Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  Melly shook her head in disgust. “Along with everything else that man told you to do.”

  “Go on, dear,” Sylvie prodded. “Confession is good for the soul.”

  “I got the trailers ready back in Tulsa before we left. I made sure we had all the props,” Rebecca said. “Or I thought I did.”

  “She was over here on a lunch break a few days ago when Trace called her in an uproar,” Melly said, “bawling her out because one single prop was missing.”

  Rebecca held her hand to her lips with a fresh wave of tears, and she took another moment. “The dagger for the second act. We had this retractable fake one we used. But it must’ve gotten left behind at the last faire. I could’ve sworn I’d packed it, but after he called, I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

  “So where did the murder weapon come from?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Rebecca blew her nose into a tissue. “I just don’t know. Why hadn’t I packed his fake dagger? Why?”

  She dissolved into sobs, while Melly whispered comforting words and held her sister’s hands.

  On a nearby piano an antique clock ticked, and the distant bark of a dog punctured the quiet.

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt Trace?” Sylvie asked after Rebecca calmed.

  She only shrugged before lifting teary eyes. “Like I said, Trace was a man who offended people often. He was bossy, opinionated, and, yes, his ego could get away from him. So are there people who didn’t care for my husband? Of course. But it’s just not in me to think anyone we know could do this horrible thing.”

  Names. I wanted names! “But if you had to pick three people who most disliked—”

  “Thank you for coming, ladies,” Rebecca said. “I’m afraid I’ve visited all I can for one evening.” She rose, with a pointed look to the door.

  “We’ll enjoy this food.” Melly stood close to her sister’s side.

  “If you like those cupcakes, you feel free to tell your friends.” Frannie smacked a business card into Melly’s hand. “I’m selling them at the Ren Faire as a trial run for a business.”

  “We will indeed.” Melly watched her sister slowly walk back up the stairs before escorting us to the door.

  We stepped outside, and I turned back to Melly. “If you think of anything that can help us—or the police—please let me know.”

  “I’ll do that.” She glanced back into the house, then stepped onto the porch. “You might want to check on that Angela Simpson character.”

  “The lady playing Anne Boleyn?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Melly’s lips pursed in disgust. “She’s been bothering Trace and Rebecca for the better part of a year. That one’s not to be trusted.”

  “When you say bothered—”

  The door closed with a firm click, as Melly shut herself back inside and left the three of us standing on her front porch.

  I swatted a bug propelling itself to the nearby ivy with a detour by my face. “Well. That was interesting.”

  “They clearly know more,” Sylvie said.

  “Want me to plant a listening device or two?” Frannie asked. “I’ve got some new models I’m dying to try out.”

  “No!” Emma and I said in stereo.

  Frannie’s sandals flap-flapped as she walked down the sidewalk. “Spoiling all my fun. I could have this mystery solved in one day, but do they listen to me? No, ma’am. Gotta be all about rules and laws and ethics.”

  Sylvie followed right after her. “Like we didn’t basically save America and all of mankind at least a dozen times. Like three presidents don’t owe us their very lives.”

  “Girl, you know that’s right.” Frannie got into the van.

  Emma sighed gustily. “Where do we go from here?”

  “We talk to some more Ren faire people, compile a list of Trace’s enemies, talk to Cam about the dagger.”

  “I know that part.” She jerked her chin toward the van. “I meant what do we do with the two brooding super heroes?”

  “I think there’s only one thing we can do,” I said.

  “Take them out for ice cream?”

  “Double scoops.”

  11

  If heaven served ice cream, the Almighty would source it straight from Dixie Dairy.

  The gourmet ice cream shop had been a Sugar Creek institution for over fifty years. The sticky tables and original black and white honeycomb tiles could bear witness to engagements, broken hearts, and all forms of gluttony. They used fresh ingredients such as cream, local fruit, and caloric magic that made you temporarily forget about your expanding waistline or unsolved murder. It was said the greatest advances in these Ozark hills were the invention of indoor plumbing and the addition of the Dixie Dairy’s drive-thru window. At 9:30 that evening, we’d gone through that drive-thru and had sat in the van, working on our sugar high and hashing out our next plan of action. I was still licking on my waffle cone of strawberry swirl when we later pulled into the driveway I shared with Beau.

  “Look who’s sitting on your porch,” Frannie said around a bite of chocolate toffee. “That hunky neighbor of yours sure does know how to wear a pair of shorts, doesn’t he?”

  The headlights of the car illuminated Beau, sitting in a wicker chair, ball cap on his head, holding a fishing pole and casting a line into the yard.

  “Hello there, shug,” Sylvie said as she exited the car and sashayed toward Beau.

  “Miss Sylvie.” He stood to his full six-foot-something and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  My grandmother didn’t seem in a hurry to let him go. “You know there’s no fish in that yard, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just working with a new lure.” His gaze lighted on every one of us, but lingered on me. “What’s got you four out so late tonight?”

  “We ran to the Dixie Dairy,” Emma said.

  Beau’s arched brow said more than his lips. “Why do I get the idea you were out for more than a dessert fix?”

  “I can’t imagine why.” I licked my dripping cone. “Just four girls in need of sugar and carbs.”

  “I know where you can get some sugar,” Frannie said for my ears only.

  I elbowed my aunt. “Everything okay? Have you heard anything more from the police?”

  “Nope.”

  “Speaking of the police,” Frannie said, “I ran into Officer Matt Quincy at Bugle Boy Bagels this afternoon. He asked about you, Paisley.”

  “He did?”

  “Uh-huh.” She darted a quick glance at Beau.

  “Paisley has an air-tight alibi,” he said.

  “Oh, sweet thing, he wasn’t inquiring on behalf of the case.” Frannie’s grin was nothing short of devious. “He wanted to know if I thought Paisley would enjoy the Creekside Inn.”

  “Fancy!” Sylvie said.

  Beau frowned in my direction, but said nothing.

  “Our Paisley has a date,” Sylvie piped in.

  My cheeks flamed bug-zapper hot. “How about we discuss this later, Frannie?”

  “A date.” Beau’s hand on the fishing pole stilled. “Is that so?”

  His tone was like a booster shot of sass to my lips. “Yes, that’s so. Do you have a problem with it?”

  “Do you even know this Matt guy?” Beau asked.

  “We’ve met.”

  “There’s a killer at large and you’re going to have dinner with a stranger?”

  “He’s a cop,” I said.

  “He’s only been in town a few months,” Beau countered.

  “This will probably be the safest date since Shane Smith’s mom sat between her son and me at the movies in tenth grade.” What right did Beau have to question my social life?

  “Hmph,” Frannie grumbled. “That impedes the making out and the popcorn sharing.”

  “I love it when romance is in the air!” Sylvie looped her arm through Beau’s. “You’re back with Haley Jo, and Paisley’s dating a dashing man in uniform.”

  Emma gave a dainty sigh. “It’s like two sim
ultaneously running Hallmark movies.”

  “Have you met Officer Matt?” Frannie didn’t bother waiting for Beau’s response. “Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

  Beau’s tone flatlined. “He’s a dreamboat.”

  “He and Paisley have so much in common.” Frannie pulled me to her in a hug, a giant grin on her face.

  “That’s great,” Beau said. “I’d love to hear about all these mutual interests.”

  Frannie stilled as if someone had pushed her pause button. “Um. . .well. . .they both like to eat.”

  “Loooove to eat!” Sylvie chimed in like the choir.

  “They both love America?” Frannie was really scraping the bottom of the icing bowl now.

  Sylvie nodded. “So patriotic!”

  “And they both”—Frannie’s enthusiasm reached an embarrassing crescendo—“are sweet, adorable, single . . . and totally ready to mingle.”

  I made a mental note to never let Frannie write my online dating bio. “It’s just dinner,” I said, watching Beau carefully. “But it’s nice of you to be concerned.”

  He ran a tanned hand over his stubbly face. “I am concerned. Did you ladies go anywhere else tonight or just make an ice cream run?”

  “That’s super nosy.” Sylvie considered this for one millisecond. “I appreciate that.”

  “Frannie and Sylvie wanted to take food over to Melly’s for Rebecca,” Emma said.

  “You all went?”

  I ate the last bite of ice cream. “It was the neighborly thing to do.”

  Beau’s hawk eyes narrowed on me. “You’re not digging into this case, are you?”

  “Who us? Dig?” Sylvie chortled loud enough to hush nearby tree frogs. “There’s no digging.”

  “We wanted to offer our condolences,” I said.

  Beau walked to me, a faint scent of sunscreen tickling my nose. “You’re telling me that you didn’t ask one probing question?”

  It was hard to put words together when his mercurial eyes were so intense on mine. “Maybe one. Okay, two.”

  He shoved his hat back on his head. “This is dangerous territory. Let the professionals handle it.”

  “We are the professionals.” Sylvie strutted across the porch and stood by Frannie.

  “The ones with the badge.” Beau’s patience was thinner than his fishing line.

  “There’s no harm in talking to Rebecca.” I really didn’t care for his exasperated tone.

  “I don’t want anyone else hurt.” Beau rested his fishing pole against the wall. “You ladies need to be careful. If someone’s crazy enough to kill Trace, they’ll be crazy enough to kill anyone getting too close to the truth.”

  “Do you think Rebecca could be a suspect?” I asked.

  He shrugged, some of that alpha protectiveness deflating. “I honestly don’t know. I saw her maybe twice in my life. Nathan Moore knew Trace and Rebecca more than anyone.”

  “Then that’s who we’ll talk to next.” Sylvie yawned and jangled her car keys. “I better get home. I still have a few chapters to read for a book club selection—The Valiant Viscount Weds a Vivacious Vegan.” She laid a hand over her heart. “Will his love for bacon keep them apart?”

  Emma and Frannie followed Sylvie to the van and drove away, the stereo bumping with classic Tammy Wynette.

  Leaving Beau and me on the porch. Alone.

  A warm breeze whooshed by, setting the hanging ferns to dancing and the ceiling fans to spinning. Crickets chirped their goodnight song and stars twinkled beyond the trees.

  “You look tired,” I finally said.

  “I’m fine, Pop Princess.” Beau pulled his gaze from the stars above to study my face. “You look like you could use some sleep yourself.”

  “Seeing a dead man hasn’t been very conducive to my beauty rest.” But it wasn’t like I had lost an uncle. “Do you want to talk about Trace?”

  “No.” He all but growled the word. “So this date with the cop?”

  “What about it?” Tell me to cancel it. Tell me you’re writhing in jealousy.

  “I . . .” Beau opened his front door as an owl called in the distance. “I hope you have a good time.”

  12

  I wasn’t certain what I’d find Saturday morning at the faire grounds, but it sure wasn’t Alice, my top event planner, and Henry.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked my partner as I neared the faux village square. The faire crew had painted large sheets of plywood to look like thatched-roof houses and shops. Whether you were into history, fairy gardens, music, or theater, there was a little something for everyone. If the Ren faire group’s temporary setup was this impressive, their future permanent location was sure to wow people for miles around.

  Henry handed me a cup of coffee, his face its usual neutral mask. “I thought you could use some caffeine. And some help.”

  I took a sip and nearly floated to the clouds in ecstasy. “You came out here to help me?”

  “I did. And Alice volunteered to join us.”

  Alice’s messy bun looked more haphazard than usual, and she rubbed a bleary eye. “Henry means I’ve missed so many days, he gave me the option of working this morning or helping out with the banquet at the frat house Friday night.”

  That was a no brainer. Apparently at the last Beta Kappa Delta event, the formal dance turned into a mud wrestling competition on the ballroom floor. “Well, I’m grateful to both of you for the help. You guys are awesome.”

  “We’re quite aware of that.” Henry was pretty clear on his strengths. “I read your files last night, and I think I’m caught up.”

  “Just once I’d like to work an event where the client doesn’t drop dead.”

  Henry lifted his own coffee cup. “Remind me not to put you on any more birthday parties.”

  Basically, I was the Sugar Creek Angel of Death.

  Faire employees and volunteers gathered nearby, as Nathan had called yet another seven o’clock meeting.

  “Here comes Agent Wild and Agent Crazy,” Alice said.

  I didn’t have to turn around to know she was referring to my grandmother and Frannie.

  “Did I miss anything yet?” Sylvie held up the hem of her gown, a voluminous masterpiece in red and gold.

  “Sylvie, what are you doing here?” I knew I wouldn’t like the answer.

  She tugged up her sagging corset. “I’m going deep, Paisley. Allowing myself to be embedded with these Ren fairies—while under the guise of a local senior citizen who simply wants to help. I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled, talking to the natives, and looking for anything peculiar.”

  A portly man walked by in chain mail and very tiny shorts.

  Henry took another sip of coffee. “You’ll blend right in.”

  “And she’s gonna help me sell my cupcakes,” Frannie said. “Everyone’s probably pretty gloomy and anxious, so it’s the perfect time to offer icing-covered goodies.”

  “Word among the serfs and peasants is Cam’s still not here,” Sylvie said. “Don’t you find that interesting?”

  “I talked to a few cop friends,” Frannie said. “And they’re not saying a word. Nathan said the police have spent a lot of time inspecting the knife tossing booth, but nothing was missing there.”

  “When are they gonna realize what a help we could be?” Sylvie fanned her offended face. “Sweet tea in the mornin’, it’s hotter than a keg of dynamite. I thought this Ren faire thing might be my new hobby, but how do these people stand these costumes all day? I’ve got sweat streaking down my holster-bra, and it’s not even eight o’clock.”

  Nathan appeared, dressed in period garb complete with a different tunic and cape. He climbed a small stage and didn’t have to wait long before the crowd quieted. “Good morning, everyone.” His somber face matched the mood of the gatherers. “Today’s going to be a hard day, but we’ll do what we always do—pull together as a family. All showings of the evening production are canceled except for our scheduled fundraiser on our final night,
but the daily royal parade will continue as usual. When things get difficult, remember we’re doing this for Trace.” Nathan paused a moment, as if he wasn’t sure his voice would hold out. “I know I’ll see him everywhere I look. Everything here has his hand on it, his touch. But we owe it to Trace and his memory to make this a success.” He consulted his notes. “For the sake of time and man-power, I’ll take over as King Henry. Once more we need a Catherine of Aragon, and Angela has again volunteered and stepped down as Anne Boleyn.”

  “Actually, Angela can keep her role.”

  Everyone turned at the familiar, unexpected voice.

  The crowd parted, and Trace’s widow walked to the front.

  “Rebecca.” Nathan’s face reflected the surprise we all felt. “What are you doing here? You should be resting.”

  “The show has to go on,” she said. “There are too many people counting on this festival.”

  “That’s not why you’re here!” Angela marched forward, her voice ringing with fury. “You couldn’t stand to think I’d be queen, could you?”

  “That’s the woman Melly wanted us to check into,” I whispered to Sylvie.

  Rebecca took a step closer to Angela. “You’re not a queen. You’re the king’s second pick.”

  “I think you’re mistaken,” Angela said. “Anne Boleyn was the one he desired the most. She eventually became his wife anyway.”

  Sylvie leaned toward my ear, but didn’t bother to whisper. “I do believe we have some subtext here.”

  “Yes, and what happened to your Anne Boleyn?” Rebecca asked. “Wasn’t she beheaded?”

  “Rebecca—” Nathan reached for the angry woman. “Let’s all take a breath and calm down.”

  “You’re lucky you have a role at all in this cast,” Rebecca said to Angela. “It’s taken you years to finally ascend from playtron to cast.”

  “And now you want to take this role away from me—like you took away Trace?”

  “Oh.” Frannie’s eyes went wide. “This is getting good.”

  “Like I took Trace away from you?” Rebecca’s gentle voice amped up to full volume. “What’s that supposed to mean?”