The person who came rushing in wasn’t a customer. It was Tracy Roderick, our summer employee—Tracy of the stringy hair, who’d been elected president of the drama club and who had been staffing the dessert table at the Rinkydink.
Tracy rushed over to my office and opened the door. “Can I come in?”
“Sure, Tracy. What can I do for you?”
“My hair! I’ve got to do something about it.”
I stared at her. Yes, Tracy needed a new hairstyle. I knew her mother had been trying to get her do something about it for a year. But now Tracy was acting as if it were an emergency.
“Why?” I said. “I mean, what brought on this decision?”
“I might have a chance at a part in a movie, Lee!”
“What?”
“You met that movie producer, Mr. Armstrong! I saw you talking to him. Isn’t he divine?”
“He’s certainly not an ordinary human, so maybe he is divine. What did he say?”
“He told us he’s going to hire people in Warner Pier for small roles in the film he’s going to shoot. The drama club’s going to have a special meeting about it.” Tracy clutched her hands together and held them to her chin in a semiprayerful attitude. “Oh, Lee! It could be my big chance! Will you help me?”
I stared at Tracy in utter dismay. I’d just convinced myself that Aunt Nettie and Maia were old enough to take care of themselves, that I should keep quiet about my misgivings about Aubrey Andrews Armstrong.
But now Aubrey had moved in on the high school drama students. They weren’t grown-ups; they were young and inexperienced and would be easy for him to exploit. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Tracy that. And she was waiting for an answer.
“Sure, Tracy,” I said. “I’ll help you with your makeup, and I’ll make an appointment at Angie’s for you. I’ll go with you, if you like. Angie gives the best haircuts in Warner Pier, and if you need highlights or something, she’ll advise you.”
“Oh, thank you, Lee! That will be wonderful!” She bounced up and down. “I’ve got the money I saved last summer. I can take it out of my college fund. I’m just so excited!”
“Angie shouldn’t be busy, now that the summer people are gone,” I said. “I’ll see if she can get you in tomorrow evening. I’ve got to do some research tonight.”
Yes, I’d be busy that evening. I had to try to find out something about Aubrey Andrews Armstrong and Montezuma Motion Pictures. And I didn’t want to tell anybody what I was doing. Especially not Joe. Not that there was any reason to expect I’d have the opportunity to tell Joe anything that night. I had the feeling he was as mad at me as I was at him.
So I played business manager until five o’clock, taking orders over the telephone, checking the TenHuis e-mail for more orders, and calling suppliers. In between I worked on the payroll. If business kept improving, I was going to need an assistant.
But closing time finally came. I told Aunt Nettie I was going to grab dinner downtown, then work late. She seemed a bit disappointed that I wouldn’t be home to see her off on her dinner date.
“I’ll be home by the time Aubrey brings you in,” I said. “In case you need a chaplain. I mean, a chaperone!”
Aunt Nettie laughed. “I don’t anticipate needing either. But I’m almost sorry I said I’d go.”
“It ought to be fun. Aubrey’s a charmer.”
“I’m looking forward to spending some time with him. And Vernon’s a nice person. But Mae has gone crazy.”
“You can put up with her for one evening.” Aunt Nettie left. I pulled the shades on the street door and on the show windows, then turned to my computer. That would be the easiest place to start my check of movie producers. I went on line, called up Google, and typed in “Aubrey Andrews Armstrong.”
An hour later I’d found out something very interesting. Aubrey Andrews Armstrong apparently didn’t exist. At least I couldn’t find him under that name.
A general search for his highly distinctive name brought nothing. A prowl through the Web site of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences found nothing. I’d tried the Web sites of the two films Aubrey had mentioned,
Appaloosa
and
Mimosa Magic
. They seemed to list the entire cast and crew down to the guy who swept out the set, but no Aubrey Andrews Armstrong or Montezuma Motion Pictures was mentioned.
Unfortunately, this didn’t prove anything. Aubrey could go by “A. A. Armstrong.” Or he could use a completely different professional name. And Montezuma Motion Pictures could have sold distribution rights or done some other tricky thing that made the name not appear on film credits.
Then I tried another tack, and discovered neither Aubrey Andrews Armstrong nor Montezuma Motion Pictures could be accessed anywhere in the country by the biggest telephone information site.
I wasn’t ready to give up. I did the whole search of the motion picture sites again, this time using only the name “Armstrong.” I found a bunch of people by that name, of course, but none of them was Aubrey or Andrews or anything else that sounded likely.
Things were not looking good for Aubrey, but it was all negative—lack of information didn’t prove anything. I rested my head against my computer screen and wondered if I should quit.
Then it occurred to me that Aubrey’s new production might have had some publicity around the state of Michigan, so I typed in “Michigan” and “film production.” And the Michigan Film Office Web site came up.
“Yeah!” I said it aloud. “I can check with them. They ought to know about film activity all over Michigan.”
Yes, there was an e-mail address. I fired off a query. Maybe that would get results.
What else could I do?
Getting some dinner seemed the best plan. I hid the notes I’d written on my fruitless search for Aubrey Andrews Armstrong, turned off the computer, got my jacket, and double-checked the lock on the street door. As I did, I peeked out and eyeballed the windows of the second-floor apartments across the street. Joe had recently signed a lease for one of them, and he’d spent nearly every evening over there painting. My conscience smote me; he was doing all this work because he wanted me to marry him and move in. And old dumb Lee couldn’t make up her mind.
But that night, his windows were dark. I turned on the shop’s security light, then went out the back door. I zipped the jacket up; nights were already in the low forties in southwest Michigan. Pretty soon, I thought as I climbed into my old minivan, I’d get my annual yen for pumpkin bread.
Pumpkins. The thought of the orange veggie reminded me of Maia’s uncle, Silas Snow, who had a fruit stand full of pumpkins. During the argument I had witnessed, Silas had referred to a business card, apparently left at his fruit stand by Aubrey. He’d said something about “sticking a business card under an apple.”
That business card should have specific information about Aubrey. If I could get hold of it . . .
I turned the thought over idly, then checked my watch. Seven thirty. Aubrey had planned to pick up Aunt Nettie at seven, so the two of them, plus Vernon and Maia, should be at the Warner River Lodge by now. If I went out to Silas’s, which I assumed was near the Ensminger place, there should be no danger of running into them. I turned the minivan toward Orchard Street.
Orchard Street was the quickest way to access the interstate highway and the Haven exit, where Silas’s farm and his fruit stand were located. As I recalled the layout of the Snow property, the fruit stand was near the road, and a traditional white Midwestern farmhouse sat a hundred yards behind it. That simply had to be where Silas lived. Silas would still be up. And if I could convince him I wasn’t a treasure hunter who was going to dig up his orchard, maybe he’d show me that card.
When I pulled into the fruit stand’s parking area, my headlights swept over a sea of pumpkins. Who buys all those pumpkins? During each of the two autumns I’d spent in Warner Pier, these mass invasions of pumpkins had occurred. There were tiny little pumpkins in baskets on the counters, wheelbarrows full of medium-sized pumpkins, and hay wagons loaded with giant pumpkins that needed a forklift to move them into the trucks and vans of buyers. There were rows of pumpkins marked “pie pumpkins.” There were washtubs full of pumpkins marked “ornamental pumpkins.” There were pumpkins with faces painted on them, pumpkins in arrangements with fancy gourds, pumpkins centering decorations featuring weird squash.
I can understand cooking pumpkins for a few pies and maybe some pumpkin bread. I can see making Halloween and Thanksgiving table decorations out of them. I can grasp using the larger ones to make the front porch look seasonal, with country-flavored arrangements of pumpkins and cornstalks and cutesy scarecrows. I can visualize gigantic jack-o’-lanterns made out of the largest pumpkins. But if every citizen of western Michigan did all those things, there would still be pumpkins left over in the fruit stands.
My headlights showed that Silas Snow’s fruit stand was typical. It had a simple shed, open at the front and sides, with three long tables where produce could be displayed. There were baskets of apples along the back wall, and a table loaded with winter squash in the middle. But a majority of the space was given over to pumpkins. Scads of pumpkins. Oceans of pumpkins. Pumpkins galore.
There were so many pumpkins I couldn’t find the drive that led back to the house. I could see a light on the porch and one inside the house. But I couldn’t figure out how to drive back there. I honked the van’s horn, thinking it might bring Silas out onto the porch, but there was no reaction.
“I’ll just have to walk,” I said aloud. I dug my big square flashlight out of the bin under the passenger’s seat, got out, and started picking my way through the pumpkins. It was quiet, since Haven Road doesn’t lead to anything but a bunch of summer cottages, and nearly all of those would be empty in mid-October. The interstate was only a few hundred yards away, true, but the trees still had enough leaves to hide the lights of the cars and trucks passing. The traffic sounds were loud, but the silence at Silas Snow’s farm soaked them up like a blotter. I told myself that it wasn’t really spooky, despite the way my imagination magnified every sound.
I had to keep the beam of the flash right where I was stepping, of course, since I didn’t want to break either a pumpkin or my leg. This meant I was keeping my head down and concentrating on the ground right in front of my feet, but periodically I did a sweep of the pumpkin patch, planning a route.
I wasn’t making very fast progress, but I eventually got around behind the fruit stand, with the building between me and the road. It was at that point that my flashlight swept over a huge heap of pumpkins. Some of them were smashed.
“Oh!” I guess I said it aloud. “The trespassers have been back!”
After seeing those broken pumpkins, I couldn’t deny the spookiness of the situation. If Silas Snow was lying in wait for the treasure hunters who’d been trespassing on his property, I was in danger of getting hit by that shotgun blast he’d promised them. Or I might run into the trespassers themselves, and that wasn’t a happy idea.
The Snow farm was not a good place to be in the dark, when neither Silas nor I could see what was going on. I decided I’d better wait until the next day to ask Mr. Snow for Aubrey Andrews Armstrong’s business card. I began to turn around, ready to pick my way back through that sea of pumpkins and head for home.
But my flashlight’s beam danced over something that wasn’t round and that wasn’t orange. It definitely wasn’t a pumpkin. I moved the beam back to get a better look.
It was blue and oblong and it was sticking out of the heap of pumpkins. And there was something brown on the end of it. I had to concentrate for a long moment before my eyes made the object take a recognizable form.
It was the leg of a pair of blue jeans, and a brown workboot was sticking out the end of it.
“Scarecrow,” I said, my voice a whisper. “It’s got to be one of those scarecrows.”
But what if it wasn’t a scarecrow? I couldn’t leave without making sure.
I tiptoed through more pumpkins, pushing some aside. Then I knelt beside the leg. I had to touch it. Thank God I was wearing gloves, I thought. Then I realized that was the dumbest thought I’d had in a long time. All I could touch was a boot.
I forced myself to reach out, and I nudged the boot. It moved, just a little. But it didn’t move like a scarecrow’s foot. It moved like a human foot attached to a very weak ankle.
I didn’t scream, though I’m not sure why I didn’t. I played the beam of the flashlight around, and now I saw something else sticking out of the heap of pumpkins.
It was a hand. A gnarled, dirty hand—the hand of a farmer who’d been working hard all his life.
Someone was buried under that heap of pumpkins.
Could that person be alive? I pulled my glove off, reached over, and touched the hand. It didn’t respond to my touch, and it was cold.
I don’t know if I smashed any pumpkins or not, but I ran all the way back to the van.
Chapter 5
O
nce in the van, I locked the doors then looked around inside to make sure nobody had climbed in while I was wading in pumpkins. The backward order of those actions indicated how rattled I was.
Luckily, just across the interstate, maybe three city blocks away, there was a gas station and convenience store. I drove across the overpass, nearly sideswiping a red Volkswagen with a Warner Pier High School bumper sticker in the rear window. It had pulled out suddenly from somewhere. The clerk in the bulletproof booth called 9-1-1, and I waited there. The Haven Road exit is not in Warner Pier; the Warner County Sheriff’s Department would be in charge of the situation. But they have a cooperative agreement with Warner Pier, I guess, because Jerry Cherry, one of the three Warner Pier patrolmen, was the first officer on the scene.
I followed Jerry back to the Snow farm and parked on the edge of the fruit stand’s gravel lot while law enforcement gathered. Sheriff’s cars, Michigan State Police cars, and more Warner Pier cars pulled up, and all sorts of uniforms got out.