Page 43 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

Vivi, on the other hand, was dressed like a ranch hand who'd just cleaned up after shoveling horse shit for the better part of the morning.

Which she had. With gloves this time.

The door slid shut and she felt every eye snap to her, like she'd just floated down from Jupiter and forgotten to wear a Hi My Name Is sticker.

Spud had told her the fastest way to drum up help was to become part of the town itself. And the fastest way to do that was to throw one back with the Bridlewood Regents.

The meeting was already in progress, so Vivi took a velvet-covered seat in the back and told herself she was just there to observe small-town customs. She perched on the edge, nearly toppling over, clipboard balanced precariously on her knee, trying to look like she belonged.

"The hotdog contest needs a referee," someone hollered toward the back of the room. "Any takers?"

Not a single hand went up and a heavy silence settled over the room like overcooked gravy. A sixty-something woman at the front in a crisp yellow pantsuit, clutching her pearls like they were six generations old, stood with an entitled confidence that told Vivi she was Maribelle Whitmore, who according to the agenda she’d picked up on the way in, was the presiding General of the Bridlewood Regents.

"Surely we must have someone who can help," Maribelle said.

"Last year was a disaster," said a plump woman behind the bar, whom Vivi assumed was Lottie. She was dressed in a pink pantsuit from the Charlie's Angels era, with flyaway platinum-blonde Farrah Fawcett hair. "I think it was because of the management."

"She's just saying that because I was running it."

It took Vivi a moment to realize the voice was coming from the large-screen television that hung over the bar, between a life-sized neon pink flamingo holding an umbrella and a chalkboard listing the Happy Hour specials.

According to the sign, Happy Hour began at noon and ran until six—half-off 'tinis and eight-dollar wine flights. Below that were the bar's specialty drinks: the Cluck-a-Colada, the Coupe de Grace, the Picky Chickie, and finally the Cock-Will-Doodle-You—which came with directions, a bib, a warning, and was served in a mini trough.

The face behind the screen—a dead ringer for Lottie and therefore almost certainly Dottie, was dressed like a biker who was likely packing, with long silver hair tied in a braid and sun-chapped skin earned from years of riding at high speeds in the high afternoon sun.

"She's just saying that because I was running it," Dottie repeated.

"Can someone remind her," Lottie began, refusing to look at the screen and speaking as if her twin weren't in the bar next door on Zoom, "that some fool ate so many dogs he ended up hurling all over the judges? I'm talking—splat—all over the ribbons, the tablecloth, the judges' shoes. Never seen anything like it in my life, and I've been going to that fair longer than most of you've been walking upright."

A few of the older ladies clucked their tongues in agreement.

Vivi blinked, mouth half open. "That actually sounds horrifying," she muttered under her breath—clearly not as quietly as she thought.

"Exactly my point!" Lottie barked, slapping her hand on the table. "We should just cancel the whole thing before we have another splat-fest."

The room buzzed with murmurs. Maribelle held up her hand. "All in favor of nixing the hotdog-eating contest this year?"

A chorus of "aye!" rang out.

"Opposed?"

Dottie's arm did not go up, but she wasn’t happy about it—and the way she flipped her switchblade open to clean her nails told the room exactly how she felt about the vote.

"Well, that's unanimous," Maribelle declared. "Hotdog-eating contest is canceled. Looks like we're saving our judges' shoes this year, ladies."

Vivi exhaled and scribbled a note on her clipboard: No hotdog disasters. Good town. Respectful judges. Maybe I can survive this after all.

"On to face painting!" a familiar voice called out. It was Rea and she was at the front, perched on a barstool like it was a throne.

Maribelle clutched her hand to her chest in horror. "It is tradition that the General Regent presents the next item on the agenda."

Rea didn't even look at her. "Tradition is simply peer pressure from the dead."

Maribelle gasped. "You cannot say things like that aloud."

"And yet, here we are."

"This is a formal event," Maribelle insisted. "There is an order."