Anna, I’ve a Feeling We’re Not in Kansas Anymore….

DSCN0406Last Saturday as I returned from the Farmers Market, two young women walked up and asked if the shop were open. I affirmed it was.
“Great. We just want to look around.” The pair seemed … subdued, but also exuberant. An odd combination. Also, the more I thought about it, the more alike the girls looked.
Besides, it’s rude to leave browsers alone unless you know that’s what they want, so I ambled into the shop and asked if they wanted help finding anything. The taller of the two said, “We read your book, and we drove from Kansas yesterday just to visit your shop.”
“How long did that take you?” I asked, blinking.
“About 13 hours. We stayed in the hotel here last night,” said the one who would later identify herself as Leslie.
“Oh, what a pity we didn’t know you were here! We had a murder mystery. You could have joined in the fun.”
“We might not have been good company last night,” said Anna, back to me, voice tight. “We came down that Black Mountain Road.”
OMG. Jack and I were in Kansas last year for book publicity, and we remember the 75-mph speed limit, perfectly feasible because you can see for-bleedin’-ever down those long, straight roads. Black Mountain is not so much hairpin curves as a series of interlocking mobius strips. There are places where you drive a two-lane road against a rock cliff, a 90-foot drop down the mountain on the other side.
I couldn’t think fast enough to cover my response.
“You come from a state where ant colonies are designated hill country, and you drove through Benham, Kentucky?” My voice squeaked. “You could have been killed!”
Leslie rolled her eyes. “That’s what Anna said. Several times.”
Anna, investigating the history section, snorted.
Leslie had read Little Bookstore some six months ago, and told her family about her intention to road trip to see the place as soon as the weather let up. (Think snow on a surface so flat, you can see for three days’ walk in any direction, and you’ll understand her sensible urge to wait.)
Her dad was succinct. “Whyya wanna drive two days to see a bookstore?”
Undeterred, Leslie, an accountant by trade (“But I have a personality!”) invited her twin sister along. Anna works for the Immigration section of Homeland Security. We joked that she probably processed Jack’s citizenship claim.
Picture it: two happy-go-lucky career girls, out on a long weekend, headed for some wild and wooly times visiting a bookstore, careening around curves that make truckers wake screaming in the night.
“We looked at the map, and that seemed shorter than going around by the highway. So we figured, what’s the difference?” This from Anna, whose hands only stopped shaking after a second cup of tea. “And then my cell phone lost reception, and we had to kind of guess which way.”
There are places along Black Mountain where you not only don’t get cell reception, but they never find the bodies.
I shook my head. “I’m flattered,” I said. “And grateful you two are alive. Would you like to see some of the town before we map you a different route home?”
So my friend Elizabeth and I took Leslie for a nice relaxing walk on the town’s Greenbelt, where all the curves are gentle. We traded small town anecdotes and poison ivy remedies, and on returning to the bookshop showed them how to go back via the expressway. Anna still looked dubious, but we elicited promises that they would text when they reached safety, and waved goodbye.
We’ve heard from the twins since their return to Kansas, so we know they made it home. And for anyone else from the flatlands planning a visit to our curve in the neck of these woods, please call first. We’ll be happy to advise you on routes.

 

OK, That was FUN!

DSCN0400Nothing clears the air like a good murder. So we had one last night at the bookstore–although I thought I might have to kill someone before it began.

It started badly: the victim (a secret to the rest of the participants) hadn’t gotten his character information, nor asked us to send it again. He arrived knowing nothing of what he was to do in his complex role.

The girl detective and her mom were detained by a few road adventures and pulled in ten minutes after start time – but we hadn’t started because another character with a big important part thought it was Saturday night, as he explained when my husband called him to ask, “Dude, WTH ARE YOU?”

In the midst of it all, Our Good Chef Kelley hauled me into the kitchen with a crestfallen look on her face. One of the desserts she’d made for the killing had failed – and the plot needed all three.

So Jack raced to Food City to buy a cake while the rest of us did some impromptu introductory activities waiting on the last character, and the victim locked himself in the bathroom to read through his part.

DSCN0402And then it all just came together. One woman used a fake French accent, and the first time she turned “Li’l Bubba” (the victim’s nickname) into “Leetil Boo-Boo” the group fell out laughing. The girl detective had to outline the body, and as she rounded his bum, the victim said, “Hey, that tickles!” Chalk and guffaws flew everywhere.

There were insider jokes (How many Mullinses does it take to change a light bulb?) as Garden Club President Lady Smythe was exposed as a fake from Bold Camp (uhhh, sorry, but Bold Camp is just too hard to explain if you don’t live here) and Guy Smiley’s oration from GOD BLESS THE CROOKED ROAD OF AMERICA was funnier each time he re-started it. (So was the aging ingenue’s audition line, “I don’t know nothing about birthing no babies.” Her husband in real life is an OB-GYN.)

And there were obvious jokes. Annie DoGood, chief protestor, held up a sign demanding “Reusable sanitary napkins” just as everyone was tucking into their dessert jellies. You never saw so many spoons hit the table at once. (But she had others. “Equal rights for cows” during the cheesecakes was generally acclaimed as the crowd favorite.) And then the rival chefs–Kellie Piercing of Third Time’s the Charm Cafe versus Lisa Cupcake of Gerry’s Deli: serving Big Crooked Road for forty years–bonded over a turkey baster.

DSCN0405At least, we think it was turkey baster….

The gang sorted Bulgarian prefab chocolate sauce from Bavarian chocolate sauce, and the poisoner got caught– except there were two poisoners working independently, and oh, who cares, it was ever so much fun!

Besides our terror that the whole thing was falling apart at the opening, some of the characters had arrived in full stress mode. One had a nasty altercation with her daughter’s coach. Another has such a high-powered job, a stress-less day would signal a coup d’etat. A third has been dealing with the terrible illness of a loved one.

So it’s true what I always say: nothing beats stress like a good murder. And last night’s was a real hoot. Just ask Leetil Boo-Boo.DSCN0403