Brenda slipped her arm through mine as the line inched forward, her smile brighter than the Ferris wheel lights spinning over the midway behind us. "I know this probably isn't your thing," she said, tilting her head toward the grandstand ahead of us, "but thanks for coming with me. Especially on your first day back in town."

"My pleasure," I said, though I wasn't sure how convincing it sounded. I hadn't even been back in town for a few hours when Brenda called and extended the invitation to go to see Backroad Saints. They were a local classic rock cover band that were playing at the Douglas County Fair. It was only a short drive from Flat Rock, Minnesota, the town I grew up in and just moved back to, and our first official date. We had spent the last 5 months talking on the phone, both excited about my discharge from the Army. "You did catch me at a weak moment. I was still bleary from the drive when you called."

She laughed, the sound bubbling up easily. "So, I should've asked for more, huh? Maybe helping me at the shop this morning?" Brenda was part owner of the Bear Claw Bakery in town.

"Let's not get carried away," I said. "I only got in late last night. Missouri to Minnesota isn't exactly a stroll down the block."

"You're here now." She squeezed my arm. "That's what matters."

We shuffled forward again, the gravel crunching underfoot, the smell of fried food and livestock tangling together in the humid August air. Ahead, kids darted between legs with clouds of pink cotton candy in hand, their parents barking halfhearted warnings. Somewhere off to our left, a tractor's engine sputtered to life, drawing appreciative whistles from a cluster of men in ballcaps.

"My dad's here somewhere," I mentioned, nodding toward the agricultural exhibits. "Judging the small engines again. That's his favorite part of the fair."

Brenda smiled. "It suits him. Detail-oriented, quiet. Kind of like somebody else I know."

"Careful," I said, "you keep flattering me and I'll start to believe it."

She gave me a playful nudge with her shoulder.

The line lurched forward again. At the ticket booth, two harried women tore stubs and handed out wristbands while a portable speaker blared country music from somewhere behind them. A group of teenagers ahead of us debated whether to sit near the front or save their money for rides.

By the time we reached the grandstand, the sun was beginning to slip behind the barns, throwing long shadows across the mix of carnival rides and food booths behind us. The metal bleachers were already filling up, the chatter of hundreds of voices blending into a restless hum.

Brenda tugged me toward a row halfway up. "These should be good. Not too close, not too far."

I dropped into the seat beside her, the metal warm against the back of my legs. From here, the stage was in full view: drum kit centered, guitar stands flanking it, amps humming with a low buzz. Three microphones waited at the front, two already unbagged and gleaming under the stage lights. The third still sat swaddled in its black cover, as if forgotten.

I leaned closer to Brenda. "Looks like somebody's running behind."

She craned her neck toward the stage. "Probably the lead singer. Did you know that Mason's son Ryan plays guitar for them." Mason White was the owner of White’s Hardware in town.

"First time seeing them?" she asked.

"First time even hearing of them, but apparently they're popular enough to headline the county fair."

Before she could answer, a familiar figure shuffled down the aisle, a paper cup of beer sloshing precariously in one hand. Jeremiah Olander spotted us and grunted something like a greeting. His gray hair hung past his collar, disheveled as always, and his expression suggested he'd been unimpressed since the moment he stepped onto the fairgrounds.

"Well, look who dragged himself out of the Army and into the cornfields," he said, eyeing me.

"Nice to see you too, Jeremiah."

Brenda brightened. "Hi, Jeremiah. Did you get a chance to try the cheese curds? Or the corn dogs?"

He snorted. "I'm here for the music, not food on a stick. And so far, all I've gotten is overpriced beer and a sore backside waiting for something to happen." He waved vaguely at the stage. "If they don't get started soon, I'm demanding a refund."

Brenda exchanged an amused glance with me as Jeremiah lumbered past to his seat a few rows down.

"He's a ray of sunshine," she said.

"He's honest," I replied with a shrug. "That counts for something."

The minutes dragged. A restless ripple moved through the crowd, conversations rising and falling as people checked their watches. From backstage, a man in a shiny sport coat paced with a phone pressed tight to his ear, his free hand gesturing wildly as though the person on the other end could see him. A county fair employee leaned against an amp, arms crossed, his expression tight.

Brenda fanned herself with the concert program. "It's hot tonight. Hotter than it should be for the middle of August."

"Good thing you talked me into this," I said dryly.

She grinned. "Admit it. You'd rather be here than at home unpacking."

"Debatable," I said, laughing.

Then the stage lights snapped on. The crowd murmured, expectant. The man in the sport coat stepped out with a microphone in hand, his forced smile plastered across his face.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice booming across the grandstand, "thank you for your patience."

A hush fell, though it was tinged with unease.

"Unfortunately," he continued, "due to circumstances beyond our control, tonight's performance will not be taking place. We apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for your understanding."

For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy. Then the crowd erupted. Boos, shouts, angry questions hurled from every corner of the grandstand.

"What do you mean, no show?"

"We paid for this!"

"Where's the lead singer?"

The man gave a helpless shrug, muttered something about refunds, and hurried offstage as though the boards were on fire beneath his feet.

Jeremiah shot to his feet a few rows down, shaking his empty cup. "Figures," he muttered, and stalked toward the stairs.

Beside me, Brenda's shoulders sagged. "Well, that's a bust."

I watched the stage, the untouched microphone still swaddled in its cover. The man on the side of the stage whispered urgently to another crew member, both of them glancing toward the exit where the manager had disappeared. My gut tightened. Something about it didn't feel like a last-minute cold or a scheduling mix-up. This had weight behind it.

Brenda touched my arm. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said, though my eyes lingered on the empty stage. "This just feels… off."

I had just spent the last 10 years in the Army as an investigator with the Military Police. The unease that coiled in the pit of my stomach was a feeling I’d often had over the last decade, and I had learned to trust it. It was my first day back in town, and already something wasn't right.

The crowd began to disperse, grumbling and shaking their heads as they filed toward the exits. We joined the stream of disappointed concert-goers making their way out of the grandstand, half heading back to the rides and food vendors, and the other across the grassy parking lot. Car doors slammed and engines turned over, headlights cutting through the growing dusk.

As we walked toward my truck, fragments of conversation drifted around us:

"...heard there was trouble in Flat Rock tonight..."

"...police cars all over town..."

"...somebody said there was a murder..."

Brenda and I exchanged a look, our steps slowing.

"Did you hear that?" she asked quietly.

I nodded, the unease in my stomach turning to something colder. The failed concert suddenly felt like the least of our problems.

 

-End of Chapter 1-

 

 

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