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Lucinda shook her off, increased her volume. “Bayroo’s trying to hush me. Her folks told us never to go in the preserve by ourselves and of course we don’t, but this was a special exception for a very good cause and it’s brought more people here today than ever before and that means we are raising more money for the Adelaide food pantry for the homeless. But”—her tone was breathless—“Bayroo had a really scary time. She heard leaves crackling and somebody was walking through the woods not too far from her and she just about had a heart attack. She hunkered down behind the stone pillar at the entrance. A little later, she heard sounds again and she was really glad when she saw Travis getting out of the car and she dashed across the street and said hello and said we all think he’s swell and we’d like to make Adelaide fun for him while he was here and he was so nice and he invited us in and we met his aunt and we told him about the Bash and here he is. Travis Calhoun!” She held out the mike.
He moved with the ease of a seasoned performer, flashed a good-humored smile. He gestured for Bayroo to join him. “Sounds like you could star in a Nancy Drew film.” Bayroo’s face was as red as her hair. She glanced uneasily around the hall. “It didn’t amount to anything. Lucinda’s making up a good Halloween story.”
Travis held the mike down to pick up the sound of his shoes as he stealthily slid them on the flooring, lifted it again. “Footsteps of doom.” His voice was sepulchral. He intoned, “Bayroo Abbott, what frightful denizens of darkness dwell within the haunted preserve?” Bayroo looked uncomfortable. “Honestly, we never go in the preserve alone.”
I suspected she was hoping to avoid searching questions from Kathleen and Father Bill.
She managed a bright smile. “Sure, it was scary, but as soon as I saw the car, I knew everything was all right. Anyway, nobody cares
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about that. Everybody wants to know who the winners are.” She picked up a burlap sack. “We have them right here.” She handed an embossed diploma-size sheet to Travis.
Travis held it up in the air for all to see. “Neat, isn’t it? Everybody who painted a pumpkin face gets one. You know, that’s nice.” He was suddenly serious. “It gets pretty old to see kids try their hearts out and not get any notice. I’d like to congratulate the Pumpkin Patch committee for making everybody a winner.” He looked at Bayroo.
“And for making me feel like a winner here in Adelaide, where I didn’t know a soul, and now I feel like I belong.” He swung back to the audience. “You know what Bayroo did?” He waved to encourage the audience’s questions.
“Hey, what?” “Did she scare up a ghost in the preserve?” “Bet she gave you a Bobcat T-shirt.”
Travis shook his head. “I’d like to have a T-shirt. But this was even better. She baked me a birthday cake, my favorite, white with chocolate icing, and she brought it over and gave it to me this morning and I’ve already eaten half of it. It’s the first homemade birthday cake I’ve ever had.”
Oh, that dear boy. Living in a mansion may be fine and fun.
Living in a loving family is better than a mansion any day.
“So”—he turned his hands up—“when she asked if I’d mind judging the contest, I said sure. I had a blast looking at the pumpkin faces. All of them were great. We have prizes for everything from the meanest face to the sweetest, the scariest to the friendliest, the happiest to the grumpiest. As your name is called, please pick up your pumpkin and bring it to the stage to receive your award. Our first award goes to Emily Howie for . . .”
A sweet-faced little girl carried a dainty pumpkin toward the stage.
Travis continued to call out prizewinners. Bayroo slipped down the steps, looking relieved to be out of the spotlight.
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I surveyed the hall, spotted Chief Cobb in the doorway, face somber, eyes still scanning the crowd. While I’d watched the presentation on the stage, the hip-hoppers had disbanded. Irene Chatham was nowhere to be seen.
I zoomed back and forth, seeking Irene. Kathleen was working fast at the cash desk for the collectibles. Father Bill stood in an alcove, arms folded, head bent, as he listened to a sharp-featured woman who gazed up at him searchingly. Walter Carey, his face gentle, knelt to listen as a dark-haired elf whispered in his ear. Isaac Franklin helped an old lady with a cane as she tapped toward the bake sale.
I found Irene in a far corner that had been turned into a temporary old-fashioned diner. She sat at a table with several other women, sipping a Coke, listening intently.
I swooped down, caught fragments of conversation:
“They say Father Bill’s had to talk to the police several times. Why do you suppose?” The plump woman’s bright brown eyes darted about the parish hall.
A lean blonde with a horsey face was adamant. “There’s nothing to it. Apparently Father Bill happened to be in his office around the time Daryl was killed.”
“What was Daryl doing”—the voice was freighted with innu-endo—“in the cemetery?”
The blonde smothered a giggle. “Maybe Judith faked a call from his current mistress, hid behind a tombstone, and blew him away.
That’s what I would have done. I can’t imagine why she’s . . .” I retreated to the nearest chandelier, intent upon keeping Irene in view. It was a relief to know the general populace had no inkling that Kathleen and Father Bill were high on Chief Cobb’s suspect list. I was sure the women below had heard everything generally known in Adelaide about Daryl’s murder and the investigation. But Kathleen and Bill faced more and harder scrutiny from Chief Cobb.
I’d tried to deflect the chief with the block-letter note implicating
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Irene. I felt sure he’d follow up on that inquiry, but Irene’s bland response and refusal to admit to wrongdoing would likely protect her.
I had to find a way to inform the chief what I now knew for fact.
