13. Chapter 13
Rocco
Itaste Loralee for the entire drive back to the festival. Coffee, warmth and the faint trace of whatever she put on her lips before leaving for the cabin. Every breath returns me to the moment her body pressed against mine.
I should be thinking about the lodge entrance. Instead, I’m thinking about her hand in my hair.
The radio reports normal activity across the festival grounds. No new sightings or disturbances near the lodge or vendor lanes. The words require my attention, but not enough of it to stop remembering how Loralee said my name with her head resting in my palm.
My body has not misunderstood what happened between us. Neither has the part of me trained to recognize the moment a controlled situation becomes something else. I wanted to stay. But wanting does not alter responsibility.
I turn into the staff parking area and check the time. The festival closes in less than two hours. The largest part of the evening crowd is still on-site, but families with young children have begun leaving. Traffic will grow heavier as the stage performance ends.
Two hours is enough time for something to go wrong. It is also enough time to prevent it.
Wade meets me beside the command station with a tablet tucked beneath one arm. “We found the woman who made the call.”
“Identified her?”
“Not yet. But we tracked her from the courtesy phone.”
Inside the cabin, he opens footage from a camera facing the food-vendor lane.
The image quality is clear enough to distinguish faces near the center of the frame.
At 6:47, a woman wearing a gray coat and red knit cap approaches the courtesy phone.
She looks over one shoulder before lifting the receiver.
“How long was the call?”
“Thirty-eight seconds.”
The woman keeps her face turned away from the nearest crowd. When she replaces the receiver, she walks toward the lodge instead of the parking area where she claimed to have seen a suspicious man.
Wade switches to another camera.
The woman enters the edge of the frame near the rear corner of the lodge. She removes the red cap and stuffs it into her coat pocket. Dark hair falls around her shoulders. A man steps from behind the building and joins her. His face appears for less than a second, but it’s enough to know.
“That’s him.”
“The man from booth 37,” Wade confirms.
They speak briefly. The woman gestures toward the south parking area. He looks at his watch, then hands her a folded piece of paper. They separate without touching.
“Follow him.”
Wade advances to the next clip. The man circles the lodge, enters through the main doors, and stops beside the charity display. He does not photograph it openly. He holds his phone at waist height while moving around the case, pausing near the side panel closest to the exterior door.
He examines the lock, then looks toward the camera. The image freezes.
Loralee was right. Not about every detail. But the man who photographed her booth also examined the display. She identified from a vision. And he could not have known she experienced that. I reach for the radio.
“Deputy McCall, come to the command cabin.”
“What do you want the rest of us doing?” Wade asks.
“Find the woman on current footage. Do not approach if she is still on-site. Track her and report.”
“And the man?”
“Same instruction. I want to know where they are before either realizes we’re watching.”
Wade radios the team while I replay the footage.
The folded paper may be a map, a schedule, or nothing connected to the festival.
The woman may have made the false report because the man asked her to.
Their meeting may concern something unrelated to the auction display.
Possibilities matter until evidence removes them. This footage removes several.
The man is not a curious visitor who happened to notice booth locks. The woman did not mistake a furniture vendor’s nephew for someone suspicious. They created a distraction and watched the response.
I enlarge the frame showing the man beside the case. His phone points toward the lock, but the camera angle also captures the lodge entrance behind him. He was not only determining what he could take. He was planning how to leave.
Deputy McCall arrives with another officer. I show them the footage from the courtesy phone, the meeting behind the lodge, and the man’s examination of the display.
“Any identification?” McCall asks.
“Not yet.”
“Vehicle?”
“We’re tracking both directions through the cameras.”
“Has anything been stolen?”
“Not that we know.”
“Threats?”
“No.”
McCall looks at the frozen image. “Then we don’t have grounds to detain them based on this alone.”
“I know.”
“We can talk to them.”
“Not until we locate both. If they’re working together and you approach one, the other disappears.”
He considers the point. “I’ll send the images to the other deputies. Quiet distribution.”
“The auction items are secured in the lodge office.”
“What about the cash vendors?”
“Additional coverage is already in place. No one transports deposits alone. We’ll escort vendors to their vehicles after closing.”
McCall nods. “You think they’re planning to hit more than the display?”
“I think the display may be part of a larger theft or a diversion.”
“Based on what?”
“Booth locks. Cash procedures. Service entrances. A false report designed to move security.”
The lodge coordinator enters before McCall leaves. Concern tightens her face as she views the footage. She confirms that neither person is an auction volunteer, festival employee, or lodge worker.
“Who knew the value of the necklace?” I ask.
“Anyone who saw our social media posts. The gallery donated it three weeks ago, and we featured it several times to increase bidding.”
“Was the case location visible?”
“In photographs from setup yesterday.”
That gives the man time to plan around it. It also explains why he may have arrived before the festival opened to examine vendor booths.
“Did anyone ask about removing auction items after closing?” McCall asks.
“A few bidders asked how pickup works. Winners pay tonight, but higher-value items remain secured until tomorrow morning.”
“Which items?”
“The necklace. A signed sculpture. Two vacation packages, although those are certificates.”
“Total value?”
“Approximately thirty thousand dollars.”
Enough to justify planning. Not enough to explain bringing a gun into a crowded festival unless the people planning it are reckless, desperate, or willing to hurt anyone standing between them and the exit.
I think of Loralee inside the lodge with blood covering her hands. My blood. The image did not come from my memory, but it feels stuck there now.
“Move all final bidding into the conference room,” I tell the coordinator. “Limit access to one entrance. A deputy and one of my employees remain inside until the items are transferred to the safe.”
“What do I tell the bidders?”
“That we improved the checkout process.”
“This is going to cause questions.”
“Questions are better than panic.”
McCall agrees. The coordinator stops objecting. Wade calls from the opposite side of the room.
“I have the woman.”
“Current location?”
“She left twenty-six minutes ago through the east pedestrian exit.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Camera three picked her up crossing the overflow lot.”
“Vehicle?”
“Still looking.”
“And the man?”
“No current image after he left the lodge.”
He may have left before her. He may have changed his coat or cap, or still be standing among the crowd while we search for the appearance he used yesterday.
“Track backward from the first time he appeared at the lodge,” I say. “Find out whether he entered through a gate or came from a vendor area.”
Wade returns to the footage.
I step outside and scan the festival from the command-cabin porch. The stage performance has ended. Visitors spread into the vendor lanes and food area, increasing congestion as the final shopping hour begins.
Music continues through the speakers. Laughter rises near the firepits. A child races past carrying a light-up toy that streaks red through the darkness.
Every ordinary sound contains the possibility of becoming something else. My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Loralee has sent one word.
Normal?
I type my answer.
So far.
I put the phone away and begin walking the grounds.
The changes made near the lodge have improved the flow of visitors. Without the display case narrowing the entrance, families move through the doors without stopping. An employee stands inside while another patrols the lawn. Neither appears focused on a single location.
At booth 37, the panels remain secured. Loralee’s neighboring vendors are open, and the employee covering the intersection reports no unusual activity. Two customers have asked when her booth will reopen. No one has attempted to approach from the rear.
The security measures are working. That does not mean no one is testing them.
I move through the cash-heavy vendor lane and speak briefly with each business owner.
None reports missing merchandise, unusual questions, or customers lingering near storage areas.
One jewelry vendor remembers a woman asking yesterday whether unsold pieces remained overnight, but her description does not match the caller.
A photographer remembers the man.
“He kept getting into my shots,” she says. “Not posing. Just standing behind people.”
“Where?”
She scrolls through hundreds of festival photographs until she finds one taken near the lodge yesterday afternoon. A family smiles at the camera while holding cups of cider. Behind them, the man stands near the charity display.
He is watching a security employee. In the next image, his attention has targeted the firepit. The third catches him staring at the red banner and exterior door.
“Send me the originals.”
She transfers them to the secure number I provide. “Did he do something?”
“We’re trying to identify him.”
Her concern deepens, but she accepts the limited answer.