“No, I’m sorry,” Randall said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that I had this same damned discussion with someone else already today.”
“With Hamish Pruitt,” I said. “I remember.”
“Actually, Hamish was yesterday, but he makes two someone elses within the last twenty-four hours,” Randall said. “He’s been after me for weeks about it, but now your cousin Festus is taking an interest in the archives.”
“He was disappointed to find we didn’t have them in the library,” Ms. Ellie said. “I suppose he’s looking for documents that might help him in that big court date that’s coming up.”
“Or bite him in the rear if the other side has them and he doesn’t know about them,” Randall said. “That’s the impression I got, and when I asked him what kind of documents, he said he’d know them when he saw them.”
“The lender should have provided him with a copy of any documents they plan to use at trial,” the chief said. “That’s what the lawyers mean by discovery.”
“Maybe he thinks they cheated,” Randall said. “Or maybe it’s a document we have and they don’t.”
“That would make more sense,” the chief said. “Because if it’s a document he planned to use in the trial, he’d need to get them a copy ASAP, or he couldn’t use it.”
“I think we already gave them all the documents we had,” I said. “Wasn’t Mr. Throckmorton quite busy scanning and faxing and stuffing papers through the barricade all winter?”
“True,” Randall said. “So maybe it’s something he only just figured out was relevant. I don’t rightly know why, but Festus was asking about the archives.”
“He could go over to the courthouse,” I said.
Randall nodded.
“I get the idea he’s not keen on it,” he said. “I did offer to lend him some overalls so he wouldn’t sully that fancy white suit of his on the trip over.”
Cousin Festus invariably dressed in retro-styled three-piece suits. At this time of year they would, of course, be white linen. He always beamed with delight when people said that he reminded them of Gregory Peck playing Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. I tried to imagine him in a pair of Randall’s overalls and failed miserably.
The chief, who, like me, had been working away steadily on the Cobb salad, wiped his mouth and spoke up.
“I presume that since Festus is contemplating making the trip through the tunnel, he thinks it’s tenable for us to keep Mr. Throckmorton in place for the time being,” he said. “Although keeping him under guard is putting a severe strain on our resources.”
“Can’t be helped,” Randall said. “By the way—we’re a little worried about getting the trapdoor done during the Fourth of July orchestra concert. Apparently this 1812 Overture isn’t all that long.”
“Fifteen or sixteen minutes, I should think,” Caroline said.
“Which should be enough time for the really noisy bits, but you know how construction is. So the boys and I are going to make a start during tonight’s rock concert.”
“Good idea,” I said. “It certainly should be noisy enough.”
“Oh, it will be,” he said. “My cousin Vern’s son Orvis is the drummer. Vern won’t even let them practice in his barn anymore.”
“So they’re loud and underrehearsed,” I said. “Great.”
“They get plenty of practice over in Granddaddy’s barn,” Randall said. “Being deaf as a post tends to enhance your appreciation of Orvis’s musical abilities. But they’ll be good cover. And if we finish off tonight, we can kick back and enjoy the fireworks tomorrow. One more thing—”
“Chief?” Sammy stuck his head in the tent door. “There’s some kind of commotion over in the food tent area. Deputy Morris says maybe you might want to see what’s going on.”
The chief set down his empty salad container and took off at a fast trot. Randall, Caroline, and I followed in his wake.
I came around the corner of the ice cream stand and almost bumped into the chief. Randall did bump into me.
“Good Lord,” the chief said. “What’s that fool thing doing there?”
We all turned to see what he was pointing at and saw a vulture perched on the roof of Hamish Pruitt’s hamburger stand.
“You mean, apart from sending a very negative message to all our tourists?” Randall said. “Beats me.”
“I hereby take back any doubts I had about turkey vultures’ ability to find carrion,” I said. “Nearly twenty food concessions, not to mention several dozen sun-ripened trash cans throughout the square, and he heads unerringly to Hamish’s booth. The only question is whether it’s Nekhbet, or a freelance vulture.”