Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos (22 page)

"Meanwhile, I hate to change the subject, but I have a question," I said, turning to the sheriff.

"I can't tell you what's going on with the investigation," he said, nervously.

"This has nothing to do with the investigation," I said. "At least I hope it doesn't. What does Wesley Hatcher have on you that he thinks would swing the election if he published it?"

The sheriff flinched.

"That's… that's personal," he said, finally.

"Well, I assumed it was personal," I said. "I couldn't imagine anything job-related he could possibly hold over you."

"Thank you, Meg," he said, patting my hand. "Thank you for that vote of confidence."

I decided it would spoil the good impression I'd made if I explained that I knew it couldn't possibly be job-related because the whole county knew he never did any police work at all if he could help it.

"Okay, so it's personal," I said instead. "What is it? We'd like to help you, but we can't if we don't know what's wrong."

"That young man had evidence of an unfortunate… lapse in judgment I made a while back," the sheriff said. "Nothing illegal, nothing unethical or immoral. Just… well, stupid. Something stupid I did that would look bad if folks found out about it. He's been trying to hold it over my head, trying to get me to tell him something he could use in a story."

"What did he want to know?"

"I don't think he had anything in particular in mind," the sheriff said. " 'Something juicy,' that's all he said. I told him I didn't know anything juicy, and I wouldn't tell him if I did. Of course, now he wants all the details about the murder.

That's why I'm staying so far from the investigation. I can't tell him what I don't know."

"Of course, he may not believe you."

"Well, if he doesn't, I'll just have to live with that. I'll just have to tell him to – to – "

"Publish and be damned!" I suggested.

"Yes, that's the ticket," the sheriff said. "You have such a way with words. Only… do you think it's all right to say 'damn' with the election and everything?"

"Mrs. Fenniman says much worse," I said.

"That's true," he said. "But she's not actually carrying the burden of public office. I'll say 'publish and be darned,' just to keep on the safe side."

Just then Cousin Horace stuck his head through the flap of the tent.

"The fresh tomatoes just arrived," he said.

"Not too fresh, I hope," Dad said.

"Oh, no, they're plenty squishy," Horace said.

"I'd better go, then," the sheriff said. "Got to keep up appearances while I can."

He got up, put his tricorn hat on, and ambled out.

"The burdens of public office," I said, shaking my head.

"So what are you up to while Monty's occupying your booth?" Michael asked.

"Doing Monty's job for him," Dad suggested. "Solving the crime."

"Oh, no, Dad," I said. "Monty very specifically warned me against trying to do that. I'm just walking around, hunting down anachronisms, and talking to people."

"I don't suppose the topic of the murder ever comes up, does it?" Michael asked.

"Strangely enough, it does," I said.

"Well, Monty's doing the best he can to make sure no one forgets it," Dad said. "He came through here just after I opened, demanding to search the place, and confiscated a lot of my instruments. Then he brought them all back, about a half hour ago."

"That's odd," I said. "Did he say why?"

"Not a word," Dad said. "Of course, not being from around here, I don't suppose he understands how valuable the insights of the local population can be in solving a case like this."

"Probably not," I said. "So, Michael, want to stroll around with me and tap the keen insights of the local population? Unless your unit has something planned."

"Not really. Remember what Jess said last night about some units being more gung-ho than others?"

"Don't tell me your unit is one of those that just shows up to fire off your guns and drink beer?"

"I beg your pardon! The
Gatinois chasseurs
are not anything like that."

"I'm sorry."

"We're French; we just show up to wave our swords around and drink champagne."

"Much better," I said. "When will you be opening the champagne?"

"Not till after the 4
p.m.
skirmish," he said, offering his arm. "Until then, I'm at your disposal."

"We'll see you later, Dad," I called, as Michael and I strolled out of his tent.

"Come back and tell me what you find," Dad called. He sounded a little forlorn, so I was relieved when we ran into a couple of reenactors outside, working up their nerve to enter.

"Is this the doctor's tent?" one asked. "I mean, he's a real doctor, right, not just doing an impression of one?"

"Oh, he's real, all right," I said. "What's wrong?"

"Poison ivy," the man said.

"I'm sure he'll have something for that," I said, and watched as the patients ventured inside.

"Of course, with the festival on, he'll want to give them an authentic period salve," I remarked to Michael when they were out of earshot. "That's why I didn't want him to know about the cactus spines."

"The authentic period salve wouldn't work on cactus spines?"

"The authentic period salve is lard and sulfur ointment, which works just fine if you don't mind me smelling like a crate full of rotten eggs for the next two days."

"I see your point," he said. "I'll try to keep my face out of the shrubbery until he's back in the twenty-first century.
Enfin
,
ma chérie, òu allons-nous?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but it sounds nice," I said. "Feel free to say more charmingly incomprehensible things to me as we stroll around interrogating suspects."

"Actually, what I said was – "

"No, no! Don't spoil my illusion that you just said something witty, complimentary, and ever-so-slightly risque! Haven't you ever experienced the letdown of hearing a favorite opera sung in English? Besides, there's Mrs. Fenniman; let's go interrogate her."

"Is she a suspect?"

"Of course, and even if she wasn't, she knows more about what goes on in town than anyone other than Mother."

Mrs. Fenniman stood at the edge of the town square with a frown on her face, watching the sheriff.

"I need a better campaign platform," she complained. "He's killing me with those damned tomatoes. I thought you were going to think of something, Meg."

"Just because they're throwing tomatoes at him doesn't mean they're going to vote for him," I said. "Could mean just the opposite, in fact."

"Maybe," she muttered.

"I think public opinion's more likely to hinge on how his department handles this murder investigation," I suggested.

"Well, that's a relief," she said. "Because, if you ask me, that Monty fellow isn't handling it worth a damn. Be a lot different when I'm elected."

"Just what is he doing, anyway?"

"He's got his troops searching all the booths for your cash box," she said. "Didn't occur to them that all these folks have cash boxes of their own, so they got a little overexcited, first half-dozen booths they searched. Don't see what he thinks he's accomplishing; cash is cash. And do they really think a thief would keep around any checks made out to you?"

"I doubt it," I agreed.

"Seems to be searching for something else, too, but he's not letting on what," she added. "Something smaller than a cash box, anyway. And he's got a bee in his bonnet about weapons. Some of those reenactors complain that they can't walk ten feet without some cop wanting to see their swords and bayonets."

Now that was interesting. They already knew my dagger was the weapon – so why were they so interested in other peoples' swords and bayonets? There was something fishy going on, but I didn't think Deputy Monty was going to give away any details. I wondered if I could pry anything out of Cousin Horace.

"I swear," Mrs. Fenniman said, shaking her head. "If you'd told me Roger Benson would cause more trouble dead man alive, I'd have called you a liar. But that's what's happening."

"Just what trouble did he cause you when he was alive?" I asked.

"What makes you think he caused me some particular trouble?"

"Horace said you called him a no-good sneak thief who should be shot like a rabid dog."

"I did, and I meant every word of it," she said. "But it wasn't something he did to me in particular. Before he went into the computer racket, he was one of those merger-and-acquisition crooks. I had some money in this pulp mill company up near Richmond. Cooper and Anthony. It was starting to diversify, might have gone someplace, except that Benson and his crooks engineered one of those slash-and-burn leveraged buyouts."

"What's that, anyway?"

"They bought the company by running up a lot of debt, sold off all the assets that had any value, and shut the company down," she explained. "And somehow, even though they'd sold off the assets for a mint, there didn't seem to be a whole lot of money left over to pay the stockholders. Not when they finished paying off the debt and their own salaries and bonuses, anyway. Some mighty clever bookkeeping, I'll give 'em that. Mighty clever all round. Anyway, it cost me a pretty penny, but I wasn't the worst hurt. Some people lost everything they had."

"Anyone around here?" I said. "Anyone who might be holding a grudge?"

"No idea," she said. "Made a bigger stink up in Richmond than it did down here, and anyway, that was seven or eight years ago. Anyone going to do anything, I think they'd have gone and done it by now."

"I think you're underestimating how long most people can hold a grudge," I said. "But speaking of 'gone and done it' – do you have an alibi for the time of the murder?"

"Not a bit of one," she said, cackling. "I had a long day of campaigning, so I left early and went home to bed. So I can't prove I didn't do him in."

"You're not going to try to get arrested for this, are you?" I asked.

"Hell, no," she said. "I might have done it if I'd thought of it, but I didn't; and I'd hate to take the glory away from whomever actually had the gumption."

"That's good," I said. "I'm not sure getting arrested would be a good campaign tactic."

"Actually, it might be, under the circumstances," Mrs. Fenniman said. "Good thinking, Meg. I'll have to consider that."

She strolled off, looking thoughtful.

"Oh, dear," I said. "I hope she isn't going to start badgering Monty about her lack of alibi," I said. "Dad's already driving him crazy enough."

"Yeah, I noticed," Michael said. "That's why I was trying to keep your dad distracted, instead of coming to look for you."

"Thanks," I said. "Oh, damn, there's Wesley again."

"Relax," Michael said. "He doesn't seem to be looking for you."

"No," I said. "But he's certainly looking for something."

As we watched, Wesley stumbled along, his eyes on the ground. When he got to a booth, he'd walk in, ignoring customers and crafters alike, scanning the floor and every horizontal surface. Then he'd walk out, stumble on toward the next booth, and repeat the whole routine.

"He's been doing that all morning," Michael said. "Well not quite that; he was a little less frantic earlier. He came into your dad's tent and looked high and low, badgering us all the while about whether we'd found something of his."

"Found what?"

"He wouldn't say. We figured maybe he was snooping around everywhere the cops have been, but from the way he's acting, I think maybe he really has lost something."

"And I bet I know what it is," I said, fishing in my bag, and turning my back to Wesley.
"Voila!"

"CD-ROMs?" Michael said. "He's lost three CD-ROMs?"

"I bet he's lost one," I said. "He was waving one at me when he said that he could swing the election. I bet he dropped it in my booth, and I picked it up without thinking."

"I think I'd notice if I picked up a stray CD-ROM; they're not exactly something I use every day."