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One of Sphinx’s eyebrows raised over the tops of his glasses. “There you go. The fans, at least one, have spoken.”
“You want me in the TV show?” Bianca asked a little breathlessly, and she, like Michelle, had stars in her eyes.
“No.” Pescoli had to stop the madness. “Bianca’s still in school and . . . no. Just no.”
“Mom!” Bianca protested.
Sphinx offered Pescoli a conspiratorial smile. “Look, Detective, this could help your investigation. If the homicide isn’t solved by the time of the airing, I’d be willing to put a tag at the end of the second episode, explaining the circumstances about the murder and, should anyone know anything, a number they could call along with a website dedicated to solving the case.”
Michelle actually gasped. “Oh! Perfect.”
No way. They weren’t going to sensationalize a fresh case with grieving parents. “Thanks, but I think the department can handle it,” Pescoli said dryly.
From the main room, after a screech of feedback, Carlton’s voice rang over the speakers. “Can I have your attention? Hey! Could everyone take a seat now? We’re ready to start with the program. Mr. Barclay Sphinx will talk with us, and he’s going to ask Bianca Pescoli about her close encounter. She’s agreed to let him ask her questions, so if you could all just take your seats. I know it’s standing room only, so those of you on your feet, please take a spot near the walls and please don’t block anyone’s view. Okay? . . . yes? Okay, we’re ready. So, without further ado, Big Foot Believers, let me introduce you to Bianca Pescoli and Barclay Sphinx!”
Amid a roar of clapping, Sphinx led Bianca to the stage, and as she sat in one of the chairs, he replaced Carlton Jeffe center stage, standing at the podium.
Michelle and Luke moved into the main area, the larger room filled with cheering, standing fans, but Pescoli grabbed a couple of cookies and hung back, grateful to stand behind the stage in the doorway and observe the performance while being able to watch everyone who was in attendance. The audience, after the heartfelt welcome, took their seats.
Carlton Jeffe hadn’t been kidding. The place was packed, standing room only. Three, or maybe closer to four hundred people filling the space. She picked out many faces she recognized, including Santana as he walked inside and, a few minutes later, Jeremy. Closer to the stage, Manny Douglas was chatting up a woman reporter for a television station based in Missoula, a reporter who’d interviewed Pescoli on more than one occasion.
As Pescoli munched on a dry store-bought gingersnap, she saw that Alvarez, standing next to Dylan O’Keefe, was already in the crowd, keeping back, but viewing the event as it unfolded. Even Blackwater had shown up, taking a position in one of the dark corners, for once, it seemed, content to blend into the surroundings and not try to be center court or in the limelight.
Shifting from one foot to the other, trying to stand beneath a cooling AC duct, Pescoli finished the first cookie and started on the second, all the while observing the proceedings. For the first forty-five minutes, Barclay Sphinx talked about his career, the shows he was working on and specifically the success of Big Foot Territory: Oregon! The crowd was quiet, aside from a few whispers and, despite the warning, a couple of cell phones that jangled and were quickly quieted. Sphinx was an accomplished speaker, gave anecdotes and examples and proved to be able to laugh at himself. He drew everyone in. All in all, the spectators were rapt, hanging on his every word.
“. . . so it only seemed natural,” he said, “that we do a spin-off. The network is pushing for it, and we’ve got a production crew ready to go. I mean they are already teed up. The only question was . . . where? We discussed Alaska and Northern California, but there was talk of Montana and when we heard, just recently, about several sightings in the area, capped by Bianca Pescoli’s encounter, we thought, well, I thought Grizzly Falls would be a perfect location for Big Foot Territory: Montana!”
The crowd went wild.
They hooted and hollered, and someone actually started a chant: “Big Foot! Big Foot! Big Foot!”
“And I’m thinking this group, the Big Foot Believers, could be a big help. With your knowledge of the area and history of sightings, your intense interest in Big Foot, I think we could find one and catch it on film!”
More shouting and yelling and clapping and whistling. Like a damned revival meeting.
Pescoli half expected to hear, “Amen, brother!”
Instead she saw Fred Nesmith approach the stage. “I need to ask you a question,” he said to Sphinx.
“Shoot.”
“That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say!” Nesmith was a tall man, and thin, with a long face, an Abe Lincoln beard, and deep-set eyes. Pescoli looked past him but didn’t see Otis Kruger, who’d been with him earlier. “Cuz this is a real reality show, yeah?” Nesmith questioned.
Ivor Hicks had joined Fred. He said, “Not scripted or nothin’, so we can really hunt the sumbitches. Like they do on that gator show.”
“Excuse me?” Sphinx said. “You want to kill a Big Foot?”
“Absolutely!” Nesmith said, and a handful of men nodded their agreement. Nesmith went on, “How else ya gonna prove that they exist? What we need is the real thing. A carcass.”
Carlton Jeffe stepped in. “Fred, let’s not start all that killin’ talk up again.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, we need proof. This here’s our chance to finally get it.” To Sphinx, Nesmith said, “You all got a chopper, right? For the production. And tents and SUVs—the country around here is pretty damned rough.”
“Whoa, there.” Jeffe’s jaw was tight. “Not now, Fred. Let’s hear what Mr. Sphinx has to say. You and Ivor, take your seats.”
“We’re just sick of sittin’ around and havin’ damned meetin’s,” Hicks grumbled. “We need some action!”
“You tell ’em, old man!” a voice yelled out from the teenage boys who’d been at the party over the weekend. Pescoli zeroed in on Bryant Tophman. “That’s right!” Bryant averred.
