So if Mother remembered Morot’s vineyard, she’d be even more willing to help him infiltrate the tent in Ge-nette’s absence.
Although to be honest, I hadn’t asked his name so I could help him. Ever since meeting Genette, I’d had the uneasy feeling that something bad was going to happen. I’d have called it a premonition if I believed in them. In spite of all Rose Noire’s arguments to the contrary, I remained convinced that a premonition was actually your subconscious adding up facts your conscious hadn’t yet noticed, and coming to a conclusion that would turn out to be perfectly rational if you analyzed everything properly.
And if my subconscious thought that bad things were going to happen, I wasn’t going to argue with it, because even my conscious self had seen enough to be worried. What if last night’s mishaps were only the prelude?
I strode over to the wine pavilion and found Mother.
Chapter 15
“I checked out your lurker,” I said. “He’s probably harmless.” I explained why Morot had been lurking, and as I suspected, Mother was eager to help.
“The poor man,” she said. “And yes, you have had his wine. He makes—made—a lovely Chardonnay, very buttery with a hint of apples. I’m sure you remember.”
Actually, I wasn’t likely to. I liked wine, but when people started describing it as “crisp” or “buttery” or “robust,” or having hints of something-or-other, I just didn’t get it. To me, wine was good, or bad, or okay, or maybe sometimes even fabulous, but buttery? Hints of apples?
“It was the white wine we served at Josh and Jamie’s christening party,” Mother added.
“Oh, that,” I said. “Yes, that was nice. Very nice indeed. So he made that?”
“I shall definitely do what I can to help that poor man. Do you remember that lovely Merlot of his? The one with those ever-so-slight notes of chocolate and licorice.”
“Chocolate and licorice?” I didn’t recall ever drinking a wine that tasted even ever so slightly of either flavor, much less both, and the idea sounded perfectly dreadful. Of course, the odds were if I’d had the merlot, I’d have just thought that it tasted like really good red wine. So I opted for tact. “Not really, but I’ll take your word for it.”
I left the wine pavilion and headed back for the fair office. On the way, as I was passing the sheep barn, I noticed there was a crowd at the small exhibition ring nearby, so I strolled over to see what was up.
When I got closer, I realized that the crowd consisted almost entirely of teenagers. Most of them, boys and girls alike, were in t-shirts and jeans. Some of them were talking to each other or texting on cell phones. Some were flirting or arguing. Many were just standing there, looking down at their boots or sneakers.
What was odd was that every single one of them had his or her back to the show ring. The entire ring was lined three-deep on all four sides with teenagers who were studiously ignoring whatever was in it.
So of course I was dying of curiosity to see what they were ignoring.
The ring was surrounded on three sides by bleachers that provided a couple of rows of rough board seating. A few kids were perched there, but not many, probably because it was a little uncomfortable to sit on the bleachers with your back turned to the ring. I threaded my way through the crowd, saying hello to the occasional kid who knew me. I suppose I could have asked them what was up, but I was reluctant. After all, I was the deputy organizer—I was supposed to know what was going on.
So I when I reached the bleachers I climbed to the top row and peered over all the heads. As I watched, someone opened a gate on the far side and three sheep trotted into the ring.
Three of the nakedest sheep I’d ever seen.
Michael and I had lived across the road from Seth Early’s sheep farm for years now, so I knew what sheep looked like at all stages of life, from fully fleeced to newly shorn. But I’d never seen Seth’s sheep quite this closely shorn. These three sheep looked as if they’d been first shorn and then shaved. Their skins were very pale, but with a slight rosy flush to them, and surprisingly wrinkly in places. Like around the neck and at the top of the legs. As they trotted in formation around the ring, I found it fascinating to see how the skin around their legs wrinkled and smoothed in time with their steps. Amazing how long their legs were, and how slender they appeared without the heavy wool to conceal their real size. They looked … graceful. Not a word I’d ever previously thought of applying to sheep.
And yet, as these three trotted around the ring, with brisk steps and an alert manner, I kept feeling the impulse to avert my eyes. I wondered if the sheep found the sudden change from fleece to flesh disconcerting or liberating.