“You’re trying to trick me!” Dr. Smoot shouted. He was scrabbling against the wall behind him as if looking for a doorknob. “You’re going to lead me down into that tunnel!”
“It’s not you we’re trying to trick.” I glanced around ostentatiously, as if making sure no one could overhear, and then dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s the chief. He’s insisting you come down. But Dad and I have a plan.”
“I’m going to admit you to the hospital with possible heat exhaustion,” Dad whispered.
Smoot didn’t say anything, but he cocked his head to one side and stopped clawing at the wall.
“Help us out a bit with a few symptoms,” I said. “That way we can keep you out of harm’s way until all this crawling through tunnels is over with, and nobody will be the wiser.”
“You’re experiencing weakness, profuse sweating, muscle cramps, headache, and nausea,” Dad prompted. “I think we can skip the actual vomiting. If you can faint plausibly, that would add a lovely note of authenticity.”
“But don’t do it unless you can carry it off properly,” I said. “Nothing worse than an obviously fake faint.”
Dr. Smoot was nodding furiously.
“Here comes the chief!” Dad hissed.
The chief popped out of the stairway door. Recognizing his cue, Dr. Smoot collapsed against the wall, clutching his head with one hand and his stomach with the other, and uttered several sepulchral groans.
“Good heavens,” the chief exclaimed. “What the dickens is wrong with the man now?”
“Heat exhaustion.” Dad patted Dr. Smoot on the shoulder, and Dr. Smoot sagged against him as if all his bones had suddenly turned to jelly. Dad staggered slightly under the weight. “I’m taking him down to the hospital ASAP,” Dad puffed.
“Vern, help Dr. Langslow,” the chief said. “Dr. Smoot, you just take all the time you need to get well.”
One of the deputies hurried to support Dr. Smoot’s other side, and the three of them lurched out the courthouse door.
“All the time you need,” the chief repeated under his breath.
We heard cheering outside.
“What the dickens?” the chief muttered.
“Come on, Meg,” Randall said. “Time we checked out how your cousin is doing with the Flying Monkeys.”
“Time I did the same,” the chief said. He strode briskly out of the door, and I got the impression he preferred arriving at the forensic tent first, so I paused to give him a few moments. Randall stood beside me.
“We’re going to need to help the chief on this one,” he said.
“The chief might not like that idea,” I replied.
“I figured as much,” he said. “And I don’t want to pull rank on him, but I will if I have to.”
More cheering from outside. Presumably greeting the chief’s appearance. I was willing to bet he wasn’t liking that much, either.
“So let’s discuss it at tonight’s Steering Committee meeting,” Randall added.
I suppressed a tired sigh. Publicly, the Steering Committee was the group tasked with organizing and implementing the ongoing Caerphilly Days celebration. Its covert mission was to ensure that the celebration included a sufficient number of noisy attractions to cover the opening and closing of the trapdoor. As one of the most prolific generators of noise, I’d been recruited to join. The committee was important, fascinating, rewarding—and, like all committees, incredibly time consuming. I’d have resigned long ago if they hadn’t taken to meeting in our library—now, temporarily the fiction room of the Caerphilly public library. Having the meeting that close made it easier to attend, but also a lot harder to weasel out of.
“We had a Steering Committee meeting last night,” I pointed out. “We don’t have one scheduled for tonight.”
“We do now,” Randall said. “And what’s more—”
Another cheer went up outside. Randall’s head snapped toward the door.
“Let’s see what that is, shall we?”
Chapter 10
Randall and I both hurried out the door and over to the top of the steps, where we had a panoramic view of the town square. A great many faces, tourist and local, looked back up at us from behind a barricade made of sawhorses and crime scene tape. Patrolling up and down the sidewalk just inside the barricade were several people wearing the red, white, and blue armbands we’d devised to identify the auxiliaries—citizens recruited by the Steering Committee and deputized by the chief to help with crowd control when the throngs attending Caerphilly Days grew unusually large.
Another cheer greeted our arrival, and at least a dozen digital cameras or cell phones captured it for posterity. I could see Chief Burke’s stocky figure striding across the cordoned-off street. Probably still scowling. Randall responded to the cheering with smiles and waves, and it continued rather longer this time.
“Chief’s going to love this,” I said. “A cheering audience for his investigation.”
“Soooo-EEEEEE!”
The amplified hog call rang out.
Normally our local hog callers were sticklers for competing the old-fashioned way, without microphones, but they’d agreed to sacrifice the purity of their art to the cause of making as much noise as possible. I could see people’s heads whipping back and forth, torn between the certain entertainment of the hog-calling contest and the dubious pleasure of standing in the hot sun waiting to see if something interesting would happen here at the courthouse.
I hoped the hog calling would win before they brought the body out.
Randall waved one last time and began striding down the steps.
“Mr. Mayor! Mr. Mayor!”
I watched as Randall deftly fielded questions from the few journalists present—the Caerphilly Clarion’s one general purpose reporter, a gawky sophomore from the college rag, a stringer from the Richmond Times-Dispatch, and our two Star-Trib witnesses, who had apparently eluded the deputies on the way to the tent. Randall managed to say nothing in particular with great charm and earnestness, so that the press all focused on him and didn’t even notice when the EMTs wheeled the gurney with Colleen Brown’s body down the handicapped ramp that zigzagged along the right flank of the courthouse. Then Randall cut the two Star-Trib reporters out of the herd and guided them gently toward the forensic tent.
I had no desire to see if I was as good as Randall at dodging reporters’ questions, so I gave them a wide berth and trudged on toward the waiting tent.
The tent had two entrances. I spotted Horace and the chief near the farther one and took a few steps in their direction to see what was up.
“Chief,” Horace was saying, “the odds are low that these GSR tests will show anything we can use. And they’re going to be hideously expensive to process.”
“And we don’t yet know if any of these clowns are even suspects,” the chief said. “But you have to take the swabs within a few hours of the shooting, right?”
Horace nodded.
“So collect all your evidence and turn ’em loose,” the chief said. “We can worry later about which samples to process. If we ever get this to trial, I don’t want some defense attorney trying to make it look as if we don’t know our jobs. Besides, maybe we’ll all get kicked off the case and the SBI or the FBI or somebody will get stuck with processing them.”
Horace nodded and ducked into the tent. The chief followed.
I was about to follow when I spotted the Caerphilly Fire Department’s ambulance slowly making its way in front of the courthouse. It didn’t have its lights and sirens on, but people noticed. A few were pointing. Most were standing, quietly. As I watched, one of the deputies took his hat off until the ambulance had passed.
I ducked into the tent.
Randall was standing just inside the entrance with the reporters in tow. But no one had noticed his entrance—all eyes were on the chief and Lieutenant Wilt, who were standing nose to nose arguing.
“I will not have my men singled out for special tre
atment!” Wilt snapped.
“Which is why we want to process them in the same way we’re processing everyone else who had access to my crime scene,” the chief said. “No matter how briefly. Including those reporters from the Star-Tribune, once we figure out where the dickens they’ve got to, and our own town mayor.”
“Right here, Chief,” Randall said.
The chief turned to where Randall and the reporters were standing and nodded. It probably looked brusque to an outsider, but given the chief’s current mood I thought it was downright gracious.
Then the chief returned his gaze to Wilt. Wilt opened his mouth as if to continue his protest, then thought better of it.
Now I understood the reason for bringing along me and Randall.
“I’d be happy to go first.” Randall said. “What do you need from me?”
“First Horace will swab your hands and face for any traces of gunshot residue,” the chief said.
“Swab away,” Randall said. Horace stepped forward, opened his kit, and began putting on his gloves and readying his tools.
“You do realize that my men are armed guards,” Wilt said. “And as such they have to maintain their firearms qualification. If one of them has recently completed his required hours of target practice—”
“Then he should mention it when it’s his turn to be processed,” the chief said.
“I did a little tin can shooting four-five days ago,” Randall said. “Getting ready for deer season. Will that mess up your tests?”
“Four or five days?” Horace said. “Shouldn’t be any GSR left. Unless you’ve completely forgotten to bathe or wash your hands since then. But I’ll note your recent firearm use on the form so the lab can take it into account when processing your swabs.”
“We’ll also need to collect your uniforms for processing,” the chief said.
A murmur of protest rippled down the line of guards and then died down at an instant when their leader scowled at them.
“Collect our uniforms?” Wilt echoed. “What are we supposed to do—walk around in our birthday suits?”
Guffaws erupted, and a few of the guards began unbuttoning their wool uniform jackets or pretending to pull down their pants.
“You’ll be allowed to keep your underwear,” the chief said. “And one of my deputies is rounding up some temporary clothing for your men.”
“Already got some, Chief.” We glanced over to see Deputy Vern Shiffley standing in the doorway, holding a large cardboard box.
“Back already,” the chief said. “Excellent. See if you can find something in Mayor Shiffley’s size.”
“Pretty much one size fits all, Chief,” the deputy said. He reached into the box and held up a maroon satin choir robe.
I had to fight not to giggle, and the guards had no reason to suppress their amusement.
The chief closed his eyes briefly, but he only appeared to count to three or four before taking a deep breath and opening them again.
“I thought you were going to bring over some of those orange jumpsuits from the jail,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “Don’t we have boxes and boxes of them down at the station?”
“No, sir,” Vern said. He looked uncomfortable.
“We sent them over to the Clay County jail months ago.” Minerva Burke, the chief’s wife, bustled in carrying another box of choir robes. “Do you know how much they were charging us to rent their jail jumpsuits for our prisoners?”
“I assumed the jumpsuits were included in the steep fee they’re charging us to house our prisoners,” the chief said.
“Steep is the word, and it only covers the bare walls of a cell,” Randall said. “Meals, sheets, uniforms, laundry—everything’s extra. We could probably save money if we housed our prisoners at the Caerphilly Inn.”
“So the jumpsuits aren’t available,” Vern said. “But the reverend over at the New Life Baptist Church offered to lend us some of their choir robes.”
“They’re squeaky clean,” Minerva said. “Which is more than I can say for our poor jumpsuits. Have you seen the condition they’ve been in since Clay County’s been taking care of them? I wouldn’t put an axe murderer in one of those filthy things, much less a respectable citizen of Caerphilly County. And what’s more—”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Randall said. “Let’s put the boxes down over there. Horace, why don’t you do the reporters next, so they can get on about their business.”
Minerva and Vern waited until the chief nodded his approval before scrambling to follow Randall’s suggestion.
We all watched as Horace swabbed first Kate and then the photographer. Minerva escorted Kate out of the tent, while Vern took the photographer.
My turn next. I waited while Horace swabbed my hands and carefully bagged the swab. Then I followed Minerva out of the tent to a smaller one nearby that had a folding screen dividing it in two.
“Just put this on and hand your clothes out to me,” she said, gesturing to the screen.
I did as she asked. The choir robe seemed voluminous when I held it up, but it only came down to my knees.
“Not a lot of people my height in the choir, I suppose,” I said.
“Plenty of people take your size in a robe, especially when you factor in weight along with height,” she said as she watched me tug at the hem. “But I could only borrow the smaller ones that the choir wasn’t apt to use any time soon.”
I could live with the bare legs, but the little tent was hot and stuffy and I only just stopped myself from reaching up to wipe the sweat off my face with one trailing sleeve. Of course, they’d probably have to wash it after I took it off anyway, but somehow deliberately using the sleeve as a towel seemed rude.
The chief strolled in.
“Oh, good,” Minvera said. “I needed to ask you about something.”
“Just a moment,” the chief said. “Sorry to inconvenience you,” he said, turning to me. “Obviously since you and Randall alibi each other, we don’t really need to test your clothes.”
“But it helps lull the suspicions of all those real suspects,” I said. “Understood.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Henry,” Minerva said. “We have to do something.”
“I have to do quite a few things.” The chief’s voice had only a small edge of testiness, probably because he knew better than to take out his mood on Minerva. “Do you have something I really need to add to my list?”
“Not your list, mine,” she said. “We can’t have a bunch of foul-mouthed amateur comedians performing here tonight in the town square—not with that poor woman lying dead in the courthouse basement.”
“She won’t be in the courthouse basement by then,” the chief said. “In fact, she shouldn’t be there now. She should be over at the morgue, unless the ambulance had a breakdown.”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “That polka music’s going to be bad enough. Make it sound as if we’re celebrating the murder.”
The chief glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing distance and lowered his voice.
“I agree, the polka music won’t be very appropriate,” he said. “Anymore than the hog calling. But I’ve got to be able to send my officers to the basement. We need the polka music and the comics and even more the crowds they’ll draw to cover the noise and bustle of all that toing and froing.”
“Well, I know that!” Minerva had put her hands on her hips and fixed the chief with the exasperated look of a wife whose husband is being particularly uncooperative. I understood exactly how she felt, and yet I made a mental note to delete that particular tone and gesture from my wifely repertory. “I just wanted to tell you what we’re doing to take care of the problem.”
The chief raised one eyebrow, as if he wasn’t really expecting to like her solution.
“The New Life Baptist Choir will be giving a memorial concert.” Minerva lifted her head high in a subtle, dignified, but definitely triumphant gesture. “I talked
to the reverend while I was borrowing the choir robes. It’s all arranged.”
“What a good idea,” the chief said. “And don’t tell me not to sound so surprised,” he added quickly. “I’m not actually surprised, just darned pleased. The comedians wouldn’t have been very good cover anyway. Just don’t do too many quiet songs.”
“We will be making not only a joyful noise unto the Lord but an exceedingly loud one,” Minerva said, with a nod. “If that bandstand has rafters, watch out; we’ll be sending them into orbit. Meg, I assume it’s okay if we use your tent over by the bandstand as a changing room for the choir? We can leave someone to watch all the purses, so you can have the night off from guard duty.”
“Fine with me,” I said. “In fact, better than fine.”
“I’ll see you later then,” she said. “Go on back to your tent, now. I gave Rose Noire a call, and she says you have some spare clothes over there.”
I nodded, and stepped out of the stuffy tent into the almost-as-stuffy outdoors. Just as I did, the first rollicking strains of “The Beer Barrel Polka” blasted over the loudspeaker. Maybe in another mood I’d have found the music’s energy infectious. Right now I just felt tired.
Ever since the heat had set in, Dad had been nagging everyone in town to drink at least a full glass of something nonalcoholic and noncarbonated every two hours. I was overdue for some liquid, so on my way back to the bandstand I took a slight detour past the food tents.
And then I paused a few steps outside the Episcopal tent. What were my chances of slipping in, getting a lemonade, and slipping back out without running into anyone who’d badger me with questions?
I had water back at the tent. I was turning to go there when—
“Meg, dear!”
Too late.
Chapter 11
“You look done in,” Mother said. She ignored my evasive maneuvers and steered me gently but firmly into the tent. “Come sit down and have some lemonade.”
I felt done in. And I must have looked pretty bad for her not to ask why I was wearing one of the distinctive New Life Baptist choir robes. Maybe, since she saw how exhausted I was, she’d postpone her interrogation. I plopped down at the table she indicated—in the far corner of the tent, behind the trash cans—and closed my eyes, happy, for the time being, to follow orders.
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