Foul Play at the Fair Read online

  Liv managed to hide her grin until she reached the hallway. She couldn’t imagine any of her former Manhattan colleagues, even the dog lovers, putting up with a dog at work, much less enjoying him. She loved her new job.

  She stopped in the ladies’ room for a quick look in the mirror: makeup, neat, understated; slacks, loose jacket, casual but businesslike; hair…burnt sugar? Whatever. She twisted it onto the top of her head and fixed it there with a claw clip. Even more businesslike, in case she needed the extra clout with the Zoldosky brothers.

  Her first stop was Waterbury Farms, two miles out of town on the county road. It was a working farm, but its claim to fame was the Waterbury store. The store had taken over the original cider mill when they built a larger, updated mill a mile away. There was still one huge working press housed behind a plate glass window where visitors could watch the apples being pressed into juice. The mill’s fresh cider and cider doughnuts had been reviewed in magazines up and down the East Coast.

  Liv pulled into a parking space at the front of the red clapboard building. Even on a midweek morning there were several cars in the lot. There was an additional parking area around back. Plenty of room for the weekend overflow. And if they had someone directing traffic, things should go smoothly.

  That was the area Liv was most concerned about. Ted had told her of gnarled traffic jams and fumes smelling up the park as cars waited for parking spaces.

  Not on my watch, she told herself. She didn’t have much experience directing vehicular traffic, but she had a plan that she would present at the Traffic Committee meeting that night.

  She slid her bag across the car seat and went inside. She was immediately surrounded by the sweet aroma of apples and frying doughnuts. Joss Waterbury, dressed in denim overalls and a red plaid shirt, was a walking advertisement for the American farmer. He was manning the doughnut maker, but he handed off the job to his teenage daughter, Roseanne, when he saw Liv.

  “I got the back room all set up for the antique exhibit. I think you’re really gonna like it. Educational as well as fun.”

  He led her down an aisle between wooden shelves that were filled with foodstuffs, books, and kitchenware, and past the electric cider press. Liv couldn’t help but slow down to watch the chunks of apples rushing out of the giant delivery tube into the cloth-covered frames, the juice running out the bottom into troughs that would carry it away to be processed.

  “Kinda mesmerizing, ain’t it?” Joss said.

  “It’s fascinating,” Liv agreed.

  They stood watching for a few more seconds; then Joss started off again.

  “You’re about to step back into history,” he said, gesturing to a room that until a few days ago had held quilts, T-shirts, and homespun linens, as well as a huge granite apple mill.

  “I hope you’re going to lead the tour yourself,” Liv said. “You just sent a shiver up my spine.” She stepped inside and took in the collection of old and unusual devices. Machines with slatted barrels, metal colanders, and giant hand cranks. An apple saucer, a fermentation vat, and a row of pottery cider jugs.

  “This baby,” Joss said, stopping by an old cast-iron and wooden press, “dates back to the late eighteen hundreds.” He ran a hand lovingly over the round press wheel. “Took three of us to get it in the truck.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Buddy Powers’s got an ‘antique’ place over on Route 9. Mostly junk and such a mess that you couldn’t find nothing if you tried. Except I knew he had this; he tried to sell it to me for a fortune years ago. Course, nobody ever bought it. When you got this idea for an exhibit, I remembered him. Went over there and got it for a song.

  “Now, this one,” he said, moving to a much larger contraption that was about five feet high and spread out over several feet, “is on loan from Fenway Farms up the road. Belonged to Fenway’s grandfather. He don’t want it, but his wife won’t let him get rid of it. So he was happy to oblige.”

  Liv peered into the collection barrel, then examined the heavy iron press and the series of cogs and wheels along the side.

  “How exactly does it work?” she asked.

  “It works on the same principle as the big electric press, only you do it by hand.” Joss flipped a heavy iron latch. “You put your apples in this funnel. Then you position the stone disc on top.” He grabbed hold of a heavy-looking crank handle. “You turn the crank, which presses the stone down and crushes the apples. Takes forever. Even with the big double ones.”

  “They’re safe, aren’t they? No kid could get a mashed finger or anything?”

  “No,” Joss said, as he returned the latch to the iron eye. “I’ll have them locked off, though I’m thinking about having hourly demonstrations on the weekends. Just a little added attraction.”

  A man after her own heart, Liv thought.

  “I think this is going to be real interesting.” He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and looked around. “Might even build on an extra room and keep an eye out for some unusual mills to add to the collection. Found something real nice on eBay the other day. Shipping it would break the bank. But you never know.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s going to be a big hit,” Liv said.

  No one was home at the Miller farm, but Liv could see the field where a handful of trucks and trailers were already settling in for the weekend.

  A battered silver Airstream trailer was parked at the farthest edge of the field near the woods and away from the other vendors. She drove across the field, following the tracks made by the trailer. She parked several yards away and read the sign painted on the side in large black letters. Zoldosky Brothers. And underneath, Juggling, Tumbling, Balloon Animals. She beeped the horn to warn them they had a visitor.

  When no one appeared, she got out of the car.

  The trailer had two metal steps leading to the door and two small windows on either side, covered by thick curtains. There was a pickup truck parked next to the trailer, so someone must be home.

  “Hello?” she called as she approached the trailer. “Hel-lo-o.”

  The hair on the nape of her neck lifted; she could feel someone watching her, but when she turned around, no one was there. She suddenly felt very isolated at the edge of the woods; the few other vehicles were too far away to even hear her if she screamed.

  Wuss, she thought. She turned back to the trailer; the curtain abruptly fell back across the window. So, she hadn’t imagined it; someone was watching her.

  She climbed the two metal steps to the door and knocked. “Mr. Zoldosky? Anyone home?”

  Nothing. But she knew someone was in there, and now that she’d made the trip, she wasn’t going away without talking to one of the brothers.

  She knocked again, louder and more persistent.

  This time she heard movement inside. A scrape, a crash as if something heavy had fallen over. Another crash. Maybe this wasn’t a good time to be calling. Bill Gunnison would just have to hobble his way out here or wait until Saturday when the brothers would be in town.

  Liv backed down the steps and turned to go.

  The trailer door crashed opened. A bloodcurdling scream split the air. Liv whirled around as a body rolled down the steps and fell in a huddle at her feet.

  Chapter Two

  Liv held back a scream as the body uncoiled and sprang to his feet. He stepped back on one foot and made a rolling flourish with his hand as he bowed.

  “Velcome.”

  His bow was more Uriah Heep than court jester, and his accent was as phony as the worst off-off-off Broadway play. The Zoldoskys were probably from Brooklyn. He tilted his face up and winked at her.

  Tumbler, right, thought Liv, sucking in air. He was a lanky man with dark, slicked-back hair and was dressed in dirty work pants and an even dirtier T-shirt.

  A second man appeared in the doorway to the trailer, and Liv automatically turned toward him. He was a smaller man with lighter hair. His face was disfigured, the nose crushed and bent to one side
. His left cheek was flattened and scarred by some kind of terrible accident. Liv had to fight the instinct to look away.

  “Mr. Zoldosky?”

  The man disappeared inside and shut the door.

  “And you are?” The tumbler slowly eyed her from head to foot and back again. His eyes stopped on hers. They were hard and dark and…calculating.

  Liv forced a smile. “Liv Montgomery, event coordinator for Celebration Bay.”

  “Liv Montgomery,” he said, drawing the syllables out as his eyebrows drew together.

  “I came, Mr. Zoldosky, to—”

  “I am Anton Zoldosky.” The deep voice sounded in her ear; the breath touched her skin and sent a chill up her back. She jumped, twisted around, and came face-to-face with another dark-haired man. He was older and stockier than the other two brothers. His hair was thinning and long enough to curl behind his ears. Craggy eyebrows hid deep-set eyes. And he was incredibly light on his feet. She hadn’t even noticed his approach.

  Liv regrouped and looked him straight in the eye. He wasn’t that much taller than her five feet six. “As I was saying, I’m Liv Montgomery.” She turned slightly to include the tumbler, but he’d vanished without a sound.

  Anton jutted out his chin. “I heard you,” he said, in an accented voice that sounded entirely real. “But you are not the other lady.”

  He must be talking about Janine. “No. The trustees brought me in from New York City,” Liv said, positioning herself so that her back was to the trailer. She didn’t want any more Zoldoskys creeping up on her. “They realized that it was time to hire a professional.”

  “Ah, a professional.” There was a glint in his eye that made Liv glad she was standing in a sunlit field and not some back alley at midnight in Manhattan. This was one intimidating family.

  But Liv was used to intimidating bullies, though they were usually better dressed. She cleared her throat. “Yes. I came by to introduce myself and welcome you to this year’s festival.”

  “And do you meet every one of the vendors personally?”

  “As many as I can.” At least, she would make it her business to vet each and every one of the participants from now on.

  “And you chose to meet the Zoldosky brothers first.” Another glint of his eye. There was no mistaking his meaning now; it was pure malice.

  Liv gestured around the field. “You’re one of the first ones here.”

  “Ah, zoh we are.”

  “I also wanted to take this time to remind you to reread your agreement with the town. The rules will be strictly enforced this year.” She smiled. “Especially the ones on soliciting funds outside of the contract.”

  He looked momentarily disconcerted.

  “No panhandling,” she said. She considered taking the time to reiterate the rules one by one, but decided against it. Two men were walking out of the surrounding trees and headed toward the trailer, presumably two more brothers. As they got closer, Liv could see that one had his arm in a sling.

  And suddenly Liv had seen enough of the Zoldosky family. “Enjoy your stay here. I look forward to seeing your act in town. Good-bye.”

  She headed toward her car, measuring her steps to let Anton Zoldosky know she was not so easily cowed. She heard the low rumble of laughter behind her and forced herself to stop at her car and wave good-bye. Then she jumped inside and locked the doors.

  Anton Zoldosky stood with his feet apart, his fists planted on his hips, and his eyes on Liv. The original Zoldosky had reappeared and was juggling three brightly colored scarves, his mouth pulled up in an almost rictus-looking grin. The smaller brother hadn’t reappeared, but the brother with the sling had joined them and was staring after her car. The last brother was nowhere to be seen. Liv didn’t stick around to find out where he’d gone.

  Five of them. And all of them unfriendly. Liv’s hands were actually trembling as she bounced through the field to the road. They usually did that only when she was hanging on to the shreds of her temper. But this was different. Anton Zoldosky had definitely been trying to intimidate her. And had pretty much succeeded.

  She’d let them get to her, and that was so unlike her. Though in her defense, the Zoldoskys weren’t like the people she usually hired for an event—caterers, waiters, and bouncers all wanting to be actors.

  And they certainly weren’t like the self-centered, demanding, and richer-than-the-mint clients she’d left behind. The Zoldoskys looked like they could do bodily harm if they wanted to. Actually, she imagined that a few of her former clients were capable of doing bodily harm, or at least hiring someone to do it for them, though she was pretty sure none of them had ever taken out a contract on an event planner.

  She wasn’t so sure about the Zoldoskys.

  The Celebration Clarion was housed in a little white cottage that made Liv think of John Boy and the Waltons…until she got closer. The green shutters were peeling, the porch sagged, and the house looked uninhabited.

  She pulled out her iPhone. Checked the time. Only two eighteen. Charles Bristow should still be there. She fished the newspaper ad out of her shoulder bag and walked toward the house. The porch creaked as she stepped across it, and she had to search before she found the bell, which was a brass handle set in the center of the door. She gave it a twist and heard two loud rings, but no accompanying footsteps.

  After a minute or so, she tried the knob. The door opened, and she peered into a gloomy room that seemed stuck in transition between parlor and reception area.

  “Mr. Bristow?”

  Hadn’t she just done this a half hour ago? At least she could rest easy that Mr. Bristow wouldn’t come somersaulting out of his office. The Bristows had owned the paper since 1910, and though she imagined that the original editor had long ago departed for that printing press in the sky, Charles Bristow Jr. had to be getting up there.

  She listened; heard a regular, rhythmic sound echoing from the back of the house. Someone was snoring. She followed the snores through the front room and into another dim room that had probably once been a bedroom but was now crammed with computer equipment, a large printer, stacks of paper, and a long couch occupied by a recumbent man.

  The folded sections of a newspaper covered his midsection. Long legs and big, beat-up work boots stuck out from the bottom edges. An open double section covered his face and ruffled with each breath.

  “Mr. Bristow?” Getting no response, Liv gently poked him where his arm should be.

  A grunt, a snort, and he settled back into his rhythmic breathing.

  She didn’t want to give the old guy a heart attack, but she had stuff to do. She grasped the toe of his boot and gave it a shake.

  There was spluttering. And movement beneath the paper. A veritable boxing match with the news, and Mr. Bristow bolted upright. “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” Liv began.

  He batted away the paper and scowled at her.

  Liv forgot the rest of her apology. Charles Bristow unfolded from the couch, dropped his size-thirteen work boots to the floor, and sat up, staring at her from beneath a shock of dirty-blond hair. His blue eyes were slightly dazed but growing more focused by the second. He was closer to thirty-five than eighty-five, and he was stomach-twisting gorgeous—if you liked the scruffy type.

  “Mr. Bristow?” His name came out in a squeak. Liv cleared her throat, took control of the situation. “Mr. Bristow. I’m sorry to interrupt your nap.” Not that someone this young and virile and in charge of a newspaper should be sleeping on the job.

  “Then why did you?” His voice was a baritone, gravelly from sleep. Maybe he’d been out on a story the night before.

  Liv stuck out her hand.

  He looked at it, then crossed his arms.

  Liv dropped her hand. The man might look like the prince out of a Disney movie, but he was rude, uncouth, and, from the looks of the office, a lazy slob to boot.

  “I’m Liv Montgomery.”

  “How nice for you.” He heaved off the couch and, scratchin
g his head, wandered over to a cluttered countertop and a coffee carafe that held two inches of something that looked like motor oil. He rummaged around until he found a paper cup and poured the sludge into it.

  “Okay, Liv Montgomery. What the hell is so urgent that you had to wake me up? Town hall on fire?”

  She looked around for a light source, found a lamp periscoping up from piles of loose papers, and turned it on. Charles Bristow blinked hard, then let out a long, deep yawn.

  Not only was he lazy, he was ill-mannered and badly dressed. Both elbows of his plaid shirt were shredded threads; his jeans were in even worse shape.

  Rein it in, Liv. Be nice.

  She unfolded the newspaper to the ad. “The festival committee placed what was supposed to be a full-page ad in the Clarion.” She handed him the paper, which he reluctantly took and even more reluctantly looked at. “As you can see, this ad is only a half page.”

  “So? A Boy Scout found a cache of arrowheads up by Dawely’s Point. Possibly of Mesolithic origin. That would be a first around here. I co-opted a little space from the ad. Big deal. Who the hell did you say you were?” He tasted the coffee, made a face, and put it down on top of a mountain of papers.

  Liv had to resist the urge to move it somewhere safe.

  “My name is Liv Montgomery, as I said before. I’m the new event coordinator in Celebration Bay.”

  “Oh yeah, the résumé from the big city.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just so you know, I voted against you.”

  “You? You’re on the board of trustees?”

  “Yep.”

  How could this…this big oaf be her boss? She’d met the other trustees, but not him.

  “Boggles the mind, don’t it?”

  His lapse in grammar didn’t fool her one bit. He was just being obnoxious.

  “Mr. Bristow.”

  “Call me Chaz. Everyone else does.”

  “I just bet they do,” she mumbled.

  “What’s that?”

  “Chaz.” She smiled her calm-before-the-storm smile. If he wanted to play, she’d play…for a minute or two. It wouldn’t hurt her to keep her claws sharpened. She might need them if she had to go up against the Zoldosky brothers again.