“Ms. Langslow?”
I turned to find Dr. Ffollett standing behind me. He seemed tense and kept darting glances around him, making him look rather like a mouse making his way through an encampment of cats.
“Welcome to Camp Emu,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us in the middle of a medical emergency.”
Dad would have perked up at that news but Dr. Ffollett didn’t.
“She’s having a fit,” he said. Annabel, of course. “People keep showing up at the gate and trying to get in. She sent me out to give directions to the first few, but she’s not happy.”
“Tell her we’ll take care of it,” I said.
“Right.” He turned and fled, looking more mouselike than ever.
We’ll take care of it. More likely me. Although perhaps it would be nice to have something I could take care of, since there was nothing I could do for poor Fred. I could hear Natalie and the boys still chattering happily in Caroline’s caravan. Good. I strolled through camp, passing clumps of picnickers at every turn. I made my way to Grandfather’s Airstream. In front of it was a tarp that sheltered a small folding table and chairs that served as the command center. Grandfather wasn’t there—no doubt he’d taken his place at the head of the chow line, and by now was having his first spoonsful of the chili whose odor was wafting through camp. But a woman I recognized as one of his assistants was on duty—a harried-looking thirtyish woman in jeans and a BLAKE’S BRIGADE T-shirt. She was typing on a laptop. She looked up when I approached, and braced herself, as if afraid I was bringing her another problem.
“Any news about Fred?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “Look, we need to keep people from bothering the woman who owns this field. People keep going up and knocking on her gates instead of going round. She’s a recluse, remember?”
“We said that in our directions,” she said. “Which nobody reads, apparently. We could put up a sign.”
“A sign would be nice,” I said. “And do you have someone you could spare to sit out there and snarl at anyone who doesn’t read the sign? Just for today. I assume most of the brigade will be here by the end of the day.”
She frowned, and then a sudden look of delight crossed her face. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number.
“Evan,” she said. “Come see me ASAP. I have an important job for you.”
She hung up and began to rummage through a stack of supplies under the table.
“This Evan,” I said. “Someone who’ll be a good watchdog?”
“If the job involves loitering for hours on end and bossing people around, Evan can do it,” she said. “And he’ll love putting some distance between him and Sherry. What do you want your sign to say?”
We started our sign with DO NOT BOTHER HOMEOWNER! and followed that with both written instructions and a small map. Evan had not appeared by the time we’d finished, so I set out to post the sign and guard the gate until his arrival.
“I’m going to take a shortcut through Miss Annabel’s yard,” I said. “But only in the interest of getting the sign up as soon as possible. Tell Evan to come the long way round.”
The woman nodded, and I set off with my sign and a roll of duct tape.
The ambulance had arrived and was parked near the mess tent. But no police vehicles, so I took my tote bag full of evidence with me.
I could see curtains flutter along the side of the house as I passed, and then in the front as I taped the sign to the tall iron gate, where Dr. Ffollett was standing on guard.
“You think they’ll bother to read this?” he asked, watching me tape up the sign.
“We’ll have a guard out here to reinforce it, at least for today,” I said. “The first shift is already en route.”
“Good.” He nodded and headed back to the house.
I resigned myself to waiting for the elusive Evan. Who had better not show up reeking of chili.
I loitered by the gate for a while. Then, growing restless, I began strolling up and down the length of the iron fence. In fact, when I reached the end that bordered Theo Weaver’s lot I decided to stretch my legs a little more. So I kept going past the borderline and sauntered along the road, studying the Weaver house in sidelong glances.
It was a white Victorian, much like Annabel’s, though slightly smaller. Neatly maintained, though not as homey looking—no bird feeders, no porch furniture, nothing to indicate the occupant made any use of his yard or porch. And while the lawn was neatly mowed, it was more weed than lawn. He had a few bushes around the foundations of the house, but they were the sort of low-maintenance kind you’d have put in if you didn’t want to bother much with gardening. Nothing that would shed fruit or blossoms on the tidy if unimpressive lawn.