“Yes.”
“Why?”
He wasn’t looking at me. “Have you found any way to refuse Bertie when she’s on the warpath to acquire volunteers?”
I groaned.
He agreed with a nod.
“When did she get you?”
“This afternoon when Jean sent me out of the file room. I would have been much happier doing menial paperwork.”
“So noted. At least you don’t have to eat this crap.” I mimicked him, smiling out at the crowd.
See? I could do this. Be a happy person helping out her community one plate of gooey pink fruit at a time.
“Honor and duty, officer,” he said.
“Stuff it, Bailey.”
He chuckled then cleared his throat. “Here we go. Smile for the cameras, darlin’.”
His voice, low and intimate, rolled through me, and I laced my fingers together on top of the table to keep from reaching for him. He was so close that our hips and legs were almost touching.
But there would be no touching here. This was serious business.
Bertie took the stage with the strut of a professional ringleader, and then gave a short speech on the history of the Rhubarb Rally that ended with her thanking the community for being so flexible with their hours and allowing for a change of judges under such terrible circumstances.
She asked for a moment of silence for the passing of Heim, a good man and judge who had served on the rhubarb panel for the last two years.
The crowd complied. While I bent my head, I also watched the reactions in the audience. If our guilty party really was connected in some way to the rally, they would be here.
Everyone lowered their heads, except for a couple parents who were busy trying to keep their children quiet.
Dan Perkin didn’t lower his head. He scowled and messed with the brim of his hat, as if even this slight delay of him winning first prize was an indignity he refused to endure.
Then Bertie thanked everyone and, in an arresting, uplifting voice, introduced the judges and announced we would begin with the savories, of which there were twenty-three entries.
I groaned quietly through my teeth, and Ryder chuckled.
He pulled a pen out of his pocket and clicked the top of it. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”
“You might want to get a barf bucket instead.” One of the food handlers set a small plate with a wedge of necrotic pink cheese in front of me, along with a clean plastic fork and napkin.
“Thank you,” I said with fake enthusiasm. “How exciting.”
She left a glass of water within reach.
“Round one.” Ryder produced a white sheet of paper.
I picked up the fork. I quickly decided there was no way I’d be able to fake a smile through the whole thing, but keeping a straight face was something I had long practice with.
“Something wrong?” Ryder asked.
“Nope. I plan to deal with that cheese like I would any other perpetrator under interrogation.”
“Cheese interrogation. That a special course they teach you in the academy?”
