“Can we come in?” Oliver called. “I think Spot really wants to see his new house.”
“What do you say, favorite daughter?” I kissed the top of her head, then rubbed the kiss into her hair, just as I’d done for years. “Want to help me with the food and water bowls?”
She squeezed me tight. “Sure. But, Mom? Can we call him something else? Spot is sooo dumb.”
I laughed. “The name doesn’t seem to fit, does it?” “Mom!” Oliver yelled. “I think Spot just leaked!” On the other hand, there could have been a very good reason for calling him Spot.
Sara looked at me critically. “Your pinafore is crooked.”
For the fortieth time since I’d arrived at the store, I straightened the straps on the apron of my Mother Goose costume. If I’d been better endowed in the chest area, it might have stayed in place. “Next year,” I said, “I’m getting a new costume.”
Sara herself looked fetching in a Red Riding Hood costume. Lois was the Cat in the Hat, Paoze made a wonderful Robin Hood, and Marcia was the Princess and the Pea.
“Every year you say you’re going to get a new costume.” Lois plugged in the fog machine. “And every year you wear that Mother Goose outfit that has never fit you properly.”
“It was my sister’s.” And it had been free, always my favorite price.
The fog machine hummed, burped out a few clouds of fog, then started spitting out a stream of water.
“Huh.” Lois frowned at the machine. “That doesn’t seem right.” She gave it a good, swift kick, and the fog came out in a steady flow. “Like my dad always told me,” she said, “if it doesn’t work, get a bigger hammer.”
“But you did not use a hammer,” Paoze said. “You used your foot.”
“Paw,” Lois corrected, pointing at her costume’s furry feet. “That’s why it worked. Shoes wouldn’t have done the job at all. If you’re going to kick a machine, you need to use a paw.”
Paoze plucked the string of the bow slung over his shoulder. “I do not believe you. This is a joke.”
I laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re catching on, kid.”
Lois sniffed. “Okay, so that wasn’t my best effort. Next time he won’t see it coming.”
Sara and Paoze slid a long table over the fog machine. Lois and I unfolded a large black and orange plaid tablecloth, and Marcia started ferrying snacks from the kitchenette. In no time at all the table was covered with goodies and punch. Fog trickled out from the edges of the tablecloth, creating a satisfyingly eerie effect.
“Let ’em come,” Lois said. “We’re ready!”
I unlocked the front door and braced myself for the rush. At one, the store had closed for a bare hour. While I was telling the babysitter about the new dog and rushing around putting on my costume, my faithful staff had done the work of setting up games and prizes. I didn’t like shutting the store even for an hour, but logistically it worked out better this way. Lois was convinced it added more attraction to the event, and she might have been right.
Half an hour later, Sara was organizing a Pin the Tail on the Black Cat game, Paoze was helping kids create their own construction paper masks, Lois was drying the face of a child who’d just bobbed for an apple, and Marcia was reading Erica Silverman’s Big Pumpkin to an enthralled collection of children and parents.
I was running myself frazzled trying to help customers find books, running the register, and answer questions for anyone who asked.
“Hey.”
There was a tug on the lower corner of my apron. I looked down. A kindergarten-sized child was looking up at me. “Hi, there,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Avery Olsen.”
“Hi, Avery.” My brain went click! Avery was Kirk and Isabel Olsen’s daughter—Kirk of the school bus incident. “Are your mommy and daddy here?”
“My mommy is over there.” She pointed to Marcia’s reading circle. “My daddy’s gone. But he’s almost home.”
“I see.” Or not. “What can I do for you, Avery?”
“Potty.”
Clearly, Avery was a girl of few words. “I’ll take you there, okay?”
She nodded solemnly. I put my hand on the back of her head and guided her toward the back of the store. On the way past Isabel and her son, Neal, I tapped Isabel’s shoulder and nodded at Avery, whispering, “Bathroom. Do you want to . . . ?”
“Go ahead,” she said. “She’ll be fine.”
That hadn’t been what I meant. I’d meant for her to take responsibility for her daughter; I’d meant to imply that I wasn’t a babysitter and that I had a store to run. “Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
I shut the bathroom door behind Avery. “Do you need any help?”
“No.” She stood tall. “I’m a big girl now. I’m five.”
“That is a big-girl age, isn’t it?”
“Yup.” She began bathroom preparations and climbed aboard. “My daddy says when I’m big enough, I can go and shoot things with him.”
“Really?”
“At first it won’t be real things. Just paper.” She sounded disgusted with the idea. “But when I get biggerer, I can shoot real things.”
“Oh. How nice.”
She nodded emphatically. “Neal doesn’t like guns, but I do. I want to go with Daddy next time he goes away. He’s far away now.”
“He is?”
“Yup.” She hopped down and finished the job. “But he’ll be back soon. I bet he got lots of real things. He shoots good.” She pushed the toilet’s lever with both hands. “I want to be just like him when I grow up.”
Job done and hands washed, we went back to the party. Marcia had finished the story and was glowing at the enthusiastic applause. I handed Avery over to Isabel. “Your daughter says Kirk’s out of town. Is he on a hunting trip?”
Isabel nodded. “A two-week guided hunt in the Canadian Rockies. It’s his thirtieth-birthday present. Everyone chipped in: his parents, his brothers, a bunch of his friends, everybody. You should have seen his face when we told him.”
I tried to figure out the dates in my head. “So he’s been gone two weeks.” That would put him in Rynwood the day Agnes was murdered.
“Almost three. He decided to get there early and spend some time getting used to the altitude.” She dug into her purse. “The guide e-mailed me some pictures, and I made lots of copies. Want to see?”
I called Marina that night and gave her the news. “Kirk Olsen was in Canada on a hunting trip the night Agnes was killed.” I turned on my computer and scanner.
“Maybe he sneaked home early,” Marina said, “killed Agnes, then sneaked back.”
“Nope.” I put Isabel’s photo on the scanner and clicked the appropriate buttons. “His wife gave me a date-stamped picture. I’m e-mailing it to you right now.”
“Hang on . . . Oh, eww,” Marina said. “He’s got a dead thing. A big dead thing.”
“Male moose weigh more than a thousand pounds.”
“Hokey Pete.” Marina whistled. “But, say, maybe it’s not a real picture. You said there’s a computer up at that hunting camp. Maybe Kirk Photoshopped it for a perfect alibi.”
“Are you serious?” Kirk was prodigious in his computer illiteracy. I’d once seen him puzzling over an ATM machine.
Marina sighed. “Okay. It’s not Kirk Olsen. And I have more bad news. It’s not Dan Daniels, either.”
“No?”
“Nope. I was talking to CeeCee, and she said her sainted husband—she didn’t say that, but that’s how she feels about him, you know—has hockey league on Tuesday nights, and he had a late game. Didn’t even get on the ice until eleven.”
“Lucky,” I muttered.
“Your time will come, my sweet. Another five years and the kids will be old enough for you to risk life and limb by playing something as silly as hockey.”