough. She was sick of bitchy bridezillas, desperate housewives, anything-but-sweet sixteens. She wanted a job with normal hours, where she made nice people happy, where she could get out of those damn heels.

  She packed up her clothes and her dog and headed north.

  Now she was the official event coordinator of Celebration Bay, New York, a town that took its name seriously, where she could wear Top-Siders and take her dog to work.

  “Pretty nice place to live, huh?” she said, looking down at her Westie terrier, Whiskey.

  Whiskey pulled at his leash and, after snuffling through a patch of grass, claimed the base of a nearby parking meter.

  Celebration Bay was an idyllic village on a lake that, as the locals told her, wasn’t big enough to be “great,” but was big enough for them. It was big enough for Liv, too.

  It was the last week in September, and the monthlong Harvest by the Bay Festival was culminating in a weekend fair. Up and down Main Street, gaily painted shops sold food, knitted goods, coffee, and souvenirs. The surrounding trees were turning golden and red, and the breeze off the lake carried the aroma of baking down the street.

  The sound of hammering rang in the air, and Liv stopped to look across the parklike village green where the setup committee was constructing booths for the one hundred vendors and entertainers who would line the sidewalks that weekend. A bright, multicolored tent had been erected at the far end for music, skits, and magic shows.

  Nearby, a children’s area would feature bobbing for apples, pumpkin painting, and a go-fishing booth. There would be a farmers’ market, hayrides, three-legged races, and cider pressing exhibitions. The surrounding stores and restaurants would open early and close late.

  Liv le
t out a satisfied sigh. Her new life, her new job. It was just perfect.

  As she stepped off the curb, Janine Tudor’s cream-colored Cadillac sped by, barely missing Liv’s new shoes. Liv jumped back to the sidewalk. Almost perfect.

  She waited until she was sure Janine was not going to repeat the drive-by, then hurried across the street. Recognizing the bakery, Whiskey pulled her along the sidewalk past the dainty tables and chairs outside the Apple of My Eye Bakery and through the open door.

  “Morning, Liv,” said Dolly Hunnicutt from behind the counter. She was wearing a pink gingham dress with puff sleeves and a white ruffled apron tied around her ample waist. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Some of the residents took their reputation as the soon-to-be-most-popular festival destination in New York State more seriously than others.

  “And don’t you look festive today,” Dolly added.

  “Is that a good thing?” Liv asked, wondering if she’d gone overboard with her forest green corduroys and autumn plaid jacket. Whiskey had refused to participate in her new wardrobe madness, even though in an aberrant moment, she’d ordered him two scotch plaid winter sweaters from an online doggie catalogue.

  “Why, of course it is. You’re wearing harvest colors. Those trousers bring out the green in your eyes, and your hair shines like burnt sugar.”

  Liv wasn’t sure what burnt sugar was, but it didn’t sound too appetizing. She’d always thought her hair was dark brown.

  “I have some nice lemon scones this morning. Lord knows we’ll all be sick of apples before we switch over to pumpkin season after this weekend.”

  In the last two weeks, Liv had eaten apple pie, apple turnovers, applesauce, apple butter, and something called apple pandowdy. “Lemon scones sound delicious. I’ll take two, though I can’t keep this up. I’ve already had to increase my daily run from three miles to four.”

  “Pooh. The way you run around, you’ll work it off in no time. But if you keep feeding Ted…” She clucked her tongue.

  “I always treat my assistants well. The secret of my success.”

  “Well, bless you. Janine used to run him ragged. But don’t you go overboard and spoil him.”

  “I won’t.” Liv glanced up at the pink cupcake-shaped wall clock. “Gotta run.” She took the bag of scones.

  Whiskey, who had been sitting patiently at her feet, his face upturned to the counter, barked.

  Dolly laughed. “I would never forget such a sweetie.” She handed Liv a smaller paper bag.

  “Just a little D-O-G biscuit recipe I’ve been working on. Shaped like little bones, they’re so cute. And no sugar. I’m going to talk to Sharise over at the Woofery about maybe stocking them for her clients.”

  “That’s a great idea. You may have a whole new industry on the horizon,” Liv said.

  Dolly beamed, and Liv and Whiskey hurried next door to the Buttercup Coffee Exchange. The proprietor, Betty Ford, known as BeBe to distinguish her from the other Betty Ford, was waiting at the door with a large latte and a decaf tea. BeBe was a lush thirtysomething, half country girl and half urban entrepreneur. She and Liv had bonded the first day Liv had come into the store.

  “Saw you coming. Knew you’d be in a hurry this morning.” BeBe handed Liv the cardboard carton of drinks. “And I saw what Janine just did. Somebody oughta tell her nobody wants sour grapes at a harvest festival.”

  “Well, I did take her job.”

  “No reason to try to run over you. If she wanted to keep being the town’s event coordinator, she should have done a better job. She was driving us to the poorhouse, and everybody knows it, whether they say so or not. I’ll put the coffee and tea on your tab.”

  “Thanks, BeBe. You’re a dream.”

  She’d made the right decision to move here, Liv thought as she hurried toward her office in town hall. Celebration Bay was the epitome of Yankee ingenuity. It had survived several wars, the depression, a flu epidemic, and two recessions. When the cannery, the major source of employment in the county, closed, they threw a party. Fifteen years later, Celebration Bay was a thriving destination vacation spot, delivering family entertainment at affordable prices.

  But the festivals had grown too big for volunteers, and when Liv saw the ad for a full-time event coordinator, she jumped at the chance to do something really worthwhile. For the most part, people were congenial, helpful, and polite. And if they liked getting their own way, well, who didn’t.

  Ted Driscoll was already at work in the outer office. He was a man of a certain age, tall and thin with thick white hair, mild blue eyes, and a dry sense of humor. He also had his finger on the pulse of Celebration Bay gossip. That alone made him indispensable. His computer skills and willingness to work on Saturdays made him a gem.

  He stood up as Liv entered, and Liv, being a well-trained dog owner, dropped Whiskey’s leash. Whiskey darted forward, and Ted leaned over and vigorously scratched behind both doggie ears. “Who’s my favorite daw-aw-awg,” Ted yodeled.

  “Arr-roo-roo-roo.”

  “My favorite daw-aw-awg.”

  “Arr-roo—”

  Liv rolled her eyes, deposited the scones and coffee on Ted’s desk, and picked up a thick manila folder.

  “I’ll be in my office when you two goofballs are finished,” Liv said. Neither goofball paid any attention to her as they yodeled through their morning ritual.

  Liv’s office was a big square room with two tall sash windows and a high ceiling. The walls were painted an unwholesome beige, though someone had tried to spiff things up with travel posters of Bermuda. Liv meant to do a little redecorating as soon as she got this first festival under her belt.

  Ted came in with a tray, set it on her desk, and sat down across from her. Whiskey followed, his treat from Dolly held delicately between his teeth. And, finally remembering that he’d been trained at a very expensive obedience school, he headed for his pillow where he stretched out and made short work of Dolly’s dog delicacy.

  Liv glanced at the tea tray. In addition to the hot drinks, the scones arranged on two china saucers, the knives, forks, and paper napkins, today a folded newspaper lay on top. “We’re getting way too civilized, Ted.”

  “Never, but the newspaper is strictly business.” He handed it to Liv, who unfolded it to the front page. It was the local weekly, the Celebration Clarion.

  “‘Fishing Suspended to Protect Spawning Salmon’?”

  “Next page.”

  Liv opened the bifold paper. An article on tractor advancements, a report on the county fair, a Weight Watchers meeting announcement, a twofer coupon for Otis Deal’s Texas Wieners. On the opposite page was an article about arrowheads found by a Boy Scout troop while hiking in the foothills. And below it was a half-page advertisement for the Harvest by the Bay Festival and a listing of the weekend festivities.

  The ad was strictly clip art, designed by her predecessor, but there were no obvious mistakes; dates, times, activities were all there. She lifted her eyebrows at Ted.

  “As I understand it, the ad should have been a whole page, not half.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s an invoice?”

  Ted shook his head. “Janine didn’t keep records.”

  Liv sighed. “I’ll go have a talk with”—she looked at the masthead—“Mr. Bristow. I should meet him anyway if we’re going to be doing business in the future.” She checked her iPhone. “I have to go out to Waterbury Farms. Joss wants me to see the antique apple press exhibit that he’s put together before he opens it to the public this weekend. Then I’ll stop by the Miller farm to get an ETA on the corn maze for Haunted October, but I can drop by the newspaper office this afternoon.”

  “Be sure to get there before three or he’ll have closed up to go fishing.”

  Liv rolled her eyes. “So that’s why festival news got bumped for salmon eggs.” She entered the Clarion’s address into her address book.

  They worked their way through the folder, dividing up jobs
until there was one paper left. “Zoldosky Brothers,” Liv said thoughtfully. “The jugglers?”

  “Yep. I saw their Airstream drive by on my way to work. Probably going out to Andy Miller’s farm. That’s where most of the vendors and entertainers camp.” Ted reached for the paper. “I’m glad they got here early. I’ll have to get out there and remind them that they’re paid a very nice fee and panhandling is strictly forbidden. I’d ask Bill Gunnison to go out but he’s down with sciatica.”

  “A hell of a time for the sheriff’s back to go out,” Liv said. “Do you think he’ll be okay by Saturday? I might be a bit overzealous, but Manhattan doesn’t have the monopoly on perverts, pickpockets, and psychopaths.”

  “No,” Ted agreed. “But we usually lock ours in the attic.”

  Liv choked on her coffee. “Don’t do that,” she said, blotting coffee off the manila folder.

  Ted raised his eyebrows, all innocence.

  “I’ll talk to them. I’m going out there anyway.”

  Ted hesitated. “Okay, but make sure to take Andy with you. The Zoldoskys are ex-carny folk. They come every year and never cause any trouble, but they’re a bit rough around the edges.”

  “Not to worry. You should have seen some of my clients in Manhattan. Money and an East Side address don’t automatically give a person good taste or good manners.”

  Ted barked out a laugh. “Hon, you’re a breath of fresh air. But you don’t need to do everything yourself.”

  “I know. It’s a nasty habit I intend to break…once the harvest festival is a resounding success. Then I’ll go into strong-arming-for-help mode for Halloween.”

  Liv gathered up hard copies of the permit forms and added them to the manila folder, which she slid into a canvas shoulder bag.

  “If I leave Whiskey here, you have to promise not to keep feeding him.”

  Ted widened his eyes innocently. Whiskey cocked his head—innocently.

  “If you get fat, I’ll have to send you to doggie boot camp.”

  “Maybe we can get a twofer,” Ted said, patting a nonexistent stomach.

  “Behave. Both of you.”