Chapter 8
I’m feeling better after a quick breakfast at the diner, and the weather is perfect as I walk over to the park.
But where yesterday I was the only participant at the barn, today it appears more people have shown up.
A handful of people are working with pigs in the show ring, or polishing their pig’s feet, or examining their pig’s teeth.
Or something. Look, I’m not an expert in pig-related care.
Something Wayne promised to change today.
But I hang back for a moment, studying the barn.
It’s a big building, with the main door at one end and a couple of alarmed fire exits in the middle and far end.
That’s a positive—only one way in or out, unless The Witch has a spell to get past the door alarms, which is certainly possible.
Bleacher-style seats surround three sides of the show ring, which means once I’m in the ring, I won’t be able to see past the seats to the rest of the barn.
That’s less than ideal, but Cressida said the event has its own security. I make a note to have her coordinate with them to keep an eye on the pens outside the show ring area.
All in all, it’s not a dream location for catching The Witch, but it’s doable.
I’m not sure when and how Grayson got there, but he’s in his pen, lying on his stomach on the straw bedding lining the pen, his eyes registering my appearance but otherwise not moving as I approach.
I don’t see Wayne yet, but with other people around this morning, it appears that I am officially on.
“Good morning, Petunia,” I croon.
In his pig form, Grayson doesn’t have eyebrows, but I swear I see them slam together anyway.
I don’t dare reach into the pen to pet him or anything—one, because I don’t think I should be stroking my partner in either of his forms, and two, because I’m pretty sure he has teeth and a grudge about the whole Petunia thing.
So I merely stand there, pretending to study my pig but really trying to get a look at the other people currently in the barn.
As difficult as it is for me to believe, anyone here this week could be The Witch.
I dismiss the handful of teenagers milling about, casting furtive but obvious glances at members of the opposite sex.
They’re too young to be The Witch. A couple rows up, a guy who seems to have borrowed Ken’s hairstyle (along with a metric ton of hair gel) is expertly guiding a pig back into its pen.
I’m so busy watching him—he really does seem to be good with a show stick, which Wayne says is what people on the pig show circuit call the switch—that I don’t see the loose pig until it emits an ear-piercing squeal right next to me.
Clutching my chest and swearing up a storm, I whirl to see a giant pink pig eyeing me with deep suspicion.
From his pen, Petunia makes a chortling noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
“Milton! You naughty pig!” a woman cries as she reaches us. “Sorry about that. I can’t wait for this guy to be turned into sausages. He’s literally the worst pig I’ve ever had.”
The chortling noise from inside the pen stops.
Collecting herself, the woman flashes me a bright smile.
She has bouncy blond hair, high-heeled pink cowboy boots, and teeth so white that for a moment I imagine she’s somehow bedazzled her mouth.
“I’m Dani Lewis,” she says, holding out an impressively well-manicured hand.
Her fingers are tipped in bubble-gum pink studded with tiny pink crystals.
When I shake her hand, it’s as soft as veal.
“But you probably already guessed that.”
I realize she expects me to know who she is, but I don’t have a clue. I shake my head.
“I was Miss Buttermilk? Back in 2015?”
“Oh, sorry. I don’t follow the Miss Buttermilk pageant,” I say, but the way her face falls makes me feel terrible. “I mean, I didn’t follow it that year,” I add hastily, and that seems to help matters.
“Because of a terrible divorce?” she asks, her face clouding with avid sympathy.
“Um, no.” Not sure why she jumped to that conclusion when the obvious answer is that no one follows small-town pageants besides the contestants and maybe their mothers. “I’ve never been married.”
“Well, there’s still time.” She steps back and sets her hands on her hips. “Are you sure, though? You kind of have that whole sad divorcée vibe.”
Now I regret pretending I’ve even heard of the Miss Buttermilk pageant at all. “What makes you say that?” I ask. Maybe I’m putting out the wrong energy as Sally.
“You just look like the kind of woman who’s gone on a whole shopping spree as part of a newly divorced makeover and still never had the courage to wear clothes that don’t make you look invisible.”
“Well,” I say, fingering the buttons on my gray button-up shirt. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Right.” Dani eyes my clothes. “Of course not.”
Just to be clear, my feelings are not hurt by any of this. Of course I look kind of invisible—I’m trying to blend in. To be nondescript. To be…well, invisible.
“Did I hear someone say sad divorcée?” a deep male voice says. The guy with the overly styled Ken-doll hair is leaning against the far side of Petunia’s pen, wearing what I’m certain he considers to be a winning smile but is actually more of a creepy leer.
“We were just discussing my new friend’s life,” Dani says, turning to get a better look at the newcomer. “I’m Dani Lewis, Miss Buttermilk 2015.”
“Oh, come on,” the man says. He has a cleft in his chin so big you could cram a McDonald’s Big Mac in there, and I have a feeling the more I get to know this guy, the more I’ll want to actually shove some kind of food item in his face.
“You expect me to believe you were old enough to be Miss Buttermilk in 2015?”
Dani titters. She brings a hand up to toy with a glittering diamond pendant that dangles between her breasts, the tops of which are visible thanks to the plunging V of her silky pink blouse.
Not what I’d wear to work with pigs, but then again, my taste in fashion is obviously suspect.
“Well, aren’t you just a silver-tongued devil. ”
He winks. “I’m some kind of devil, all right.” Pushing off the back of the pen, he walks to the nearest aisle and moseys on over to Dani. “I’m Reginald Montrose III, but you can call me Reg. And if you’re thinking, ‘Isn’t that the guy who founded multiple successful apps?’ you’re right.”
I swear I can see Dani fall in love with him.
Little pink hearts dance in her brown eyes, although it’s possible that’s just a reflection of the heart-shaped gems glued to her fingernails.
“What are you doing at the North Mountain Pig Show?” she asks, so breathlessly that even Petunia the pig rolls his eyes.
“I needed a new challenge. You get to the point where everything you touches turns to gold and you think, ‘What else can I do?’ you know? So a couple of my business partners and I invested in some high-quality pigs, and I said, ‘Boys, I’m going to give this pig show thing a whirl. See how that goes.’”
I’m not sure Dani listened to the whole thing. Miss Buttermilk 2015 melted the second Reginald Montrose III said the word “gold.” She is basically a sparkly pink puddle on the floor of the show barn at this point.
“That’s so brave of you,” she manages to say.
“I know.” He glances my way as though he’s only now realized there’s another person standing here. “Oh, hi. And you are…?”
“Sally Conway.” I prepare to launch into my well-practiced introduction, but he’s already turning away before my last name is fully out of my mouth.
“So, Dani. I’m new to pig showing. Perhaps you and I could go somewhere and you could give me a more…personal lesson in showmanship?”
“Oh, my.” Dani flutters—her hands, her eyelashes. “I think I can spare a few minutes to help a newbie.”
Reg places his hand on the small of her back as they make their way out of the show barn.
“Well, that’s a terrible way to learn how to show a pig,” someone grumbles from behind me. Turning, I find Wayne standing a few feet away, hands balled on his hips, a look of pure confusion. “They didn’t even take their pigs with them.”
“I don’t understand it either, Wayne,” I say.
But as I urge Petunia out of his pen to start my lesson with Wayne, I can’t help but think that there was something very off about Reginald Montrose III. If I’m right, he was lying.
About pretty much everything.