Some Like It Hawk(9)

The original guards had eventually mellowed, and become a little friendlier. And then a few weeks ago, just before Memorial Day, they were fired on suspicion of taking bribes to let townspeople sneak in supplies. It was a bum rap, of course, but we didn’t dare tell the lender that. The Flying Monkeys had come in as replacements.

Maybe the Flying Monkeys would also mellow in time, but so far they tended to stay at the top of the steps, where they could sulk to their hearts’ content without the danger that the locals’ friendly overtures would spoil their fun.

I passed by the area where several dozen potters, quilters, woodworkers, and other craftspeople had booths, and in most cases, demonstration areas in multicolored tents. A little farther on was an area where the 4-H and the Future Farmers of Virginia had set up a series of agricultural displays along with an ongoing farmer’s market.

My stomach rumbled, reminding me that it was time for lunch. I headed in the opposite direction from the courthouse, passing through the section where the food tents were arranged in a semicircle. St. Byblig’s, the local Catholic church, sold Southern fried catfish with hush puppies and slaw. Next door, the New Life Baptist Church served up fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and greens. And beyond them was Trinity Episcopal’s pit barbecue with fresh corn on the cob and hot German potato salad. Add in smaller stands offering cakes, pies, watermelons, funnel cakes, fresh-squeezed lemonade, and ice cream and you could see why the tourists sometimes spent half an hour staggering around in circles before finally deciding what they wanted to eat. And often trying to eat it all. Indigestion was second only to heatstroke at the first aid tent that was my dad’s latest way of avoiding complete retirement from the medical profession.

But I’d had fried chicken on Wednesday, barbecue Thursday, catfish Friday, more fried chicken Saturday, and leftover fried chicken yesterday, when Rose Noire had tried to spring her Tofu Surprise on me. I wanted to start the new week out with something different.

Preferably something that didn’t require waiting for an hour. As usual, the only food concession without a killer line was the newest one—a hamburger stand run by Hamish Pruitt, Caerphilly’s disgraced former town attorney. Even the hungriest and most footsore tourist would take one look at the small size and inflated prices of Hamish’s patties and go elsewhere. The stained, flyspecked, and generally seedy look of his stand didn’t help either. Though perhaps the biggest barrier to sales was Hamish himself, who seemed unable to banish from his sagging, ruddy face the scowl he had so often used to intimidate opponents in court and over a bargaining table. I wasn’t the only local who suspected Hamish had opened his stand not to make money but in the hope of finding out how Mr. Throckmorton was getting his supplies. Hamish’s spot at the very edge of the food area was perfect for keeping an eye on comings and goings from the courthouse.

Then again, maybe the Hamishburger stand really was an attempt to make ends meet by flipping patties. It wasn’t as if his law practice was going great guns. Most of the locals distrusted him because of his long history of favoring the Pruitts at the expense of Caerphilly, and now the rest of his own family was furious with him for failing to stop the recall vote that kicked his uncle George out of the mayor’s office. I actually felt sorry for Hamish.

But nowhere near sorry enough to eat one of his burgers.

I noticed that the surly teenager minding Hamish’s booth this morning was nibbling, under the counter, on what I recognized as a Baptist fried chicken leg.

“Oooh! Look!”

I glanced over and saw several tourists pointing up at the sky. I followed their glances and saw a red-tailed hawk soaring overhead.

“Isn’t he beautiful!” someone said.

He was actually a she, and while she might be beautiful, she was also deadly if you happened to be a smaller bird. I turned and raced back to the tent.

Rose Noire was sitting in her rocking chair by Spike’s pen, sewing. Probably making another batch of hand-sewed, organically grown aromatherapy sachets to sell at this week’s farmer’s market. She looked up as I came in and cringed slightly.

“No, he hasn’t come out yet. You’ve only been gone five minutes. I don’t know what you expect me to do if—Meg? What’s wrong?”

I was ignoring her to race over to the left side of the tent where a large square birdcage sat on the ground. My abrupt arrival startled the racing pigeons inside, who began fluttering around wildly.

“Help me count them,” I said. “There are supposed to be eleven.”

“I thought there were supposed to be twelve,” she said.