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Hospital in Cincinnati.
    Most everyone in Paradise offered comforting words andprayers to ease the Crowleys’ emotional hardship, and we’d held several fundraisers to help with the financial difficulties, too. Cherry had donation cans at each station in her hair salon, and Sally had organized a line-dancing marathon at the Bar-None, and I’d coordinated a chili-spaghetti dinner at church.
    (Chili-spaghetti is Cincinnati-style chili—more of a sauce, seasoned with chili powder, nutmeg, and even a bit of chocolate—served on spaghetti and topped with mounds of grated cheddar cheese for a “3-way.” Onions or beans makes it a “4-way,” both makes it a “5-way.” I prefer my chili-spaghetti “4-way,” with onions.)
    The “haunted corn maze” had been Ed Crowley’s idea, but after Ed died, the Crowleys lost heart in it, until Pastor Lamb, at the Methodist Church, turned the idea over to the youth group, which had worked with Hugh Crowley to make it happen.
    â€œNow, the haunted corn maze opens tonight,” Cherry was saying, “and it will be open Saturday night, too, and the next two weekends as well, through Halloween.”
    I was looking forward, myself, to going on a date to the corn maze that evening with Owen. Maybe afterward we could stop by the Bar-None, and then . . .
    The Ford swerved, jolting me out of my daydream.
    â€œâ€™Possum!” Sally called out. “Sorry ’bout that.” Sally was driving the van, a Ford 350 SuperDuty valued at about $40,000, Damon had said nervously when he handed the keys over to her. Sally had assured him she’d once chauffeured a rock band.
    (Damon looked so worried about Sienna and his business and the upcoming weekend that I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Sally’d been paid in six-packs and cigarettes, the band was a rockabilly gig thrown together by Sally’s brotherGarret for a weekend contest, and the “coach” was a 1965 VW microbus that they’d had to abandon in favor of a Greyhound when Sally stripped its gears beyond redemption.)
    I glanced down at Sienna’s notes. Sienna’s cramped handwriting was hard to decipher. Poor Sienna and Damon. We’d stopped by the Rising Star on our way out of town to drop off Damon and pick up the notes. I’d only glimpsed the damage through the store’s front pane window, but it looked even worse than what Damon had described.
    Who would have done such a thing? My first thought—which I hated—was that it was Pastor Dru Purcell and his followers, wanting to mess up the weekend for them. But would even Dru stoop that low?
    â€œAfter you’ve set up your crystal balls and things, come on out to the Crowleys this evening to visit their corn maze,” Cherry was saying. “Your goal is to find a map piece in each section of the maze, until you have a complete map.
    â€œThat sounds truly a-maz-ing!” said Samantha Mulligan, a pet psychic who sat behind me.
    I groaned.
    â€œI’d love to go!” hollered Max Whitstone, a large, muscular man wearing a Stetson and, despite the chill of October, a T-shirt that showed off dragon tattoos on his biceps. Perhaps predictably, Max and Cherry had already hit it off, although if Max couldn’t foresee that a love connection with Cherry would probably be a bad idea, I didn’t have much faith in his palm-reading prowess.
    The van suddenly jerked again. “Sorry!” Sally called out cheerily. “Didn’t see that curve coming.”
    â€œDamon promised a smooth ride,” whined Maggie Langguth from the back of the van. Balancing chakras was her specialty. “This is disturbing my inner equilibrium!”
    I turned around in my seat, pulled up on my knees, and faced all eight psychics. I ignored Cherry’s poke in my back,swallowed hard, smiled and said, “Well, we sure do appreciate Cherry’s comments about,