“It’s all your fault,” I muttered. Annabelle just shrugged, a goofy grin on her face. I shifted on the hard, wood chair in the sheriff’s office. It was uncomfortable, but so was the glare of the Diller County Sheriff.
Believe it or not, Annabelle and I were here because of the slumping sales of my cozy mysteries and the hare-brained idea of my best friend.
“All you need to do,” Annabelle had told me, “is something really stupendous, like sky-dive from an airplane and make sure the press is there, watching. Headlines would read something like, ‘local author performs amazing feat at the unbelievable age of…’ Then people would wake up and take a look at your books and sales would sky-rocket. You’d be rich and famous.”
“Are you crazy?” I’d asked, sputtering into my mocha as we sat in our favorite coffee shop. “I might be famous but I’d also be dead. I won’t sky-dive for all the tea in China.”
She ordered more coffee and regarded me with a thoughtful expression. “OK, I can understand that. Let me think about it.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her nose. “I’ve got it. There’s a Fourth of July race at the fairground Saturday. You could enter your old jalopy; whether you won or not, you’d get a terrific amount of publicity.”
I shook my head. “That’s worse than sky-diving. Those are professional racers with souped-up cars. I need my old jalopy—I sure don’t want to wreck it. Those races are wild. Every year there are injuries and, one year…”
“All right, all right,” Annabelle said, holding up a hand to stop me. “Then, just go with me to the race. I’ll take some pictures and you can sit in a car and pretend that you’re going to drive. Wear a pair of goggles and really look the part. You’ll get a lot of needed publicity and people will notice your books.”
Against all my better judgment and with warning bells clanging in my mind, I went with Annabelle to the race track outside of town on Saturday. People filled the stands and the noise of cars revving up was deafening. Several reporters were there, cameras at the ready.
Somehow, Annabelle, with her gift of gab, gained us admittance to the starting gate. I think she fabricated some sort of tale about me as a writer, gleaning information to put into a book. Anyway, we got to actually be within touching distance of the cars.
“Oh, look!” Annabelle clutched my arm. “That car is empty. I think the driver is talking to a mechanic. Let’s peek inside.”
I shook my head. “Uh-uh. It’s not my car and I don’t want any closer to all this noise and fumes. I’ve seen it. Let’s go.”
Annabelle shook her head. “This is your big chance. Just climb inside for a second and I’ll snap a picture.”
What can I say? The lure of fame and fortune has been the downfall of many a person. I climbed in that cramped driver’s seat and looked at knobs and levers. My thinking as well as my hearing must have been affected. That’s the only excuse I have.
It also wasn’t my fault that the driver, coming back to his car, yelled something so startling, I inadvertently put the car in gear. The starting gun went off, the crowd roared, and my car, as well as all the others shot forward.
Panic-stricken, I accidentally stomped the accelerator. Smoke, dust, and hay bales flashed past my sight. A curved wall rose in front of me. I bounced off it once or twice and closed my eyes. The growl of motors, and the shriek of metal against metal filled my ears. I opened my eyes just in time to see hay bales blocking my path.
My car and I came to a jarring stop. My head swam and I couldn’t see anything for a minute because of the dust and hay on my goggles. But, praise the Lord, we weren’t moving and I was alive.
Climbing out of the driver’s seat, I pushed up my goggles and leaned against the car, shaking. An official stepped forward with a microphone and a sealed envelope and declared me the winner of the race. That was when I became aware of what looked like an army of men with red faces running toward me.
When they reached me, I was shocked to learn they didn’t want to congratulate me at all; in fact, they said some awful things that I won’t repeat here.
This was when Annabelle trotted over. “You can’t talk to my friend like that!” she shouted, and punched one of the men in the stomach. He pushed her and I jumped in and landed a good left hook. Somebody called the law and that’s how we, my best friend and I, ended up here in the sheriff’s office. Annabelle looked smug.
“You’ll be in all the papers,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “Your book sales will soar. I can see the headlines now: best-selling author wins yearly jalopy race, putting several cars in the ditch, and performing amazing aerial feats never seen before.”
Actually, I did win a bunch of money, more than book sales amounted to in a couple of years. But, my joy was short-lived. The sheriff didn’t have a sense of humor and came up with some sort of law that required a hefty fine, then there were the repairs to all those cars of the other drivers. Annabelle was right–my notoriety soared as did book sales. Next time, though, I’ll try sky-diving. It will be a lot safer.
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