Page 8 of Sugar & Shadows

At the discovery, I sighed. Of course.

It was Bitsy Bramble, looking like she’d been up for hours in a purple down parka and matching knit hat. I considered scampering back to my room and locking the door.

But before I could escape, she was being welcomed into the house. “Hello, Bitsy,” my mother said with a big smile. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

The septuagenarian adjusted her purple scarf. “That would be lovely. I’m sorry to stop by so early,” she went on, not sounding the least big remorseful, “but I was nearby. On my morning power walk with the ladies. And we’ve been overwhelmed with worry.”

Mom frowned. “Is everyone okay?”

“Oh yes. Of course. But I heard your daughter is visiting, and I desperately need to speak to her.”

My mother eyed me.

Shrugging, I poured coffee into a mug that read Out of Circulation. Mom had a vast collection of librarian-themed decor.

Bitsy was probably here to shame me for attacking the precious mayor. Maybe I’d be put in the stocks in the town square for defacing the golden boy of Maplewood, Vermont.

“He deserved that taco to the face,” I hollered, lifting my mug.

The elderly woman studied me for a moment, her lip curling, as if in my black silk pajamas, with eye mask pulled up to the top of my head and eye makeup smeared under my eyes, I was not up to her morning standards.

“He probably did.” She shuffled past my mother, holding out her coat. “And I don’t much care for our mayor, so feel free to do what you need to do.”

Huh. I released the mettle I’d just gathered and sighed. I was certain the mob would arrive with their pitchforks at some time today, ready to flay me alive for disrespecting their perfect boy.

“We have a major crisis. If we don’t resolve it, the town will be destroyed,” she nearly shrieked. “And only you can help us, Sabrina.”

I blinked a few times, replaying her words. Yes, I’d barely slept, but I wasn’t hearing things or misunderstanding. Though the situation absolutely resembled that of the plot of a bad action movie.

“Me?” I asked.

“Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her chest. “It’s just been confirmed. We’ve lost the Maple Festival. The town is doomed.”

She pulled up a chair and sat at the table, sighing.

I still wasn’t following, but my mother sank into the seat next to me and jumped in. “What do you mean?”

“My sources at the statehouse informed me, and it appears that Mayor Do-Nothing has also been told. He’s called an emergency town meeting tonight. We’ve lost the festival. All that planning, all the potential revenue, gone. Poof.” She threw her hands up.

“How does a town lose a festival?” I asked, cupping both hands around my mug. “We host it and we plan it. It happens here, on our streets.”

The Maple Festival had been a cornerstone of life in this town for decades. It was Maplewood’s pride and joy, and it created significant economic opportunity for the locals. Citizens emerged from the long Vermont winter, ready to showcase the best of our natural resources. This festival kicked off the activity calendar that took us through the fall and provided most of the income for the town’s small businesses.

“Because.” Bitsy glowered at me, as if annoyed that I wasn’t following along. “There can only be one Vermont State Maple Festival. Our town applies for the license to host it every year, and every year, it is granted. But because maple syrup is so essential to the Vermont identity…” She paused, lacing her fingers, purposefully drawing the moment out.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“There are certain regulations that must be followed. We’ve always hosted. It’s a given. And though we were granted our permit in October, the state has rescinded it and awarded it to another town.”

My mother gasped. “People are already hurting,” she said softly. My mother, despite her diabolical blind date ideas, was deeply empathetic. The two of us had weathered some very hard years after my father passed, that time leaving a lasting mark on her. I didn’t think she’d ever not worry about the future.

“It’s all connected,” Bitsy said, fingering the strand of pearls around her neck. “The murder, the press, that damn influencer. The inn has had cancellations.” She pounded her fist on the table. “Cancellations.”

I frowned. The Thistle Inn was award winning, very fancy, and usually booked a year in advance.

“We will never recover.” Her penciled-in eyebrows shot up. “Did you know real estate prices went down 3 percent last year?”

“People here…” Mom sighed, turning to me. “The last year has been difficult. There is so much economic pressure, not to mention inflation and rising unemployment rates.”