“This isn’t going to work,” I told myself.
I got up and tore a page out of my notebook. I scribbled “Checking on the patrols,” on it and put it on my pillow, so Michael would see it if he woke and not worry. Then I set out to walk the fair.
Chapter 32
I ran into some of my patrol volunteers almost immediately, just outside the pig barn. I turned on my flashlight and saw that three of them had arranged folding lawn chairs in a semicircle around a large cooler. They all had beers in their hands and their feet propped up on the cooler.
“I thought you guys were on the early patrol,” I said.
Two of them shifted uneasily, but the third just shook his head.
“We’re going to keep watch from here,” he said. “No sense prowling up and down the whole fair. From what I hear, chicken thief’s got his comeuppance.”
“You think he deserved to die for stealing a few bantams?” one of the others asked.
“No,” the first one said. “But sounds like that wasn’t the only thing he got up to.”
“He’s getting a bum rap, if you ask me,” the third one said. “She’s the one who stole the chickens.”
“His wife?”
“No, the girlfriend. And she tucked her tail between her legs and ran home, so we don’t need to worry about her.”
“She was the one who wanted the chickens,” the first one said. “And maybe she egged him on to do it. But if you think she did it herself, you’re crazy. No way she’d pull it off.”
“She prefers to delegate,” I put in.
“That’s it,” the first one said, nodding. “She doesn’t do what she can delegate. And she doesn’t have anyone around here to delegate to anymore, so the birds are safe.”
“And our pigs,” the third one added.
“And we aim to keep them that way,” said the second.
“You did hear that there was another theft in the chicken tent late this afternoon, didn’t you?” I asked.
They paused to consider that for a few moments.
“Could be an inside job,” one said. “You might want to see if they have the birds insured.”
“Or maybe it was a friend of that Riordan guy,” another said. “Someone who didn’t want to see him blamed for the thefts. What better way than to stage another theft that his dead friend couldn’t possibly have pulled off?”
“Yeah, death’s the ultimate alibi,” the first one said.
“It was another chicken theft, right?” the third asked. “Seems pretty clear to me the thief’s after chickens.”
“They’re a lot easier to steal than pigs or cows,” the first said.
The other two nodded and mumbled agreement.
I was annoyed but after talking with them for a few minutes, I could tell that they’d been working on the contents of the cooler for a while. Better to have a few sober patrols than a whole herd of drunks careening around the fair. So I bit back both the recriminations I wanted to hurl at them and the pep talk I’d considered administering. I turned off my flashlight, wished them a good evening, and moved on.
I ran into another group of volunteers taking an extended coffee break in one of the vacant tents by the food stands. Another bunch were playing poker near the front gate. It was bridge at the back entrance to the chicken tent, and a tape of A Prairie Home Companion show at the front entrance. More beer drinkers and a Monopoly game outside the duck and goose tent.
I had to admit, things seemed peaceful. Of course, things had seemed that way last night, up to the point when Brett had been murdered. And this had been my original idea. Instead of having the patrols wander around, station them at every entrance to every building we wanted to protect and couldn’t lock up tight. Maybe I should have stuck to it. The pig farmers weren’t going anywhere, and they weren’t going to let any unknown person pass.
I felt a little better.
But no sleepier than before.
So I continued to prowl. We’d chained and padlocked the arts and crafts barn and the farmers’ market barn, so I tested all the padlocks. And then I continued making the rounds, checking to see that there was at least one wide-awake volunteer at the front and back doors of each barn and tent.
It suddenly occurred to me that while the barns were solidly built, with no windows and only the two doors, the tents were … well, tents. Wouldn’t it be possible for someone to slip into a tent by ducking under the side, or maybe even cutting a slit in the canvas?
I was passing the chicken tent when this thought occurred to me. I nodded to the volunteers, who were singing along with Garrison Keillor, and turned down the narrow space between the chicken tent and the duck and goose tent.