Chapter 17
Callie
I’ve got three days to dismantle thirty years of bullshit, and I’m starting with the witnesses. The problem with Cedar Ridge is everyone knows everything but nobody admits to anything. It’s a town built on open secrets and closed mouths. Time to pry those mouths open.
“Callie Thompson. Here to arrest me for something?”
“Here to offer you redemption, actually.”
“I’m 78. Little late for redemption. Also, not interested. Redemption requires effort. And admitting you made a mistake. I learned something from all my years on the bench and that was to never admit guilt.”
“It’s about the chili competition. 1994.”
His face goes through several expressions including confusion, recognition, panic, and resignation before landing on defeat. “Oh hell. You found out.”
“Yeah, I found out. I found out judges aren’t that good at math.”
He sighs and lets me in. “That’s why I went to law school instead of becoming an engineer. Never could do math.”
His living room is a shrine to his judicial past, full of certificates, gavels, and a strange number of ceramic cats. The coffee table is covered in TV Guide magazines from the last decade and plastic houseplants.
“I was drunk during that competition,” he admits, settling into a recliner that’s molded to his body shape.
“Not slightly tipsy. Not buzzed. Drunk. Completely shitfaced. Some local lady had her ‘special’ punch at the pre-competition mixer. The one with the grain alcohol she pretends is just fruit juice.”
“So you just... guessed at the score?”
“I wrote down numbers that seemed reasonable. Your family got 27, McCoys got 29. Might have been the other way around. Might have been both 28. Hell, might have been both 30. I honestly don’t remember. I do remember throwing up behind the porta-potties.”
“And you never said anything? When the feud started? When people started shooting? Metaphorically?”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, I was too drunk to do basic math and now your families hate each other’? Besides, by the time I sobered up, the shooting had already started.”
“Someone actually shot at someone over chili scores?” I was just using that as a figure of speech.
“Warning shots. Mostly. Your family has excellent aim when motivated. Any one of them could shoot the hat off a man at fifty yards. Ask me how I know.”
“How do you know that?”
“Personal experience. I was wearing the hat.”
Jesus. “And you just... let this go on all these years?”
“Look, by the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. Your families were committed to hating each other. It gave them purpose. Something to do besides complain about cattle prices and weather.”
I pull out my folder of evidence, slapping it on his cluttered coffee table. “I need you to tell the truth. At the festival. Publicly. On stage. With a microphone.”
“Absolutely not. I have a reputation to protect.”
“What reputation? You’re known for falling asleep during trials and hitting on the court reporter.”
“Exactly. A reputation. Not a good one, but mine.”
“I’ll bring pie.”
He perks up slightly. “What kind?”
“Apple. My mom’s recipe. The real one, not the one she gave to the church cookbook.”
He considers this, picking up and turning over one of the ceramic cats. “That’s the recipe with the secret ingredient?”
“Brown butter and cardamom.”
“Make it two pies and I’ll throw in details about the punch recipe. And the fact that I wasn’t the only judge who was drunk.”
“Deal. But you’re wearing pants to the festival. Real pants, not pajama bottoms you think look like pants.”
“Fine. But I’m not wearing a tie.”
“Wouldn’t dream of asking.”
Next stop is Mrs. Abernathy, who ran the church pantry in 1994 and still does because nobody else wants to deal with it. She’s essentially held the position hostage for three decades through a combination of competence and intimidation.
I find her in the church basement, organizing donations. Everything is labeled, categorized, and arranged by expiration date. The irony is not lost on me.
“Callie! Here to donate?”
“Here to ask about mayo.”
She freezes mid-can stack. The cans tumble, creating a symphony of aluminum against concrete. She doesn’t pick them up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Batch 447. Expired April 1994. Used at the chili competition in the potato salad. May 1994.”
More cans fall. It’s becoming an avalanche of guilt and green beans. “How did you—”
“I found the health department reports. The ones that were mysteriously filed under ‘Miscellaneous Bird Incidents.’”
She sits down heavily on a stepstool. “It was an accident. The mayo looked fine. Smelled... mostly fine. I thought expiration dates were suggestions.”
“You gave everyone food poisoning?”
“Just mild intestinal distress! And only the judges. Well, and some spectators. And that one dog. But he was fine! Eventually. After the vet pumped his stomach.”
“And when my family blamed the McCoys for poisoning them?”
“I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to get sued,” she says.
“I know. My family holds grudges and weapons with equal enthusiasm. So, will you admit this publicly? At the festival?” I ask.
“Will I be lynched?”
“Probably not. I’ll protect you. And there’s pie in it for you.”
“How much pie?”
“How much truth?”
“Full truth? The mayo, the fact that I also mixed up salt and sugar in the cornbread that year, and that time I accidentally served the Baptist women’s group pot brownies?”
“That last one’s unrelated.”
“But hilarious.”
“Two pies for the mayo confession. The rest stays between us and God.”
“Three pies and cookies.”
“Fine. But you’re bringing documentation.”
“I saved everything. I have a file. It’s labeled ‘Evidence of My Sins.’ Very organized.”
Last stop is Dr. Jamison, the old vet who’s been retired for a decade but still shows up at the clinic to criticize the new vet’s techniques and tell anyone who’ll listen about how things were better in his day.
He’s feeding pigeons in the park, which seems about right for someone with too much time and not enough hobbies. The birds swirl around him, and he’s talking to them.
“Dr. Jamison. Need to talk about a bull.”
“Which bull? I’ve treated hundreds. Thousands if you count the artificial insemination consultations.”
“The one that destroyed our fence in 1994. The one my family thought was sabotage.”
He throws more seed. “Oh, that bull. Big fellow. Meaner than a rattlesnake with hemorrhoids.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“That bull had grain poisoning. Bad feed from a supplier who was cutting corners. Added too much urea, trying to boost the protein content cheaply. Nothing to do with the McCoys. That bull would’ve charged anyone. Hell, it charged a tree later that week. The tree lost.”
“But you didn’t say anything when people blamed the McCoys?”
“I wrote a report. Filed it properly. Three copies. Not my fault nobody read it.”
“Where did you file it?”
“With the county. And the clinic. And I gave one to your dad.”
“He had the proof this whole time?”
“If he kept it. If he read it. If he wanted to believe it. Big ifs with Thompson men. You should know this,” he says.
“Will you tell people this at the festival?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Pie and the chance to be right in public. You love being right in public.”
“True. I also love pie. What kind?”
“Apple. The good recipe.”
“The one your mom used to win the county fair?”
“That’s the one.”
“Deal. But I also want credit for correctly diagnosing that outbreak of sheep scours in ’98. Everyone said it was parasites. I said it was copper deficiency. I was right.”
“Fine. You can have a whole ‘I was right’ moment.”
“Excellent. I’ll prepare remarks. With visual aids.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late. Already planning.”
Three witnesses. Six pies. Countless cookies. One dead feud.
Back home, I’m surrounded by index cards, evidence folders, and the growing realization that I’m about to blow up my life in front of the whole town. My bedroom looks like a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream with papers everywhere and strings connecting different events.
“Good afternoon, Cedar Ridge,” I practice to my bedroom mirror. “I’m here to tell you that everything you believe is bullshit.”
Too aggressive.
“Fellow citizens, I come bearing truth.”
Too political. And obnoxious.
“Y’all have been idiots for thirty years.”
Too honest. Also, might get me shot.
“Hey, everyone, funny story about mayo...”
Too casual.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to bury a feud.”
Too funereal. Though accurate.
Rita wanders in and immediately goes for my index cards.
“No! These are important!” I try to save them, but she’s already eaten the introduction.
“Fine,” I tell her as she swallows my carefully crafted words. “I’ll wing it. Probably better anyway. Scripted Callie doesn’t sound so good anyway.”
I look at my remaining notes about expired mayo, bad math, a sick bull, and thirty years of unnecessary drama. But there’s something else I need to address. Something that’ll really set this town on fire.
I pull out my phone and text Dad.
Me: You ready to go public with Mrs. Delaney?
Dad: Do I have a choice?
Me: You always have a choice. But hiding is exhausting.
Dad: Speaking from experience?
Me: Speaking from three weeks of sneaking around with McCoys and pretending I didn’t care when I did.
Dad: That’s different.
Me: Is it though? You’re sneaking around with the town gossip. I was sneaking around with three cowboys. If anything, yours is worse. At least mine were age-appropriate.
Dad: She’s only five years older than me.
Me: I meant emotionally.
Dad: Very funny.
Three dots appear and disappear several times.
Dad: We’ll be there. Together.
Me: Good. Wear something nice. You’re about to be the second biggest scandal of the day.
Dad: Second?
Me: Trust me. My thing is bigger.
Dad: Your thing involves three McCoy boys.
Me: Your thing involves the woman who live-tweeted my cousin’s wedding disaster.
Dad: Fair point.