Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “You know very well what it means,” Angela said. “You killed Trace.”

  As if we all had scripts that said to react, every one of us morphed into an exaggerated reaction of shock.

  “I know you did it.” Angela pointed a finger at Rebecca, her long sleeve billowing. “Who has access to all the weapons and props?”

  “Lots of people actually,” Rebecca said. “My husband, Cam, Nathan, —”

  “And you. Trace’s beloved wife.”

  Nathan tried to interrupt once again. “Ladies—”

  “The part that you have correct is that I am Trace’s wife,” Rebecca said. “And you’re not. But you know what you are? You’re one in a very long string of women, Angela. Let me guess—he told you he loved you? He told you he was leaving me for you. Did he also tell you to be patient? Did he say he’d never felt like this before? Does any of that sound familiar?” Rebecca almost looked sympathetic. “Do you seriously think you’re the first person he’s fed all those lines to?”

  Angela stood silent, her hands shaking.

  Frannie reached into the box she carried and took a bite from a cupcake. “This is better than my General Hospital.”

  “Beats the mud-slinging frat boys any day,” Alice said.

  Rebecca surveyed the growing crowd. “I didn’t kill my husband.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Nathan said, his hand at Rebecca’s back. “But this is a conversation for another time and place.”

  “She could’ve easily snuck onstage and killed Trace,” Angela said.

  “And what would my motive be?”

  “You wouldn’t give him a divorce.”

  Rebecca’s laugh was completely devoid of mirth. “Sorry to make it inconvenient for you.”

  “Enough,” Nathan said. “Angela, you’re completely out of line. This woman just lost her husband.” He curved his arm around Rebecca’s shoulders. “Rebecca, you’ve endured a great deal, and you’re upset. Let me have someone take you to Melly’s.”

  “So she can be queen?” Rebecca glared at Angela. “I don’t think so. This is where I want to be, Nathan. I can’t just sit at my sister’s house and do nothing. This is my festival too, and I want to help.”

  “Angela,” Nathan said, “maybe it’s best if you left.”

  “I’ll play Angela’s part!” Sylvie threw her hands to the sky. “Pick me! Pick me!”

  “We don’t have time to keep filling in roles with replacements,” called another cast member.

  “Angela can stay,” Rebecca said hotly then pointed her finger right at her. “But you better keep away from me. You don’t talk to me; you don’t take one step in my path. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t take orders from you.” Angela bowed up like a cat about to pounce. “And I’ll never stop believing you killed your own husband.” And with that, Angela Simpson flounced away, her dress stirring up dust in the cropped field.

  The group dissipated in a cloud of whispers, including my grandmother and aunt.

  “This kind of tops the time the mother of the groom performed a voodoo curse at the wedding reception,” Henry said.

  “At least everyone survived that event.” I left Henry and Alice to troubleshoot any new faire needs and went in search of Nathan. I found him a few minutes later deep in conversation with a woman adorned in a floral crown along with her drum-toting boyfriend.

  I waited till the duo walked away then approached the weary leader. “Hey, what was all that back there?”

  “Paisley, I’m glad you’re here. This whole thing is a mess, and clearly everyone’s on edge. I’m at a loss on how to even proceed.”

  “Trace was having an affair with Angela?”

  “Who wasn’t Trace having an affair with?” He pulled a phone from his pocket and checked the screen. “I shouldn’t have said that, but it wasn’t any secret. I’ve known Trace for a long time. Being an adulterous gigolo was just part of his charm, I guess.”

  I glanced back toward the village square. “Rebecca didn’t seem surprised by anything Angela said. I wonder how long she’s known her husband was cheating on her.”

  Nathan fired off a quick text, giving me a brief glance. “Long enough apparently.”

  That didn’t really answer my question. “Living with an unfaithful man could certainly wear a person down.”

  Now I had his full attention. “Rebecca would never harm anyone. She’s the kindest, gentlest, most selfless person I know.”

  Interesting. There was that flash defensiveness again. “Remind me how it is you met Rebecca? Was it through Trace?”

  “No, I knew her before he did. We all went to school together. She moved here in junior high.” He gave a wry smile. “She and her family actually worked an act in a traveling carnival till her parents split and her mom relocated them here. She had quite the unusual upbringing.”

  “And she and Trace were high school sweethearts, right?”

  Nathan looked over my head, watching a group of musicians pass. “They didn’t start dating until the end of our senior year.”

  One police officer and a very official looking person with a badge clipped to his belt strode toward the dinner theater tent, ducked beneath the tape, and went inside.

  “I wonder how long the space will be off limits,” Nathan said. “We can cancel most of the shows, but the very last night is incredibly important.”

  “We’ll just hope for a resolution before then.” Two more uniformed cops slipped into the tent. “Did anything seem off to you that night?” I asked.

  “No more than usual.”

  “Do you recall where everyone was toward the end of intermission?”

  “I guess that’s the big problem. We all split up and went our separate ways for the last remaining few minutes of our break. Trace took his spot on stage. Angela said she was going to get some air. Rebecca went to the bathroom. Who even knows about Cam’s whereabouts.”

  “And you?”

  “I escorted Rebecca.”

  The portable toilets were quite a ways from the tent, so it certainly made sense Rebecca wouldn’t want to go alone in the dark.

  “Do you recall seeing Cameron at any point after you and Rebecca left?”

  “No, but we’ve all learned to ignore him. He could’ve followed Trace for all I know.”

  “Rebecca said Trace’s dagger was normally a plastic prop with a fake blade.”

  He nodded. “I’ve been giving that some thought. It was missing when the trailers were unloaded.”

  “Who was charged with handling the replacement?”

  “I’m not sure. I vaguely remember Trace harassing Cam about it, but I got busy, and following up on it just wasn’t my job.”

  And now Cam was noticeably absent. “Can you think of any reason Cam might have to harm Trace?”

  “I can’t imagine him hurting anyone, Paisley.” Nathan frowned. “But he did have some trouble a few years back at the Muskogee faire he used to work. He helped them out for a number of years, but I’m pretty sure at some point they asked him not to come back. I’ve never pried into what happened. Knowing Cam, it’s completely innocent.”

  But what if Cam got fired for something sinister? What if this guy’s geeky, aw-shucks demeanor was just a front for criminal behavior? “What about patrons or co-workers of Trace? Maybe he owed somebody some money? An angry husband of one of his girlfriends?”

  “When it comes to Trace, I couldn’t begin to guess,” Nathan said. “But I know the immediate faire family, and I know our cast. I’d like to believe none of those people could ever do such a thing.”

  Nathan may have thought his friends were completely innocent.

  But I wasn’t so certain.

  13

  “Ohhh, boy, do I have a hot tip for you. Can you get away for a bit?” Sylvie met me in the faire parking lot at lunchtime the next day. “I have a little field trip for us.”

  A text from Alice pinged from my phone. “I don’t know, Sylvie. I was going
to check on things at Enchanted Events.”

  “It’s important.” Her cheeks flushed with heat, she pulled her bodice away from her skin. “Plus a short car ride will give me some much-needed time with an air conditioner. It’s hot enough to cook biscuits in my brassiere.”

  Detective Ballantine chose that moment to appear from the shadows like a specter of doom. “Anything I should know, Mrs. Sutton?”

  Sylvie didn’t even blink once with guilt. “Well, hello there, detective. Just talking corsets with my granddaughter here. But I’ll be glad to share what I know about those—if that’s your sort of thing.” Her voice dipped to a saucy stage whisper. “I don’t judge.”

  His scowl should’ve been accompanied by thunder claps.

  I turned at the sound of melodic whistling, finding Matt Quincy a few paces behind the curmudgeonly detective. “Hello, ladies.” Matt’s grin came easy, as if the blistering heat and grumpy Detective Ballantine didn’t faze him a bit.

  Sylvie read Matt’s name badge. “And a good evening to you, Officer Quincy.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sylvie, Paisley’s grandmother. I’ve saved the world a few times.”

  Matt grinned. “I don’t doubt that a bit, ma’am.”

  Sylvie blatantly looked at me and waggled her eyebrows.

  “You two ladies wouldn’t be meddling in my investigation, would you?” Detective Ballantine gave us both the interrogation stare down.

  “Nah.” Sylvie smacked her piece of gum and smiled. “We’d never dream of such a thing. Matt, I hear you’re going to take my lovely granddaughter out for a date.”

  He angled his head and met my eyes. “Taking your lovely granddaughter out next week.”

  “She likes dancing,” Sylvie said.

  What? “No, I don’t.” Was she crazy?

  Sylvie sized up the young officer. “Her last date flew her to Paris for dinner.”

  Oh, glory. “That’s completely false.”

  Matt chuckled. “I appreciate your setting the bar high, Mrs. Sutton.”

  “My, look at the time.” Sylvie lifted a wrist completely bare of a watch. “We should be going. Things to do. People to see.”

  Ballantine set his jaw, a bulldog ready to growl. “Just make sure none of that interferes with my investigation.”

  “You got it, sweet potato.” Sylvie pulled me toward her car as she threw out one last tip. “Matt, my granddaughter likes frequent texting and periodic flowers!”

  “Duly noted,” he called.

  I fluttered my fingers in a wave, then shut myself inside Sylvie’s car.

  “He’s cute. I could totally see him on the cover of a Sexy Book Club novel.” She tossed her purse in the backseat.

  Yes, he was quite handsome. I’d be a fool to let that chance pass. “So, where are we going?”

  Sylvie flicked the air conditioning on high, sending her hair to flying. “Sarge’s Pawn, Tackle, and More. I got a big tip on the murder weapon.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, we pulled up to a big metal building. Two chickens chased an old hound dog in the gravel parking lot, while three burly men sat on their motorcycles smoking and shooting the breeze. A large white sign hung atop the building, and hand-painted letters crookedly declared this the home of Sarge’s Pawn, Tackle, and More. Well, at least Sarge appreciated the Oxford comma.

  “What’s the and more?” I asked.

  “Stuff that’s barely legal.” Sylvie slid out of the car, and I followed. “Sarge and I go way back.”

  Walking inside, I couldn’t help but gawk like a tourist. Black paint covered the windows, as if the sun were the enemy. There was a section of clothing—all created in the limited color wheel of black, green, and camo. Everything on the hangers appeared to have lots of pockets and hidden compartments.

  Sylvie lifted the sleeve of a sweatshirt that said Preppers Make Better Lovers. “I’m seeing lots of Christmas gifts for your mother.”

  On a back wall hung weapons of every variety, including a wide array of knives that looked like they could easily slice barbed wire. For the reading clientele, the store offered an impressive library of survivalist books on every topic from gardening to fire-making to running from the law. Sylvie picked a book up and flipped through it.

  “Here’s a bestseller on creating a new identity for yourself.” She scanned a few pages before she put it back. “Amateurs.”

  A quarter of the store contained nonperishable food items, such as beans, rice, and canned goods.

  I picked up a bag of dried peas. “If I can’t get ice cream during a lockdown, just put me out of my misery.”

  “Ladies, how can I help you?” asked a man from behind a counter display of switchblades.

  “Don’t pretend like you didn’t call me, Sarge McShane.” Sylvie sashayed toward him, eyeballing his case of knives.

  “Sylvie.” He nodded once, with a beard big enough to hide half his inventory. He wore saggy overalls and a white sleeveless shirt with Old Glory flying right over his belly. Tattoos decorated both arms—a faded gallery of snakes, Jesus, a few words of the First Amendment, and the face of Martin Luther King.

  “You missed our class reunion again,” she said.

  “Couldn’t go.” Sarge tapped his fingers on the top of the case. “I had to stay here and fix the air pump for my hydroponics.”

  “Shame. This was the year I was gonna nominate you reunion king.”

  He smiled, revealing impressively straight white teeth. “I got robbed at our senior prom.”

  “Nobody will ever convince me otherwise. Allow me to introduce you to my oldest daughter Paisley.”

  I smiled. “She means granddaughter.”

  “Sarge McShane.” He bumped his fist to mine. “Welcome to my oasis of vital necessities.”

  “What are you the sergeant of?” I asked.

  “My own militia. When the world implodes, we’ll be the only ones to survive. If you want to join us, we’ll teach you hand-to-hand combat, legal tax evasion, and how the government is leading you like a lamb to slaughter.” He handed me a pamphlet. “We meet on Thursday nights after The Bachelor.”

  Sylvie rested her arms on the glass and leaned toward him. “Before we get down to brass bullets, are you hearing any underground buzz?”

  “Just the usual.” Sarge let his gaze travel over his store before returning his attention to us. “The dollar’s about to collapse, we only have three years left before the oceans dry up, and the president has confirmation of Martians living in California. That sort of thing?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean,” Sylvie said. “There was a murder in this town, and you have your ear to all the comings and goings of the dark side of Sugar Creek.”

  He jabbed a finger toward the entrance. “The dark side of Sugar Creek is those frippy antique shops that keep popping up. Do we need one more doily store?”

  Sylvie turned to me. “His ex-wife runs two of them.”

  “Yeah, I can smell her tootie-fruity candles from here. It’s just a siren song for terrorists. Bread crumbs for the enemy. All they have to do is follow the trail of her lilac, Bahama breeze, coconut-spice, pine-needle assault to the ozone.” He took a gusty breath, as if willing himself to rein it in. “But enough about things that offend my delicate nostrils. How’s your friend Frannie?”

  Was Sarge blushing? With all that facial hair, it was hard to tell.

  “She’s fine,” Sylvie said. “Trying to get a cupcake business off the ground. If you ever stepped foot off your compound, you could go into town and see for yourself.”

  “I’d buy her cupcakes. Does she deliver?”

  “Sarge, you’re avoiding the question.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said. “I’m avoiding the answer. Everything in this store has a price tag. You know what I’m saying?”

  Sylvie rolled her eyes. “What do you want, you crazy extortionist?”

  “Baked goods and that Beyoncé of a woman.”

  “I can only guarantee
you the one that comes with icing.” Sylvie continued when his eyes went round with hope. “And that would be the cupcakes.”

  “Fine, but I want Miss Frannie to deliver those baked goods.” He leaned closer and dropped his volume. “Dairy and gluten free, please. I’ve gone Paleo.”

  “You promise you won’t kidnap her and make her your bunker wife?”

  The man hesitated.

  Sylvie pulled out the teacher voice. “Sarge . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, I promise. Now word on the street is Trace’s widow had herself a little honey bunches of oats on the side.”

  Sylvie turned to me. “I think that means a boyfriend. And does this source confirm it’s the bank president?”

  “They might’ve thrown that name out there.”

  “This isn’t really a big explosion of revelation here,” my grandmother said. “That’s only worth one cupcake at best.”

  “I’m building up to the big finale.” Sarge waited a few seconds, clearly a man who appreciated a dramatic pause. “The murder weapon was bought right here.”

  Sylvie let this statement roll around in her crowded brain. “You sure about that?”

  “Yep. Police were in here just this afternoon. I didn’t give them much because that beaked-nose detective snubbed my three-for-one sale on dehydrated hot dogs, but that weapon information I did have to share.”

  “When did you sell the dagger?” I asked.

  “Tuesday”

  “Who’d you sell it to?”

  “Can I get sprinkles on those cupcakes?” At Sylvie’s nod, Sarge continued with a pleased grin. “I didn’t tell the cops, but they’ll be back with a warrant for my video surveillance.” Sarge regarded me with pride. “I’ve got thirty-two cameras in this store and another fifty-seven on the outside property. And I bet you can’t see a one.”

  Sylvie was not impressed. “I already winked at three of them and disabled five. All before I got to the front register. Now who bought this dagger?”

  “Young kid. Skinny dude. Real nervous eyes. Looked like he was afraid I’d stuff him in a giant rice bag any second.”

  Cameron. “Is this him?” I pulled up a photo of Cam from the faire social media page.