“Oh, my!” he exclaimed. “You have had a morning! I wish I could have been there.”
I braced myself for recriminations.
“Is she complaining of anything?”
“Only that Rose Noire won’t bring her a martini,” I said. “But she looks a little wan. Can you stop by?”
“I would if I were in town, but I’m down in Richmond. For the autopsy on Colleen Brown. I’ve got Dr. Smoot filling in for me at the first aid tent. I could have him stop by.”
I had a momentary vision of Dr. Smoot slipping furtively into the tent wearing his black cape, looking like a refugee from a cheesy fifties vampire flick.
“Dr. Smoot doesn’t even have a good bedside manner with dead people,” I said. “He’ll either scare her to death or tick her off.”
“Good point,” Dad said. “I’ll send Clarence.”
“I’m sure Caroline will love having a vet examine her.”
“He doesn’t have to tell her he’s examining her. He can pretend to be just fussing over her. And he’s got enough medical knowledge to tell if she should be packed off to the ER, and she likes him well enough to go if he tells her to. And I’ll check on her when I’m back this evening.”
Back in the tent, Caroline appeared to be napping, her untouched herbal cocktail at her side. Rose Noire was poring over the clipboard.
“Clarence will be dropping by to make sure Caroline is all right,” I said.
“Why not your dad?” Rose Noire asked.
“Dad’s in Richmond,” I said. “Ostensibly for the autopsy, although he might also be doing a little campaigning to get himself appointed as a local medical examiner.”
“Oh, that would be so nice,” she said. “He’d love that.”
But would the chief love it? Maybe he would, if he knew Dr. Smoot was the alternative.
“Here comes another rug rat,” Caroline called out. Not really asleep, then, but playing possum.
“Oh, dear.” Rose Noire rushed toward the tent door. Lad, Seth Early’s border collie, was herding in a toddler in a pink sundress. While Lad guarded the door in case his charge made a break for it, Rose Noire squatted down beside the girl—who, I was relieved to see, looked more cross than scared.
“What’s your name, honey?” she asked.
“Bad doggie,” the girl said. I suspected this wasn’t an accurate answer to the question.
“He’s not a bad doggie,” Rose Noire said. “When little girls and boys get lost, he brings them here to wait until their parents can come to pick them up. Now what’s your name, so we can tell your parents to come get you?”
“Emma,” the girl said.
“Would you like to play with the other children until your parents come?”
“Other children?” I echoed. I glanced over at the pens. Three other children of assorted sizes and genders were playing in the front pen with the twins’ toys or cuddling with Tinkerbell. Spike, I was relieved to see, had been exiled to the back pen.
“Here you go.” Rose Noire lifted Emma into the pen, where after a moment, she toddled over to whack Tinkerbell affectionately on the head. “Juice, anyone?”
As soon as Emma was safely inside the pen, Lad gave a brisk, businesslike bark, then turned and trotted off.
“He’s been herding in lost children all day,” she said. “We’ve had fifteen come and go already.”
“Seems like an unusually high number,” I said. “Are you sure they were all lost?”
“Well, they are now,” she said. “As soon as we find Seth, we’re going to see if he can train Lad to herd them over to the police tent instead.”
“Better yet, get him to take Lad home,” I suggested.
Just then Rose Noire glanced at her watch. I checked mine. Almost one.
“Light-years ago, before the murder, we had scheduled me to do a demonstration at one p.m. today,” I said. “Please tell me you found a substitute.”
“The bagpiper was available,” she said.
“The good one?” I asked. “Or—”
Just then the bagpiper struck up his first few droning notes and answered my question.
“Don’t worry!” Rose Noire shouted over the din. “Most people can’t tell a well-played bagpipe from a badly played one!”
Just my luck to be in the unhappy minority. We’d had this particular bagpiper any number of times over the summer—though usually only as a last-minute substitute. I could already feel another bagpipe headache starting.
So while the bagpiper murdered his first number—probably, though not definitely, “Scotland the Brave”—I racked my brains for something that needed doing elsewhere. As far from the bandstand as possible.