Hidden Moon - By Lori Handeland Page 0,2

expecting a huge turnout this year, since a rare total lunar eclipse would take place that night.

Each year two to four lunar eclipses occurred, but only during a small percentage of them would the Earth totally cut off the sun's light from the moon.

As far as I knew, the Full Moon Festival had never coincided with such an event. Therefore not only would we be hosting the usual summer tourists, but also stargazers - amateur and professional - would arrive to observe nature's performance. Since many of the scheduled events took place at the lake, I understood Grace's concern about the Gypsies.

We wound down the two-lane highway - paved with asphalt, surrounded by gravel - into the valley where Lunar Lake gleamed.

In between the rich evergreen of the trees, the sun sparked golden shards off the clear surface. On the other side of the valley, the mountains rose toward a sky the same shade as the lake.

"So" - I turned away from the sight - "do you get a lot of Gypsy caravans through here these days?"

Grace pulled onto the hard-packed dirt trail that led to the lake. "Not a one."

"Are there any Gypsies left?"

"I think they went extinct about the same time as the Indians."

"More sarcasm," I said. "Goody."

Her lips twitched, but she didn't crack a smile. She so rarely did. "Gypsies are everywhere, Claire. Most people just don't notice them."

We came around the curve in the road, and Grace slammed on the brakes. For an instant I thought we'd traveled back in time - Romania in the 1700s perhaps?

I don't know what I'd expected to find. Tents? Hippie throwbacks? A homeless convention? I had definitely not expected to see a jumble of horse-drawn wagons and a crowd of brightly dressed... Gypsies.

"Well, you said there were still Gypsies," I murmured.

Grace glared at me, or at least I thought she glared. I couldn't see her eyes past the tough-cop sunglasses.

As soon as we'd come into view, everyone stilled. When Grace and I climbed out of the squad car, they stared at us as keenly as we stared at them.

They appeared as if they'd escaped from the Disney version of Hunchback of Notre Dame. The men wore black pants and colorful blousy shirts; the women, long rainbow-hued skirts and white peasant-style blouses with scarves covering their heads. Gold bracelets, beaded chains, and hoop earrings sparkled everywhere.

Several wagons were fitted with bars, and animals paced inside, though the conveyances were too far away, the forest too thick and shadowed, to determine any species. The horses

that drew the wagons were huge - Clydesdales maybe, though they didn't resemble the Budweiser crew, except in size. These were dappled gray instead of brown and upon closer inspection possessed broader chests and stockier rumps.

"Lake Bluff Sheriff's Department." Grace removed her sunglasses, hooking the earpiece in her shirt before striding forward with her hand on the butt of her gun.

Those nearest to her shrank back. The babble of another language rose from the ones behind them.

"Bull in a china shop," I muttered. I might have changed, but she hadn't.

Putting on my best CNN anchor smile, I moved up beside her. "I'm Claire Kennedy, mayor of Lake Bluff. Can I ask what you're doing here?"

The babbling slowed to a trickle, although everyone continued to stare. A few actually made the sign of the cross, or near enough. If I didn't know better, I'd think they were afraid of me. Or maybe they were just afraid of Grace.

"Take your hand off your gun," I whispered.

"Not."

"You're scaring them."

"Scared of the sheriff is a healthy thing to be."

I pressed my lips together. At my change in expression the indecipherable babble started up again. I raised my voice. "Is there anyone in charge?"

"Someone who speaks English?" Grace added.

"That would be me."

A ripple began near the back - sound, movement, an aura of deference as they bowed their heads. The crowd parted and a man appeared.

"Holy shit," Grace murmured.

I choked, not just at her words but also at the sight of him. "Holy shit" about summed it up.

He wore the black pants common to the other men and shiny knee-high black boots, but his chest was bare and shimmering with sweat or lake water, hard to tell without a taste.

I blinked at the thought, a type I hadn't had for a very long time.

Smooth, bronzed skin flowed over lean muscles and a ridged abdomen. A breeze blew in from the mountains and he tensed, biceps flexing, at the sudden chill in the air.

But