Halloween Hijinks (A Zoe Donovan Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

“I’ll talk to the guys and see if I can get a few volunteers,” Levi offered
.

“Thanks
. I’d really appreciate that.”

“How many do you still need?”

I thought about it. So far the only walking dead I’d managed to round up were a few of the guys from the senior center, and half of them would be chasing runners using walkers and oxygen tanks. “As many as I can get,” I answered.

“
Okay, I’ll see what I can do. I need to get back to the school, so I’ll be a few minutes late to the committee meeting. Can you order me a mountain man special and tell the others I’ll be along shortly?”

After Levi walked away I
turned to Charlie, who had been waiting patiently on the passenger seat. “I think it’s going to be a tough week for everyone. What do you say we invite Levi and Ellie to a BBQ at the house so that everyone can forget the insanity that has befallen our little town for a few hours?”

Charlie barked in response
. Second only to me, I think Levi is Charlie’s favorite person. Not only does Levi always greet him with a kind word and a vigorous scratch on the belly, but my friend, on more than one occasion, has slipped him a piece of his steak or burger when he thinks I’m not looking.

After Levi got into his vehicle and drove away
, Charlie and I carefully maneuvered the mammoth we drive out of the tightly spaced parking lot. I drive a truck: a big one. A four-wheel drive, heavy-duty, extra-cab, lift-kit enhanced, long- bed monster. Although it takes a leap worthy of a pole-vaulter for me to enter the beast, and parking is a problem more often than not, I find its size necessary given the fact that I live and work in an environment in which half of the miles I log each year are spent plowing through waist-deep snow or jolting along rutted dirt roads. A big, heavy truck is essential. The truck is black with tinted windows and a raised, camper-type shell built specifically to safely store animal crates of different sizes, which, thanks to my dad, are secured to the bed of the vehicle to avoid sliding.

I carefully execute
d a twenty-point turn and pulled out of the parking lot and onto Main Street, which was decked out for the upcoming weekend celebrations. The school colors for my alma mater are black and gold, chosen by my forefathers to represent the inky blackness of the deep underground mines our ancestors worked and the ever-elusive gold few were lucky enough to find. Luckily, this color scheme works equally well for the Haunted Hamlet, necessitating only one set of decorations for both events.

I suppose this is a good place to mention that t
he original name for the mining camp where Ashton Falls now sits was Devil’s Den. Not a cozy name, to be sure, but probably a bit more accurate than the somewhat pretentious Ashton Falls, a name given to the town by Ashton Montgomery, a multimillionaire and my great-grandfather on my mother’s side. Ashton bought the land where the village now stands and built the town as sort of a touristy tribute to himself (no vanity there). At one time all the land in the mountain basin where Ashton Falls is located was owned by the Montgomery’s, but, unlike Ashton, his three sons weren’t thrilled with the mountain way of life and moved from the area as soon as they were old enough to hitch their horses to wagons heading west. (Actually, they went away to college, never to return to the isolated mountain town, but I thought the wagon-heading-west analogy was a bit more poetic.)

After Ashton died, his sons
, Bryce, Jamison, and Preston—my grandfather— divided the land and began selling it off, keeping in the family only a few prime pieces of property, such as the isolated bay where my converted boathouse sits. Of the three sons, my grandfather Preston is the only one who continued to visit Ashton Falls after his father’s death. Every summer he’d bring his wife, three sons, and daughter —my mother—to the mansion he built overlooking the lake for two months of what he laughingly labeled “rugged mountain living.” That, by the way, is how my mother met my father and yours truly was conceived, but that is a story for another day.

Anyway, as I mentioned what seems an eon ago, the town of Ashton Falls is all decked out in the school colors of black and gold
. The main street of our little town is built on the lakeshore, so as you drive through town from east to west, the lake, beach, and landscaped park area is on your left and the row of mom-and-pop shops and restaurants that gives Ashton Falls its quaint alpine charm is on the right. On both sides of the road is a walkway that’s adorned with old-fashioned lampposts donated by my mother’s family for the town’s fiftieth-anniversary celebration. At first I thought the lights—white wrought- iron with fancy, lantern-shaped lights, three to a post—a bit ostentatious for our rugged little town, but as time has passed, these beacons, currently decorated with black and gold ribbons, have grown on me.

If there
’s one thing you can say for our little town, it’s that we know how to improvise. Not only are most storefronts along the two-mile main drag decorated for the upcoming Haunted Hamlet, but they’ve adapted their displays in support of team pride for the upcoming football game as well. The barber Shop decorated its doorway with black and gold twinkle lights, the bakery has a giant cake featuring zombies playing football in its front window, and the sporting goods store has a football-themed Halloween display complete with various life-size monsters dressed in retired jerseys from several generations of Ashton Falls Bulldogs.

I waved to
Lilly Evans as I pulled up in front of Rosie’s Cafe. Lilly, a seventy- two-year-old mother of four and grandmother of twelve, was perched precariously on a ladder in front of Second Hand Suzie’s, hanging a hand-painted sign that said
Bullish on
Bulldogs
. 

“
ʼMorning, Lilly,” I said.

“
ʼMornin’, Zoe. You, too, Charlie.” Charlie trotted over to the ladder and sat down to wait for Lilly, dressed for fall in a burnt-orange sweater and a pair of khaki slacks, to climb down. “Guess you heard that Bears and Beavers was hit last night. That makes four robberies in the past two weeks.”

“Same MO?
” I wondered. Bears and Beavers is a touristy-type shop featuring souvenirs having to do with—you guessed it—bears and beavers. While many of the items are quite charming, I can’t imagine what the store might stock that would interest a burglar. In the previous three cases, the thief snuck in, stole what seemed to be select yet inexpensive items, and then left, locking the door on the way out. It almost seemed like our late-night bandit was participating in some sort of elaborate scavenger hunt.

“Looks like.
”

“You’d think the sheriff would have caught the guy by now,” I commented.

“You’d think, but we
are
talking about Sheriff Salinger.” Lilly rolled her eyes.

The sheriff of Ashton Falls is really more of a reject from the county office in Bry
ton Lake. His father was a cop, as was his grandfather, so simply firing him from the force wasn’t really an option. When the mayor of Bryton Lake decided that the socially awkward young recruit wasn’t sophisticated enough for their uppity little town, Salinger was transferred to the satellite office in Ashton Falls. He’d been serving our town for almost twenty years, yet on most days of the week, he lets it be known to anyone who will listen that his time in our “hick” community is nothing more than a stepping stone to bigger things ahead.

“
By the way, did Victoria call you about that raccoon in her attic?” Lilly added.

“Yeah
. I’ll head over and pick it up after the meeting.” While my primary job—at least according to the county—is to monitor and control the domestic dog and cat population, it’s well known in the area that if you’re having a problem of the wild animal kind, my partner Jeremy and I are the ones to call.

“Heard you’re
gonna release that cub you picked up out behind my place last spring.”

“We are
,” I answered as Lilly climbed down the ladder. “He’s old enough to make it on his own. We’ve picked out a nice den for him to hibernate in over the winter. Jeremy is going to get him settled in over the next few weeks. We’ve tagged him so we can keep an eye on him, but I think he’s going to be fine.”

“That
’s good. I worried about the little guy after I heard his mama got hit by a car on the highway. Old girl lived in the forest behind my place for a good five years. Miss seein’ her eatin’ from my berry bush. Used to be a lot more wildlife in this area. Now most days it’s just me and Kuba.”

“I meant to ask how Kuba was doing.” I referred to her fourteen-year-old lab, which had been injured in an altercation with a mountain lion.

“Okay, considering. I had Trevor put a fence around the yard a few weeks ago. Kuba is as curious as she ever was, but she’s getting too old to defend herself, so I’ve decided I need to keep her closer to home. Don’t know if you heard that Trevor broke up with that girl from the valley last month.”

“Yeah, I heard.
” Lilly is a sweetheart, but she is forever trying to fix me up with her grandson, even though Trevor and I have both made it perfectly clear that neither of us is interested in anything more than a friendship.

“Trevor is
a good boy,” Lilly tried. “He’ll make someone a damn good husband.”

“I’m sure he will,” I agreed
. I like Trevor and he will, I am certain, one day make someone a wonderful husband, but the truth of the matter is, we just don’t click. “I guess I should head in. I don’t want to be late for the meeting.” Actually, I was early, but I knew if I didn’t make my escape, Lilly would have Trevor and me engaged faster than you can say “Grandma’s biological clock.”

“Hold on
, I have a cookie for Charlie.” Lilly fished a dog biscuit out of her pocket. “Are you going to the haunted barn?” she asked as she handed the treat to Charlie.

“I plan to
.”

“Got a date?”

“I do,” I confirmed. My “date” was Ellie, but Lilly didn’t need to know that.

“Oh
.” Lilly sighed. “That’s too bad. I’ve been trying to talk Trev into going, but he isn’t keen on goin’ alone.”

“Trevor is a handsome guy
. I’m sure he can find a date if he really wants to go. Thanks for the cookie,” I added on Charlie’s behalf as I turned and made my escape through the front door of Rosie’s.

Rosie’s is the quintessential alpine cafe perched snuggly on the shoreline of Ashton Lake; it’s surrounded by tall pines and quaking aspens that turn a brilliant yellow every autumn. The large log cabin was originally built in the 1960s by a man named Lester Newton. Not a traditional mountain man name, I’ll grant you, but a traditional mountain man all the same. Lester came to Ashton Falls in the mid-1950s, before the area had been settled as a year-round destination. He built the cafe originally as a house, but as the years passed and the town of Ashton Falls grew up around the once-isolated cabin, Lester decided to move his residence to a more private location and turned the old homestead into the best cafe this side of…well, this side of anywhere.

Named after Lester’s wife, Rosie’s is the type of place where friends are treated like family and family are considered to be friends
. On any given day, between the hours of six a.m. and two p.m., locals and visitors alike gather at Rosie’s to share a meal and catch up on the latest news. Built on the north shore of the lake, Rosie’s takes full advantage of the view with a wall of large windows nestled between knotty pine logs that make up the frame of the rugged, hand-milled cabin.

The caf
e is decorated with an eclectic assortment of skis, sleds, snowshoes, fishing poles, climbing ropes, and other antiques that define the area, while tables, both large and small, are arranged within the open and airy room around a huge floor-to-ceiling fireplace.

“Go on back
.” my best friend, Ellie Davis, directed. “I just want to grab some of mom’s pumpkin muffins for the meeting.”

“
Better bring extra. I love your mom’s muffins and the pumpkin are my favorite.” I waved to Rosie; Ellie’s fifty-four year old mother and café owner whose real name is Lorraine but changed it to Rosie when she bought the café. When I was young, Rosie sort of adopted me. Don’t get me wrong: my dad is and was a fantastic parent, but sometimes a girl needs a mom. My relationship with my own mother is sort of an obligatory one; she shows up every now and then for some “quality” mother-and-daughter bonding, and I pretend to give a damn that she even wants to be a part of my life. And while I love my mother in my own way—I mean, she
is
my mom—it has always been Rosie who I turn to when I need a mother’s warm hug, caring ear, wise word, and welcoming smile.

I continued through the caf
e and down the stairs leading to the banquet room, where we hold our regular meeting. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the sideboard, settled Charlie at my feet, and sat down at the still empty table. Due to health regulations, dogs usually aren’t allowed inside the dining area, but being well-known as a therapy dog, Charlie has always been given a pass.

I know there are people in the community
who don’t really get my relationship with Charlie. Most don’t understand why I treat him more like a person than a dog. And while I have a soft spot in my heart for all of God’s creatures, I have a special love for Charlie, with whom I share a special bond. Charlie came into the world as the embarrassing product of Lorie Wilson’s champion Tibetan terrier, Tiara Jane, and a mystery date who shall forever remain unnamed. After Charlie was born, the only pup in that unfortunate litter, Lorie wanted nothing to do with him, so Charlie came to live with me when he was only a few hours old. During those first few weeks when I struggled to keep him alive and healthy, we bonded in a way that even I can’t entirely explain.