Berried Alive Page 4

  “OK,” the mayor said. “Thank you for your input, Big Dan. Would anyone else like to speak?”

  “How about Rosenberg?” Teeny said. “He’s sitting right there, but he hasn’t said a word. What’s wrong, big fella? Is your suit so tight you’re afraid you’ll pop a button if you talk?”

  Hank Rosenberg stood, still smirking, and took the podium. He leaned in close to the mic so his voice boomed when he spoke. “My associate and I have prepared a statement.”

  Rosenberg gestured for Sudeer to take the mic.

  Sudeer pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and read it aloud. His throat sounded dry and hoarse.

  “Rosenberg and Associates is only here as a courtesy. Uh. We... Uh... We are not here to...”

  “Louder!” Rosenberg said. “Come on, Sudeer. I don’t pay you to dweeb around. Make yourself known!”

  Sudeer continued. He did not sound much louder.

  “You know what? Forget it. I’ll talk.” Rosenberg bumped Sudeer out of the way and took the mic. “OK. Hi again, people. Look, I’m only here tonight to engender good will with the people, at the mayor’s behest. But we already have her support. And that’s all we need. So... I’m going back to my house to eat cheese flavored crackers and scratch myself. Got it? Great. Bye now.”

  Rosenberg headed toward the exit and the audience erupted in a loud chorus of boos. Rosenberg turned back to the crowd right before he left and took a big, dramatic bow.

  And that was the last bow he’d ever take.

  6

  Taking the (Brief)Case

  SUFFICE IT TO SAY, the people of Pine Grove were not happy with how the town hall meeting went down.

  The mayor and Sudeer left right after Rosenberg departed. But the vast majority of those in attendance stayed for over an hour after to discuss possible solutions.

  Teeny suggested that we form a human chain and tie ourselves to the Rosenberg Building to prevent the demolition. Arthur suggested we hire our own demolition crew to destroy Rosenberg’s house. Big Dan casually surveyed people about their favorite kind of donut, taking careful notes on his phone.

  Miss May, meanwhile, tried to keep the whole thing from running off the rails. Miss May was a woman of action. She didn’t want to spend any valuable time entertaining the impotent rage of a mob. Unfortunately, that night, not even she had any idea what to do.

  When the barn cleared out, I wanted to talk to Miss May. But she looked concerned and distracted. So I cleaned in silence for half an hour as she stacked the chairs, occasionally muttering to herself.

  Then, after I couldn’t find any other nook or cranny to clean, I crossed to Miss May and asked the Massive Mart-sized question on both of our minds...”Do you think we’re going to be able to save the town?”

  Miss May let out a deep, long sigh. “I don’t know. We only have one business day before those bulldozers arrive. And I’m not sure Rosenberg is a man who can be reasoned with.”

  “Do you think the Massive Mart will be as bad as everyone thinks?”

  “Not necessarily,” Miss May said. “Maybe Rosenberg and the mayor are right. Maybe big stores like this are part of progress. The good comes with the bad.”

  “But a Massive Mart...” I said.

  “It’s not good,” Miss May said. “I know. I’m just trying to see the bright side.”

  “Other than cheap toilet paper?”

  Miss May laughed. “Yes. Other than cheap toilet paper.”

  I crossed the room to grab a few more folding chairs. And that’s when I spotted a briefcase sitting under one of the chairs in the front row.

  I grabbed the briefcase and held it up to Miss May. “Someone left this. Any idea who?”

  Miss May hung her head and let out a small chuckle. “That’s Rosenberg’s.”

  I walked toward her, carrying the case. “It’s really heavy. Are you sure it’s his?”

  Miss May nodded. “I saw him enter with it. We must have had him more flustered than he let on. He hasn’t even noticed it’s missing yet.”

  I put the briefcase down on a folding table. Miss May and I stood over it and neither of us spoke for almost a minute. I wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking.

  “He might have sensitive materials in there. Materials that could help us try to get that Massive Mart shut down,” I said. “I guess that means we should... return it?”

  “What else would we do?” Miss May asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Pry it open. Blackmail him? Look for something we can use to stop the demolition?”

  Miss May chuckled. “That’s crossing a line, Chelsea.”

  “I know. But so is he.”

  Miss May picked up the briefcase and handed it to me. “You want to bring it over to him or should I?”

  “I’ll do it. You go to bed. It’s been a long day.”

  Miss May smiled. “You were up before me, baking cinnamon buns. How about we go together?”

  I nodded. “OK. I’ll drive.”

  Five minutes later, Miss May and I were on our way to Hank Rosenberg’s house in my sky-blue pickup (which I had purchased from none other than Big Dan).

  We called Teeny to see if she wanted to come along for the adventure before we left, but the call went straight to voicemail.

  As we drove, it started to rain. Hard. The roads were slippery, not to mention creepy. The air hung heavy with fog and the deluge obscured the road in front of us. Things only got creepier as we neared Rosenberg’s mansion.

  Rosenberg lived down a long, wooded street in the next town over, and his was the only house on the block. At first the house couldn’t be seen through the fog. But as we pulled up the driveway, the home came into view. The place was a two-story, stone castle. Ivy covered the facade and an eerie grey mist circled a turret at the far end.

  According to Miss May, this house had been a monastery in the 19th century and had been abandoned for nearly one hundred years before Rosenberg moved in. Ironic, I thought, that a man so determined to destroy the small-town authenticity of Pine Grove should live in such an ancient home. But I was confident that the irony was lost on Rosenberg. The place was impressive. And that had to be the only reason Rosenberg wanted to live there.

  “Does Rosenberg live here alone?” I asked.

  Miss May shook her head. “He’s married. But I’ve never met his wife.”

  As we got closer, I sensed something off with the house. It looked pale and almost like a papier mâché replica. That’s when I realized... Rosenberg’s castle had been covered in toilet paper. Long sheets of TP were strewn over the trees and across the sloping rooftops. And forty or fifty rolls had been used, if not more.

  I parked the car and leaned sideways to get a good look. “Oh my goodness. Do you think someone from town did this?”

  Miss May sighed. “I’m sure someone from town did this. Probably an adult. What a disgrace.”

  “It’s kind of funny,” I said. “I mean... After all that talk about toilet paper.”

  “It’s not funny. It’s juvenile and against the law.”

  “Hand me the briefcase,” I said. “I’ll go give it to him.”

  Miss May shook her head. “No point. Rosenberg’s not home. Neither is his wife.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How else could someone have gotten away with all this toilet paper? Besides: no car in the driveway. No lights on in the house.”

  “OK. So I’ll leave it on the front door.”

  Miss May shook her head. “We can’t just leave it there. If people are willing to TP his house like this? The briefcase won’t be safe on the front steps.”

  “Miss May, come on! It’ll be fine! And so what if it gets stolen? We’re doing the right thing. We’re bringing it here. After that, it’s out of our hands.”

  “But it’s in our hands right now. And leaving it unmonitored on an empty stoop is not the right thing.”

  Miss May glared at me. I hated going out of my way to do a fa
vor for Hank Rosenberg. But I knew she was right. So I clunked the car back into gear and pulled down the driveway.

  “Where do we go next?”

  Ten minutes later, Miss May and I were parked behind the Rosenberg Building, at the bottom of a hill that Hank planned to turn into a parking lot.

  A construction trailer sat at the top of the hill with a light on. But rain poured down, so the path up the hill to the trailer was muddy.

  I looked up the hill and cringed. “There’s no way my truck’s going to make it up that hill,” I said. “It’s mudslide city. You’d think Rosenberg would put his construction trailer somewhere less precarious. Oh well! Guess we’ll just come back tomorrow.”

  Miss May laughed. “Not so fast. You’re wearing your rainboots, right?”

  “Yeah. But they’re my super cute yellow ones. I don’t want to get actual mud and rain on them.”

  Miss May handed me the briefcase. “Then take ginger steps.”

  I groaned, took the briefcase, and climbed out of the truck.

  Once I got about halfway up the hill to Rosenberg’s trailer, the rain slowed. I exhaled in relief, but my respite was short-lived. Seconds after the downpour let up, it returned with doubled intensity. Thunder clapped. Lightning jabbed the horizon in front of me. I liked the rain, yeah. But this was not ordinary rain. And there were no cinnamon buns awaiting me at the top of the hill.

  I looked back down at the pickup truck. Miss May was sitting safe and dry inside and every bone in my body screamed at me to turn back, run down the hill and drive away. Except for my sage little pinky toe bone. My pinky toe said, “Keep going, Chelsea! You can do this. Show yourself that you can be brave.”

  OK, maybe my pinky toe didn’t say all that.

  The point being, I didn’t turn around. I kept trudging up the hill. The next step I took, I slipped and fell onto my elbow in the mud. My elbow shrieked in pain, demanding that I “stop this nonsense right away!” But my pinky toe said, “Nope, you got this! Shut up, elbow.” So I got right back up and resumed my trudge.

  Boom! Another thunderclap.

  I tried not to jump out of my cute yellow rainboots, but it was tough. I could only see a few inches in front of me. And my only reward for making the trek would be the opportunity to face the villainous Hank Rosenberg. Still, the light on in the trailer pulled me forward like, well, a beacon up on a hill.

  Boom! Another thunderclap. Another stab of lightning. All I could hear was the sound of my own breath and the persistent, raw melody of the heavy metal blasting from Rosenberg’s trailer.

  I looked down and stomped my way up the rest of the hill.

  Before I knew it, I was face-to-face with the door of the trailer. The heavy metal roared from inside. And it blended with the sound of the thunder to create an unsettling cacophony.

  “Hello? Mr. Rosenberg?”

  No answer. Just like I expected.

  Just like all the other times I had discovered a dead body.

  I gulped and shoved that thought away. Rosenberg wasn’t dead in the trailer. He had loud music on so he couldn’t hear me. It made perfect sense.

  Unless he was dead.

  “Is anyone in there?”

  Metal lyrics. Something about death. Something about revenge. Something about blood spilling on the earth.

  My hand reached out and tried the door.

  Why did it have to be open?

  I opened the door. The music was sounded like a thousand chainsaws singing Christmas carols. And the florescent lighting was so harsh, I had to close my eyes to adjust to the brightness.

  After a few seconds, I opened my eyes, stepped inside...and stubbed my toe.

  That hurt. But I didn’t have time for self-pity. Something was wrong. And I had to find out what.

  So I looked up from my throbbing toe and scanned the trailer.

  And that’s when I saw him.

  Hank Rosenberg. Face down in a slice of Miss May’s every berry pie.

  Not moving. Not breathing.

  Not living.

  Hank Rosenberg, the most hated man in the history of Pine Grove, was dead.

  And he had totally ruined that every berry pie.

  7

  Trailer Tragedy

  I SLIPPED AND FELL three times running back down the hill toward Miss May. But when I exploded back into the pickup, my aunt was as calm as could be, playing a game on her smart phone.

  “Miss May!” I panted, out of breath.

  She held up a finger. “One sec. I’m just about to beat this Uzbek woman in Words With Friends.”

  “Hank.” Gasp. “Rosenberg.” Gasp. “Rosenberg is-is-is...”

  Miss May didn’t look up from her phone. “Rosenberg is what?”

  I took a few seconds to catch my breath. Miss May looked up at me. We made eye contact. As soon as she saw the look on my face, she knew.

  “No!”

  I nodded.

  Miss May hung her head. “Another dead body? For real!?”

  “Everyone. Everyone hated. They hated him.” I coughed, still out of breath. Miss May handed me a bottle of water and I took a big swig.

  “The toilet paper on the house wasn’t enough, I guess.” Miss May sighed. “Poor guy.”

  I hung my head and stared down at my muddy boots. My eyes watered. Miss May put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey. Hey. It’s OK. Look at me. Chelsea. Look at me.”

  I looked up.

  “We’ll catch whoever did this. You know that, right? And I already have an idea where we can start.”

  “You do?” Leave it to Miss May to have a theory before the body was even cold.

  “Right after you went in there, someone exited out the back.”

  My eyes widened. “Wait. What? And you didn’t stop them? That person... That’s the killer!”

  Miss May threw up her hands. “I figured it was a late-night employee or something. And there’s no way I could make it up that hill with any kind of speed. Not with my ankles. Knees. Back. Or hips.”

  “So the killer just...”

  Miss May nodded. “They got away.”

  My face turned white. “They could have gotten me, too. If I had walked into that trailer a minute sooner...”

  Miss May grabbed my hand. “Hey. But they didn’t get you. Right? You’re OK.”

  I nodded. “I guess so. Yeah.”

  Miss May shook her head. “I shouldn’t have sent you in there alone. You’re not my go-for. We’re a team.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “You’re the brains. I’m the braun.” I flexed my bicep. It was a pitiful display but Miss May smiled.

  “Did you get a look at the person?” I asked. “Man, woman, young, old? Anything?”

  Miss May shook her head. “It could have been Bill Clinton playing the saxophone for all I know. All I saw was a shadowy figure. That’s it.”

  I pulled out my phone. “Alright. I’ll call the cops. Tell them what we—”

  Miss May grabbed my arm. “Slow down, Chels. Whoever that was is long gone by now.”

  “But we can still call the—”

  “We will call the cops,” Miss May said. “After.”

  “After what?” I asked.

  Miss May took a deep breath. “After I get a look inside that trailer.”

  MISS MAY AND I CLIMBED back up the hill, one careful step at a time. My body was so pumped full of adrenaline, I navigated the slope with ease.

  Miss May, however, struggled. She climbed most of the hill standing sideways with her arm held out in case she fell. After about ten steps she took a break to rub her knees and groan. After ten more steps she took another break, that time to curse her “Irish ankles.” But after about fifteen minutes, we made it to the top.

  Miss May and I paused when we reached the foot of the trailer. The rain, thunder and lightning had stopped. But the heavy-metal still blasted from inside. And the lyrics were still about death, and vengeance, and blood.

  Fun, right?


  “I never took Rosenberg for a screeching guitars and pounding drums kind of guy,” Miss May said.

  “Maybe that’s mood music, set by the killer.”

  Miss May clucked her tongue. “So morbid, Chelsea.”

  “What? Killers can have panache.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Miss May said.

  The heavy metal singer belted something about blood coming out of someone’s ears.

  I swallowed hard. “Can we go inside already? Get this over with?”

  Miss May nodded. “I’ll go first.”

  On my initial visit to the trailer my inner sleuth had been overcome by my inner scaredy-cat. So I hadn’t taken much time to investigate the crime scene or search for clues.

  But when I re-entered the trailer, that time with Miss May, I looked around to take it all in.

  The unit was small and rectangular. To the left, a ratty tweed couch, covered in blueprints, hardhats, and tools. To the right, a small folding table. More papers. A plastic cup.

  And, oh, that’s right. Hank Rosenberg, dead in an Every Berry Pie.

  The heavy-metal blared from an old fashioned boombox on the table beside Hank. Weird, to call a CD player old-fashioned. But accurate.

  Miss May crossed to the boombox and paused the music.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Not that I can’t get into a shredding guitar solo, but I don’t think that music is appropriate for this moment.”

  “I don’t think it’s appropriate for any moment,” I said. “But you’ve always had more adventurous taste than me.”

  Miss May turned in a slow circle as she surveyed the trailer.

  “Pretty empty in here,” I said. “Don’t you think? Not too many clues. So maybe we can leave?”

  “It does seem rather empty,” Miss May said. “But this is our one opportunity to check out the scene of the crime before the cops come in and ruin it. We need to be careful. Methodical.”

  I shivered. “But there’s a dead guy right there.”

  “Which is how I know there are clues in this trailer.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like there’s no back door,” Miss May said. “Remember? The person I saw emerged from the back of the trailer. Which means they had to use that window.”