"He called a demon, didn't he?" Harold pointed out.
"Frank Junior," Emeril said, nodding. "He turned out to be a fine fellow after he reformed. I think Mrs. Frost had him in Sunday school class for a while. She said the little fellow was slow at memorizing his verses but quite the enthusiast when it came to lighting the candles."
"Didn't even use matches."
"Allright," Jack growled. "I almost want to believe this whole thing is a comedy act staged by some kind of candid camera thing, but sadly I've been in Dead End long enough to know better."
Harold's bushy white eyebrows drew together. "What comedy act?"
Emeril pursed his lips. "Oh, you know what? Maybe the young feller is talking about that show over in Orlando that one time. The guy with the puppet."
"He was a ventriloquist," Harold said. "Not very good, though. We could see his lips moving."
"The ventriloquist?" I asked, caught up in the story.
"Nah. The dummy. He had these little wooden lips, and they kept moving. It was awful creepy."
"Yeah," Emeril said. "Definitely magic involved there. Not good old-fashioned ventriloquism."
"Right? Like Junior."
"The reformed demon is a ventriloquist?" Jack looked like his head was about to explode.
Both Misters Peterson laughed.
"No, not Frank Junior," I told Jack. "Junior Schwarzendrieven. Remember, he gave me the Doltar? He's actually one of the premier builders and restorers of ventriloquist dummies in the world. Lives right here in Dead End."
"I would expect nothing less," Jack muttered. "But maybe we could move this conversation along?"
"Right," I said. "I need a new hanging flower pot for my Caladiums, please, because somebody—we think the same person who killed Earl Packard fifty years ago—tried to shoot us and took out my flower pot instead. Aisle three?"
In an almost synchronized reaction, both of their mouths fell open.
Jack took a step closer. "Was it either of you?"
"What?" Emeril was still in shock. "What?"
"We'd never shoot at Tess," Harold said indignantly. "The jury's still out onyou, though."
"Gee, thanks," Jack said dryly. "How about in 1970? Either of you feel the need to get even with Earl for stealing from the store? Or how about you, Emeril? Did you try to get him to pay you back your two grand and things got out of hand?"
Harold sucked in a breath and swung around to face his brother. "Two thousand dollars? You told me it was five hundred!"
"And you nearly blistered the hide from my body with all the yelling you did," Emeril muttered. "Imagine if I'd admitted it was four times that. Anyway, I paid it back to the store account. Took me darn near three years, but I paid it all back."
Harold scowled. "You should have told me, you dunderhead. We could have worked something out. Did you—I mean, I never asked you about where you went that afternoon that Earl disappeared. I was at the store all evening. Did you—were you—"
"Was I off killing Earl?" Emeril turned an aggrieved face to me. "Wow. Borrow two grand from your family business and suddenly your own kin thinks you might be a murderer."
"If it helps, we suspected my family members first," I confided, giving him a sympathetic look. "They're in the clear now, though."
"Which you still are not," Jack pointed out. "Wherewereyou, Emeril? I noticed you dodged the question neatly. Guilty conscience?"
Emeril lifted his chin and stared down his considerable nose at us. "Not at all. Josie and I spent the afternoon together over at the movies in Orlando. We sawAirport.Josie had a crush on Dean Martin. I'll never forget it because when we got back in town everybody was buzzing with the news that Beau had run Earl out of town after Earl hurt Lorraine."
Harold and Emeril's eyes both widened at the same time.
"But he didn't, did he? I mean, Earl must never have left town at all, if he's been in the swamp all along," Harold said.
