Authors: Donna Andrews
I wasn’t keen on having the Flying Monkeys so close to the bandstand. Of course, in that tent they’d be a lot easier to keep track of, so perhaps it wasn’t a complete disaster.
Rob and Horace returned. Horace curled up in a ball just outside the trapdoor and stayed there for some minutes, with Rose Noire patting him on the back and murmuring soothing things. I felt sorry for him, but at least it gave me a chance to ask Rob a quick question.
“Any good news?”
Rob frowned and shook his head.
“Bad news, in fact,” he said. “The gun belongs to Phinny.”
“Phinny? I have a hard time seeing him packing.”
“He says he bought it years ago when they were having a series of burglaries in the county,” Rob said. “But then it creeped him out to think that he might hurt someone if he used it, so he put it in a box in his attic and hasn’t seen it in years.”
A sudden doubt hit me.
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of wild rumor?” I asked.
“I heard it from the chief,” Rob said. “He came and talked to Phinny through the barricade. Remember when we thought his house was vandalized last week?”
“You mean it wasn’t vandalism after all?” I asked
“Burglary,” Rob said. “They took his gun.”
At least that was what Mr. Throckmorton said. I had to admit, my confidence was a little shaken. But Rob knew Mr. Throckmorton better than I did, and apart from his terrible taste in girlfriends, Rob was a curiously good judge of character. And he still seemed to trust Mr. Throckmorton.
I hoped he was right.
Rob took Eric and the twins back to the house. Michael and his students went back to the drama department to do a postmortem on the production and celebrate the fact that they’d been asked for an encore. Rose Noire and I peeled Horace out of his gorilla suit, and after some herbal tea and deep breathing exercises, Horace pronounced himself sufficiently recovered that he could head over to the forensic tent to see what else the chief wanted him to do. Rose Noire and I seriously considered sending the suit out to be dry-cleaned, and then decided we’d better wait until there was no chance Horace would need to make another trip through the tunnel. So Rose Noire put it on a heavy clothes hanger and hung it up in the tent to dry and air out, to the great annoyance of Spike, who barked at it for fifteen minutes after she hung it up and renewed his barking whenever a stray breeze stirred it. After a while, even the normally sedate Tinkerbell joined in, though I wasn’t sure whether she was barking at the suit or at Spike.
I took my folding recliner and settled down in the green room to eat my salad, drink my lemonade, and watch the preparations for the choir concert, leaving Rose Noire to keep an eye on the tent and shush the dogs. Not that the arriving choir members weren’t in on the secret of the tunnel, but with so many people milling about, it would be easier than usual for someone to slip in under cover of the crowd.
I took out my phone to check on Michael and the twins.
“They’re fine,” he said. “They ate a hearty supper, and right now they’re having a Thomas the Tank Engine marathon with Eric. Bedtime to follow.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Eric used to love watching Thomas when he was their age.”
“Actually, I think he still enjoys it,” Michael said. “So relax and enjoy the concert. We’re holding down the fort here.”
I settled back to watch the action. First a trickle, then a steady stream of singers arrived at the tent, some already clad in their robes, but most carrying them in garment bags.
The audience had thinned out a little while the student tech crew cleared the stage of props and scenery, but now it began to swell again. Many of the new arrivals came bearing plates of chicken, barbecue, or fish, whose odor inspired many of those who had stayed to strike bargains with each other about who would hold their seats and who would fetch food. A small contingent of men from the church wheeled an electric organ in place.
Around 7
P.M.
, the choir walked onstage and launched into their first number, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” I leaned back, closed my eyes, and prepared to enjoy the concert.
I woke up with a start when someone tapped me on the shoulder. The choir was in the middle of “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho.”
“Sorry!” Rose Noire exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I hope the choir didn’t notice me sleeping,” I said. “I really was enjoying it, but I’m just so tired.”
“Just tell them you’ve been a martyr to insomnia and their voices gave you the first peaceful sleep and pleasant dreams you’ve had in weeks.”
“That wouldn’t exactly be a lie,” I said.
“Can you keep an eye on the tent?” she asked. “I’d like to watch the end of the concert and I’m taking the dogs with me so they’ll stop barking at Horace’s suit. I’ll take them home in my car when the concert’s over.”
I nodded. I picked up my recliner and my lemonade and moved to just inside the tent door so if I fell asleep, an intruder would have to jump over me to enter.
The tent was quiet. Far from empty, though, and more chaotic than usual. The choir had brought several folding clothes racks for the clothes the singers had shed before going onstage. From the looks of it, I had a feeling most of them were wearing dressy black shoes and underwear and little else under their robes.
Knowing I was on guard duty counteracted any soothing effect the music had. And so I had plenty of time to fret about the day’s events.
Had Colleen Brown been murdered because of something in her own life? Or was she just a convenient victim in an attempt to frame Mr. Throckmorton? Had Horace found anything to indicate who had killed her, or at least to exonerate Mr. Throckmorton? And what effect would all this have on the siege and the county’s various legal proceedings? I thought of calling Cousin Festus to ask, but decided it could wait till morning. No sense making Festus’s usual fourteen-hour days any longer. And besides—
“So this is where all the magic happens?”
I started, and looked up to see Stanley Denton standing just outside.
“No, the stage is over there,” I said. “This is just where the magicians leave their wallets and purses and street clothes while they’re onstage.”
He chuckled.
“Mind if I come in?” he said. “I promise to keep my hands off the wallets and purses.”
“They’re locked up anyway,” I said.
The idea of letting the PI into our tent, so close to the big secret, bothered me, but he’d probably be even more suspicious if I kept him out, so I got up and moved my lounge chair aside.
“Not bad.” He was standing with his hands in his pockets, gazing around with an air of casual interest that might have fooled me if I didn’t know his profession. But instead of the casual smile and the relaxed body language, I focused on those rapidly darting eyes.
“Who’s the pigeon fancier?” he asked, taking a few steps toward the cage.
“Mr. Throckmorton,” I said. “He used to have a dozen until your employer brought in that guy with the hawk.”
“Oh.” His face fell, and he surveyed the cage for a few more moments. “At least he only lost one.”
“Her name was Dulcibelle,” I said. “And I’m told she liked to sit on his shoulder and comb his hair with her beak.”
“If you’re trying to induce guilt, you’ve succeeded,” he said. “I’d have advised against that, if anyone had asked me. Shouldn’t they be asleep?”
“Yes—would you mind pulling the tarp over them?” I asked. “Rose Noire usually does it before she leaves, but it’s been a little crazy.”
While he obliged, I did a little tidying. I couldn’t complain about the neatly arranged belongings the choir had left behind, but they did make the place feel a bit more cluttered than I could stand. I began putting away anything that didn’t belong to the choir. It wouldn’t make much of a dent in the clutter now, but tomorrow morning, when all the choir’s belongings were gone—
“And is that the stage entrance?”
He was pointing to the flap that led to the tunnel.
“No, only storage,” I said. “It’s just the crawl space under the bandstand.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I remember now—everyone had to file on from the side. Wouldn’t it make things easier in the long run if you cut an entrance through there?”
“Probably not,” I said. “It’s not tall enough for most people to stand up straight in, and the ground’s so muddy it’s almost like quicksand.”
“Still, if you could figure out a way to deal with the mud—”
He strode over toward the bandstand. I suppressed the urge to yell at him to stop. Maybe it was too late—maybe he’d already picked up some slight signs of anxiety in my voice or on my face when he mentioned the crawl space. I tried to keep my face calm and my step unhurried as I followed him over to the tent flap, and prayed that Rose Noire had not gone off leaving the trapdoor exposed.
“What’s this?” he said, as he gazed into the crawl space.
“If you mean the refrigerator, it’s mine,” I said. “I hide it there because people keep raiding it.”
“Shut the damned door,” a voice said.
Chapter 17
My heart was sinking as I peered over Denton’s shoulder.
“Oh, hi, Meg. Is he with you?”
It was Deacon Washington of the New Life Baptist Church, frowning back at us over a handful of playing cards. We appeared to have interrupted a poker game in progress. In addition to the deacon, two of Randall Shiffley’s cousins and two men that I recognized as husbands of New Life choir members were sitting on folding chairs around a makeshift table made by placing an old wooden door over two ancient sawhorses. One end of a ratty brown wool blanket was pulled over part of the door, as if to make a slightly smoother surface for cards and poker chips, but it didn’t look suspicious because you could clearly see the space under the table.
The trapdoor was hidden by the other end of the blanket, pooled with artful carelessness on the floor, and by a small nest of hats and coats draped over two more folding chairs. The only light was from a camping lantern hung from a nail in one of the joists overhead, and I suspected its position had been chosen so it would cast the maximum amount of shadow on the trapdoor area.
The five players stared back at us for a few moments with expressions of mingled sheepishness and defiance. Then Deacon Washington spoke up.
“Meg, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Mrs. Washington about this,” he said. “Some of the church ladies can be downright intolerant on the subject of card-playing.”
“Is it just the card-playing, do you think?” I asked. “Or might they also be just a little upset that you’re skipping their concert for a poker game?”
“We can hear every blessed note of the choir’s performance from down here,” one of the husbands said.
“Hear it a damn sight too well,” one of the Shiffleys muttered. “Not meaning any slight on the quality of their performance, of course,” he added hastily. “It’s just the volume. Last time we did this my ears were ringing for a week.”
“Is this an open game?” Denton asked.
The players looked at each other.
“The man’s making good money snooping around town,” one of the Shiffleys finally said. “No reason to feel guilty about trying to take some of it away from him.”
“In the unlikely event that I suffer any losses,” Denton said, “I fully intend to include them on my next expense report. I can say I was attempting to acquire information from you.”
“I like that,” said the other Shiffley. “Should be a high roller, a man who’s playing with someone else’s money.”
The players shifted to offer him an empty folding chair—on the side of the table away from the trapdoor. Denton stooped down and made his way over to the table, only bumping his head once.
“In fact,” Denton said, as he took his seat, “just so I can honestly say I asked—any of you want to tell me how Phineas Throckmorton is getting his supplies?”
There was a pause.
“Don’t rightly know,” said Deacon Washington. “And wouldn’t tell you if I did.” The other men nodded and murmured in agreement. “You okay with that?”
“I’m fine with it,” Denton said.
“I’ll deal you in when we finish this hand, then. One thing—house rule. As soon as the choir sails into ‘Blessed Assurance,’ the game’s over. No ifs, ands, or buts, because that’s the next to the last hymn on the program, and some of us need to skedaddle out to the audience so our wives see us whooping and hollering and clapping up a storm when the choir takes its bows. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” I said. I shook my head as if saddened by what I saw.
“Oh, Meg,” Deacon Washington said. “Could you give me a call if you get wind that any of our wives are looking for us?”
I sighed.
“Give me your number,” I said, pulling out my cell phone with a show of reluctance. I entered the number into my contacts list, and then called him to make sure I had it right. Which meant that he had my number, too. I assumed he wanted to call me for help in case of problems—like Denton asking too many awkward questions, or starting to ransack the crawl space. Though I had no idea what I could possibly do to help. So after the exchange of numbers, I left.
I was almost entirely sure that they’d staged the poker game as yet another diversionary tactic—one that seemed to be working well at the moment.
But what would happen at the end of the concert if Denton tried to stay behind? Offered to put away the chairs? Or what if one of the deputies was still over in the courthouse and tried to come through the trapdoor just as someone was dealing a new hand? I could e-mail Mr. Throckmorton to warn him, but what if he didn’t read my message in time? Or—
Not my problem. I’d have to leave it to Deacon Washington and the Shiffleys to handle.
Of course, I wasn’t good at delegating.
I went back to my post just outside the tent entrance. I wished I could kick back and enjoy the music, but I kept fretting about Denton. Should I go back and help the poker players keep the trapdoor hidden? Or would my implausible presence at the poker game only make it dangerously obvious that there was something to hide?