Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

'Don't worry about showing it around,' I said. 'We'll show it to Mother; if she doesn't know who it is, the odds are no one else in town will, either, and if she does, we can give it to Monty along with the information about who she is.'

'Good point,' Michael said. 'I'll see what I can do about the cropping. One other thing – what do you make of this?'

He opened up a file. A letter, from Wesley to the Canton, Ohio, Police Department, inquiring about one Ranulf Brakenridge Montgomery.

'He's suspicious of Monty,' I said. 'Do you think this has anything to do with the blond McHussy?'

'I don't see how. Looks more like he just saved it by accident in the same folder as the photos. I do it all the time.'

'But since we don't know what he found out from the Canton PD, we don't really know, do we?'

I went back to helping customers, while Michael fiddled with my laptop. I wished I could help, but sales were brisk, and after having my booth occupied all morning by the police, I needed to make up for lost time.

At one point, I made a run back to my van for another load of stuff, including the printer. When Michael saw me return, with one of my handy metal storage cases on the dolly, he put the laptop aside and stood up, ready to help me carry the ironwork into the booth.

'Hang on a second,' I said. 'I need to do something first.'

Michael watched in astonishment as I took out a large canister of black pepper and shook a generous amount of the contents over the metal in the case.

'Okay, you can haul it in now,' I said, with a sneeze. 'Try not to knock off any more than you have to.'

'What's the pepper supposed to do?'

'It's all for show,' I said. 'The minute the first customers noticed the fingerprint powder, they started buying like crazy. Bought nearly everything in the booth. So I brought out the stuff that had been behind the curtains – of course the police had dusted that, too, and all of it sold.'

'So now you're shaking pepper on stuff that wasn't even in your booth, and telling mem it's fingerprint powder.'

'I'm not telling them anything. If they want to leap to the conclusion that it's fingerprint powder, well that's their problem. If anyone ever asks me, I'll tell the truth. But they don't; they just swarm in like jackals, looking for souvenirs of a murder. So I'm giving them souvenirs.'

He chuckled, hauled out the ironwork, and set to work hooking up the printer to the laptop. He was doing it all wrong, but I bit my tongue. I'd realized long ago the futility of telling Michael how to do computer tasks, so I left him to figure it out and went back to selling my dusty ironwork.

But the next time I saw Wesley pass by outside, I ran out to him. He was so preoccupied I had to grab his arm to get his attention, and when I did, he yelped and jumped away as if I'd stabbed him.

'For heaven's sake, calm down,' I said. 'What's wrong with you?'

'Sorry,' he said. 'I'm a nervous wreck. I can't believe that idiot deputy won't even consider the possibility that Benson wasn't the intended victim.'

'Well, consider the source,' I said, seeing an opportunity to wangle information. 'I mean, what do we really know about Monty's detective abilities?'

'Not much,' Wesley said. 'And the sheriff doesn't either. If he did, he wouldn't have put a glorified meter maid in charge of a homicide investigation, would he?'

'Glorified meter maid?'

'Well, what would you call 'parking enforcement'?' Wesley said. 'That's what he was – not any kind of a detective. And to think, my very survival could be in his hands.'

'And who knows?' I said, 'That could be like asking the fox to guard the hen house.'

'What do you mean?'

'The more I think about it, the more I wonder how Monty managed to get to the crime scene so fast,' I said. 'He claims he was on his way here to silence the artillery when the call about the murder came in – but what if he was already here for another reason?'

Wesley looked pale.

'You don't really think – ' he began.

I shrugged my shoulders.

'I should never have come here,' Wesley said, and scuttled off. I ducked back into the storage area to tell Michael what I'd learned.

'Of course, now I'm feeling guilty,' I said. 'Poor Wesley really seems to believe he was the intended victim, and now he's more paranoid than ever.'

'Well, what if he isn't just paranoid?' Michael said, looking thoughtful. 'It is pretty hard to tell people apart when they're all wearing the same thing. I keep embarrassing myself, mixing up a couple of the guys in my regiment, for the same reason.'

'True,' I said, remembering how I'd accidentally blasted poor cousin Horace, thinking he was either Wesley or Benson.

'If the murderer really was after Wesley, that opens up a whole new set up suspects,' Michael said. 'I'd feel better if I thought the police were at least considering the possibility.'

'I'd feel better if I thought the police didn't have something to hide,' I said. 'Between those blackmail photos of the sheriff and now this news about Monty – maybe there's a good reason why Monty keeps ordering me to keep my nose out of his investigation.'

'Well, that and the fact that he resents you trying to do his job,' Michael said. 'Let's not let him know we're snooping – at least not until we find out if Wesley's scoop on Monty is true.'

I nodded, and went back out to mind my booth. I tried to think how we could check on Monty's background without waiting until the weekend was over. My only idea was to ask some computer-sawy person to do an online search – and the only person I could think of was Tad. Who wasn't above suspicion to me, even if Monty had managed to confirm his alibi. Damn.

At any rate, the fair was in full swing now, and I couldn't very well abandon it to go snooping, so perhaps Monty's suspicions would be lulled by closing time. Between serving customers and keeping the Anachronism Police in line, I had my hands full. What criteria had Mrs. Waterston used to recruit the Town Watch, anyway? Not knowledge of history, that much I knew. I'd already uncovered one watchman who thought we were commemorating D-Day.

Rob dropped in eventually. From the tomato stains on his clothes, I deduced that he'd kept his promise to help out Horace.

'Have you seen Mrs. Waterston?' he asked.

'Yes, and it looks as if you may be off the hook,' I said.

'Really?' Rob said, his face lighting up. 'They figured out who killed Benson?'

'I meant off the hook with Mrs. Waterston,' I said. 'She has no idea you lost Spike for four hours; she thinks you committed the far lesser sin of letting him slip out the door when you took him home.'

'I guess that's an improvement,' Rob said.

'Then again, maybe if you told her what really happened, she'd decide you're too irresponsible to take care of Spike.'

'Oh, I am! I am!' Rob exclaimed. 'I should never be given responsibility for a helpless animal. Someone should tell her that!'

'Someone like your sister, I suppose,' I said. 'Grow up, Rob; if you don't want to take care of die damned dog – '

'I've come for my flamingos,' Mrs. Fenniman announced, marching into my booth.

'Flamingos?' said one of the browsers, looking up from a candleholder.

I winced. I was hoping to deliver Mrs. Fenniman's flamingos a little more privately. Not that I was exactly