My cheeks burned hot enough to melt the shoe polish. “She’s just a kid, for heaven’s sake.”
Red surprised himself, and me, by backing off. “All right, calm down. It’s a possibility, that’s all. You’re supposed to look at every possibility. You told me that, Fletcher.”
It was true. I had—quoting the Bernstein manual. But May being behind all this wasn’t even a possibility, was it? And why not? Because I liked May? Because I trusted her? I dismissed the niggling doubts. I could think about this later, when May was safe. And had Red just called me Fletcher?
The Cork officer, John Cassidy, was plonked outside the stage door. Extra security because of the threat from deranged escapees. He sat on a bar stool, arms folded across his chest. His eyes were glazed with boredom, but he perked up when he saw Red approaching.
“Look who it is, Elvis and the freak show. You’re suspended, Red. You’ve about as much chance of getting in here as an ax-wielding psychopath. And Murt is looking for you, by the way.”
Red said nothing, simply handed Cassidy his cell phone. The officer placed the receiver to his ear, which is almost impossible not to do if someone hands you a phone.
“Hello?”
“Hello?” said a male voice. “Who is this?”
Cassidy stood. “This is Officer John Cassidy, who is this?”
“This is Brendan O’ Kelly Riordan, the Sharkeys’ lawyer. I believe you are denying my clients their constitutional rights by refusing them access to a public performance at which they are registered to perform.”
Cassidy stiffened. “I have my orders.”
“That’s all very well, but your orders are invalid. If you persist in enforcing them, then you will be named in the lawsuit.”
Cassidy’s head snapped back a fraction. “Lawsuit.”
“Of course, lawsuit. You are traumatizing my client. You are stunting his mental growth. You are fostering antisocial behavior. Just ask young Red how traumatized he is.”
Officer Cassidy covered the mouthpiece with a hand. “Hey, Red. How traumatized are you?”
Red’s face grew long and weary. “Very. About ten grand’s worth, at a guess. Of course, if I cry in court, it could be twenty.”
Cassidy tossed him the phone. “I need to go over there for a minute, because of a suspicious noise that I just heard. If someone were to sneak in while I’m away, it’s hardly my fault, is it?”
Red pocketed the phone. “Hardly,” he said, leading the way into the hall.
We filed past Officer Cassidy. On this occasion even Herod managed to keep his trap shut. Cassidy was on a hair trigger, and one smart remark could have the lot of us thrown out on our ears.
As I squeezed past his belly, Cassidy laid a hand on my shoulder. “Keep an eye out for Fletcher Moon, Watson. He’s a psychopath, that one, mark my words.”
“Don’t worry, Officer,” I said, scratching the stubble on my brow, to hide my face. “Eyes peeled. That’s me.”
I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as I sidled into the hall. Obviously Murt hadn’t spread the word that Watson Sharkey was actually Fletcher Moon. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt, or maybe he wanted to catch me himself.
The Lock Community Center’s backstage area was jammed with bodies. Officer Cassidy seemed to have let in more than he kept out. Proud mothers combed their daughters’ hair, pushy dads glared at rival contestants, and wannabe pop stars swanned around as though they were already double platinum. I couldn’t see May anywhere.
“Okay,” I said, eyes darting like a nervous deer. “You guys get ready to go on. I’ll look for May, to warn her.”
“Or tip her off,” mumbled Red.
I ignored the comment. I couldn’t deal with the possibility that May could be behind this. I liked her.
Emotion is the enemy of truth.
Bernstein again. But I couldn’t peel off my feelings like a Band-Aid. I was a real person, not a collection of words on a page.
Genie tossed me one plastic shopping bag, and another to Red. “Put these costumes on. We’re supposed to be performing.”
I was about to object. There was no time for costumes, but I realized that I wouldn’t be of any use to May if every adult in authority stopped me to ask what I was doing backstage.
We ducked behind a wishing well constructed from cardboard boxes. Red’s costume was from Elvis’s Vegas period: a white jumpsuit complete with silver cummerbund and cloak. My own clothes were from the movie Jailhouse Rock and consisted of a black canvas suit and striped shirt. They were tailored to fit Red, and so I had to turn up the legs and sleeves.
Red twirled the silk-lined cloak over his shoulders. “You look ridiculous,” he smirked.
In spite of the situation, I couldn’t hold back a smile. We were conspirators on an adventure. Life was dangerous; you took your smiles when you could. And they meant more when there could be a madman lurking around every corner.
I threw a punch at Red’s shoulder. He allowed it to land, though he could have dodged it easily.
“You big bully, Half Moon. I’d have our lawyer on you, if we had one.”
I wasn’t a bit surprised to hear that there was no Sharkey family lawyer. “So who was that on the phone?”
“Papa. He does a great fancy accent, picked it up at university. He has a degree from Trinity in philosophy.”
Now that was a surprise. I was learning fast not to underestimate the Sharkeys in any field.
“I’ll meet you back here,” I said. “After ‘Love Me Tender’.”
Red pulled the tape off of the stick-on sideburns and pasted them to his cheeks.
“Okay. Be careful. I know you think May is the victim, but in the movies it’s always the last one you suspect.”
“This is real life. And in real life, the most obvious suspect is usually guilty.”
I hurried away before Red could point out that he and I were the most obvious suspects. I shouldered my way through throngs of people. Every one of them knew me, and most were on the lookout for me. But I held my head high, wearing my disguise confidently. I was a Sharkey now, and people may sneer behind my back, but no one would challenge me.
May was not making herself easy to find. I found magicians with half-dead pigeons stuffed in their vests, a country and western band shedding sequins from their vests with every step, and two jugglers who kept knocking each other over with bowling pins. But no Irish dancers.
I was beginning to despair, when I heard May’s tap shoes banging out an irregular beat on the wooden floor. It had to be her. Nobody else could have that startling lack of rhythm.
I followed the noise. There she was, in the shadow of an enormous bunch of balloon grapes. She was dressed in a new black-and-silver dancing dress, her blond hair draped across her shoulders. A shaft of light from an overhead window caught her tiara and split into a thousand rainbows. I stopped dead. She looked perfect. Too perfect to ever commit a crime, however petty. Surely, there was something wrong.
I studied her face for a sign of malice, but there was nothing. Just a slight frustrated pout because her feet repeatedly refused to perform as commanded. Time and time again the click-kick eluded her. She scissored her legs well enough, but she could never click her heels on the way down.
Something stirred in the deep shadows by the wall. Something darker than the shadows themselves. I peered into the darkness, zoning out the surrounding confusion. Someone was there, dressed from head to toe in black, sliding along the wall toward May. They were approaching with curiously exaggerated movements. I couldn’t think of an innocent explanation for this behavior. This person was obviously the criminal mastermind moving in on his final target.
My stomach lurched and my heart pumped as though a fist was tightening around it. My mouth automatically opened to call for Red, but I checked the impulse. There was no time. I would have to handle this myself. I was not an expert in the field of direct action, preferring to point my police contacts at the criminals, but ther
e was no time for channels now. I had to move.
The figure glided closer to its target, its movements fluid yet angular. Bigger than me. Much bigger. But I wouldn’t need to contain the suspect, just knock him to the ground. The dark figure raised its hands, curling its fingers into claws like a TV vampire.
Move! I told myself. Now or never.
I did move, as though in a daydream. My brain couldn’t believe what my feet were doing. I had no idea how to attack someone. There was no chapter on this in the Bernstein manual. I simply barreled forward. To the casual observer my attack surely resembled a prolonged stumble.
I have read books about detectives tackling suspects. These fictional characters are always expert in several forms of martial art, having spent at least a decade training on a mountaintop in the Far East. I have had no such training. The biggest thing I had ever tackled was a jar of pickled onions that refused to be opened.
I decided to add some noise to my attack to distract the shadowy figure. I intended to roar in a predatory fashion, but instead squealed like a boiling kettle. The noise worked. The figure twisted its head sharply just in time to see a pint-size, red-haired Elvis hurtling in his direction.
He had time for a brief yelp. Then I crashed into him and we tumbled to the wooden floor in a tangle of thrashing limbs.
May screamed, jumping out of our path. We rolled for a few feet until a low bench halted our progress. I crawled out from underneath my suspect, who was examining his elbow and crying bitterly. Not typical arch criminal behavior.
May stepped back, then forward. “What are you doing?”
I stood, gasping, “It’s me, Fletcher. He did it. All of it. We have him.”
May frowned. “Fletcher. That’s you? That was you at the oil tank?”
“Yes,” I said urgently. “I thought April was behind everything. But I was wrong. This is the criminal right here. It’s all about the talent show.”
“I don’t think so, Fletcher,” said May. “David couldn’t hurt a butterfly.”
“I’m a pacifist,” sobbed David, rubbing his elbow.
I thought my heart would burst with exertion and excitement. “But he was creeping toward you, dressed in black. You don’t have to be a detective . . .”
“We were both rehearsing over here. David is a mime.”
A mime? Oh, no.
David glared at me. “I won’t be opening any invisible doors with this arm, thanks very much.”
A mime. How could I have been so stupid?
A crowd was gathering. Teachers were surely on the way. Perhaps Officer Cassidy.
“Fletcher,” whispered the children. “It’s Fletcher Moon.”
I had to go. Now.
My cover was blown. I was finished. And I knew how this would look. It would seem as though I had come here in disguise to have another go at May.
Red came to my rescue again. He elbowed through the crowd and grabbed my forearm.
“Let’s go, Watson. We’re on.”
I allowed myself to be pulled along, though the phrase We’re on filled me with dread. Genie and Herod were in the wings chanting the vocal exercise:
“Dog sees
Some shoes,
Dog eats,
Dog poos.”
I suspected they had made up this exercise themselves.
“Come on,” said Red.
“We’re not warmed up,” protested Genie. “Just two more dogs.”
“And two more poos,” added Herod, adjusting his sideburns.
Red propelled them both onstage, dragging me along.
A folk-singing trio had just finished a version of “Country Roads” and were in the middle of their bow when we tumbled onto the stage. Behind us, the other acts swarmed into the wings. My name was on everyone’s lips.
Moon the lunatic is here. In disguise.
Principal Quinn arrived onstage from the opposite wing, shooting Red a look that would have petrified a minotaur. You will pay for this later, the look promised.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” she announced through a whistling microphone. “In a change to the advertised program, it seems as though Red Sharkey is next, with his version of the Elvis classic ‘Love Me Tender.’ The stage is yours, Red, and I look forward to discussing your performance later.”
Principal Quinn bowed slightly. Mockingly.
Red grinned feebly and stepped up to the microphone to a slight smattering of applause. The clapping was almost drowned out by a sea of buzzing, as muted cell phones received text messages. The word of my presence was spreading.
Red struck a pose, waiting for Genie to cue the mini-disk player on the stool behind her. A moment later, the sound of an Elvis backing track filled the hall.
“Love me tender . . .” he sang in a beautiful sultry tenor.
Genie and Herod swayed in unison behind the second mike, bumping me on both sides.
“Ooh ooh ooh,” they sang.
“Oops, ooh, sorry,” I moaned.
“Love me sweet . . .”
He never got past the second line, because hundreds of students were pulling out their cell phones. The text jumped cricket-like from phone to phone as everybody read, then passed it on to everyone in their phone book. May’s words had spread through the audience like a virus.
U R not gng 2 Blve ds. 1/2 Moon is here.
I knew what was happening. I felt as though my disguise was becoming slowly transparent. Students were staring at me. Initially in disbelief, then with dawning realization as their brains ran a profile on my features. One little first-grade girl put her finger on it.
She stood slowly, still deciphering the message on her phone screen. I have always thought that six was too young for a cell phone. Now I was certain of it.
“That ugly boy,” she said, pointing to me in case anyone was in doubt as to who exactly the ugly boy was. “My phone says he’s Half Moon.”
I expected instant chaos. I was wrong. This was such a fantastic situation—so unusual, so exciting, that no one wanted it to end. My audience froze, willing me to speak. Principal Quinn and Officer Cassidy were the exceptions, but they were being held back by the throngs in the wings. They wouldn’t be held back forever. I had ten seconds to solve this case.
The clues whirled in my head. Red was right. There was no denying it. Only one person had benefited from each and every incident, and I had been blind not to see it. The truth hit me like a series of fireworks inside my brain. Emotions and allegiances became unimportant. Truth was truth. This is the burden of the detective.
I stepped forward in a daze. Knowing something, and making others believe it are two different things. My words would mean nothing, unless they could be confirmed by the guilty party. I had to force a confession. Nothing else would save me.
I turned quickly to Herod. “I need your help,” I whispered, covering the mike. “Red needs it, too.”
Herod squinted at me, and the desperation in my eyes told him that this was not the time to argue.
He nodded briefly, and I whispered to him what might need to be done.
A smile lit up his little face. “It’s the opposite of what I generally do.”
I pulled the microphone from its stand. It came away, trailing a ribbon of duct tape. Time to face my public.
“Hello, Lock,” I said, smiling a watery smile.
Beside me Herod groaned, and Genie covered her face. I glanced across at Red. He bowed, yielding the stage to me. If I didn’t pull this off, all the Sharkeys were in for it, including the fake one.
Someone called from the back rows. “Is it really you, Half Moon? Are you really an obsessive-compulsive schizophrenic?”
Some people should not be allowed to watch television after nine.
“Yes, it is really me,” I replied, my voice booming and hollow through the hall’s speakers. “I’ve come here because I am innocent, and I can prove it.”
The statement was met with a wall of cynicism. I felt like a lone archer trying to breach th
e walls of Troy. Still, no one rushed the stage. It was the kind of real-life adventure that people would never forget.
Even Principal Quinn and Officer Cassidy were hooked. They were no longer struggling to get onstage, instead they elbowed their way to a decent viewing spot. I had better deliver, and fast.
“I know you all think I’m crazy,” I began, easing into it.
“Boo!” shouted an audience member.
“Get on with it!” called another.
“When is the magician coming on?” whined an elderly man in the front row. “I heard there was a magician.”
Okay. Maybe a warm-up was a bad idea. Cut to the chase.
“It was all about the talent show,” I proclaimed, spreading my arms wide. It was good theater. “That’s why I came here tonight, to protect a particular performer from danger.”
A rustle of whispers spread through the crowd. Someone was in danger? This just got better and better.
“It all started twelve months ago on this very stage. Someone got beaten very badly in this competition, and someone didn’t like it.”
I moved across the stage, and hundreds of heads swiveled to follow.
“So, let’s see who was in that competition. There was Red Sharkey, the overall winner. Red shouldn’t be here tonight, because he got himself suspended for supposedly assaulting me. So, as far as our criminal was concerned, Red was out of the picture.”
“Which is a shame, Mama,” interjected Red. “’Cause I’m purty good at whut I do.”
This got a big laugh. Everyone loves a comedian.
I shot Red a disapproving look, which he naturally ignored.
“Second place went to Mercedes Sharp, for her Britney act. But someone stole Mercedes’s karaoke mini-disk, so she pulled out, presumably to concentrate on being the town gossip.”
Not strictly relevant, I know. But Mercedes had been poking fun at me for years. Judging by the round of applause, I wasn’t the only one she’d poked fun at.
“Johnny Riordan and Pierce Bent were third. They didn’t enter this year because their DJ friend’s needles were stolen. No turntables, no act.”
I was making inroads. I could see a few thoughtful faces in the audience. Not many, but a few.