He handed me a business card.
“My cell phone’s on it. I’ll be around if your police chief wants to talk to me.”
With that he nodded and stepped back inside the wine pavilion.
I fingered his card for a few moments. Then I tucked it in my pocket and headed for the fair office. The chief might still be there. I could fill him in on Stapleton’s suspicions and find out if he and Vern had made any progress solving the chicken thefts. And then maybe I could head for the nearby llama exhibit and say good morning to the boys.
When I entered I found the chief and Randall Shiffley sitting on folding chairs. Vern Shiffley was pointing to the map of the fair, and the chief and Randall were studying it.
“Oh, good—Meg’s here,” Randall said. “Vern’s going to update us on the investigation so far.”
“For what it’s worth,” Vern grumbled.
Chapter 10
Apparently Vern had just finished complaining, not for the first time, about his Clay County counterparts.
“Not much we can do about it now,” Vern said. “But I say next year we put the Midway on our side of the border. And I don’t just mean so we can get all the sales tax revenue. Did I tell you I figured out why they never arrested any pickpockets over there at last year’s fair?”
“Let me guess—they just make ’em pay for a pickpocketing license?” Randall suggested.
“No, but you’re close,” Vern said. “They just beat the pickpocket up a little, empty his pockets, and escort him to the county line.”
“I’ll have a word with Sheriff Dingle.” The chief didn’t exactly sound thrilled at the prospect.
“Chief, there’s no talking to these people,” Vern said. “They’re not in the twenty-first century yet. They’re still trying to find the seventeenth. If we—”
“I’ll have a word with their sheriff.” Chief Burke’s voice was calm, but I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion. “He may not agree with me, but I think he’s well aware that they need to work with us if they want to retain their small but very lucrative piece of the fair. Have we made any progress on the thefts and vandalism?”
Vern grimaced and shook his head. He had a small notebook in his hand, and he looked down at it and flipped a page.
“Horace couldn’t get any usable fingerprints off the pumpkin or the cage the chickens were taken from,” he said. “He said there was no use even trying with the quilt. Half the quilters are over at Rosalie’s camper, consoling her, and the other half are mutinous because they think she now has an unfair edge in the competition, even if Daphne can’t get all the mud off.”
“And they could be right, but that’s not something we can do anything about,” the chief said.
Vern nodded, and went back to his notebook.
“Knowledgeable sources in the produce tent say the kid whose pumpkin was smashed was probably headed for a medal,” he went on. “But no one—except the kid—thinks it would have won first prize. Third through sixth, according to my sources. Haven’t heard yet whether the judges are going to let him enter those barrels of pumpkin goop we had collected. And things are pretty crazy in the chicken tent. A few of the exhibitors are threatening to go home, but no one really believes they will before the judging. Still, they’re all running around like—well, like chickens with their heads cut off. No other thefts or pranks, and no idea if those three are related.”
“I heard a theory that might explain it,” I said. I pulled out Stapleton’s card, handed it to the chief, and relayed what he had told me about Genette.
“You think there’s something to this?” the chief asked when I’d finished.
“I have no idea,” I said. “People who know her better than I do seem to think so. Of course, they’re all people who dislike her. Haven’t talked to anyone who likes her, if such a thing exists. But even if Stapleton’s wrong, I bet he’s not the only one saying stuff like this. There are some serious bad feelings down there in the wine tent. You might want to keep an eye on her.”
“Are you worried that she might be up to something, or that the other exhibitors, who think she’s up to something, might take matters into their own hands?”
“Either,” I said. “Or both. There’s also the possibility that someone might be deliberately trying to cause troubles that would be blamed on Genette.”
“I don’t have the manpower to guard Ms. Sedgewick,” the chief said. “We’re already stretched thin patrolling a hundred acres of fairgrounds.”