Barbara D'Amato - [Cat Marsala 09] Page 13

  Getting out of the car in the underground was a mental trip in and of itself. It was all I could do not to glance around for the chipped concrete block where the shot had hit near us on Thursday night. This time I didn't leave my cell phone in the car. Live and learn— and if you learn well enough, you may stay alive.

  And finally I was back at the Yellow Brick Road. My notebook was in my pocket. A dozen pens were ready in my other pocket.

  Certainly looking at the place Plumly died would tell me something more than I knew now. It had to. On Thursday almost all my attention had been focused on Jeremy. Without him to care for, I should be able to see much more. And maybe remember more.

  The Yellow Brick Road ran east-west through the festival, from Michigan Avenue, around the Emerald City castle, to Lake Shore Drive on the far east side. Because I had come out of the Grant Park Underground onto Michigan Avenue, the west entrance was in front of me.

  The place was full of cops. The police department calls flooding an area with uniforms "showing a presence." And they were doing it here. The likelihood of a third murder here had to be around zilch, but the mayor was making sure that nobody could say he took the killings anything but seriously.

  I made a short right turn into Gillikin country, which was all purple. Here were purple snow cones, several booths of vendors, including books and memorabilia, plus knick-knacks like china Scarecrows, Tin Woodmen, Cowardly Lions, Dorothys, and Wicked Witches. A rare book dealer had a booth called "To Please a Child," after the biography of L. Frank Baum written by his son Frank and Russell MacFall. Now that it was dark, the purple Gillikin country lighting made it difficult to see his wares, forcing him to bring in two hooded high-intensity lights so that customers could actually examine the books.

  The Oz lighting plan, which was dramatic, and which had received such good coverage in the media, certainly had a few drawbacks.

  Without intending to, I had come into the festival near where Jennifer had died. The Flying Monkeys merry-go-round was turning, its music playing "We're Off to See the Wizard." The purple and ultraviolet lights, and the Day-Glo paint on the merry-go-round, gave an otherworldly glow to the monkeys. Jeremy had loved that merry-go-round. The lights and the monkeys made it unlike any he had ever seen. Fortunately, he knew nothing about Jennifer's death and wouldn't have any bad memories of this ride if I brought him back here.

  Who was it who said "nothing to it but to do it"? Taking a deep breath, I handed over a ticket and got on the merry-go-round, and while it was still stationary, I went to the same spot where I had been when Jennifer's head exploded. I could see the event horribly clearly in my mind. She had been walking toward the Emerald City area, which is to say, roughly east. Most of the festival-goers, still unaware of Plumly's death, had wandered over to watch the opening ceremonies at the Emerald City. The band had been playing. Not too many people had stayed here. But even with just a thin scattering of people, the assassin would hardly have stood out in plain view holding a gun, if he was smart. There were only a few places he could have been. He could not have been behind the merry-go-round because he wouldn't have been able to see Jennifer through the solid paneling in the center that covered the machinery. He hadn't been on the merry-go-round. Not only would he have been easily seen, but the shot had not sounded that close.

  Several booths and equipment trucks blocked other possible sites— the fried mangaboos stand just north over the border in Winkie country, the snow cones to the southeast. Three or four of those silver equipment trucks were in the way, too, especially a few yards to the north. For a moment I toyed with the idea that the killer could have been inside a souvenir booth or an equipment truck. But the equipment trucks had no windows. The booths were possible only if the owner of the booth was in on the killing or if the owner himself had been the killer, because the booths had solid backs that you couldn't see through.

  I hopped off the merry-go-round. Could one of the booth operators be the killer? Well, not the killer of Plumly. The only booth near where he was killed had been the popcorn stand and it was too far away for the operator to stab Plumly. If there were two killers, possibly one could be a vendor, but if so he would have had to have left the booth unattended when he had chased us down the tunnels.

  Unless there had been a second staff member in the booth to hold the fort. If so, the vendor and his assistant both probably would have to have been in on the crime.

  I could ask.

  Half an hour later, I was convinced that hadn't happened. One of the book dealers said he and his wife had been present all day, every day of the festival, had not left the booth all the evening of the murder, and had only seen the aftermath of the shooting. Of course, they could both be lying, but that was extremely unlikely. I seemed to remember seeing them there.

  The snow cones staff consisted of two kids— well, all right, they may have been eighteen, but they looked like kids to me. "We were here," one said.

  "Yeah, but shit," the other said. "We missed all the good stuff. Didn't have a clue until the cops came. Never even saw the body."

  They were disappointed to have missed it all. But they were telling the truth, unless they were the greatest actors of recent times. Frankly, they didn't seem to care that much, not about the customers, the cones, or the killing.

  As far as background checks on all the vendors went, that was something the cops could do better than I could. They had the personnel and resources. I assumed they had done so and had also searched for ejected shell casings, which had to have gone somewhere if the gun was an automatic. I'd get McCoo to tell me whether they'd found any. But for now, my guess was the shooter must have been lurking in the space between the popcorn stand and the ice cream stand in Quadling country, or between the ice cream stand and the Emerald City castle, or near the Magic Mountain in Winkie country.

  In other words, close to the center of the festival grounds.

  In other words, pretty much where Barry was last known to have been.

  * * *

  Outraged as I was to see some of the festival-goers pointing to where they thought the murders had taken place, I had work to do and couldn't let myself get distracted. However, when one of the tourists flopped down on the ground and gurgled, I felt like stepping on him. He was in the wrong place, which made it only slightly better. The woman with him took a photograph. From the television reports, I knew that curiosity seekers had been like locusts at first. They had obviously decreased in number. It was sad, in a way, that interest had tapered off to these two moral morons.

  Ignoring them, I pulled out my notebook and drew a plat of the area, marking the booths and trucks and rides and castle and all. Then in red I drew a sad little X for the spot where Jennifer had fallen and drew lines back to each possible hiding place for the shooter. It seems elaborate, but there is really no substitute for getting things written down. If you don't do it, you lose it.

  And last, before moving on, I walked to the place where Jennifer had died. There was very little sign that anything so hideous had happened there. I knew the place on the grass only because it was burned into my memory. The grass was trampled, of course, but not any more so than places in front of popular food booths, the ticket booth, or the entrance to the merry-go-round.

  The earth was damp. Somebody had washed away the blood.

  Now for the sight lines where Barry, Plumly, Mazzanovich, Pottle, and Taubman had been.

  The area formed a kind of triangle. The Emerald City castle was at the top if you looked from the Yellow Brick Road, halfway toward Lake Shore Drive. The left point of the triangle was the Mo popcorn stand in Quadling country. The right point of the triangle was the Kansas Tornado ride in Munchkinland. From a position on the Yellow Brick Road I could see all three at once.

  We had been standing near the castle, and the three men and Plumly had been near the popcorn vendor. In fact, from where we had been that night, they were half-hidden. Thinking about it now, I wondered whether they were intentionally ke
eping out of sight. At the time, it seemed to me that they were just getting away from the hoopla and noise of the opening ceremonies. But now I doubted that. There were more comfortable places to go hang out than the side of a popcorn stand. Why not inside the festival offices in the castle, for instance?

  As I stood here, the Kansas Tornado swooped to a finish, riders screaming, metal wheels shrieking. When it came to a halt, the music began to play "We Wish to Welcome You to Munchkinland."

  The Tornado, of course, was blue, as was all of Munchkinland. About twenty feet from the Tornado was the spot where Barry had been standing and Plumly had fallen. Nothing marked this place, either, except the trampled grass. I carefully sketched a plat of the larger area, the view of the popcorn stand, castle, and Tornado, and then a frontal sketch, the way I saw it from where I was now, halfway between the Tornado and popcorn stand. Then switching pens to red, I drew on the plat a stick figure of Barry as he had been when Plumly fell, leaning slightly forward, maybe reaching for the crumpling man. I drew in Plumly as well, folded up a bit on the ground, holding his stomach or abdomen with both hands.

  Having done what I could to recall the scene exactly, I walked to the spot where Plumly had lain and I stared down at the ground. The site didn't bring back any additional memories, just the one I already had of the knife near Plumly's hand.

  Waiting for inspiration didn't work, so after a couple of minutes, I gave it up and started over to the popcorn stand. It was in Quadling country.

  The popcorn stand was the usual county-fair type, generally squarish, with a wide counter at about chest height to an adult. It was sided and "roofed" with canvas and the front part of the canvas roof hung down a couple of feet from the top, displaying the words POPCORN SNOW OF MO in big white letters on a red background. Since this was Quadling, the counter, sides, and concessionaires' uniforms were all red.

  The four men, when I first noticed them, had been standing in a tight little group, talking, around the side of the concession. To the best of my recollection, Plumly had had his back to me at first. Then he had turned, so that I saw who he was. And then I think he turned back. The other three had been gesturing, and I think Plumly had waved an arm, too, as if he were replying. Jennifer came over. I remembered thinking of calling out to Plumly, but then Jeremy yelled that he saw his father. Briefly, I had looked over to where Jeremy saw Barry. When I looked back, Plumly left the group and ran away from the three men toward Barry.

  The people working in the popcorn stand would not have seen Plumly, Pottle, Mazzanovich, and Taubman because the side of the booth was in the way. But if the music had not been too loud, maybe they would have overheard what the men had been saying.

  While the police certainly must have talked with the popcorn stand staff, it wouldn't hurt for me to do the same. It might make Hightower angry, but hey, that wasn't like actually hurting anything important. Hightower was entirely too uptight for his own good, anyway.

  I walked over to the stand. Thinking I had better turn to a new page to take some notes, I checked my pad of paper. Yes, this was the page with the sketch showing the relationship of Barry and Plumly to the Tornado.

  But Barry and Plumly were gone.

  17

  SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW

  Mystified, I stared at the page. My mind must be falling apart. There was no doubt my sketch had included the two men, was there? I flipped a page back and a page forward. Forward was a blank page. Back was the plat of the place where Jennifer had died.

  And the X was gone.

  So then I knew.

  I took one last good look at the sheet of paper under the red Quadling light. Then, hardly able to contain my excitement, I walked over to Munchkinland, to the place where Barry had stood holding the crumpling Plumly.

  And the X reappeared.

  Just as the bloodstain seeping into Plumly's gray shirt would have seemed to appear when he ran into the blue Munchkinland light from the red Quadling country light that had masked it.

  * * *

  The operator at the CPD said McCoo wasn't there. I called the Area and asked for Hightower.

  "It's an emergency," I said.

  "I'm sorry. Lieutenant Hightower is out of the office."

  "My name is Catherine Marsala, and I'm a witness in the Oz Festival case. This is urgent. He'd want to see me."

  This last I wasn't so sure of, but what the heck.

  Generally desk officers and operators will not tell you where a specific cop is. And you'd probably have to threaten to run them through a trash compactor to get the cop's home address— which makes sense— or even home phone number. But when they are actually on-scene on a case, finding them can be easier.

  "Well, you're in luck, Ms. Marsala," she said. "He's at the Oz Festival right now. I can't tell you exactly where, though."

  * * *

  You know how life can slap you down twenty or thirty times in a row, then hand you a couple of real boons in immediate succession? Well, this time it did it to me. I wondered where Hightower would be and assumed he was interviewing witnesses again. But I could see over to the Flying Monkeys merry-go-round from where I stood. Not well, but enough to know he wasn't there. And I was practically on top of the scene of the first murder. Not here either. So I tried the offices in the Emerald City castle.

  Not only was Hightower there, with two other officers, so was Chief of Detectives Harold McCoo! His big brown face looked as bright as the sun to me.

  "McCoo! I've got to show you something."

  "Cat, this is Detective Poul Ubagahara and Detective Hop Tomlinson. Cat Marsala." McCoo was always courteous, practically courtly, but this time he was going to drive me nuts.

  "Detectives, good to meet you. Come and see something, Mc— uh, Chief McCoo."

  Hightower said, "Miss Marsala, we're busy."

  "How much is it gonna hurt you to give me four minutes?"

  "Lord only knows how much," he said.

  But McCoo said, "She's a friend, Hightower. We can do this."

  They followed me out toward the popcorn stand. Oh, thank God. I would be able to tell Barry he was off the hook! Even that I'd accomplished this wonderful result for him. My family would think I was okay again. Nobody would hate me! I wouldn't feel so horribly guilty anymore, or so wrong.

  There was a T-shirt booth over near the Witches' Brew beverage stand in Munchkinland. I quickly bought one that came close to the color of the OZ security people's shirts, the kind Plumly had been wearing. "Wait here a second," I said, and ran over to a hot dog stand nearby. I swiped a packet of ketchup fast and ran back.

  "Hurry it up, Miss Marsala," Hightower said. Idiot.

  "Look." I smeared some ketchup on the shirt and walked the four men, the two big important guys trailed by the two detectives, who, picking up on Hightower's skepticism, were trying to look interested but not committed.

  Near the popcorn stand, under the red lights of Quadling country, I held out the shirt for them to see. It looked all one color. Red. The ketchup was not exactly the same darkness as the shirt, so if you looked closely you could tell the shirt was stained. But only if you looked closely.

  "Now follow me."

  I folded the shirt enough so that they didn't keep their eyes on it on the way to Munchkinland. It was only a distance of thirty feet or so. Once under the blue lights I unfolded it, fearful that this might not be as dramatic as I thought.

  "I'll be damned," McCoo said.

  The ketchup stood out as a distinct reddish-black blob against the now bright blue shirt.

  * * *

  "So you see, Jennifer and I only thought the blood appeared when Plumly got to Barry."

  "I understand that," McCoo said.

  We were sitting in the castle where the business office of the festival was located. Barry's desk was on the far side of the little room. The whole building was temporary, and the thin plywood walls let in the sounds of the festival. I wondered where Barry was. I wanted to tell him the good news.


  McCoo looked thoughtful. Hightower actually had the nerve to look glum.

  "What's the matter?" I asked Hightower. "Did I take away your favorite suspect?"

  He shrugged, but McCoo caught my eye.

  "Well, my problem is," McCoo said slowly, his voice a rumble, "my problem here is, this doesn't help."

  "Of course it helps. Now you have to look at Pottle, Taubman, and Mazzanovich. It proves Barry didn't do it."

  "I'm sorry, Cat. It doesn't prove Barry didn't do it. It shows the shirt could have been bloodstained when Plumly ran past you. Not that it was bloodstained. It still could have been perfectly clean until Plumly reached your brother."