“Nekhbet?” the chief echoed.
“What a lovely name!” Rose Noire exclaimed. And then seeing my unspoken question, she added, “Michael’s on duty at the tent.”
I explained, as well as I could, the demonstration Mr. Doane was giving to Grandfather.
“I see,” the chief said. “You think you could call your grandfather or Mr. Doane and ask them to come and collect their vulture?”
“He doesn’t have a cell phone,” I said. “He hates them, so he just borrows them from whoever he’s with and gripes about them. And I don’t know Mr. Doane’s number. But if this is their vulture, they should be showing up shortly to see what she’s found. They were going to put a GPS anklet on her.”
As we watched, the vulture scuttled sideways slightly until she was on the very edge of the roof. Then she stooped and leaned down, trying to see what was inside the booth.
“Wish we didn’t have that ordinance against shooting off firearms within the town limits,” Randall remarked.
“Even if we didn’t, I can’t believe you’d shoot a harmless turkey vulture,” Rose Noire said. “They’re such an important part of the ecosystem.”
“And besides,” I said, “it probably is Mr. Doane’s tame vulture. I think I see the GPS device on her leg.”
“I wouldn’t shoot her,” Randall said. “But I’d love to fire a few warning shots to scare her off. Chief, couldn’t one of your men oblige? Fire a shot or two in the air?”
“Don’t you think the shots might spook the tourists even more than the vulture?” the chief asked.
“Don’t think of the tourists,” Rose Noire said. “Think of that poor vulture. What if she eats something from Hamish’s booth? He’s very careless about refrigerating his supplies. I’m pretty sure he’s responsible for those cases of food poisoning that keep turning up.”
“She’s a vulture,” I said. “She’s looking for carrion.”
“I’m sure even vultures can’t eat everything,” she replied.
“I’ll put Deputy Shiffley in charge of ensuring that the vulture relocates to a safer environment,” the chief said. “With or without Dr. Blake’s assistance.” He had pulled out his phone and was peering over his glasses at it. “And I’m going to sic the county health inspector on Hamish.”
“Good plan,” Randall said.
Just then I spotted Mr. Doane and Grandfather pushing their way through the crowd. I pointed them out to the chief.
“I’m going back to the tent,” I said. “Call me if there really is a body in Hamish’s booth.”
Chapter 32
Back at the bandstand, the bagpiper appeared to be performing a medley of “Flight of the Bumblebee” and The William Tell Overture. Backstage in the tent, everyone was counting the minutes until his time was up and he’d have to cede the stage to Henrico Taiko, a Richmond-based troupe of Japanese drummers.
Michael, clipboard in hand, was supervising. Rob was napping in one of the folding recliners, which astonished me until I noticed the bits of cotton sticking out of his ears. Caroline was sitting in one of the lawn chairs. She was also festooned with cotton tufts and smiling blissfully.
The boys were in the pen, happily mauling Spike and Tinkerbell. Eric was sitting nearby with an anxious expression on his face, as if he still didn’t quite trust Spike’s doting canine uncle act.
Michael strolled over to greet me.
“I thought they’d enjoy the drumming,” Michael said. “I hope this stuff doesn’t give them bad dreams.”
The bagpiper finished at last, and left the stage to more applause than I’d have expected. Of course, perhaps the audience were applauding not his performance but his departure.
Michael turned to Caroline and mimed pulling something out of his ears. Caroline removed her cotton and joined us.
“Your grandfather and I are on after the drummers,” she said. “Assuming he can tear himself away from chasing vultures long enough to show up.”
“He’ll be here,” I said. “You know how he loves an audience.”
“What’s after us?”
Michael handed her the clipboard and she studied the afternoon and evening’s schedule. She looked up after a few moments.
“What the dickens is Rancid Dread?” she asked.
Michael shrugged and looked at me.
“It’s a heavy metal band,” I said. “That’s kind of like—”
“Heavy metal? Puh-lease!”
I looked around to see the diminutive, black-leather-clad figure of Rancid Dread’s drummer, sixteen-year-old Orvis Shiffley. He was rolling his eyes and wearing the long-suffering expression teenagers so often adopted when adults said or did something particularly lame. I’d seen a milder version of that expression earlier, on Eric, but Orvis was treating me to a full-strength blast of withering adolescent scorn.