'Of course, they didn't know about microbes in colonial times, but nowadays physicians are very careful to follow proper procedure when using leeches.'
'Nowadays?' the boy's father repeated. 'You don't mean to tell me you still use leeches down here?'
'Yes, of course!' Dad said, warming to his subject. 'They've discovered a host of medicinal uses for them. They're very useful in cases of impaired venous circulation – with plastic and reconstructive surgery, for example, or cases where limbs have been reattached.'
'I see,' the man said, glancing involuntarily at the bed of sawdust on the ground beside Dad's authentic period operating table, complete with an authentic period saw and what appeared to be an arm in desperate need of reattaching.
'Of course, even in colonial times, they'd have kept the used leeches separate,' Dad continued. 'If you put a well-fed leech back in with a batch of hungry ones, they'd cannibalize it for the blood it contained.'
'Cool!' said the small boy, digging in his feet to resist his parents' increasingly less-subtle efforts to guide him out of the tent.
'Let's get one out, shall we?' Dad said, taking up a small pair of tongs.
'Fascinating,' Michael said, watching so closely that his nose almost touched the jar from which Dad was selecting a leech. 'For some reason I always thought they were small and round, instead of long and skinny.'
'Well, they're fatter after they're fed,' Dad said, as he extracted one slimy brown worm and turned, with a flourish, to perform his demonstration. Alas, at the sight of the leech, the father snatched up his son, and he and his wife ran out of the tent. We could hear the boy's wails of outrage fading in the distance.
'How odd,' Dad said. He looked at the leech, squirming in his tongs, sighed, and placed it back in the jar. He looked rather disappointed. As did Michael and the sheriff.
I tried to imagine what wild tales the tourists would take back home with them, about the mad doctor of Yorktown and his cannibal leeches. Ah, well. Just as long as no one complained to Mrs. Waterston. And at least it wasn't an anachronism.
Michael came over to join me on the bale of hay.
'I thought you'd be up to your eyeballs in customers by now,' he said, putting an arm around me. 'Decided to sneak away for a minute?'
'Everyone else is up to their eyeballs in customers,' I said. 'All I have is a booth full of police and unsold iron. I have no idea what they're still doing. They've had all night to search the place.'
'Sorry,' Michael said, and began massaging my shoulders. Which, though I hadn't yet noticed it, were already knotted with tension, despite the early hour. I still wasn't sure I liked it when someone else knew how I felt before I did.
'Are the cactus spines still bothering you?' he asked.
'Shhh,' I whispered. 'Don't say that in front of Dad. I'll explain later.'
'Damn fool way to conduct an investigation,' Dad was saying. 'No offense,' he said to the sheriff, who nodded to indicate that none was taken. 'But that deputy of yours wouldn't know a suspect if one came up and shot him.'
'Now, James,' the sheriff began.
'We've gone over this half a dozen times already,' Michael said. 'How can you possibly be a suspect when you have three witnesses to confirm your alibi?'
'Well, maybe Dad doesn't want an alibi just yet,' I said.
'Maybe he wants to be a suspect for a while, and be saved from the gallows at the last minute by a surprise witness.'
I could tell from the wistful expression on Dad's face that this was exactly what he wanted.
'Gallows? We don't have execution by hanging in Virginia,' the sheriff pointed out. 'Only electrocution and lethal injection.'
'I was speaking metaphorically,' I said. 'What is Dad's alibi, anyway?'
'He was standing in the middle of the party, talking to the same three people from the time you had that little disagreement with Mr. Benson to the time we got the word that he was dead,' Michael said. 'There's no way he could have slipped away from the party, stabbed Benson, and slipped back without those three witnesses noticing.'
'So who are the witnesses?' I asked.
'First, one of your aunts,' Michael said. 'Phoebe, the birdwatcher.'
'She's no use as a witness,' Dad said. 'She never pays attention to anything but birds. Now if you wanted an alibi for a spotted owl – '
'And your Uncle Stanley, the judge,' Michael continued.
'He's getting along, Stanley is,' Dad said. 'His memory could be starting to go, you know.'
'Yes, he's only a year or two younger than you are, isn't he?' I said.
'And me,' Michael finished.
Dad sighed. He wasn't about to say anything negative about Michael. He was Michael's biggest fan. I could tell, though, that he was disappointed in Michael for spoiling all his fun.
'Are you sure you were with him every second of that time?' I asked. 'You didn't leave to go to the bathroom or the bar or anything?'
'You went to fetch us drinks,' Dad said, brightening. 'I remember that now.'
'We were standing right beside the bar,' Michael said, giving me an exasperated look. 'I seem to remember that we kept right on talking while I was waiting for our drinks.'
'Yes, but you would have been distracted by your interaction with the bartender,' I said.
'Not that districted,' Michael said.
'Tell you what,' I said. 'We could reenact it later. Scare up Aunt Phoebe and Uncle Stanley, run through the whole thing, see if there's any possibility that Dad could have gotten away with it.'
'Perfect!' Dad said, beaming. 'I'm sure when we run through it you'll realize how flimsy my alibi is.'
'We'll see,' Michael said. He was obviously still convinced of Dad's alibi, but somewhat mollified by the word 'reenact' and the dramatic possibilities it suggested.
'Meanwhile, I hate to change the subject, but I have a question,' I said, turning to the sheriff.
'I can't tell you what's going on with the investigation,' he said, nervously.
'This has nothing to do with the investigation,' I said. 'At least I hope it doesn't. What does Wesley Hatcher have on you that he thinks would swing the election if he published it?'
The sheriff flinched.
'That's… that's personal,' he said, finally.
'Well, I assumed it was personal,' I said. 'I couldn't imagine anything job-related he could possibly hold over you.'
'Thank you, Meg,' he said, patting my hand. 'Thank you for that vote of confidence.'
I decided it would spoil the good impression I'd made if I explained that I knew it couldn't possibly be job- related because the whole county knew he never did any police work at all if he could help it.
'Okay, so it's personal,' I said instead. 'What is it? We'd like to help you, but we can't if we don't know what's wrong.'
'That young man had evidence of an unfortunate… lapse in judgment I made a while back,' the sheriff said. 'Nothing illegal, nothing unethical or immoral. Just… well, stupid. Something stupid I did that would look bad if folks found out about it. He's been trying to hold it over my head, trying to get me to tell him something he could use in a story.'
'What did he want to know?'
'I don't think he had anything in particular in mind,' the sheriff said. ' 'Something juicy,' that's all he said. I told him I didn't know anything juicy, and I wouldn't tell him if I did. Of course, now he wants all the details about
