by Unknown
Tuesday Morning
I’d driven up to the lake Wednesday evening, then driven straight back to town. The endless buzz of Jet Skis and the squeals of laughter and the constant chatter of picnic preparations at almost every cabin drove me back down the mountain before sunset. I hadn’t gone to the lake during the Fourth of July week in years and had forgotten that my restful lake haven exists only in November or January, when I’m the lone figure on the lake braving the chill breeze. The lake is anything but a haven in the summer.
Tuesday morning, I wandered downstairs for my morning cup of tea, only partially awake but mostly dressed. Through the beveled glass doors, Main Street looked serene and calm, waiting for the day’s festivities.
In response to the staircase’s creaking announcement of my descent, Shamanique called from her office, “Good morning.”
“What are you doing here? It’s the Fourth of July!”
Shamanique looked up as I poked my head around the corner. I’d done nothing more than run a comb through my hair and let it fall to my shoulders. I had also managed to pull on a pair of shorts, but I still wore the T-shirt I’d slept in and I hadn’t bothered with a bra, so I kept my arms crossed, looking rumpled and unfriendly.
Shamanique couldn’t have run a comb through her hair if she’d wanted to. Today, it was curled in loops on her head, bringing to mind a bow on a package, shiny black bands of hair arranged in precise chaos.
“Had a few things to leave for you,” she said. Didn’t know you were sleeping in.” Her tone was far from approving. She had a sternness no twenty-year-old should possess.
I didn’t point out it was a holiday. After all, I was the one who’d repeatedly interrupted her over the first few days of her vacation with all sorts of questions.
“Want some tea?” I asked.
She nodded toward her half-full cup and stayed on task.
I settled into the chair in front of her desk. “So, what’cha got?”
“First off, this Rogert guy has punked off a lot of money.”
“Reimann? What do you mean?” Rogert? That’s his name?
“I mean he ain’t got none, least none he’s paying his bills with. He’s got thirty thousand dollars stacked up on his credit cards, he’s paying just the minimum each month, and he’s late most months with that.”
“So he’s got penalties to keep all that interest company.”
“No kidding.”
“Any sign what he spent his first wife’s insurance money on?”
“Not anything I can find. He’s got a mortgage on his house. He pays, but it’s sometimes late. His car is leased.”
“A big house?”
“No, not expensive. Neither is his SUV.”
“Lots of trips? Jewelry? What?”
She shook her head. Her curls were unmoved. “Not that I could find.”
“What’s he bought with the credit cards? Can you get that detail?”
She flicked a look across the desk at me that warned Don’t doubt me. Her head bent toward the computer screen. “The usual stuff. Man eats at Mickey D’s a lot, I gotta say.”
It’d take a lot of hamburgers to burn through thousands in insurance and lawsuit settlement money.
“Trips to Atlantic City or Vegas?”
“Nope. No hotel bills or plane tickets, not since his first wife’s death. Just a couple of flights between here and St. Louis, just before he moved here.”
“A hotel in Cherokee? He could’ve driven over there.” Harrah’s Casino on the reservation of the eastern band of the Cherokees lacked the glitz that drew the high rollers to the big-name gambling resorts, but a dedicated man could still lose a pile if he set his mind to it.
“Nope, not even a gas receipt. He didn’t get out much.”
We sat a moment before she shrugged and turned from the screen. “A’course, he could’ve gambled himself into a hole before his first wife died and paid it off with the proceeds. I don’t have stuff going back that far. And there’s always private games.”
“Yeah.” I dragged the word out, along a slow-developing thread of thought. “Wouldn’t he still be gambling, though, if he’d been doing it before he moved here? Or whatever he did to waste his money, wouldn’t he keep doing it?”
“Most folks like their bad habits.”
“Was he in financial trouble when they moved here?”
“Not from what I see.” She turned and scrolled up the computer screen. “His payments were on time, and, at that time, he didn’t have any credit card balances. He paid them off every month.”
“Hm.” I slumped in the wooden arm chair, my legs stretched out straight. “Guess we’ll put that in the interesting but unhelpful column for now. Anything else?”
She looked at me over her shoulder. “Not quite yet. I’m on to something, but let me finish checking some things before I tell you.”
“Okay.”
Her tone had an edge of excitement, as though she had her eye on the perfect present but was having trouble waiting until time for the birthday girl to open it.
I pulled myself out of the chair. “I’ve got to head to the festival planning meeting.”
Shamanique could tell from my tone how thrilled I was by that prospect, but she sensibly refrained from asking how I’d gotten mixed up with the planning bunch in the first place. I intended to remember how much fun this committee had been next time Mom insists a community group might need my help.
By the time I dressed and sauntered down the street to the church basement meeting room, everybody else had arrived and Adrienne, in her place at the head of the table, was holding forth.
The topic was far afield from festival business.
“I’m just being realistic,” she said. Her hand rose to cover the mother-of-pearl pendant at her throat. “Far be it from me to leap to conclusions, but you have to admit it’s suspicious.”
“The police haven’t arrested him,” said Luke Deep in his pastoral baritone.
“But they are focusing on him,” said Tina, the past-president of the Parent-Teacher Organization. She usually spoke only when outlining tasks, her thick calendar binder always placed squarely in front of her, the bottom parallel to the table edge.
“And who wouldn’t focus on him,” said Adrienne. “He was carrying on an affair when his first wife died a suspicious death, he collected a pile of insurance money, and took off with his paramour. Then she betrayed him by taking up with an old boyfriend. That’s just too much lined up.”
Where did the gossip mill gather its fodder? As was typical in Dacus, the gossip was amazingly accurate—and often missing only the redemptive detail.
“Actually,” I said, “his first wife was hit and killed by a drunk driver. There really wasn’t anything suspicious about that.”
Adrienne pinned me with a dagger look, disappointed that I would challenge her much more dramatic version of the story. Only days ago, around this very table, the tongues had been united in support of Rog and against the jackbooted enforcers of the law. Now the gossip tide had turned, and Rog was caught in the undertow.
“Don’t know why it would surprise him that his new wife would fool around on him,” chimed in ancient Mr. Wink. “After all, she apparently thought nothing of being married and fooling around with a married man when she first took up with him in St. Louis. It shouldn’t surprise people that someone who has been unfaithful will do it again. Seems he’d know he ought to keep a close eye on that one.”
Mr. Wink’s tone lacked the venom of Adrienne’s. He merely observed life in all its kaleidoscopic idiosyncrasy and reported with faint bemusement.
“Well, from what I hear, he’s expecting another big insurance check,” said Adrienne. “I pity the next woman who falls into his clutches.”
Word of Eden Rand’s tender ministrations hadn’t reached Adrienne’s ears. Then again, Adrienne didn’t travel in the intellectual crowd and Eden didn’t serve on charity gala committees. From my observation, Rog wasn’t the one w
ith the “clutches.” He looked like the unsuspecting victim about to be clutched. Maybe that was his deadly charm. Maybe his hopelessly lost act was irresistible to women. I shouldn’t be amazed at how quickly town gossip could shift, turning him from victim to monster. I’d wager Adrienne didn’t even know Rog. Opinions became more subtle and more difficult when mixed with knowledge and friendship rather than mere speculation.
“We really should get started,” said Pastor Luke. His years of managing church committees showed in both his tone and his timing.
“Yes,” said Adrienne, “now that Avery’s joined us. The most important item of business is to make sure today’s parade goes off without a hitch. Mr. Wink, you’ll be in the viewing stand with me. That way, you’ll be in a central location should anyone have anything to report and you can reach the appropriate personnel by phone or pager. We’ll have police officers and medics on hand, in case of emergency.”
She consulted her agenda, handwritten on color-coded notebook paper in her official festival-planning binder.
“Pastor, if you and Tina would station yourselves at the end of the route. Make sure the floats pull into the church parking lot and away from the street. Make sure they come to a complete stop before any riders disembark. We don’t want someone injured and trying to sue us.”
She glanced in my direction. I didn’t know if she suspected I might file the lawsuit or if she expected me to rescue the city in case someone else sued. No, that would be Todd David’s job. He was the city attorney.
“Todd and Avery, you’ll be working together today.” She gave us a sly smile and I could’ve sworn she winked. Her nonstop plans for fixing us up had moved into high gear. She’d just arranged our first “date” for us.
“You’ll line up everyone at the start of the parade route. You have the list of rules. All registered entrants have also received copies of the rules, so no one can claim ignorance when you enforce those rules. No scantily clad participants, no reckless driving or stunts. Remind the Shriners. The horses must remain at the end of the parade line-up. They certainly shouldn’t be surprised by that. Everyone on the floats must remain seated at all times, and no tossing candy to the crowds.”
“No candy?” I said. I looked around the table to see if anyone else was as surprised as I was at the news.
“It’s in the parade rules,” Adrienne said.
“That’s the most fun part about the parade. While you’re waiting on the bands and seeing if you know anybody on the floats, you chase cheap wrapped candy you usually wouldn’t eat on a bet and pick it out of the gutter.”
Adrienne gave me an imperious frown. “It’s a safety risk. It has been decided and it’s in the rules. All the participants have been informed.”
I looked around at the others. Pastor Luke shrugged. Mr. Wink offered a conspiratorial raised eyebrow and a half-smile. No point arguing. Thanks to the passive voice, “it has been decided” and it wouldn’t be changed by something foolishly collective, like a committee.
I sure wasn’t enforcing any no-candy-throwing rule. That was for certain.
“If there’s no further discussion, those working the parade line-up should proceed to the Broad Street checkpoint. You have the lineup sheets in your packets, along with cell phone numbers if you have questions or need assistance.”
Walkie-talkies would have made more sense—and been more fun, but we were too low-budget. We’d programmed everyone’s cell phone number into our phones at a meeting a few weeks ago. We could almost yell from one end of Main Street to the other. True, that wouldn’t really work, especially with the street crowded with paradegoers and booming music from every float and band. Still, Adrienne’s military precision seemed laughable, given the hodge-podge of parade entries.
For Adrienne, my dissent over the candy and correcting the rumor about Rog took some of the bloom off her matchmaking efforts. She didn’t hover over me and Todd, smirking with her usual proprietary you’ll-thank-me air. We were left to make our own way out of the church basement.
I figured it was easier to walk the eight blocks to the other end of the street, but Todd insisted on driving his miniature Mercedes sedan.
“I need to stop by my office,” I said. “I forgot—something. I’ll be right behind you.” I left him standing beside the open door of his car, watching me over the roof.
Sure enough, by the time he navigated the detour barricades and the first trickle of the crowds searching for parking on the back streets, I’d beaten him by fifteen minutes. Of course, I hadn’t really stopped by the office.
The “command center” was two lawn chairs and a folding card table set up under one of the Bradford pear trees that lined the wide street near the cemetery.
I handed Todd his official clipboard when he joined me. We were both wearing our regulation canary yellow Fourth Festival T-shirts. I’d voted for something in a red, white, and blue theme, but Adrienne had vetoed me. She wanted something that stood out. With his yellow shirt stretched over his belly, Todd looked like a stumpy version of Big Bird, except with a balding head and no feathers.
I knew he was divorced with a little boy he didn’t see very often. I’d learned that from Mom, not from him. He never mentioned his son, which made me sad for the little kid. He had a good reputation handling real estate closings and other routine office work, but he’d told me himself that he preferred to avoid the courtroom. Having his clients end up in court was a personal failure, he said. I didn’t agree, of course. Having as your attorney someone who didn’t like—or was afraid of—the courtroom is the definition of doomed before you start, in my book. Neither of us brought up that topic again.
Todd studied his clipboard, flipping the pages. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been doing some case research. I discovered why we weren’t able to get the type and level of insurance coverage I thought advisable. I’d never considered the kinds of injuries that can occur at an event of this type. Children fall off floats and get run over, or they run in front of a car chasing after some candy. Those racing clown cars can run amok in the crowd. And that fair! Suppose one of the operators failed to properly bolt together one of the midway rides. It’s sobering to think about the potential liability.”
Standing in front of me was undoubtedly the source of the no-candy-throwing rule, all because somewhere, somebody had, at some time, been hurt and filed a lawsuit—a lawsuit that had probably been dismissed. I wanted to run to the grocery store and buy bags of wrapped candy by the armload.
“I doubt those injuries have happened often enough to worry about,” I said.
“You should read the cases. Did you know that children are victims in half of all amusement park injuries?”
I didn’t point out that a casual survey of the festival crowd would show that roughly half the attendees were short and probably children.
“Look at it logically,” I said. “How many accidents resulted in severe injuries? How many of the lawsuits were settled or went to trial? Scant few, given all the people who have a good time at carnivals, fairs, and fun parks every year.”
He raised his sheaf of papers as a shield, and I caught a glance at a headline listing accidents as far back as 1972. I didn’t tell Todd he should investigate the number of traffic accidents and fatalities per people/miles driven. He’d never leave home again.
“It makes sense,” I said, “to warn people to be careful and speak to anyone who’s doing something foolish. We don’t need to stop all the fun or lose sleep at night.”
He fixed me with a stern look, as if he were about to lecture an uncooperative client who refused to listen to reason. “As city attorney, I have a responsibility to keep Dacus out of trouble and out of court.”
The lawyers who never spend time in court are the ones most petrified when someone threatens to sue. No use reasoning with him.
Why in heaven’s name did Adrienne keep insisting Todd and I should “keep company,” to use her phrase? I suppressed a shudder. I knew Todd was a good l
awyer, but in a type of practice that would bore me. Had I reached “that age”? Did Todd represent a type, the only guy left for an early-thirties maiden lady? From where I stood, he was the one who acted like the old maid.
“I’m going to wander along the lineup,” I said. “See if anybody has any questions.”
I left him to his clipboard and his worries.
Someone had already put stakes in the ground with numbered cards attached, and all the entries had gotten their number when they registered. Todd and I were mostly just decoration and backup for the few who might have forgotten where they ought to be. By unilaterally declaring the no-candy rule a nol-pros, I figured I’d cut my workload to mostly nothing.
I was glad I’d worn shorts. Even in the morning shade, the air was already sticky.
Broad Street is just that—broad, with extra-wide tree-lined lanes on each side of a grassy median dotted with large oaks. It made a great parade staging area because people could drive down one side, spot their number, and come back up the other side to their place in line. The wide lanes gave the floats plenty of maneuvering room.
We only had two marching bands scheduled. Nice of the kids to show up, since school wasn’t in session. The Dacus High band was piling out of its activity bus as I drew close to their slot. The kids were dressed in khaki pants, white golf shirts, and gleaming black leather shoes, like refugees from some tropical British outpost.
I waved at the director, who practically saluted in return. Mr. Paul, the band director, could tell me and everyone else how to run a parade. He was famous for demanding perfection, a wry martinet given to purple-faced passion whenever a parent thought something trivial, like a family funeral, was more important than band practice. That explained all the competition trophies they brought home every year—and why I waved and kept walking.
Because of the heat, the Fourth of July parade was always held at ten in the morning. I preferred the nighttime Christmas parade, with the crisscrossed canopy of colored lights, bands from every high school in the county, Santa Claus at the rear (in front of the horses, of course), the elaborate and sometimes unintentionally funny church floats. My favorite last year had a littlest angel who rode almost the entire route with her finger up her nose. This parade made a good stop-gap until next Christmas, though.
