On a particularly blustery Friday night in Carbonia, a small but bustling town known mostly for its cheese festival and suspiciously large ferret population, old Mr. Peterson’s legendary Fruitcake Emporium caught fire in what locals would later dub “The Great Fruited Conflagration of 2023.” Now, while it was a mystery as to how a fruitcake shop could ignite in a blaze that was visible from three towns over, everyone agreed that the greater mystery lay elsewhere. Mainly, in why it smelled like burning lemons and cigars all the way from Main Street.
Standing at the edge of the flaming chaos, hands on her hips, was Betty Broomsby, part-time post office clerk, full-time amateur detective, and now the only known survivor of what would come to be called “The Carbonia Conspiracy.”
“Martha, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Betty asked her best friend, Martha, who was at the time reloading her potato cannon—a hobby she had taken up after her third divorce.
“Seeing it, smelling it, and, unfortunately, tasting it,” Martha responded, squinting at the thick plume of smoke. “This fire smells like an expired piña colada and Mr. Peterson’s Eau de Cologne—”
“He only wears that cologne on Wednesdays,” Betty interrupted, thinking deeply.
Martha shrugged, hoisting the potato cannon over her shoulder. “Betty, I hate to break it to you, but no one is interested in your ‘Only on Wednesdays’ theory of cologne. We’re looking at a bonafide carb arson case right here, if you ask me.”
Betty rolled her eyes. “No one ever asks you.”
The two women huddled closer as the firetruck arrived, sirens wailing, with none other than Chief Barry “Buzz” Henderson at the wheel. Buzz was best known in Carbonia for one thing: his legendary mustache, which had its own Instagram account.
“What in tarnation are you two ladies doing here?” Buzz yelled as he leapt from the truck, already looking annoyed.
“Solving a crime, Buzz!” Betty hollered back. “Mr. Peterson’s shop went up in flames, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s arson. And I’m pretty sure it’s connected to something bigger. Much bigger.”
Buzz scratched his head. “Bigger than fruitcakes?”
Betty crossed her arms. “Bigger than fruitcakes. Way bigger. And it all started yesterday when—”
“Betty, no one needs the whole backstory,” Martha cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s skip to the part where we accuse someone.”
Betty sighed dramatically but nodded. “Alright, fine. We’re accusing none other than Professor Gerard Picklebottom, head of the Carbonia Historical Society and collector of rare, oddly shaped vegetables.”
Buzz looked unimpressed. “And your evidence?”
“Well,” Betty began, looking at Martha for support, “we don’t technically have evidence. But Martha heard him say something weird at the Farmers’ Market yesterday.”
Martha nodded vigorously. “I sure did. He told Mr. Perkins from the butternut squash stall, ‘Some things are better off buried.’”
Buzz looked baffled. “And you think this means he set the fruitcake shop on fire?”
“Well, we also saw him buying an unreasonable amount of lemons,” Betty added, as if that cleared everything up.
Buzz opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a dramatic scream from behind them. Turning, they saw Professor Picklebottom himself standing in the crowd, clutching his prized turnip (a notable finalist in the recent “Largest Root Vegetable” contest).
“Isn’t it convenient that Professor Picklebottom just happens to be here at the scene of the crime?” Betty smirked.
“I live across the street,” Professor Picklebottom retorted indignantly. “And what exactly are you accusing me of?”
“Arson! And treason against the town of Carbonia!” Betty declared.
The crowd gasped.
“Oh, come now, Betty, I only brought that turnip because I thought it might be a nice showpiece,” the Professor said with a sniff. “Besides, everyone knows that Mr. Peterson’s Fruitcake Emporium has been a fire hazard for years!”
“And why would you know that?” Betty challenged, stepping closer. “Seems like only the arsonist would have that information.”
“Or anyone who’s walked by it,” Martha muttered, but Betty ignored her.
“Professor Picklebottom, you have a history of obsessing over the town’s secrets. I bet you found out about the lost Carbonia fortune and wanted it for yourself. Admit it!” Betty’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of potential victory.
“Lost fortune?” Buzz echoed, completely lost.
“Oh, it’s true!” Martha piped up, clearly enjoying the spotlight. “There’s a legend that Carbonia’s founding fathers hid a massive treasure somewhere in town, and they left clues in odd places—like Mr. Peterson’s fruitcakes, supposedly. That’s why Betty thinks the Professor is out to burn down the whole town. He’s looking for clues!”
“Excuse me!” the Professor protested, clutching his turnip in horror. “I’m not some crazed treasure hunter! I’m a historian! And as for Mr. Peterson’s fruitcakes, if there were any secrets in there, they’d probably be fossilized by now!”
The crowd murmured, half in agreement, half scandalized. But just then, a figure appeared through the smoke: Mr. Peterson himself, looking remarkably unharmed for a man whose life’s work had just gone up in smoke.
“Now that’s suspicious,” Betty hissed. “Mr. Peterson, care to explain?”
Mr. Peterson adjusted his glasses. “I was…uh…attending to my, uh, night yoga class. Didn’t even know there was a fire until I got back.”
Betty wasn’t buying it. “Yoga? Since when does anyone do yoga at night?”
“Maybe they’re night yogis,” Martha offered.
Ignoring her, Betty leaned closer to Mr. Peterson. “How convenient that you’re completely unscathed, Mr. Peterson. Or should I call you…” She paused dramatically, “…The Count of Carbonia!”
The crowd gasped, though not entirely sure why.
“Wait, what?” Mr. Peterson looked bewildered.
“Oh, don’t play innocent with us, Peterson!” Betty shouted. “Everyone knows that Carbonia was founded by a reclusive count who left all his riches hidden in town. And everyone knows that this count’s descendants would do anything to keep it hidden. Which means…” she took a deep breath, “you set fire to your own shop to prevent us from finding the treasure hidden in those fruitcakes!”
The Professor looked horrified. “This is outrageous! No respectable historian would ever—”
“Oh, cram it, Picklebottom. You’re just mad because you didn’t think of it first,” Martha snickered.
As the accusations flew, Mr. Peterson’s face turned beet red. Finally, he threw his hands in the air. “Alright, fine! You’ve caught me. I am the Count of Carbonia’s last descendant. But there’s no treasure—it’s all a myth!”
The crowd groaned in disappointment, but Betty didn’t seem convinced. “Oh really, Peterson? Then what were you doing buying fifty pounds of lemons yesterday?”
“Lemons?” Mr. Peterson blinked, confused. “What do you mean? I’m allergic to lemons.”
The plot thickened.
“Then if you didn’t buy the lemons, who did?” Betty demanded.
A shrill cackle broke the silence, and out from behind the firetruck stepped none other than Old Missus Clemons, the local psychic and professional cat herder.
“I bought the lemons, Betty Broomsby, and I’ll tell you why!” she declared, grinning wickedly. “I’ve been sitting on the secret of the Carbonia fortune for years, and I’m sick of it! I figured, why not bring the whole town down and take the treasure for myself?”
“Missus Clemons!” Betty gasped. “You’re behind the fire?”
“Not just the fire,” she said with a cackle. “The whole thing! I’ve been planting clues all over town just to mess with you. All these years, I’ve been leading everyone in circles, watching you fools run around chasing shadows, while I had the treasure hidden in plain sight!”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a very dusty, very ancient fruitcake. “The treasure,” she announced, “has been here all along!”
The crowd looked at the fruitcake in awe.
Buzz stepped forward, frowning. “So you’re telling us that this old fruitcake is the treasure?”
Missus Clemons smiled slyly. “More valuable than gold. It’s an antique, passed down for generations, made from a recipe that’s been lost to time. It’s made from the rarest ingredients ever known, gathered from all corners of the earth!”
Betty narrowed her eyes. “And you think it’s worth…something?”
Missus Clemons grinned, eyes gleaming. “Oh, it’s worth plenty. Worth enough to fake my own death, move to Barbados, and live like a queen!”
With that, she took off running toward her van, but Martha was quicker, shooting a potato from her cannon that knocked the fruitcake from her grasp. The town watched in horror as it flew through the air, landing with a splat right in the middle of the blazing fire.
“No!” Missus Clemons shrieked as the fruitcake began to melt, releasing a strange, foul odor that filled the air.
“Looks like your plans are toast, Missus Clemons,” Betty said triumphantly, as the townsfolk cheered.
Missus Clemons shook her fists in fury. “You think you’ve won, Betty Broomsby, but mark my words: the treasure of Carbonia will rise again!” She was promptly escorted to the back of Buzz’s police car, muttering to herself about revenge and antique fruitcakes.
As the fire died down and the crowd dispersed, Martha turned to Betty, grinning. “Well, I guess that’s that. But I can’t help wondering…was there ever a real treasure?”
Betty looked thoughtful. “Maybe. Or maybe the treasure was the friends we—”
“If you say ‘the friends we made along the way,’ I’m launching another potato,” Martha interrupted.
They laughed, watching the last embers smolder. In the distance, a lone ferret scurried across the road, dragging a lemon behind it. Betty squinted. “You don’t think…?”
Martha shrugged. “After tonight, Betty, I’m ready to believe anything.”