little press conference in front of my tent in a few minutes,” he said. “It’s got a good view of the entrance to the forensic tent. We’ve had three or four more reporters show up since the news got out. No reason the Star-Trib should have a monopoly on the photo op.”
I was tempted to stick around and gawk, but I had things to do. I was just pulling out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe to remind me what those things were when my cell phone rang.
Chapter 12
“Meg?” It was Rob. “Could you see what’s keeping Horace? Phinny and I really want to go to the bathroom and Sammy says we can’t until after Horace processes us.”
“I’ll check,” I said. “I’m on my way to the tent now.”
Apparently the play was about to begin. The tent was empty except for two women knitting just inside the entrance and the two dogs, sleeping in the pen. Presumably Eric had taken the twins out to watch the pageant.
“Tunnel door needs opening before your cousin can go in,” one of the knitters said in an undertone. “We were going to haul it up while everyone was applauding the polka players, but there were too many students still around.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “The play will have a lot of noisy parts.”
Spike looked up hopefully when I stepped into his pen, then sighed and went back to sleep when he saw that I wasn’t bringing him one of his playmates.
In the crawl space under the bandstand, Horace was crouching by the closed trapdoor. With his back to it, actually, and his nose buried deep in the case in which he kept his crime scene tools and supplies.
“Horace?”
“I need to check my kit,” he said. “It’d be pretty stupid if I got over there and didn’t have some key piece of equipment, wouldn’t it?”
“You could come back for it,” I said. “Or send for it.”
“Time’s critical right now,” he said. “So I’ll just check my kit before I go.”
Checking his kit seemed to be a rather stressful task. His hands were shaking slightly, and sweat had broken out on his forehead.
“Horace, have you been through the tunnel before?”
“No!” he snapped. “I haven’t had any need to go there. If you ask me, entirely too many people are traipsing back and forth through that tunnel. Maybe it’s traffic in the tunnel that’s causing all the cave-ins.”
“Horace, it’s okay,” I said. “No one’s been hurt in any of the cave-ins, and we haven’t had any for a long, long time.”
“Overdue for one, then,” he said. He was hunched over slightly, clutching his kit with both hands. “And what if we have another earthquake? Remember what happened last time when—”
“Horace, we’re back,” Rose Noire said. She and Michael had just walked in carrying what looked like a moth-eaten bearskin rug. “Put this on and you’ll feel better.”
Horace blinked slightly, then put down his kit and grabbed the fur mound. He shook it out, revealing his beloved gorilla suit. There had been a time when Horace could barely have said two words to another human being when not wearing the suit, which meant that for years he’d pretended to think every single social occasion he went to was a costume party, so he could go as his big ape alter ego. Lately we’d seen a lot less of the suit—he’d worn it on Halloween and Mardi Gras, and occasionally, after a very long hard day at work, he’d put it on to watch TV at home. Ever since he’d begun his new career as a crime scene technician, Horace had blossomed.
But clearly he was more than a little spooked at the idea of having to crawl through the tunnel. So if the suit helped him deal with it, so be it.
He was putting it on now, and his body language was changing. His shoulders weren’t so hunched, and the hands pulling the zipper weren’t shaking.
“Excellent!” Michael said. “Now put this around your neck—under the suit.”
He handed Horace what looked like a leather necklace with an incongruously modern
I was tempted to stick around and gawk, but I had things to do. I was just pulling out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe to remind me what those things were when my cell phone rang.
Chapter 12
“Meg?” It was Rob. “Could you see what’s keeping Horace? Phinny and I really want to go to the bathroom and Sammy says we can’t until after Horace processes us.”
“I’ll check,” I said. “I’m on my way to the tent now.”
Apparently the play was about to begin. The tent was empty except for two women knitting just inside the entrance and the two dogs, sleeping in the pen. Presumably Eric had taken the twins out to watch the pageant.
“Tunnel door needs opening before your cousin can go in,” one of the knitters said in an undertone. “We were going to haul it up while everyone was applauding the polka players, but there were too many students still around.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “The play will have a lot of noisy parts.”
Spike looked up hopefully when I stepped into his pen, then sighed and went back to sleep when he saw that I wasn’t bringing him one of his playmates.
In the crawl space under the bandstand, Horace was crouching by the closed trapdoor. With his back to it, actually, and his nose buried deep in the case in which he kept his crime scene tools and supplies.
“Horace?”
“I need to check my kit,” he said. “It’d be pretty stupid if I got over there and didn’t have some key piece of equipment, wouldn’t it?”
“You could come back for it,” I said. “Or send for it.”
“Time’s critical right now,” he said. “So I’ll just check my kit before I go.”
Checking his kit seemed to be a rather stressful task. His hands were shaking slightly, and sweat had broken out on his forehead.
“Horace, have you been through the tunnel before?”
“No!” he snapped. “I haven’t had any need to go there. If you ask me, entirely too many people are traipsing back and forth through that tunnel. Maybe it’s traffic in the tunnel that’s causing all the cave-ins.”
“Horace, it’s okay,” I said. “No one’s been hurt in any of the cave-ins, and we haven’t had any for a long, long time.”
“Overdue for one, then,” he said. He was hunched over slightly, clutching his kit with both hands. “And what if we have another earthquake? Remember what happened last time when—”
“Horace, we’re back,” Rose Noire said. She and Michael had just walked in carrying what looked like a moth-eaten bearskin rug. “Put this on and you’ll feel better.”
Horace blinked slightly, then put down his kit and grabbed the fur mound. He shook it out, revealing his beloved gorilla suit. There had been a time when Horace could barely have said two words to another human being when not wearing the suit, which meant that for years he’d pretended to think every single social occasion he went to was a costume party, so he could go as his big ape alter ego. Lately we’d seen a lot less of the suit—he’d worn it on Halloween and Mardi Gras, and occasionally, after a very long hard day at work, he’d put it on to watch TV at home. Ever since he’d begun his new career as a crime scene technician, Horace had blossomed.
But clearly he was more than a little spooked at the idea of having to crawl through the tunnel. So if the suit helped him deal with it, so be it.
He was putting it on now, and his body language was changing. His shoulders weren’t so hunched, and the hands pulling the zipper weren’t shaking.
“Excellent!” Michael said. “Now put this around your neck—under the suit.”
He handed Horace what looked like a leather necklace with an incongruously modern
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