Venom and the River by Marsha Qualey

sets of French doors on the second floor. The wide first floor windows, however, were imitation Prairie style, with geometric grids in the glass. Gingham curtains for the first floor windows, dark heavy ones on the second. The travesty by the Dairy Queen.
    A thin boy with poor skin and a wavering voice took her order for a small hot fudge sundae. Leigh smiled as he tried to find the right place to tap on the register’s plastic-covered keypad. A first job. How many years since her first—thirty-five? There hadn’t been much work available to teens in her small Wisconsin hometown, so, underage and off the books, she’d felt very lucky to work weekends and summers at a neighbor’s pharmacy—the origin, she’d long suspected, of her never-kicked addiction to expensive hair product.
    She took her sundae and walked to the house. She pushed open the gate and stepped onto a cobbled walk. Just in front of the house on the left side of the walk was a poster-sized, wooden sign. Also yellow and lilac.
    Welcome to the Little Girl Museum. This is the actual house used in the eleven seasons of Little Girl, Big River, the award-winning television show that brought to life the world created by Ida May Turnbull in the eight books that are beloved by readers of all ages and from all parts of the world. Enter and enjoy!
    Smaller script on the sign announced the building’s hours and a no-food or drink policy. On the other side of the walk, a recently-poured slab of concrete shone white under a sun that was still high in the summer sky. She sat on the slab and balanced her sundae on her thigh while she pushed up the sleeves of her sweater.
    Just as Leigh finished her ice cream, a woman in a tailored business suit hurried toward the house. She had a bright pink laptop sleeve under an arm, while a plastic grocery bag dangled from one hand and a white canvas tote stuffed with yarn and knitting needles hung from the other. Her salt and pepper curls bounced as she walked. “We’re closed!” she shouted cheerily. She stopped abruptly and smiled. “It’s you! Welcome to Pepin!”
    Leigh shook her head. She rose and tossed her trash into a small yellow barrel by the stoop. “I’m Leigh Burton.”
    “You certainly are. I’m Ellen Blaney. My mother and I live across the park from you. Small house, middle of three? I’ve seen you coming and going. The museum’s officially closed, but you can surely come on in. I bet this place is nothing like your little cottage. Would you mind holding some of my things while I fuss with this lock?”
    A warm cinnamon smell floated out of the grocery bag. “That smells too good for a store bakery,” Leigh said.
    “Aren’t you sweet! I always make cookies for meetings, even if it means leaving the office a little earlier than I should.” She swore once at the dead bolt and tried again. The door opened.
    “Meeting?”
    “Just the convention planning committee. But come on in; we won’t bite.”
    Oh god. Leigh shook her head. That had to include Peach, maybe Marti. Her attacker and her blackmailer. “Thanks, but another time.”
    “Not even a quick look? Aren’t you curious?”
    She was curious, she realized, and she followed the cheerful woman inside. “Just toss the bags there,” Ellen said. She pointed to a desk as she walked toward a lamp and turned it on.
    Leigh set everything down. She turned around and said, “Holy cow.”
    Three girl-sized mannequins dressed in period costume were posed with arms linked. Their painted faces were frozen in wide-eyed, maniacal smiles.
    “Holy cow is right,” said Ellen. “And just imagine what it’s like at night with the lights out. Sometimes when I’m the last to leave I get a little spooked.”
    “The three friends,” Leigh said.
    Ellen Blaney put a hand on a tailored hip. “So you’ve read the books Marti gave you.”
    “Not yet. I’ve been busy.”
    “Don’t feel bad. A lot of our visitors have never read them, but they’ve usually seen