“He won’t,” I said. “Unless he finds good evidence that one of you did it.”
“I can’t be a hundred percent sure no one from the Midway did it,” he said. “But if I had to put money on it, I’d say it was someone from your side of the fence. No offense meant.”
“None taken,” I said. “I agree with you.”
I thanked him for the lemonade and strolled off. I decided I didn’t need to talk to the ringtoss operator. I had a pretty good idea what was going on.
As I made my way back to the gate, I realized, a little sadly, that I was seeing the Midway with my own eyes again, rather than the boys’. The booths and rides might be brightly painted, but the colors were harsh and garish and the paint was getting a little chipped and faded. The games of skill weren’t completely rigged, but the odds always seemed to be with the house and when you came down to it the prizes were a little tawdry. And the fairgoers might be happy, but the barkers and concession operators had a pinched, anxious look. And they might have good reason to feel anxious. The counterman hadn’t said anything, but it was obvious that Plunkett’s free meal was only the tip of the iceberg.
I waited until I was back on the Caerphilly side of the gate before stepping away from the path and pulling out my cell phone to call the chief.
Chapter 31
“Is there anything you can do about officers extorting money from fair vendors?” I asked.
“If you have any evidence that any of my officers are—”
“Clay County officers,” I added.
“Oh.” His tone changed from indignant to rather melancholy.
I relayed what I’d heard from the counterman—including his suggestion that Plunkett was trying to sabotage the murder investigation.
“I’ve already had my suspicions about the wisdom of including Deputy Plunkett in our investigation,” the chief said. “But it shouldn’t be a problem now that the sheriff—our sheriff—has announced that he’s taking personal charge of the investigation.”
“He is?” The sheriff of Caerphilly was over ninety, and had won his last few elections largely by proclaiming that he was going to keep delegating everything to Chief Burke, who in addition to being the police chief of the town of Caerphilly was also deputy sheriff of the county. I suspected a ruse.
“He’s conducting the investigation from his farm,” the chief said. “So if Plunkett wants to stay involved, he’s welcome to go out there. Might have to slop a few hogs while he’s there. On the sheriff’s orders, I’ve put all my officers back on general patrol here at the fair.”
“Where if they happen to run into any information that seems relevant to the murder—”
“They can bring it to me, and I will assess whether it’s something the sheriff will want to hear about. Getting back to those allegations of extortion over in Clay County—we’d need to get the state police involved. I can contact them if there’s someone willing to stand up and make a charge. If no one’s willing—well, accusing another county’s law enforcement of corruption’s like taking a stick and whacking at a hornet’s nest.”
“I’ll see if I can find at least one victim willing to complain before we let the hornets know we’re coming,” I said. “It’ll be a lot easier if we wait till the end of the fair, when they’ll be less afraid of retaliation. And if Randall and I can talk the rest of the fair committee into dumping Clay County from next year’s fair.”
“That last idea has my vote,” the chief said. “And I’ll see if our sheriff has any suggestions about how to handle the situation. He’s been jousting with Sheriff Dingle a darn sight longer than I have. Might have some good insights.”
“As long as they’re not old buddies.”
“They most definitely are not,” he said. “In fact, the only times I can recollect our sheriff using intemperate language were a few occasions when he had to deal with his Clay County counterpart. Keep me posted if you find a witness willing to talk.”
With that we hung up, and I headed back to the sheep barn.
I found Michael and Rob trying to swaddle Groucho with what seemed like several acres of hot-pink polyester fabric festooned with matching feathers. Groucho wasn’t spitting at them, which I’d have been tempted to do if I were a llama in his situation, but he wasn’t cooperating one bit.
“What on earth are you trying to do to the poor beast?” I asked.
“Get his costume on,” Rob said. “We’re going as pink flamingos.”