Firecracker Queen

By Cat Shaffer

Betsey Jones never expected to be the oldest contestant ever in the Firecracker Queen contest when she retreated to Michigan and the home of her great-aunt Daphne while she figured out what to do with the rest of her life. But Aunt Daphne and her friends were on a mission to create something the small town needed and Betsey just couldn't say no. What she didn't realize was that Quent Hayes, who she remembered so not-fondly from high school, was going to make the experience even worse. Quent didn't want to be there either. But when he crossed the line with his editor, his punishment was to follow a particular contestant, one MIss Betsey Jones, during the entire pageant experience. What neither of them expected was that the holiday fireworks wouldn't be confined to the town's Fourth of July display.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cammie Eicher
• Release date: Jun 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311112767

Cat Shaffer

Cat Shaffer lives in northeastern Kentucky, close enough to visit her native Ohio from time to time. She lives with a spoiled dog, a bossy cat and neighbors who say howdy when they see her. She is an award-winning author and journalist who loves creating stories that reflect her small town roots.

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Firecracker Queen

By Cat Shaffer

Copyright © 2016, Cat Shaffer

Firecracker Queen

Google Product Type: Fiction>Romance>Comedy

Digital Release: June, 2016

Author, Cat Shafer

Editor, Mark Shaffer

Cover Design by Fat Cat Books

All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

This edition is published by Fat Cat Books, 920 Blackburn Avenue, Ashland KY 41101.

Chapter One

Betsey Jones’ red pencil danced across the term paper she was grading and along the wooden surface of the dining room table.

Say that again, Auntie D. She rubbed the line off the table and took an eraser to the paper. You and the girls did what?

Linked arms and protested in front of the mayor’s office at high noon, Daphne Tidwell’s proud voice repeated. Stopped traffic for a good half an hour until the police chief told us he’d put us in jail if we didn’t move along. We would have stayed, but the girls were afraid poor Esther would get a stroke out there in the sun. She is nearly eighty, you know.

Betsey pushed the papers aside. She was only half-listening to her great-aunt during their weekly phone chat; her attention was more on the papers she had to have graded by morning. But this sounded like something demanding her full attention.

And why did you do this?

I told you once. Aunt Daphne heaved a sigh of exasperation. The Ladies Society wants to buy that big house by the elementary school for an after-school center. That silly mayor of ours decided the town should take it and tear the place down. He wants a new city hall so he can have a big, fancy office.

She lowered her voice as if confiding a secret.

There’s nothing wrong with the one he has now except his window overlooks at vent pipes for the fertilizer factory. Besides, it’s an election year, and heaven knows he has to build his campaign around something besides his record. I swear, he’s the worst mayor this town has ever had. Since we need that house worse than him, we decided to be a little more aggressive in making our position known.

Did it work?

Well, of course, dear. Aunt Daphne gave an elegant little giggle. He was so horrified that this bunch of little old ladies — lifelong voters, every one of us — might get mowed down that he agreed on a town meeting. Ethel called up every single person in town and told them to come. Oh, did I tell you about Ethel losing her teeth when she bit into a piece of Alberta’s pecan pie at the church supper last Wednesday?

Uhhh, no. I’m pretty sure I would have remembered. Betsey pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to chase away the headache building fast. Could you finish telling me about the fight with the mayor first?

Well, we won. Auntie D said with an unladylike snort. That little petunia waver knows better than to mess with us. He’s agreed to wait thirty days before taking it to the council. Mr. Franks down at the bank...they’ve owned the house since Ralphie Hamer died, bless his soul...will give us a year to raise the rest of the money if we come up with the down payment.

How much might that be? Betsey asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

More than we have in the treasury. Lots more, since we’ve only got thirty-two dollars and some odd cents. Frieda has a nephew whose wife bowls with someone with a sister works for some state agency, so we’re good as guaranteed a grant for the rest of it.

I don’t think thirty-two bucks is enough of a down payment. Betsey had to at least try to talk some sense into her aunt, lost cause that it might be. I love all the ladies dearly, but I hope this isn’t another hopeless cause of yours. Maybe you should let the mayor have his way and use your energies for something a little less, well, ambitious.

And hopeless, she might have added but didn’t.

Auntie D made a quick shift in conversational direction, an evasive action all too familiar to Betsey.

Oh, dear, why am I bothering you with this now anyway? her aunt asked. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it when you get here.

Betsey was grateful for the change in subject; the ache spreading across her forehead was getting worse.

By the way, there’s a social the night you arrive, so bring a pretty dress, Aunt Daphne reminded her. Make it something really nice, like that slinky thing you bought for your cruise.

You’re not going to try to fix me up with someone’s great-nephew or the new doctor, are you? Betsey was instantly suspicious.

Darling, don’t be silly. Then Aunt Daphne was off on a new subject, the botched bunion surgery of Martha’s sister-in-law’s brother. Betsey reached for her pile of papers. She’d pass these back in the morning, bid farewell to this final class and get their grades turned in before she left campus. An early start meant she could have a nice, leisurely drive to Michigan in which to prepare herself for a summer with her great-aunt.

She loved Aunt Daphne, she really did. After her parents died in an auto accident, it had to have been hard for the childless widow to take in a grieving teenager to raise. But Auntie D had done so willingly and well. Betsey owed her a lot. And the women’s club, too, for the scholarships they awarded her each year until her college graduation.

Of course, that didn’t make it any easier to listen as her great-aunt rambled on for an hour about people Betsey barely knew. She was sure she’d hear these same stories again as soon as she arrived back in Milford Falls for her annual visit. Probably two or three times per story, since she was spending the whole summer there, not her usual week or two. She had a big decision to make and Milford Falls seemed the right place for contemplation.

So don’t forget to pack it, dear. You will remember, won’t you?

Remember what? Guiltily, Betsey realized she hadn’t the slightest idea what her great-aunt was talking about.

That darling little bathing suit of yours. Impatience colored Aunt Daphne’s voice. Like I just told you, I think it would be wonderful if you’d join the swim club’s water exercise class. It’s done wonders for my arthritis and as I always say, you’re never too young to start worrying about being old.

A surprisingly quick goodbye later, the conversation was over. It was well after ten, Betsey’s ear ached from the pressure of the receiver and she was only half done with the term papers.

She sighed and stretched, raising her arms high above her head before bending forward in her chair to relieve the tension in her back muscles. The twinges she felt as she stretched made her feel guilty. She’d actually kept a New Year’s resolution this year to start eating right and work out. But the hassles of the semester’s end had pushed all that to the background, and she realized it had been at least a week since she’d even gone for a long walk, let alone hit the gym.

Grabbing a piece of paper from the trash, she jotted down a reminder to take her swimsuit along. So she’d work out with old ladies. At least she’d be doing something more productive than downing chocolate chip cookies and watching trashy TV movies.

****

Hey, cheer up, buddy. You’re gonna look great in sequins.

Yeah, but you’d better shave your legs first. You know, for that sexy look.

A wave of laughter followed the good-natured taunts as Quentin Hayes followed the maze of cubicles in the newsroom to his own desk and a respite from the teasing that had been going on all day. The ribbing had started in the morning meeting, where the assignments were handed out. It hadn’t let up since.

Quent didn’t let it bother him. He knew if someone else had been given the story, he’d have started the teasing. That’s how it was here at The Times, and always had been. And in his case, there was the added joy of lo, how the mighty have fallen among his fellow reporters.

He had spent the better part of a decade establishing himself as a no-holds-barred investigative reporter. The series on illegal dumping the publisher put on hold the day before was some of his finest work ever. It also put him in the doghouse once his boss learned Quent had gotten a lot of his source material from the trash cans of public officials and by sneaking peeks at folders on secretary’s desks in city hall.

The bad news had come ten minutes before quitting time. He’d been called to the editor’s office, where he got an earful on the ethics of journalism.

You’re too smart for this. Barbara Baluster smacked her desk with her fist. There are a lot of words I’d have used to describe you, but underhanded and lazy weren’t among them until now.

She’d taken a deep breath and calmed a little before adding, I should fire you. I’ll probably wish I had in the morning. But believe it or not, I think there’s a good, responsible reporter somewhere inside you. We’re going to make an attempt — together — to see if I’m right. Now get out of my sight before I come to my senses and kick you out the door.

It had taken all of Quent’s self-control not to grab one of the monogrammed note pads off Barbara’s unbearably neat desk and dash out a resignation note with one of her special-order pens. If this had come down a couple of weeks earlier, he would have. Trouble was, he’d celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday in fine style. It had taken every dollar from his savings account to slap down the down payment on a black-and-chrome motorcycle, and he’d zoomed up his credit card balance booking a no-refunds adventure trip to Canada.

After he’d learned his punishment this morning, Quent regretted his impulse purchases more than ever, especially when Barbara dumped it on him in front of everyone.

The smirk on her face and the way she’d saved him for last as they’d gone around the table talking about the stories they were working on should have tipped him off. Then again, nothing could have prepared him for the envelope she’d slid across the table to him.

Got a hot assignment for you, Hayes. Barbara had leaned back in her chair and grinned. Something I saved just for you.

Warily, Quentin shook open the envelope. A folded sheet of paper and a dozen wallet-size pictures fell out. He unfolded the paper and began to read until he couldn’t take it anymore.

A stinking beauty pageant in some podunk town?

Oh, no, Barbara said, her eyes dancing with amusement. "You’re going to use all your instincts on this one. Don’t consider it a story, Quent, make it an expose. I want a series. You’re going to become buddies with one of the contestants. Follow her around and show the folks who read our paper just what it takes to be a beauty queen.

By the way, you might want to take a closer look at that news release. I believe you’re acquainted with Milford Falls, aren’t you?

The words I refuse were on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to stop himself from speaking them just in time. It was obvious what Barbara was doing. She wanted him to quit. She didn’t appreciate his initiative on that illegal dump story. Yeah, he might have bent the rules a little, but he hadn’t crossed the line. It wasn’t his fault the project files were left out in plain view, or that the city officials didn’t bother to shred documents before tossing them away. He’d taken advantage of the situation, that was all.

And Milford Falls? Yeah, he’d graduated from high school there but it had only been a temporary stay. His father’s job kept them moving and that wasn’t a town he ever planned to revisit, which made his punishment that much worse.

With any luck, no one would recognize him. He was down fifty pounds from his football-playing days when his hair was so full of blond streaks the dark was barely visible. The jerseys and jeans from that year were long gone. These days he wore button-down shirts, dress pants and ties, usually with a dark dress jacket. He prayed no