“That wouldn’t exactly be a lie,” I said.
“Can you keep an eye on the tent?” she asked. “I’d like to watch the end of the concert and I’m taking the dogs with me so they’ll stop barking at Horace’s suit. I’ll take them home in my car when the concert’s over.”
I nodded. I picked up my recliner and my lemonade and moved to just inside the tent door so if I fell asleep, an intruder would have to jump over me to enter.
The tent was quiet. Far from empty, though, and more chaotic than usual. The choir had brought several folding clothes racks for the clothes the singers had shed before going onstage. From the looks of it, I had a feeling most of them were wearing dressy black shoes and underwear and little else under their robes.
Knowing I was on guard duty counteracted any soothing effect the music had. And so I had plenty of time to fret about the day’s events.
Had Colleen Brown been murdered because of something in her own life? Or was she just a convenient victim in an attempt to frame Mr. Throckmorton? Had Horace found anything to indicate who had killed her, or at least to exonerate Mr. Throckmorton? And what effect would all this have on the siege and the county’s various legal proceedings? I thought of calling Cousin Festus to ask, but decided it could wait till morning. No sense making Festus’s usual fourteen-hour days any longer. And besides—
“So this is where all the magic happens?”
I started, and looked up to see Stanley Denton standing just outside.
“No, the stage is over there,” I said. “This is just where the magicians leave their wallets and purses and street clothes while they’re onstage.”
He chuckled.
“Mind if I come in?” he said. “I promise to keep my hands off the wallets and purses.”
“They’re locked up anyway,” I said.
The idea of letting the PI into our tent, so close to the big secret, bothered me, but he’d probably be even more suspicious if I kept him out, so I got up and moved my lounge chair aside.
“Not bad.” He was standing with his hands in his pockets, gazing around with an air of casual interest that might have fooled me if I didn’t know his profession. But instead of the casual smile and the relaxed body language, I focused on those rapidly darting eyes.
“Who’s the pigeon fancier?” he asked, taking a few steps toward the cage.
“Mr. Throckmorton,” I said. “He used to have a dozen until your employer brought in that guy with the hawk.”
“Oh.” His face fell, and he surveyed the cage for a few more moments. “At least he only lost one.”
“Her name was Dulcibelle,” I said. “And I’m told she liked to sit on his shoulder and comb his hair with her beak.”
“If you’re trying to induce guilt, you’ve succeeded,” he said. “I’d have advised against that, if anyone had asked me. Shouldn’t they be asleep?”
“Yes—would you mind pulling the tarp over them?” I asked. “Rose Noire usually does it before she leaves, but it’s been a little crazy.”
While he obliged, I did a little tidying. I couldn’t complain about the neatly arranged belongings the choir had left behind, but they did make the place feel a bit more cluttered than I could stand. I began putting away anything that didn’t belong to the choir. It wouldn’t make much of a dent in the clutter now, but tomorrow morning, when all the choir’s belongings were gone—
“And is that the stage entrance?”
He was pointing to the flap that led to the tunnel.
“No, only storage,” I said. “It’s just the crawl space under the bandstand.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I remember now—everyone had to file on from the side. Wouldn’t it make things easier in the long run if you cut an entrance through there?”
“Probably not,” I said. “It’s not tall enough for most people to stand up straight in, and the ground’s so muddy it’s almost like quicksand.”
“Still, if you could figure out a way to deal with the mud—”
He strode over toward the bandstand. I suppressed the urge to yell at him to stop. Maybe it was too late—maybe he’d already picked up some slight signs of anxiety in my voice or on my face when he mentioned the crawl space. I tried to keep my face calm and my step unhurried as I followed him over to the tent flap, and prayed that Rose Noire had not gone off leaving the trapdoor exposed.
“What’s this?” he said, as he gazed into the crawl space.
“If you mean the refrigerator, it’s mine,” I said. “I hide it there because people keep raiding it.”