Ellen
I suppose the seeds of my demise were sown, somewhat appropriately, at the planning meeting for the Pumpkin Patch Party.
The party is a Serenity Falls tradition.
It takes place every year on the weekend before Halloween.
The town square is decorated, we have a band, there are stalls, a hog roast and, of course, the Pumpkin Patch carving competition.
There are prizes for the most original pumpkin, first pumpkin, scariest pumpkin, prettiest pumpkin and an overall winner.
I’m the judge. Naturally. Because it was my idea. And because I always make sure that the right person wins. Believe me, the Pumpkin Patch carving competition is not just a competition about carving pumpkins. It’s a political minefield, and, in the wrong hands, a potential disaster.
Until the meeting.
It was two weeks before the party and we were sitting in my living room, finalizing – or finessing, as I like to say – the last few details.
As we do every year. There are five of us on the committee, although that number varies.
Some people leave; newcomers join. At seventy-eight, Marla Grayson is the oldest of our group.
A tiny, squat woman with a nest of tight white curls and watery blue eyes, she looks like everyone’s favourite fairy godmother.
But don’t be fooled. She’s sharp as a hunting knife and hard as rusty nails.
I’m wary of Marla. Sometimes, I catch her looking at me and it reminds me of my mother – the way she saw right through me, my careful facade as flimsy as rice paper under the scrutiny of her glare.
I’d like to do something about dear old Marla.
She’s old, she lives alone these days since her lodger passed away, and the stairs in her house are rather steep.
But Marla is well loved within Serenity Falls; if something were to happen to her, questions might be asked.
So, I make do with putting extra sugar in her coffee and ensuring the wooden floor is oiled when she visits.
After all, I can’t be held to account for a heart attack or broken hip.
In addition to Marla, our little group consists of Kerry, a thirty-nine-year-old mother of twin boys who is, frankly, quite useless except for looking blonde and perky.
But she does sell a lot of raffle tickets.
Then there’s Louise, who is forty-five and a lesbian.
At least, I presume she is. She’s unmarried, has short hair and wears dreadful clumpy boots.
But she’s practical and punctual. Every committee needs a workhorse.
Finally, we have a newcomer: Freya. Late twenties, fond of long pinafores and sandals, her mousy hair scraped into two long pigtails.
Freya works at the library, having taken over the position after the old librarian, Miss Gale retired.
I’ve yet to make my mind up about young Freya.
So far, she has contributed little, merely smiling and nodding enthusiastically at everything I say. Which, I must admit, suits me fine.
So, I was caught unawares when, halfway through the meeting, she tentatively raised a hand, all wide eyes and guile.
I’d smiled benevolently. ‘What is it, dear?’
And then she’d delivered her bombshell, like a grenade in a mitten.
‘I … well, we wondered if, maybe, if it’s all right with you, we could make a few changes this year.’
‘Changes?’
I stared at her. This incomer, this cuckoo in the nest, daring to suggest changes. Then it dawned upon me that she had said ‘we’. I looked around at the planning committee. Kelly dropped her gaze. Marla sipped her tea.
Louise stepped in (or should I say, stomped in): ‘We just thought it might be nice to delegate, shake things up a bit.’
Shake things up a bit.
I reached for my tea. My hand trembled. I get problems with my joints sometimes. Hypermobility, the doctor has told me. I have good days and bad days. The humidity makes them ache. As does stress.
‘In what way?’
I saw them exchange glances. Marla delivered the fatal blow: ‘You do so much, Ellen. We just felt it might be good for you to take a break from judging the Pumpkin Patch carving competition this year.’
A chasm opened in my stomach. It took all my self-control to rest the teacup gently back in its saucer and not hurl it against a wall.
‘Well, thank you for your concern. But I don’t need a break,’ I said. ‘I love judging the Pumpkin Patch competition.’
Marla sighed, a sigh full of fake regret. ‘I hate to be the one to say this, Ellen—’
I’ll bet you do, I thought.
‘But there have been complaints.’
‘About what?’
‘Some people feel that the judging is not always as objective as it could be.’
I bristled, cheeks flushing. ‘That’s ridiculous. I’m always a fair judge.’
Marla reached over and placed one crinkled, malformed hand upon mine. I tried not to shudder. ‘I’m sure you are, Ellen. But you know what people are like. Any hint of favouritism, even unintentional, and they get upset.’
‘So, we think,’ Louise continued, ‘a fresh pair of eyes would be good.’
‘And whose eyes do you propose?’ I asked, unable to control the brittle chill that had crept into my voice.
‘Well, obviously, no one can replace you,’ Marla soothed.
Duplicitous old hag.
‘But maybe Freya should be given a chance.’
Freya. She had only lived here five minutes … well, five years, but still, she didn’t have the experience, the knowledge, the connections.
Freya beamed that sickly, innocent smile of hers. ‘I know I can’t fill your shoes, Ellen. But I would be truly honoured to give it a go.’
Give it a go. Like it was some whimsical hobby.
Did these people not realize that judging the competition was a serious business?
I considered putting my foot down. Demanding I keep my position.
But the committee was a democratic endeavour.
Or at least it was supposed to be (I admit, I may have used some leverage to get my way on things before).
I could see that protesting would do no good.
This was a coup. My troops had turned against me.
I had no choice but to concede defeat. For now.
I took a moment to compose myself and then used all my willpower to summon up a benevolent smile.
‘Well, that’s all settled, then,’ I said. ‘Freya will be the new judge of the Pumpkin Patch carving competition. And I’ll enjoy the party for a change.’
I saw everyone relax, a little. Except for Marla. She continued to stare at me with those rheumy old eyes of hers. She knew. But I didn’t care. Marla was no longer my primary concern. It appeared I had a new nemesis. Freya. Something needed to be done about Freya.