KILLALOT

by Cindy Brown

  “Girlfriend what?” Uncle Bob’s ears turned pink.

  Ah. I bet he was composing an email to his girlfriend, Bette. They maintained a long-distance but loving relationship. Hmm. Maybe I should email Matt. Would that be weird?

  Uncle Bob sat up straight, now engaged with the Ren faire problem. “I think we should go undercover: me as a tourist, you as an employee, like we did on that cruise ship. That worked out pretty good.”

  “Except for me nearly getting killed,” I said. Uncle Bob always looked at that cruise ship job through rose-colored glasses, probably because it was where he met Bette. And yes, emailing Matt would be weird.

  “Yeah, but you’re smarter now, right?” said my uncle.

  “I don’t see how I can go undercover this time. Some of the Ren faire people have already seen me, and it’s not exactly a secret that I’m a PI. No one knew me on the SS David Copperfield. As far as they knew, I was just a new actor onboard.”

  “That’s it.” Uncle Bob’s grin outshone the neon yellow of his shirt. “That’s the ticket. You’re an actor. And a good one.”

  Aw. “Thank you.”

  “So you can act like someone else. You know, disguise yourself enough so that no one knows it’s you.”

  “Oh...I don’t think...it might work on TV, but...”

  “C’mon. I think you can do this, I really do. Just consider it the greatest acting role of all time.”

  Chapter 8

  The Renaissance faire was out in the desert east of Mesa. It was easy to tell when we were near, because a slow and steady stream of cars passed us going the other way, back into town.

  “All these people were out here for the faire?” asked Uncle Bob.

  “They get twelve thousand people a day.” I’d done a bit of research. “And there are four hundred employees and two hundred and twenty-three artisans.”

  “Artisans?”

  I pulled off the highway onto the dirt road that led to the faire. “You know, potters, woodcarvers, glassblowers, that sort of thing.”

  “And everyone’s in costume?”

  “All the employees and vendors. And a lot of the people attending too.”

  “So we have thousands of suspects, most of them in costume?”

  “That’s why I need the best PI in the world.”

  “Not in the whole world,” Uncle Bob said modestly. “Just in Arizona.”

  The road ended at an enormous parking lot, mostly empty now since the faire was closed. We parked close to the entrance and walked underneath an arch with Olde English lettering welcoming people to the Phoenix Renaissance Faire.

  “Big place,” said Uncle Bob.

  “Thirty acres.”

  He shook his head. “Whoda thunk it?”

  We walked past a few half-timbered shops to a small Tudor-looking building with mullioned windows: the administration office.

  Walking into the office was like time travel. Outside, Jolly Olde England (plus cactus) held court. Inside, sleek Ikea-type desks and computer monitors prevailed. The office was empty except for one person, probably because it was after business hours. The man, tall and stooped with thinning hair, looked up from his monitor, and then stood. “You must be Ivy Meadows.” He walked toward us, extending a hand. “I’m Doug Agravaine.”

  “And this is Bob Duda,” I said. “He’s going be helping us.”

  “Oh.” Doug took a step back. “I’m not sure we can hire—”

  “Twelve thousand people a day come here,” I said. “Plus you have four hundred employees and two hundred and twenty-three artisans. That makes thousands of suspects, most of them in costume.” I was glad Uncle Bob and I had had that little talk on the way in. “You need more than just me.” My uncle shot me a look—sort of surprise mixed with admiration. I was getting better at this PI stuff.

  “You’re right,” Doug said, but he wrinkled his nose like he’d been served a bad piece of fish.

  He invited us to sit. I looked over and signed our contract while Doug told Uncle Bob what he basically told me on the phone—that the faire wanted to find out what had happened, but very quietly.

  “By the way, we’re going to handle this undercover,” I said.

  “Really? Isn’t that a bit much?”

  “From what I understand of Rennies, they’re a tightly knit group. I think we’d learn more if they didn’t think of us as outsiders.”

  “True,” Doug said grudgingly. “Okay, if you think it best.”

  “And you should know that I actually saw the joust where Angus was injured.”

  “Well.” Doug drew his head back, like a turtle who’d spotted a rock in the road. “That’s fortunate, though a little coincidental.”

  “I was there because I know Riley.”

  “Oh. That’s not—”

  “I’ve talked it over with my associate here and I can promise you I won’t be swayed by my feelings. I know Riley, but we’re not close. Plus I may be able to get more information.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “That’s the other reason Mr. Duda is on the case,” I said. “To make sure objectivity is maintained.”

  Doug looked from me to Uncle Bob, who looked the picture of PI professionalism, having changed into a more subdued Hawaiian shirt. Doug nodded. “All right. You did come highly recommended.” He stood up. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to show you around tonight, but I suspect you’ll both want to see the jousting grounds. Let’s walk while we talk.”

  We went outside and headed down one of the faire’s dirt roads. “So,” Doug said. “We only run Friday through Sunday, ten thirty to six thirty, March first through April thirtieth, plus a few special days for schools. We make all of our money for the year in just that time. As you can imagine, we can’t afford to close or have a light crowd for even a day. The police are of course dealing with this incident—”

  “What jurisdiction are you under out here?” asked my uncle.

  “Pinal County.”

  Uncle Bob nodded and looked at me. We both knew that the county sheriff’s office covered an enormous amount of land with not a lot of officers.

  “As I was saying—” If the stiffness in Doug’s voice was any indication, he did not like being interrupted. “We’d like this taken care of quickly and quietly. And I want daily updates, in case we need to take any action. Ah. Here we are.”

  The three of us walked into the jousting arena. “Wow,” Uncle Bob said. “This is a lot bigger than I’d imagined.”

  “And it’s full, or nearly full, almost every joust. We have two a day, at two o’clock and then again at five.” He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but we just have a few minutes. I need to leave and I can’t let you stay unaccompanied on the grounds when the faire’s closed. Insurance issues.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Can we look at the staging area, where Riley said he was hit on the head?”

  “Of course.”

  We followed Doug. “What’s your take on Riley?” I asked.

  “Popular, but ah, a little short in the brains department. I’m almost positive he was just the fall guy. I don’t think he could have pulled off a stunt like this.”

  We arrived at the staging area. The dirt had been churned up by many feet and hooves. “No chance you preserved any of this as a crime scene?” asked Uncle Bob.

  Doug winced. “No. The police are allowing us to go ahead with the jousting, and we need to do it. It’s one of the reasons people come to the faire.”

  Uncle Bob looked around the staging area. There wasn’t much to see besides the high wooden walls and the two gates that bookended the area (one led to the stables and the other to the arena), but my uncle was a pro. Maybe he’d notice something I didn’t. “They find the horse?” he asked.

  Doug shook his head. “And that’s a tragedy. Those horses a
re extremely valuable.” He wiped the dust off his brow. “I just hope it’s being treated well, not just left in the desert.” We all knew what would happen to a horse abandoned in the desert. There was no water for miles.

  Doug looked at his watch.

  “I think we’re good for now,” I said. “Could you send us a list of all the employees?”

  “Sort of,” said Doug. “I can send you lists. There are several categories of employees: local employees who staff the restaurants and such, professional entertainers who travel from faire to faire, vendors who basically own their own businesses and rent our facilities, and local volunteers.”

  “Could you call out anyone you think may have had a beef with Angus?” I said. “Mark them on the list or something?”

  “That would be difficult.” Doug looked me in the eye, letting his professional demeanor slip. “Angus was an asshole.”

  * * *

  “Not sure I want broasted chicken after that,” Uncle Bob said as we walked to my truck.

  “Really? What’s wrong?’

  “You put me in the mood for a burger.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah, an Angus beef burger.” Uncle Bob grinned. “Get it? From when you asked if anyone had a beef with—”

  “Stop right now or I won’t buy you dinner.” I unlocked my pickup doors. “It’s funny: Both Riley and Doug called Angus an asshole, but he was really nice to me. Sweet, even.”

  “Maybe he’s a ladies’ man.”

  “Oh. Maybe.” I got into the truck. “You know, I’ve never heard ‘ladies’ man’ used in a complimentary way before.”

  Uncle Bob climbed in beside me. “Who said I was being complimentary?”

  Chapter 9

  The broasted chicken place appeared to have been taken over by jolly bikers. The décor of the newly renamed Mother Cluckers Tavern relied heavily on Harley Davidson memorabilia, and its menu boasted dishes like Righteous Ribs, the Bad Ass Burger, and Who You Callin’ Shrimp? (along with broasted chicken, of course). Most of the clientele wore leather vests and long beards, but they all looked too happy to be scary. Good food and cold beer can have that effect.

  “You weren’t kidding about a tough case: an unsecured crime site, thousands of suspects, and a good number of them traveling entertainment types,” said Uncle Bob. “Good thing there’s broasted chicken for sustenance.” He sighed happily and sat back in his seat in the restaurant booth, under a wooden sign that said, “We do not serve women. You must bring your own.”

  “Mm hm.” I licked the chicken grease off my fingers, in a ladylike way.

  “You think Bette would like it here?” My uncle’s face shone with happiness (and a little chicken fat).

  Bette was wildly intelligent, well-traveled, and sophisticated; an investigative reporter who was the brains behind the news site “All Bets are Off.” She was also crazy about Uncle Bob. “I’m sure of it,” I said. “Hey, maybe you want take some chicken home? You could play a few games of pool while you waited for your order.”

  “Since I am Arizona’s best PI, I noticed that you said ‘while I waited.’ And what will you be doing?”

  “I thought I might stop by the hospital, see how Angus is doing.” I held up a hand to head off the objection I saw in his eyes. “I know they probably won’t let me see him, but maybe I can find out a little bit. I have my ways, you know.” My ways usually involved asking someone, but hey, it often worked.

  “Actually sounds like a good idea,” said Uncle Bob.

  “The hospital visit, the takeout chicken, or the game of pool?”

  “All of it,” he said. “And being the apprentice to the best PI in Arizona, I bet you knew that.”

  “Hello.” I smiled at the woman staffing the reception desk. She gave me a disapproving scowl that made me wonder if I had chicken stuck in my teeth. I soldiered on. “I’m hoping you can tell me what room Angus Duff is in.”

  “Macduff?” she said. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “No, Angus Duff,” I over-enunciated.

  “Anus Duff?” She pushed her glasses up on her nose, the better to glare at me. “You kids. Think you’d have something better to do than come down here and—”

  I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure down the hall behind the receptionist. “I’ll call tomorrow,” I said, then hightailed it down the corridor after the swinging ponytail, moving as quickly as was appropriate for a hospital. “Bianca? Hey. Is that you?”

  The young woman turned. When she saw me, her face crumpled. She bent over, wracked with sobs. I went to her and rubbed her back until her crying had subsided. “What is it?” I asked gently, though I thought I knew.

  “Angus,” she said. “He’s dead.”

  Chapter 10

  I squealed into Mother Cluckers’ parking lot (well, I would’ve squealed if the lot wasn’t dirt), jumped out of my pickup, and ran into the bar. Uncle Bob was bent over a pool table, eyeing the eight ball. I knew better than to say anything at a moment like this, but my mouth was ahead of me, so I just said. “Uncle—urp,” right as he hit the ball, of course. My uncle straightened up, frowned at me from across the room, then watched as his ball rolled into a pocket, and said, “Pfa!” which meant, “Hey, I won the game in spite of my stupid niece.” The bar erupted and a few guys clapped him on the back. Uncle Bob made friends wherever he went. His opponent, a lanky guy with too-long hair shoved behind his ears, pulled out his wallet and slapped a few bills into my uncle’s palm. Uncle Bob waved his winnings in the air. “A round for the house, on me.” A bunch more claps on the back as he made his way to the bar.

  I met him there. “How much did you win?”

  “Thirty bucks.”

  “No way thirty bucks is going to cover a roun—” Oh. Sometimes I forgot that Uncle Bob was not just the best PI in Arizona, he was also one of the most generous guys in the state.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You can write off dinner, I can write off this round. I got some important information.”

  “Me, too. Angus died,” I said.

  “They found the horse,” Uncle Bob said

  “What?” we said together.

  “You first.” Uncle Bob took a swig from the beer the bartender had placed in front of him.

  I quickly sorted the information in my head into two categories: questions and facts. On the question side was: Why was Bianca at the hospital instead of home taking care of Riley? And why was she the only one from the faire at the hospital? Where were all of Angus’s friends? I mentally filed the questions for later and gave Uncle Bob the facts: Angus never recovered consciousness and died of his injuries—a broken neck.

  “So we’re looking at manslaughter or homicide,” said Uncle Bob. “The police will definitely step up the investigation. I’m not sure how the Ren Faire will manage to keep it quiet.”

  “Especially with all of those witnesses. Hey, witnesses. Maybe we could contact them; put something on social media or—never mind. That would be sort of the opposite of keeping it quiet.”

  Uncle Bob nodded and looked at me intently as if waiting for something. Hmm. There was something...something I wanted to ask...I almost had it when the bartender slid me a beer in a frosted mug. I took a drink. Ahh, it felt great going down. I didn’t realize I was so thirsty. But then I had been trooping around in the desert—that was it. “The horse,” I said. “You said they found the horse.”

  “Yep, he’d been through the desert, that horse with no name.”

  “What? He has a name. It’s Thunder.”

  “You don’t know America?” said one of the guys at the bar.

  “Well, yeah. Founded in seventeen seventy-six, fifty states...” They laughed. “Plus Puerto Rico, Guam and some other islands,” I said, maybe a touch defensively.

  “America’s a band,” said Uncle Bob said. “I think I got an alb
um at home somewhere. I’ll play it for you sometime.”

  “Okay, but for now, tell me about the horse.”

  “You’re gonna like this. It’s right up your Tin Pan Alley.” Uncle Bob chuckled.

  “If you don’t tell me now I’m going to eat all your takeaway chicken on the drive back.”

  “All right, all right.” Uncle Bob took a big drink of his beer. “You ever hear of a guy named John Robert Turner?”

  “Of course. He’s half of the Broadway team Turner and Toe. They had a huge hit with Hello Dolly Madison.” My uncle looked at me to see if I was kidding. I wasn’t. “But what does that have to do with Riley’s horse?”

  “Seems this Turner guy recently bought a ranch down here.”

  “A ranch?” I tried to conjure up a picture of John Robert in my mind, but all I got was a snapshot of Turner and Toe together, arms around each other, standing side by side on a New York street in front of a theater marquee. “He left Manhattan to live on a ranch? With his partner?” John Robert Turner and Lewis Toe were in their fifties or sixties and were partners in every sense of the word. One was short, white, and balding; the other was a trim African American with a pencil-thin mustache. I couldn’t remember who was Turner and who was Toe. They’d been together forever.

  “Don’t know about that,” said Uncle Bob. “Don’t know what he wants to do on a ranch either, train pygmy horses to dance for all I know.”

  “That’d actually be cool. They could do Guys and Dolls. You know...” I sang, “I got the horse right here, his name is Paul Reve—”

  “All I know” —Uncle Bob had to talk loudly to be heard over my singing—“is that this guy lives way out in the desert, about twenty miles from the Ren faire.”

  I’d gotten so excited about the news that John Robert was in town that I’d forgotten we were talking about the Ren faire. And Riley. And Angus. I sobered up quickly. “And?” I asked.

  “And Riley’s horse—which is fine, by the way—somehow ended up at this guy’s place.”