It was all Annabelle’s fault. I bear no responsibility for it. But, here we sat, Annabelle and I, on hard wood chairs in the sheriff’s office trying to explain our way out of an incredible mess. It didn’t help any that several red-faced, angry men lined the wall and their ferocious glares were all directed at me!
You see, it started this way—I’m a writer of cozy mysteries and, as any writer can tell you, book sales are all important to authors. Not only do they boost the bank account, they boost self-esteem; that’s just the way it is. And, the problem was, my sales had been slumping. Really slumping, as in a downhill plunge into oblivion.
“All you need to do,” Annabelle told me that fateful day in July, “is something really stupendous, like sky-dive from an airplane and make sure the press is there, watching. Headlines would read something like, ‘mystery 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 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. At last, she snapped her fingers. “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 could even sit in a car and pretend that you’re going to drive. I’ll buy you a pair of goggles. You’ll get a lot of needed publicity. You’ve got to make your mark in the world of writing. Time’s a-wasting.”
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. Many, many people filled the stands and the noise of cars revving up motors as they readied for take-off was deafening. Of course, several newspaper people were there, camera and recorders 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 his head mechanic. Let’s look 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. “Look, 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.
I actually didn’t know when the real driver came back to his car. He looked as if he was going to have a stroke when he saw me in his driver’s seat. Glancing up into his red face, I was so startled, I must have put the car in gear just about the time the starting gun went off and the flag went down and my car as well as all the others shot forward.
I wanted out, but I had buckled myself in and my car gained speed as I inadvertently stomped the accelerator. I glimpsed smoke and dust and hay bales, a curved wall that I bounced off a couple of times, and a blur of sky and ground. I heard nothing but the growl of motors, and the shriek of metal against metal as I side-swiped a few other cars. Annabelle said I actually sailed over one or two racers and bounced from one side of the track to the other, knocking jalopies right and left.
At last, I rammed into a wall of hay bales and 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, my car wasn’t moving.
Climbing out of the driver’s seat, I pushed up my goggles. 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. They were wanting to congratulate me, I guessed.
When they reached me, sad to say, they weren’t very happy at all. In fact, they said some awful things that I won’t repeat here.
“You can’t talk to my friend like that!” Annabelle shouted, pushing a towering man on the stomach. When he pushed her back, I jumped in and landed a good left hook. Somebody called the law and that’s how I ended up here in the sheriff’s office. Annabelle patted my back, looking 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.”
I won a bunch of money, more than book sales amounted to in a couple of years. Only thing is, I didn’t get to keep it. 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 contestants. But, the funny thing was, I’d never felt better in my life or had as much excitement. Who knows? Maybe next year I’ll enter my old jalopy in the race legally. Could this be the start of a new profession?
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