Abby L Vandiver [Vandiver - Food Fair Frenzy

Chapter One

Freemont County, Georgia

Annual Possum Pickin Food Fair

I stopped, forkmid-way to my widely-opened mouth, and let my eyes dart around the inside ofthe crowded tent. People had suddenly started moaning and groaning. A handfulof them were bent over grabbing their stomachs. Faces a fluorescent pink, therewere beads of sweat popping up on their foreheads as they coughed and spat. Icouldnt be sure if the droppings of red dribble coming from their mouths werefrom what they ate, or blood.

What the hey...

And then the firstone dropped.

It was a man. Hewore a short-sleeved white shirt, gray pants, and a straw hat that flutteredaway as he fell. He hit the ground hard, clutching his chest. He startedwrithing around in the dirt, grunting and panting, his body twitching,seemingly wrenched in pain. Laying next to him was a red-rimmed paper platewith a slice of pie that looked eerily familiar.

I glanced down atthe plate in my hand. It had a huge slice of flaky-crusted, shiny, sugarycherry pie. Same kind as Sick Guy. The red stain of that last bite stillsmeared across his lips.

Oh crap.

I dropped the forkonto the plate, and chucked it, pie and all, into a nearby 10-gallon, garbagelined, plastic trash can as I trotted over to see about Sick Guy. I reached himjust as another pie partaker hit the dust with a thud and a whimper. A womanthis time her pie sliding across the dirt floor, landing near where I knelt.

How couldsomething that looked so good, be this bad?

I stole a quickglance in the newly sick persons direction. Shed have to wait, I determined,as I dumped the pie off of Sick Guys plate and used it as a fan. He had beenthe first to fall.

Can someone callfor help? I yelled to no one in particular. I was trying to stay calm. Anyonethats not sick, I said, thinking I should clarify. Please, I eked out anoctave higher. Someone, please get some help.

People werestaring at me, the well ones, mouths gaped open, seemingly not knowing what todo. Its the pie, I said, ninety-nine percent sure that it was. We need toget a doctor in here.

Now even the sickones, glassy-eyed, turned to stare at me, silently seeking help as another onehit the ground. Faces confused, pie plates still in hand.

I let out a longsigh and looked around. No one had died yet, thank goodness. But with all thebodies that had been piling up around me in the last few months, I was surethat Death #6 was imminent.

I was inside ahuge red and white striped tent. I had followed a steady stream of fairattendees past a gigantic sign near the entrance flap that had welcomed us toA Plethora of Pies.

It was the 105thFreemont County Annual Possum Pickin Food Fair. My first, and from the look ofthings as I knelt beside Sick Guy, his crimson-colored face pouring with sweat,it would be my last.

A hot August day,clear blue skies and a small breeze off the Savannah, it had been the perfectday to be outside. Lincoln Park, where the fair was located, was filled withscores of tents to visit with a vast array of delectable dishes. I hadnt runinto any possum dishes yet, but then again, I had steered away from themeat-on-a-stick peddlers just in case.

Some contestantshad brought their wares from as far as six counties over, or so Id been told,to enter the coveted contest held every year. Three days of tasting that wouldculminate into a winner in each of the three S categories Sweet, Savory,and On-A-Stick. As I glanced toward the trash overrun with red-rimmed plates, Iwas pretty sure the cherry pie wouldnt make it into the finals.

There were atleast a dozen of pie booths underneath the big top, all with catchy names andofferings of every kind. The sign over the counter at ground zero though, saidit all. It read, Aunt Marthas Cherry Pie to Die For.

Looks like thatsign just may be literal.

And it was a brownhaired, wide-eyed, Aunt Martha, I guessed, that came running. She had emergedfrom a curtain at the back of her pie area that I figured must be used forprep. Her face flush, hands flailing, she was donned in a frilly, salmon pinkapron tied neatly over a yellow blouse, and brown polyester slacks. Her blackorthopedic shoes came to a halt next to the prone body of Sick Guy where shepromptly let out a loud grunt.

Did you call forhelp? I asked glancing up at her from my fanning.

She dropped to herknees and placed her hand on Sick Guys chest, and then looked at me. What inthe tarnation is going on? she screeched.

Seems like yourpie is making them sick, I said.

Isnt thatobvious?

Theres no way mypie did this, she cut a look at me. Youre fine and I just served it to you.

I didnt eat it,I said. Not after it turned out to really be pie to die for.

You hush up now,she hissed at me. Thats ridiculous. My pie couldnt hurt anyone. Aunt Marthasface turned as red as her pie. My pies have won awards. Lots of them. I have acurio filled with blue ribbons, she said, her voice lowered, her tone turningindignant. Ive taken top prize every time Ive entered them in any contest.

Well, I dontthink youll be winning any ribbons this go round, I said halting themakeshift fan over Sick Guy just long enough to wipe his face with a papernapkin I found nearby. In fact, I wouldnt be surprised if you and your pielanded in a jail cell.

She huffed, andwith another grunt pushed herself up from the ground. There is no way my piecould have done this. She brushed her hands over her apron, spun on thicksoled shoes, and marched back behind her counter. Marigold, she yelled.

Can you get some help?I shouted after her as I crawled over to Aunt Marthas second casualty. I sawa medical tent out there. I pointed to the fairgrounds and took to waving theplate in front of the womans face.

Marigold! sheshrieked again.

Why she wasshouting for Marigold? Was Marigold a doctor? Or at least a nurse?

Hopefully she is, I thought as Iwaved the paper plate more fervently. Because as I watched another cherry pieeater hit the ground, I knew I couldnt keep this fanning up much longer.