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 enoughhobbies. 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?”
