Nancy glanced at the paper. One of the entries in the first group was Rethalstan: Hist & Cult.
She straightened up and looked around. If the switch took place here, the culprit had to act quickly, without drawing attention. It would take just a moment to slip a new tape from inside a backpack or under a shirt and drop it in the shopping bag. But what to do with the real tape about Rethalstan? Take it away? Or simply hide it? That would be a lot safer and less obvious.
Next to the bag of videotapes was a carton of pamphlets about UNICEF. Nancy opened it. Some of the pamphlets were scattered sideways. She lifted them. Underneath was a videotape labeled, Rethalstan, History and Culture. She picked it up and showed it to the others.
“That is it!” Vlad exclaimed. “That is the one I made. Look, you see I make the s different, with straight lines instead of curves. That is the custom in my country.”
“That’s not all,” George said. “The wording is different. On your tape, history and culture aren’t abbreviated.”
“But they are on the printed schedule,” Nancy pointed out.
Ned stared at her. “So whoever did the substitution had to have access to the schedule.”
“It looks that way,” Nancy replied. “Akai—?”
“I see where you are going,” Akai said, obviously upset. “We did not try to keep it secret, but there was no reason to make it public, either. I had a copy, of course.”
“So did I,” Cyril offered. “And the others on the steering committee—Vlad, Lance, Penny, Criselda, Joann . . . ”
“And Dina,” Vlad said bitterly. “Do not forget Dina. Who is more likely to spread slander about Rethalstan than a Gorvonian? Already she accuses me of this and that. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Where is Dina?” Bess asked. “I haven’t seen her all morning.”
“She went to pick up some of the musicians at the airport,” Cyril said. “She should have been back by now, though.”
From the direction of the stage, there was a brief ear-piercing blast of feedback. Nancy looked. A Mexican mariachi band was filing out of the tent at the rear and lining up before the mikes. One of the musicians was the man in the black-and-silver outfit she had noticed earlier at the IFC booth. He had a bass guitar the size of a cello strapped around his neck. It looked big enough to topple him forward.
The guitars began a fast rhythmic strum. The crowd of students started moving toward the stage. After the trumpeter played a descending melody that was clearly an intro, the others in the band leaned toward the mikes to launch into the verse of the song. Nancy couldn’t make out the words, but some in the audience sang along.
Ned moved closer to Nancy and murmured into her ear, “If Dina’s been away all morning, how could she switch those tapes?”
“Good question,” Nancy replied. “An accomplice?”
Ned knitted his brow. “Could be, but why take that chance? The more people who know a secret, the less a secret it is.”
“Who else has a motive, though?” Nancy wondered.
“What about Vlad?” Ned said. “If he can make people think Dina’s pulling dirty tricks on him, maybe they’ll vote for him in the IFC election.”
“He did just happen to be right there when the tape started,” Nancy recalled. “A coincidence?”
The first song ended. As the applause died down, the mariachi group went into another number. It sounded very familiar, but Nancy couldn’t imagine how she knew it. She didn’t hear much Mexican music. Then she burst out laughing. It was an oldie standard called “My Way,” translated into Spanish and played with a Latin rhythm. This was really world music.
As the mariachi band continued, Nancy studied the crowd. George and Bess were a few feet away, standing with J. P. and Cyril. Cyril had his electronic organizer out and was frowning at the tiny screen. He turned and said something to J. P., then the two of them walked away. Bess noticed and murmured to George, who gave a shrug.
Near the IFC booth, Lance stood next to a girl with short brown hair. He was showing her the brochure for the European bike trip and talking eagerly. The girl looked as if she wanted to escape. After a few moments she took a brochure, smiled, and walked away quickly. Lance’s face fell. Then he picked up another brochure and looked around for someone else to approach.
In a fenced-off area to the left of the stage, a crew was putting up tables and chairs for the international buffet lunch. They had lined up three long tables end to end and were starting to set out metal chafing dishes for serving hot food. Penny watched from the sidelines, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
Nancy glanced over her shoulder. Dina had just come through the entrance. The people with her were carrying instrument cases. Nancy thought she recognized a couple of them from the photo on the cover of the Rai Rebels CD. This was definitely going to make Bess’s weekend.
A fast, lively piece that got everyone up and dancing brought the mariachi music to an end. Cyril appeared onstage and took one of the mikes. When the applause died down, he said, “We’ll have more music from around the world throughout the day. Los Amigos will be back, along with groups from Algeria, Indonesia, Brazil . . . And don’t forget the dance tonight in the gym, and the gala concert tomorrow afternoon.”
Penny waved her arms wildly. Cyril saw her and added, “And the super international buffet, which will be starting in just a few minutes from now. Better buy your tickets. You don’t want to miss this chance to try delicious authentic specialties from all over.”
“I bet Penny could use some help setting up,” Ned said. “And the sooner it’s done, the sooner we get to sample the food.”
They collected George and Bess and went inside to the gym kitchen. Half a dozen IFC members were already helping. Dina and Vlad were among them. They carefully avoided even a glance at each other.
Penny directed people to transfer the foil-covered metal serving dishes from the warming oven to wheeled carts. Each dish had a printed card saying who had prepared it, what country it was from, and what it was.
As Vlad was carrying a tray to the nearest cart, the card that went with it fluttered to the floor.
“Oh, please,” Penny gasped as he picked it up. “Don’t get the cards mixed up, whatever you do! I’d never get them straight!”
“Let everybody guess,” a girl with a brown ponytail said. “Turn it into a contest.”
“You could call it ‘Name That Dish,’ ” J. P. added.
“Or how about, ‘Who Wants to Have His Stomach Pumped?’ ” a guy in baggy jeans and a torn T-shirt contributed.
“That’s enough of that,” Penny snapped. “People worked hard cooking something special from their homelands. They deserve thanks, not sick jokes.”
“Well, ex-cu-u-se me!” the guy muttered.
By the time they finished setting up the buffet, a line had formed outside the fence. Lance was at a little table, selling tickets. The girl ahead of Nancy handed him a twenty-dollar bill.
“Do you have anything smaller?” Lance asked, as he rummaged through his metal cashbox. The girl shook her head.
