The Hen of the Baskervilles (14 page)

I shoved the thought out of my mind and concentrated on watching the crowds.

“Shall I see if I can win you a life-sized, glow-in-the-dark, lime-green stuffed hippopotamus?” Michael was pointing to the ball toss and flexing his fingers, as if eager to test the skills he'd honed all summer playing fast-pitch softball.

“They're not life-sized, only four feet tall,” I said. “And while either of your sons would love a stuffed hippo taller than he is, you know what will happen if you bring one home and expect them to share.”

“True.” He shuddered slightly, no doubt remembering the particularly savage battle the boys had had a few days earlier when Josh became convinced that we had given Jamie a larger helping of watermelon chunks.

“I could try to win two,” he suggested.

“Try later,” I said. “When we're off duty.”

“Remind me why we're patrolling the Midway,” he said, as he dodged a teenager who was too busy talking on her cell phone to watch where she was waving her giant ball of cotton candy.

“Not the whole Midway,” I said. “Only this narrow strip along the fence between it and the agricultural areas.”

“Shouldn't we also be patrolling that strip of fields between the woods and the barns?”

“We've got a brace of Shiffleys covering that—they're perched in portable hunting blinds up in the trees. If anyone sneaks out of the woods and tries to cross the open pasture, the Shiffleys will see them. You and I are supposed to keep an eye out for signs that some of these apparently innocent Midway visitors are actually plotting something more sinister.”

“Like someone trying to smuggle stolen hens onto the Ferris wheel?” Michael suggested. “Or someone with telltale bits of pumpkin rind on his clothes?”

“More like someone taking an undue interest in any part of the fence separating the Midway from the rest of the fair,” I said.

“True.” Michael studied the fence for a moment. “It would be easy to slip away, hop over the fence, and sneak up on the barns.”

“Easy to slip away and hop over, maybe,” I said. “Sneaking up on the barns might be a little harder. About an hour ago, Randall Shiffley put some of his uncle Hiram's goats in the pen just over the fence.”

“The ornery ones Hiram trained to chase revenuers away from his still back when he used to be a moonshiner?”

“The ornery ones, yes,” I said. “But what's this ‘used to be' nonsense? Since when did Hiram reform?”

“I thought he gave it up when Randall was elected mayor,” Michael said. “You mean he's still at it?”

“He didn't give it up,” I said. “Moonshine's become big business these days—arguably another heirloom crop.”

“But still illegal.”

“Which is why Hiram moved his base of operations across the border to Clay County, where it wouldn't be so much of an embarrassment to Randall if he got arrested.”

“Well, that was thoughtful. And having Hiram's goats on the case should make the exhibitors feel better.”

“The exhibitors don't know about the goats,” I said. “They also don't know that you and I are patrolling the Midway. We're not on the official patrol list. So if you hear anyone complaining about our leaving a gaping hole in our security, don't enlighten them.”

“But—oh. You think the prowler's an exhibitor.”

“Could be,” I said. “If it was just a prank, why haven't the chickens turned up? More likely, someone wanted to sabotage their competitors, and did a little extra mischief to confuse things—and who would care about sabotaging one of the competitors except another competitor?”

“Which means Chief Burke will be taking a close look at all the competing quilters, pumpkin growers, and bantam chicken fanciers?”

“I assume,” I said. “Another possibility is that someone wanted the chickens, and sabotaged the quilt and the pumpkin, again to muddy the waters. And anyone that gung ho for poultry—”

“Is probably here, exhibiting,” Michael said. “Makes sense. I can think of another possibility, though. What if someone wants our fair to fail? Someone involved with a rival fair?”

“Then if they're smart, they're here, pretending to be having a great time, and studying everything we do for ways to outshine us and sabotage us.”

“And if they're stupid, like Brett Riordan, they're here trying to talk up their own fair right under our noses.” He shook his head. “Annoying. But yeah, it makes sense that the prowler's probably here. And has probably volunteered to be on patrol.”

“If he didn't, he probably made enough of a fuss about security that one of the volunteers would tell him everything he needed to know about the patrols to shut him up.”

“But even if the prowler knows about the patrols, he won't know the Midway is covered,” Michael said.

“And even if he notices us on patrol, he won't know about the goats,” I said. “The goats are our secret weapon.”

“So when were you planning to tell me that instead of being a routine patrol we're part of a cleverly set trap?” Michael asked.

I glanced up, but he didn't look upset. More amused.

“Right about now,” I said. Michael chuckled at that. “When you'd had a chance to get a little bored with the routine patrol, but long before the time when the prowler's apt to make his move.”

“Good plan,” he said. “Okay, from what I've seen so far, I'd say the only exhibitors in any danger from this crowd would be the microbreweries.” He frowned at a group of young men who were all sloshing their beer cans as they swaggered toward the ball toss. “Do those kids look old enough to drink?”

“No,” I said. “But they never do these days. And the vendors are being very careful about IDs, thanks to the rumor that there are undercover Alcoholic Beverage Control agents in the crowd.”

“Lucky for us that rumor's going around.” He nodded his approval. “Should help keep a lid on things.”

“Yes, I rather thought it might,” I said. “That's why I started the rumor.”

For the next hour or so we continued our patrol up and down the fence. The crowd thinned out, and then disappeared entirely. Michael and I stopped by the barbecue tent as they were closing and scored half-price pulled pork sandwiches for a late dinner. By the time we'd finished eating and resumed our patrol, the last few Midway vendors and operators were leaving.

We patrolled the long stretch of fence, paying particular attention to the gate, which was the most likely point of entry for a prowler. At first, I was relieved at how peaceful our watch had become, without the flashing lights, the bells and whistles from the games, the patter of the barkers, the screams and laughter from the crowds on the rides.

But before too long my mood changed. The quiet and darkness began to seem less friendly. More … ominous?

Was it just my mood? Or was it maybe a little too quiet? Shouldn't there be more natural sounds? More bugs, frogs, owls? More of all the usual noises you'd hear on an early fall night? Was it just the fair chasing them away, or the fair plus our patrols? Or had they sensed something else?

I was glad I'd assigned Michael to be my patrol partner. At six foot four, he could be intimidating even to people who knew how mild mannered he was. I'd seen him stop a fight once just by standing up and clearing his throat.

But still, the night was creepy. The air was so humid it was actually turning foggy. That didn't help, not being able to see more than a few feet in front of me.

Maybe there was nothing to be seen. Maybe the troublemaker was home in his bed, or over in the campground in his sleeping bag, chuckling softly whenever he thought about all of us out here patrolling through the night. Maybe he'd already accomplished everything he wanted to.

I had just about convinced myself that our patrols were useless and I was letting my nerves get to me when Michael broke the silence.

“Creepy out here,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” I murmured back.

One end of our patrol route was at the edge of the woods, where we could probably have seen the nearest of the treed Shiffleys, even through the fog, if there had been any moon. From there we followed along the split-rail fence until we reached the gate, from which we could peer through the fog to make out the shape of the nearest of the livestock barns. Just beyond the gate, the fence turned into barbed wire and veered off into Clay County. The border between the two counties—and for that matter, the perimeter of the fair—was still defended, though, by a tangle of what I hoped was impenetrable brush. Beyond that were some locked equipment sheds, and beyond them was the start of the eight-foot chain-link fence that encircled most of the fair.

We trudged between these two end points, starting occasionally when a ghostly white goat loomed up out of the fog on the other side of the fence.

We were about halfway between the woods and the gate when a harsh shriek rang out.

“What was that?” I asked.

“A fox, maybe?” Michael suggested. But we were already running toward the noise. Some instinct made me pull out my cell phone to check the time.

“One fourteen,” I said to Michael. “In case this turns out to be anything dire.”

When we reached the edge of the woods, we found two Shiffleys already there. One of them shifted slightly when he spotted us, and I decided to pretend I hadn't noticed him hiding his rifle behind a nearby tree. The other had climbed over to our side of the fence and was examining what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary patch of pine needle–covered ground.

“What was that?” Michael asked.

“Could be a fox,” the kneeling Shiffley said.

“Weren't no fox,” the temporarily unarmed one countered. “Maybe someone trying to imitate a fox. And doing a damned bad job of it.”

“Sounded pretty good to me,” the first one said.

“And to me, too,” I said. “But I'm no expert.” Though I'd heard plenty of their shrieks since Michael and I had moved to our converted farmhouse some years ago. At first I'd been alarmed, thinking they'd come from an animal or even a child in horrible pain. These days I usually just nodded and said, “The foxes are out tonight.”

Why did such a familiar noise unnerve me tonight? Was it just my nerves?

“You can't really tell much from these pine needles.” The kneeling Shiffley stood up and brushed off his hands. “Could have been a fox.”

“No way,” the other said. “If it was a fox—”

He was interrupted by two loud popping noises.

“Gunshot,” both Shiffleys said in unison. They began running toward the sound. So did Michael and I, though we weren't keeping pace with the Shiffleys.

I actually wasn't trying too hard to keep up with them.

“Oh, Lord,” I heard one of them say. “He's been shot.”

“Who?” I asked.

“No idea,” the other one said. “Call Randall.”

“Call the chief first,” the first one countered.

“Isn't Vern here tonight?” the other asked.

“Call 911,” Michael said. “I'll go see if I can get some help. Stay together, all of you.”

“He's got no pulse,” one of the Shiffleys said.

“Sssh,” I hissed. “Are those running footsteps? Turn your flashlights on,” I added, pulling mine out of my pocket and following my own orders. Michael did the same thing, and the two Shiffleys were silent—one kneeling by the body while the other punched buttons on his cell phone. We all kept quiet for a few moments, scanning our surroundings with the flashlights, but we could only see a few yards into the fog.

“Nothing,” the kneeling Shiffley said. “Someone give me some light down here. I need to see if there's anything I can do for him.”

I shifted my flashlight beam toward his voice and the body he was kneeling beside came into focus. Person, not body, I corrected myself, but when I moved the beam up to the head, I realized maybe I'd been right the first time.

“We've got someone shot down here at the fair,” the other Shiffley was saying into his cell phone. “At the gate to the Midway.”

“It's one nineteen,” Michael said. “In case someone asks. Like the chief.”

Then he took off again, running, toward the agricultural section.

“No,” the Shiffley on the phone was saying. “No idea who he is.”

“Oh, damn,” I muttered.

“Yeah, I don't think he's going to make it,” the Shiffley said.

“It's Brett Riordan,” I said.

He was lying on his back in the open gate between the main part of the fair and the Midway, with his head toward us and his feet pointing toward the barns. He was wearing dark pants and a dark hooded jacket with the hood pulled up around his face. His eyes were wide and staring, and there was a bullet hole in his forehead.

 

Chapter 17

“Shouldn't we be giving him some kind of first aid?” It was the Shiffley who'd called 911.

“Not sure there's anything we can do,” the kneeling Shiffley said. “Two shots, one in the head and one in the throat. Either one could kill you, but both?”

The first one shook his head. And then he began telling Debbie Ann what had happened and where we were.

There were trickles of something dark on Brett's forehead—blood, no doubt. I was glad the flashlight leached out the colors so I was seeing it in black and white. I made sure not to let the flashlight beam drift any higher than his forehead, because there was probably an exit wound that would give me nightmares.

Within minutes of our call to 911, a figure appeared out of the fog from the barn side of the fence. Another Shiffley, by the long, loose-knit shape of him. Since the gate was blocked, I climbed over the fence to greet him. When he got close enough I realized it was Vern Shiffley.

“Hey, Vern,” the standing Shiffley said.

“We heard two shots and found him dead,” the kneeling one said.