Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  Sylvie leaned closer. “Who was it?”

  “I’m . . I’m not sure. Angry voices. Trace and someone else.”

  “Just one person?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

  “No. But I think so.”

  “Man or woman?” Sylvie asked.

  “I don’t know.” He seemed to give it some more thought. “There was so much noise from the attendees, I could hardly hear. But there was definitely yelling.”

  Sylvie barely kept the exasperation out of her voice. “And you didn’t feel the need to peek in on Trace?”

  Cam tugged on his hoodie strings until there was but a porthole for his bereft face. “Well, now I know I should have! But ask anyone—people yelling at my boss is not an unusual occurrence. So I left.”

  “What were they arguing about?” I asked.

  “I thought I heard someone say ‘you double-crossed me.’ Or maybe it was ‘you’re not the boss of me? No, no, it was definitely ‘you double-crossed me.’” Mumbling to himself, Cam retreated back into his hoodie. “Maybe it was you should’ve flossed your teeth . . .?”

  “Cam, do you know where the new faire grounds will be?”

  “No. Why?”

  I didn’t know. It just seemed like it might be worth knowing. The secrecy was a little strange. “No reason.”

  “I think that’s enough Q and A for today.” His mother walked to the door, all but telling us to hurry. “Thanks for stopping by and agitating my son.”

  Sylvie shook the woman’s hand. “It was our pleasure.”

  “The cast would like you to come back, Cam.” I lingered at the door, wondering if I was inviting a murderer back into the fold. “They need you.”

  “But how can I return? I supplied the murder weapon.”

  “The question is”—Sylvie waited until she had his full attention—“ how can you not? If there’s ever been a time you’re needed, it’s now. Are you going to let your faire family and the good people of Sugar Creek down?”

  Cam shook his head, and I could almost hear “Eye of the Tiger” reaching a crescendo in his head. “No,” he said. “No, I will not let my people down.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, shug.” Sylvie gave him a buss on the shoulder. “And if you think of anything else that might be relevant to Trace’s murder, please let us know.”

  Cam found his first smile. “Until the morrow, my ladies.”

  “Until the morrow.” I shut the door behind us and locked eyes with Sylvie. “Well?”

  “He’s a fruit basket with extra bananas, but you gotta love him.”

  I slipped on my sunglasses. “We say the same thing about you.”

  She blew me a kiss as her boots clip-clopped on the driveway. “But being lovable doesn’t make Cam innocent.”

  “But if he’s not the murderer, then he’s the last one to hear his—or her—voice.”

  “You double-crossed me.” Sylvie repeated Cam’s words as she started the car. “Assuming Cam is telling the truth, who did Trace double-cross?”

  “I’m not sure. But whoever said it—that would be our killer.”

  15

  Mondays and I had never gotten along.

  She was a total mean girl, and though I always tried to fly under the radar and avoid her wrath, I was frequently Monday’s merciless target. I suspected she was jealous of my unbridled passion for the weekend.

  By 9:00 a.m., I’d spilled a green smoothie on my white blouse, stepped in warm bubble gum on the sidewalk, and soothed an irate mother-of-the-bride determined to go off like a faulty Roman candle.

  Sitting at my desk at Enchanted Events, I put down an insulated cup big enough to double as a rain barrel, deciding kale was probably an angry vegetable I wanted no part of. Especially now that I was wearing it.

  “You’re zoning out on me again,” Henry said from his own desk. We shared this office, just like we shared the business. My work space made one think of the remains after a tornado lifted, while his looked like he was anticipating a visit from British royalty. In my defense, I could find anything in my Zone of Chaos, as Henry liked to call it. Though sometimes you had to give me a half hour. Or so.

  “I heard what you said, Henry.” I entered some data on an event file.

  “Okay.” He ceased all work and gave me the stare down. “What did I just say?”

  I flicked some remnants of green still clinging to my chest. “You asked me whether you should get your nose ring in your left or right nostril.”

  “Not even close.”

  “While I’ll respect your choices, I still argue that a one carat stud is just flat ostentatious.”

  Henry was warming up to me by the day, and I thought I saw his lips almost smile. “Alice was late again this morning, wasn’t she?”

  “She’s running a bit behind.” Alice, the employee who’d been here the longest and single mother of two, was normally as reliable as a pair of Spanx. “Also she needs a few more days off.”

  “No. It’s our busiest season.”

  I let my head drop back against the chair. “She has sick days. Isn’t she allowed to use them?”

  “She’s blown through every one. We’re stretched way too thin, Paisley. You’re working day and night. I’m now handling Alice’s birthday party for the Thompson triplets. You know how I feel about small children, especially when they come in duplicates.”

  “You can’t wait to have twelve of your own?”

  “They’re sticky and whiny and don’t understand personal space.”

  “They do rudely expect conversation and attention. Those short, selfish things.”

  “How about we focus on the event at hand?” His voice held that beloved pompous authority.

  “Do proceed.” Farmer’s Foods, with a corporate office in the nearby town of Bentonville, wanted Enchanted Events to design a scavenger hunt for their management and marketing staff, a fun day of teamwork that kicked off their quarterly sales meeting. “Stop one is settled. But for stop two, I’m still working on a poetic clue to get them to the fountain at the town square. What rhymes with britches?”

  “Nothing good. Should we send them to Sugar Creek Art Gallery next or Monique’s House of Bacon?”

  I’d yet to meet Monique, but I figured we could probably be the best of friends. “You know where my vote lies.”

  We worked out the rest of the destinations for the scavenger hunt then brainstormed competitive activities at each stop.

  “How was Sunday’s faire?” Henry asked, not bothering to look up from his laptop as he typed.

  “Hot as Frannie’s oven, but blissfully uneventful. I only stayed a few hours.” I’d gone to church with Sylvie, desperate to have a few moments that didn’t involve work. “I hired extra security to keep an eye on things until we reopen this weekend.” The faire was far from over, but there wasn’t much Nathan and his crew required of me Monday through Thursday. Most of the workers and volunteers went back to their day jobs during the week, and thankfully, I got to shut out most things Ren Faire and dive into new events on the calendar.

  “Layla said you were here pretty late Sunday night,” Henry said.

  “This festival has taken so much of my time, my other events are suffering.” Surely Henry saw that. “I’m pretty certain some of our clients think I’ve forgotten about them. Like this morning’s angry mama.”

  “If you keep going at this pace, you’re going to crash and burn,” he said.

  “I’m fine.”

  Henry swiveled his chair toward me, and the leather squawked as he reclined. “Instead of working to the point of delirium, you could ask for help. You use your employees and delegate.”

  “Like when you ask me to get your latté and Soap Opera Digest?”

  “I’m serious. I don’t know what’s going on with Alice, but you need to talk to her. Layla leaves on vacation next week, and we’re stretched too thin.”

  “You know I don’t like confrontation. You talk to her.”

  Henry stood.
“You said you wanted me to train you in every aspect of running Enchanted Events. Part of that training includes handling employees. This is your chance.”

  “Oh, so busy though.” I clicked my nails over the keyboard. “Lots of typing to do over here. You should probably take this one.”

  “Paisley—”

  “My only previous work experience includes a dysfunctional pop band. Unless Alice suddenly starts requesting chilled Perrier, peeled kiwis, and purified air at her work station, I’m really at a loss here.”

  “You’re a boss now.” Henry stood and walked to my desk, warming up for one of his lectures. “This job is more than throwing glitter and parties. You have responsibilities. You have employees. And if one employee falls behind, you can clearly see how it affects the rest of us.”

  “Fine. I’ll deal with it.”

  “When?”

  “Later.”

  “When, Paisley?”

  I’d had enough of Henry for today. I still owned five percent more than this lippy fellow. I pushed away from my desk and stood, ready to give him some what-for.

  Only to be distracted by the sight outside my office window. I inched closer, my nose pressed against the antique panes.

  “Hm.” Henry pointed toward the sidewalk. “Is that your boyfriend walking with Haley Jo Madewell?”

  Beau strolled down the brick path, Haley Jo at his side, so close there wasn’t space to slide a butter knife between them. I simply wasn’t buying anything Beau said to contradict my theory they were once again a couple. “She’s like a runway model with this really tiny waist and a deceptively big brain.”

  “And zero personality.” Henry watched the duo disappear into a shop. “You said you didn’t want to date Beau Hudson.”

  “I don’t. Or I didn’t. No, I don’t. But I still don’t want to see him with somebody . . .I mean somebody who’s not right for him.”

  Henry raised one dark brow. “I thought you two had a mutual agreement not to get tangled up.”

  The details of a conversation with Beau about our not pursuing one another romantically were kind of blurry now. “I don’t care who he dates. Like I’d even have time for him? Please. No, I’m too busy dealing with our second murdered client, the festival has turned into this needy child, I’m wearing kale, you want me to reprimand Alice, and . . .” I reached into my lower left drawer where I’d stuffed three candy bars in a file marked Manna From Heaven. “And I’m just in dire need of a Midol.”

  “You know what all these things have in common?”

  “My need for highly processed foods and an inappropriate morning drink?” I sank into my chair and rested my head on my desk.

  “You need some rest.”

  “I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I have a nightmare dead people are foreclosing on our property. Why do dead people keep following me, Henry? I ruined a rock career and now I’m ruining Enchanted Events.” I knew I sounded irrational with a tinge of crazy, but this was what dead bodies and lack of sleep did to me.

  Henry sat in his seat and wheeled it beside me. “You’re not ruining Enchanted Events. We have more business than we can handle, and our clients who don’t keel over are incredibly happy. Word is spreading like crazy.”

  I sniffed indelicately. “Probably through the area coroners.”

  “You need to focus on the good that we’re accomplishing and let the rest roll off your back. The more you look for the sky to be falling, the more you’re gonna find evidence you need an umbrella.”

  “That’s deep, Henry.”

  “You’re smart, you’re capable, and Enchanted Events isn’t sinking—yet. And as for Beau and Haley Jo?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have no idea, girl.” He rolled his brown eyes. “Do I look like a couple’s counselor?” Henry slid back to his desk and consulted his calendar. “It says here our last share time was six weeks ago. Let’s try not to have another soul-baring pow-wow till Christmas, okay? And I want you to talk to Alice by closing time.”

  And with that Henry got up and left the office.

  Opening the drawer, I slid the chocolate back into the lumpy file—just as Layla popped her head in the doorway.

  “Boss?”

  “Yes?”

  “Someone’s here to see you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “She says her name is Anne Boleyn.”

  16

  “Angela, come in.”

  My visitor wore a striped top and hot pink shorts that showed off her hourglass figure, with toenails painted to match. Without her stage makeup, she looked no older than thirty, and when she removed her sunglasses, there were hints of fatigue beneath her eyes. I certainly understood a bone tired that no concealer could hide.

  I gestured to the seat before my desk. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t drink caffeine.” She crossed her tanned legs as she sat. “I try to limit my vices.”

  I wondered if one of the vices she’d kept was murder. “How can I help you?”

  Angela smiled hesitantly. “Nathan told me you were a member of the Electric Femmes. I used to listen to your band all the time.”

  “How nice. Thank you.”

  “Are you and Jaz still friends?”

  My relationship with the former lead singer was territory I really didn’t want to visit with anyone but a therapist I couldn’t afford. “We don’t get to visit much these days.”

  “I loved that song “Tutti, Fruity— My Boo’s Got a Fine Bootie.”

  That tune was just one item from a list I called Things Producers Talked Teen Me into Doing That I Wasn’t Proud Of. “I believe that hit was one of our earliest tracks. It went to number three on the pop charts.” Though none of us were sure how. “I wasn’t aware you lived in Sugar Creek.”

  “I don’t. I live in Siloam Springs.” The town was the halfway point between Sugar Creek and Tulsa, so it made sense she’d connected with the Renaissance folks in Oklahoma. “I’m actually a photographer.”

  Interesting. “I’m sure it’s hard to be off work during festival season.”

  “I work from home. I can get my job done whether I’m back in Siloam or here.” She looked toward the ceiling, blinking back moisture, as if trying to hold off the oncoming flood. “I feel closer to him here though.”

  “Closer to. . .?”

  “Trace. This is where he grew up, where his dream was finally realized.”

  “I see.” Questions popped like jumping beans in my head, and I didn’t know where to start. “I’m sure the loss of Trace has been difficult for you.” I let my voice trail off, hoping she’d pick up the conversation and fill in some blanks.

  “You have no idea.”

  “You two were. . .close?”

  Her head bowed, her glossed lips quivering, Angela fought for composure. “I heard you solve mysteries.”

  Oh, no. I knew where this was headed. This conversation needed a serious detour. “I’m just an event planner. Definitely not a detective.”

  “Didn’t you solve a homicide just a few months ago? Someone told me about it at the faire, so I pulled it up on the Internet, and sure enough, you’re a local hero.”

  “I might’ve solved one little murder, but my own life was on the line. And I had a lot of help.”

  “If the police couldn’t solve your case, how can we trust them now?”

  It was a reasonable question. “I’m sure the detectives are doing their due diligence. They’ve talked to everyone who stepped foot at the faire that day.”

  Angela inched to the edge of her seat and leaned close, as if sharing a secret. “I’ve heard they’re zeroing in on Trace’s nephew, but he didn’t do it.”

  I blinked and leaned in closer myself. “Do you have information you need to share?”

  “I think they’re letting the real killer go free.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Rebecca.”

  She wasn’t mincing words. “Do you h
ave proof?”

  “I don’t need proof. I feel it in my gut, and my gut never lies.”

  My gut had told me to eat a double order of nachos last night, and that hadn’t ended very well. I had little confidence in Angela’s instinct. “I’m afraid your personal conviction isn’t much to go on.” And it certainly wouldn’t clear Beau.

  “I know everyone thinks I’m nuts for believing Rebecca—the angel of the Renaissance faire, the Mother Theresa of the Tudors—could possibly have an evil bone in her body, but I’ve seen her dark side, Paisley. And so had Trace.”

  “What could Rebecca possibly gain from killing him that she couldn’t in a divorce?”

  “Murder never makes sense. Maybe it was anger, greed, jealousy. Or maybe she just plain derailed. Rebecca lived in this loveless marriage for such a long time. She’d always hang in there waiting for the day for Trace to love her like she loved him, but he was never going to. He was really unhappy in that marriage. And with him dead, she gets all his business and assets instead of just half. And we’re already seeing signs of her taking over the faire. This morning she fired a crew member, changed the last scene of the play, and made some purchases on the faire bank account.”

  “I don’t exactly get murderous vibes from Rebecca,” I admitted. If anything, I got the vibe that she liked to stay at home, knit, read extra thick novels, and maybe watch some public television. But the last homicide had certainly taught me not to count anyone out. “So . . .you and Trace were . . . more than friends, right?”

  Angela straightened and looked me directly in the eyes. “We were. I know I should be ashamed of it, but I loved that man. I loved Trace in a way that Rebecca never would. She didn’t get him like I did—didn’t appreciate him or even care.” She paused a moment while she collected herself. I reached into my desk and pulled out a tissue. “Trace was a little rough around the edges, sure. But he was good to me. He made me laugh. We shared a common love of history. We had plans, you know?”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “Plans to get married.”

  “Did his wife know this?” And did the police?