I stepped out from the trees and studied the chaotic scene in front of me.

Everywhere I looked there was color and motion. Over thirty hot air balloons covered the field of Miller’s farm, and no two were alike. I saw traditional balloons scattered among those shaped like cartoon characters, buildings, animals and fantasy creatures. People were milling about, laughing and enjoying the crisp, clear morning.

Hard to believe this was murder scene.

“Morning, Detective Bryson.”

I looked to my left and saw Sergeant Mulrooney striding purposefully across the field. I smiled in appreciation as I noticed the two cups of coffee he carried. The man could find hot coffee in the middle of the Sahara.

“So, what’s the story, Sergeant?”

I took a sip as he brought me up to speed.

“See that frog over there?” he said, pointing. I nodded – it would have been hard to miss. The frog was at least sixty feet tall, with pink lips and a crown.

“Well, the pilot started to fill his balloon at about 5:30AM, and around 6:00 the envelope – that’s the balloon part – finally started to lift off the ground. When it did, he found - ” Mulrooney glanced down at his notes, “George Pardee on the ground where the envelope had been. He summoned help, but it was too late.”

“What was the cause of death?”

Mulrooney grimaced. “The medical examiner hasn’t said, but it looked to me like he’d walked face-first into a cement wall.”

“Let’s take a look at the scene.”

We walked into the field and were soon weaving our way among a forest of towering balloons. I had always thought of ballooning as a quiet hobby, but I was wrong. All around us the air was filled with the roar of propane burners heating massive quantities of air to keep the balloons aloft. But despite the noise, the enthusiasm was contagious. These people were here to have fun, and they weren’t about to let a little murder stand in their way.

Using the Frog Prince as a guide, we soon navigated our way to the scene. The unfortunate Mr. Pardee was still sprawled on the ground, his form hidden from prying eyes by an orange blanket emblazoned with a stylized yellow duck. I raised my eyebrow questioningly at Mulrooney. He shrugged.

“It’s from his balloon basket.” He nodded his head to a bright yellow balloon crumpled nearby. “His is a giant rubber ducky, like you’d find in a kid’s bathtub.”

Pulling back the rubber ducky blanket, I studied the victim. Mulrooney was right, he did look like he’d tangled with a cement wall, and the wall had won. Whatever had come in contact with his face had been heavy and very, very hard. Faint marks indicated that the body had been dragged under the balloon, but the pre-dawn traffic around it had obliterated the rest of the trail. Another splash of yellow caught my eye, this time clutched in the victim’s fingers.

I bent over and carefully removed a scrap of fabric from his hand. The material was similar to the basket blanket covering his body, but the yellow was offset with a blue stripe.

I walked over to the pilot of the Frog Prince.

“Do all of the balloons carry matching basket blankets?” I asked.

He nodded. “Most of the specialty balloons do. It keeps everything in theme.”

Thanking him, I turned to study the balloons. A black and white Holstein floated a short distance away, and next to it was Van Gogh’s head, staring at the cow’s udder. Darth Vader’s helmet looked down on all the others as if they were his lowly servants.

Off to one side was a bright blue octopus. At least 90 feet tall, various sea creatures clung to its body; a smiling starfish, a happy dolphin, a brightly colored seahorse. Eight long tentacles reached toward to the ground – eight yellow-and-blue striped tentacles.

Noticing the sudden interest in his direction, the pilot was rushing to free his tether lines. Nodding at a couple of uniformed officers, Mulrooney grabbed the pilot while the officers secured the balloon. As I neared, I could see that the propane burners were extremely clean, as if they’d just been subjected to a thorough scrubbing. Climbing into the basket, I saw a blanket crumpled in one corner. A blue blanket fringed with seven yellow and blue tentacles.

I picked up the blanket and approached the pilot.

“Why?” I asked.

“He insulted Deep Sea Beauty,” he said simply, nodding to his balloon.

As the officers took him away, I watched as the untended balloon began to slowly deflate and crumple to the ground. Wrapped up in the noisy frenzy, nobody noticed the loss of one balloon – or an obsession that led to murder.

Having a child around is so much trouble. What do I know about children anyway? They cry and they smell, at least the young ones do. And this one is still pretty young.

My trouble-making sister, running off and getting herself killed in a car accident, sticking me with her blond, blue-eyed miniature urchin. Who’d have thought something so small could be the source of such larger problems? A problem with a knack for breaking things and getting into places she doesn’t belong.

She tries to appear innocent behind those dirty blond curls, coveralls soaked in mud and sticky, black oil. She obviously crawled through the pigpen, not a pleasant smell by any means. She goes through clothes like I blow through hankies when suffering a bad cold.

To top it off she’s tracked this wonderful, smelly concoction onto the hot air balloon bag I was mending in the barn. My beautiful balloon, cherry red and lemon yellow...my pride and joy. Now it’s a mess!

This kid’s an expert at playpen escape, no matter how many alterations I concoct. After getting as dirty and smelly as possible, she danced with delight all over the balloon bag stretched out on the barn floor. I was only gone a few minutes.

My horror is complete. I feel the colour bleeding from my face and my heart wincing in my chest.

The muddy brat claps her oily hands and shouts, “Bah-lloon!”

I manage to swallow my rage. I am certainly not a child beater. It doesn’t make me a child liker either.

I take her oily hand and lead her off the balloon bag. She’s filthy, smelly, and probably hungry. If I don’t tend to the situation she’ll start crying and distract me from further work anyway.

After hosing her down, I dress her in the cleanest pair of coveralls I can find, and make her a peanut butter and honey sandwich.

As she eats my eyes rest on the laundry pile. It may as well be a mountain. I’m so tired of peanut butter and honey sandwiches, her favourite. The oil stains on the balloon bag keep plague my thoughts. I am exhausted!

After lunch I pen the child again, grateful she’s ready for a nap. I resume the repair, rubbing away the oil as best I can. What if I sent her off in the balloon? She could float far, far away and become someone else’s problem. The first smile in many days plays upon my lips. I could always make another balloon.

When the repair is done I take the balloon into the yard and connect the ropes and small basket. Time for a test spin. I call it the Cloudhopper, and every summer I make a good penny giving rich people rides. This supplements the farm’s income and makes the cold winters more comfortable.

The balloon floats up, not hindered by the stains, but looking awful. Who would shell out good money to ride in something this dirty? A small gust of wind suddenly appears and the balloon rocks back and forth.

If there’s one thing I am especially good at, it’s predicting the weather. The small gust may as well have whispered in my very ear that for about two hours a steady wind would be passing through.

No time like the present to take advantage of such an opportunity.

I wake the child and hand her the teddy bear she adores. She is yawning as I lift her small frame into the Cloudhopper’s basket; still rubbing her eyes as the balloon wobbles off the ground.

“Bah-lloon!” she cries with glee.

It’s the only word she seems to know, and has no qualms about verbalizing it over and over and over…

The wind picks up. The balloon rises higher.

“Bah-lloon! Bah-lloon!”

Higher it goes.

“Look daddy!” she squeals, pointing down.

This takes me by surprise. “But I’m not your…”

She is smiling her baby-tooth smile, chubby little hands clinging to my shoulders. Her blue eyes are wide in amazement. She’s so excited. I don’t have the heart to tell her I am not her daddy.

Instead I point out the small town and the Clydesdale farm. She really likes horses. Yes indeed, I was never one to waste a good opportunity. With a perfect wind such as this, I just had to take my niece up in the bah-lloon.

“Two more minutes, then it’s time to go home Madeline.” I hug her a little closer.

This year the fair goers will just have to understand I am a father now. It’s certainly not easy, but you roll with the punches. Sometimes kids mess things up. I have learned that you simply love them and carry on.