Liz Marvin - Betty Crawford 03 - Too Long at the Fair (8 page)

And she still had half a glass of wine left.  She opened a web browser and searched for anything about Lofton in regional and national news.  The big story was the vandalism of the cooking competition and how Achmed O’Rielly of the famed Cafe Nouveau Rustico had stepped up and saved the day. 

The articles read practically like an advertisement for his worldwide chain of trendy overpriced, upscale restaurants.  This was not the Achmed she knew but really, how well did she know him?  She took another gulp of wine and banished the question from her mind.  He was a good man, a kind man and the reporters were what passed for journalists in the sorry modern age.

Lofton was mentioned again on some of the Hollywood gossip websites.  Nothing specific, but lots of hints alluding to an historic motion picture production coming to Lofton and coming soon.  The stories all mentioned the august doyen of stage and screen Walter Payone which suggested they were more hype than substance.  None the less Betty printed one article to show to Clarise in the morning. 

On a whim she did a search on traveling pick-pocket gangs and learned a lot about how they worked, or at least how they worked one hundred years ago.  They usually worked in teams of three or four.  There was a spotter who picked a target, a diversion to distract the target (a pretty girl, someone in trouble, or just somebody to jostle the victim), the lifter (the person who actually steals the goods) and a drop (a person who takes what is stolen so that if the lifter is chased or stopped they won’t have anything on them). 

The victim is called the “mark” and if things go wrong the whole team will descend on the mark and cause enough distraction for the drop to make their escape. 

Thinking back, the concert was a perfect distraction.  The crowd was packed close together and jostling each other and enjoying the music.  The pick-pockets didn’t need to do anything but take what they wanted and get away.

She noticed one more technique.  A man would yell “my wallet is gone!” and instinctively everyone would check on their own wallets and valuables, thus giving the pick-pockets the location of valuables.    Clarise had done that! But who was around when she said it?  Betty couldn’t remember.  She finished her wine. Perhaps Clarise would remember.  She would ask her in tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be a very busy day.

11. Chapter 10

One thirty one.  That was Betty’s blood glucose level when she awoke.  She had hoped forlornly for something lower but after her escapades of the previous day she hadn’t expected it.  She took a deep breath and headed for the shower.  Wash, shampoo hair, floss and brush teeth and add a touch of makeup all in less than fifteen minutes. 

Dressing took longer.  She wanted to wear a pair of jeans and a comfortable blouse but she knew she would be on television.  She should wear a dress.  But she looked terrible in dresses.  But she would look like a slob or worse, a hick if she wore jeans. 

Her mother knocked on Betty’s door and entered to find Betty sitting on her bed staring at her closet.  “Bill is here.  I made an egg wrap and decaf for you.”

Betty’s mom knew that caffeine would raise her blood sugar but also knew her daughter wouldn’t leave the house without some sort of cup of coffee.  A quick look around and Mary knew the problem.  “What would you wear in Los Angeles if you were meeting a new client?”

Betty glared at her mother for a split second then brightened and smiled. “Of course!  Thank you.”  Betty jumped up and hugged her mom. “Tell Bill I’ll be out in a jiffy and I’ll take breakfast to go!”

A three quarter length khaki skirt, a light weight deep purple sweater with a straight neckline that rested just shy of her shoulder.  She considered and rejected all her usual jewelry choices; nothing she owned would highlight her outfit, her or the town.   She looked herself over in the mirror.  Simple but not plain and pretty without being too fancy for the show.

Bill lost his breath when he saw Betty bounce into the room.  She kissed him on the cheek grabbed her coffee and wrap and was headed for the door before he recovered.  “A good night’s sleep and high blood sugar in the morning does wonders for her mood” Mary added dryly, pushing Bill after her.  “I guess it does at that.”

Mary and Chet watched the Lofton chief of police squeeze into Betty’s compact and drive away.  Chet slipped his arm around his wife.  “Do you think she’s forgiven him for that ticket?”  Mary hugged him back “I expect she has, honey, I expect she has.”

~

Addie was asleep at her spot at the back of the cooking tent, her head resting on her arms.  Her hand were rough red and raw.  The other contestants who drifted in shared smirks and snide comments but they left her to sleep. 

On the stove Addie’s large kettle simmered merrily away.  The other contestants dipped into it, taking boiling water for their own recipes. 

By the time Achmed O’Rielly arrived with a gaggle of print reporters and photographers in tow most of the contestants were well into preparation of their recipes.  The reporters pumped Achmed for the first half hour but the photographers were soon bored and began examining the contestants.  They all focused in on Addie.  Somehow in her exhausted she captured their imaginations.

The other contestants noticed and it didn’t take long for them to become jealous.  Some openly solicited photographs of their entries and a few of the more polite photographers obliged.  As soon as the opportunity arose Edna made a point of sidling up to the sleeping girl.

“Wake up!  You are embarrassing the entire community.”  Mrs. Rail hissed.  Addie sat up, rubbed her eyes and was startled by flashing cameras. 

“Best shots of the day.”  “Wish she’d slept two more minutes.  The light was just coming in.”  “Say kid, what are you cooking?”  “Yeah! What about your entry?”  “Did you work all night?” 

Addie was so distracted she didn’t know what to say.  Edna scowled and spoke up.  “This is her first contest.  She’s tired and overexcited so please kindly leave her alone.”

Addie stood up.  “No.  I’m fine.  I stayed to watch over the tent.  After the attack yesterday I felt somebody should.”

A photographer dragged a reporter over who arrived just in time to hear Addie.”

“That’s amazing.  What’s your name and what are you making?”

“My name’s Addie – Adeline Beurey and I’m making an old family recipe.  A berry pie.  The berries are thrice cooked - “

“That’s great.  Tell me about your family.”

“Well, my great great grandmother Adeline Beurey won the Lofton Fair cooking competition seven years in a row.  Oh my!”  Addie pushed past the photographers and reporter and raced to the stove, turning off the pot and lifting it to the ground.  The photographers snapped away, watching as she carried the huge pot to the nearby sink and carefully straining out a colander full of large purple berries.  She disappeared in a cloud of steam while the photographers oohed and ahhed and jostled each other for the best shot.

She rinsed the berries with cold water and returned to her spot with the colander and a pair of bowls.  Using an ancient small paring knife she popped the tiny seeds from each berry into one bowl and dropping the pulp into the other.  Her hands were practically a blur, working so quickly as if each finger had a mind of its own.

“The berries have to be boiled twice and seeded for -”

Edna pushed her way in front of Addie. “That is fascinating dear but there is another contestant who must be remembered.  Marlee May Johnston died yesterday.  She was last year’s champion and was foully murdered yesterday.  We have set up a memorial with her winning entry this way -”

Edna gestured and, after a few final shots of Addie, now studiously staring into her bowl of berries, they followed Edna to a black draped table with a large photograph of a much younger Marlee May and a latticework crust pie.  Pictures were dutifully taken including a number of shots featuring Edna, Thelma and Ira.  The three women were overly made up but looked peaked and worn and their smiles decidedly forced.  There was a decided air of grief engulfing them and the photographers worked to capture it.

Betty arrived just as they were finishing up.  She searched the tent for Clarise or Wes but didn’t see either of them.  Achmed saw her and raced to her side, smiling and gripping her arm.  “Where have you been?”

Betty’s arm hurt.  She tried to shake free but could not. “I rode in with Bill.  You remember?  Chief of police?”  Achmed loosened his grip but didn’t lose his smile.  Betty rubbed her arm. “Now what is your problem?”

“The gossiping grannies are hijacking the reporters.  I trust you understand why that may be a problem.”

Betty spied the three women posing for photographs.  She also noted a number of the cooks, men and women alike, looking slightly ill.

“Something is wrong.” 

Achmed grabbed her arm again, pulling her from the tent.  “I know that!”

Betty noticed Achmed wasn’t looking quite right either.  “And as soon as they stopping snapping pictures of the old ladies the reporters will notice too.”

Betty violently pried his fingers lose from her arm, bending his fingers back enough to get him to wince. “Announce that I’ll be taking a select group of reporters to view the site of the murder and get an interview with the chief of police.”

Bill wouldn’t like it but she had no choice.  “How will you choose who comes and who stays?” Achmed hissed.  She looked at him incredulously.  “I won’t!  I want them all to come!”

He visibly relaxed and looked even worse. Betty led the way back inside.

The last photograph was taken as Betty stepped between the three women and the reporter.  “Hi I’m Betty Crawford one of this year’s judges and want to thank you for coming and remembering Marlee May.  I’ll be leading a select group of reporters to view the site of this horrible tragedy and meet with the chief of police William Owens so if those -”

“Just a second!”  “I wasn’t asked to come!”  “We demand equal access!”

Betty held up her hands to forestall more shouting.  “Please, please.  All right anyone who is interested in coming please follow me.”

The entire contingent of reporters surrounded Betty and left the tent with her.  She stopped at the barbecue tent and praised the food, continued on to the midway where she highlighted the vendors and games, pointing out new booths and those who had been coming to the fair for years.

Betty described the midway rides and introduced Gladys at the first aid tent then wandered through the livestock barn on her way to the reviewing stands.  She stopped to say hello to a few of the young contestants and was pleased to note the reporters and photographers busy taking notes and pictures.

Finally, when she couldn’t comfortably stall any longer she led them to “the grandstand” as she called it.  The yellow police tape still blocked off the entire area and a number of state police were busy combing the area and taking photographs.  Betty spied Bill talking, or rather listening as the county sheriff and state police captain argued.  Smiling, Betty asked the reporters to wait there and headed for the trio, reaching them before anyone could stop her.

“Hey Bill, which of you three want to talk to the press?”  The discussion stopped abruptly.  Bill belatedly covered his mouth to hide his smile.  The sheriff and police captain glared first at Bill, then at Betty.

“What are they doing here?”

“Why they’re doing their job!”  Betty replied innocently.

“Get them out of here!”  The sheriff demanded.

“Great idea!” Bill responded “sounds like a job for the county sheriff’s department.”

“Not me!  You’re the local authority.”

“I’ll go tell them you’re in charge Bill.” Betty said and turned to go.

“Now just a second!  Nobody said he’s in charge!”   The captain fumed.

“So is he the spokesman?”  Betty asked.

“No he’s, we – the state police in murder investigations” the state police captain sputtered “just never mind!  I’ll go myself!”

“Not without me you won’t!” The county sheriff added and the two men headed for the gathered reporters almost racing to see who would reach them first.”

Bill laughed quietly and gave Betty a quick hug.  “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.  Just glad to get them out of my hair and yours.  Do either of them know anything?”

Bill became suddenly serious.  “No.”

One word answer.  Bad sign.  The investigation was going worse than Betty imagined.

“How about the pickpockets?  Anything come from the video surveillance?”

“No.  Wes is on it.  Haven’t heard from him.”

Wherever Wes was it was a sure bet that Clarise was with him.  He was probably at the State Police command center watching multiple screens for signs of suspicious activity and another set of eyes would help.  But Clarise had a director’s eye for watching how people moved; if anyone could spot something out of the ordinary it would be her. 

Betty wished she could help Bill in some way but the area had more than a dozen people looking searching for any clue.

“Maybe they’re looking for the wrong thing.”  Betty found herself blurting out.  Bill looked at her questioningly.

“Maybe they should be looking for what isn’t there.” 

“We’ve got the serial number for the purse.  And a picture.  We’re looking for it.”  He tried to smile. “Thanks for the heads up on that.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the purse.  I was thinking about her jewelry.”

Bill frowned.  “There wasn’t any jewelry missing.” 

“Exactly.  She had rings, bracelets and a necklace.  All understated but all very valuable and easy to take.  At least as easy as a purse.”

“Hmmm.” Bill frowned.  “But – hmmmm.  So you think that either there was something in the purse worth more than the jewelry or the killing had nothing to do with the pick pockets.”

“Or both!”  Betty gave Bill’s hand a squeeze “I have to get back to the cooking competition.  We’ll be meeting the contestants in half an hour. Wish me luck!”