Some Like It Hawk(44)

I wasn’t keen on having the Flying Monkeys so close to the bandstand. Of course, in that tent they’d be a lot easier to keep track of, so perhaps it wasn’t a complete disaster.

Rob and Horace returned. Horace curled up in a ball just outside the trapdoor and stayed there for some minutes, with Rose Noire patting him on the back and murmuring soothing things. I felt sorry for him, but at least it gave me a chance to ask Rob a quick question.

“Any good news?”

Rob frowned and shook his head.

“Bad news, in fact,” he said. “The gun belongs to Phinny.”

“Phinny? I have a hard time seeing him packing.”

“He says he bought it years ago when they were having a series of burglaries in the county,” Rob said. “But then it creeped him out to think that he might hurt someone if he used it, so he put it in a box in his attic and hasn’t seen it in years.”

A sudden doubt hit me.

“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of wild rumor?” I asked.

“I heard it from the chief,” Rob said. “He came and talked to Phinny through the barricade. Remember when we thought his house was vandalized last week?”

“You mean it wasn’t vandalism after all?” I asked

“Burglary,” Rob said. “They took his gun.”

At least that was what Mr. Throckmorton said. I had to admit, my confidence was a little shaken. But Rob knew Mr. Throckmorton better than I did, and apart from his terrible taste in girlfriends, Rob was a curiously good judge of character. And he still seemed to trust Mr. Throckmorton.

I hoped he was right.

Rob took Eric and the twins back to the house. Michael and his students went back to the drama department to do a postmortem on the production and celebrate the fact that they’d been asked for an encore. Rose Noire and I peeled Horace out of his gorilla suit, and after some herbal tea and deep breathing exercises, Horace pronounced himself sufficiently recovered that he could head over to the forensic tent to see what else the chief wanted him to do. Rose Noire and I seriously considered sending the suit out to be dry-cleaned, and then decided we’d better wait until there was no chance Horace would need to make another trip through the tunnel. So Rose Noire put it on a heavy clothes hanger and hung it up in the tent to dry and air out, to the great annoyance of Spike, who barked at it for fifteen minutes after she hung it up and renewed his barking whenever a stray breeze stirred it. After a while, even the normally sedate Tinkerbell joined in, though I wasn’t sure whether she was barking at the suit or at Spike.

I took my folding recliner and settled down in the green room to eat my salad, drink my lemonade, and watch the preparations for the choir concert, leaving Rose Noire to keep an eye on the tent and shush the dogs. Not that the arriving choir members weren’t in on the secret of the tunnel, but with so many people milling about, it would be easier than usual for someone to slip in under cover of the crowd.

I took out my phone to check on Michael and the twins.

“They’re fine,” he said. “They ate a hearty supper, and right now they’re having a Thomas the Tank Engine marathon with Eric. Bedtime to follow.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Eric used to love watching Thomas when he was their age.”

“Actually, I think he still enjoys it,” Michael said. “So relax and enjoy the concert. We’re holding down the fort here.”

I settled back to watch the action. First a trickle, then a steady stream of singers arrived at the tent, some already clad in their robes, but most carrying them in garment bags.

The audience had thinned out a little while the student tech crew cleared the stage of props and scenery, but now it began to swell again. Many of the new arrivals came bearing plates of chicken, barbecue, or fish, whose odor inspired many of those who had stayed to strike bargains with each other about who would hold their seats and who would fetch food. A small contingent of men from the church wheeled an electric organ in place.

Around 7 P.M., the choir walked onstage and launched into their first number, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” I leaned back, closed my eyes, and prepared to enjoy the concert.

I woke up with a start when someone tapped me on the shoulder. The choir was in the middle of “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho.”

“Sorry!” Rose Noire exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I hope the choir didn’t notice me sleeping,” I said. “I really was enjoying it, but I’m just so tired.”

“Just tell them you’ve been a martyr to insomnia and their voices gave you the first peaceful sleep and pleasant dreams you’ve had in weeks.”