'You might have mentioned that before I walked all the way over here,' I said, turning back to where Tony lay snoring.
But Tony didn't have the key – not in his hand or any of his pockets, and I didn't find it lying on the ground around him.
'He must have dropped it while he was capering around,' Wesley said, when I reported my failure.
'Capering around?'
'After he locked me up, he was running up and down the square, taunting me until he passed out,' Wesley said. 'You'll need to search around some more.'
'Fat chance,' I said. 'See you.'
'You can't abandon me here!' Wesley shrieked.
'I'm not abandoning you. I'm going in search of help,' I said. 'I'm sure one of the other watchmen has the key, and if I can't find one, I'll use Horace's wrench and unbolt the hinge on the other side.'
'Hurry up,' Wesley grumbled.
I felt a little less nervous as I left the square for the lane leading to my booth. And, I had to admit, also a lot less out-of-sorts. Seeing Wesley in the stocks had improved my mood, and taking refuge on the familiar ground of my booth – not to mention taking possession of my laptop and my cash box – would complete the recovery, I was sure. Illogical, of course, since the ground my booth stood on was no more familiar than a hundred other small squares of land on which Eileen and I had set it up over the last few years. Still, the booth was, however temporarily, my turf. But instead of feeling safe, I felt my anxiety soar when I stepped into the booth and looked around.
It was a shambles. Half the ironwork on the table had been tipped over, and the rest had been knocked off to join the jumbled heap on the ground.
A strong wind? No, Eileen's pottery was completely undisturbed. Even the spray of dried heather gracing one delicate vase barely stirred in the still, humid air. Someone had vandalized my side of the booth.
'Tony, you snake,' I muttered, as I reached down to set a candelabrum upright.
Which probably wasn't fair; I could think of a few other people who might have it in for me. But for some reason I was sure Tony had done this.
Even if I hadn't known about the time he'd done the same thing to Faulk's booth, I'd have guessed; it was just his style.
Crude. Mindless. And ultimately ineffective, since he'd at least had the decency to leave Eileen's stuff alone, and he'd have had to work a lot harder – and use better tools – to cause any permanent damage to my stuff.
Unless he'd gone after my laptop, I thought, suddenly. Or unless someone had cleverly faked the kind of damage Tony would do as a cover-up for a raid on my cash box.
I put down the andirons I'd been picking up, rushed to the back of the booth, and swept the curtain open. I was expecting to find a similar scene of shambles – the storage case jimmied open, fragments of my laptop strewn around, my cash box overturned and empty, save for a few small coins.
I wasn't expecting to find a body.
'Well, at least he's in period,' I muttered, as I looked down at the body. Whoever he was – his face was hidden by an inexpensive tricorn hat – he was wearing one of Mrs. Waterston's ubiquitous blue colonial coats. With my falcon dagger buried to the hilt in the middle of the back.
I backed away, rumbled in my haversack, and managed to locate my cell phone. Thank heaven for anachronisms. It took me two tries to hit the ON button, and I was so rattled that I got directory assistance instead of 911 the first time I dialed.
'I do hope you're somebody I used to like,' I said to the body as I stood looking down at it and waiting for the police to arrive. 'Not a lot, of course; but if you're someone I didn't like, the sheriff will probably arrest me on the spot.' At least that was the way it always happened in the mystery books my dad constantly read and recommended to me – the cops loved to suspect whoever found the body. Owning the murder weapon and the scene of the crime probably weren't too cool either. I found myself resenting the deceased, whoever he was, for managing to involve me so thoroughly in his murder.
And of course, by that time, I couldn't stand not knowing who he was. I picked up a pair of iron firewood tongs, stepped a little closer to the body again, and used the tongs to lift up the edge of the tricorn hat, just enough to see his face.
Roger Benson.
'Damn,' I said, letting the tricorn hat fall back into place. I could feel my headache kick in again, just at the sight of him, even before I started to consider all the complications his murder could cause.
'So, what's the problem here?' came a familiar voice from behind me.
'Someone's been murdered, Sheriff,' I said 'Murdered!' the sheriff exclaimed. 'Oh, dear.'
He stepped forward, rather hesitantly, and peered at the body.
'He's in costume,' he said.
'Most of us are,' I said. Including, of course, the sheriff himself, who had changed out of his tomato- spattered blue colonial coat into another one in an astonishingly vile shade of greenish mustard.
'Yes, but is there any chance this could be one of those living-history reenactment things?'
'I doubt it,' I said.
'Sir?' the sheriff called. 'Sir? Excuse me, but if you're doing a reenactment, could you kind of give us a clue? So we don't have to get all the squad cars and ambulances and such out here and spoil the period ambiance? Sir?'
No response from the corpse – and unlike the sheriff, I wasn't holding my breath, waiting for one.
'Who is he?' the sheriff asked. 'Do you know?'
I held out the fireplace tongs. The sheriff looked at them as if he had no idea what I was suggesting, so I reached out again myself and lifted the tricorn hat enough for us to get another glimpse of Roger Benson's face.
'Oh dear,' the sheriff said again. 'I hope Monty gets here soon.'
'Monty?'
I let the hat fall down again.
'My new deputy,' the sheriff said. 'He's got big-city police experience.'
'Really? What city?'
'Cleveland?' the sheriff said. 'Or is it Columbus? Someplace in Ohio.'
'Cincinnati, maybe?' I asked.
'Could be. Someplace like that. You can ask him when he gets here.'
I nodded. Not that it mattered, but it gave us something to babble about while we both stood staring fixedly at the late Mr. Benson.
'He does all our homicides,' the sheriff went on.
'You've had a lot since he got here?' I asked. Yorktown wasn't exactly a hotbed of crime.
'Oh, no,' the sheriff said. 'Actually, I can't remember that we've had one since he got here, come to think of it. But if we had, he'd have been die one to handle it. He had a lot of experience back there in Cincinnati.'
'Or Cleveland.'
'Wherever,' the sheriff agreed.
'So what do we have here?' boomed a flat midwestern voice.
I turned to see a tall beanpole of a man in a deputy's uniform, standing at the entrance to my booth with his hands on his hips.
'Murder,' I said, as the sheriff and I walked over to meet the newcomer. A little brass nametag on his chest said 'r. b. MONTGOMERY,' so I assumed he was the homicidally experienced Monty.
'I see,' Monty said. He took a small notebook out of his pocket, checked his watch, scribbled something in
