“We should call the police,” Michael said.
“No need to call,” Mrs. Fenniman said. “I saw Chief Burke a few minutes ago, looking over some fishing gear at Professor Hutson’s table. Shall I get him?”
“I’ll do it, and then enlist Meg’s dad,” Michael said, shoving back his Groucho mask as he turned. “You make sure no one leaves the scene of the crime.”
“Will do,” I said.
Not hard, since the only people planning to leave were the dozen standing in the checkout line, and at least for the moment, most of them seemed enthralled at having a front row view of what would doubtless be the most exciting thing to happen in Caerphilly in months.
Though they didn’t know about the murder just yet. At the moment, they were watching Mrs. Fenniman minister to the fallen customer. Some of them looked puzzled—probably the ones who knew that the Heimlich maneuver wasn’t necessary or even useful in cases of fainting. Of course, Mrs. Fenniman knew that, too, but she’d been dying to practice the technique ever since Dad had taught her how a few weeks ago. Thank goodness he hadn’t yet taught her how to perform a tracheotomy.
I scanned the crowd, looking for Giles. I couldn’t imagine him killing anyone, and I suspected he’d absentmindedly set the owl bookend down someplace. If he could remember where, that might help us—correction, help Chief Burke—identify the killer.
“I’m off duty, you know,” said a mellow baritone voice at my elbow.
“Chief Burke, thank—” I began, and then my mouth fell open. Apparently the chief had decided to take advantage of the costume discount—if not for the familiar voice, I’d never have recognized him. He wore a black leather coat, wraparound shades, and at least a foot of glossy Afro. Was he supposed to be Shaft, I wondered. I thought Shaft was bald, though, so I wasn’t sure who Chief Burke was impersonating, but he dwarfed the miniature Darth Vader who stood beside him, tugging on his hand.
“If you have a shoplifting problem, I can have one of the duty officers cruise by,” he said.
“It’s not a shoplifting problem,” I said. “It’s a murder problem. I thought you’d want to be the first to know.”
I’d spoken too loudly. I could hear gasps and whispers from the people in line, and several of them ran off, presumably to tell their friends.
“Lordy,” the chief said, shaking his head. “I wish I thought you were kidding. Frankie, you go find your Grandma and tell her she’ll have to find you some lunch. Grandpa has to work.”
Darth Vader nodded and scampered off.
“So where is this alleged murder?” the chief said.
I pointed to the trunk. He walked over, used his handkerchief to lift the lid, and peered in.
“That poor rascal!” he exclaimed.
“I see you know Gordon,” I said.
“Well, of course,” he said. “He’s had that eyesore of a shop on Main Street nearly fifteen years. I’m not surprised, really. Lord knows, no one deserves to be murdered, but if anyone could provoke Saint Peter himself into forgetting that fact, it would be Gordon.”
With that, he pulled out his cell phone. Calling the station for reinforcements, I hoped.
Michael returned.
“Your Dad’s got the barn under control,” he said.
“Great,” I said. “Now all we have to worry about is them,” I said, pointing to the crowd. The line snaking away from the checkout table was becoming obscured by the increasing numbers of people showing up to gawk, and they’d begun shoving the ropes inward, a few inches at a time. “If Chief Burke doesn’t get some officers here pretty soon for crowd control …”
“Don’t worry,” Michael said. “Also under control.” Just then the crowd parted, and Mother appeared, took up a position just inside the rope, and began issuing orders. Within two minutes, she had the ropes back to their original position and the crowd arranging itself in several rows, by height, so everyone would have the best possible view. Which might not be optimal in the chief’s eyes, but I thought it was an improvement over being trampled by curious onlookers while guarding the trunk.
But while the gawkers were happier, the shoppers had grown surly.
“Maybe I should start writing up people’s sales tickets while they’re waiting,” I said. I rummaged through the stuff on the checkout table for one of the little pads of sales receipts. “That’s what really takes time, and if they see things are moving—”
“I’ll do it,” Michael said, plucking the receipt pad from my hand. “I’ll round up some of our elusive volunteers to help. You stay here and help Chief Burke.”