A Gala Event by Sheila Connolly Page B

I’ll explain when Art gets here.”
    Meg wasn’t about to argue. She hit her speed dial for Art’s personal number.
    â€œWhat?” he barked when he answered. “Oh, sorry, Meg. My wife told me I had to help clean up the yard, but whacking through brambles is not fun. What do you want?”
    â€œYou can stop whacking. We’ve found your man.”
    â€œWhat? You’ve got to be kidding. Where are you?”
    â€œIn the shed next door to the Historical Society. Gail’s with me.”
    Art let loose a creative string of curses. “But we looked there last night. There was no blood trail.”
    â€œThere is now,” Meg informed him. “And the man that goes with it. He’s passed out and he looks pretty rocky, so I think you should hurry.”
    â€œI’ll call an ambulance. Be there in ten.” Art ended the call.
    â€œHe’s on his way,” Meg told Gail. “You look pretty calm.”
    â€œHa! Well, for a start I’m relieved he’s not dead, and I hope he stays that way. But now I’m trying to put some pieces together, and it doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œYou know him from Granford?” Meg asked.
    â€œYes, but not personally. And it was a long time ago. Please, can we just wait for Art?”
    Meg and Gail leaned against the shelves, keeping an eye on the man on the floor. He didn’t move, didn’t open an eye. At least Meg didn’t see any fresh blood—was that a good sign? But there had been a lot yesterday. He probably hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since last night, so he must be dehydrated, and weak from blood loss. As she studied him, she realized that he didn’t exactly look homeless, or at least, not like the homeless men she had seen in Boston. His clothes werenot new, but they were reasonably clean. There were no holes in his shoes. He was wearing a cheap watch. He might or might not have a wallet, but no way was she going to check his pockets; she was going to maintain a safe distance. Her responsibility stopped here: she had found him, she had reported it to the right people, and she was going to make sure he wouldn’t disappear again, which at the moment looked highly unlikely.
    Art pulled up outside the shed, without sirens, and Meg was glad to see Seth’s car behind his—Art must have called him. Art stalked into the shed and came alongside Meg and Gail. “Where is he?”
    Meg pointed. “He was conscious when I found him, barely. He hasn’t spoken since I called you. Where’s the ambulance?”
    â€œOn its way.” He walked closer to the man and studied him. The man still didn’t move.
    Seth came up behind Meg. “You okay?”
    â€œI’m fine. Just another ordinary day in Granford, yup.” Meg realized she sounded too sarcastic, and softened her comments by adding, “I’m glad he’s not dead.”
    â€œArt, Seth, I think I know who he is,” Gail said tentatively.
    Art turned to her. “You told me last night you didn’t recognize him.”
    â€œLast night I didn’t—it was dark, and he surprised me, and I was scared, uh, spitless. But now that I see him by daylight . . . I think it’s Aaron Eastman.”
    Art stared at her for a long moment. “That’s before your time,” he said finally.
    â€œThere’s a clipping on the wall inside the Historical Society.”
    â€œI thought he was in prison. Maybe his sentence was up,” Art said, almost to himself. “What the hell is he doing here? And what was he doing at your place last night?”
    â€œHey,” Meg interrupted, “will somebody explain to me what you’re talking about? Who’s Aaron Eastman?”
    Before anyone could explain, the sound of an ambulance siren interrupted them. Art went out to talk to the EMTs who emerged from the vehicle then bustled in and set about their business. They