by Cindy Brown
My cell rang. Cody.
“What’s going on? What’s happening?” My brother’s voice was high, stuttering, veering toward losing control. “Is the knight dead? Where are you?”
Then, “Ivy, I think we should go now.” Sarah’s voice. She must’ve taken the phone from Cody.
“Yeah,” I said. “Everything’s under control here.” Riley was being tended to by one of the EMTs. Bianca knelt next to him, rubbing his back. “Meet you at the car.”
Ten minutes later, Matt and I caught up with them in the parking lot. Cody’s brain injury caused mood swings, and he was crying big, gulping sobs. Sarah held his hand and whispered to him, her face close to his. I went to him and hugged him until his chest stopped shaking and he pulled away. “Is he dead? Is the knight dead?” he asked.
“No,” said Matt.
“Are you sure? How do you know?”
“When they took him to the ambulance, he had an oxygen mask over his face. They only do that if you’re alive.”
“Oh.” Cody got his breathing back under control. “Okay. But what happened?”
“We’ll tell you about it on the way home,” said Matt.
He and I explained the scenario as well as we understood it on the drive back to Phoenix, then Matt turned on Cody’s favorite Beatles station on Sirius and we rode the rest of the way back without talking.
Once we’d dropped Sarah off at her apartment and Cody at his group home, Matt said, “My place?”
“Sounds great.” We could talk over beer and pizza, maybe get whatever was bugging Matt out in the open.
Okay, confession time: It wasn’t just Matt who was on edge. I was uptight too—had been ever since a head cold cost me my last theater job. It had only been a little over a month since then, but aside from two commercial jobs (which you really couldn’t call acting), I hadn’t gotten any work and had none lined up. My ego and my pocketbook were smarting, but more than that, I was worried. Acting was a big part of my life, of who I was. I was grouchy when I wasn’t working on a show and especially grouchy when I was worried that my career might be stalled. Sure, it sounded dramatic—a cold killing my career—but I didn’t handle the situation particularly well, and the theater community is small. Actors are expected to deal with things like illnesses. The show must go on is not just a saying. It’s a rule.
And though I was not comfortable with straight talk about important things (“Skirting the Issue” was my family motto), I couldn’t take much more of this weird tension, so I decided to take the emotional bull by the horns.
Sort of. I couldn’t make myself jump right into the conversation, so once Matt and I had beers in hand and the pizza ordered, I said, “Did you think that was weird?”
“Which part?” Matt sat down on his couch next to me. “There was so much weirdness.”
“Riley,” I said. “He was upset about his armor and his horse, but...”
“Yeah. He didn’t say anything about Angus. Then again, he probably had a concussion. Or maybe it was more about denial.”
I understood denial, especially when it was about being involved with someone getting hurt. Denial was my main survival tool after the accident that caused Cody’s injury. The accident I sort of caused, well, did cause through my neglect and now made my brother sob in parking lots and...
Matt must have known I was on my way to that dark place. “I think Cody’s fine,” he said. “Things like this are tough on anyone. He just processes it differently than the rest of us. Maybe more honestly.”
I loved Matt. And he had just given me an opening. Here goes nothing. “So...speaking of processing things honest—”
The doorbell rang. “That was quick,” Matt said. He got up and opened the door for the delivery guy. Once he’d tipped the guy he put the pizza on the coffee table in front of his couch, and then went to the kitchen for paper plates and napkins and a shaker of red pepper flakes. “You must be starving,” he said, “since you didn’t eat at the faire. Want another beer?”
Had he not heard me? Or didn’t want to talk? I didn’t know, but I did know that all my emotional courage had been used up for the day. “Sure,” I said. “A beer sounds great.”
I was such a coward.
Chapter 6
I berated my cowardice through a mostly sleepless night, then dragged myself into the Duda Detective Agency office the next morning. Yeah, it was Saturday, and yeah, I wanted to lie in bed all day, but I had the day off yesterday to go to the Ren faire, so the office it was. At least Uncle Bob would be there. He usually came in when I did, even on the weekends. He always said it was because there was work to be done, but I think it was because he liked the company. I did too, and was especially glad to have him around today. I always felt comforted around my uncle. He was like a big bowl of mac and cheese.
“Eleven forty-five?” he said when I walked in. “Nice.”
Well, some days he was more like a small bean burrito: a little stinker.
“I did say I’d be in this morning, and I am a woman of my word. Is there coffee? Please tell me there’s coffee.” I’d already had a few cups, but not enough to lubricate my little gray cells. “Though looking at your shirt might work better than caffeine.”
“Thanks, Sunshine.” Uncle Bob’s shirts were always XXL and they were always Hawaiian, but rarely were they neon yellow and fuchsia. He waved at a half-full pot sitting on the ancient Mr. Coffee Maker. “Thought you might be late, so I saved you some.”
I walked across the tiny shared office space to the “coffee station” (the top of a metal filing cabinet) and grabbed a mug that said, “There Might Be a Margarita in Here.” As always, I checked the inside of it before pouring coffee. More likely to have old coffee in it than a margarita, but I never gave up hope.
“I read about the accident at the Ren faire. Were you there?”
“Right there, unfortunately. We saw it happen.”
“Is Cody all right?” For all his gruffness, Uncle Bob was a big sweetie, and way more than the typical uncle to my brother Cody and me. He was the unconditional love in a family where even conditional love was scarce.
I’d called Cody on the drive in to work this morning. He was still upset but not emotional. “It was tough on him—would have been tough on anyone, but he’s okay.” I gave Uncle Bob the rundown on the joust.
“Huh,” he said after I’d finished. “The faire must have some really good PR people. The article called it an accident.”
“Not hardly. In fact, it seems like it’d have to be pretty well thought out.”
“Premeditated, as we say in the biz.”
“Yeah. Was there an update on the jouster who was hit?”
“Critical condition.”
“Oh no.” I saw Angus’s green eyes again, heard his voice and Shakespeare’s words—“Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you...”
“Neck injuries,” Uncle Bob said.
“Oh my God.” I choked on my coffee.
“Sorry. Shoulda told you that coffee’s been there a few hours. Made it for my niece who was coming in this morning.”
“It’s not that.” The coffee was horrible, but I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. “The gorget. It’s a piece of armor that protects the neck. Angus—that’s the jouster’s name—he couldn’t find his. He was talking, well, shouting about it in the middle of the faire. Anyone could’ve heard him and realized he was vulnerable. What do you call that in the biz?”
“Dunno. A crime of opportunity?”
“A premeditated crime of opportunity,” I said. “Sounds like a super villain.”
“Sounds like something you should keep your nose out of. You said you’re friends with the other guy?”
“Theater friends.” Riley and I met a few years back during an ill-fated production of Macbeth but lost touch when he began traveling
the Ren faire circuit. He’d kept his Phoenix agent, though, so I’d run into him during a commercial shoot for Castles and Coasters. We caught up between takes of us hitting golf balls through windmills, and he offered me comps to see him joust at the faire.
“Is he doing okay?”
Dang. “I haven’t talked to him since yesterday. I had to get Cody home, and then...” And then I spent a weird tense night with my boyfriend, sensing that we both wanted to talk but didn’t. I pulled out my phone, searched for Riley’s number, and dialed.
“Hello?” said a woman’s voice. Probably Bianca’s.
“This is Ivy Meadows, looking for Riley.”
“Just a second. I’ll wake him.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“Yes I do. I really need to get to work. It’d be good to see him awake and alert before I leave. Well, awake. Alert is too much to hope for.”
A moment, then “Hey, Ivy.” Riley’s voice was rough with sleep.
“How are you?” I asked.
“My head hurts like hell, I slept like shit, and my horse is still missing. Other than that, I’m awesome.”
“They haven’t found your horse?”
“Not since last time I checked, around eight in the morning.” A murmur in the background—Bianca’s voice. “No, still missing. I’m really worried about him. What’s he going to drink out there in the desert? I can’t believe some stupid shit stole my horse.”
And hurt Angus. I didn’t say it out loud.
“A bunch of guys have mounted a search party...Hey, didn’t you tell me you were a PI? Maybe you can find him?”
“Um...”
“There’s a reward.”
“Really?” The Riley I knew was always broke.
“Yeah, people here helped raise it. They get it, you know, how much a trained jousting horse is worth. Horses in general don’t like running at full speed toward each other. They want to veer off, you know, avoid a head-on collision. Took me a year to train Thunder.”
“I’d like to help, but it seems like your friends out there might be more likely to find him than me,” I said. “Unless Thunder has an online profile.”
“He does have a Facebook page, but yeah, I see your point.” Riley sighed. “At least they found my armor.”
“Who, the police?” Maybe they dusted for fingerprints.
“Nah, some hiker spotted a fire and went over to check it out. Stupid guy stole my armor then set it on fire.”
“Can you set armor on fire?”
“That’s why he’s stupid. Burned up a couple of bushes and blackened my armor, but that’s all.”
I wondered if the thief set the fire to destroy any fingerprints. I wondered if that would work. I wondered if the thief was cruel enough to—No, I was not going there. But Riley was. “I just hope to hell he didn’t hurt Thunder. If he did, I’m going to track him down and kill him.”
Chapter 7
I got off the phone with Riley and was trying to figure out a way to dump the horrid coffee without Uncle Bob noticing when the phone rang. “Duda Detectives,” I answered.
“May I speak to Ivy Meadows?”
I hesitated. Ivy Meadows was my stage name. I used my real name, Olive Ziegwart, at work, and tried to keep the two personas separate, mostly because I did undercover work every so often. “May I ask who’s calling?” I said.
“This is Doug from Time and Tankard Entertainment.”
“Just a moment, I’ll see if she’s available.” I put the caller on hold. My uncle raised an eyebrow at me. “They asked for Ivy,” I whispered, even though the caller was still on hold.
“Ivy Meadows got any outstanding warrants? Any debts? Anybody after her?”
I was pretty sure he was teasing me, but I shook my head anyway. I wasn’t lying. Olive Ziegwart had a few debts, but Ivy didn’t.
“Then I think you’re safe.” He went back to his computer screen.
I took the caller off hold. “Hi, this is Ivy. How can I help you?”
“Didn’t you just answer the phone?”
“That was my sister,” I said. “We’re a family business.” Uncle Bob chuckled.
The man cleared his throat, a “tell” that he didn’t really want to have this conversation. “Well,” he said—another tell—“You may have heard about the accident at the Phoenix Renaissance faire yesterday.”
I decided to let him have the accident bit. “Yes,” I said. “Is the jouster going to be okay?”
“We hope so. Anyway, the sheriff’s office is looking into the matter, but we have some concerns about...liability. Basically we want to make sure that our environment is safe. We’d like to hire you to investigate the incident.”
Incident, not accident. At least he was getting more honest as the conversation progressed.
“I see. May I ask who referred me to you?” It seemed weird that they’d take a recommendation from Riley, being as how he was involved in the trouble. I didn’t know anyone else who worked at the Ren faire.
“I understand you did some work for Gold Bug Gulch last fall.”
Work? I’d gone undercover at the Western theme town, where I solved a murder, nearly got myself killed, and kicked some ass. I guess you could call it work.
“Arnie Adel recommended you.” Ah, that explained why Doug asked for Ivy. Arnie, who was part-owner of Gold Bug Gulch, was also the producer for Desert Magic Dinner Theater and had known me as an actor before hiring me as a PI. “We would love to have you help us with this...little problem. Will you do it?”
I thought about it. I’d been working at my uncle’s PI firm for a couple of years now. I knew that cases like this were never as simple as insurance scammers or cheating spouses, and took way more time. I knew it was tougher to investigate cases where friends were involved, and though I wasn’t close to Riley, I did like him. I knew cases like this could be dangerous: I’d been poisoned, shot at, and nearly drowned on other investigations. And I knew that a Ren faire in the middle of the desert held myriad dangers: swordsmen and ax-throwers and scorpions and snakes (not just the reptile variety). I knew the whole thing was probably not a good idea, that Uncle Bob would probably balk and Doug might, too, if he knew I was a friend of Riley’s.
I said yes.
It was curiosity, of course. Uncle Bob said it was what made me a good PI. It was also the reason I was always getting into trouble. Oh well, I’d always gotten myself out of trouble too. So far.
I agreed to meet Doug at the Ren faire at six thirty, after it’d closed for the day, to sign the contract and get some background info. Once I hung up the phone, I said, “Isn’t there a restaurant you like out in Apache Junction?”
“Lord, yes. The one with that broasted chicken.” Uncle Bob nearly salivated. “Broasted. I don’t even know what that means, but damn it’s good.”
“Broasted...” I Googled it. Curiosity again. “Best I can tell, broasted means cooking chicken in a pressure fryer. This says that broasting keeps the fried chicken juicier—”
“Stop. You’re making me hungry.”
“Then let me treat you to dinner tonight.”
Uncle Bob squinted at me. “You, treat?” He didn’t mean I wasn’t generous. He meant I was usually broke.
“I can write it off,” I said. “Since it’s a business day-trip. Well, evening-trip.”
“To the Renaissance faire?” My uncle was a master eavesdropper. “With all of those weird people in costume?” A master eavesdropper who thought most theater folk were crazy. “Plus this is about the jousting accident, right? You know what I think about investigating friends.”
“I know. That’s why I want you on the case with me, to keep me objective.”
“I don’t know...”
“Plus I have the feeling this will be a tough case. I’m going to need the help of my
favorite PI. Who just happens to love broasted chicken.”
“All right.” My uncle grumbled but his eyes were smiling. “I am such a sucker.”
I texted Matt to let him know I’d have to work that night.
“I understand” was his response. I understand? That was it? Wasn’t he going to miss having a Saturday night with me?
Nothing I could do about whatever was going on with Matt right now, and Uncle Bob was paying me by the hour, so I put my boyfriend woes aside and got to work investigating Angus. I began with the PI tool of the trade—the Internet. I learned that Angus Duff was born, raised, and graduated high school in Casper, Wyoming. He was thirty-five years old, his parents were both deceased, and he had no siblings. He’d worked at a convenience store for a few years after high school, and in the North Dakota oil fields for a few years after that. He began working in Ren faires when he was twenty-four. He’d been jousting for nearly ten years, and was considered a headliner. He had a car loan on his pickup truck and one black mark on his criminal record, for assault. Digging a little further, it looked like the charge was the result of a drunken brawl when he was working the oil fields. It was a lot of information, and it helped me not a bit. “So unless whoever he hit in North Dakota fifteen years ago somehow followed him here and learned to joust, I’ve got nothing.”
“Uh huh.” Tap. Tap. Uncle Bob was painstakingly typing something. Not an invoice or client correspondence. He usually asked me to do that.
“I need to know how he was viewed at the faire, who were his friends were, who hated his guts. But how can I do that when lots of people know I’m Riley’s friend?”
“It does complicate things.” Tap, tap...tap.
I snuck a look at Uncle Bob’s screen. Looked like an email. “And word travels fast in a tight-knit community like that,” I said. “I wouldn’t be at the faire more than a few hours before almost everyone knew I was asking around about Angus. It’d be easy for people to decide what stories to tell—to protect someone they liked or to blame somebody who stole their girlfriend or something.”