His trebuchet was not good old boy though. It was a medieval siege weapon that relied solely on gravity and counterweight for its power—he had explained his design in excruciating detail over tuna sandwiches the previous week before giving Juliet a demonstration—and it flung pumpkins far enough and hard enough to make Juliet wince. They had closed off one of the streets for the competition. She just hoped the aim was good enough that none of the old wood buildings were hit. In a contest of authentic siege machines and authentic decrepit shacks, her bet was the machines would win.
A horn sounded. The pumpkin gladiators went to war.
* * *
Juliet finally escaped the cheering crowds who roared as loud for failed “pie” shots as they did for successful ones that splatted on the street. She had done her part by being supportive, and enough was enough. She needed food and quiet.
There was going to be a two-hour break for lunch and cleanup and then round two would begin. She hoped Rose wasn’t too exasperated at her disappearing for so long.
The balloon man was still in the lot, but had developed a stoop and a gait that suggested he was walking on a ship being tossed by storm.
“Drunk,” Lulu Weston murmured, looking up from Rose’s weavings which she was fingering absently and glancing at Comstock. “But with him it’s no surprise.”
“So unfortunate,” Rose murmured back and they both nodded.
Juliet was more than surprised, she was astonished. In the time she had been gone, Comstock had somehow gotten staggering drunk, and was blurting out jaw-dropping belches that caused head snaps in those who bore the brunt of the olfactory assault. Still wearing just enough of his Reaper makeup to frighten people, the combination of the lurching gait and ghastly white face made him into a believable zombie.
No one was sorry when he stumbled away in the direction of the portable toilets and more than one person in Juliet’s hearing expressed the hope that he would find somewhere far away and sleep it off before the fairgoers figured out he wasn’t just acting the part of a monster.
“Juliet, have you met Lulu Weston?” Rose asked, recalling her manners.
“Not yet. Juliet Henry. I’ve been eyeing your pumpkins.” But not with enthusiasm. Juliet wasn’t fond of the whole fairies and angels school of decorating.
“Thank you. I noticed your little bags.…”
“Trick-or-treat bags. So much better than a plain pillowcase or paper that tears for the serious candy-gatherer,” Rose supplied, always tactful, bless her fearful little heart.
“What a clever idea.” She didn’t mean it. “Well, I should be getting back.”
“Things may pick up again now that the punkin chunkin is over,” Juliet agreed. “Rose, have you had anything to eat yet? Why don’t you go on and I’ll keep watch here. Everything is marked, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Well, if you’re sure. I could use a bite to eat and it would be nice to stop in and see what’s selling this year.”
“I’m very sure.” Juliet wanted some quiet time. “I’ve taken terrible advantage of you today. Go forth to eat and shop.”
Rose murmured that this wasn’t true and she was happy to help, but grabbed her backpack and headed for the food tents without a lot of dillydallying.
Juliet surveyed her booth with pleasure but also dismay. There was one more day to the festival and her table was looking a little bare. She rearranged what she had left to fill empty spaces and then recalled that she had a few other things at the bungalow she could bring down in the morning, some sample aprons and a few children’s t-shirts. They might not sell if the weather was cold but they would fill the holes in the stock so things didn’t look quite so sad and picked over.
Maybe she should take a page from Samuel Levy’s book and offer silk-screening demonstrations. Maybe even let people print their own shirts and aprons. There seemed to be a lot of takers who were willing to don a smock and latex gloves so that they could play with the grayish-green clay without getting dirty.
It would be a bother and she would have to see about insurance, but maybe….
Chapter 3
He was filled with every kind of pain and couldn’t get rid of it. He knew that it wasn’t normal but he was tired, so tired and sick. He should be going for help—a doctor…. He tried to follow that thought, but it was like walking down a long hall where the lights went out one by one.
What would happen when the last light went out? Would that be the last darkness? And those footsteps—was it death that dogged him? Or was it the devil out to claim his own? He knew what his father would say if he were still alive.
Juliet’s metal folding chair was uncomfortable and made her feel like she had extra bones in her butt—all of which hurt. It was time for a walk. A trip to the restroom was a plausible excuse for a walk.
“Rose, can you look after things for a moment?” she asked. And it would only be for a moment. She wasn’t going back for the semifinals of the punkin chunkin. If Garret made the finals she would cheer him on tomorrow when things would likely be less crowded.
“Of course.” Juliet had done as much for her when she took her very late lunch and a longer bathroom break. Rose had been a good neighbor and shopped from her friends and colleagues.
Juliet stretched a bit and started for the north side of the parking lot. She paused when she saw how many people were in line at the blue toilets and how many of them were mothers with small children.
Time for plan B.
Juliet heard the first distant alarm bell of the subconscious when she rounded the back of the old stables where the church restrooms were located. She was hopeful that the old bathrooms had been overlooked by most people who would only see the screen of ancient oleander instead of the badly warped door. She preferred a real toilet and sink to those chemical toilets anyway, and was willing to go further afield to get them, even if it meant tromping through the mud.
It was oddly quiet back there and she could hear the west wind which was moving among the trees announcing that the fog would be rolling in soon and that the sun’s time was coming to a close. It was the wind which showed her the clutch of monster balloons caught in the branches of a yew tree. It was the distended spheres twisting in the breeze which stirred atavistic dread and chilled her skin. The balloons should have floated away when they got their freedom, but they were caught in the tree’s branches, kept from heaven. It seemed a kind of existential message. Perhaps a word from the Divine sponsor—and not a good one since the balloons were all about violence and murder.
Something impended. Something she would rather not see.
Breath caught at the throat and walking silently, Juliet approached the shrubbery under the tree that clasped the balloons. She didn’t get too close because of the thistles and their nasty thorns that were red where wind-borne leaves had impaled themselves.
And because of the shoes. The worn soles with rubbed-down heels, facing downward, bumped her alarms up another degree.
She stepped a little closer, wanting to discover that it was just someone’s cast-off clothing, but of course it wasn’t. Pairs of shoes didn’t fall toes downward unless there was someone in them.
It could be a drunk—like Comstock—but even inebriated, why would he crawl in the thistles and wet leaves when there was a bathroom and bench nearby? Had he been trying to hide? But from what?
She took one more step and smelled the blood and vomit odor that the wind cast up in her face. The smell of recent death dislocated her brain, derailing hopeful surmise that he was only unconscious or slightly injured.
In her old job she had been a kind of an autistic hall monitor for the media that covered international affairs. She had no real authority to do anything about what she saw and heard and read. She could do nothing but note names and transgressions and then track down the source of disinformation which she then passed on to others who would actually take action.
She also looked for patterns to predict future behavior so her organization could
head the bad guys off at the pass. That sometimes meant looking at photos of terrorist attacks and trying to see what others had missed. She didn’t deal directly with violent criminals or crime scenes, but she knew about them, was trained to observe them. She had left her job behind in D.C., but not her skills and inclinations. All it took was one body and she was back there again.
“Damn.”
It struck her that on the other side of the old building full of paintings life went on as normal. There was music and laughter, popcorn and unfriendly goats. People were dancing and throwing pumpkins and reveling in the change of season by wearing scary costumes. She could step out there and be normal too. But she didn’t move. She stayed there, holding her breath, looking at all the red. Red blood. Red leaves.
“Juliet? Are you coming to the punkin—” Garret asked and then stopped abruptly. “Oh hell.”
Juliet stood aside, grateful that she wouldn’t have to summon help or examine the body for signs of life that so obviously weren’t there. A part of her also made note of the fact that they were behind the stables and couldn’t be seen from the parking lot. That was bad news for the dead man who had passed away unseen by fairgoers who might have been able to help—and she was quite certain he was dead, though of course Garret pushed into the shrubs far enough to check for a pulse. It was protocol.
“I think it’s the balloon man.” She pointed upward at the balloons snared in the branches overhead. It was a point of pride that her voice sounded normal when inside she was so not feeling like she should be.
“Comstock? I guess it is.” Garret didn’t roll him over. He would want to photograph the crime scene first.
And it was a crime scene. Juliet knew it. The caffeine from her two cups of tea ebbed away leaving her stranded and suddenly weary, alive to this trauma but also an older one where it had been a friend’s body that she examined.
If her stomach would accept it, she should eat something sweet for quick energy. Maybe a deep-fried Twinkie, however inappropriate the gesture would be. After all, wasn’t it wrong to think of food when you were standing next to someone who would never know the pleasure of eating again?
“No bullet holes, no obvious wounds. The neck isn’t broken.”
Garret spoke to her like a colleague. She tried to take pride in that but didn’t seem able to feel much of anything.
“Henderson is at the first aid booth?” she asked, wanting a reason to leave. She needed a couple minutes to get a grip on her thoughts and feelings.
“Yeah, ask him to grab his kit—and tell him to come the back way. We don’t need a scene until things are secured. I sure hope the news van has left.”
“I think they did.”
The wind changed directions suddenly, curling back toward them. The smoke drifting in from the grill where the skewers of chicken were cooking was repellant, though it helped hide the worst of the dead man’s odors.
“You okay, Juliet? You aren’t too shaken up?”
“I’m fine.” That was sort of the truth. Physically she was okay.
People died everywhere, in swimming pools, in cars, on skis, in oceans. There was probably no inch of land that hadn’t had someone die on it at some time.
That didn’t mean it was normal to find a body in the bushes at a harvest festival. In fact, most people would go their whole lives and never have it happen. But now it had happened twice. Juliet wondered what god she had pissed off to have a second murder victim shoved under her nose.
“This couldn’t have waited until the festival was over?” Garret muttered to his own god. “I’m going to miss the second round of the chunkin.”
“They probably couldn’t wait. The crowds are handy. If you’re a murderer who needs an alibi that relies on chaos.”
Garret shot her a glance and she realized that she had spoken aloud. He didn’t argue though. He knew that certain people, more often than anyone admitted, lived in moral chaos. They preferred it. They did evil things, not because they were unaware of their warped instincts, but because they wanted to do them.
That didn’t mean they were good at it. Not in the beginning.
It had surprised Juliet to learn in the course of her training that most criminals, even killers, made little effort at obfuscation. Serial killers sometimes did—they had to or they ended up with short careers—but the average, garden variety, get drunk and kill the neighbor with a shovel type didn’t bother. That was because they didn’t practice premeditation. They didn’t have a plan. They were killers by accident, people with poor impulse control. That made them easy to catch after the fact, but hard to predict beforehand.
The ones who thought ahead were what she classified as murderers. And, as both practical and theoretical experience had taught her, once someone becomes adept at planning and executing their kills, it is possible—even likely—that they will continue to use what turns out to be a winning strategy to get through life. One couldn’t console oneself with the idea that there had been special circumstances and the murderer would never kill again. Not when there was premeditation and murder for some kind of gain and not self-defense in a surprise physical confrontation.
Getting involved in the situation went against intuition—was counter-evolutionary to her new way of life. Had she not made a conscious decision to keep her uncomfortable intuitions under wrap and her neighbors at a comfortable distance? Once her little gift was discovered, her old job became untenable. Even for someone who worked with blinders, focused completely on the job and prepared to ignore most human peripherals, she knew that people were wary of her. Polite, of course, professional. They didn’t forget to invite her to office functions or refuse to speak to her in the hall. But no one called her up on the weekend and suggested they go for a drink or antiquing.
Calling herself names for getting involved, Juliet said to Sheriff Garret, “I may be wrong about this, but have the lab test for taxine first. It’s a vegetable alkaloid that comes from the yew tree. It’s nasty and not hard to make. Unless he took it deliberately, it would have to be hidden in something strong. Like vodka.” Yew. It was the ever-present and popular garden resident from homes built in the 30s. They were all over town. Seeing the balloons stuck in the tree made her think of it.
“He didn’t drink,” Garret answered back, his voice equally as soft. “He was an asthmatic with diabetes and an ulcer.”
“Really? He looked drunk earlier, absolutely staggering. He must have been feeling really sick when I saw him,” Juliet said, frowning and feeling a twinge of guilt. She had assumed like the others that he was inebriated. Perhaps because his makeup hid his true pallor. Half of her mind was upset that she hadn’t caught this fact. The other part was calm and logical. The logical part controlled her conversation. “Asthma, you said? Check his inhaler, if he had one. Also look for nasal spray. The decoction could have gone in that.”
“Could it have gone in his coffee?” Garret didn’t question her hunch. Nor did he suggest that the dead man had accidently eaten some leaves or berries.
“Would he drink coffee with an ulcer? Anyway, it would have to be really strong, really bad coffee to hide the flavor. Taxine is extremely bitter.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see.” Garret pulled out his phone. “I’ll call Doc Hyder and tell him to bring the wagon.” It was more discrete than an ambulance.
“I’ll go get Henderson.”
“Juliet?”
“Yes?”
“Do you mind coming back with him? He’s a good man and all, but I could use another set of eyes that actually see what they’re looking at.”
She did mind, but it wasn’t worth arguing. A friend needed—or at least wanted—her help. She couldn’t in decency say no.
“That’s fine. I’ll ask Rose to mind the booth. We’ll be closing down soon anyway. I can make a statement then if you want.”
“No hurry. Unless you saw something else I should look at now?”
“No. I was just coming to use the bathroom.”
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“Go ahead then. There’s no need to rush, poor bastard.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need to anymore.”
Juliet went first to tell the startled deputy what happened and to pass on Garret’s message about fetching the kit and going in the back way so it wouldn’t attract a crowd. Then she went on to her tent. She waited until Rose had written up her sale for a brown and green alpaca and dog-hair poncho then broke the news that Comstock was dead and that Sheriff Garret wanted Juliet to be available to run errands while they moved the body. Juliet didn’t say anything about it being murder but Rose’s somber gaze said that she guessed the truth.
“I’m sorry to ask you to mind my things again,” Juliet said, hoping she wouldn’t ask questions.
“That’s okay. We aren’t busy right now and everything is so neatly labeled. You know, sometimes it’s like musical chairs,” Rose said sadly.
“Musical chairs?” Juliet repeated, wondering how sweatshirts and a child’s party game related to one another.
“Yes, you keep wandering in smaller and smaller circles, competing for the same things everyone else wants and needs. And always there is someone left without a chair. I don’t know why it’s like that, but it is. I always hated that game.”
Juliet nodded to save time, still wondering if Rose was talking about the fair and its somewhat disappointing turnout, or if she was speaking of the dead man. Was Comstock someone who never got a seat? Or was he someone who was always taking a seat away from someone else? Given how little affection people had for him she suspected the latter.
The question pushed the last of the shock away and made Juliet start thinking less about how the man had died and more about why. Thoughts and questions began to stretch and wiggle as they moved into the vacated space and started to arrange themselves logically. The first one was who might have wanted him dead? Someone had to have a compelling reason. Reasons like that were awfully hard to hide from people who were trained to look for them.
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