Anna had spent her senior year living with a great aunt who’d possessed way too many cats and not enough hearing aid batteries. I’d left school by then, traveling the globe with the Electric Femmes, and had seen Anna only a handful of times.
“I should have known Trace would fail me,” Beau said. “He was constantly running a scam—from convincing old ladies to fund his pyramid schemes to selling bootlegged movies out of the trunk of his car. But I’d hoped he cared about his family enough to pull it together for Anna’s sake.”
My heart ached for the boy Beau had been, and the man who was still hurting. When my hand covered his, he squeezed my fingers and didn’t let go. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to be the parent. No kid should have to make decisions like that.”
“When I saw Trace three days ago, it was everything I could do not to punch him till he cried.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to. I always imagined what I’d say to my uncle if I ever saw him again. In my mental dress rehearsals, I kept my cool. Showed him I didn’t care. Instead I practically yelled at the guy and threatened to throw him off my property. In front of people, no less.”
“He had it coming. If I’d known all this, I probably would’ve body slammed him to the ground myself.”
“Pop Princess, I would’ve liked to have seen that.”
“I still don’t understand how the police could think you’d have time to kill Trace.”
“There were quite a few people in the backstage area. I just happened to be in the vicinity because I checked on that blasted generator.”
“I wished you’d never responded to your uncle’s call.”
Beau released my hand and stood. “I was helping you.”
“It was very sweet of you.” And look where it got him. “Who do you think hated Trace enough to kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Beau said. “But you and your CIA posse need to stay out of it.”
“Uh-huh.” Now that Beau was possibly a suspect, I was warming up to the idea of doing a little nosing around.
“I mean it, Paisley. I don’t know who murdered my uncle, but I don’t want anyone else in their sights. In fact, I’ll come inside with you and check your house.”
“No. That’s not necessary.” I had my unmentionables hanging all over the bathroom like a tent city of underwear, and dirty clothes piled into mountains of poor intentions.
Beau studied me for a moment before seeming to decide I wasn’t backing down. “Fine. But when you go inside, lock your doors, lock the windows, and you call me at the slightest noise.”
“Okay, Beauregard.” I walked to my front door, loathe to leave the intimacy of the porch, but weary to the bone. “And you do the same.”
“Call you?”
“Yes.” I smiled at Beau, wondering what was going through his pretty head. “If you hear the slightest noise, I’ll come save you.”
“Paisley?” Beau extracted his house key from the pocket of his jeans. “Thanks for waiting up for me.”
The screen door creaked as I peeled it open. “That’s what friends are for.”
8
Early the next morning I drove out to Fox Falls, my brain numb, and my eyelids just as puffy as the days when I’d stay up for three days straight playing sold-out gigs with the Electric Femmes. I crossed the first cattle guard on a dirt road, cranking up the air conditioning as I took a drink of my coffee, barely tasting my favorite blend.
Nathan had called a 7:00 a.m. meeting, and all the cast and crew would be in attendance. I knew from a late night phone call that the police would probably clear the faire grounds for tomorrow, except for the dinner theater and cast tents. But would Nathan and his troupe want to carry on? How did you continue without your co-founder? How did you play pretend in this happy, imaginary world when reality had been so gruesome?
Beau’s truck was already parked at the lodge, and I considered stopping in, but kept driving past until I reached the faire grounds. I got out of my car, blinking against a vibrant sun who hadn’t gotten the message it was a sad, unsettling day. Not a cloud in the sky and the temperature a little cooler, it would’ve been an ideal day for the faire. Bypassing the more flashy items in my closet, I’d gone for a more subdued look today, wearing simple dark wedges, black pants, and a gold lame blouse I’d purchased years ago at Pat Benatar’s garage sale.
Ida Alderson was the first to greet me, foregoing her long skirt and vest for shorts and a floral t-shirt, carrying a basket in the crook of her arm. “Sausage biscuit?”
“Oh, thank you.” I took the offered bundle, unwrapping the parchment paper to find a still-warm biscuit.
“Rex set up the jelly station over by the big oak tree. Grab yourself some juice or coffee.”
I held up my cup. “I’m good for now.” Taking a small bite, I nodded my approval. “Did you make these for everyone?”
She handed a biscuit to a passerby. “We stayed up all night cooking. Couldn’t sleep a wink. I like to use those times productively.”
“As do I.” If watching Netflix and trolling the internet to spy on old boyfriends counted.
“Cooking’s what I do when I get stressed.” Ida waved to someone who called out his appreciation.
“She used to smoke,” Rex said as he approached. “Last night I got two pies and a cake, so this is definitely better.”
“Though terrible circumstances to inspire your baking.” I watched Nathan Moore greet his faithful troupe, stopping to talk, offer a hug, or bestow a comforting word. Taking attendance, I searched for the core cast. Understandably, Rebecca was absent. Angela stood to the side, tears swimming in her eyes, looking completely bereft. Where was Cam?
“I just can’t wrap my mind around the fact that Trace is gone,” Rex said.
His wife shook her salt-and-pepper head. “Or that someone would kill him. And my Rex had the bad fortune to be behind the cast tent when it happened.”
Rex’s nostrils flared. “That detective talked to me like he was ready to cuff me and take me downtown.”
“And that’s his sweet side.” I spoke from experience. “So, um, what were you doing near the cast tent, if I may ask?”
“Bringing them their dinner,” Rex groused. “I give away free fried chicken, and now I’m a suspect for murder? I’m a culinary philanthropist—not a criminal!”
“You’re not a suspect, dear.” Ida frowned. “Right, Paisley?”
My brain tumbled over the truth to get to a comforting response. “Surely not.” But the sad fact was Lady Justice could body-slam even the most innocent of us all.
“Good morning, everyone.” Nathan’s voice carried over the crowd, a strong, Southern influence that soothed and offered a kind authority. “Our Renaissance faire family has suffered a terrible loss.” He waited for the rumblings of dismayed agreement to pass.
In front of me stood a man in a leather skull cap with his arm wrapped around a softly crying woman. Sadness hovered in the air like morning creek fog, and I scanned the group to see if any faces showed guilt, anger, or even indifference. Could Trace’s killer be standing among us now?
“I spoke with the police just a moment ago,” Nathan said, “and they’ve given us the option of opening the faire tomorrow—if you’re ready. But I want you to really think about this decision. Forget about the money, forget about expectations and just think about what you’re truly able to handle.”
“We’re committed to this festival” Rex Alderson called.
“A little scared,” Ida added, “but committed. But we gotta do it—for Trace. It’s what he would’ve wanted.”
“I agree.” Angela Simpson stepped beside Ida and Rex, her blonde hair swinging in a long braid down her back, her face devoid of makeup. She blotted her eyes with a tissue. “This event was his dream. We can’t stop now.”
“Yeah!” called a guy from the back.
“On with the faire!” yelled another.
“Show of hands wh
o wants to continue tomorrow?” Nathan counted the hands pointed toward the sky. “All right, meet back here at six in the morning. We’ll put on the best performances of our lives—for Trace.”
“For Trace.” Angela raised her quivering voice. “For Trace.”
I stuck around until the crowd cleared, leaving just Nathan and a few stragglers. He wore dark jeans, loafers, and a navy polo, and I realized I’d never seen the bank president so casual. I knew he took vacation time to work the faire, and besides losing his friend and business partner, perhaps now even the faire itself was in jeopardy.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Nathan.” I approached him as he looked out over the tents and structures in the distance as if searching for answers. “Are you sure you want to open tomorrow? There’s no rush if you’re not ready.”
“It’s so hard to even think about.” His words spiked with disbelief. “I feel like I’m walking through a nightmare.”
“I’m sure Trace was a good friend. It’s a devastating tragedy.”
“He and I had known each other since kindergarten. We’d lost touch until about ten years ago, then found this mutual interest in Renaissance festivals. Bringing the faire to Sugar Creek meant everything to him. He wouldn’t want us to stop the show.” He took a drink from his coffee cup and shook his head. “Too many people are depending on us—either for entertainment or for income. We can’t quit now.”
“Enchanted Events will do whatever we can to make this the best faire ever to honor Trace.”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what he’d want.”
“Nathan, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but do you know anyone who’d want to hurt him?”
“Surely, this was just a random murder,” he said. “A senseless crime with no motive by a total lunatic. Do you really think someone targeted Trace?”
What an odd thing to say. Was he just in denial? “We don’t have a lot of dagger stabbings in this town. Is anyone in the cast or crew trained in the art of knife throwing?”
“The dagger was thrown?” Nathan bowed his head, pressing a hand to his side, as if the thought physically pained him. “Most of us have worked the knife tossing game at the faire. But I don’t know anyone who has that kind of ability.”
“It would appear someone timed the murder just right—when Trace was behind the curtain, out of view, and on the stage all by himself. I doubt it was just a random passerby.”
“He wasn’t the easiest to get along with, but everyone knew that about him. If they couldn’t handle him, they just quit. Certainly not a reason to kill him.”
“What about his wife?” I asked.
“Rebecca?” The furrow between Nathan’s eyebrows deepened. “What about her?”
“Had she mentioned to anyone about marriage troubles, money problems, or perhaps anything unusual happening?”
“It’s no secret Trace had a wandering eye. I’m sure marriage to him was never easy, but Rebecca has stood by him for years. And she certainly isn’t a suspect for his murder.”
My face heated at his tone. “I didn’t mean to suggest that. Just trying to get a better idea of who Trace was, you know?” I let my voice trail off, words and tact failing me. I wanted information, but clearly, this wasn’t the time.
“Rebecca is a saint among women,” Nathan said. “She sews costumes for the cast, she’s tirelessly supported Trace for decades, and she’s always helping—working morning and night in the background, giving her all for the Renaissance faire.”
“I feel terrible for her,” I said. “Did someone stay with her last night?”
“Ah”—he paused and greeted a departing worker—“Rebecca spent the night at her sister’s, I believe.”
“Who’s her sister?” “Melly Pittman. Husband owns Pittman Construction.”
And our recent addition to Sexy Book Club. I was increasingly discovering our bi-monthly group had become more than just ladies reading romance novels, but sisters sharing life. I made a mental note to send her a card.
“Have you seen Cameron?” I asked.
“Cam?” He glanced about. “No. Trace was his hero, so he’s taking it pretty hard. I’ve tried calling him, but he won’t answer. I guess he’ll come back around when he’s ready. We could sure use his help.”
“I’ll see what I can do about that.” My phone buzzed in my hand, and I let it go to voicemail. “That’s Henry. I need to update him.” And get his advice on how to salvage this event. “Nathan, I want you to know Enchanted Events will work morning and night to make this festival a success.”
“Thank you.” He let out a ragged breath. “That is a welcome assurance.”
I had more questions I wanted to ask Nathan—about himself, about Rebecca, and about the cast.
But today wasn’t the day.
I fired off a text to Henry, one to my employee Alice, then walked toward my car.
“Paisley?”
I turned at an unfamiliar voice and found a uniformed police officer walking my way on thick-soled shoes with a smile that rivaled any Hollywood hero’s.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“I’m Officer Quincy.” His dark blond hair and infectious grin reminded me of a California surfer. “I mean, Matt. I’m Matt Quincy.”
“Oh.” That was all I was capable of saying? Oh?
“I’m friends with your aunt Frannie, and she mentioned giving you my number.” He seemed a little embarrassed at this line of conversation, but pushed through like a champ. “She thought we might have enough in common that I wouldn’t bore you to death at dinner, but I couldn’t help but notice”— he tapped the pocket over his chest—“I haven’t received a call or text.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“I know you’re busy. You’ve got this event, your business, and probably a whole string of rock stars on your speed dial.”
He said it with such adorable sarcasm, I couldn’t help but join in. “I did just get off a conference call with Beyoncé and Jay-Z. I’ll tell them you said hello.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Then he laughed again, a deep, melodic sound that probably had old ladies and nuns fanning themselves. “Well, I wondered if you weren’t too busy . . . if you might like to have dinner with me.”
I wasn’t sure what his uniform was stuffed with more—muscles or charm. “I’ll think about that.” I nodded toward the faire grounds. “I have a lot going on.”
“Sure you do. Business seems to have picked up for me as well.”
I wanted to say yes to his offer. I vaguely remembered being carefree and flirty, someone who would’ve enjoyed this moment. Instead my brain took this opportunity to bring up every heartbreak I’d ever endured, every lying word my ex-fiancé ever said about me, and the hot shame I’d swum through these last few years. And then there was a certain man with the wicked grin and ocean eyes, who was as grown up as Matt was boyish, as dark as Matt was light.
“I’m sure it’s not every day you deal with a murder,” I said.
“I’m from Dallas, so it’s certainly not my first, but I didn’t anticipate a high body count in Sugar Creek.”
Don’t stick too close to me, as it seems to be a regular occurrence.
“If you find yourself in need of a meal and a break, you let me know.” He dipped his head in a nod. “I hear you had quite the reintroduction to Sugar Creek, and as a newcomer, I’d love to hear all about it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I slipped my sunglasses over my eyes. “It was nice meeting you, Officer Quincy. Good luck with the case.”
9
The Fox Falls lodge was a bustling building, full of outdoorsy types coming and going en route to their canoes, hiking trails, ATVs, and fishing poles. It sat in the same place where the weathered barn built by Beau’s grandfather had proudly stood, and Beau had used some of the lumber on the lodge’s interior. I made a pit stop there on my way out, a coffee in one hand and a sausage biscuit in the other, reinforcements I�
��d taken from Ida and Rex, thinking Beau was probably even more weary than I was. The sun now worked overtime, challenging my deodorant, and microwaving my hair to a poof level of eight. New lines of sweat slinked down the back of my top as I walked through the lodge entrance, the blast of cold air-conditioning baptizing my skin. I bypassed Rob at the front desk and walked straight to Beau’s office.
“Hello! Breakfast delivery service. I—” My hand froze on the doorknob as Beau extracted himself from Haley Jo’s arms. “Oh. I’m . . .” Dying, mortified, humiliated. “I’m so sorry to interrupt.”
“Paisley, come on in.” Beau moved to the door, his hand at my back as he nudged me inside.
“No, I should go. I was just—”
What was I doing?
What were they doing?
He returned to his desk, and Haley Jo wasted no time in attaching herself to his side.
“Detective Ballantine just left—again,” Haley Jo said as she slid her manicured nails up and down Beau’s back—a gesture meant to comfort and, according to the pouncing tigress look in her eyes, establish proprietorship.
“What more did he have to talk about?” I took a drink of Beau’s coffee, already deciding he didn’t need it as bad as I thought he might.
“Just wanted to clarify some details,” Beau said.
Haley Jo’s face was ridiculously pretty even contorted in outrage. “And accuse Beau of murder.”
“What?”
“Nobody’s accused me of a crime.” Beau took a step away from Haley Jo’s meandering hands.
“He told you not to even think about leaving town,” she said.
I was familiar with those instructions. “I think they like to intimidate anyone connected with the deceased.”
“I had a very public argument with my uncle, everyone knows I couldn’t stand the guy, and there are witnesses that put me near the crime scene before and after it happened.”
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