Fries, Fritters and Fears: Book 7 in The Bandit Hills Series Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  FRIES, FRITTERS, AND FEARS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  Fries,

  Fritters,

  And

  Fears

  Book Seven

  in the

  Bandit Hills Series

  By

  Blair Merrin

  Copyright 2016 Summer Prescott Books

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.

  **This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.

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  FRIES, FRITTERS, AND

  FEARS

  Book Seven in the Bandit Hills Series

  CHAPTER 1

  I head downstairs from my second-floor apartment and open my shop at eight a.m., on the dot, as I do almost every morning. The shop has an interesting aroma to it these days; it’s a not-unpleasant mixture of laundry detergent (from recently-cleaned secondhand clothing), musty attic smell (from boxes of stuff that folks have donated), lavender candles (which I like to burn in the afternoons to soothe any impending headaches) and a hint of smoked meat from Bonnie’s Bodacious Barbecue next-door. It’s an odd scent, but it’s reassuring. To me, it smells like home.

  My shop is called Miss Miscellanea, the only secondhand store in all of Bandit Hills. If that name sounds familiar, it’s because you’ve heard it. We’ve been on the Travel Channel, the History Channel, The Learning Channel, The Sci-Fi channel… if there’s a network that hasn’t done a story on Bandit Hills, I’ve yet to see it. Though admittedly, I don’t watch a lot of TV.

  No one knows why, but Bandit Hills, Tennessee is a magnet for paranormal activity. I was born and raised here, and I certainly don’t know. All I do know is that you get used to it. Bleeding walls, faces reflecting in bathwater, unearthly moans coming from the basement… no biggie. We don’t scare easily around here (most of us, anyway). Like a wild animal that wanders into a backyard, we give ‘em names, like Billy, the ghost that roams the halls of the local motel, pilfering watches and wallets and hiding them in the air vents. Or Charlie, the former mayor that warmly directs lost tourists into town.

  The Halloween season is usually our busiest time of year. Tourists flock down Route 666 and off exit 13 in droves, descending on Bandit Hills like a swarm of locusts, all searching for a legitimate otherworldly experience. Funny thing is, they could get that any time of year; it’s not like our specters are punching a time clock. But I guess Halloween is when most folks are in the mood for that sort of thing.

  Which I should probably mention is today.

  To any outside perspective, it might look like our tourist season is in full swing; plenty of people on the streets, lots of decorations in the storefront windows down Main Street, creepy ghost tours going on all hours of the day… but to the residents of Bandit Hills, this year’s tourist season has fallen a little flatter than normal, largely thanks to a rash of murders that broke out over the past few months here. In fact, one occurred only a few days before All Hallow’s Eve, and tourists went scattering like ashes on the wind. We’re taking a hit, which is pretty disappointing. (Though none of us can really admit that, because it would seem awfully callous; people died.)

  Even the Halloween decorations in my shop are lackluster; I put most of them up with Dash’s help, but since the incident at the Scream Asylum recently, I didn’t have the heart to finish.

  Mom comes in at about quarter after eight, looking fresh as a daisy. She’s a perennial early riser, always has been. Me, I need caffeine to jumpstart my mornings.

  She gives me a kiss on the cheek and a broad smile. “Morning, Cassie. What’s new for today?”

  I decide that Mom’s morning cheerfulness is downright annoying. “We got in three new donation boxes, over here.” I point out the soggy cardboard stack to one side of the register. “Careful though. It rained last night. Those things will fall right apart.”

  Mom shrugs and starts sorting through the items from the previous evening’s donations. See, a little while back I introduced her to eBay, and she plunged into the digital world with gusto. For a little while there I’d thought I lost her for good.

  But then the temporary help I’d hired on for the Halloween season turned out to be a fledgling witch responsible for the impassioned murder of a young woman right here in town, so Mom snapped out of her online reverie and came back to me in full force.

  Guilt will do that to a person, I guess.

  “So,” Mom says as she unpacks a box full of god-awful holiday sweaters, “you never did answer me about Thanksgiving. Are you and Dashiell coming over or not?”

  Sigh. Don’t get me wrong, I truly love my mother—she’s caring, compassionate, and about the best employee I could ask for—but the one downside of having her back in the shop full-time is she has a tendency to dive nose-first into my romantic life. Even a question so seemingly innocuous is bound to be followed up by some prying.

  “Yes, Ma. We’ll be over. Just remember, we have to stop by Dash’s parents’ place too.”

  I started dating Dash about four months ago, and I sort of forgot all the little things that come with a relationship—like having an extra birthday to remember, cooking for two, and meeting the family. Dash is worth it, though. He’s a great guy; easygoing, charming, a bit nerdy, but definitely easy on the eyes. We met back in high school, when he was a skinny guy with an overbite that played Dungeons & Dragons at lunch time, but in the years since then he’s grown into a tall, handsome man that plays Dungeons & Dragons at lunch time.

  He’s a big ol’ lovable nerd.

  “Oh, holidays at both places?” Mom says with a grin. “That is quite serious.”

  “M
a, please—”

  “Maybe this Christmas there’ll be more than just jingle bells playing.”

  “Mom, for real—”

  “Wedding bells. I’m talking about wedding bells.”

  “Mom!” I shout, exasperated. “I get it. But sheesh, don’t you think that’s a little quick?”

  She shrugs. “Neither of you are getting any younger, honey.”

  “I’m only thirty-two! That is not old.” Right?

  Mom smiles cryptically. “Of course not. You take your time and do what feels right.”

  I feel a little queasy. “You don’t think he’d… do you know something you’re not telling me?”

  Mom shakes her head innocently. I don’t believe her for a second. She turns her attention back to folding the horrible wool sweaters adorned with reindeer and puffy Santa Clauses. Tacky as they are, I know they’ll sell quickly. Strange, even though Halloween isn’t over yet, everyone seems to already be looking forward to the next holiday season. I think that all of us shopkeepers and entrepreneurs in Bandit Hills are hoping that the tourist season will ignite again and we’ll bounce back from a subpar Halloween.

  As much as I want to probe further and find out what Mom knows, I don’t get the chance. There’s suddenly a loud, booming knock, three loud hollow thuds like a fist on metal. I jump a little, and Mom and I both exchange a concerned glance.

  “Was that the back door?” I ask her.

  “I’ll check.” She scurries toward the rear of the store, through the small office in back to the metal security door that leads out into a shared alley.

  “Maybe it’s Bonnie,” I suggest hopefully. It’s kind of weird to have someone banging on the back door this early on a weekday. “Or a large delivery?” As I say it, I realize how little it makes sense. Everyone uses the front door, even Bonnie and the UPS guy.

  I follow her to the back as she slides the steel bolt aside and pushes the heavy door open. She just stands there for a long moment, then looks left and right up and down the alley.

  “Mom, what is it?”

  “It’s a… crate.” She steps aside so that I can see out the door. She’s not lying; sitting in the alley just outside our door is a big wooden crate, about two feet high and six feet long. It reminds me of the type of crate used to ship live animals in the movies. Or maybe something from the big warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  “There’s no one out here,” Mom announces. “Whoever left it here is gone.”

  “You think it’s a donation?” I ask her, eyeing up the crate. Maybe it’s because I’m born-and-bred Bandit Hills, which makes me sway a bit toward the macabre, but I can’t help but think it looks kind of like a coffin. How fitting, on today of all days.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Want to open it?”

  “Yes,” Mom agrees.

  It takes me a few minutes of rooting through the office to find a pry bar. We decide, after trying to heft it between us, just to open it in the alley. The top is nailed shut with two-inch carpenter nails, so it takes a lot of effort and about twenty minutes to get the top off.

  “Careful of the nails, Mom,” I tell her as she sets the lid aside. The crate is filled with straw—strange choice of packing materials. What is this, the 1920s?

  “Here, let me get that.” Mom starts sifting through the straw, grabbing great handfuls of it and tossing it into a pile beside the crate. “You’re sweating from opening that thing up. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself with all that—oh!”

  Mom leaps back and lets out a small shriek. Her hand flies to her mouth.

  “What? What is it?” I peer down into the crate.

  A man’s face leers back at me. I jump back as well, the queasiness I felt earlier tripling instantly.

  It’s a body.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Good morning, ladies,” Dash says brightly as he enters the shop. He’s a morning person too, so even at nine a.m. his hair is combed, his shirt is pressed, and his smile twinkles.

  Mom and I both look up at him from behind the counter, our expressions dour. My hands are still trembling a little from the shock of the crate’s contents.

  Dash frowns at me. “Why so glum, chum?”

  “We’ve had a morning,” I tell him flatly. “Worst Halloween prank ever. Some idiot dropped a crate in the alley with a wax man inside.”

  “Wax man?” Dash repeats, confused. “Huh?”

  I point toward the back door and lead the way. Once Mom and I discovered that the man in the crate was not actually a person, but a wax figure, we both cursed up a storm (and I kicked the crate once or twice for good measure), left the crate outside, and came in to make some tea.

  Dash bends at the waist and peers down at the wax figure lying in the crate. Then he laughs out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” I demand. “That thing gave me a heart attack!”

  “Don’t you know who this is?” he asks. At my blank expression, he rolls his eyes and says, “Vincent Price!”

  “Who?”

  “Seriously? Horror film icon of the fifties and sixties Vincent Price? House on Haunted Hill? I Am Legend? The Bat?”

  Mom chimes in with, “House of Wax, The Fly…”

  “Please, stop naming movies,” I tell them both. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Honestly, if it came out before nineteen eighty, I probably don’t know about it.

  “Oh, wow,” Dash gushes. “Okay, we have to have a movie night.”

  “Let’s worry about my lack of horror film culture later. For now, maybe we can figure out why someone left a wax figure of Vincent Price in my alley?”

  Dash kneels beside the crate and inspects it. “There aren’t any distinguishing marks,” he says. “No address labels or names.” Dash is a private investigator, and a darn good one at that. Sometimes the state police will call him in to help out on cases, and he’s traveled as far as Nashville for work.

  But sometimes it doesn’t take a PI to figure things out.

  Mom sifts through the straw and pulls out a beige envelope. “How about this?”

  Dash turns a shade of red as I open it and unfurl the letter within. It’s handwritten, in a messy, scrawling hand.

  “Dear shopkeeper,” I read aloud. “Please hold onto this figure for a short while. Someone will come by to pick him up sometime in the next couple of weeks. Do not sell him. If no one comes to get him by Thanksgiving, do with him as you please.”

  Paper-clipped to the note is a hundred dollar bill, and in black marker, someone wrote “Thanks” on it.

  “That’s it?” Dash asks. “No signature or address or anything?”

  “Nope, that’s it.” I double-check the envelope, which has no writing on it, and then I turn the letter over. “Oh, wait. Here on the back it says, ‘Please do not mention this note or the wax figure to anyone.’ Weird.” I look up at Mom and Dash. “That’s weird, right?”

  Dash shrugs. “It’s a hundred bucks just to keep the crate somewhere.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not a storage service—”

  “It’s not like we don’t have the space,” Mom adds.

  “Why do I let you two be in the same room together?” I ask, mostly to myself. “Fine. We’ll hang onto it. But for the record, this is weird, and we all know that anything even mildly weird usually ends up being ten times weirder around here.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Mom agrees.

  “That’s Bandit Hills for ya,” Dash says.

  “Come on, help me drag this thing inside.”

  ***

  A short while later, Bonnie comes into the shop for her usual morning shopping routine. Bonnie has been my best customer, ever since her husband passed away a few years back. She owns a boarding ranch on the outskirts of town, but the duties of running it have largely fallen to her adult son Steven, ever since Bonnie found a newfound passion in cooking (thanks to an odd, old, handwritten recipe book that I gave to her out of a r
andom donation box).

  For the past couple months, she’s been engrossed in her food, and just a little more than a month ago she opened Bonnie’s Bodacious Barbecue right next door to me… which is good and bad. It’s good because I get to share a wall with someone I like, and it’s good because Bonnie frequently comes in with samples of her latest concoctions. It’s bad because her food is so good I could eat it breakfast, lunch, and dinner… except I have this annoying need to fit through doorways.

  “Happy Halloween! Got something for you,” Bonnie announces excitedly to the three of us. She peels the aluminum foil off the plate she’s carrying, revealing steaming morsels of fried chicken. The scent alone is enough to make me want to shove my mother and boyfriend aside, steal the plate, and make a run for the border. “Deep-fried fritters,” she tells us. “Thirteen different spices. Bet you can’t guess ‘em all!”

  “Bet I can’t,” I agree as I help myself. Who cares if it’s not even ten in the morning? Anytime is a good time for deep-fried. I take a bite; the outside is crispy and flavorful, with a hint of spice and a number of flavors dancing across my tongue. The chicken inside is moist and tender. It’s easily the best fried chicken I’ve ever tasted, and I consider myself something of a connoisseur.

  “And what have you got for me?” Bonnie asks, passing the plate to Mom.

  I shrug. “Let’s see… some ugly Christmas sweaters, a bridesmaid dress—only worn once—uh, I think there are a few new knick-knacks…”

  “A wax Vincent Price,” Dash mutters.

  Bonnie laughs. “A what?”

  I roll my eyes and quickly recount the tale of the crate containing the leering (and apparently iconic) wax actor. Bonnie insists on seeing it, so I show her to the rear storage room, adjacent to our little office, where Vincent lies on his back in the crate, staring skyward with his oddly-arching eyebrows and pencil mustache.

  “What a strange thing to get on Halloween,” Bonnie muses.