There were no labels or other markings to indicate what the arrow was meant to point out. I glanced at a few pieces to the front and to the back of the marked page, but nothing else seemed important. I closed the file.
The last folder, with the fewest pieces of paper, was the most interesting one anyway.
Pasted on the inside of the front flap was the yellow sticky note I’d seen in Scott’s wallet. It still read: “Virgil Morrison. Ferris wheel. One down!!!” The only other piece of paper in the folder listed what I surmised were the names of fair workers and vendors, with a dollar amount next to each name. I’d recently dealt with a mysterious list that ultimately lead to a killer. This list wasn’t nearly as mysterious, and I doubted it would lead to anything, but I still thought it worth perusing. Above the column with the dollar amounts were the words “Still Owing.”
The people listed must have owed the amount of money next to their names, though who they owed and for what wasn’t clear. Jerry, who sold the corn dogs, had a zero next to his name, but my other card-playing buddies weren’t so fortunate.
Ward Hicken was listed as owing two hundred dollars. Randy Knapp owed sixty-two. Scott owed one hundred and thirty-two dollars. And Dianna Kivitt was the big winner, owing seven hundred and fifty dollars. “Whatever that’s for, that’s a lot of money,” I said quietly.
I wanted to take the list and give it to Sam so he could maybe give it to the police investigating the murder, but stealing it didn’t seem wise. It occurred to me that I had an infrequently used camera on my phone. There wasn’t enough light to guarantee a good shot, but the camera flashed in low light. I’d have to hope for the best.
I pushed the buttons needed to access the camera and aimed.
Just as I took the picture and the flash lit up the entire universe, I heard someone say, “Hey, who’s there?”
I don’t how I kept hold of the phone, because when I heard the voice, I reacted as if I’d heard a gunshot: I hit the ground and covered my head. I don’t know how I managed to keep from screaming since the maneuver caused me to graze my chin on the edge of the table and then land hard, my leg hitting something that looked like a car’s radiator. It rammed into the top of my thigh, sending pain in both directions so that I suddenly hurt all over and wondered if I was ever going to be able to stand again.
The pain was so intense that I considered yelling out for help, but I quickly rejected the thought. The good news was that I was on the ground, and the back wall of the storage area, made of thin metal, didn’t really touch the ground. There was a good four inches of space I could look through and hopefully see who had called out.
Once I blinked away the pain-induced tears that had filled my eyes, I saw the person attached to the voice. I’d happened upon the security guard after all. A man I hadn’t seen before was walking directly toward the shooting gallery. He’d come from the area near the Ferris wheel and moved slowly enough to make me think he was uncertain about which direction to go next. He must have seen the light but maybe only peripherally.
He was dressed in a dark uniform, and I thought I saw a gun on his belt, but I couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old. He wasn’t trim and in shape, but he wasn’t heavy either. I hoped he was friendly and didn’t have a quick trigger finger.
As he got closer, I continued to debate whether or not I should just call out and turn myself in, but something kept me from doing much more than clenching my jaw in silent defiance. I hated getting caught. And considering there had been a murder recently, I didn’t want to draw suspicion upon myself.
The path the guard followed forked just before reaching the rear of the shooting gallery; one way led to a merry-go-round, the other to the roller coaster. I held my breath as I watched the guard approach, and let it out when he reached the fork, turned sharply, and hurried off toward the roller coaster. He’d pulled out a flashlight and flipped it on, aiming it in the direction opposite of where I lay, injured and scared.
I turned my head to look at whatever shone in the beam of his light, and I was almost certain I saw the shadow of a figure running away from him. A man or woman—I couldn’t tell which—dressed in dark clothes, a head full of long, dark hair flowing down their back. Was someone else roaming around the grounds, too? Had they seen me?
There wasn’t time to think about anything except getting out of there. I sat up, focusing more on my thigh than the fact that the tabletop was right above my head. I hit it with a nice, solid-melon thunk. I was in a hurry, but I had to hesitate a few seconds to let the stars clear from my eyes before I could test my leg.
Fortunately, standing wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be, and the leg held me up with only a little protest. I’m sure I made a banging, clanging racket as I trudged through all the junk to get out from the storage area, but I didn’t turn around to see if I’d diverted the security guard from his mission. I galloped ungracefully away from the trailer.
I wasn’t limping so much as dragging my leg to get it to go forward. Nothing was broken and I would be fine, but I was sure I’d have a few new bruises.
Once I reached the parking lot, I stopped briefly to debate whether to run through its darkness or the darkness in the woods. They both suddenly seemed a million miles long. I chose the parking lot, and once I’d made it about halfway, my leg began to move with a seminormal gait.
I reached my truck, relief finally overtaking fear, started it, and maneuvered up and out of the gully and down the empty highway.
It wasn’t until I was almost home that I happened to glance in the rearview mirror and see the damage done to my chin. There was blood everywhere. I looked down at my lap and saw that my overalls were bloodstained in the exact spot where I was sure to have the bruise on my thigh. I hadn’t realized I was bleeding. Had I left a trail from the shooting gallery to my truck?
There wasn’t much I could do about it now.
Ten
I probably should have gotten stitches. But I didn’t. In fact, the only one who knew about my injuries was Hobbit, who, in her own way, reprimanded me for not going to the hospital. Instead, I cleaned the inch-long cut on my chin thoroughly and managed to close up the gash using surgical tape. I thought I’d done a brilliant job, but I would probably end up with an ugly scar. Fortunately, it was under my chin and more on the right side than in the middle. The tape didn’t add much character to my face, but the scar might.
I had my story ready. I would tell everyone that I was sitting at my dining table looking at some paperwork and I dropped a pen. When I bent over to retrieve it, my chin hit the edge of the table. I’d judge reactions to see if I needed to pad my fib or not.
The top of my head had a nice bump, but it wasn’t noticeable, and the bruise on my thigh was covered well by my long overalls. The blood I’d seen on my lap had come from my chin. My leg was merely bruised, but it was a doozy of a bruise and I’d be sore for a few days at least. Fortunately, it wouldn’t be too hot for long pants.
Between the pain and my concern over leaving a trail of blood, I didn’t sleep well at all. Stella didn’t need a ride, so when I was ready before sunrise—earlier than I normally rolled out of bed—I just got up and drove the truck to the fairgrounds. Ian was planning to pick up Hobbit and take her to George’s about an hour after I left. I sent him a text apologizing that I wouldn’t be there and saying we’d talk later. I would tell him the truth about my injuries, and though Ian wasn’t one to lecture, he’d supportively point out that I probably shouldn’t have done what I did. I knew that, and I wasn’t quite ready to be honest with anyone yet.
“Becca?” said a voice from behind me as I got out of the truck. I’d parked where I thought I could search for blood drops. The voice startled me enough that I jumped.
“Oh, hey, Jerry, you’re here early.” I looked around. The sun was up, and there were plenty of other vehicles in the lot. It
wasn’t crowded yet, but at least I didn’t feel alone.
“You, too—holy cow, Becca, what happened to your face?”
I told him my story, and he told me I probably should have gotten stitches.
“I’ll be all right,” I said as I unloaded the wagon that I used to transport inventory from the truck to the booth. Jerry jumped in and helped. If he were paying attention, he might have wondered why I kept looking at the ground.
The parking lot was just a big patch of dirt. I didn’t know what blood would look like on dirt and hoped it would somehow disappear anyway. From what I could see, or couldn’t see actually, if I had dripped, it had disappeared or gotten mixed in with the dirt or blown away. At first glance, the dirt just looked like dirt. A wave of relief helped me stop clenching my teeth so tightly.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jerry asked doubtfully.
I veered the wagon in a right curve, hopefully still following the path I’d taken the night before. Still no sign of anything unusual.
“I’m fine.” I smiled at him. “I’m sorry if I’m distracted. I didn’t sleep much, but I’ll shape up.”
“No problem,” Jerry said. “Here, let me pull the wagon.”
I let him. As we rolled and wove our way toward the temporary farmers’ market stalls, I relaxed further. I didn’t see anything anywhere that looked like blood and as we became surrounded by a few more people, I began to think that if the blood wasn’t somehow gone by now, it would be soon. Except for anything that had dripped behind the shooting gallery, of course, but I couldn’t dwell on that.
Though it was still early, I could tell the temperature would be perfect for attracting a good-sized crowd, and counter to my sentiments a few days ago, I hoped for a smaller, less exuberant one today.
“How busy will it be today?” I asked.
“Dunno.” Jerry shrugged. “My first year, too.”
“Of course. Sorry.” It was just last night that Jerry had shared he was fairly new to the area. “You’re from California, right?”
“Yep. Different world.”
“Do you like here?”
“Sure,” he said hesitantly. “Oh, sorry, I should say ‘Sure!’”
“You were in LA?”
“Yep.”
“Well, no wonder you don’t know if you like it here or not. A different world is an understatement. I bet if you give it long enough, you’ll get used to it, and maybe even come to love it. If not, there are some pretty big cities around.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
I looked at him. Any other day, perhaps a day that I didn’t hurt from having beaten myself up, I might have asked more questions and wanted to get to know him better. But not today.
“Looks like you’ve already got a crowd,” he said.
I stepped around him and looked up. A small group of people had gathered by the farmers’ market stalls, but it didn’t look as though they were waiting for me. They seemed to be lined up in front of Stella’s space, Stella’s empty space.
“I guess I’d better see what’s going on,” I said. “Thanks for the help. I can get it from here.”
“Sure. Hey, stop by my trailer later. Lunch on me.” He held out the wagon handle.
“Oh, that’s . . .” I looked at him. He wasn’t asking me to lunch, he wasn’t flirting, he was just being friendly. “That’d be great. Thanks, Jerry.”
“Sure. Bring your ex-husband. He’s a funny guy.”
“Okay,” I said. “Funny” meant as a compliment to Scott wasn’t something I was accustomed to. “Funny” as in “goofy,” well, I’d heard that plenty of times.
“See ya later.” Jerry turned and hurried back to his trailer as I hurried over to the stalls.
“Becca, hi,” Henry said as he stepped around part of the crowd. “We’re having a run on Stella’s cinnamon bread. I hope she’s on her way.”
“I’m sure she is,” I said as I surveyed the crowd. About twenty people were milling around, semi-patiently waiting for Stella’s delicious bread. It seemed that it was just as popular in Swayton County as it was at Bailey’s.
“What happened to your chin?” Henry asked.
I told him my story, and he said I probably should have gotten stitches.
“What’s this?” Stella said as she came up behind me.
“Your cinnamon bread,” I said.
“Wow, really? Well, I’m glad I brought plenty.” Stella and her husband each pulled a wagon.
Henry and I helped them unload the wagons. We jumped in and assisted with the constant flow of transactions, Stella’s and our own. Brenton arrived a short time later, and the line to his stall suddenly grew, too.
As we were in the middle of the crazy rush, I saw Lucy walk by in the background. She smiled and sent me a thumbs-up and then pointed at her chin as if to ask me what I’d done to mine. I only had time to shrug and wave it off as if it were no big deal. She imitated pulling a needle and thread. Even at twenty feet, she thought I needed stitches.
Truthfully, the fair wasn’t as busy today as it had been on Friday and Saturday, but we four Bailey’s vendors seemed busier than ever, at least in the morning.
“See, the word spread and you all did well today, didn’t you?” Lucy said when she stopped by my stall around noon. “I knew it would. I just knew it.”
I smiled. “We’ve all almost sold out of everything. You were right.”
She smiled bigger. “I do predict, however, that this afternoon will be less busy for y’all, but busier for the rides and other attractions. I think we’ve benefitted each other.”
“We’ll have Monday off, but all of us will come back next week.”
“Oh! I was so hoping you’d say that. That thrills me, just thrills me. I’ll leave you to it, but I’ll stop by later. You probably will want to leave early today, particularly Stella. It looks likes she sold every single item she brought.”
Stella was sitting on one of the folding chairs behind her display table. She sat back with her legs straight in front of her as she fanned her face with a piece of paper that had been folded into an accordion shape. Her cheeks were bright red. She’d worked hard today.
“I’ll probably suggest she go ahead and take off. She looks exhausted,” I said.
“That is so much better than aggravated because she didn’t have good business.” Lucy patted my arm and seemed to jump in the air a little before she turned and, carrying her ever-present clipboard, walked away.
I was about to encourage poor Stella to go home when another voice sounded from behind me.
“Becs, hey, what’s up?”
“Hey, Scott,” I said as I turned.
“Yikes, what happened to your chin?”
The conversation played out like the others I’d already had except that Scott looked at the tape and the cut even closer than everyone else. He told me to stay put and he’d be back to put it together better. I didn’t know what that meant, but if I saw him coming at me with a needle and thread, I’d run.
I turned back to talk to Stella and was again interrupted by someone else greeting me.
“Becca, hi.”
“Sam!” Trying to mellow my enthusiasm, I cleared my throat and said in a calmer, more normal voice, “Hi.”
“What in the world did you do to yourself?” he asked.
By that time I really wished I’d just gone to get stitches.
Eleven
As Sam waited patiently, I managed to talk to my fellow farmers’ market vendors before Scott returned with a black bag that looked like a cross between a briefcase and an old-fashioned doctor’s bag, the kind you saw in old movies set in the days when house calls were common practice.
I sent Stella home and told the other vendors they could leave whenever they sold out. Stella was
cheerfully exhausted and didn’t know if she could possibly bake enough cinnamon bread to keep up with the demand next week. She’d be back Tuesday, but I thought she was ready to be back at Bailey’s, where cinnamon bread was popular but not quite that popular. Brenton wasn’t sure how long he’d stick around, and Henry was interested in perusing the baked-goods ribbons again. He said that even if he sold out, he’d probably stay awhile.
Scott instructed me to come with him. He asked Sam to accompany us and assist him with whatever he was going to do. Sam and I dutifully followed my ex to a covered pavilion that was similar to the one where we’d played poker except that it held four picnic tables instead of only two.
“Sit up here,” Scott said as he pointed to one of the picnic tables. I obliged. “Officer Brion, Sam, can you hold this light? Aim it at Becca’s chin.”
“Sure.”
“Scott, what’s going on? What are you doing?” I asked as I tried to keep the light out of my eyes.
“I’m an EMT, Becca,” Scott said. “You should have had someone look at this, but I could have stitched it up for you. It’s too late for stitches now, but I can clean it out and tape it up better.”
Scott couldn’t have surprised me more if he’d said he was the president of the United States.
“You’re a what?” I said.
“EMT. I also own the shooting gallery, but that’s not a full-time gig, neither is my medical work. Now, I’m going to take this amateurish tape off, but it might hurt. I want you to take this bottle of soap and this washcloth and go clean it out. The fairground bathrooms aren’t the most ideal, but they’ll have to do.” Scott reached for my chin.
A Killer Maize Page 11
