FUN TO FIASCO

(Misty Newman Mysteries)

by

Gina LaManna

 

 

* * * * *

 

It was a hot, humid summer day that I stepped into the town of Little Foot, Minnesota. It wasn't the heat that was the problem—my home in Los Angeles boasted sunny weather nearly year-round—but what Hollywood didn't have was the humidity.

My skin oozed sweat, despite being dressed in a flimsy, coral tank top and loose jean shorts. My hair, which was dyed a light pinkish-purple at the tips, frizzed out to an astronomical degree. I could barely stomach the sight of food, which meant that something was severely wrong. I could always stomach the sight of food.

But right now the only thing I'd be consuming was the iced margarita thrust in my direction by my best friend of many years, a cute blonde named Donna.

"Yikes, I need this," I said, accepting the sweating glass from her outstretched hand.

Dressed to absolute perfection in black capris and a classy, white tank top, Donna did not look like a mother of five. Even her shining hair was beautifully coifed, free from the humidity's cruel fingers. Nothing like the wild, frizzed-out, afro 'do I had going on.

"Don't drink too much," Donna said. "You're running first thing in the morning. I planned this dang Fun Run—you're going to run it." She turned her attention from me and pointed a finger around at each of her numerous children who happened to be within earshot. "You all are running it, and we're having fun."

"Nothing about running is fun," I said, a slight whine to my voice. "At least not when the thermometer is cracking open because it's so hot."

"California has ruined you, Misty Newman," Donna exclaimed with a smirk, refilling my glass. "What did I tell you? It'd spoil you—all that coastline, endless beaches, and tanned men…" She sighed and leaned back in the hammock that swung in a non-existent breeze.

The two of us sat on Donna's front porch. Though we'd both grown up in the town of Little Lake, Minnesota, which was a hop, skip, and a jump away from Donna's summer house in Little Foot, we'd gone separate ways after high school. We'd bonded over catching turtles as kids, gobbling up Cosmo stories as teens, and passing notes during high school geometry. Shortly thereafter, Donna had settled down with Nathan, her hunk of a husband who worked as a firefighter for Little Lake, and proceeded to grow a large, loud, and utterly adorable family.

Whilst Donna spent her post high school years getting her life together, I had spent those same years completely derailing mine. I'd had a fallout with the high school heartthrob and turned my attention towards college, which led me to trek across the great country of America and into California. When college didn't work out as expected, I dropped out, and to everyone back home's shock and chagrin, I dyed my hair bright colors and took up burlesque.

Now, ten years later, I was contemplating a move back to Minnesota. Strangely enough, Donna had invited me for a visit right around the same time, asking if I wanted to come for a weekend at the cabin. There were two main reasons I suspected she'd asked me back. The first, to convince me that my home should once again be back in Minnesota—right where I had started. After all, Donna needed a girlfriend to go out with on the nights Nathan didn't work and was willing to watch the kiddos.

The second reason, however, was the town summer festival. Nobody who was anybody missed Hot Dog Days. Placed right in the heat of summer, Little Foot boasted two-foot long hot dogs, jugs that held more soda than the Dead Sea held water, and of course, the annual 5K. It just so happened that Donna had volunteered to plan, host, and run the event, which, in turn, meant that me and all her children were subject to participation.

"It's cruel and unusual punishment," I said. "I will sweat so much that I'll need nine two-footers." I gestured with my hands to show the exact amount of hot dog I'd need to replenish my energy after exerting any movement in this weather.

"Stop your whining," Donna chirped, bouncing to her feet and wiping away non-existent sweat from her forehead. "Get some rest now because the thing starts at 7 a.m. I expect you to be the first one there. You have a man named Chad to thank—he called in sick tonight. Otherwise, the race would've been sold out and you couldn't have run."

"What a shame," I said, heavy on the sarcasm. "Any chance this Chad might feel better by the morning?"

Donna winced. "I'm eighty percent certain he was puking his guts up while trying to tell me he couldn't make it. We don't want Chad to show up tomorrow with a bug like that."

I groaned, pulling myself from the comfortable wicker lawn chair next to the hammock. "Only if you spike my water bottle tomorrow, too." I slurped the rest of my drink. "I'll need a margarita to numb the pain."

"I'll send you with a bag of chilled white wine." Donna led me inside and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. "Do you need anything else? Towels are on the shelf above the toilet."

"I'm great, thank you," I said with a wide grin. "Despite my whining, I'm really happy to be back."

"Remember that tomorrow when I force you to cross the finish line," Donna said with a wink. "It's great to have you back. Now, go."

I trooped upstairs, took a freezing shower, and snuck a damp washcloth into the plump bed with me. Pulling up the fluffy, white covers, I felt safe and comfortable and oh-so-cozy. A light breeze fluttered through the linen curtains, and a fan pointed in my direction cooled the boiling temperature down to a pleasant one. It was good to be back.

*   *   *

The sound of clapping hands hadn't woken me up since I'd been in high school, when my mother would storm into my room demanding to show her latest find at Macy's. Unlike other moms, she'd barely realized that I had to attend school, more worried about looking put together for her man du jour. She was a kind soul and loved by the entire town. She was just a little lost and…naïve in the world of dating.

"Get up, get up," Donna yelled, quite the opposite. "We have places to be, races to run, and hog dogs to eat."

"I don't have places to be," I said, my voice muffled as I pressed my face into the pillow. The day was dawning much more pleasantly than the one yesterday, but that could change quite quickly. Minnesota weather was like a lightbulb—it could be bright one moment and dark the next without a flicker in between.

"It's a beautiful day," Donna sang. "Let's go troops."

She'd left the guest bedroom by now and was raising her herd of children, whose choruses of displeasure at waking so early joined with mine.

"Well, I'm your mother," I heard her explain cheerfully, when one of the little ones asked why. "And I made the mistake of organizing this Fun Run, so we are all going to go, and we are going to have fun."

Based on the wails of her sleepy children, they were just as enthusiastic as I. Figuring I owed Donna one for hosting me, I pulled on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt and left the comfort of my cushy bed to assist Donna with her brood.

"Let's go, kids," I said half-heartedly with a yawn.

I walked into a room where two of them were tussling on a bunk bed.

They stopped mid-wrestle at the sound of my voice, and Alec, one of the younger and sassier dudes—pointed a finger at me and burst into a fit of giggles. "Look at her hair."

"My hair is beautiful," I grouched, catching a reflection of myself in the mirror above their dresser. "Eee," I said, changing my mind. "Yikes. I'm a monster."

Holding my hands out like Frankenstein, I pretended to be a mummy and walked towards the boys until their shrieks were so loud it drew the other children. Five kids and one mummy of an adult in a small bedroom did not a cozy space make.

Untangling myself from the monkeys hanging off my arms, I tickled Alec until he squeaked and wriggled away.

"All right, Bartman troops," I said. "Who's coming with me and eating some Froot Loops?"

The ensuing roar sounded like an army setting off for World War III.

As we marched into the kitchen, Donna gave me a grateful grin and laid out plates of steaming pancakes, heaps of scrambled eggs, and just for me, a gigantic box of Froot Loops.

The roars settled down as children and grownups alike dug into the delicious smorgasbord of food on the table. Nathan wandered into the spacious kitchen and gave a sweet kiss to his wife's forehead, ruffled a few of the children's hair-feathers, and sat down at the head of the table.

The kitchen of their cabin was a spacious one. Huge windows were set high in the wall, allowing the early morning light to wash over the large island at the center of the kitchen. Log walls and a cozy fireplace in the next room provided a smokiness that reminded me we were on vacation, and the smells of bacon and maple syrup completed the cabin-esque vibe. We were all seated at a family-style wooden picnic table—gigantic in size and imperfect in structure. Dark wooden knots lined the benches and evidence of scars from forks, knives, and all sorts of games lined the table. But it was perfect.

After years of eating alone in front of the television, slurping up my colorful milk to the sound of the latest Sex and the City episode, the chatter and warmth was a pleasant change.

"I hear you're running today," Nathan said, smiling across the table at me as he tore into the plate of bacon.

"So Donna says." I grinned. "Will you be joining us?"

"I work," he said, his fingers in air quotes.

Donna rolled her eyes. "He's on call, but their boss is lackadaisical during Hot Dog Days and can be found sitting in the beer tent. Nathan won't be seeing anything straight by noon."

"What if there's a fire?" I teased.

"Then you better run your race real fast," Nathan said with a laugh. "'Cause I'll be stumbling right behind you."

Donna gave a shake of her head, though her expression was amused. The couple were clearly in love, and despite the normal trials of raising children, they were content and happy with small town life. I briefly wondered if I'd ever be able to do it—move back to small town Minnesota.

I'd been born and raised here but always with the desire to flee. Part of me longed for the simplicity that seemed to make Nathan and Donna so happy. Part of me also felt like returning now might mean giving up. After all, I didn't have anyone here waiting for me. All of the eligible bachelors were taken. Well, except for one it seemed, but I'd ruined my chances with him ten years before when I had fled after he proposed. 

Donna reached towards her husband and gently patted his cheek. "That's my brave man, saving this town one hot dog and a beer at a time."

 

*   *   *

 

We arrived early at the start line. There were a few other early morning risers wandering around, not atypical for rural, farm town life. Donna's helpers had already set up the check-in table, and the first race participants were signing in and claiming their racing numbers.

"What if I stay here and help you hand stuff out?" I asked Donna as she distributed a few bibs to other runners. "I can be the designated purse holder."

"No such luck," Donna said, handing me number 4506. "You're Chad Glasser for today, you lucky duck."

"Do I look like a Chad to you?" I asked.

Donna surveyed me with mock seriousness. "You could pass for one."

"Are we certain Chad is really sick?" I asked, considering rousing the poor guy from bed myself. "Does he live around here?"

"I don't know," she said. "It says here he registered and lives in Big Plain. 'Bout twenty minutes away. I don't know him, myself."

"What if he shows up?" I asked.

"He won't be showing up," Donna said. "Now that's enough whining. Chad sounded incredibly sick last night. You're fortunate to be feeling well enough to run. Be grateful for your health. "

"Oh, cripes. Now I just feel bad," I said, accepting a handful of safety pins. "I'll try my best to be excited. It's only three miles, right? And they have beer at the end?"

"Three point one miles," Donna clarified. "And more beers than you can count."

"I'm doing this for you," I said, lining up at the start. The rush of runners had arrived, and Donna turned on her organizer mode, shouting instructions to her volunteer staff, handing out bibs to bright-eyed runners, and chasing around her own children, who thought that wearing racing numbers on their heads was a fun prank.

In no time at all my stomach was churning as the announcer stepped atop his ladder. He held a gun in his hand, and it would be so very Midwestern if it were the real thing. I had my suspicions it just might be. Inching farther away from him, just in case, I found a snug spot near the middle of the pack.

I recognized a few high school friends milling about, but nobody so close that I felt inclined to chat. Alfie, a cop who barely topped five feet in height and had a smattering of acne that rivaled the Andes Mountains, waved over-enthusiastically in my direction.

Frantically, I scanned the crowd for someone—anyone—who I could talk to instead. Having Alfie as my first kiss was maybe the biggest stain on the history of my life. But technically, it wasn't really my fault. I'd hit his watermelon-sized noggin with a dodgeball in kindergarten, and he'd cried for what seemed like hours, wailing loudly as I asked him to please not tattle. He eventually offered to stop and not tell on me if I gave him a kiss.

One little peck on the cheek to pay off a bribe, and you'd think we'd been married and divorced twice. I couldn't escape the guy.

To my relief, someone to my left spoke. "Do you know him?"

I turned to see a handsome man eyeing my racing bib. I didn't know him—which meant he probably wasn't from around here. At least, he hadn't grown up here, or I would have remembered. Already, eyes of the single women in town scanned me over with curiosity, noting the stranger I dared converse with in public. In nail salons all around town, we'd be the center of gossip for the foreseeable future. I was confident that according to next week's inevitable rumors by ladies with puffed, gray locks, chatting about as their permed hair set, we'd be engaged before the month was over.

"Uh, unfortunately," I said. "We went to school together."

The man nodded knowingly. "I see."

"Yeah," I sighed, taking a peek out of the corner of my eye at the man. He was young—early thirties, maybe, and traditionally handsome with chestnut-brown hair and soft hazel eyes that focused on me when he spoke. I imagined that most women who talked with him felt like the most important person in the world, at least when he looked at them. "I don't live here anymore, though. I moved to Los Angeles about ten years ago."

"Shame," he said, sticking a hand out. "I'm Lance. I'm not from the area, but I just got a job as the principal of the elementary school here in Little Foot. I figured I should make an appearance at the town 5K. I've never been to a, uh, Hot Dog Days celebration before."

"It's pretty special." I smiled. "I'm Misty."

"I'm not a runner," he said, facing the front where the announcer was counting down. "So we'll see what happens here."

"I wouldn't have guessed," I said. Clapping a hand over my mouth, I felt my cheeks flame with embarrassment. "I mean…"

"Don't worry, I'm flattered." He gave a laugh. "Well, looks like we're about ready to go. I'm gonna head to the back."

"Oh, really?" I asked. "You can run with me if you like."

I hated myself for offering, but part of me liked his company, and a larger part of me wanted to avoid Alfie.

Lance shot me a confused look and glanced at my number. "Uh, aren't you a fast runner? You know, judging by your starting heat. The lower the bib number the faster the runner, right? Then again, I'm new at these things. You'd know better than me."

"Oh," I said, not really sure the answer myself. Since it wasn't my bib, I wasn't sure exactly how fast or slow I was supposed to be. Since I didn't make a habit of running for fun myself, I wasn't sure how the system worked. I shrugged in response.

Maybe I should've corrected him instead, and let him know that the racing bib wasn't mine and that the number on it was someone else's, but the truth was that I didn't mind him thinking I was fast.

I gave a tiny finger wave goodbye, and his face lit with the brightness of his former smile as he politely picked his way through the crowd and to the back of the pack.

"You're third leg of the relay?" a voice grunted. "Didn't think they'd send a girl. And where's your bandana? How do you expect us to read your number on the fly?"

"Excuse me?" I said. "Do I know you?"

A man with a red handkerchief tied around his forehead shook his head as if disgusted at my ignorance. "Get in line."

Instead of arguing with the man, I shuffled away from him and took up my stance with a group of friendly moms dressed in "Beat Cancer" shirts. They were jovial and understood the idea of a Fun Run.

Third leg of what relay? I wondered. What bandana? I didn't run a lot of races, but I was pretty sure this one was no relay. Unfortunately, I had to run this whole thing by myself.

I shook it off, thinking instead that the only variety of leg I wanted after the race was one made out of chicken or turkey. Or hot dogs—so many varieties of hot dogs. With my mind wandering firmly towards food, it took me a moment to realize that the gun had gone off.

It was only when the crowd of people around me started bustling forward that I noticed something had happened. The starter was still waving his maybe-real-gun about with reckless abandon, so I stayed far to the opposite side of the path as my feet padded along.

I caught Donna's eye as I crossed the starting line, and I knew the racing chip that acted as a timer and was attached to my shoe had begun to record. She was waving at me so hard her entire body shook. I grinned at her and waved back, feeling great. The burn in my lungs hadn't yet set in, nor the exhaustion in my legs. The weather was a pleasant high seventy degrees at the moment—it'd be a scorcher later, but by getting up first thing in the morning, we'd hit the best part of the day.

The crowd on the sidelines had set up all varieties of signs and banners, whistling and cheering for friends, family, and complete strangers as the runners surged forward.

Maybe I should run more often, I thought. Everyone was so supportive. So happy.

"Move faster," a voice growled behind me.

I turned to see the man with a red handkerchief tied around his forehead glaring furiously at me. Startled, I picked up the pace a bit.

Everyone was supportive except for him, apparently.

Feeling his glare on my back, I focused on the rest of the crowd, happy as clams on this beautiful summer morning. I didn't know what the man's problem was—the run was supposed to be fun. Clearly, he didn't know the definition of the word.

The memory of the sourpuss faded quite quickly, and I even began to enjoy the brief three point one mile jaunt through the town of Little Foot. The houses stood quaint and charming, and brave little flowers struggled to keep their blossoms smiling even in the face of life-throttling heat. Roses snaked up trellises, and grinning dogs barked greetings as we passed by their lawns.

People were out walking their pets and cuddling their children—everyone seemed to be up early, whether they were participating in the race or not. They waved to us runners and shouted greetings. The town oozed friendliness and warmth—and not just from the sun.

Maybe I could get used to this place, I thought. Not Little Foot in particular, but Little Lake. Where I'd come from. After all, my family was there and, most importantly, my youngest sister. My grandmother was aging rapidly, which was another reason I'd agreed with Donna that it was time for a trip home. It was a great opportunity to sit and chat with my grandmother again, listen to her stories, bask in the dusty sunlight of her spacious front porch.

Yes, this place wasn't as bad as I remembered. Instead of stifling, it now seemed cozy. Instead of nosy, people seemed interested. And feeling loved and cared for surprisingly meant more to me than I'd ever expected. Despite being an independent soul, it was nice to know that Donna missed me. That my sister was waiting for me at the door when I showed up from the airport. That a stranger would bother to wish me luck on a Fun Run.

My mind was so preoccupied with large life decisions I'd neglected for so long that the first nudge of my hand went unnoticed. The runners' pack had thinned out by now, and I was relatively alone during this stretch of the race. At two and a half miles, I was almost there. Thanks to the beautiful scenery and a self-entertaining mind, I was well on my way to finishing this thing. Donna would be so proud.

The second nudge on my hand was a lot less subtle. Looking back, I saw a man with a blue handkerchief wrapped around his head coming up fast on my left. Thinking he wanted to pass, I moved over and muttered a sorry.

"Take it," he growled. "Why are you running so fast? You'll become the last leg if you don't slow down. You'll ruin everything."

"What?" I asked, slowing down my pace. Looking about, I noticed we'd arrived at the most sheltered place in the race. The course had taken a short turn through the local nature center, and the public was briefly cut off from watching the runners. Though the woods were stunning in the crisp morning light, they provided more privacy than I wanted at the moment.

Glancing around, I could see the tail end of a runner far ahead, but that was it. Nobody except the man was behind me. No women pushed strollers along the side, and no dogs clamored to say hello. The stillness in the air sent a chill up my spine.

"Take it," he said, pressing something into my palm.

His voice was so adamant, so forceful, that I accepted the small cloth sack reflexively.

With a final glare, he peeled off the path and disappeared into the woods, his footsteps crunching behind him.

My heart pounded, and my breath came in gulps, but it had nothing to do with the race. I picked up the pace, wanting to emerge from the secluded path as fast as possible. It wasn't much farther until the end of the tree line.

A movement just outside of the path caught my eye. Squinting, I thought I could make out a man just on the edge of the trees, partially shielded behind a large oak. Strange, I thought, as I continued jogging—this whole race was starting to give me the creeps. A moment later, the man waved in my direction, and I smiled back, recognizing him as the starter.

Still, I couldn't help but notice the all-too-real looking gun still dangling from his fingers, and I wondered why on earth he'd chosen to watch the race hidden half in the nature reserve. Surely he'd be expected to be present at the finish line?

As he stepped out from behind the trees, I ignored his increasingly dramatic waving in my direction. I was so close to the finish line now, if I could just push on a little farther, I'd be done with this race once and for all.

When I burst forth, the noise of cheering nearly stopped me in my tracks.

So close! The crowds were already lined up to watch the participants finish the race. I was a short distance out, but I could see volunteers placing medals over the shoulders of runners glistening with sweat. Donna was nowhere to be seen yet, but she'd be here soon, I hoped. I was anxious to put the strange events of the race behind me.

Looking down, I felt the small pouch that the man with the blue handkerchief had passed off to me. I was so close to the finish line that I didn't want to open it on the run. At the same time, my mind wandered with curiosity. Part of me wanted to drop it and forget about the whole thing, but another part of me thought that would be a bad idea.

My curious side won out, and I clamped down on the pouch and pushed hard for the finish line.

The second my foot crossed the line drawn with chalk on the pavement, hands clapped me on the back, congratulations rained on me from all directions, and I even picked out the faces of a few people I'd seen on the track. Some were puffing hard, others looked as if they'd just had a massage instead of run a race—their faces relaxed and happy and only mildly glistening with sweat.

I belonged more to the first category. The heat of the day was really starting to pick up, and I was still a bit spooked from my encounter with the pushy man with the handkerchief wrapped around his head, not to mention the chill that'd gone up my spine after seeing the starter semi-hidden in the woods. Looking down at the pouch, I tried to guess what was inside. The crunching sounds of hard, small objects rubbing together made me think of a bag of pebbles. But some of the edges were sharp—almost like a seashell that'd been broken in half with a jagged, pointy end protruding.

I began to open the sack very carefully. My hands tugged at the neck of the bag with slow, steady movements. But when a voice whispered in my ear to "Give me the bag" my hands shook with surprise, and I nearly dropped the whole sack.

"I've got a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it," a man said before I could see who was speaking. I felt a firm metal rod poke against my sore, tired back. "Now give me the diamonds."

Diamonds? My mind flicking between one thought and another. Why were there diamonds here in Little Foot? And why, more importantly, had they fallen into my hands?

I gasped as I looked over my shoulder and recognized the starter—a man who'd worn a goofy expression before now wore a no-nonsense smirk, his eyes darkening by the moment. He jabbed me in the lower back once more with the gun.

"Give it to me," he hissed.

"Relax," I said, holding my hands out front as inconspicuously as I could. I'd been so startled by the starter's transformation, and by his gun touching my skin, that I'd barely noticed that he'd corralled me off to the side, past the tents containing bananas, bagels, and water as a post-race refreshment. We were secluded by a one-story strip mall now—he'd taken me around the corner into a deserted alley between the finish line and the mall. Still, I was close enough to society that people would hear me if I screamed.

I'd barely opened my mouth to yell before he clamped a hand over my lips and nudged me on the lower back with the gun. "Scream and you're dead. This thing has a silencer. Nobody will bat an eye over the cheering of the crowd. Plus, how many real gunshots have they heard and not said anything?" The man turned me around and smirked. "Naïve town."

"We're not naïve," I said. "We're nice people that don't go shoving guns up people's backs."

"Enough with the chitchat," he said. "Are we going to do this the pleasant way, or will I have to hurt you?"

I extended the hand with the dirty little rucksack. "Where did the diamonds come from?"

He snatched the pack out of my hands, peeked inside, and let out a low whistle. I had no desire to scooch closer and see for myself—the mystery sack had already caused enough trouble, and I just wanted to be left alone.

"See?" he said with a smile, showing a gold crown over one of his teeth as he gave a nasty laugh. "That wasn't so hard. We can make you part of the team, maybe. Would you like that? Help us out on future races?"

I glared but said nothing as he was still indiscriminately waving the gun in my direction. "Whatever you're up to here, you won't get away with it. My best friend worked hard to organize this run, and I won't let you ruin it."

"I beg to differ. If I'm caught, it won't be because of you." He pointed the hand with the diamonds in it at me, pretending his finger was a gun. "Because if you tell anyone about this, or if you get the police involved, or if you open your trap at all…" He mimed the gun going off in my direction, blowing pretend smoke from his index finger as he let his hand fall to his side. "I said I don't want to have to hurt you, and I'm a man of my word."

"Why?" I called as the man stepped backward, his gun still trained my way.

"Why what?" he asked.

"Why diamonds at a Fun Run?" I asked.

"Why not?" he shrugged. Then, with his former goofy grin, he gave a wry laugh. "You honestly don't think diamonds are only a girl's best friend?"

I inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying my best to maintain composure.

"Now, little lady, you'll let me walk out of here with no further ado. A single scream and I'll be back for you." He gestured towards the opposite side of the alley and started marching away. "Don't you move yet. Don't you move until I'm out of this alley. And if you call the police or alert them to this incident at all, well…let's just say you won't be running any more races."

A wave of relief washed over me as I realized he didn't intend to hurt me. I didn't push my luck, standing stock still until the barrel of his gun disappeared around the corner of the alley. The roar of a motor was my signal that he'd probably gotten into his vehicle and made a getaway and I was free to go.

I turned back the way I'd come, forcing my already tired legs to jog back towards the finish line. I needed to find Donna. And I needed to find out why her run hadn't been as fun as promised.

 

*   *   *

 

Battling my way through hundreds of hungry runners clamoring over one another to grab hot dogs and sodas at the refreshment table, I scanned for Donna's blonde bob. I caught a glimpse of her bright hair over by the condiments table and headed towards her.

She spotted me and waved as I approached, holding up a hot dog as long as her arm. "It's not just anywhere you can have a morning run and then get jumbo dogs for breakfast."

I pasted a smile on my face. Donna was talking to a gaggle of other moms, all nodding in agreement. The pride for Little Foot ran deep. Which was ironic, in a way, since it was expressed in the form of a hot diggity dog loaded with obscene amounts of ketchup and mustard and relish. Little Foot didn't believe in awards—they believed in the good stuff.

Smiling, I nodded. "Wouldn't find this in California."

"What would you find?" one of the women asked out of curiosity, holding her hot dog and bun in one hand, a cigarette dangling from the other.

"Kale," I said with a little bit less of a smile. "Far less tasty. Donna, could I speak to you for a moment?"

As the women discussed what all was wrong with eating too much kale, I pulled my friend away from the group under the ruse of discussing a few lingering logistics.

"Did you have a good time?" Donna asked, her cheeks bright. "I thought the whole event went very smoothly."

"You did wonderfully," I said, sliding an arm around my friend's shoulder. "It was a very enjoyable run," I added, unwilling to raise my eyes.

Donna narrowed her own at me. "I sense a but in there."

"A small one," I said.

"A small butt?" she asked, peeking at her own. "I wish."

I grinned at my petite friend. "You have no problems in that area."

"What is it?" she asked, her gaze turning more serious. "Did something go wrong?"

"I'm…I'm not sure," I said. "But yes, I think so. I guess you could say that."

"Spit it out, California," Donna said.

I suddenly felt as if I were one of her children about to tell her a piece of less-than-ideal news. "Okay, something weird happened on the course. I was running along all fine and dandy when someone came up to me and shoved a pouch into my hand."

"A pouch?" Donna furrowed her brow. "Did you look ill? Maybe it was an energy gel. People eat those, you know. Though not usually for 5Ks, but…"

"Jeesh, I didn't look that ill," I said. "I managed to finish the race just fine. But I get the feeling that…" I leaned in towards Donna and lowered my voice. "People thought I was part of something."

"Like a Fun Run?" Donna asked. "I don't see what you're saying, Misty."

"Well, it was a little weird. At the beginning of the race someone told me to move faster. He had a red handkerchief on his head. He mentioned something about me being third leg or whatnot, which usually means a relay. But this clearly wasn't a relay."

Donna shook her head in agreement.

"Just after the two and a half mile marker—"

"Around the nature center?" Donna asked.

"Yeah. In there, actually. Nobody else was around. And a guy with a blue handkerchief around his head ran up behind me and shoved a small bag into my hand. Then he peeled off into the woods. I haven't seen either of them since," I said. "I doubt they finished the race."

"Well?" Donna gave me a blank stare. "What was in the pouch?"

"I don't know for a fact," I said. "That's the thing. I finished the race—I was so close to being done, and there were people around. It took a few tenths more of a mile to cross the finish line. But once I did, someone took it from me. He said it was diamonds, but I didn't see it for myself."

"Diamonds?" Donna's eyes widened. "Who took it?"

"The starter," I said, leaning in. "The gun he was using to start the race was real."

"We need to call the police," Donna said, her eyes still large with shock. She reached for her phone, a mixture of anger and nerves causing her hand to shake. "Nobody takes the fun out of my run."

"Don't," I said, laying a hand over hers. "He…" I cleared my throat. "He said not to get the police involved, or else…"

"But we can't just let him get away with it," Donna said. "Not in a town as small as Little Foot. That sort of thing doesn't happen here."

"I think we should leave it alone. He seemed serious. Do you know the guy?" I asked.

Donna shook her head. "Our normal starter—Mr. Olsen, the crazy old man from the bar—got sick last night, so we used this guy last minute. He's from a town over. He volunteered actually—at the time I thought we were lucky to have him. I wrote his name down somewhere…"

I tapped my chin in thought while Donna fished around for some sort of documentation on the starter with the real gun.

"Did Mr. Olsen get sick…naturally?" I asked.

Donna's spine stiffened. "Mr. Olsen may be crazy and mean and preserved with piss and vinegar, but I don't like when people mess with the citizens of my town. We're going to just peek into this," Donna said. "I have children here. I can't let dangerous people run around."

"We don't really know if it was dangerous," I said. "I never saw what was in the pouch. Maybe he just said diamonds."

Donna gave me a disapproving glance. "He held a gun to you, Misty. That is dangerous. Which means that whatever is in the pouch is worth threatening another person's life over. All in all, nasty business."

"Which is why we should stay away from it," I pointed out. "I'm only in town for the rest of the day after all. Then I leave to head back to Cali."

Donna paused. "Make me a deal."

I exhaled a long, slow breath. I already knew what she'd ask. I hadn't planned on spending my last day in town hunting for the culprit who'd ruined a Fun Run. But Donna was my friend, and if she felt threatened…

"The deal is this—you help me investigate for the rest of the day, then I'll buy you dinner tonight," Donna said. "You'll never hear about it again."

"But it's Hot Dog Days," I pointed out unnecessarily.

"Exactly the reason why we need to figure it out. I can't have the reputation of Hot Dog Days ruined by one bad apple." Donna smirked. "See what I did there?"

"Clever," I said. "Fine. I'll help you—nothing more than asking around a bit, mind you—for the next couple of hours. But when I get hungry for dinner, that's it. No more."

"Better eat a lot of hot dogs now, then," Donna grumbled. But she stuck her hand out and offered me a shake.

A few pumps of the handshake later, and we had a deal.

"Where do we start?" I asked.

"I have a curious feeling that Mr. Olsen might have something to say about his sudden… illness," Donna said. "To the bar!"

"I love those words," I mumbled. "Just usually not at nine in the morning."

"Mr. Olsen will be at the bar, sick or not," Donna said. "Plus, I could go for a mimosa. Who knew Fun Runs could be so stressful?"

 

*   *   *

 

Donna talked to some of the other moms in the circle that I'd pulled her away from. Somehow she lined up a different woman to make sure each kid was being watched at all times. I don't know how she did it—even assistants in Hollywood didn't have to finagle such busy schedules on short notice.

In three sentences she'd made sure that Alec was with a hockey buddy, her oldest was with a good friend's family, the other three were somewhere safe, and her husband was keeping busy with his own group of firefighter pals. Donna was Superwoman. How she managed five kids, let alone a 5K, blew my mind every time I saw her.

Once she snuck away, it didn't take long for us to hop into Donna's van and drive the short distance to Little Lake, the town both Donna and I had grown up in. She slid into a parking spot outside of the tiny town bar—making the minivan skid as if it was a racecar and not a kid-toting machine.

"All right there, biker mama," I said, feeling nauseous as I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid from the car. "You definitely burned some rubber."

"Sweet," Donna said, her eyes glowing. Upon my wide-eyed stare, she frowned. "Give me a break. I usually have kids with me. I can't be irresponsible—I'm not allowed to be."

I smiled. "Fine. Girls' day out—solving mysteries."

Donna swung her arm around me. "I usually just let you be irresponsible for me, but today—I want in on it, too."

"Dealio," I said. "Your code name can be Motorcycle Mama."

"I like it," Donna said. "Wish I had a leather jacket."

"Next time," I said as we pulled open the dusty door to the place. Rows of glasses lined the shelves above a sturdy, no-nonsense wooden bar. I wouldn't have been surprised if Mr. Olsen had built it with his bare hands. Plain wooden chairs and even plainer wooden tables gave the place a cabin-like ambiance.

At nine in the morning the joint was free from the stickiness of spilled beer and food crumbs. It was almost peaceful at this time—all the wood combined with the age-old rafters gave the place a foresty, rustic feeling.

"Who's there?" a gruff voice called from behind the bar. "Who be there? I ain't open. Get your liquor somewhere else at this hour, ya troublemakers—oh, hi Donna." Mr. Olsen himself appeared suddenly behind the counter, as if he'd been sitting on a chair behind it, his head not visible behind the tall countertop. He held a large blue pail in one hand and, judging by the beads of sweat accumulating on his aging forehead, he still wasn't feeling up to snuff.

Donna must have completely forgotten about her "child-free girls' day out" because her motherly instincts instantly clicked into place. Clucking sympathetically, she approached the crotchety old man and lightly laid a hand against his cheek, frowning in thought as she felt his temperature.

"You're cold. And clammy," she said. "You shouldn't be here. Why are you here?"

"Can't abandon this place," he said. "I ain't taken no sick day in fifty-odd years, and I ain't about to start now."

"Mr. Olsen," Donna chided. "Go home and get some rest. I order you."

"You ain't orderin' me to do nothing. I remember you from when you alls was little tykes. Always troublemakin'. If I remember right, you two ladies came in here on your prom night askin' for some beverages of the adult variety." Mr. Olsen shook his finger at us. "Troublemakers."

I shrunk back, feeling like I was eighteen all over again. Both good and bad memories flooded back, but for the sake of the conversation, I pushed them away.

"It was her fault," Donna said, pointing at me. "She dragged me in here."

I rolled my eyes. "You didn't have a problem drinking the flask Mr. Olsen gave us as a gift."

"Jus' a lil nip," Mr. Olsen grumbled. "Better try it under safe circumstances from me rather'n from an immature boy with only one objective—and not a good one."

I looked down at my shoes. I didn't want to talk about those objectives with a seventy-plus year old man. Despite his crusty exterior, the town loved him. Rigid and politically incorrect and even a tinge mean, he was a town staple with plenty of redeeming qualities. He just liked to keep those redeeming qualities well hidden.

"Thank you for your generosity," Donna said in all seriousness. "Now we need to find out something. We had a little…incident during the Fun Run today."

"I was supposed to bang the gun," Mr. Olsen said. "To start the race off. Except they told me it weren't a real gun."

I glanced at Donna, waiting to see how much she'd say.

"Exactly," Donna said. "And we have reason to believe you might not be sick on accident. Was there anyone who gave you anything to eat or drink yesterday that could've caused you to become ill?"

"Someone wanted my job?" Mr. Olsen asked. "I get it. It's fun bangin' off them guns at the starting line. Just wish it were a real one," he said, a forlorn look taking over his features.

"Think, Mr. Olsen," Donna said. "Maybe someone in your bar?"

Mr. Olsen scrunched up his wrinkled face—between the hair emerging from his ears as long as my pinky finger and wiry as straw, his balding head, and the sour expression on his face, he was quite a character. I hadn't realized it when I had lived here—mostly because he was such a normal fixture of the town. But after moving away, I realized he was a very unique duck.

"There's all sorts of folk coming and going from here all the time. I ain't be judgin' them," Mr. Olsen said.

Donna and I looked at each other—he was easily the most judgmental person in town. The man didn't mean to be, it just…for him, it just came with the combination of old age and fifty years in the bar industry.

"Fine, I be judging them," Mr. Olsen said with a growl. "I had three tables of new folks yesterday. Well, I guess technically two."

I exchanged a glance with Donna, wondering what had caused the sudden variance in Mr. Olsen's calculations.

"I changed my mind from three to two 'cause there was a mom with a lil' tyke in here, but she wasn't technically new," he sighed with the effort of speaking. "She's been in here a few times this week, but I ain't seen her before that. I started chatting with her yesterday, wonderin' why she carried her lil' guy around to the bar with her, but she said she couldn't afford a sitter. Maybe you know her? She said that her husband was involved in some relay today. Probably the same one I was supposed to work at."

Mr. Olsen looked as if he was on the verge of puking, so I helped him sit down on a little stool behind the bar.

"That's not right," Donna said. "We didn't have a relay event."

 "Who else was new here?" I asked, not wanting to think that a mom with a toddler was behind the diamond heist.

Mr. Olsen grunted a small smile. "Besides her, there were that shiny new principal they got over there in Little Foot. He planted his bottom right over there." Mr. Olsen extended a gnarly finger attached to a stiff arm towards a table in the corner. "He were alone."

"Was alone, huh?" Donna asked pointedly, always one for a grammar lesson.

"Relax," I told Donna with a warning note to my voice.

"Yes, he were alone," Mr. Olsen said, beginning the Battle of Bad Grammar all over again. They'd been going at it for years. "And last, there were a few people in town for yer little Fun Run. I could tell 'cause they was wearin' their running clothes and silly little bandanas." Mr. Olsen sighed. "Why they need a handkerchief on their head? If they're gonna sweat, sweat like a man."

I glanced at Mr. Olsen, thinking he was sweating more like a pig giving birth than a man. He looked a little woozy, and despite his determination to help us out, I was worried about his condition.

"You were planning to work as the starter right up until last night, right?" I asked.

"Up right 'til this morn," Mr. Olsen said. "I puked my guts out all through the nigh', and still I didn't wanna let lil' Donna here down. Thought it was all gone for a minute but nope. Keeps coming back." He winced and leaned over.

"Let's get you to the hospital," I said.

"No." Mr. Olsen's answer was simple and firm.

"Yes," I countered. "You're not looking so great."

"I'll be fine," he said. "Nothin' ain't killed me yet."

"Well, true," I agreed. "But we don't want it to either."

"I'm a tough old man," he said. "Proud of it."

"And so are we, but we're going to the hospital," I said, looking to Donna for support. I raised my eyebrows at my friend as if to say help me out!

Donna exhaled as if still annoyed about the Battle at Grammar Hill but reached for Mr. Olsen's arm and heaved him up from his seat. "We're taking you to the hospital," she said. "And we're not taking 'no' for an answer."

"I ain't going," Mr. Olsen said. "I've had the flu and kicked its sorry little butt more times than I care to remember."

"Mr. Olsen, this isn't the flu," Donna said. "We have reason to believe you've been poisoned."

Though I had been expecting something of the sort, to hear the words from Donna's mouth made the theory come alive, and I didn't like it. A thrill of terror shot through my veins—who would poison poor old Mr. Olsen to get his job of kicking off a Fun Run with a fake gun?

"Impossible," Mr. Olsen said. "My body is immune to poison."

"Nonsense," Donna said. "Did you eat something or drink something from the bar yesterday?"

"Of course," Mr. Olsen said. "I always do. Screwdriver at nine a.m., second screwdriver at ten. Bloody Mary around eleven and a glass of wine with lunch. I start on the good stuff about three in the afternoon."

Donna looked at me, her lips in a tight line.

"Doesn't mean anything," Mr. Olsen said. "It's what I always do."

"Exactly," Donna said. "It's predictable."

"But who would want to poison me?" Mr. Olsen asked.

"I am not sure who," Donna said. "All I know is that we did not have a relay event, and this starter had an ulterior motive." She glanced at me, her eyes serious. "I had to find someone last minute this morning. His name was Tim something. I can't remember, but I have it written down somewhere."

I crossed my arms. "And he held a gun to me."

"He held a gun to you?" Mr. Olsen said. "Dang, I knew it was a real gun. What a rip. Wish I never got poisoned."

"Let's go, you," Donna said. "To the hospital. We have work to do."

"Who you gonna look for?" he asked.

Donna's face looked grim. "We'll need everything you can remember about the woman with her baby. I need to find her husband—I don't like that he said he's involved with a relay. We didn't have a relay. And if that happens to lead to a dead end, then we'll look at the principal and the men with handkerchiefs. I need to find that starter."

 

*   *   *

 

It didn't take long to drop Mr. Olsen off at the hospital and pick his brain for every last detail that he could remember of the woman and her child. It also didn't take long to realize that the name the starter had given Donna was a fake, as was his address.

"Let's lock up quickly and get a move on," I said as Donna and I approached Froggy's—Mr. Olsen's bar—for the second time that day. Two trips to the bar before noon, I might add. That was a record, even for me. He'd asked us to put a closed sign on the door once the hospital staff insisted he stay in the building for more than five minutes.

"Okay," I'd grumbled, pretty sure that nobody would be banging down Froggy's door at ten a.m.

I was right. But not for long.

Donna and I stepped inside the bar, intending only to grab a glass of water and dust up a bit so that the bar would be in tip top shape when Mr. Olsen came home from the hospital. We'd barely poured ourselves a glass of water and picked up a towel before there was a knock on the door. Giving Donna a shrug, I headed over to answer it.

"Lance?" I asked, as I opened the door to reveal a brown-haired, hazel-eyed figure standing on the steps. It was the principal I'd met at the 5K this morning. "Can I help you with something? I'd offer you a drink, but we're not technically serving anything. I'm just locking up."

"I'm afraid not," Lance said. "I'm not looking for a drink."

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

He leveled his gaze at me, the sigh escaping his lips sounding genuine. "I'm looking for you."

 

*   *   *

 

A few minutes later, Lance, Donna, and I were sitting around a tall table with three icy glasses of water in front of us.

"You're an FBI Agent?" I asked. "Posing as a principal?"

"That's hot," Donna said, leaning on her elbow towards the middle of the table. "I'm taken by my own sexy fireman, but this one's not."

Donna pointed at me, and I rolled my eyes. "Don't listen to her."

"What did you say you wanted with Misty, if not her digits?" Donna asked. "I have her phone number memorized from middle school if you'd like it."

"I'm afraid not," he said. "Er—no offense, ma'am. All I meant is that I'm here on business."

I was pleased that my narrowed eyes had unnerved him into backpedaling after his first comment. "What sort of business?" I asked.

"I need to ask you a few questions," he said. "Where were you after the race today?"

"What are you saying?" Donna asked, her voice rising in anger. "What are you implying of my friend here?"

"I'm just asking questions," he said. "If she cooperates, it'll make things much easier."

"What are you getting at?" I asked.

"I can't get into the details," he said. "But I need to know where you were after the race."

"Well, I finished running, then I chatted with Donna—after that, I grabbed a hot dog and came here," I said after a moment of thought.

"Why'd you come here?" he asked.

"Er," I began. I'd started to say I was thirsty, but that wouldn't work out. He'd either think I was thirsty for alcohol at nine a.m. or that I was lying. I was definitely lying, but I couldn't tell him that. "To say hi. We were worried about Mr. Olsen. He wasn't feeling great last night."

"He was supposed to be our starter," Donna budged in. "We stopped by to check on him."

"Stop lying," he said, looking at both of us.

"We're not," Donna and I said at once. There was a cackle of nervous laughter immediately after, which faded quickly.

"I have enough information to bring you in for questioning," Lance said. "I was hoping it wouldn't have to get to that."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "What do you have on me at all?"

Lance leaned forward. "I saw the racing number you were wearing on your chest. I was looking for three bib numbers. Yours was one of them."

"It wasn't her bib!" Donna jumped in.

"Right," Lance said. "What did I say about—"

"We're not lying," Donna said. "The man who was supposed to wear it backed out late last night because he was sick. We were sold out before the event, so Misty was only able to run because I had a last minute extra. I had to actually force Misty to wear it. If she'd had it her way, she'd still be lying in bed sleeping."

"Well, I might be awake by now," I said. "But I would be enjoying a hot dog and not being questioned by a member of the FBI."

Lance paused before asking his next question. When he did, his voice was a bit lighter. "Who was the bib initially registered to?"

"I ran for Chad something-or-other today," I said. "I don't know who he is, never heard of him, don't know his last name."

"Chad Glasser," Donna filled in. "Does she look like a Chad Glasser to you?"

"And I'm just supposed to believe you're not making this up?" Lance asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, yes," I said. A part of me wanted to tell him everything, but the warning from the starter about getting the police involved weighed heavy on my mind.

"I can tell you she's not a Chad Glasser," Donna said, reaching into her purse and pulling out several folded slips of paper. "Here's the roster. You can see the time stamp—I printed it out yesterday afternoon, just before dinner. I manually crossed Chad out because he called last night after I printed it. We had a full race, as you can see."

Lance pored over the list Donna smacked on the table before him. "Hot Dog Days is popular."

"Of course it's popular," Donna said with an offended expression. "Not to mention, I organized the race, and I only organize fun events."

It was my turn to shoot her a disbelieving expression.

"Today was the exception," Donna said.

"You only had one cancellation?" Lance asked.

"Of course," Donna said, leaning over and pointing out the scratched entry. "People don't cancel when they sign up to my events."

"Sorry," Lance said. "I get the feeling I've offended you."

"You have," Donna said. "Stop insulting my events."

"I'm not—"

"Let's just figure this out," I jumped in. "I don't feel like being brought to jail today."

"Of course we'll need to verify this," Lance said, tapping the list with his fingers. "But for now, my gut tells me to believe you."

"Good," I said. "You should."

"But more importantly, whether or not I believe you, I need to get a move on," Lance said, pushing back the chair and standing up.

"So you don't think I've done anything wrong?" I asked, following Lance as he walked towards the door.

"It doesn't matter what I think," Lance said. "I'll find the truth. But if you're lying to me—well, at least I know your name. I can find you."

I frowned.

"Let us help you," Donna said.

"You're not coming with me," Lance said, one hand on the door as he turned to face us.

"Then how will you know Chad Glasser's address?" Donna tucked the paper into her purse.

"I was just going to ask you to kindly volunteer that information," Lance said.

"Chad Glasser's probably not his real name, and it's probably not his real address," Donna said. "But it could give you a clue to who he really is if you enter the details into your computer thingies."

"My computer thingies?" Lance said with a smirk. But he seemed to hesitate. "Like I said, I can legally—"

"Do you have the time?" Donna asked. "All I'm saying is let us drive behind you. We'll wait outside. Come on."

"I suppose I can't stop you from driving behind me and waiting outside," Lance said, extending a hand. "Do you read me?"

Donna and I looked at each other and smiled. He hadn't given us permission, but he also hadn't said no.

Which worked just fine for us.

 

*   *   *

 

We pulled up behind Lance's Ford F-150—which, now that I thought about it, was probably rented. Of course he'd gone with the big truck—he was trying to fit in here. But his truck was too shiny and his wheels too new and his demeanor all wrong for the side street we parked on in Little Plain, a town thirty minutes away from Froggy's.

We'd locked up the bar and made our way across town via the one-lane freeway surrounded by cornfields and cows, before taking an exit to yet another farming community. I glanced around the old city center. We were parked just off Main Street, surrounded by a single gas station with signs specifying Cash Only, a corner market, and a hardware store. The residential neighborhood was still a mile or two away.

"Why did he stop?" I asked.

Donna's phone buzzed before she could respond to me.

"Hello," she said, answering using the Bluetooth feature on her van. "How did you get my number?"

"I'm the FBI, remember?" Lance said. I could see him scanning the town from his perch high in the truck. "I also heard back about Chad Glasser. According to my information, there's nobody living at the address he lists by that name."

"But we're already here," Donna said. "Doesn't it make sense to just check? What if the house is in a friend's name and Chad is crashing on his couch? It's not like we verify addresses when we take registrations."

"True. I don't expect anyone will be there," Lance said. "But I plan to check it out. Alone."

"Can't we come with…please?" I asked.

"No," he said.

"But—" I started to argue, but a dial tone cut me off. "Fine."

"You think a two letter word is gonna stop us?" Donna asked, looking across her van's center console. "Come on. It takes four letters to even get me thinking about backing off."

I smiled at my friend as we pulled away from the curb and followed Lance's truck. "I like your style."

We'd barely fallen silent when Lance pulled over for a second time, parking in a semi-hidden turnoff from the main road. He climbed out of the car, and we did the same, strolling up to him as if we'd planned on meeting him here the entire time.

"I can't get rid of you ladies, can I?" he asked, his voice resigned.

"What do you mean?" Donna shrugged, her eyes wide. "This is public property. We're just going for a walk. You're in our way."

"Right," Lance said. "But Chad's address isn't public property, so you'll have to stay off that."

"Great," Donna said. "We'll be on the sidewalk in case you need backup."

"I don't need backup," Lance said, fishing in his glove compartment. I pretended not to see the gun as he adjusted his jacket over his jeans. "Even if I did, I wouldn't ask you two."

"Watch what you wish for," Donna said, her eyes twinkling. "We got you here, didn't we?"

Lance opened his mouth, then snapped it shut as he started walking towards the house. "Wait outside. Don't go past the sidewalk."

Like loyal puppies, Donna and I meandered over to the sidewalk in front of the mysterious Chad Glasser's house, but we didn't put one hair past onto the lawn. In fact, we did an excellent job of pretending to be two ladies out for an afternoon stroll, walking halfway up the block and back and only glancing at Lance every few steps.

Yeah right. We were completely obvious in our staking out of Chad's house. Hopefully, people driving by would assume we were just checking out Lance. After all, he did have a cute butt.

"Lance went inside," Donna whispered. "Should we follow him?"

I paused and glanced up and down the street. I was pretending to be in thought, but more so I was gauging the number of people in the area. The road was a small one with houses spread out far apart. The chances of someone walking by were slim—Chad's address was a farmhouse tucked back from the road. He didn't have oodles of land and fields, but he did have a yard, which was something I envied. My "yard" in Los Angeles wasn't large enough to hold a stalk of bamboo.

"Let's go to the door and see if he needs help," I said, partially joking. Mostly, I wanted to be nosy and find an excuse to see if Lance had turned up anything.

If someone were to drive by they wouldn't see us unless they were paying serious attention. The house was set back far enough from the road, and a handful of trees guarded the walkway to the front door.

"Yeah, I like that idea," Donna said, walking towards the house. "If someone sees us, we can always pretend to be selling Girl Scout cookies for my kids."

"Oooh, good idea to you," I said as we reached the front steps. "You would make an excellent spy."

Donna grinned at me. "Takes two of us, girlfriend. You should consider coming back here to stay. Imagine the sorts of trouble we could get into."

"I don't have to imagine," I said, raising an arm to knock on the door. "We've done it already. But—I'm considering it."

"Really?" Donna squealed, turning to face me. "As in—serious thought?"

"What are you ladies doing here?" Lance asked, his face turning red as he met us at the door. He ran a hand through his hair as he stood in the entryway to the place.

"I just found out she might move home," Donna said, pointing in my direction. "It's worth a squeal."

"I thought I told you two to wait at the sidewalk," he said.

"We, uh, thought we heard something and came to rescue you," I said.

"Is that someone's foot?" Donna asked, pushing past Lance. My friend had always been inquisitive, but she'd become bolder since she'd had children. Maybe it was a mom thing—I had yet to find out.

"Whoa, that is definitely a foot," I said, following Donna through the front door. She'd pushed a space open between Lance's arm and the doorframe, and I squeezed through quickly before he could block me out.

"Did you do this?" Donna asked.

"Is he dead?" I gasped.

Lance sighed. "No, he's not dead. He's breathing, but he's unconscious. My guess is chloroform. And of course I didn't do it. I found him when I came in."

"When you broke in?" Donna asked, wiggling her eyebrows. She glanced around the small farmhouse. From the entryway we could see a sparsely furnished kitchen, a semi-cluttered living room, and a staircase that presumably led to a second level. "Don't worry, we won't tell. Let us just stay and help while you look through the rest of the house."

"I've looked already. At first glance, it appears nobody else is here," Lance said. He kneeled next to the body of a man with reddish hair and a ruddy face. He wasn't much to look at while he was sleeping, and I couldn't imagine he became a looker when he woke up.

"Is that Chad Glasser?" I asked.

"I'm guessing that's not his real name," Lance said. "I'd venture a guess that this is the man going by the name of Chad, but I can't be sure."

"Who do you think did this to him?" I asked. "Tim, the starter?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Lance said. "But he's a strong possibility."

"Can we take a look around?" I asked.

"I already did. I'm going to call the local police and have them pick up this guy. He's stable now, but he'll need some medical attention eventually," Lance said.

"Hang on," Donna said. "Something's off. I feel it."

"Could it be the unconscious man lying on the floor?" Lance asked, his head tilted towards Chad.

"No," Donna said, strolling in a slow circle around the room. "Look at Chad. He's a single guy, right?"

"I wouldn't know," Lance said. "I need to look into who this guy really is, Chad or no Chad."

"No, I mean look around the place," Donna said. "There's electrical outlets everywhere. There's no gate on the staircase. Not a single toy in the living room. I bet there's no baby bottles in the cupboards."

"Plenty of people don't have children," Lance said. "Myself included. I don't understand what you're implying."

"Oh, you don't?" Donna asked, her face brightening. I knew what she was going to ask, but I was powerless to stop her as she barged on ahead. "So you're single? So is Misty. In fact, Misty's thinking of moving back from Los Angeles very soon. Maybe you should exchange some digits. This is your second chance."

Lance cleared his throat while I glared at my friend.

"Don't listen to her," I said.

"I want to know what she's implying by the fact I don't have children," Lance said curtly.

"If there are no children in the home, then why is this here?" Donna asked, marching into the kitchen. We could see most of the kitchen from the entryway, including a small foldout table and a microwave splattered with the remnants of a quick dinner.

I followed Donna into the kitchen, looking to see what she could possibly be referring to. She was right in the fact that this was no place for a kid.

But when she bent over one of the metal folding chairs haphazardly pushed into the table, I saw her point.

She lifted a tiny Hot Wheels car just as she'd found it on the ground. It'd been upside down on its back, like a beetle stuck with its legs in the air.

"Hm? Any thoughts?" she asked, holding up the miniature car.

Lance and I glanced at each other, confused expressions crossing both of our faces.

"Do you think—" Lance started, but before he could finish his sentence, he fell writhing to the floor, screaming as if someone were ripping his heart from his chest.

"Lance," I yelled, running forward to see what had caused him such pain. I reached out, but when another figure appeared behind him, I stopped, rooted in place by fear.

Lance's spasms calmed as a woman stepped around the corner of an adjoining hallway. She held something that looked similar to a gun in her hand, which was pointed in Lance's direction. She wore a small backpack over her shoulders, rings on every one of her fingers and an expression that dared us to talk.

"Hello, ladies," she said, casting a quick glance down at Lance as she lowered her gun hand. The FBI agent lay still, a low groan escaping as the woman bent over him. She swung the backpack from her shoulders and set it on the ground, quickly pulling a balled sock and what appeared to be a child's jump rope from the pack.

I watched as she inserted the sock into Lance's mouth, then tied his hands behind his back with the rope, the rings on her fingers flashing in the light. At least Lance was alive and bullet-free, which meant he'd probably been hit with a Taser.

As the woman pressed the sock further into Lance's mouth, the man tried to spit it out. She pointed the Taser at him and depressed the button again. Lance screamed once more, the sound muffled by the sock.

"Shut up, or I'll keep it up," Tina said. "I heard you can't knock someone unconscious with these Tasers, but I'm certainly willing to try."

Turning back to us, she nodded at Donna. "You're pretty observant yourself, finding that hot wheels car. Toddy and I were playing out here right before you showed up and ruined it."

"Who's Toddy?" I asked, trying to keep her talking. The lady seemed jumpy with her trigger finger, and anything I could do to keep her mouth moving and her trigger finger still was a good thing.

"Toddy's my son," she said, lazily smiling at us. It seemed she might be the chatty type, as she continued on without a prompt. "You know, it's a bummer you showed up now. And it's a real shame that you brought the cops with you. I thought my husband warned you to keep the cops out of this."

"Your husband?" I asked, glancing towards Donna. "Who's your husband?"

"He's Timmy Drotz. I'm Tina, but those are fake names, so don't worry about remembering them," the woman said, flicking long black hair over her shoulder. She wore bright red lipstick and a lime green top a few sizes too small for her. Huge, gaudy rings sparkled on every one of her fingers, as I'd noticed earlier. "I believe you met Timmy at the race. He volunteered to start it this morning."

"Your husband is the one who ruined my event?" Donna asked, the anger bubbling in her voice.

"Well he didn't ruin it," she said. "If you would've just let things go as planned, then we'd never be in this situation in the first place."

"But where is your husband? Why isn't he—" Donna started.

"He's in the other room keeping Toddy quiet," she said. At Donna's aghast face, she rolled her eyes. "Not like that. He's playing with him in the basement. I can tell you that information, since we won't be here long. I'm gonna knock you down and tie you up like I did this cop, and you'll just forget we were here."

"No," Donna said. "This is wrong. If you need help—if your husband is forcing you into doing this, we can help. It's not your fault."

"It's my freaking plan," Tina said angrily. "Don't give my hubby all the credit for crying out loud. Me and Tim always wanted to get married, but he was too lazy to save up the money for a wedding ring."

"How does zapping an FBI agent solve the problem?" I asked, glancing nervously at Lance. He stirred slightly, and I was reassured that he was still alive and breathing. I wanted to help the man, but at the moment, it was more important to keep Tina distracted and talking. She was so proud of her plan, it was easy to let her carry on while I tried to signal Donna.

"That's just an aftereffect," she said. "Because of you girls, he was gonna start poking around again into our new business."

"How does this help with your wedding ring?" Donna asked.

"How thick are you girls?" she asked, crossing her arms over her tube top. "It's all about the diamonds. A relay called The Running Ring."

"The men with handkerchiefs," I said. "The diamonds shoved into my hand."

"Yes, exactly," she said. "When Timmy and I decided we wanted to get married, I told him to get his butt in gear and find a job. But he found something better. A buddy of his mentioned this group that calls themselves The Running Ring. Some organization that's responsible for getting diamonds from one party to another; a fence, you might call them. In exchange for doing the dirty work, the runners take a cut of the diamonds." Tina shook her hair before continuing. "Tim's buddy did a few other races and was hoping to get into this one. Said the payout was supposed to be good. Turns out, the guy wasn't fast enough or something and didn't get selected for this one. But he did tell us enough to figure out what was happening."

"So you're saying this is happening at other races, too?" I asked. Tina looked like she was getting less excited explaining everything, and I couldn't let the momentum slow.

"Yeah," Tina said. "But you have to be selected to participate. It's not like you can just sign up to join the business. Chad here was selected. He was supposed to be the third leg of the relay, but that didn't work out."

"Why didn't it work out?" I asked, glancing at the unconscious figure we'd first seen in the foyer.

"Because we couldn't have him showing up to the event and running the race," Tina said, walking around and glancing at him. "We gave Chad the same poison—a large dose of lobelia tincture—like we gave that old bartender. I slipped it to Mr. Olsen the other day when I stopped by for a drink; that one was simple, except he's was a tough cookie."

"What about Chad?" I asked.

Tina shook her head again, as if trying to poison someone was a giant pain in her rear end. "We couldn't take the chance with Chad that he'd show up and try to run the thing, so I gave him the same thing. Chad orders dinner—burrito and a coke—from the same place every day. You know something? Just watching someone for a day or two makes poisoning them mighty easy."

"So what'd you do?" I prompted, not wanting her to get bored with us and start twitching that trigger finger.

"What do you think?" She shook her head as if I was a moron. "I just bought the meal about the same time Chad normally would, except I hand delivered it before the actual delivery man. Chad didn't even flinch when I told him I was the new delivery girl. Then I put in a quick cancellation for the real order and…bada bing, bada bang."

"Mr. Olsen was extremely sick, and I'm guessing so was Chad," Donna said. "You could've killed them."

I thought by now that Donna had caught onto my plan to keep Tina babbling on; the woman seemed proud of her plan, and it was clear she had no problem gloating. The longer she talked, the more time we had to size up our options. Lance hadn't moved a whole lot, but he'd been Tasered, bound and gagged, so I figured that was reasonable.

Tina shrugged. "We didn't try to kill 'em. Anyway, I sent Timmy over here to zap Chad as a double whammy. Make extra sure he wasn't running anywhere."

"But why take out Chad in the first place?" I asked. "If your plan was to steal the diamonds, couldn't you have stolen them straight from Chad? After all, you already knew he was involved and would have the diamonds at some point."

"No," Tina said. "That's the whole point. The Ring selects fast runners who need cash. There ain't no way Timmy nor I could've caught up with a sprinting Chad. We needed someone more like…well, like you."

"Are you calling me slow?" I asked.

"Basically," Tina said. "No offense."

"I don't appreciate that," I said. "That's—"

"That's something we'll talk about later," Donna said. "So you poisoned both Chad and Mr. Olsen? How did you know Mr. Olsen's habits?"

"He was a chatty old man," Tina said. "All it took was a few visits to the bar this week, and I had his schedule memorized to a tee."

"He's never chatty to me," I said.

"Probably because you're a troublemaker, and I'm an upstanding citizen," Tina said.

I crossed my arms.

"At least I'm a better actor," she said. "I liked the dude, it's just that I needed him out of the way in order to steal the diamonds. Timmy had to find a way to be close to the runners without causing suspicion. Then I got the brilliant idea that he could carry a real gun instead of one of them fake ones. Nobody even noticed."

"Then you poisoned Chad, which forced him to call in sick to the race last night," I said. "Donna then gave the bib to me, and since the runners don't go by any identification except bib numbers and handkerchiefs, they wouldn't realize I wasn't the right person. I'm guessing the runners don't know each other. A way to keep things anonymous."

 "And I bet all the other runners registered with fake names, too," Donna said. "When you think about it, it's quite clever. Small town races like these don't have time to verify names or addresses. We're just happy that people show up."

"Only thing that went wrong was that you were a little too fast," Tina said. "Timmy tried to nab the diamonds from you during the race, but apparently you just sprinted right on by him." I beamed at the compliment, despite the fact that Tina still held the power in the form of a Taser. "The nature reserve. He tried to grab me then."

"Yeah, and apparently you were so fast you ran right past the fourth leg and confused the shit out of him. But in the event that something goes wrong during the race, the other members of the Ring just bug out," Tina said. "Which is what the last leg did. It's failproof, don't you see? There's no information on the runners except a false name and a bib entry."

I glanced at Donna, everything suddenly coming together. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd been part of a sophisticated method of transferring diamonds from one owner to the next, and I hadn't even known about it.

"Who was on the receiving end for the diamonds?" I asked suddenly. "I bet they're not happy about them disappearing."

"No kidding," Tina said. "But it's not like they could've called the cops and asked what happened to their stolen diamonds now, is it?"

Donna shrugged. "How'd you know I'd give the bib to Misty? What if it went to an even faster guy?"

"Did my research," Tina said calmly. "I had a solid guess you'd give it to one of your kids or the friend you had staying in town. You don't seem like the type to waste a bib entry, and if you handed it off last minute the chances of you handing it to a trained runner in race-shape were small. Chad and the other runners were hand selected as elite participants. Pretty much anyone would be easier to catch than them. The organizers make their selections carefully."

"I'm a trained athlete," I said. I didn't mention trained in the art of burlesque. Maybe I didn't run marathons, but it was hard work dancing day in and day out.

"Whatever. Too late. We've got the diamonds, and now, I gotta get rid of you guys because me and Timmy are gonna get married. We have enough diamonds for a whole wedding, let alone a ring. Probably go to Vegas. I always did wanna get married by Elvis."

"Not fair," I mumbled. "He didn't even have to run. Plus, you guys will get caught."

"I don't think so," she said. "I got ways. You didn't catch me, did you? And I was right under your nose."

"Well, technically we did catch you," I said. "Seeing as how we're all standing here."

"Well, we won't be for long," she said. "I'm gonna zap you two, and as soon as you're out, we'll be on our way. You don't know either of our real names, so there's no need to kill you. But if you start coming after us or remembering all the details of the story, then I might have to change my mind."

"Is that a threat?" Donna asked.

"Of course it's a threat," Tina said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Hang on a second," Donna said, raising her eyebrow. "You choose fake names, and you went with Tina, Timmy, and Toddy?"

I watched Donna edge towards the kitchen sink. I knew she was trying to keep Tina talking, but the woman's eyes flashed up before Donna could get anywhere.

"They got a nice ring to 'em," she said, glancing down at Lance, who groaned. The agent's eyes were shut. There was no way we were getting to his gun. We weren't even getting a knife from the kitchen drawer. Donna and I were stuck.

"Now let us take our winnings and leave," she said, raising the Taser.

"I don't think so," said another voice.

Donna and I glanced at one another. I hadn't noticed the figure creeping up behind Donna, and it took me by as much surprise as it did our captor.

Chad—or whatever his name was—towered behind Tina. He had a ruddy complexion and the lean build of a runner combined with intimidating height. Tina's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Taking advantage of her shock was a simple matter for Chad, and he reached right over her shoulder and snatched the Taser away.

"The cops are already out front," he said. "You left my phone in my pocket, so I called while all of you were in the kitchen. I suggest you don't run. And if you start to call out to—"

"Timmy!" Tina shrieked. Half the word left her mouth before she collapsed to the ground, twitching and screaming, before Chad let up on the Taser. Tina lay in a heap next to Lance, who hardly dared wiggle, even though Tina was in no shape to do much of anything. Chad held the Taser in his hand, as if surprised it had worked when he pulled the trigger.

"Tina, what's wron—" Timmy, the starter, pushed through the door of the secret room that Tina had talked about, and thankfully Chad didn't waste any time zapping the former starter, who yelled bloody murder as he collapsed.

A giggle of laughter erupted from the other room, and Donna and I made eye contact with one another. She rushed towards the open door and returned a moment later with little Toddy scooped in her arms, a cute little boy with dark curly hair. He was busy crashing little Hot Wheels trucks into one another while Donna held him close.

Meanwhile, I rushed towards Lance and untied him, removing the sock from his mouth. Together, Lance and I bound Tina with the rope before Lance snapped handcuffs on Timmy.

"Thanks for the car clue, Sherlock," I said, directing my comment at Toddy. I stood up and joined Donna, tickling the little boy's foot and glancing at his Hot Wheels. I looked up at Chad. "And thank you for helping us out. What is your role in this?"

Chad looked sheepish. "They promised it was legal, I swear. Oh, and the cops aren't here yet. I lied. Someone should call them."

"Who promised it was legal? I asked. "What was legal?"

"I got a slip delivered under my door a few weeks ago asking if I wanted to participate in a relay. I thought it was a scam at first because they offered to pay me a thousand bucks to carry a little package for half a mile. It's not like I'm wallowing in money around here," he said, gesturing towards the sparse house. "So I signed up."

"This is your house?" I asked.

"My name isn't Chad like you thought, it's Harry, but I do live here. This isn't a fake address—the house is registered to me—you can check. I only wrote Chad on my form because the lady I talked to—the one whose number was on the registration form—told me to use a fake name."

"And you weren't suspicious when some lady asked you to sign up for a 5K under a fake name and carry a small baggie of something between two runners?" I asked, hearing the disbelieving tone in my own voice.

"Well jeez, when you put it like that," Harry said, heavy on the sarcasm. Rolling his eyes, he shrugged. "Of course I thought it was sketchy. But the lady who called told me it was a no-strings-attached plan. Nobody had ever gotten in trouble, and as long as I didn't open the package, I hadn't done anything wrong."

"So you were just supposed to run the race, get a package from one man, and give it to another. Then they'd pay you a grand?" I asked.

Harry nodded. "I needed the money—I promise—just don't arrest me. The mortgage is cheap here, but I've been laid off for a year."

"You don't have to justify it to me," I said. "I'm just trying to figure out what happened."

Harry glanced down. "Yeah well, I don't really know what happened after that. Last night I came down with a nasty, nasty bug, sometime after my normal meal of a burrito and coke. I thought it was just the typical pre-race jitters. You know how it goes. Sometimes the bowels get a bit nervous before an event. I've done enough of 'em to know. But this was something completely different. I'd lost about ten pounds of water weight last night, and thought I'd have to go to the hospital. That's when I called in sick."

I nodded, hoping he'd continue but skip over the nitty gritty details of his stomach issues.

"Then this morning, these two show up here. They knocked me right out as I opened the door. Caught me by surprise, plus I was weak from puking all night. Otherwise they wouldn't have stood a chance," he said, taking a moment to flex his biceps.

Donna rolled her eyes.

With a sheepish grin, Chad continued. "After that I guess they just set up shop here, though I don't remember it. I was out cold most of the day, just waking up now when I heard you guys. First time I haven't been puking since last night," he said. Crossing his arms, he peeked at us through guilt-ridden eyes. "I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"I don't know," I said. "Not for me to decide. But on the positive, I don't think you did anything wrong. Technically."

"Plus, it's got to give you bonus points that you helped us and an FBI agent out. Without you here, they might have gotten away," Donna pointed out.

"True," Harry said, his expression brightening.

"But I'd steer clear of sketchy sign-up forms from now on," Donna said, taking on her scolding tone of voice. "It's not safe."

Harry gave a salute. "Yes, ma'am. Lesson learned."

 "So the cops aren't actually here?" I asked.

"No, I'll call them now," he said with a sigh. "It's my house, after all. I suppose I should come clean."

I gave an encouraging nod, noting that Lance was too busy glaring at Tina and Timmy to say much of anything. But the way he cocked his head towards us, it was clear he was listening to the conversation.

"Well this guy's a cutie," Donna cooed, tickling Toddy's chin. "I wonder what will happen to him when mom's arrested." She glanced up, then back towards the baby. "Don't worry, buddy, we'll make sure you're taken care of as best we can."

In response, Toddy zoomed a Hot Wheels car into the wall as fast as possible. He stood up, leaving the cars in a pile of wreckage, one wheel still spinning on top.

 

*   *   *

 

"How can you leave after all this excitement?" Donna asked. "Stay and solve mysteries with me!"

"You have kids to get back to, and I have…" I hesitated. I had a list of things I could say, but none of them were particularly convincing. Instead, I leaned over from the passenger's seat of my best friend's van and squeezed her close to my chest.

In the end, everything had mostly worked out. Harry had been slapped on the wrist and instructed to steer clear of get-rich-quick schemes, but nobody had the heart to sincerely punish him after he'd saved Donna and me from some electrical jolts at the hand of Tina. The Drotz family had also been taken care of, including the baby. I'd heard that he had an estranged grandmother who was actually quite normal, and she was more than happy to care for Toddy as the babe's parents sorted out their own issues…behind bars.

The Running Ring itself had turned out to be an organization that extended much higher than our tiny Minnesotan town, and in fact was the reason Lance had been around in the first place. There'd been rumors the Ring would be active at Hot Dog Days, and he'd been sent to investigate. It was safe to say he hadn't been disappointed.

Though the FBI had a ways to go before they'd be able to locate all the top dogs of the operation, Lance assured me that Donna's and my help had been integral to his investigation, and that he'd gotten plenty of leads he'd be following up on. I suspected that all he'd gotten from Donna and me was a good laugh, but he insisted he'd never have gotten the chance to question Harry, Tina, and Timmy if it weren't for our involvement.

As a thank you, he'd bought Donna's and my dinner before my flight, saying it was the least he could do. Donna had accidentally programmed my number into his cell phone and made him promise to call. I had cowered in silence, secretly basking in the knowledge of just how far Donna would go to see me happy.

When we separated from the hug, her pretty eyes were damp and her cute bob a bit ruffled from my slightly aggressive good-bye hug.

"I'll be back soon," I promised.

"Thanks for making the Fun Run extra exciting," she said with a giggle.

"I'll only come back if you don't force me into running any more races," I said, stepping onto the curb.

Donna blew me a kiss. "I can't make promises like that. After all, didn't you have fun?"

I looked down so that she couldn't see the longing in my eyes. It was always hard to say good-bye because I always had fun with Donna. That's what best friends were for, after all. I looked up and gave a slightly watery smile. "Of course I did."

"Next time you're back, will you stay for good?" Donna asked, her eyes hopeful.

I grabbed the handle of my bag and kicked it onto its rolly wheels. "I think it might just be time for a new adventure," I said with a wink.

"A new adventure called 'coming home'?" she asked.

I grinned. "I can't make any promises. But I think you're on to something."

We exchanged a final wave, and this time, instead of feeling the soul-crushing sadness of leaving a place I loved—a place I once called home, there was a lightness to my step and a hum in my voice.

Maybe it was time. Another adventure was just around the corner—I could feel it.

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

Originally from St. Paul, Minnesota, Gina LaManna has also called Italy and Los Angeles home. At the moment she lives nine blocks from the beach and sometimes runs marathons. After studying numbers and equations in college, she realized multiple choice tests were "just not for her" and began writing books instead. She loves cappucino foam and whipped cream and would subsist solely on sprinkles if possible. She has one imaginary dog.

 

Gina also writes the Mini Pie the Spy! books under pen name Libby LaManna, a children's series featuring an over-enthusiastic little detective, similar in style to Junie B. Jones.

 

To learn more about Gina, visit her online at: http://www.ginalamanna.com/

 

BOOKS BY GINA LAMANNA

 

Misty Newman Mysteries

Teased to Death

 

Lacey Luzzi Mysteries

Scooped

Sprinkled

Sparkle

Salted