He paid two bucks to the tobacco-chewing youth who was collecting for the farmer and was fortunate enough to find a spot for his car beneath a shade tree. Before getting out, he removed his suit jacket and tie, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. As he picked his way carefully around cow patties, he wished for blue jeans and boots instead of dress slacks and loafers, but already he felt his spirits rising. Nobody here knew him. He didn’t have to talk to anyone if he didn’t want to. There were no obligations to be met, no meetings to attend, no telephone messages to return. Out here he wasn’t a professional, or a colleague. Or a son. Tension, anger, and the weight of responsibility began to melt off him. The sense of freedom was heady.
The fairgrounds were demarcated by a plastic rope strung with multicolored pennants that hung still and limp in the heat. The dense air was redolent with the tantalizing aromas of cooking food—junk food. From a distance, the music didn’t sound half bad. Hammond was immediately glad he had stopped. He needed this… isolation.
Because despite the people streaming through the turnstile, he was, in a very real sense, isolated. Being absorbed by a large, noisy crowd suddenly seemed preferable to spending a solitary evening in his cabin, which had been his original plan upon leaving Charleston.
The band had played two songs since the auburn-haired woman had sat down across the pavilion from where he was seated. Hammond had continued to watch her, and to speculate. Most likely she was waiting for someone to join her, probably a husband and assorted children. She appeared to be not quite as old as he, maybe early thirties. About the age of the carpool-driving set. Cub Scout den mothers. PTA officers. The homemakers concerned with DPT booster shots, orthodontia, and getting their laundry whites white and their colors bright. What he knew of such women he had learned from TV commercials, but she seemed to fit that general demographic.
Except that she was a little too… too… edgy.
She didn’t look like a mother of young children who was enjoying a few minutes’ respite while Daddy took the kids for a ride on the carousel. She didn’t have the cool, competent air of his acquaintances’ wives who were members of Junior League and other civic clubs, who went to salad luncheons and hosted birthday parties for their kids and dinner parties for their husbands’ business associates, and who played golf or tennis at their respective country clubs once or twice a week between their aerobics classes and Bible study circles.
She didn’t have the soft, settled body of a woman who had borne two or three offspring, either. Her figure was compact and athletic. She had good—no, great—legs that were mu
scled, sleek, and tan, shown off by a short skirt and low-heeled sandals. Her sleeveless top had a scooped neck, like a tank top, and a matching cardigan which had been knotted loosely around her neck before she had removed it. The outfit was smart and chic, a cut above what most of this shorts-and-sneakers crowd was wearing.
Her handbag, which she’d placed on the table, was big enough only for a key ring, a tissue, and possibly a lipstick, but nowhere near large enough for a young mother whose purse was packed with bottled water and Handi Wipes and natural snacks and enough equipment to survive days in the wilderness should an emergency situation arise.
Hammond had an analytical mind. Deductive reasoning was his forte. So he concluded, with what he felt was a fair degree of accuracy, that it was unlikely this woman was a mom.
That did not mean that she wasn’t married, or otherwise attached, and waiting to be joined by a significant other, whoever he might be and whatever the nature of their relationship. She could be a woman devoted to a career. A mover and a shaker in the business community. A successful salesperson. A savvy entrepreneur. A stockbroker. A loan officer.
Sipping his beer, which was growing tepid in the heat, Hammond continued to stare at her with interest.
Then suddenly he realized that his stare was being returned.
When their eyes met, his heart lurched, perhaps from embarrassment for having been caught staring. But he didn’t look away. Despite the dancers that passed between them, intermittently blocking their line of sight, they maintained eye contact for several seconds.
Then she abruptly broke it, as though she might also be embarrassed for having picked him out of the crowd. Chagrined over having such a juvenile reaction to something as insignificant as making eye contact, Hammond relinquished his table to two couples who’d been hovering nearby waiting for one to become available. He weaved his way through the press of people toward the temporary bar. It had been set up during the fair to accommodate the thirsty dancers.
It was a popular spot. Personnel from the various military bases in the area were standing three deep at the bar. Even if not in uniform, they were identifiable by their sheared heads. They were drinking, scoping out the girls, weighing their chances of getting lucky, wagering on who would and who wouldn’t, playing one-upmanship.
The bartenders were dispensing beer as fast as they could, but they couldn’t keep up with the demand. Hammond tried several times to flag one’s attention but finally gave up and decided to wait until the crowd had thinned out before ordering another.
Feeling a little less pathetic than he had no doubt looked sitting alone at his table, he glanced across the dance floor toward her table. His spirits drooped. Three men now occupied the extra chairs at her table. In fact, the wide shoulders of one were blocking her from Hammond’s view. The trio weren’t in uniform, but judging by the severity of their haircuts and their cockiness he guessed they were marines.
Well, he wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised.
She was too good-looking to be alone on a Saturday night. She’d been merely biding her time until her date showed up.
Even if she had come to the fair alone, she wouldn’t have remained dateless for long. Not at a meat market like this. An unattached serviceman with a weekend pass had the instincts and singlemindedness of a shark. He had one purpose in mind, and that was to secure a female companion for the evening. Even without trying, this one would have attracted attention.
Not that he had been thinking about picking her up, Hammond told himself. He was too old for that. He wouldn’t regress to a frat-rat mentality, for crying out loud. Besides, it really wouldn’t be proper, would it? He wasn’t exactly committed, but he wasn’t exactly uncommitted, either.
Suddenly she stood up, grabbed her cardigan, slung the strap of her small purse over her shoulder, and turned to leave. Instantly the three men seated with her were on their feet, crowding around her. One, who appeared to be hammered, placed his arm across her shoulders and lowered his face close to hers. Hammond could see his lips moving; whatever he was saying to her made his companions laugh uproariously.
She didn’t think it was funny. She averted her head, and it appeared to Hammond that she was trying to extricate herself from an awkward situation without causing a scene. She took the serviceman’s arm and removed it from around her neck and, smiling stiffly, said something to him before once again turning as though to leave.
Not to be put off, and goaded by his two friends, the spurned one went after her. When he reached for her arm and pulled her around again, Hammond acted.
Later, he didn’t remember crossing the dance floor, although he must have practically plowed his way through the couples now swaying to a slow dance, because within seconds he was reaching between two of the muscle-bound, hard-bellied marines, shoving the persistent one aside, and hearing himself say, “Sorry about that, honey. I ran into Norm Blanchard and you know how that son-of-a-gun can talk. Lucky for me, they’re playing our song.”
Curving his arm around her waist, he drew her out with him onto the dance floor.
* * *
“You got my instructions?”
“Yes, sir, Detective. No one else comes in, no one leaves. We’ve sealed off all the exits.”