The Girl In the Morgue

by D. D. VanDyke

  Cal was about to turn away when the Prince spoke again. “I think I mentioned we’re holding a battle in Golden Gate Park next week. You’re in San Francisco, aren’t you? It’s an exhibition on a weekday, and sometimes we have a hard time getting enough fighters. Maybe you’d like to join us.”

  “To watch? I intend to catch a couple of duels or tournaments today. That’s enough to get the idea, I think. I mainly need to talk to Brook.”

  “No, I mean as a fighter. You look like you could hold your own. As a former police officer, you were trained in combat, right?”

  “Yes, I was. Hand-to-hand combat, modern weaponry, but none of this medieval stuff.”

  “How about riot duty, batons and shields?”

  “At the Academy, and a few days of refresher training. Never had to use it.”

  “Battles and melees are nothing like the duels and tournaments you’ll watch today. Those are regulated and orderly, and you need to work on your technique to face an opponent—like, say, boxing. Battles and melees are more like riots—two opposing forces on an open field. A free-for-all, just like in a real war in medieval times. There are rules, of course, but it’s mostly freeform, and it’s a chance for glory and recognition. I remember as an archer of seventeen, I ambushed and shot the King of the West in the ass.” He patted his flank. “Right through a gap in his armor, with his men-at-arms all around him. Best day of my young life.”

  “You shot him with an arrow? That seems dangerous.”

  Pete smiled. “We use inch-wide bird-blunt tips and bows limited to thirty pounds, and everyone’s helmet has to be certified to stop arrows, when we use them.”

  This idea piqued Cal’s interest. She was always eager to take more training. Hand-to-hand, boxing, martial arts, whatever she could find the time for. As a police officer and as a private investigator, it was always her goal to avoid fights. But like gambling and fast cars, what Cal knew to avoid for her own good was exactly what set her heart pumping.

  “And anyone can get in on this? I don’t have to be a member of your chapter?”

  “It’s open. You would need period dress and the appropriate gear, which we could loan you. The SCA doesn’t fight with steel, not even blunt. Our weapons are made of rattan, leather, tape, padding and so on. Real weight, real bruises, and every now and again someone breaks a bone, but just as safe as any other heavy contact sport, like football or hockey.”

  “I don’t know where I could get the clothing or weapons before then.”

  “Like I said, we can loan you something, or you could get some of your own from a supply shop. There’s an information booth beside this tent. They have handouts on the Golden Gate battle, which include some places to get period dress and gear.”

  “Well…I’ll definitely consider that.”

  Prince Petros gave her a warm smile. “I’ll look for you there, then.”

  The Princess put her hand over her husband’s, her own smile more strained.

  Cal picked up one of the photocopied flyers at the booth for the Golden Gate battle and asked after Brook. “I know she was here earlier,” Cal said. “But I’m not sure where to look. Have you seen her around? To be honest, I’m not even sure I would recognize her all dressed up.”

  “Oh, you can’t miss her, love,” said the lady handing out information. “She’s in a black silk dress with a white bodice and collar. Heavy gold necklace and a gold circlet. She has her hair done in a little tucked-under bun. Very simple. But you know Brook; she makes simple look smashing.”

  “Do you know which way she was going? If she was going to an event or show? Or was she just wandering around?”

  “She usually likes to watch the tournaments. Gives the knights tokens and favors, you know. Far too many for my taste, if you ask me.” The woman said it lightly, but not without some understated rancor.

  Cal wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but she nodded and headed over to the portion of the field where fighting tournaments were held. There were crowds of people and she wasn’t sure how to find one lady among them all. Looking for the spectators who were in costume, she kept an eye out for a fetching damsel in a black-and-white dress, asking everyone she could if they had seen Brook.

  “Oh, she was just here,” said a juggler. He looked around, balls still circling as if they were completely independent and required no thought. “Yes…over there, see where the fighters are lining up for the lists? She’s the one in the black dress.”

  Cal focused in on the woman in black. She was blond, petite, late twenties perhaps, and she made the other ladies look plain. Cal could tell little else from that distance, but now that she had Brook in her sights, she wasn’t going to lose her. She wended her way through the crowd toward the tent where knights were being given numbers and schedules and were lining up for the next tournament.

  Brook was holding a bouquet of flowers and speaking to a knight dressed in red. She gave him one of the flowers, smiling at him. He took it and tucked it into the collar of his armor, nodding at her as he moved up in the line.

  In a couple more minutes, Cal had reached Brook. She was stunningly beautiful in a long-sleeved dress, high-cut to her neck, rather like the porcelain doll Cal’s grandmother had given her when she was a little girl, hoping to encourage her to be a proper little lady. Obviously, the ploy hadn’t worked. Cal didn’t remember exactly what had happened to the doll, but it hadn’t lasted long. Probably it had been turned into a parachutist or had been sent swimming down a street gutter in a rainstorm.

  “Excuse me, Brook?”

  Brook turned around and looked at her, expression vague. “Yes?”

  “My name is Cal Corwin. Is there somewhere we could go to talk?”

  Brook motioned to the knights. “The tournament’s about to start. What’s this about?”

  “It’s about Jenna.”

  “Oh…” Brook looked back at the knights, then at Cal. “Maybe we could meet after the tournament, then. Would that work?”

  “I’d really like to speak with you now.”

  Brook’s face became petulant. “And I’d really like to watch the fighting.” She turned her head pointedly away.

  Cal was not happy to be put off. And as—or if—Jenna had really been Brook’s lover, then helping with her investigation should have been far more important than flirting with the men and women fighting. “How long is that going to take?”

  “An hour, hour and a half.”

  Cal shook her head. “The only reason I’m here is to talk to you. I’d really appreciate it if we could get this over with.” Her tone insisted, even if her words asked, but Brook seemed to know how to deflect.

  “There’s plenty to do,” Brook said with a dazzling smile that probably got her way more often than not. “Walk around. Have something to eat. Play a game.”

  Cal sighed. “Fine. I’ll meet you back here, then?”

  “Do you know where the Rose and Thorn tent is? Why don’t we meet there?”

  “I don’t, but I’ll find it. Can I get your phone number?”

  “Later. I don’t have my phone on me anyway. It’s not period.” Brook pointedly turned her attention to the tournament and her back to Cal.

  Cal stuck around long enough to watch a fight or two in the tourney. It was definitely not for the faint of heart. While she’d seen some such reenactments on TV—and of course, fictionalized fighting in movies—actually being there just a few feet away from the action brought a whole new dimension to it. Seeing the blows the knights gave and took with their weapons and shields, Cal was amazed by the raw intensity of the sport. She winced at each strike, imagining how it must feel. Bashes and crashes filled her ears, along with the shouts and groans of the spectators.

  Cal turned her eyes to Brook as she watched. The woman’s face remained calm and serene. While her eyes seemed intense, she didn’t join in the cheers and jeers. She had selected her champions, but she gave no indication that she was invested in them winning. Cal wondered at her moti
vation for being here. Was it to find new lovers, to play dress-up, to be admired for her beauty? She wasn’t the type to participate in the fighting, according to reports. Maybe she did some of the other period activities such as games, embroidery, costuming, cooking, or art.

  Cal decided to take Brook’s advice and have a look around the rest of the Faire. She moved from booth to booth and tent to tent, seeing what they had to offer. There were plenty of vendors with street food, some authentic, some with a thin veneer of antiquity. She was pretty sure the “sausage on a roll” was a hot dog and the “ground beef and bread” was a hamburger. Turkey legs seemed quite popular, conforming to the stereotype of portable roasted meat. Some, the actual SCA booths, seemed more authentic.

  As her breakfast was far behind her, Cal found the smells too enticing to walk by. Some of them offered free samples for tasting, others required purchases. The variety of baking was amazing, with hand-portable savory and sweet pies.

  But even more enticing were the gaming tables. No poker, but plenty of variations of the shell game, three-card Monte, and guessing games. And a few games of skill featuring target shooting, ball throwing, and ring tossing. Cal had told Sergei she was on the wagon, and it was true that she hadn’t placed a bet since losing Madge at the poker table—and fortunately getting her back. But that didn’t necessarily apply to contests of skill or simple guessing games. She wasn’t going to lose her life’s savings or dearest possessions tossing rings or beanbags.

  Feeling a little like an alcoholic who claimed she could still drink socially, Cal approached one of the shooting games. Her pulse quickened and awareness heightened as she picked up what was essentially a popgun, styled to look like a blunderbuss. The SCA types would probably disapprove of such gross inaccuracies, but they were only one of the groups here. These booths looked like they were run by carnys, not serious hobbyists. She sighted the moving targets and fired.

  Ten minutes later she’d beaten the game and won a few pointless prizes. She grew bored and looked for something more interesting.

  Three-card Monte had always been Cal’s favorite street game. The less savory neighborhoods of San Francisco had enough street hustlers for her to blow plenty of pocket change as a kid. Eventually she’d figured out their tricks and started winning, to the point they wouldn’t let her play.

  So it was with nostalgia she stopped at a table and watched the cards and the jester who was manipulating them. His hands moved quickly, and he talked to her, trying to distract and misdirect her. Cal tuned him out, trying to concentrate entirely on his movements.

  “Find the lady,” the jester prompted. “The longer you wait, the more lost she is going to get. Is she here?” He displayed a card. “Here? Keep your eyes on the cards and find the lady…”

  Cal pointed, and was pumped when he turned over the queen. “Yes!” Her heart rate increased. It didn’t matter that it was just three-card Monte and she couldn’t win cash, only more cheap prizes. It wasn’t about what she won: it was about the winning, just like when she was little.

  She won some, lost more. When she pulled the last twenty from her wallet, she looked at her watch. She had played away way more money than she should have allowed herself, and too much time slipped by. Cal swore at herself. She was supposed to be meeting with Brook.

  “Where would I find the Rose and Thorn?” Cal asked, putting her one-bill wallet away. In return, she now had a bag full of useless prizes.

  The jester smiled broadly, showing off a gold tooth. “Go down this aisle,” he motioned to her left. “All the way to the end. Then hang a right, and look for a red and black striped tent. Come on back and see me when you’re done.”

  Cal nodded. “Thanks, but no thanks.” As she walked, she noticed a woman trying to control three children, and handed the prize bag to her without a word. The kids would no doubt have fun.

  When she arrived at the red and black tent, she quickly spotted the petite young woman, standing at the serving counter and chatting with the maid who was taking her payment. Cal hurried to meet her. “Brook? Brook, I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Brook glared daggers at her. “Why should I talk to someone who can’t make it to an arranged meeting?” she said scathingly. “I’ve already been waiting here half an hour and I don’t appreciate someone wasting my time.”

  Cal drew herself up. She wasn’t tall, but she was bigger than Brook and intentionally moved into a dominant position.

  “Sometimes you’re not the most important thing,” she said icily. “I’m here now, and I’d think that you’d want me to be able to find out who really killed Jenna. I understood she was your…friend.” She put as much innuendo into that word as possible.

  Attacking instead of retreating seemed to have been the right approach. Brook took a step back, and despite a flash of anger and a childish pout, she managed to put on a show of being more accommodating. She glanced sideways at the server, who was gaping at the two of them as if they were her favorite TV soap. “We’d better find a place to sit down.”

  Cal turned to pick out a table. Only about half of them were filled, so there was plenty of choice. Brook took Cal by the arm and steered her firmly toward a table in the corner, removed from the crowds. Cal shook off Brook’s surprisingly strong grip, but acquiesced to her seating choice. Brook dragged a heavy table out of the way and flounced into a chair, waving at Cal to do the same, which Cal did, without the flounce.

  “You obviously know who I am,” Brook said. “I assume you’re the cop Pete told me about.”

  “I talked to Pete, yes. I’m investigating Jenna Duncan’s murder.”

  “Murder? I thought Randy confessed to killing her in self-defense.”

  “He did. But I’m convinced he’s lying. The evidence at the scene doesn’t match his account. It didn’t happen the way he said.”

  Brooks’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think happened? He said they got into a fight…”

  “Randy talked to you about it?”

  It seemed odd that he would talk to Brook, but not to Pat. Pat was the one Randy was closest to…supposedly. Maybe he felt too guilty to talk to his own lover about it, that it might be taken as a confession that Randy had killed Jenna because of Pat.

  “He called me after it happened,” Brook said after a moment of hesitation. “He said he wasn’t coming to the Faire after all.”

  “Not really surprising. I’m sure he’s been told to stay in town until the case is officially closed.”

  Brook shook her head. “Yeah, I wouldn’t show my face if I was him. After killing Jenna? I don’t think he’d get a good reception here. Somebody might go rhino on him.”

  “Rhino?”

  “Rhino-hiders. People who won’t admit it when they get killed in a fight, people who hit too hard or aim for parts of the body they’re not supposed to, like below the knee, or the hand. Some of them are just too competitive, but some of them like to hurt people. We weed them out after a while. But…”

  “I get it. Somebody might take a few liberties to mete out some punishment. You think he did it, then?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Why would he say he did if he didn’t?”

  “That’s the question. He doesn’t seem like the type, and I can’t help wondering just who or what he’s protecting.”

  “Ridiculous. Why do you think someone else did it?”

  Cal considered carefully before answering. “Randy describes an argument over nothing, Jenna attacking him, his retreat into the bedroom to get his gun and then returning to shoot Jenna in the living room…it just doesn’t make sense. She wasn’t killed in an adrenaline-pumped fight between lovers. It doesn’t feel like self-defense. Whoever killed Jenna put eight rounds into her. Two or three would have stopped any attack.”

  “Jenna was a warrior. And…did they test her for drugs? Because she used them sometimes, to get that pump she wanted, even though she tried to quit recently. She was competitive, and we don’t have drug testing. There’s always rumors of som
eone taking a hit of speed before a fight. Maybe she was amped.”

  “Maybe so, but there’s only so much a human body can take. Hollowpoint bullets that leave behind fist-sized holes?”

  Brook shook her head. “You’re probably right. What would I know about weapons like that? The only thing I’m ever around is period gear.” Brook indicated her surroundings with a shrug and a wave of her puffy sleeve. “What did Randy say? When you asked him?”

  “He just keeps repeating the same old nonsense, which doesn’t fit the evidence. He didn’t have any gunshot residue on his hands or clothing. You tell me how you fire eight shots into someone without getting residue on yourself.”

  “I don’t know. Gloves?”

  “And he had the presence of mind to get rid of the gloves and change his clothes before calling the police? Why would he do that if he were going to confess to her killing? That undermines his story, not helps it.”

  “Maybe he was going to try to talk his way out of it, but then he lost his nerve.”

  Cal thought about it. “But then he could tell the police where to find the gloves and clothes with residue on it. So, still no sense to it. I think it was someone else. And I think that Randy is protecting the perp.”

  “Well…” Brook brushed at a little fluff on the front of her black dress, and smoothed out the wrinkles, arranging it around her. “I barely know Randy. So I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

  “You knew Jenna. And it’s important to have someone who knew the victim well. You may know things that are important about the case without realizing it.”

  “Just because we are both in the same chapter…”

  “You’re more than just in the same chapter. Let’s be truthful.” Not that Cal was being truthful, but it was all for a good cause. “You and Jenna were lovers. As lovers, you’d be a prime suspect, right after Randy. So if you want to avoid prosecution, you’d better cooperate with my investigation.”

  Brook stared at her for quite while. A few times she opened her mouth as if to ask Cal questions or to protest that she was wrong, but closed it again, apparently thinking about what Cal had said. “Okay,” she said finally. “So we were close friends. Very close friends. So what?”