Authors: Donna Andrews
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 treatment!” 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.
A few moments later I heard a slight noise and opened my eyes to see that a blond teenager was setting a glass of lemonade in front of me.
“Thank you, Shannon, dear,” Mother said. “Meg, are you hungry?”
I shook my head, and Mother dismissed her acolyte with a smile and a nod. She gazed around the tent to make sure nothing was happening that needed her attention, and then sat down across from me.
I grabbed the lemonade and reminded myself to sip, not gulp.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I said to Mother, as I sipped.
“Nonsense, dear,” she said. “Everything here is under control.”
Yes, if Mother had anything to do with it, everything probably was.
When Mother had volunteered to help out at the Trinity Episcopal tent whenever she was in town, the organizers had wisely refrained from assigning her a job requiring manual labor. Instead, they’d made her one of the dining tent hostesses. She greeted incoming customers as if they were long-lost relatives, made sure they found seats, had their tea or lemonade refilled until they positively sloshed on their way out, and made sure the teenagers who were bussing and cleaning the tables did their jobs with astonishing speed and efficiency.
She’d also organized the decoration of the tent. I had no idea whether the rest of the Episcopal women appreciated that or whether, like most people, they just found it easier not to argue with Mother. The long folding metal tables were now covered with bright blue-and-red-checked vinyl tablecloths and decorated with sturdy white vases full of flowers. Flower garlands looped between the inside tent poles, supporting strings of miniature red and blue Chinese lanterns. She’d even managed to get all the waitstaff to wear red- or blue-checked chef’s aprons.
Before too long the Catholics and Baptists noticed that the Episcopal tent was getting more than its share of attention from the tourists and began retaliatory decorating of their own. It was, of course, an article of faith, at least in the Episcopal tent, that Mother’s décor was the pinnacle of elegance, while the rival tents, though worthy efforts, were somehow lacking. I’m sure competing doctrines were held in the other two tents, but since there were more than enough tourists to keep everyone busy, everyone publicly praised everyone else’s efforts and a spirit of ecumenical harmony reigned.
And I reminded myself that I should look around to see if Mother had added any more little touches that I should praise. You’d think after thirty-some years of knowing me, Mother would have made peace with the fact that I didn’t share her passion for decorating, but she could still have her feelings hurt if I didn’t notice some new frill or furbelow.