Chapter 3

"You want to start with the wagon, don't you?" Sara asked as she unsuccessfully kept herself from smirking.

"That is where the cooking display is set up. Besides, it is a Conestoga," Grissom said eagerly. "Not authentic to the Little House series, obviously, but it's not something you see everyday."

"Not even in Vegas," she sighed as they went to the rear of the exhibition floor. All along the way, people muttered as they passed, some giving them curious looks, others watching them with annoyance. After a few moments, she noticed his furtive glances in her direction and it didn't take her long to figure out why. "Okay, why is it obvious it doesn't belong."

Grissom grinned at her happily. "Conestoga wagons were mainly used in the eighteenth century east of the Mississippi River. Their weight made them impractical for pioneers heading westward. Very few were ever used out here," he said, his glee at anything to do with Westerns evident.

"But it's the image people have of wagons," she said.

"Hollywood. They never get anything right," he said dismissively. "For an event like this, they should have a prairie schooner. Of course, there aren't many wagons left, so they might have had to go with what they had."

"You can ask Paulie later," she said, knowing Grissom would love to grill their talkative convention owner after the case was finished.

"Oh, I plan to."

Setting her kit down, Sara pulled out her camera and snapped photos as she circled the wagon, taking care to photograph every piece of cookware around the fake fire. Grissom meanwhile ran his flashlight over the area, looking for the pancake griddle. It didn't take them long to find it, sitting under the wagon beneath some wooden buckets.

"There is something on it," Sara said as she wormed her way under the display. Taking a few photos, she carefully set the buckets aside before picking up the skillet. She wiggled her way out from under the wagon, keeping the griddle close to her body and off of the floor. Taking some forceps from her pocket, she lifted the foreign material lodged in a broken hinge. "Looks like hair and blood."

"Good job," he said, taking the forceps to bag and label the evidence.

Sara pulled out her fingerprinting supplies and began dusting the griddle. "I'll dust the buckets next. Old wood doesn't hold prints well, but maybe we'll get lucky."

"If nothing else, it's good for DNA," Grissom said.

"Damn. Looks like they wiped the griddle before ditching it," she muttered. "There are some partials, but most of it is too smudged to be any good."

Grissom smiled at her, using his light to point upwards. "The killer isn't too smart."

She followed his direction, shaking her head when she saw a bloody rag on top of the wagon's canvas top. After a minute of looking around, they borrowed a stepladder and Sara retrieved the rag, carefully bagging it.

From her vantage point, she spotted Paulie and Sofia talking with Brass near the entrance. The convention organizer had put his wig back on, and apparently 'Martha' was soothing irate guests and vendors. It was difficult to be certain, but it seemed 'Martha' was doing a good job calming people down as groups were less agitated as they walked away.

"I have this strong urge to track down Paulie's mom and send her a condolence card," she told Grissom as she watched.

"Why?" he asked, looking up from his examination of the water barrels on the wagon. "Because he wears a dress for his job?"

"She had eleven kids and he's the runt? Ouch."

"He's the runt of the brothers. And eleven is the minimum. Paulie specified six little sisters. He didn't rule out older sisters."

"Why? I don't get why anyone would put themselves through that."

"Childbirth?" Grissom asked, giving her a look that suddenly made Sara nervous. They were settling into their relationship nicely, but children had never been mentioned even in passing. It was way too early to even consider it. Given their ages and her family background, it wasn't something she thought he would even be interested in, but his expression had her confused.

"Eleven times," she said quickly. "That, uh, seems excessive."

He merely shrugged. "Some people really like kids."

"Yeah." Wistful; she was sure he was being wistful when talking about children. Deciding it was time to change the topic – she wasn't ready for this conversation, and she definitely wasn't going to have it on top of a stepladder surrounded by a group of gawking senior citizens in piggy tails – she nodded toward the front of the room. "How do you think Brass and Sofia are doing?"

"Well, it doesn't help that Sofia is technically a suspect, but they've both handled cases worse than this before," he said, looking confused when he saw her expression.

"I meant about the Bell shooting."

"It was an accident. They're both clear. These barrels have been empty for ages. The killer didn't get any water here to clean up with."

She gave her head a quick shake, frowning as she did so. He merely rolled his shoulders. "I'm not sure what else to say about it," he said. "You're better at that stuff."

The arrival of two CSIs from day shift distracted them briefly, and Grissom told them where they had left off in the room where the body had been found. He found Sara examining the crowd with a frown when he finished.

"What's wrong?"

"We're going to get DNA from the rag, but what are we going to compare it to? We can't very well take a sample from every single person here. Who knows how many of these people are even local. They'll be gone in a day or two."

"Let's hope Brass is having some luck narrowing down the list of potential suspects."

Watching the crowd, Sofia felt like swearing loudly. She understood exactly why she couldn't be helping, but logic didn't make it less frustrating. Worse, Brass had her babysitting Paulie, neither of the detectives convinced the convention organizer was going to keep his cool.

To her surprise, he easily slipped back into his Martha persona, and Martha was not a woman prone to flights of fancy or inappropriate behavior. Martha simply and calmly told complaining guests that an unfortunate event had occurred and everyone needed to stay put until the police finished their investigation. Sofia wasn't sure if it was Martha's calm but stern demeanor that worked, or if people were afraid to argue with someone so intimidating looking.

"How da hell do you gals stand on heels all day?" Paulie whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "I normally sit down a lot at these things, ya know what I mean? My footsies are killing me."

Despite her own irritation, Sofia had to fight back a laugh. "Did you really just say 'footsies'?"

"I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm angry. Give me a break," he said, straightening even more as an irate man approached them. "My dear Mr. Harris, I have already explained the situation to you in great detail. You may not leave. You will be told when you may. Kindly refrain from attempting to slip out of the premises, or I am afraid our dedicated law enforcement officers will find your behavior most suspicious."

"You do have your uses," Sofia chuckled as the man quickly melted back into the crowd.

"I am, what do they call it, a man of many talents," he said. "Say, about that smart cookie comment, do ya know what it means?"

"Word origins are more Grissom or Sara's department."

"They're a cute couple," Paulie stated simply.

"Oh, no! They're friends and they work together, but they aren't a couple," she said, moving to look at a stack of books and pamphlets that had caught her attention. She gave him a questioning look as she picked the top book up. "These are all written by one E.P. DeMarco."

"Hey, if your first name was Eustachio, you'd go by Paulie, too, especially in my ol' neighborhood," he said, deciding to drop the couple conversation. One advantage of his build was the ability to see over crowds, and Paulie had seen the guy rubbing his hand along the lady's arm as he helped her with some task. He might not have the brains of this group, but he knew there were friends, and then there were friends.

Sofia spent several moments flipping through a book on the history of treadle sewing machines. "These are actually well-written."

"I ain't dumb. I'm under-educated with a bad accent," he said petulantly.

"You can drop the accent for Martha. And you obviously taught yourself about history. You can use proper English when you set your mind to it. So, no, I'd say you aren't dumb," she said kindly. "You found a career you actually love, and that's no mean feat."

He gave her a sheepish grin. "So, you really can't date guys you meet, or is it just me? I know I ain't a catch in the looks department, but I'm a nice guy."

"Nice, huh? What about your Trixie?" she countered, giving him a sharp look.

"Aw, she dumped me," he said quietly, his hand waving to his dress. "She thinks I take this too far. Maybe I do, but the real money comes from the shows. She sure didn't mind the good life, let me tell you."

"Does this gig of yours pay that well?"

"I don't like to brag, but I'm gonna clear over a quarter of a million this year," he said.

"Dollars?" Sofia asked in surprise. "That buys a lot of dresses."

"Just the one. I tolda that before. And I only do it 'cause people get scared off by my real looks," Paulie said, leaning over to whisper in her ear. "But between you and me, I think I'm scarier like this, ya know what I mean?"

She ran her eyes over him in open amusement. "I do, Paulie, I really do."

Brass approached the area around the wagon tiredly, pulling out his notebook with a sigh. "Okay, some good news. There were some talks going on in the other rooms. They started before the murder took place, and the attendees had to register in advance for them. There were sign-up sheets and no one sneaked in after the talks started. Those people we can rule out as suspects. We'll get their statements and let them go."

"How many weren't in those talks?" Sara asked, packing her equipment back into her kit.

"About one hundred and twenty-seven," he said, "but that includes a tour group from one of the retirement homes. I don't think any of the eighty-and-older club swung a cast iron griddle hard enough to bash the professor's head in. There's a couple more in wheelchairs or on crutches."

"Hard to bash someone on the back of the head in that condition," she agreed.

"And we have a lot of kids who are too small to have done it. The realistic number of suspects is down to about three dozen."

"Well, the killer wiped down the griddle before trying to hide it, but they didn't do a great job. There's no water in any of the displays on the floor, so he didn't wash up out here," Sara said. "There wasn't any blood on the spigots in the bathrooms, and the police are checking the hands of everyone who wants to go in there."

"I'm getting officers to question anyone who was around the wagon display, see if anyone spotted someone carrying a bloody griddle around," Brass said. "We got the possible suspects rounded up and in an empty conference room for your inspection."

As the officers started herding people into various groups, either to get their statements or to be checked for physical evidence, a nervous tittering broke out in the crowd. While most people were complying with the police, a few were starting to get upset or scared. Sofia and Martha stayed by the front entrance, and once again, she was impressed by how easily the guests listened to a six-foot-three convention organizer in an ugly dress.

After a particularly nervous group let themselves be directed to a conference room, Sofia gave him a grin. "Have you ever considered a career in crowd control? Or wagon crossing?"

"You're making fun of me, ain't ya?"

"Yes, Martha, I am," she admitted.

"At least you're honest about it. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, right? I know I ain't no Tom Haviland."

"I'm sorry. In all honesty, that dress isn't doing you any favors," Sofia told him, her laughter starting again despite her efforts to keep it in check. "And we arrested Haviland for murder, so don't compare yourself to him."

"Whatever."

"Hey, I am sorry," she said kindly. "But like I said, you're not dumb. Drop your accent, wear a decent suit, and people will be less intimidated by you. You don't need to be 'Martha' to be successful. And your 'footsies' will appreciate it."

"I tried that already. If I try to drop the accent as me, it slips in at weird places. Being in character, it's like acting. I can keep it down better that way. And I don't need no other job, thank you very much."

"No offense meant."

"Ah, none taken. Like I said, I know I'm a big galoot," he said, slipping back into Martha as a group came to ask what was going on. A calm, if somewhat grandiose, explanation followed, and the people let themselves be herded to another part of the exhibition center.

Sofia tensed when she noticed Paulie grinding his teeth in a most un-Martha like way. If he did lose his cool, at least she'd be able to easily tackle the top-heavy galoot in his ladies' boots.

"Mr. Harris! I must protest your most ungentlemanly behavior. You are vexing me, and I assure you, Mr. Harris, you do want to see me vexed," Martha said in a harsh growl, raising her beaded purse in warning. "Return to the main hall at once, or I shall be forced to be very cross with you!"

Mr. Harris paled visibly, nearly tripping over his feet as he bolted to the rear of the room, colliding with a pair of officers who grabbed his arms.

Sofia started chuckling, holding her sides as she tried to control it. "I, uh, I'm sorry. It's that display just reminded me of a, uh, lady, here in Las Vegas named Heather Kessler. I'd think she'd love to have you work for her."

"I tol' you I don't want no other job, 'specially one that gets you laughing at me like that."

"I'm sorry, Paulie, I really am, but, it's – you just have to know her to understand why this is so funny."

Fighting for self-control, Sofia couldn't help but wonder what was the worst mental image – Paulie dressed as Martha, or Martha dressed as a dominatrix.

TBC