Free Some Like It Hawk by Donna Andrews Page B

the stairs. “We’ll tell him he can either come down the stairs or pretend to have heat exhaustion.”
    Once we reached the courthouse lobby, I saw Dr. Smoot cowering against the wall opposite the stairs. He was dressed in black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, making him probably the only person in the county dressed even less suitably than the guards for heat in the high nineties. I revised my plan of action. Ordering him to do anything was probably fruitless.
    “Dr. Smoot, are you all right?” I asked.
    “I’ll just wait up here,” he said. “You can bring the body up here.”
    “I’ve already certified her death,” Dad said. “Why don’t you just come along with me, and we’ll examine her together down at the hospital?”
    “You’re trying to trick me!” Dr. Smoot shouted. He was scrabbling against the wall behind him as if looking for a doorknob. “You’re going to lead me down into that tunnel!”
    “It’s not you we’re trying to trick.” I glanced around ostentatiously, as if making sure no one could overhear, and then dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s the chief. He’s insisting you come down. But Dad and I have a plan.”
    “I’m going to admit you to the hospital with possible heat exhaustion,” Dad whispered.
    Smoot didn’t say anything, but he cocked his head to one side and stopped clawing at the wall.
    “Help us out a bit with a few symptoms,” I said. “That way we can keep you out of harm’s way until all this crawling through tunnels is over with, and nobody will be the wiser.”
    “You’re experiencing weakness, profuse sweating, muscle cramps, headache, and nausea,” Dad prompted. “I think we can skip the actual vomiting. If you can faint plausibly, that would add a lovely note of authenticity.”
    “But don’t do it unless you can carry it off properly,” I said. “Nothing worse than an obviously fake faint.”
    Dr. Smoot was nodding furiously.
    “Here comes the chief!” Dad hissed.
    The chief popped out of the stairway door. Recognizing his cue, Dr. Smoot collapsed against the wall, clutching his head with one hand and his stomach with the other, and uttered several sepulchral groans.
    “Good heavens,” the chief exclaimed. “What the dickens is wrong with the man now?”
    “Heat exhaustion.” Dad patted Dr. Smoot on the shoulder, and Dr. Smoot sagged against him as if all his bones had suddenly turned to jelly. Dad staggered slightly under the weight. “I’m taking him down to the hospital ASAP,” Dad puffed.
    “Vern, help Dr. Langslow,” the chief said. “Dr. Smoot, you just take all the time you need to get well.”
    One of the deputies hurried to support Dr. Smoot’s other side, and the three of them lurched out the courthouse door.
    “All the time you need,” the chief repeated under his breath.
    We heard cheering outside.
    “What the dickens?” the chief muttered.
    “Come on, Meg,” Randall said. “Time we checked out how your cousin is doing with the Flying Monkeys.”
    “Time I did the same,” the chief said. He strode briskly out of the door, and I got the impression he preferred arriving at the forensic tent first, so I paused to give him a few moments. Randall stood beside me.
    “We’re going to need to help the chief on this one,” he said.
    “The chief might not like that idea,” I replied.
    “I figured as much,” he said. “And I don’t want to pull rank on him, but I will if I have to.”
    More cheering from outside. Presumably greeting the chief’s appearance. I was willing to bet he wasn’t liking that much, either.
    “So let’s discuss it at tonight’s Steering Committee meeting,” Randall added.
    I suppressed a tired sigh. Publicly, the Steering Committee was the group tasked with organizing and implementing the ongoing Caerphilly Days celebration. Its covert mission was to ensure that the celebration included a sufficient number of noisy attractions to cover the opening and