Liz Marvin - Betty Crawford 03 - Too Long at the Fair
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Authors: Liz Marvin
Tags: #Mystery: Cozy - Diabetic Amateur Detective
| Liz Marvin - Betty Crawford 03 - Too Long at the Fair | |
| Betty Crawford [3] | |
| Liz Marvin | |
| Johnston Media LLC (2013) | |
| Tags: | Mystery: Cozy - Diabetic Amateur Detective |
Plus, Betty falls off the low-carb diabetic-friendly diet she's had great success with in a colossal way. Of course, Lofton's favorite quirky characters come together to solve these mysteries as well as the unresolved mystery of who has been trying to kill Betty and why?
Too Long At the Fair
by Liz Marvin
Table of Contents
1. Prologue
The modest antique tin pie plate sat on a threadbare red and white checkered napkin. There was a faded chipped and scratched tintype photograph with a tarnished black frame. The picture of a stern old woman in a plain dark dress was propped up against the beautiful golden brown pie with a latticework top crust. Dark purple berries glistened in a glaze. Sugar or corn starch? Arrowroot, perhaps. The smell was almost heavenly. A mix of blueberry, blackberry and raspberry.
There were subtle hints of lemon, mint and something else. Something rare and indefinable that danced around the edges of Marlee May Johnson’s consciousness. What was it? She did not know and that upset her.
But the old photograph upset her more. If her husband saw that picture that would be the end of it. He would worry it and her to death. The photograph’s twin, in much better condition and in a gilt silver frame, sat on a shelf in his study and there was a strong possibility that whomever made this pie owned the picture and would likely claim to be a relative, especially once they knew who he was.
Marlee May was one of those women who had reached the age where, in the right light, she might be mistaken for a woman of perhaps her late thirties who had lived too hard.
In the bright light of day, however, she was easily recognized as a very well preserved woman in her fifties. In truth she had just passed her sixtieth but only a cad or a catty gossip would dare to mention it. She had fought aging with every tool in the human arsenal. Diet, exercise, make-up, foundation garments, hair dye and even a bit of discreet cosmetic surgery. The type that would go unremarked in a small town except for the gossiping grannies and she owned them.
Of late her vanity had gone past her looks. Past hair tinting and new styles and makeup and clothes.
In her youth she was a beauty but she never enjoyed it. Beauty was a tool. She learned this cold hard fact early on in life and as a consequence the fawning boys, horny teen-agers and lecherous old men left off pursuing her long ago.
She had married a bank president twelve years her senior when he was just a branch manager and she was just nineteen. But she knew her manners, knew how to manage a house, a business party and a marriage. She never looked at another man and never noticed his indiscretions.
As a consequence she lived a storybook life of comfort, privilege, prestige and unreality. The unreality didn’t bother her until her husband began talking of retirement. Then it hit her. Increasingly she left her designer scarves and sweaters on the shelf. The only accessory she didn’t abandon were her purses. A good handbag didn’t just bespeak status, it was functional. And that was what she wanted for herself. Recognition. Recognition for quality and accomplishment. Her own accomplishments.
This was why Marlee May Johnson studied the pie with ill-concealed hate. Four years ago she had entered her first cooking competition at the Lofton Country Fair. Three years ago she had come in third. For the past two years she had won the blue ribbon. This year she was competing with her strawberry rhubarb raspberry pie. She wanted to win again this year and the next four years as well. Seven years would be the record winning streak. The streak not even Thelma Green or the legendary Laura Crawford had broken. Marlee May wanted that record.
But this pie and that photograph stood in her way. She knew it. Marlee May pursed her lips. Something would have to be done. Something would just have to happen to that pie.
2. Chapter 1
Betty Crawford wasn’t one to lose her cool easily. Or, at least, she could remain fairly calm and keep her wits about her when her blood sugar was normal, there were no idiots nearby and nobody was shooting at her. If those three very simple requirements were met she could get through the day without any homicidal urges or maiming tendencies. Really.
Unfortunately for her and everyone involved Betty’s last meal had been breakfast. A big breakfast made up of all the wrong foods; three oatmeal and raisin granola held together with corn syrup paired up with three large cups of coffee with cream. That had been many hours ago and she’d felt so guilty she had skipped lunch all together which meant she felt like her blood sugar was bottoming out and her mood along with it. Add to this the heavy traffic going to the county fair was full of idiots.
This should be a fun afternoon she told herself. After all Bill had let her drive her own car to the fair without insisting on a police escort. Ever since someone had taken a shot at them during a weekend trip to a ballroom dance competition she had been under the watchful eyes of everyone in town. She had to admit that the community’s concern for her well-being was touching but that was only part of the story. The other part was that her friends and neighbors could be, at times, a bit too much to bear.
“Two parts nosy and one part bossy” her aunt Laura always said but for the past six months Betty would have figured it was closer to seventy five percent bossy and seventy five percent nosy and one hundred percent annoying.
A blue car cut in front of her. Betty hit the brakes. Alone she would have cursed a blue streak but with a car full of passengers all she could yell was “Wait your turn!” She yelled it none the less. It didn’t help.
The car windows were open. It was a gorgeous fall day in North Carolina but the road to the county fair was a parking lot. Every car window was open. The driver of the blue car leaned out of his window and yelled back at her.
“It’s not like we’re going anywhere fast sweetheart!” He sent her a jaunty wave.
Betty fumed. “Then why don’t you just stay in line instead of jumping ahead of people who do?”
“We’re tourists! We all don’t have to wait!” He shouted back, laughing.
“You know,” said Clarise, “you could use a break. Why don’t you let me drive?”
Betty looked over at her best friend, sitting in the front seat beside her. Clarise was impeccably dressed, as usual. Her gorgeous light brown skin fairly glowed in the orange and gold dress she had chosen. Her hair was perfect. Betty would never tell Clarise this, but sometimes being next to her best friend made her feel downright frumpy. Even knowing that Betty had lost weight since she found out she had diabetes didn’t help. Clarise was fine-boned, fine-skinned, fine-bodied… and she was so kind that Betty couldn’t even properly hate her for it.
“We’re almost there” She replied, forcing herself to at least sound cheerful. “And this traffic jam can’t last forever, right?”
“That’s the spirit dear,” added Thelma from the back seat. The sound of a rustling paper bag filled the car, and shortly after came the smell. The glorious smell that would be sheer torture for any hungry soul: Betty’s aunt’s award-winning apple fritters. Betty would know that smell anywhere. It was apples and warm pastry and a hint of spices and butter. Had it really been a year since she had eaten one? Betty glanced in the rear view mirror.
Sure enough, Thelma had taken one of the pastries out of a white bag. The elderly woman was dressed, as always, in bright clashing colors, heavy gold jewelry, and makeup that looked like it had been caked on. Her lips, now opening to eat one of the fritters, had thick red lipstick smeared across them.
Betty looked away. Her stomach rumbled. She gritted her teeth, and focused again on the road.
The loud sounds of chewing came from the back seat. “Mmmmm… Betty, your Aunt sure does make the best fritters.”
“Those smell delicious,” said Achmed, Thelma’s neighbor in the back seat. Betty, Thelma, and Achmed were going to be judges for the county fair cook-off. Achmed O’Rielly was a celebrity chef from up North. Rumor had it that he had been a chef in a Middle Eastern palace at one point, before a coup forced him to immigrate to America. Betty wasn’t sure about his past and didn’t really care. Having tried his cooking at a dance competition a few months ago she concluded on her own that his creations were fit for royalty. The man was a master chef!
To be honest, Betty was a bit daunted at the idea of judging an event with him. He had traveled the world, eaten in the best restaurants and spoke heaven only knew how many languages. But the brilliant chef had a wonderful sense of humor and he was also kind and generous. And at that moment said master chef was currently leaning towards Thelma, fairly salivating over the treats her aunt had made.
“Might I try a bite? Maybe we could start the judging early,” he joked.
There was more paper crackling in the back seat, and Betty watched Thelma roll the bag back up and tuck it firmly back in her purse.
“What a selfish old biddy!” Betty thought but wisely kept the thought to herself.
“I’m sorry dear,” Thelma replied. “But don’t worry. We’ll be at the fair soon. I’m sure there will be something for you to eat there.”
Achmed’s face fell. He slumped back in his seat.
“I’m so glad I have some control,” Thelma said. “These are going to last me all morning. Now, my cousin, that’s another story. She’d just stuff her face with the whole bag, quick as you please. She made herself so fat that she got diabetes. Can you imagine being so irresponsible with your own health? I’m so glad that gluttony isn’t inherited, or our whole family would be diabetic!” She gave a high, false laugh.
Betty felt blood rush to her face in a mix of anger and shame. Thelma had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, or to whom. It didn’t matter that, of everyone in the car, Clarise was the only one who knew that Betty had diabetes. Thelma’s words still felt like an attack, sharp and aimed right at Betty’s soft spots. Betty clenched her hands on the steering wheel.
Only a few more miles, she told herself. Only a few more miles, and she’d be at the fair. Not that that would help a great deal. Betty would have to endure working with Thelma for the next two days.
Looking back, Betty had no idea how her aunt had talked her into judging a food contest. It was going to be an absolute nightmare. She would have to try some of everything that was made, regardless of how it would affect her blood sugar.
She had done so well too. For more than a year she’d watched what she ate, exercised, lost some weight and took her meds. Her doctor had actually praised her during her last check-up. Something about her A1C dropping down to five point something. He said that if she kept it up, in six months he would take her off medications all together and she could control her diabetes with just diet and exercise. No more late night trips to the pharmacy, no more excuses to run to the bathroom and check her blood sugar in private.
No. Betty knew exactly why she was putting herself in such a precarious position: her need for privacy concerning her health.
As it was the gossiping grannies all assumed she was losing weight because she was in love and “chasing after” Bill Owens, Lofton’s chief of police which was at least half true. She did love Bill but she wasn’t the type of person to chase after anyone. If he loved her back then fine but if not she would never ever try and force herself on him or anyone else.
But she let them believe it none the less. Teasing her about Bill when she ordered a salad at her aunt’s diner was one thing. If it got out that she had diabetes, Betty would have to face the condemnation of the whole town. She didn’t doubt for a second that the bulk of Lofton was of the same opinion as Thelma: diabetes was the fault of the person who had it. Never mind that her family had a history of diabetes, or that Betty’s doctor had informed her that her weight was only one factor in a long string of triggers for the disease… the whole town would judge her.
Betty didn’t want to feel the eyes of the town on her, to hear the whispers that she was sure would follow her down the aisles of the grocery store. So, she had to keep up appearances. The Betty she had been before diabetes would have had no problem with being a judge. She would have relished in the excuse to try all the tasty things people were cooking up, and felt honored that the town had called upon her to fill the slot. Thelma had been chosen because of her long-standing record as a winner of the contest. Achmed had been chosen because of his undeniable culinary prowess. But Betty… Betty had been chosen because it was known all over town that she loved food, and was unfailingly honest when it came to giving her opinion. It really was an honor, and surely she deserved to splurge on her diet once in a while.
Still, Betty couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was walking into a disaster. The parking lot was packed but there were volunteers directing traffic. Betty waited “patiently” for her turn, counting the number of license plates from different states that she could spot. She reached twenty one by the time she was signaled into her spot. Once she put the car in park and turned off the engine she (and everyone else) let out a sigh of relief.
~~
Thelma excused herself as soon as they reached the entrance to the fairgrounds. She took her place among the gossiping grannies who were already gathering at a picnic table just inside the gate. A half dozen of Lofton’s ladies were perched at their observation post and ready to dish the latest and Thelma didn’t want to miss a thing.
Betty turned to Achmed “I’m sorry about Thelma. She’s … possessive about food. I’ll treat you to a fritter when we get back to town.”
He laughed “I just wanted to tease her. I knew she wouldn’t share and besides I already had breakfast and I never snack except when judging cooking competitions of course.”
“You should still try one of my aunt’s fritters.”
“Oh I already have! Many times! And they are magnificent. I’m only sorry she isn’t competing. Our job would be much easier.” And with that Achmed was off. He was clearly amused by the fair and the crowds but he was the type who would enjoy himself wherever he found himself. There were a couple of hours left before judging began and he would have a dozen new best friends by then, Betty was sure.
Meanwhile Betty and Clarise were free to roam. When she was ten Betty came to the fair with joyous anticipation. She would eat until her stomach hurt and ride every ride. Then came fair dates. Fearful and fun; a rite of passage she just barely survived. Now she felt like an old woman looking for her special someone, trying to avoid the hustle while giving the appearance of enjoying herself.
“I used to love fairs” Clarise spoke up out of the blue as if she sensed Betty’s angst.
“Me too. Now the only good thing is that Bill is here – and you!”
Clarise laughed and hugged her. “Oh I agree except sweet William isn’t the man I’m looking for!”
Laughing they joined the throng. The fair was already bustling with crowds of tourists who were trying to see everything at once and merchants who were trying to sell them everything at once. Hawkers and gawkers, Betty called them, but not out loud. People had come from all across North Carolina and even from states as far away New York, for this fair. It was the biggest event of the year, and Betty was more determined than ever to enjoy it.
The first step in enjoying anything
was in finding a snack to right her blood sugar and mood but in order to do that she needed to know what level her blood sugar was. Hard experience had taught Betty not to guess. If her blood sugar was high, say one hundred sixty, then she needed to eat raw veggies and protein; low carb food. But if her blood sugar had dropped into the seventies then she needed something sweet.
The problem was that she couldn’t tell what her readings were by how she felt. Sometimes she felt shaky and famished but when she tested discovered her blood sugar was one hundred seventy! Other times when she wasn’t even feeling hungry she found her blood sugar level below eighty.
First, however, she knew she needed to test. Betty gazed helplessly at the large signs over food stands. Corn dogs, fried dough, and cherry cobbler were all well and good, but they all had more carbohydrates than she could afford to spend right now. She was certain she would smash her carb budget during judging the cooking competition.
