A Gala Event by Sheila Connolly Page A

weekend—I didn’t see any lights on there last night when I arrived. But they’re used to us coming and going.”
    â€œOkay. Back in a sec.” Meg retrieved her jacket and went out the door. It was a typical late fall day: the maples around the green had lost their colorful leaves, some of which were skittering around the grass. The general store across the green was doing a good business. Gran’s parking lot was full with the lunch crowd. She turned and walked across the street and past the colonial house to the rambling shedbehind, which ran parallel to the house. To her eye it looked as though it had started life as a barn, a century or more before, but had kind of grown in fits and starts with later additions. There was no car in the open end. Meg stepped into the low building and let her eyes adjust to the half-darkness, then spied some definitely modern shelves stacked with paper goods in plastic bins along the front side.
    She was making her way toward the shelves when she happened to look down and see the blood.

6

    Meg froze, listening. No sound of movement, other than the wind whistling through the cracks between the old boards. The sensible thing to do, Meg told herself, would be to pull her phone from her pocket and call Art and let him check this out. And risk looking like an idiot if it turned out to be nothing more than a stray cat? Surely Art or his men had examined this building last night. It was adjacent to the Historical Society. They would have seen the blood trail. Wouldn’t they?
    The trail led in a straight line toward the far end of the building, where a motley array of boxes and barrels were stacked. Meg wondered briefly what collections items could withstand the extremes of hot and cold in this drafty building, but that was not her problem. She took a tentative step forward: still no sound. And another, and another. And after a few more, she could see around the stacked boxes. Andshe could see the bloody man on the floor, his back propped up against one of the boxes.
    She froze again. Dead or alive? His eyes were closed, and his skin looked kind of grayish, or so she thought in the dim light. He matched Gail’s description: older, thin, graying, nondescript clothes. And blood, now dark and stiff on his thin jacket. She thought his chest was rising and falling slightly, but no way was she going to get any closer to find out. She pulled out her phone.
    And nearly jumped out of her shoes when the man said, “Don’t.” And after a pause, “Please?”
    Okay, not dead—yet. But too close for comfort. “You need help,” Meg said, surprised that her voice wasn’t quavering.
    He tried to pull himself up straighter, and grimaced at the effort. “Maybe. But no cops.”
    â€œGet real, pal. Who’m I supposed to call? And I don’t have a Band-Aid big enough to deal with that.” Meg waved vaguely at his bloody arm. “Besides, the chief of police is a good guy, and a friend. You can talk to him.”
    The man slumped back against the boxes, and his eyes fell shut. But before Meg could make the call to Art, Gail came hurrying in. “Meg, did you find them? You’ve been gone awhile,” she said nervously. But when she neared Meg, she stopped. “Oh my God, that’s him. That’s the man. Is he dead?”
    â€œNot yet,” Meg said. “I was about to call Art.”
    Gail was now staring at the man with a peculiar fascination. She took a step closer. “No, it can’t be.” She turned to Meg with an odd expression. “I think I recognize him,” she said in a whisper.
    â€œWhat?” Meg said, her eyes not leaving the unmoving man. “You didn’t last night. Who do you think he is?”
    â€œLast night I was in a panic. But now . . .” She shook herhead. “I don’t understand. It looks like he’s unconscious—better make that call now.