Chapter One

Things were getting a bit hairy with this crowd.

“Beauty pageants exploit and objectify women as objects!” One shouted.

“No! Beauty pageants provide scholarships and opportunities for girls!” Another argued.

This was about to come to fisticuffs and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. They were getting too close to marching on each other with pitchforks and torches for my comfort.

And to make matters worse? The fighting was coming from inside my troop.

It all started a week ago, when the Miss Butterpig Pageant director came to town and met with City Hall about hosting one of their small-town branch pageants here. MBP has been popping up in small towns all over the Midwest over the past few years, with the goal of winning your local competitions before moving onto the regional to earn the title of Miss Butterpig, Central Iowa. Interestingly, the title was for middle school students only, because it was argued that they had nothing to look forward to in their lives and therefore, obviously needed this.

The group wasn’t a national thing like Miss America or Miss Universe, but it was growing. Like a rash you shouldn’t scratch.

The four, angry Kaitlyns squared off against Betty, Inez and Lauren. You can guess which side wanted what. Only Ava, our town’s mayor, remained neutral because she felt like intervening would be a conflict of interest, since MBP donated an undisclosed amount of money to hold the pageant here.

“Ladies,” Kelly said in a responsible leader-ish way I envied. “There’s room for all of your opinions here. You need to respect what each other has to say.”

“Yeah!” I added with far less impact.

Hilly raised her hand. “I was Miss Speedwell, New York.”

The girls turned to look at her curiously. They appeared (as was I) surprised to hear that Hilly Vinton, CIA assassin (who wasn’t an assassin because the CIA doesn’t have assassins because it’s illegal – but totally was) and Amazon who could beat up four guys at one time, now had a past as a beauty queen.

“Speedwell? As in the Speedwell Society?” I ventured in a way to deflect the conversation to something a bit less riot-worthy. “I thought you came out in the Mayflower Society?”

Hilly, I’d learned recently, was a blue blood socialite from New York City. And yes, it still shocked me that she’d been a debutante.

She shook her head. “No, my ancestors were on the Speedwell. It was supposed to accompany the Mayflower, but the ship was too leaky and couldn’t sail, so instead they came over on The Fortune a year later.” She cocked her head to one side, looking like a deranged and murderous cockatoo. “I always suspected foul play. I think some jerk on the Mayflower sabotaged us so they could be the first ones here.”

“Right,” I said. “Guys, as you can see, a feminist tomboy like Hilly was a beauty queen, so there’s no need to attack the Kaitlyns for wanting to participate.”

I should probably explain. I had four Kaitlyns in my troop. They looked exactly alike, had mothers improbably named Ashley, and often operated on a sort of hive mind intelligence. They were star softball players and after eight years, I still couldn’t tell them apart.

My name is Merry Wrath Ferguson, and I used to be a field operative for the Central Intelligence Agency. That’s right, I’d been a spy…a long time ago. I’d been in my chosen career for seven years before the Vice President ‘accidentally outed’ me to get back at my Senator dad. So, after fleeing Chechnya after seeing my face on CNN, I got a nice settlement from the agency, was forced into retirement and came back to my hometown of Who’s There, Iowa, where I met my husband and became a sort of professional Girl Scout leader.

On the opposite side of the beauty pageant question was Lauren, our junior zookeeper, Inez, the brains of the outfit, and Betty, who if they had a pageant for girls like her would probably be called Miss Most Dangerous Middle Schooler in the World. Honestly? I’d like to see the talent competition on that one.

Mayor Ava, was our most ambitious scout, with dreams of being the CEO of a major insurance agency by the time she graduated high school. And at thirteen, Ava was the youngest mayor in the state and had been since she was eleven.

Ava slammed her pink, sparkly gavel on the table top. She’d started bringing it to troop meetings lately, which was something I wasn’t sure I liked.

“The pageant is here, so the girls who want to participate should, and those who don’t have the right to protest, but not interfere.” She aimed the handle at Betty. “And no sabotage either.”

Betty said nothing.

“And I expect you all to help with the event,” Ava said.

Betty narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. “Not a chance.”

Ava wasn’t intimidated. “I need you. You guys are the only organized people in this whole town.”

“That’s true,” Inez said grudgingly.

“I’m in,” Lauren caved. “As long as you don’t discriminate against animals.”

Betty still said nothing.

Hilly raised her hand again. “Hey, why is it called Miss Butterpig?”

“Because they can’t use Buttercow,” Ava answered. “I think there’s a trademark or copyright involved or something.”

There was a bit more to it than that. If you aren’t from Iowa, you may not know that our State Fair is a huge deal. And the butter cow, a life size cow sculpted from butter, has been a staple of the fair since 1911.

“I can help,” Hilly said. “I’m kind of on administrative leave…again.”

For a full time assassin who wasn’t an assassin, Hilly turned up here a lot. Over the past few years, she’d been in trouble for things like taking out the twin of her target instead of the target, for still using archaic lingo and sticking to dumpsters for her disposal. The CIA preferred it if you made the death look suicidal or accidental, probably due to the fact they insisted that they didn’t straight up kill people, but Hilly didn’t like changing her routine.

“What are you in for this time?” I asked.

Hilly shrugged. “I’m not sure this one was my fault. But apparently, the CIA doesn’t like it when you travel with your own dumpster. There have been complaints by others who use the company plane, which I think is totally unfair.”

I shook my head to clear it as if it was a full Etch-A-Sketch. “Moving on. Ava, can you give us more information about this pageant?”

The mayor nodded as if she’d expected and predicted this question. “It’s going to be classy. There won’t be an evening gown or swimsuit competition, because that’s gross. There will be three categories on which the girls will be judged, Costume, Talent, and Q and A.”

“Costume?” Kelly seemed interested in this.

“Yes, each contestant has to come up with a costume that encapsulates who they are as individuals.” She hesitated as she looked at the Kaitlyns, who were all wearing the same blue t-shirt with a turtle on it, khaki pants and green sneakers.

“See?” Kelly spoke directly to the opposition. “There’s nothing in there that exploits women.”

Two of the Kaitlyns turned to Hilly and asked simultaneously, “What was your talent?”

Hilly smiled. “Intimidation and blackmail. Oh, and I threw knives at balloons.”

Kelly asked the question before I could stop her. “How are intimidation and blackmail presented as talent?”

The assassin grinned. “I won, didn’t I?”

“Okay,” Betty held up her hands. “I’ll help.”

Everyone else seemed relieved, but there was something in the kid’s voice that set off alarms in my head. I’d have to keep an eye on her.