by Liz Marvin
“Thanks. And yes. People who are afraid of pickpockets will lock their valuables in their car. All the cops and cameras are pointed at the fairgrounds. This is where they’ll hit. Let’s be quiet now.”
Bill heard a soft curse and slap of palm against cheek. “Kill the mosquitoes quietly please. I owe you a six pack.”
“Make it a case. Out.”
The two men sat alone, each in their own uncomfortable silence, waiting and watching. Bill was seating in the back seat but he was parked in the perfect spot to observe the entire lot if he could look out all the windows at once. As it was he had to keep low and move slowly enough so that he wouldn’t be spotted. Wes needed only to look straight ahead, left and right but if anything he had to remain more silent and still than Bill and the temptation to scratch or swat was much greater.
Then Wes saw Clarise and all his comfort disappeared. His phone buzzed; it was Bill. “Stay put” was all he said. Wes didn’t speak, didn’t move.
Clarise was searching cars; specifically vans, SUVs and panel trucks. Eventually she stopped and banged on the side of a painter’s van with a large ad painted on the side.
Confederate re-enactors streamed out of the van like clowns from a clown car. Clarise shook her finger in their faces, lined them up in quick order. She marched back and forth up and down the line like a master drill sergeant. Moments later she was leading them away.
Wes dialed Bill. “False alarm?”
“Nope.” Bill answered. “Just part one. Stay sharp. It won’t be long now.”
~
Betty was flushed, red faced, sweating and out of breath when she reached the reviewing stand steps. Achmed was waiting for her with a bottle of water and a hair brush. She chugged from the bottle while he wiped her face with his handkerchief and fussed with her hair and complained.
“You were the master of ceremonies. The opening act. In theory without you the moon doesn’t revolve around the earth, the earth doesn’t revolve around the sun and the stars don’t turn in the heavens.
“Fortunately you have many friends. Thelma thanked everyone and introduced Danbey who, apparently, is turning Addie’s homestead into some sort of museum and summer camp. Addie and I demonstrated our mock pokeberry pie recipe and thanks to the wonders of industrial level cooking and my connections everyone got to try a piece and you just missed Clarise and the Confederates cap off Mister Payone’s announcement that a movie is going to be made in and around Lofton.”
Betty wanted to ask if anyone had saved her a piece of pie but she didn’t dare. “Sounds like fun.” was all she could manage.
Achmed was not amused “Now get up there and captivate these - this crowd and wrap up the show. Please.”
Betty climbed the steps slowly feeling the weight of Achmed’s words. She had never felt more like she was heading for the gallows. She reached the top and the gathered cucumber judges and radish masters parted at her coming leaving a path to a microphone set too high for her to use.
Thelma and Edna were seated together at the top of the steps. Edna sniffed and looked away but Thelma stood up and gave Betty a hug. “Thank you for letting me do the introduction.” she whispered “Be brave.”
Betty thought that was easy for her to say; seated in the back near the exit and not having to ad lib a speech in front of thousands of people. What she said was “Wish me luck.”
“You make your own luck Miss Crawford.” Thelma said out loud. Heads turned to look. Inside Betty shrank into herself but outwardly she smiled and said “of course!” and walked on. One foot in front of the other. Somehow she kept moving. She reached the microphone, twisted the locking ring and dropped the mic to her level. Only then did she look out over the assembled throng. Throng. The right word for a crowd that filled the bleachers to overflowing and filled the field in front of the reviewing stand. There were three thousand people at least. Probably more.
Her mouth was dry. If she had written a speech, studied and re-written it, rehearsed it a half dozen times in front of a mirror and perhaps her parents and Clarise then, maybe, she could do this. But to wing it? Now? Live in front of all these people?
“Good afternoon Lofton fair goers!”
A cheer went up. Betty smiled and waved until the sound began to subside. She wanted to thank these people for sticking by the fair when things were going wrong and for turning out to celebrate when grief, fear and disappointment were the reigning emotions of the day.
She wanted to remind them what a good place Lofton was; a town that had survived hard times since its inception and pokeberry pie was proof that they could do turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse one better and turn a poison berry into a prize winning pie.
She wanted to share the lessons she had learned. Let go of anger. Laugh at yourself. Talk to your neighbors. Tell them what is truly happening in your life and don’t be afraid that they’ll judge you because they’re going to judge you anyway but probably not in any way you’d expect. And listen to your neighbors because they may be trying to tell you something important and because you’d want them to listen to you too and above all know your ingredients.
She wanted to make them laugh. She wanted to hug and thank each and every one of them. Instead what she said was “I have type two diabetes.”
Face to palm. Betty wondered who had taken over her mouth and what were they thinking. She took a deep breath. “I’m telling you because for the past year I’ve been afraid to tell you or anyone. What the last week has taught me is that I - we can’t live in fear. Some people will blame me for my condition and some of you will pity me and for many of you it will make no difference at all. I just want to tell you the truth. I owe all of you and myself that.”
Applause started behind her. Betty was afraid to turn around. She wanted to say more but the applause spread and people in the bleachers were standing up. Her vision blurred suddenly. Unexpected tears can do that.
Then the gunfire erupted followed by screams.
“Stay seated! Please!” Betty shouted into the microphone but nobody was listening. Even the folks on the reviewing stand were heading for the stairs.
“I’m not done yet! Now sit down!”
She turned to the judges all gathered at the stairs. “You’re civic leaders!” She hissed “set a good example!” Everyone stopped, reluctantly. Thelma and Edna returned to their seats, followed by Achmed and Clarise who glared daggers at her but sat down. Smiling Betty turned to the crowd.
“The noise is coming from the parking lot. Practically every law enforcement officer in the county is here and they’re on their way there. Lets us stay out of the way until the dust settles. All right?”
A cheer went up. Betty turned to Clarise. “We’re fortunate to have the artistic director and amateur civil war historian Clarise Birdsong with us. Let’s see if we can coax her up here to maybe tell us a bit about civil war songs.”
The crowd, including the judges on the reviewing stand, applauded wildly. Clarise slowly stood up and, smiling, walked to the microphone as if she was approaching a gallows. Betty, applauding herself stepped aside. Clarise covered the mic with one hand while she adjusted the height with the other and whispered to Betty. “Go find out what is happening and don’t get yourself killed.”
“Want to take care of that yourself?” Betty asked, smiling.
“Count on it!” Clarise whispered back and then turned to the crowd. “Who knows the words to any George Frederick Root songs?”
Betty backed away, turned and ran.
21. Chapter 20
Wes had given up scratching but that didn’t mean he had stopped itching. He was just resigned to lots of little burning tickles all over his body. Few people had come out to the parking lot. A dad carrying a crying five year old girl followed by a mom dragging a sullen older brother who was clearly in trouble. A young man gesturing wildly while talking on his cell phone changed into a fast food uniform in the parking lot before getting into his car and racing off. A half dozen families arrived and jogged
across the parking lot toward the fairground entrance.
Then all was still. In the distance a cheer went up from the fairgrounds. Indistinct tinny sounding murmurs from the antiquated reviewing stand amplification system barely disturbed them.
But here and there a flash of black or dark blue. People were moving about the parking lot, staying low and working hard not to be seen.
Wes shifted slightly, tested his legs, making sure that when the time came he could rise up and run. He wanted to call Bill and make sure he was seeing this but he knew better. Bill would open the door to the SUV and jump out. That would be Wes’ cue to move in and cut off their escape route.
But to do that Wes needed to figure out which was their escape vehicle. It would have to be large, unobtrusive, have an unblocked path to the exit and be partially obscured by other vehicles.
The closest to that description was Bill’s SUV and Wes was fairly certain that wasn’t it. Just down the aisle from Bill there were three work vans in a row with the Witt family delivery van at the end. The center van would have the most cover. That was Wes’ pick.
Suddenly a state patrol car, lights flashing and siren wailing pulled up and stopped, blocking the exit. Bill burst from the SUV and that was his cue. Wes rushed out, heading for the row of vans.
“All right you are surrounded! Stand up and come out with your hands up.”
Bill had three pair of handcuffs in one hand. He wouldn’t take out his sidearm unless he had to. This gang had been clever but they weren’t violent. They needed to be stopped but there was no reason to bring weapons into it.
A single head popped up in the sea of vehicles about ten cars away from Bill. A dark colored stocking cap and a dark turtleneck shirt and oversized wraparound sunglasses. He looked around, saw Wes, saw the squad car and froze for a fraction of a second when he saw Bill running toward him. Then he ducked from sight.
Then gunfire erupted from all sides. Or firecrackers designed to sound like gunfire. Wes kept running, looking for flashes and he saw them kicking up dust in a random pattern in the aisles between cars and under some of the cars. Bill ducked but he kept moving.
Bill was where the thief had been in seconds but of course the crook was gone by then. As the explosions diminished half dozen state, county and local cops came running through the main gate. That avenue of escape was cut off and Wes was running along the tree line toward the front gate. Beyond the narrow band of trees were open fields. They wouldn’t head that way either.
“Game over boys. Come on out and nobody gets hurt.”
“Mmmph!”
Bill heard a grunt from nearby. He rounded a corner and found the entire troupe of Yankee re-enactors tied up. Half of them were in uniform, half were in their underwear. All had gags. They looked up at Bill with pleading puppy dog eyes.
“Awww crap.” Bill stuffed the cuffs into his pocket.
Backup arrived and the police began untying the men.
Wes was still running for the vans when the Witt van roared to life and jumped into the road. The delivery truck raced toward the exit and somehow spun around the squad car and made it onto the road. The cop backed up and was about to give chase when from out of nowhere Henry Witt, wearing just a tee-shirt and boxers, jumped in front of the car.
Wes was nearly winded but kept sprinting; he pulled out his gun and headed right for Henry.
“He - they stole my van!”
“Get out of the way!” Wes screamed. Henry froze. Wes grabbed him in a bear hug and pulled him off the hood of the patrol car. The driver turned on the lights and siren and took off.
“What are you thinking?” Wes asked
“That’s my dad’s van. We need it for work. They took my wallet.”
Wes led Henry back to Bill’s SUV. He found a blanket in the emergency kit and gave it to him. “Wait here. I’ll give you a ride home as soon as this is sorted.” Wes stopped and clapped Henry on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get your truck back.”
Wes left Henry and ran toward Bill. Henry climbed into the SUV and closed the door.
Bill and the other officers untied the last of the Yankee re-enactors. They were all nervous, all thin, all about five foot ten, all in their twenties to thirties. Alarm bells went off. There was simply no way these men could have been tied up and their captors could have eluded all the police and gotten away.
And the men were too young! Re-enactors tended to be older and be more dedicated to their hobby.
“Where are your cars?”
“Doesn’t matter. None of us have keys!” Bill didn’t see who spoke and all of the men laughed. Even some of the cops chuckled.
“All right let’s try another question. Where did you dump the wallets and purses?”
No one laughed or said anything. Some of the police backed up and rested their hands on their sidearms. The re-enactors looked at each other nervously.
“The firecrackers were a nice touch. You’ve been mostly non-violent up until now and I expect you haven’t had a chance to fence much of anything so if y’all return what you’ve taken you might get to head north again before you’re all old men.”
The re-enactors looked around at each other more seriously. One man nodded. Barely a whisper of a nod but the others noticed and they nodded in turn.
The man stepped forward. He was wearing a black tank top and black tight fitting underwear. He straightened up and did his best under the circumstances to look distinguished.
“I’m not saying we’re involved in any way in this but I know who the local is who set this whole thing up and I know he killed that woman. He’s sold a few things already but if I can lead you to the, as you call it, loot can we forget this whole sordid affair?”
Bill crossed his arms. “No. But if you all cooperate right now before anyone else gets hurt -”
A rifle shot from behind Bill. Nearby too. Bill dove for cover almost as fast as Wes. The man who had been speaking pitched backward to the ground, a hole in his chest. Bill looked back in time to see his SUV backing up and driving away.
“Who is that?” Bill shouted. Wes looked. “I left Henry with the van.”
Bill swore. Wes had never heard Bill swear before. Bill handed Wes his handcuffs. One of the officers was calling in an ambulance. Another was on the phone with the state police giving the license and description of the SUV. Two more officers were working on the wounded man. The others had their weapons trained on the Yankee re-enactor pickpocket gang. Bill grabbed the nearest man and pulled him close. “How many of you are there? Who is missing?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Bill tossed him to Wes. “Cuff him, hands in back and sit him down. Call for a wagon.”
An officer spoke up. “The state has a mass arrest transport bus but it’ll take four hours to get here!” Bill smiled and grabbed another man, pulling him to his feet. “I’ll ask once more. Who is missing?”
Bill’s new victim got his feet under him and looked Bill in the eye. “Tony took the Van. I don’t know the other guy’s name. He wasn’t one of us.”
Bill let him go. “You can show Wes where the stolen goods are.”
Bill’s phone rang. It was Betty. There wasn’t time but he answered it.
“Bill? Henry says for me to tell you I’m with him.”
“BETTY!” Bill yelled into the phone but the line was dead.
~
Betty was doing exactly what she had just convinced three thousand people not to do. Run for the parking lot. For the sake of discretion she couldn’t just cut through the bleachers. Instead she ran for the back fence.
Clarise hadn’t been able to get the crowd singing so she slipped into a lecture about the Irish immigrants who fought for both the north and south. Clarise was reciting the lyrics to Thomas Moore’s “The Minstrel Boy”.
“The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death ye may find him;
His father’s sword he hath girded on,
>
With his wild harp slung along behind him;
Land of Song, the lays of the warrior bard,
May some day sound for thee,
But his harp belongs to the brave and free
And shall never sound in slavery!”
Clarise ended with the observation that “The song was originally written about the Irish rebellion and adopted for the civil war but the Irish in the north fought for individual freedom while those in the south fought for state freedom. Even so they sang the same song.” Betty didn’t have time to ponder the wisdom of her friend; she was too busy worrying about Bill.
Achmed O’Rielly joined Clarise at the microphone and began to sing. He had a beautiful tenor voice. Moments later Addie joined him, the Walter and Clarise took up the song. The whole crowd was singing by the time she finally found the broken sheet of plywood that marked the hole in the fence.
Once out of the fairgrounds she cut across the field to the woods beside the road that led back to the fairground. She was walking along the road heading back toward the parking lot when an SUV pulled up beside her and stopped. Henry opened the passenger door. “Bill asked me to pick you up.”
Betty was about to get in when it occurred to her “How did Bill know I was -” and she had her answer. A police issue rifle was pointed in her face. “Get in.”
Betty got in. “What is this about?”
Henry pressed the barrel into Betty’s chest. “You have your phone?” Betty nodded.
“Give it to me.” Betty did as she was told and handed the phone to him. He opened it, searched through her numbers and dialed. “You say exactly what I tell you. Henry says to tell you I’m with him.”
Bill answered and Betty repeated what Henry told her to say and then he savagely tore the phone away from her and smashed it.
Betty asked again. “Henry what is going on?”
Henry gunned the car and took off. “Oh as if you didn’t know. Miss prissy perfect. I had a good thing going here. I was making inroads. I had plans.”
“I thought you were making the store -”
“That business is dead. It’s been dead for years. I started stealing to keep the doors open when I was in high school. You know why I didn’t go to college? Because I was the only one who knew that if I left the store would be out of business inside three months and everything I’d done would be for nothing.”