THREE

 

The following morning the dogs and I were on our way to Cookbook Nook to help Jillian get ready for Cider Fest. She had talked incessantly about how excited she was for the upcoming harvest festival. Now that it was finally here, she couldn’t wait to visit the farms, sample the food each of the farms were going to offer, and so on. Turns out this was an event all of PV looked forward to each and every year.

In case you need a refresher course in French, the ‘Pomme’ in Pomme Valley translates to ‘Apple’, turning the literal translation of my hometown into Apple Valley. As you might have guessed, that means this town has apple farms galore. Turns out once a year PV holds a three-month long harvest festival—appropriately named ‘Cider Fest’—celebrating anything having to do with that juicy red fruit. Roadside fruit stands popped up overnight. Every half a mile or so, around every bend in the road, was a mini farmers’ market.

I also should clarify that we’re not just talking apples. Pears, apricots, peaches, oranges, lemons, and a myriad of assorted fruit also beckoned invitingly. The enticing aroma of freshly picked fruit is usually all it takes for me to stop and make a few selections. There are also bags of pistachios, sunflower seeds, pecans, walnuts, and almonds. Many of the shops inside the individual farms also stocked fresh preserves, canned fruit, candy, and baked goods.

Oh, the baked goods. I mustn’t forget that sweet manna from heaven. Holy cow. Fresh, ready-to-bake apple pies, or berry pies, or turnovers, or … Do you know what I found in one of the coolers, just waiting—begging—to be purchased? A twenty-pound Dutch apple pie. Did you get that? Twenty pounds! That’s 20#, or 20lbs, or ‘one honkingly humongous pie’! Who in their right mind needs a pie that big? You’d have to be cooking for at least a dozen people, if not more.

Of course I bought one.

Last Saturday, in anticipation of Cider Fest’s grand opening this weekend, Jillian took me to one of the largest farms, Greentree Gardens. This sprawling farm covered hundreds of acres and was the farthest from town. According to Jillian, Greentree Gardens typically opened two weeks earlier than the competition, due to the simple fact that there was more to do and set up. Of course, it couldn’t hurt that the farm typically hired several dozen seasonal workers to help them out, most of which were high school kids.

I remember pulling up to the long driveway to the farm and seeing several neighboring pastures in the process of being converted into parking lots. Teams of kids were roping off lots, marking spaces, and removing rocks, branches, and anything else most cars typically hate. I whistled in amazement. From the looks of things, they would be able to easily accommodate a hundred cars. I had to wonder what the appeal was. Why would they need that many parking spaces? Was their fruit that good?

Turns out the people weren’t just coming for the freshly picked fruit. As I mentioned earlier, most farms had a variety of other products to sell. Not only did Greentree Gardens have fruit, nuts, preserves, and freshly baked goods, but they also had some type of craft fair. As many as forty 10 x10 foot tents had been set up in four rows of ten each. The vendors offered everything from delicate hand painted eggs to oil paintings. I saw an impressive collection of silver jewelry in one tent while another had cutting boards of all shapes and sizes. Luckily for us, most vendors had already set up shop. In fact, we had stopped at the tent where the cutting board vendor had just finished unpacking his wares and was settling down to enjoy his coffee.

“Good morning!” a friendly older gentleman announced, abandoning the crossword puzzle he had just pulled out. “Can I interest you in one of these fine bamboo cutting boards?”

“Did you make all these yourself?” I asked, amazed.

The shopkeeper proudly nodded. “I did. These were all hand made by me. Hello, Jillian.”

Jillian smiled. “Hi, Max. Max, this is Zack Anderson. Zack, this is Max Steadwell. He’s been making these cutting boards for as long as I can remember. Max, I’ve always wanted to ask you something.”

“And what would that be?” Max asked, as he smiled and shook my hand.

“Who is your supplier of bamboo?”

Just then Max looked down and noticed that both Jillian and I were holding leashes.

“Ah! Would one of these two be the famous Sherlock I’ve heard so much about?”

I pointed over at Sherlock, who was returning the shopkeeper’s gaze.

“That’s him. And this is Watson,” I added, pointing down at the little red and white corgi who was, at present, gazing up at me and wondering why we stopped.

Max retrieved a familiar bag of bagel dough doggie bits and offered a couple to each of the dogs. Seriously, did everyone have a bag of those things handy? Taylor Adams must be making a killing in this town.

“To answer your question, Jillian,” Max said as he straightened back up and tossed the bag of treats on the table, “I can’t speak for my competitors but as for me, I harvest what I need from my own farm.”

“You grow your own bamboo?” I asked, impressed.

“It’s easier than you think,” Max assured me. “Once you get the bamboo started it grows like wildfire. To tell the truth I’ve got so much of it that I sell the surplus off to anyone who wants it. I’ve seen it made into furniture, mats, even clothes.”

“You’ve got a lot of cool designs,” I observed as I looked around the inside of his tent. “I see states, animals, fish, geometric shapes, and so forth.”

“Do you have any dogs?” Jillian asked as she looked down at Sherlock.

Max nodded. “I do. They’re over there, next to the Pacific Northwest states. Is there any breed in particular you’re looking for? No, wait. Don’t answer that. That was a foolish question.”

The shopkeeper hurried over to the table and moved a few trays around. He slid a large bin over and started flipping through the boards, as though he was flipping through a crate of vinyl records. Max gave a grunt and slid one board out and presented it to us. It was a full body profile of a corgi, complete with a nub of a tail.

I grinned. “I’ll take it.”

“All of my boards feature formaldehyde-free glues, so you never have to worry about anything leeching into your food,” Max explained, as he wrapped up the board.

I looked over at Jillian and shrugged. “Good to know.”

I thanked Max and we continued our tour. This farm was so huge that they had their own trout-stocked fishing pond, if I cared to try my hand at fishing. I didn’t. I’m no fisherman. I’d get squeamish if I had to jab a hook through a poor worm’s eye. Blech.

They also had pony rides—which would open in a few days—for the children and an actual eatery, in case you wanted something besides fruit. It looked like someone had simply parked a food truck nearby and built a wooden ramp and deck right next to it. Any way you looked at it, these people took their festivals seriously.

But I digress. As I was saying, my day had started early when Jillian called asking for help. She said she had brought in several boxes of decorations from home and needed some help setting everything up in her store. Here was a lady, I decided after Jillian informed me she had ten boxes waiting to be hauled in from her SUV, who enjoyed decorating. Everything was labelled. Everything had its place. Entire themed displays were stored in separate boxes and were carefully unpacked. She was not only decorating for the festival, she explained, but also for Halloween, which was less than a month away.

Now Halloween is a holiday I can get on board with. I love the spooky decorations. I love the candy. I love the cooler temps at night. I really love the candy. I love seeing people dressed up and having a good time.

Did I mention I love the candy?

No, believe it or not, I don’t have a sweet tooth. You might be thinking otherwise after hearing about my fascination with candy. What can I say? There’s something about walking into a room and seeing an open candy dish filled to the brim with assorted goodies that makes me smile. I like walking by said candy dish and snagging one when no one is watching, pretending like the calories I’m about to ingest don’t count. Which, let’s face it, on holidays they don’t.

Three hours later, after we had finished setting up round one of Jillian’s decorations, the dogs and I were running errands. Jillian had gone home to get a few more things so we decided to take advantage of our free time. We were just leaving Gary’s Grocery, having turned left onto Stagecoach Drive, when Sherlock jumped up on his seat and started sniffing the air. I groaned. Had Watson dropped another bomb on us? I cautiously took a few sniffs of my own and kept my finger hovering over the controls to the windows in case an emergency venting was necessary. No, she hadn’t, thank heavens. So what had attracted Sherlock’s attention?

We passed by Gary’s Grocery almost immediately after passing the giant wooden “Pomme Valley Welcomes You!” sign. To this day, I don’t know how it took me so long to find the grocery store. There it was, sitting out in the open with a huge parking lot all around it. Yet, I distinctly remember that I spent nearly an hour driving around town looking for it. And there, on the corner, was PV’s one and only convenience store, Square L.

I never could understand why a town this size would have both the grocery store and the convenience store in the same parking lot. Why not put it on the west side of town, so people heading east into PV could have a convenient place to stop and fuel up? I could only assume it was attributed to some type of zoning issue.

I kept scanning the immediate surroundings, looking for some indication of what Sherlock had been barking at. Naturally, by this time the little corgi had fallen silent. I shrugged and let the matter drop.

As I was driving down Main Street, I noticed that the city had its maintenance crews busy decorating for Cider Fest and for Halloween. Large fuzzy orange and black spiders were being suspended from lamp posts. Purple lights were being strung around windows. Fake cobwebs were stretched across street signs. All in all, everywhere I looked I could see people getting into the spirit of this festival. From the looks of things, everyone in PV got in on the act and decorated their stores to some degree.

I was approaching an orange road sign that wasn’t there thirty minutes ago. It was a transportation notice, stating that Main Street was going to be closed for several hours a day for the next week or so. What would they possibly need to do that for? What were they planning on doing, holding a parade? How? Main Street was less than a quarter of a mile long. Trying to host a parade here in PV would be like trying to land a 747 in a parking lot. There just wasn’t enough room.

For some inexplicable reason, my thoughts drifted back to the events of last night. I recalled the look of terror on Dr. Tarik’s face once he saw that the mummy was gone. He had later denied it, but I had seen the fear in his eyes. For a moment, however brief it had been, the good doctor had believed the mummy had been responsible for the theft of the necklace.

The necklace. What had the doctor called it? Nekhbet’s Pendant? I remembered the picture of that jeweled vulture thing I had been shown last night. Had King Tut really worn that when he had been alive? If so, wouldn’t that allow the necklace to fall into the uber-rare ‘priceless’ category? How much would the right collector be willing to pay for it? What other treasures might the mummy, er, perpetrator be after? All this talk and speculation about Egyptology had me eager to learn more.

I looked at my watch. Jillian wasn’t due back to her store for a while. Her next appointment, I knew, wasn’t until one p.m. She and another lady were teaching some type of cake decorating class upstairs. Therefore, I had a few hours to kill.

I remembered driving by a quaint little bookstore several weeks ago that I wanted to visit. Perhaps they had some books about Egypt. What were the chances that I could find some information about mummies—and the curses involved should one reawaken—in a small town like this?

All I had to do was find the flippin’ place. I had thought it was close to Jillian’s shop. Clearly my memory and sense of direction were just as horrible as ever.

Ten minutes later I found it, after I finally remembered the picturesque store wasn’t on Main, but off of Oregon Street. Turns out, it was less than two blocks from Cookbook Nook. I parked the Jeep, patted both corgis on the head, and stepped out into the fresh cool morning air. I heard the creak of a wooden sign swinging in the breeze and automatically looked up. I was looking at a hand-painted sign. A Lazy Afternoon. What a perfect name for a book store.

The store had a weathered brick façade, a large bay window, and a huge green awning stretching out over the entire width of the store. A whiskey barrel full of fragrant yellow petunias was sitting next to the door. I caught sight of the store hours as I pushed the door open. 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday.

A bell dinged loudly, announcing my presence. I glanced up, expecting to see a small brass bell mounted just inside the door like I’ve seen in countless other stores. Nothing. I then glanced down, expecting to see infrared sensors throwing an invisible beam across the entry. Nothing there, either. Shrugging, I moved deep into the heart of the store. I could hear the twang of a modern country song coming from somewhere close by and I instinctively headed toward it.

Then I heard the chime of the bell again. I glanced back at the door to see who else might have come in. Much to my surprise, I noticed the door was still closed and no one was there. Confused, still staring at the closed door, I heard the chime again. And again. I stared around the store in confusion. Someone had to be playing a trick on me.

“Don’t worry about Ruby. She’s been foolin’ people for years.”

I turned at the sound of the voice. A short elderly woman had appeared between two racks of books. I guessed her age to be late fifties to early sixties, although to be fair, I will admit that I sucked at guessing ages. She was as skinny as a rail, had inch-long fake nails (painted glittery red), and was wearing an outfit I usually saw on the younger crowd. The much younger crowd. Skin-tight jeans adorned with rhinestones and a button down light blue blouse showing way more than I needed to see. I got the impression this woman was trying—futilely—to reclaim her youth. I also had to refrain from whipping out my sunglasses. This woman had to have the brightest, palest, biggest mop of hair that I have ever seen on anyone. I managed to catch myself before I started to stare. Was it a wig? Hair that color, in that volume, couldn’t possibly be natural.

“I’m Clara Hanson. Who might you be, sweetie?”

“Uh, Zack Anderson.”

“Ah! So you’re the guy I’ve heard so much about. Why’d it take you so long to stop by and introduce yourself?”

“Uh…”

“Oh, honey. All the store owners know everything about you. We know you were set up when you first moved to town. Why would anyone want to frame a handsome young thing like you, anyway?”

My sense of self-preservation kicked in and I took a few cautious steps back. Clara’s arm instantly snaked out and hooked itself through mine, pulling me uncomfortably close to her. She leered up at me and smiled, displaying a mouth full of stained teeth. There’s yet another reason why I’ll never drink coffee.

“Oh, relax, darlin’. You have nothing to worry about. I don’t bite. At least, not yet.”

My eyes shot open. Holy crap on a cracker. I could feel my face flaming up. I had to get away from this woman.

“We all know you were set up,” Clara continued, pulling me deeper into her store. Thankfully she hadn’t noticed my face yet. “I knew there was no way you could be guilty of murder.”

“How?” I asked, genuinely curious. “You don’t even know me.”

“True,” Clara nodded, sending ripples up through her hair.

I was briefly reminded of someone dropping a rock in a pond and watching the ripples make their way across the surface. Her hair teetered precariously, convincing me I was looking at the most elaborate wig I had ever seen. However, the hair defied the call of gravity and stayed in place.

“It’s a hunch, sweetie,” Clara told me as she guided me over to a small counter complete with an old-fashioned push button cash register that belonged back in the ’50s. “I’m a wonderful judge of character.”

Yeah, I bet you are, lady. If I didn’t hurry up and ask her where to find books on Egypt, then I had the distinct impression this woman would talk my ear off. I cleared my throat, but before I could say anything Clara’s mouth was off and running.

“Ever since I lost my Leroy a few years ago to cancer,” Clara said, as she led me away from the counter to give me an uncomfortably slow tour of her store, “I’ve decided to change my life. I’ve cut out sugars, carbs, and caffeine from my diet and replaced them with organic fruits and nuts.”

I grunted as way of acknowledgement. Somehow this didn’t surprise me.

“I’ve never felt better. I’ve never looked better, not even when I was forty years younger. I…”

“Do you have any books on Egypt?” I quickly asked as Clara paused to take a breath. “Pyramids, pharaohs, er, mummies. You know. I’m looking for that kind of thing.”

Clara threw back her head and laughed. “Honey, you and everyone else! Ever since that mummy made off with King Tut’s necklace last night, I’ve had a run on anything having to do with Egypt. I’ve already contacted my distributor and talked them into overnighting me another selection of books. I can’t keep them on the shelf!”

My hopes fell.

“Oh. You’re completely out? That stinks.”

Clara sidled close and nudged me with her shoulder.

“Oh, honey, now don’t you fret. I may have something left that would interest you.”

The store owner finally released my arm and moved off through her racks of books, still chatting amicably away. It was right about then, when we passed by the far southwestern corner of the shop, that I discovered the source of the door chime. There was a vintage round, black, wrought iron bird cage sitting in the corner. The front door was open and sitting on a padded perch attached to the front of the cage was an African gray parrot. Clara noticed me staring at the bird and chuckled.

“Where are my manners? Zack, this is Ruby. Ruby, this is Zack, momma’s newest friend.”

“Give us a kiss, Precious,” Ruby crooned, bobbing her head up and down as parrots were accustomed to doing. “Give us a kiss!”

I had to smile.

“So this is your security system. I have to hand it to you. She sounded just like a bell.”

“My security system consists of one camera, aimed at the door.” Clara pointed at a small monitor sitting on a shelf just below the counter top. “Ruby can see it from her perch and has picked up the habit of chiming like a bell whenever she sees someone come in. The funny thing is, I never trained her to do it.”

A cell phone rang loudly nearby. Both Clara and I reached for our respective cells at the same time. It wasn’t mine. I looked over at Clara in time to see her glare at the bird.

“Ruby, I told you to stop doing that. It stopped being funny several weeks ago.”

“Give us a kiss, give us a kiss.”

I chuckled. “I take it Ruby is great at mimicking sounds she hears, huh?”

“This latest one is a real pain,” Clara admitted with a sigh. “Ruby has unfortunately learned that it’s great fun to make a certain noise and watch me scramble like a mad woman for my cell. I’ve threatened to withhold snacks. I’ve tried to bribe her with her favorite treats. Nothing works. I can only hope this is just a rebellious phase.”

“How old is she?” I asked, looking at the small gray parrot.

“Twenty-five.”

“Really? How long do parrots live?”

“Ruby will be around long after I’m gone,” Clara said. “Healthy greys can live up to eighty years on a balanced diet.”

“Wow. It’s crazy to think she could live for another 55 years!”

“I’ve raised her from a chick,” Clara told me. “I give her only the best organic, balanced food. She sees Dr. Watt several times a year to get her talons and her beak trimmed. She’s a healthy little thing. I just worry about what’ll happen to her once I’m gone.”

Was I being set up? The hairs on the back of my neck were standing straight up.

“I’m sure you have a long way to go before that happens,” I tried to assure her.

“Let’s hope so,” Clara agreed, giving me a strained smile. “Now, then. It just so happens that I have one copy left of Egyptian Mummies and Their Curses for Idiots book.”

“You can’t be serious,” I stammered. “There’s a book about Egyptian curses in that series? And you had more than one copy?”

“I had six,” Clara confessed.

“That’s…” I trailed off as the implication set in.

“Presumptuous?” Clara offered. “Look, Zack, I know how it looks. I can only assure you that I had nothing to do with what happened last night. What I can tell you is that I had people waiting on my doorstep before I even got here this morning. They were waiting to buy books about Egypt and mummies in particular. I’m selling you the copy I had reserved for myself.”

“Oh. Hey, I can’t take your book. You take it.”

“I’ll have a dozen more in a few days,” Clara confided. She shook her head, causing her full head of hair to dip dangerously low. I was still waiting for the wig to come tumbling off. “You take this one. I can wait.”

“Why were there so many people waiting to buy books about Egypt?” I asked, perplexed, as I handed my credit card to Clara. There were clearly plenty of freaked out people, like me, doing a little more, er, investigative research.

Clara paused just before swiping my card through the credit card machine. The look on her face was not something I was expecting. Her eyebrows shot up and her eyes opened wide.

“You mean you don’t know about last night?”

“I was there last night,” I huffed, growing defensive. “I know full well what happened during the presentation.”

“I’m not talking about what happened at the school,” Clara said, dropping her voice to a whisper, “but rather what happened on D Street. This would have been after the event broke up last night.”

“What about D Street?” I wanted to know, curious. “Did something happen?”

“Someone saw the mummy!” Clara excitedly told me, keeping her voice low. “It was shuffling along D Street and disappeared into the nearby trees before the police could arrive.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. No. It simply couldn’t be. Mummies do not rise from the dead. They simply cannot be reanimated. I was joking earlier. I swear! I seriously had to stop watching so many movies.

“That’s impossible,” I assured Clara, adopting the strongest, most confident voice I could muster. “Mummies can’t come back to life.”

“This one did!” Clara assured me. “Five different people saw it! It happened just after midnight.”

Even though I’m sure my heart was pounding, a nagging thought occurred, which caused me to frown. There had been witnesses? At that time of night?

“What were that many people doing awake in the middle of the night?” I skeptically asked.

Clara’s brow furrowed. I could tell she hadn’t been expecting that question. She looked at me and chuckled.

“That’s a mighty fine question, Zack. I don’t have an answer for you. I can only relay what I’ve heard. Everyone is spooked. Everyone wants to know what we’re dealing with. As a result, people are buying up whatever they can find about mummies.”

Clara placed my newly purchased book into a white paper bag with handles and slid it across the counter to me.

“There you are. If you find anything interesting in there you be sure to let me know!”

“You got it. Nice meeting you, Clara.”

“And you, sweetie. Don’t be a stranger next time. Come back soon!”

I exited the store and hurried to my Jeep. I had the distinct feeling that if I didn’t get out of there, and quickly, then Clara was going to somehow get me back inside her store.

Before you get the wrong impression, I should tell you that no, I’m not afraid of little old ladies. However, with that being said, I need to tell you that I am not a fan of people who don’t respect your personal space. We can still carry on a conversation and not have to be less than six inches apart from one another, thank you very much.

As I merged onto Oregon and turned onto Main Street, I thought back to what Clara had said. There had been mummy sightings. Wouldn’t that suggest … no. Nope. We’re not going there. It’s not possible. Period. I needed to do something to get my mind off of things.

I made a decision about what I wanted to do and started heading back home, intent on dropping the dogs off at the house for a few hours. I hit the “Hands Free” icon on my stereo and was rewarded with a synthetic female voice asking what I wanted to do.

“Call Vance.”

“How can I be of service today?” my stereo asked again, using its flat, featureless monotone.

“Call Vance,” I crossly repeated.

“What type of dance would you like me to research online?”

“Vance, you moron. Call Vance. Now.”

“Searching.”

“Searching?” I repeated. “Come on, you idiotic hunk of junk. I only have one Vance in my phonebook. He’s not hard to find.”

“I found one dance studio less than three miles from your present location,” my smart phone informed me. “Would you like directions?”

With an irritated huff, I disconnected my oh-so-wonderful hands free assistant and fished the phone out of my pocket. Yes, I already know you’re not supposed to mess with your phone while you’re in the car. Especially when you’re driving. However, it was either that or else I’d end up flipping off the stereo and it’d be my luck someone I knew would see me do it.

“Yo, Zack. What’s up?”

“Hey, Vance. Are you still interested in catching a movie today? I need to do something to take my mind off of things.”

“Would that have anything to do with the events of last night?”

“Don’t start with me,” I crossly muttered. “Yes or no.”

“Sorry, buddy. I’ll have to take a rain check.”

“Oh, come on,” I complained. “Rambo: Old Blood looks pretty good! They say Sylvester Stallone promised to do all his own stunts this time!”

“There’s no way, pal. When you have that much money you don’t take a chance of getting hurt. Listen. Forget about that for now. Are you bored? Need something to do? Get yourself over to Fanny’s Farms. And bring the dogs.”

“What? What for?”

“You’re not gonna like it if I tell you.”

“Just tell me it has nothing to do with last night.”

“Sorry, pal. There’s been a mummy sighting. It was witnessed by nearly a dozen people.”

“Yeah, I know. Clara at the bookstore told me all about it. I guess it happened sometime after midnight. I thought it was off of D Street and not at some farm.”

“It was off of some farm. And you’re right. That happened last night. I already know all about it. The one I’m referring to happened less than an hour ago, Zack.”

“Oh, no.”

“Come on, pal. Pull it together. You know someone is pranking us. There’s no way this is legit. Look. Think of it as therapy, okay?”

“I knew I should have never told you about my preference to avoid anything having to do with mummies.”

“You didn’t. I guessed, remember? You just confirmed my suspicions. Right now, in fact.”

I groaned again.

“It’ll do you good. Will you do it?”

“You actually want me out at a crime scene?”

“If you bring the dogs, yes.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well…”

“Thanks a lot, pal. Fine. You win.”

“Great! I’ll see you there!”

“I swear, man, if I so much as see a…”

The phone beeped and the call was over. I sighed. Swell. There was another sighting? In broad daylight? What the heck was going on around here, anyway? Was Vance right? Was this just some elaborate hoax? Or was I right and the mummy had…

I shuddered, even before I could finish the thought. Vance was right. I needed to deal with this irrational fear of mine. There was no way that a mummy had come back to life. Nope. No, sir. Nuh-uh.

Maybe if I say it enough times then I’ll actually start to believe it.

Fanny’s Farms was probably the second largest farm to participate in Cider Fest. They, like Greenwood Gardens, had to resort to parking visiting cars wherever there was room. In this case, since Fanny’s Farms was more wooded than the last farm I had been to, I had to park my Jeep directly between two trees. I barely had enough room to open the doors.

I could smell fresh pine, which wasn’t surprising since there were pine trees everywhere. There was also a layer of pine needles coating the ground, with an occasional pine cone thrown in here and there. I set their royal majesties down on the ground, clipped leashes onto both of them, and headed in the same direction that everyone else seemed to be going.

Looks like the big draw of this farm, according to the numerous signs I was passing, was a huge 40-acre corn maze. According to the sign I just passed, the quickest reported time in which the maze had been solved had been just under an hour. Management recommended, according to the sign, that you purchase a whistle before you enter. The corn stalks were easily over eight feet tall and grew incredibly thick. It was quite easy to become lost and grow frustrated. Therefore, three blasts on the whistle would alert the staff and you’d be rescued. Much to the amusement of your friends, I’m sure.

Sherlock led me straight to the entrance of the maze, where Vance was waiting for me. Two other police officers were there, preventing people from entering the maze.

“Hey, Zack. Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, right,” I snorted. I looked down at the dogs, who were both presently staring at Vance. “You’re just happy to see them.”

Vance squatted, reached into a jacket pocket, and produced two dog biscuits. Two corgi butts immediately plunked down on the ground. He held out both biscuits to the dogs, who took them so gently I was convinced they’d be able to hold a soap bubble in their jaws without breaking it.

“You little snots,” I said, looking disdainfully down at the dogs. “You nearly bite my fingers off whenever I give you treats. Why are you giving him the preferential treatment?”

“Maybe they like me better?” Vance casually suggested as he stood back up.

“Bite me.”

“Case closed, pal.”

“Mm-hmm. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why are we here? And why are we at the maze?”

Vance turned and disappeared through the entrance of the maze, visible only as an opening cut into a huge eight-foot-tall wall of corn.

“Come on,” Vance called. “Follow me. There’s something you need to see.”

“You want me to go in there?”

Vance shot me a look over his shoulder as he pushed by several swaying stalks of corn.

“Is that a problem? Don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic, too.”

“Bite me, pal. I’m referring to that sign back there that says it takes close to an hour to solve this thing. Sounds to me like it’s easy to get lost in there. Do you know where we need to go?”

Vance’s only response was to hold up a folded piece of paper. I could tell something was printed on it but I couldn’t make it out. He held it out behind him, forcing me to increase my pace if I wanted to see what was on it.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Cheat sheet.”

“To what? The maze? Seriously?”

“You didn’t think I’d come in here without knowing how to get out, right?”

I took the paper and glanced down at it. What I saw had me groaning out loud. I was looking at an overview of what the maze must look like from a bird’s eye view. These people definitely had way too much time on their hands.

 

I was looking at a map of the continental United States of America. However, someone had cleverly turned the USA map into a maze. It looked as though the entrance to the maze was located in the southern tip of Texas while the finish line was the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State. As mazes go, it didn’t look too complex. However, I’m pretty sure most mazes weren’t created on a 40-acre field of corn. It was gonna take time to make it through that sucker. My feet ached at the prospect.

“Are you kidding me?” I groaned.

“Fanny’s Farms is serious about their corn mazes,” Vance explained, leading me deeper into the corn. “I think they’ve won awards for it.”

“Really? They give out awards for mazes?”

“It’s just to get into the spirit of things. Damn, Zack. Why so negative? Don’t people in the big city celebrate the holidays?”

“Sorry,” I apologized. “This small town atmosphere still takes some getting used to. So where are we going?”

“I was told we need to head to Michigan.”

I looked down at the maze’s overlay and tapped an area in the northeast.

“That’d be over here somewhere. Are you sure we can find it?”

Vance took back the map.

“Of course we can. We can do this.”

“We need to get to Michigan? Couldn’t we just drive over there and save ourselves the trouble of navigating through that?”

“Drive over where?” Vance asked, looking back at me. “Do you see any roads around here? This whole area is nothing but corn. The Martinsons have nearly two hundred acres of it. That doesn’t even include the other crops they grow.”

“Oh.”

“Are you done complaining? Now follow me.”

“Lead the way pal. Just don’t get us lost.”

“Please,” Vance scoffed. “I’m a detective. There’s no way.”

Fifteen minutes of endless wandering finally convinced Vance to concede defeat. He had gotten us lost. I noticed he was wearing a whistle and I also noticed he had eyed it more than once. As soon as he stopped to stare at the map for the tenth time since arriving in this Hee Haw Hell, I quickly approached and tapped the cheap plastic toy dangling around his neck.

“Maybe we should…”

Vance slapped my hand away.

“Hell no. I’d never live it down. Neither would you.”

“Everyone knows I have a lousy sense of direction,” I explained. “It’s expected of me. It’s nice to see it happen to someone besides me.”

Vance looked down at Sherlock.

“What do you say, buddy? Care to help me out?”

Sherlock, thus far content to simply explore the corn field with us, lifted his head and sniffed. Watson continued to stare at Vance, hoping he’d offer her another biscuit. Sherlock tugged at his leash and led us back the way we had come. I looked over at Vance, who shrugged and held out a hand, indicating we should lead the way.

For ten minutes Sherlock wove his way through the stalks of corn, not once bothering to see if we were all following. I took off my jacket and slung it over my shoulder. The temperature inside the corn field was sweltering. It had to be at least twenty degrees warmer than the outside air, making the ambient temp somewhere around the mid-80s. I could feel beads of sweat trickling down my back.

I glanced down at the dogs and noted their thick coats. This couldn’t be pleasant for them. I certainly wouldn’t want to be traipsing around a corn field wearing a fur coat. But, as I watched Sherlock sniffing along the row of corn, I could see that he didn’t appear to be distressed in the slightest. Nor did Watson. On the contrary, both corgis appeared to be having the times of their lives.

Just then we passed a family of five, being led in the opposite direction by a young girl in coveralls. Ordinarily I’d chalk that up to poor fashion sense. However, I had seen other kids wearing the same getup when I had parked my Jeep, so I had to assume that was what Fanny’s Farms was making their employees wear. Poor saps. Working on a farm and being forced to wear that hillbilly getup? They had my deepest sympathies.

“But why do we hafta leave?” I heard one of the small children ask. I glanced back to see the father reach down to scoop up his young daughter.

“The police said we have to,” the father patiently explained. “They need to check things out to make sure it’s safe, honey.”

“I heard that it was only hanging on by a thread!” a ten-year-old boy added.

“What was hanging on by a thread?” I heard the mother ask.

I noticed Vance had stopped to listen, too. Both corgis felt their leashes go taut and gave us exasperated looks. Sherlock tugged on his leash. He wanted to keep going.

“The mummy’s head, of course,” the boy proudly answered. “I heard the head was flopping around so much that people thought it was gonna fall off!”

“Eww!” the young girl exclaimed, burying her head in her father’s chest.

“Charlie, you heard no such thing,” the mother scolded.

“Did so!” Charlie whined.

“Did not,” the father added, with a wink. “They did say that the mummy was seen dragging its leg, holding its arms outstretched, and rasping on about getting his hands on five-year-old girls. Hmm, if only I knew of some.”

“Dadddddy!” the girl shrieked, as predicted.

“You’ll know the mummy is near when you hear its piteous moans,” the father added, winking at his sons.

Charlie proceeded to add the appropriate sound effects as the family moved off. I could hear the little girl’s shrieks long after I had lost sight of them. I turned to Vance and shook my head.

“Stories like those are going to blow this out of proportion.”

“All the more reason to nip this in the bud while we still can,” Vance agreed.

“Why would a mummy want to come to a corn field?” I asked just as we were moving again. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Vance shook his head. “The more appropriate question would be, why would a person steal a mummy and then make it look like the mummy visited a corn maze?”

“Still think someone is pranking us?” I asked.

“Still think the mummy came back to life on its own?” Vance countered. “Of the two of us, which one sounds improbable?”

We arrived in ‘Michigan’ a few minutes later. I don’t know how Sherlock knew where we needed to go. Perhaps he followed a number of scent trails there? However he did it, I’m glad he did. If it had been up to the humans then we’d still be lost somewhere around Georgia, I’m sure.

We came upon a junction of at least five different paths and found a group of ‘uniformed’ kids blocking access from each direction. Were we the first on the scene? From an incident that happened over an hour ago? I glanced over at Vance to see him frowning at the kids.

“Would’ve thought there’d be more people here,” I softly muttered.

“That makes two of us,” Vance agreed. He singled out the closest staff member, a boy of about sixteen, and motioned him over. “Detective Vance Samuelson. How long have you kids been securing this location?”

“Umm, about twenty minutes,” the boy shyly answered. “Uh, sir.”

“And yet this ‘sighting’,” Vance continued, throwing in some air quotes, “happened over an hour ago! Why wasn’t it reported sooner?”

“I dunno. We were busy?”

Vance took a couple of deep, calming breaths. He dismissed the boy and began studying the ground. Sherlock sniffed at a set of footprints, looked back at Watson to see what she was looking at, and then began canvassing the area in ever-widening loops. I heard several of the kids comment on how cute the dogs looked.

“So what do you see?” I asked Vance as I saw him squat down on the exposed dirt in the path.

The detective pointed at several scuffs in the dirt.

“Do you see here? This groove? It looks like someone was dragging something.”

“Like someone was dragging a leg?” I nonchalantly asked. “A dead, lifeless leg?”

“Would you forget about that for a moment? Look at this.” Vance tapped a nondescript scuff in the dirt. “This is odd.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“It looks like whoever left this print suffered an injury. This is a print from someone’s right foot. See this? This was made by a broken toe.”

“A mummy could have a broken toe.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” Vance grumbled, straightening up. “You need to … where are they going?”

I felt a tug on a leash. Sherlock apparently didn’t think there was anything more to learn by staring at the dirt and was leading us away. We were angling toward a path guarded by a pimply-faced teen boy. The teen’s eyes widened with surprise as he noticed our approach.

“Step aside, son,” Vance ordered.

“Umm, I’m not supposed to…”

“Step. Aside. Now.”

The boy moved out of the way just as Sherlock pushed by him. We were led about twenty feet down the path when the corgi stopped. He looked back over his shoulder and watched us approach. Sherlock then dropped his gaze to Watson and stepped to the side just as she arrived. He nosed a few stalks then turned back, as if checking to see if Watson had noticed the same thing he had.

“What is it, boy?” Vance asked as he squatted down next to Sherlock. “What do you … is that a …? Holy cow!”

“What?” I demanded, hurrying over to Vance’s side. “What have you … no way. Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

It was. Several feet inside the corn I could see a form lying face down on the ground, arms and legs bent and twisted into unnatural positions. It was a body, wearing torn khaki trousers, a dark green long sleeve shirt, and thick soled work boots. I hurriedly looked over at Vance. I had seen that outfit before. We both had. Dr. Tarik’s staff members had been wearing this uniform when they rushed up on the stage after learning the pendant had been stolen.

“Help me roll him over,” Vance instructed. “We need to check for a pulse. Hurry!”

As soon as I laid a hand on the still form’s shoulder, I knew we were wasting our time. And I was right. What we found sent chills down my spine and will probably haunt my dreams for quite some time.

The body had been mummified.