by Joan Hess
“I can understand that,” I said. “I’m sure a lot of children in your situation do the same thing.”
Edward tried to blink away the tears welling in his eyes. “One day I saw them—all four of them—walking on Fisherman’s Wharf. Michael and Stephanie were holding hands. The children had balloons. I followed them all afternoon. I’d just gotten up the courage to approach them when they got in a car with a Nevada license plate and drove away. I felt like I’d been slapped.” He turned away, his shoulders hunched and trembling.
It was almost—but not quite—enough to move me to tears as well. I went around the counter to pat him on the back. “Edward, you’re going to have to tell me your father’s name. You told me that you came to Farberville specifically to find him. By now you surely know enough to step forward and acknowledge him. Instead, you’re playing some silly game that only hurts you all the more.”
“I just can’t get up my nerve,” he said in a low voice. “It could go so wrong. Another slap in the face, but this one would sting forever. No more silly fantasies about Michael and Stephanie, or anybody else.”
“You’d still have your mother.”
“She packed up and left two years ago. She didn’t even warn me before she disappeared, but later I heard that she was living on a farm up north. Not long after that, one of her old friends told me that she died and was buried courtesy of the state. No funeral, nothing.” He paused and wiped his eyes. “My college friends made more of a fuss when their goldfish died and was flushed into eternal bliss. We had to crowd into the bathroom and sing hymns.”
I felt worse than what might euphemistically be considered evidence of the proximity of livestock. He was still a kid, despite his college diploma. I was begrudging him what family he might have. Carlton’s relatives were not likable. In truth, most of them were loathsome, and that was putting it kindly. However, Edward would have aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as Caron and me.
“Okay, Edward,” I said, “let’s cut to it. Tell me your father’s name.”
“When the time is right.”
My sympathy was rapidly being replaced with exasperation. “I have no idea why you’re being so coy about this, unless you enjoy tormenting me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I really don’t know, Edward. Just tell me his name and get it over with—okay?”
He fidgeted for a moment, then said, “I promised Fiona that I’d go out to the mall and draw a crowd so she can sell tickets. She’s picking me up in half an hour, so I need to get home and change into my garb. You’ll be at the Renaissance Fair tomorrow. We can talk then.” He dug into a pocket and handed me a folded envelope. “These are free tickets for admission and the banquet. The Duke and Duchess have requested your presence at the royal table. You don’t have to wear garb if you don’t want to, but it would be better. Lanya said she’ll find a gown for you. I’ll see you there.”
He scurried out the door, leaving me to gape at the envelope.
I went into the office, picked up the phone, and dialed a familiar number. “Luanne,” I whimpered, “we have a problem ...”
Chapter Eight
on Saturday morning Caron was long gone before I bestirred myself to crawl out of bed. I’d yet to see what she and Inez were wearing, so I could only hope that they had anticipated Fiona Thackery’s wintry judgment. If they incurred her disapproval, she’d have two semesters to exact her retribution. Julius Valens had supervised their selection from the theater department’s wardrobe. He, too, would have enough sense to keep the girls’ cleavage covered. Caron’s, at least. Inez had expectations.
Luanne had agreed to go with me to the fair, but had balked at the idea of attending the banquet. Her comments about eating greasy food with one’s fingers while seated on a long wooden bench had not imbued me with enthusiasm. I could see no way out of it. I was to be an honored guest of the Duke and Duchess of Glenbarrens, who might call for my beheading if I snubbed them. Sally had lost herself in the role of Madam Marsalia d’Anjou to such an extent that I was concerned about her unraveling sanity. If I failed to take my place with the Duke and Duchess, as well as Lord and Lady Bicklesham (the Threets), the Baron of Firthforth (Salvador), Sir Kenneth of Gweek (Benny), Squire Squarepockets (Julius), Lady Olivia of Ravenmoor (Fiona), and whomever else, I would hear about it for months, if not years. Sally has not only the bulk of an elephant, but also its memory. A rogue elephant that tramples villages and everything else in its path, including bookstores.
And after all, with the exception of slippery fingers, how bad could it be? There would be lots of pomp and pomposity, processions, heralds, trumpets, and so forth to amuse the bourgeois. Wine, as well as lemonade. Entertainment from Pester the Jester, the musicians, the madrigal singers, the dancers, and, of course, the fairies. Their faces might be green with greasepaint, but they would be bright red underneath it. Two hours, max. I’d spent longer than that in a sadistic plastic chair in an airport.
I avoided the side street when I walked to the bookstore. Business was brisk, as it usually was on Saturday mornings when my regulars discover the need for books on gardening, decorating, grilling, or escaping into fantasy in a hammock The sky was dotted with only a scattering of clouds, boding well for those who would park in a pasture and slog through weeds. Toothy Dan, the weatherman on the local TV station, had predicted sunshine and temperatures in the mid-eighties. A lovely day for parsley, sage, rosemary, and mead.
Sergeant Jorgeson came into the store late in the morning, dressed in slacks and a cotton shirt. “Ms. Malloy,” he said with a nod, “I thought you might be at the Renaissance Fair.”
“Luanne’s picking me up at one. Aren’t you and Mrs. Jorgeson going?”
“I fear we are not. A number of her relatives—sisters and cousins and aunts and such—are arriving later this afternoon. Maybe nieces and nephews. Ex-husbands and stepmothers. She comes from a large family prone to divorces and remarriages, and I have difficulties figuring out who they are. Instead of spending the weekend relaxing on my deck, I am working my way through a list of chores.”
I tried not to smile. “And I made the list? How fascinating.”
“Technically, I am on the way to the paint store. Mrs. Jorgeson has decided the guest bathroom is dingy, so we’re going to paint it lilac. I just stopped by to tell you that we’ve made no progress identifying the victim of the fire. The remains have been sent to the state lab. We won’t hear from them for several weeks.”
“And the arsonist?”
He shrugged. “No one has admitted seeing anything. Most of the residents on the block were either at the biker rally or in their living rooms watching TV. The woman next door had her blinds drawn. All of the residential fires in the county in the last year were caused by wiring, space heaters, or stupidity on the part of the homeowners, so there’s no reason to think we have an arsonist in the area. Until we identify the victim, we have no leads as to motive. The young man whose name you finally brought to my attention had nothing useful to contribute. We are at a standstill, which is a very unsatisfactory position to be in. Lieutenant Rosen will not be pleased to find the open file awaiting him when he returns.”
“Tomorrow,” I said firmly. “He called two nights ago and said he’d be home late in the afternoon. I’ve made dinner reservations.”
Jorgeson hesitated. “Have you? Well, I must continue on in search of the perfect shade of lilac, which I believe is a fancy name for purple. Please permit me to ask a small favor of you, Ms. Malloy. I have a feeling that some members of the Renaissance society are not being entirely candid about this woman named Angie. I’ve interviewed all of them. There’s a sense of conspiracy, although I have no idea what it involves.” He stopped, struggling to clarify his thoughts. “Odd comments, shaky laughs, evasiveness. I’ve learned over the years that even the most innocent witnesses can be unnerved when questioned by the police. These people, however, are keeping secrets that may or may not be relevant.” Looking s
traight at me, he added, “As you have been known to do, Ms. Malloy.”
“Me?” I said huffily.
“It has happened,” he said. “I would appreciate it if you could talk to them, and see if you get the same feeling. I don’t mean you should interrogate them or anything like that, but chat.”
“They’re not my close friends, Jorgeson. I doubt anyone is going to mention buying kerosene on the afternoon of the fire. That sort of thing rarely comes up in casual conversation.”
“Perhaps you underestimate their fondness for you, Lady Clarissa.”
My mouth was still open as he left. Had I missed something on the nightly news or on a banner outside the bookstore? I found the local newspaper and leafed through it until I came to an ad promoting the Renaissance Fair. Dates, times, location, events. A map indicating the location of Lanya and Anderson’s realm. And a list of dignitaries at the banquet, including one Lady Clarissa of Farberville, better known as local bookseller Claire Malloy. I could almost see Salvador’s smirk as he’d made sure my name was prominently displayed in the ad. I could only hope that Serengeti smothered him in his bed one night.
When Luanne arrived, I locked the store and got into her car. “Shall we have lunch before we join the festivities?” she asked sweetly. “Or would you rather not be seen in public with a lowly peasant?”
“Don’t you dare say that name,” I growled.
“Whatever pleases Your Ladyship. I suppose we can make do with charred turkey legs and tepid ale.”
I let my head fall back against the seat. “ ‘Now is the winter of our discontent,’ “ I intoned, “ ‘made glorious summer by this sun of York
“So it’s the summer of our discontent.”
“Don’t split hairs.” I told her about my brief conversation with Edward. “I still have no idea what he’s going to do,” I went on, “but I may have to move to York. Not New York, though. With my luck, I’d bump into the lovely Leslie as she came dashing out of some très chic boutique. I’d be wearing sweats and sneakers. Baggy sweats and sneakers with holes.”
“Has she shown up in Mommie Dearest’s mansion yet?”
“I don’t know. It’s a touchy subject. Peter didn’t say anything when we spoke, and I didn’t ask. Of course I had to bite my lip so hard that it swelled up as if I’d run into a door.” I gazed out the window at the passing array of fast food joints and used-car lots. “Jorgeson came by earlier, too. He hasn’t made any progress finding out about Angie. He thinks some of the ARSE people know more than they told him.”
“Do you?” Luanne asked as she serenely drove through a yellow lightģ
I considered this for a minute. “Not really,” I said slowly. “Edward’s the only person in the group who admits to having met her. Rhonda Maguire and her coterie did go to her house for one dance session, so we know she was more than a voice on the telephone. According to Caron, they did not enjoy it. A couple of them cried, and one has bruises from being wacked with an umbrella. If somebody had thrown eggs at Angle’s front door, I’d suspect them. Arson, no.”
Luanne began to curse under her breath. “Look at this traffic! You’d think this was a Grateful Dead concert if it weren’t for all the children hanging out car windows. This is going to be a nightmare, unless Your Ladyship has special parking privileges. Where are the cops when you need them?”
The cops proved to be a hundred yards farther up the road, uniformed and already sweaty. We were directed into a pasture where acned teenagers in plastic orange vests pointed and blew whistles as drivers obediently pulled into designated spots. One particularly grim teenager marched over to an errant driver who was attempting to turn around and began to screech at him. I could see the kid had a promising career as a drill sergeant in the military—if he wasn’t run down in the immediate future.
“Guess this is where we park,” Luanne said. “I hope I can find it when I leave. What are you going to do? The banquet’s not until six.”
“This is not what I expected. I was planning to go back with you, and then have Caron come pick me up later. She and the other workers had to be here early. They’re probably parked at the far end of a pasture in a different area code. She and I may be stuck here until the banquet’s over. I shouldn’t have agreed to any of it, including the demonstrations on the portico. I may not be a doormat, but I seem to have a lot of footprints on my back.” I caught Luanne’s arm as we began to trudge across the pasture. “And if you refer to me as ‘Your Ladyship’ one more time, I’m going to tell Gudgeon you have a mad crush on him but are hopelessly shy. He can climb rock walls, you know. He could scuttle up the side of your building and be in your apartment in ten seconds—and in your bed in another five.”
“As you wish,” Luanne said meekly. “It’s just that I’ve always been entranced by royalty. I’m not completely sure Charles won’t ditch Camilla and come riding up Thurber Street in a twenty-four- carat carriage to whisk me away. Now that you’re titled, you can be one of my ladies-in-waiting. Imagine what a jolly time we’ll have frolicking with the corgis on the grounds of Balmoral and riding to the hounds.”
“Balmoral or Bellevue?”
At the corner of the pasture, we were herded down a path that led to the fair. Above the gate was an arch decorated with plastic roses and brightly painted cardboard shields. Two teenaged girls sat behind a table, selling tickets. Ten dollars for adults, five dollars for children under twelve, free for those six and younger. I gave the girls the two complimentary tickets, twenty dollars for the women’s shelter, and accepted site maps indicating the locations of stages, food tents, vendors, portable toilet facilities, the first-aid station, and a list of the times for performances. Visitors were warned to watch out for beggars and pickpockets.
Luanne and I moved out of the stream of chattering ticket buyers and tried to make sense of the map. The pasture was cluttered with tents sporting banners, stalls, picnic tables, and temporary stages. I could hear musicians playing enthusiastically. A loudspeaker crackled as the time of the next competition was announced. The crowd surged along the walkways between the tents. Most wore shorts and T-shirts, but a few were in their version of medieval attire. The loudspeaker crackled again, this time urging people to attend an exhibition of falconry next to the pony rides. A juggler in a top hat and a ragged tuxedo was setting off squeals from a herd of children.
“Goodness,” I murmured, having expected a much dinkier production. Instead, the scene looked as though a medieval circus had rolled into town the night before. “Shall we see if we can find the food court? Caron and Inez are likely to be there.”
“Where did all these people come from?” asked Luanne, as awed as I. “Some of them…well, some of them need to be sent back right away. Look at them! If that woman so much as sneezes, her buttons will go flying off like bullets. And those oafs in burlap- bag tunics and boots. Talk about beer bellies. If I were married to one of them, I’d be wearing the burlap bag over my head. Sheesh!”
“Be charitable,” I said. “Think of yourself as a social anthropologist doing field work.”
“I’d rather think of myself as a pampered princess drinking gin and tonics in the garden behind Buckingham Palace.”
“I hope you’re not frittering away your life savings while you wait for Charles.”
“What about Grace Kelly?” she countered. “Or Mrs. Wallace Simpson and Queen Noor? Rita Hayworth married Ali Khan. It happens all the time.”
“Keep telling yourself that when your children put you in a home for delusional indigents.”
We joined the crowd, doing our best to stay on the sidelines. It was slow going, since the vendors’ tents were held up by ropes staked to the ground. Luanne stopped to admire a display of bead- work. I wandered ahead, keeping an eye out for familiar faces (and potential escape routes). It wasn’t possible that the entire population of Farberville had turned out for the fair, but it certainly felt like it. I spotted the mayor and his wife eating ice cream bars at a picnic table. T
he young couple who owned the newsstand were dressed in garb. She was quite fetching in a blue gown, and he seemed at ease in a wizard’s cloak. A member of the English department with a secret craving for romance novels waved at me. His wife, whose stash consisted of fantasy paperbacks, was wearing a tight suede jacket and long skirt; she looked ready to have a sunstroke at the first opportunity. A stooped crone hobbled by, her robe and broad-brimmed hat so thickly covered with scraps of rags, ribbons, and tin trinkets that she resembled a heap of rejects from a donation bin. Robin Hood and Friar Tuck stood outside a booth, talking on their cell phones. A beggar in black rags tried to wheedle money from a monk with a pierced lip. Somewhere to the left of us, a roar of laughter indicated a performance that was apt to be bawdy.
I was beginning to enjoy the sense of frivolity when Edward, now clad as Pester the Jester, wobbled up on his unicycle. “Good day, Lady Clarissa,” he said as he teetered in front of me, somehow managing to stay atop his contraption. Several people stopped in hopes of seeing an undignified sprawl. “The Duchess of Glenbarrens bids you wait upon her at your earliest convenience. She and the Duke are in the Royal Pavilion. What say you, milady?”
I looked back, but Luanne had disappeared. She was a pushover for jewelry, and was no doubt having a fine time. I nodded at Edward. “I shall heed the Duchess’s request. Alas, I must admit I know naught of the location of the Royal Pavilion. Whither might it be found?”
“I will show thee the way.” He spun around and went wobbling off, dodging children with painted faces and clothes streaked with dribbles of ice cream.