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Rick looked at me. “I’m sorry. You should’ve known the second any vendor attached to your event was being held.”
“Yes,” I said. “I should have.”
Clinton’s face tightened.
I wasn’t interested in humiliating him, but I also wasn’t going to make Rick’s anger disappear because Clinton’s secret was less horrifying than murder.
“Were the last barriers actually paid?” I asked.
“Yes. The remaining sections are scheduled for delivery tomorrow morning. I can show you the confirmation.”
“Please do.”
He nodded.
O’Shea closed the folder. “This explains why Clinton was evasive about the financial discrepancies. It doesn’t give him an automatic exclusion from the murder investigation.”
“I understand.”
So did Clinton, judging by the way his mouth flattened.
I left them to finish without turning someone else’s bad decisions into my afternoon entertainment.
Outside, Damien caught up with me near the staff lane.
“You okay?”
“I’m discovering that everyone at Hollowfield apparently chose this week to confess their worst professional judgment.”
“That seems inconvenient.”
I looked up at him. “You say that like yours isn’t standing six inches away from you.”
His eyes warmed.
“I’m still evaluating that one.”
Heat flickered low in my abdomen despite everything else demanding my attention.
I kept walking before he could see how effectively that answer had landed.
We found Troy near the costume building ten minutes later.
O’Shea had beaten us there.
Troy had his hood pushed back and both hands planted on his hips while the sheriff listened. Two performers passed on the other side of the lane without slowing.
“I left my section,” Troy said.
The defensiveness I’d heard Friday had burned away.
“I met somebody outside the performer area. It was personal, and I knew I’d get written up if I admitted I’d walked off after Justin had already gotten on me about the cue.”
O’Shea asked, “Why tell me now?”
“Because lying about where I was during a murder is turning out to be significantly worse for my employment prospects.”
I almost laughed.
