When Stuart parked the car in the driveway of the Townsend House bed and breakfast, Mel noticed a figure standing in front of the house, the glow of his cigarette a tiny beacon in the evening. When they got out of the car, the smell from the curling cigarette smoke hit them—it was a combination that smelled like cloves and burnt leaves. The figure turned toward them as they approached the front door. He was a compact man, rather short, wearing a jacket of brown with thin black stripes. His face was smudge-like and his shifty dark eyes darted toward the two guests who had just arrived. His hair was covered with a cap, one of those with a front brim, a cap that a golfing caddy would wear in an attempt to ward off the midday sun.
The man took one more puff on his cigarette before throwing it on the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. Three other cigarette butts littered the ground before the house.
“Evening,” said the man. “Are you staying at the Townsend House too?”
“Yes,” said Stuart as Mel nodded at the same time.
“Pretty place,” he remarked. “The wife would have liked it if she was here. Name’s Albert Smith. Everyone calls me Al.”
They murmured their introductions as well before Stuart asked, “Are you visiting the Harvest Festival?”
“You could say that. I’m doing a story for The Callas Post. Not much going on at the moment, I’m afraid, but tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
“Really?” said Mel. “We’re also doing a story on the Harvest Festival.”
“You two must be from that city magazine, Hot Tread,” replied Al. He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out another cigarette, but he didn’t light it. “I heard you arrived yesterday.”
“That’s right,” Stuart confirmed.
“Don’t know why you two came all the way down here for this thing. I don’t even know why I’m here. Callas is the nearest big town, you know, and there are plenty of events to be covered there. Unfortunately my boss is mad at me at the moment and decided to assign me this fluff piece.”
Mel made a sympathetic noise. “Why’s your boss mad?”
“He’s just like that,” Al replied, not wanting to elaborate on his professional problems. He put the cigarette back into his pocket. “The Townsends told me that they were going to serve dinner in a little bit. They said something about apple pies.”
The three went inside which was noticeably warmer. They hadn’t noticed earlier that a cold front had moved in. Clouds had also moved into the area obscuring the moon and the stars. When they shut the front door as they walked into the foyer, a few of the street lamps on Camden Road flickered as a shadow passed them.
Mel went upstairs to her corner room to wash up. The cat-spirits in the room were uncharacteristically alert as the five of them were clustered around the window looking out into the night. After washing her hands and brushing her wind-swept hair once, she took out the plastic bag of beads from her tote bag which weighed heavily on her palm. Horn silver glinted dully in the bedroom light. She put the beads in her pocket. The furniture store owner, Wally McNab, had said that it wasn’t real pure silver. So what was it?
A knock sounded on the door, which made Mel jump. The cat-spirits didn’t pay any attention to the noise. Their attention was still trained to the window, watching some invisible lurking outside. Tentatively, Mel opened the door and discovered Stuart standing on the other side, looking at his watch.
“Are we late for something?” she asked.
He looked up and his eyes locked on hers. For a moment, it was as if there were no lenses in the frames of his glasses. It was as if there was no barrier between their gazes. She felt as if he were really seeing her for the first time and that made her uncomfortable. What if he didn’t like what he saw? Stuart lowered his head so his face was just inches away from her, but instead of doing what a small part of her had wished he would do, he raised a hand and with one finger traced the curve of her jaw. His eyes then moved past her shoulder, breaking the moment.
Mel let out a breath, the skin along her jaw tingling. “No, we’re not late for anything. Except maybe for dinner. I wonder what’s keeping them interested?”
Was he asking himself why he was interested in her? She turned her head to see the cat-spirits that he was indicating. “I have no idea.”
Something flickered across his face. Mel nearly missed the expression. Did he look worried? Why was he worried about the cat-spirits? They were rather fickle creatures that sometimes did irrational and inexplicable things. And sometimes, and she couldn’t help but admit, they knew things. One just didn’t know when they would do something vague or something purposeful.
“Well, I’m starving,” he announced, turning back toward the hall and stepping aside to let her through. “I think it was nice of the Townsends to cook dinner for their guests. This isn’t called a bed and breakfast and dinner, you know.”
Mel shut the door behind her and walked down the stairs with him. “Perhaps they should start calling this place that.”
“But that seems like so much of a mouthful. Isn’t there like an actual term for it? Not exactly like hotel, but perhaps a hostel?”
“Hostel always makes me think of little cheap places in the city for poor traveling students to sleep during the night. Not a home where you get a nice comfy bed and meals.”
“Maybe you’re right. Perhaps we should make up a name. What’s one more word in the English language?”
“Too many words if you ask me,” she replied. They had reached the edge of the dining room and Mel could already smell the odor of cooked food. Her stomach embarrassingly rumbled in response. “I guess I’m starving too.”
The rest of the guests at the Townsend House bed and breakfast were already seated—the just married couple, the old man, the painter in black, the reporter from The Callas Post, and Peter and his parents. Jed and Ida Townsend were busy placing the last platters of food on the table. Their niece Rebecca briefly came out to tell her uncle and aunt that she was going to eat with the cook, Pat, since the dining table couldn’t fit any more people. Stuart and Mel squeezed into the two empty seats between Al and Peter. The little boy gave Mel an impish smile as he pointed to a spot on the rug underneath her chair.
“I think Nemo likes that spot.”
She took a look and found the golden cat-spirit staring up at her from the floor. “Perhaps he thinks it’s a hiding place,” she suggested.
“Please, please, dinner is finally served,” announced Ida Townsend. She and her husband had taken up the chairs at the opposite ends of the table. “Go ahead, dig in. None of it will bite, I promise you.”
While everyone was filling their plates with ribs and chicken and mashed potatoes and salad and Pat’s special cucumber and dill casserole, Peter took a chicken leg and placed it on a saucer he took out from underneath a coffee cup at his place setting. When his parents weren’t looking, he slipped it to the floor where Nemo promptly pounced on it and began devouring.
As the guests began eating, they expressed the appropriate murmurs of gratitudes and compliments which made Ida Townsend beam, proud. Jed Townsend merely grunted, somewhat embarrassed. “Some of the thanks will have to go to Pat and Rebecca,” he finally said. “Pat made the casserole and Rebecca helped with the mashed potatoes.”
“Of course!” laughed Ida. “Pat is absolutely amazing in the kitchen. And aren’t we glad that Rebecca is taking lessons from her.”
“I hope it wouldn’t be too much trouble if I asked your cook for the recipe for the casserole?” inquired the woman of the young couple who was named Candice. Everyone had introduced themselves while they were passing the platters around. “It is absolutely fabulous.”
“Oh, I don’t think Pat would mind. Not unless you’re planning to start a bed and breakfast of your own,” said Ida.
Candice’s husband, Tom, just grinned and said, “You won’t have to worry about that. Even if we wanted to start a bed and breakfast, we’re both too addicted to our careers.”
“Sorry,” said Al, his nosy reporter side coming out, “I didn’t catch what you did?”
“I’m the head manager of the sales department of Rollings Mutual. It’s an insurance company,” said Tom.
Candice nodded. “And I’m at Orbits Accounting. That’s how we met, actually. Orbits and Rollings have offices in the same building and we just bumped into each other one day. Tom asked me out for lunch and the rest is history.”
“Love at first sight,” sighed her husband.
Laurent, who was sitting next to Tom, stifled a snicker.
“Are you all right, lad?” the old man sitting next to him said loudly. The man’s name was Willard Kingston and he had made a vague reference about being in Gavot to visit an old friend of his.
“I’m all right,” Laurent said smoothly. “I just accidentally inhaled instead of swallowed.”
Kingston pounded the painter on the back making him cough for real. “You’re lucky I know the Heimlich maneuver.”
“I once took an emergency health class,” chimed in Peter’s father, Harold Lane. “I too know the Heimlich maneuver.”
“Me too!” chirped up Candice. Tom beamed proudly at his wife.
The painter shook his head violently. “No, no, no. I’m all right really. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
“He’s got a point,” said Stuart.
Laurent grinned at him. Stuart didn’t like the glint in the painter’s eye. “Thanks for backing me up. Just for you, I’ll make sure I’ll swallow instead of inhale.” The comment went right over everyone’s head except Stuart who frowned fiercely and Mel who momentarily gaped at the innuendo before she quickly shut her mouth and turned her attention to her own food.
“Guess where I went today!” said Peter with a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
“Peter!” exclaimed his mother. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Sorry mommy.” The boy gulped down his food and repeated to Mel, “Guess where I went today?”
Finding herself amused by Peter’s bouncy attitude, she said, “Oh, where?”
“You have to guess.”
“Hm. Did you go to a store?”
“No.” He grinned. “We went to the Grandbury Farm. They had lots of stuff for kids. There were games and hayrides and everything.”
“Wow. Too bad I didn’t know about that. Otherwise I would have gone too.”
Peter laughed. “You’re not a kid.”
“I think I’m a kid at heart,” Mel replied. “So did you have fun?”
“Oh, did I ever! They had races and bobbing for apples and I even got to ride on a horse!”
“That’s great.”
The boy lowered his voice to a loud whisper, “And Nemo tagged along too! He didn’t like the hay that much but he loved the candied apples.”
“I’m sure.”
The rest of the dinner, the conversation was mostly dominated by the chirpy couple Candice and Tom talking about how wonderful their life was and how wonderful their jobs were and how wonderful they found the little town of Gavot. Mel found herself tuning them out. Being so happy about their lives seemed a bit insincere to her. No one could be so perfect—so what were they hiding? But she was no gossip columnists so her curiosity at a possible ulterior motive was tucked away to the back of her brain. Peter seemed content to chat to her even though she was mostly just nodding her head and saying, “That’s nice.” His parents were talking to Kingston who was reminiscing about the good old days when his friend used to live where he lived and he didn’t have to come up to Gavot to visit him.
After Mel took a drink of water, she looked up to see that the painter was grinning at her. Stuart was right, she thought. The guy was a little slimy in an indefinable way. “So how did your painting sales go?” she asked, wracking her brain for something neutral to say.
“I’m in deep negotiations with the buyers,” Laurent said seriously. “Although I am confident that we will reach an agreement before the end of the Harvest Festival, I can’t imagine them wanting to miss the finale when the Horned King would be announced.”
“Yes!” Ida interrupted. “But the competition for getting to be crowned the Horned King, to me, is actually more exciting.”
“But it’s just a bunch of races, isn’t it?” Peter spoke up. “One of the kids I met at the farms said it was just a bunch of old guys swimming and running without their shirts.”
Jed chuckled. “You’re right, Peter, but Ida likes to watch old guys running about. And they’re not all old guys.” His wife turned red in the face.
“Yes they are,” argued Peter.
Kingston had a glint in his eye. “I believe little Peter means that anyone over the age of fifteen is considered quite old.”
The little boy agreed with a bob of his head. “Fifteen is ancient.”
“A competition, hm,” said Candice. “Why Tom, you could enter. It’ll be fun!”
“But I don’t have any swimming trunks,” her husband said.
Candice leered. “Who says you need any swimming trunks?”
“Candice, honey, that’s a public gathering!”
“I have quite a few swimming trunks that you can borrow,” Jed announced. “As visitors to Gavot, you haven’t tried anything until you’ve tested yourselves against the Harvest Festival competitions.”
“Hey, daddy, why don’t you try?” said Peter. “Maybe you can win first place!”
“I don’t know, son, I’m a bit out of shape,” Harold Lane said wryly. “But why the heck not? It’ll be nice to get some exercise.”
“When is this swimming competition?” Laurent asked Ida.
“Tomorrow at eleven, just before the barbecue that the Bingo Club is catering,” she replied. “Are you thinking of joining in?”
“Why not,” the painter said. “I don’t have anything urgent to do until the mid-afternoon.” His eyes then landed on Stuart who had been studiously ignoring the present conversation by concentrating on cutting up pieces of chicken. The painter smiled, a goading lilt tipping his mouth. “So how about you? Are you going to join in the festivities?”
“Um,” the Hot Tread reporter replied.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” said Al. “You two look to be about the same build. It’ll be interesting to see who will win.”
“Well…”
“What he means is that he’ll do it,” Mel cut in.
Stuart gave her a scathing look, but said nothing.
The painter looked like he could rub his hands in glee. “Great.”
“I brought my own shorts, thank you very much. And they’re orange,” announced Kingston. “The Bingo Club will be much obliged to that.”
When the others at the table turned toward the old man to ask him why the Bingo Club preferred men in orange swim trunks, Stuart turned to Mel and whispered in her ear. “You are going to pay for volunteering me for that fool competition.”
“I thought you were good at swimming,” she replied. “Besides, you have to beat him.”
Stuart’s gaze briefly flickered towards the painter. “I can beat him. There’s no question about that. But you probably don’t want to see me in swimming trunks. Skinny geek and all that.”
“Now’s not the time to be insecure about your body,” she admonished.
“Well, I’d like to see how it would be if you were the one wearing swimming trunks.”
She blinked. “What do you mean? I’d be half naked.”
“That’s the whole point.”
Mel stared at his cheeky grin and slowly counted to three in her head before she foolishly gave into the impulse for taking the bowl of mashed potatoes in front of her and dumping it on his head.
“I know you’re this close to snapping,” he said cheerfully, “but not in front of everybody okay?”
“I’m always this close to snapping,” she replied.
“Dessert!” Ida proclaimed. In the midst of their conversations, the hostess had made her way back to the kitchen and had retrieved a large, round, and steaming pie. The guests made the appropriate oohing noises as she set it down on the table with a stack of plates. She began cutting the pieces and putting them onto the plates to be passed around. Mel noticed Peter sneaking one plate to the floor for Nemo who was as ravenous as ever. “What makes it so good are the apples,” Ida said as she served. “They’re from the Grandbury Farm. It’s a mix of Macintosh and Granny Smith and Golden. The mix of the flavors is the key to making a good pie.”
Mel forked a bite-sized portion of the pie into her mouth. The apples and crust melted against her tongue in a swirl of sweet and tart. “This is amazing,” she told Ida. “Do you have any idea if the farm will be open tomorrow?”
“It’s open the entire week of Harvest Festival,” said their hostess. “You can go there to pick your own bushels of apples or perhaps buy some of their homemade produce which is always good. The Grandburys are excellent farmers—that’s one of the reasons why they never sold out their farmland like the rest of Gavot. They are good at what they do and they manage to make a profit. They also have hayrides every evening during the festival as well. And afterwards, they let the local star watching club use their back field for astronomical observations. I’ll have to warn you though, it gets cold this time of year so if you’re thinking of doing the hayride or star watching, you’ll have to bundle up.”
“Huh,” remarked the reporter of The Callas Post. “Sounds interesting, but I don’t think my editor would go for it.”
“Ours would,” said Stuart.
Al gave him a questioning look.
“Mad Dog, our editor, is like that,” he explained. The painter seemed to jerk in his seat at the mention of Mad Dog, but no one noticed it. “He’s into the really niche or the really provincial. He seems to think that city people like reading the stuff. Of course, how can I complain? As long as the magazine sells, I still have my job.”
“Of course he would have liked it,” Ida said. “Mad Dog stayed there while he was visiting Gavot. I mean, I didn’t know him personally, but he was the kind of man that everyone around here would notice. He’s definitely not your typical farmer. If you like, I can give you the directions to the farm. It’s not too far north of here.”
