by Cindy Brown
“It’s a lot. You holding up okay?”
“I don’t know. It’s tough being back home. Here I’m not Matt Jenkins, I’m Robert and Mary Sue’s son. I love my folks and friends here, but I swear I revert to my sixteen-year-old self every time I open my mouth.”
“I do that most times I open my mouth.”
He laughed. It was a beautiful sound. “Tell me about your day. Catch any crooks?”
“No, but...” I hadn’t planned on telling Matt about getting hit on the head, partly because I didn’t want him to worry about me and my PI job, and partly because the whole idea seemed stupid in hindsight. But I was tired of being that little snail in its shell, so I told him all about it.
He was quiet for a moment afterward, then said, “You sure you’re okay now?”
“As clever as ever. Hey, that rhymes. See, I can rhyme, so I must be okay. I think that’s one of the tests they do.”
“The famous Ziegwart Rhyming and Comprehension Test,” Matt said. “One of the top cognitive measurement tools.”
“Hey,” I said, poking my snail head out a little further. “I’ve been thinking about your question.”
“Yeah?”
“But I have a few questions for you first.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Does it bother you when I have to kiss other actors onstage?”
“Well, it is sort of weird, but I understand it’s not you doing the kissing. It’s your character. Right?”
He sounded like he needed a little reassurance. “Right. Same thing with me being onstage in my underwear? It’s weird but you’re okay with it?”
“Yes.”
“How about nudity?”
“Um...I don’t know about that.”
“Me neither. Not sure I could even do a nude role, but I had to ask.”
“Fair enough.”
“You know, I’ll probably never make a lot of money, which means our apartment—if we had one—wouldn’t be deluxe.”
“I was raised in a hundred-year-old farmhouse without air conditioning,” Matt said. “I can live without deluxe. And maybe you will make money. “
“It’s pretty unlikely. You need to know that up front. Even Broadway actors don’t make the kind of money you’d think. Except for the lucky few who make it big in film, we’re a poor lot. We only make money when we’re working, and there are only so many roles a year that I would be right for, and those roles will dwindle as I get older.”
“...Okay.”
“If I’m here in Phoenix, I can pick up work from Uncle Bob. But things could be tighter if I have to move—and I’ll probably need to move. Especially if I go on with this play.”
“Oh...Of course. To New York?”
“To San Diego first, then maybe New York. I have to go where the play goes.” This didn’t sound great, even to me. “It’s not exactly a stable life.”
“...It doesn’t matter. This is your dream come true. We can work something out.”
But could we? How could he move with me to all these places? I didn’t even know how long I’d be in each city (runs got extended or cut short all the time). My head suddenly hurt a lot. I didn’t think it was the blow that caused it.
“Listen,” I said, “I’ve got go to bed. I’m beat.”
“Okay, but please don’t worry. We can work something out. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Maybe we could work something out.
Chapter 46
Lord, my head hurt. Way worse this morning than it did yesterday. I swigged down an Advil with my coffee and hoped it would kick in by the time I got to rehearsal.
The traffic on the Superstition Highway didn’t help my headache. Or the thought of being late to rehearsal again. How long did it take Advil to work anyways? I was still wondering that when Riley called. “You sound rough,” he said. “You okay?” Yes, my friend who was in jail and no longer had a girlfriend or a place to live asked if I was okay. It put things into perspective.
“Just a headache.”
“That sucks. Hey, you know how hard is it is to get an aspirin in jail? It’s like they’re made outta gold or something.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just...I didn’t think I’d be here this long. The first few days I just thought of it like camp”—Riley’s camp experience must have been wild—“so it wasn’t so bad. But it’s not like camp. I mean, the food’s crappy like it is there—except for the pancakes—but,” he lowered his voice, “some of the guys are pretty scary, you know? And people around here keep telling me it’s way worse in prison. I’m not going to prison though, right?”
This was awkward. I was hired by the Ren faire, not Riley. Sure, we were talking every day. I’d told myself it wasn’t for moral support, but to find out what he knew. But I’d been treating him like a friend. I needed to start treating him like a suspect. So I didn’t say anything.
Riley waited, then gave a big defeated sigh. “Yeah. Well...Hey, how’d filming go?”
Filming…filming…Ah. “Great. The armor worked out great. By the way, did you talk to anyone outside the jail yesterday—besides your lawyer, I mean? Tell anyone about loaning me the armor?”
“No.”
“Does everyone know you’re in jail?” Maybe somebody thought I was Riley.
“My mom doesn’t.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to tell her unless I have to. She hates that I smoke weed.”
“Does everyone at the Ren faire know?”
“Yeah, nobody there cares if you smoke. In fact, one of the guys—”
“Do they know you’re in jail?”
“Oh. Yeah. Word gets around pretty fast.”
Then my attacker knew it wasn’t Riley wearing that armor. I was the target. But why? Was someone trying to steer me away from Riley? “Is there anyone at the faire who’d be likely to defend you?”
“Like on a witness stand?”
“No, sorry, my head is a little fuzzy. Like someone who might try to convince me that you weren’t purposely involved with Angus’s death.”
“I dunno. Everybody there likes me pretty well, and...yeah. They probably would. Defend me.”
A little jolt of excitement cleared my head for a moment. “Who? And why?”
“I dunno. See, they’d do it, but it wouldn’t be about me. It’d be about the clan, the tribe, you know. All for one and one for all.”
“Were the Three Musketeers in the Renaissance?”
“I dunno. But you get what I’m saying, right?”
I did. Hitting me on the head was a warning: to back off and leave the faire alone.
But I was made of sterner stuff. Plus now that my head was a little clearer, I remembered the question I really wanted to ask Riley. I decided to go at it sideways. “I saw Bianca with the birds again yesterday,” I said. “She really loves them.”
“Yeah.”
“So does she love all animals? Hey,” I said as if a thought had just occurred to me, “can you have cats and dogs at the fair? Or just birds and horses?” I put the emphasis on “horses.”
“It’s too hard to keep a pet when you’re traveling. You’d have to keep him locked up in your trailer or tent and it can get hot or cold. But a lot of people have animals in their acts.”
“Like your horse. You ever ride him off hours? With Bianca?”
“Sure. Angus would usually let her borrow his horse. Oh man...” Riley groaned. “I never even thought of that before. Should’ve known something was up.”
Dang, had I let him know my suspicions?
“Her and Angus, man. Can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
Phew. I hadn’t shown my hand. And I had my answer.
Bianca knew how to ride.
So did John Rob
ert.
And Hayden.
It wasn’t my fine deductive skills that enabled me to suss out this information. It was Jackie, who met me at the front door at the ranch house. “The boys are out riding.” She led me through the house as if she owned it. “But there are croissants and mimosa makings on the back patio.”
I followed her through the French door onto the patio. “Are you working the faire today?”
“I believe Benjamin will be there.” You had to admire her unflappability. “Oh my.” She shaded her eyes with a gloved hand. “I do love watching men ride.”
I followed her gaze to the desert, pink and gold with the morning sun. The men rode toward us, Hayden on a tall bay, John Robert on a slightly smaller pinto. They both knew how to sit a horse, especially Hayden, who doffed an imaginary cowboy hat as he pulled up short in front of us, flashed a toothy Kennedy-esque grin, then wheeled around and trotted toward the corral.
Once they got the horses settled, John Robert excused himself to use the bathroom, and Hayden sat down between Jackie and me. “That was some pretty fancy riding,” I said in my regular voice. “Where’d you learn to ride like that?”
“I spent summers on my uncle’s ranch in Lone Pine. It’s a little town in California, just east of the Sierra Nevada.”
“That’s where you’re from?”
“No. LA born and bred. Still stay there between gigs, but I’m on the road most of the year.”
“Really? How is that, the traveling? Do you get lonely?” I told myself I was asking as a detective, not as an actor who was trying to decide whether to give up her home for the traveling thespian life.
“Sometimes.” Hayden gave me a slow smile. Oh no. He thought I was hitting on him.
“You two should go riding sometime,” Jackie said. I wished I were sitting next to her so I could kick her.
“All right, ladies and gents!” John Robert burst out of the French doors, his enthusiasm preceding him like a parade. “I realized I had it all wrong yesterday.”
“Had what wrong?” I asked in my Marilyn voice.
“Kennelot.”
“So you’re changing the name?”
“No, no, no, love the name. No, I was all wrong about the direction of the show.”
Phew. When we left him, he was thinking about using the missiles as a not-very-subtle metaphor for JFK’s male appendage.
“So...It’s a comedy!”
“Camelot? A comedy?” I asked.
“They did it with Spamalot, so why not this?”
Jackie coughed delicately into a gloved hand. “It seems to me that the Kennedy story is more...tragic?”
“No, a comedy! Like one of those British sex farces.”
“Except American, of course.” Hayden had a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Exactly. A British-style American sex farce. For example, Jackie will find you two in bed.” John Robert paced excitedly, his arms windmilling as he talked. “But there will be a lot of slamming doors and people in their underwear.”
“Not me,” Jackie said, “I’m the straight man, or woman as it were.”
“Of course,” said John Robert. “We’ll add a butler...”
“Maybe Merlin could be the butler?” said Hayden. I elbowed him.
“No, not the butler...” said John Robert. “But we do need a Merlin...”
“How about J. Edgar Hoover?” asked Hayden. “You could put him in a dress part of the time. Sort of like Jack Lemmon in Some Like It Hot.”
“Stop it,” I whispered.
“Of course!” John Robert’s hands waved like two happy birds. “The Marilyn reference from Some Like It Hot is perfect. A cross-dressing J. Edgar, slamming doors and everyone running around in their underwear. Everyone except Jackie.” She smiled graciously at John Robert and he grinned back. “How can it not be a hit?”
Chapter 47
The rehearsal was a rollercoaster. The lowest point was when John Robert decided to add a cheer about missiles (he obviously had a thing about missiles). Yes, a cheer: “Trojans, Trojans, we will never break!” Yes, really.
The pinnacle of the rehearsal was some pinnacle, though. “Just want to let you know we’ve got a new backer,” he said. “Not only is he thrilled about the idea” —he was?—“but he thinks we may be able to workshop it at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts on the way to Broadway. Now, they don’t typically do workshops, but he has some pull with...the Kennedy family! Can you believe it?”
It was hard to believe. It was also exciting. I mean, if you had to choose between being on Broadway in a clunker, or not being on Broadway at all, which would you choose?
After rehearsal, I stopped at the 7 Eleven to change. The clerk at the cash register was turned away from me, long black hair down her back. I slipped into the bathroom and out again, clad in my multitude of filmy scarves. I grabbed a power bar and took it to the cashier. Just seemed polite to buy something in exchange for the use of for their bathroom/dressing room. But the clerk was not a woman. It was the same guy I’d met on Tuesday, just wore his hair down today.
“Ren faire again, huh?” he said, ringing up my purchase.
I fastened the veil across the bottom half of my face. Maybe he’d remember the costume, not the face...Arghh. Sure he might remember the costume, the costumes. And they were just unusual enough that he might mention it to someone—a woman going from Marilyn Monroe to a belly dancer. I was going to have to find another place to change.
“Pretty popular place, the faire. That guy goes a lot too.” The clerk pointed with his chin to a customer pumping gas outside. I nodded my thanks for the change he gave me, and headed to my car. The Ren fairegoer, who was now on his way into the store to pay for his gas, smiled at me with a sort of “Hey, you too?” smile.
I froze. I’d seen that smile just a few minutes ago. It was John Robert.
No flash of recognition in his eyes. The wig and scarves and contacts must’ve done their trick. But now what? I couldn’t follow him right then—I’d promised Jasmine I’d check in with her before the fair opened, and true to the period, she declined to carry a cell phone.
Maybe I could get ahead of him. I raced to the faire, jumped out of my truck, ran to the stage where Jasmine was setting up, checked in, grabbed my ass-sign and raced back out to the entrance, arriving just as the faire was opening. Lots of cars already parked. I made a loop around the parking lot. I’d noted the make of John Robert’s car (a Land Rover) and license number (HDB1008), but didn’t see it there. Maybe he stopped on the way? I waited at the entrance for a few minutes, turning around every so often to show my sign to folks coming in. I kept an eye out for John Robert, who’d been wearing the same short, hooded cape I saw him in the day of the joust. Of course I didn’t see him. Why didn’t I just let Jasmine wait? What had I been thinking?
Actually, I hadn’t been thinking, at least not about John Robert. I’d been focused on the suspects from the faire, and yes, sidetracked by the thought of Broadway. Arghh. I was easily distracted by nature, and there were too many facets to this investigation, too many ways to go.
“Here you are.”
“Aah!”
It was just Jasmine. “Scared the bloody life outta me,” I said. I was a little grouchy over losing John Robert.
“My apologies, milady. I should have told you, but standing by the entrance—”
“You mean wigglin’ me arse near the entrance.” Yep, a little grouchy.
Jasmine put a finger to her lips. “As I was saying, my mute friend, you’d better move on. People are so overwhelmed when they first arrive that they’re not as likely to remember you. Keep to the inside of the faire.”
And miss John Robert. Still I nodded and moved on. What else could I do?
I didn’t see him, of course, not with billions (okay thousands) of people milling about the faire.
But I did see someone who jogged an important memory. “I’ve got the money I owe you,” I said to the fortuneteller. “Let’s go inside.” Once inside the crimson caravan, I took thirty dollars from a pouch on my belt and handed it to the crone. Then I pulled out another twenty, holding the extra cash just out of reach. “How did you know about William?” I said. “And how did you know to warn me? And how did you know about the storm?”
“When was this we talked?” The old woman’s eyes crinkled in concentration.
“Tuesday.”
“Ah. The haboob I knew because I have a weather app on my phone—don’t tell anyone I have my phone on me, all right? The warning, well, spies are never well-liked.” Ouch. “But William...what did I say about William?”
“You didn’t say anything, but the card you drew for me was the Magician, upside-down.”
“I see.” She frowned. “The cards aren’t usually that literal...”
“Do you know anyone who might want to harm William?” I watched her closely, employing a trick I’d learned from Uncle Bob. He’d told me that people usually gaze one direction when telling the truth and a different direction when telling a lie. The woman had looked slightly right when telling me about the weather app, which seemed like a truth.
“William? No.” Her eyes looked slightly right.
“How about Angus? Do you know who hurt him?”
“No,” she said, closing her eyes. Dang.
“Do you think the cards might have an answer?” I didn’t really believe in tarot—or at least I didn’t think I did—but she might tell me something of use again. She shrugged and began to shuffle the cards.
“Just one card again,” I said. “It’s all I have time for.”
“That’s not a good complete reading, but if you insist.” She held out the deck to me. I pulled out a card, placed it face up on the table and then wished I hadn’t. The card showed a tall tower being hit by lightning. It was on fire, flames bursting from the roof and licking out of the windows. Worst of all were the figures—a man and a woman—falling head first toward the ground, tongues of fire chasing them down. “Please tell me that’s not as bad as it looks.”