Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

by Donna Andrews

  Rob hung around underfoot, pretending to help out, while lying in wait for opportunities to pull out one of the flamingos and wave it around. I’d turn around to find a flamingo head peeking out through the opening in the back curtains or peering around the side of the booth. Once, when I left to run an errand, I came back to find Rob working on a ventriloquism routine, using the flamingo as the dummy.

  “You need to switch roles,” I snapped at him. “And you get to pay the fine if the Anachronism Police show up and catch you doing that.”

  And they did show up, with alarming frequency. The fair had only been open an hour or so, and I’d already had to settle a dozen arguments between the Town Watch and the crafters about so-called anachronisms. After I’d officially pronounced a host of items historically acceptable—including glass bottles, leather shoelaces, iron skillets, corkscrews, potpourri, and an antique-looking abacus—the Town Watch had grown considerably more tolerant. Or at least more wary of bothering me. Although I wished I could shake the suspicion that they were down at the history section of the local library, looking for grounds to overturn some of my rulings.

  And sooner or later, I was going to have to tackle Mrs. Waterston on the subject of the fines the Town Watch levied on anyone caught with an anachronism that even I couldn’t explain away. I’d managed a temporary truce by decreeing that no one had to pay any fines until the end of the fair, which gave me until 2:00 P.M. Sunday to talk Mrs. Waterston into rescinding the fines.

  But I’d worry about that later. For now, it was a beautiful day. I actually stopped feeling self-conscious about saying “Good morrow, mistress.” I no longer gaped when I saw whole families in period costume, down to the toddlers and infants. I rejoiced when someone pulled out a book, pointed to some bit of antique hardware, and asked, eagerly, if I could possibly make something like it.

  I was writing up the details of one such commission when I felt someone hovering at my elbow.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Promises, promises,” came Michael’s voice. “I was looking for Rob, actually.”

  “Rob?” I said, turning around. “I caught him trying to do a puppet show with a couple of my flamingos and chased him out to run errands.”

  “Flamingos?” Michael said, and his puzzled look reminded me that I’d so far avoided telling him about the ghastly birds. “What flamingos?”

  “I’ll fill you in later,” I said, wincing. “What did you need Rob for, anyway?”

  “This is Roger Benson,” Michael said, introducing a middle-aged man, about my height, wearing modern clothes and a bemused look. “The software-company guy. He’s been wandering around seeing the sights. I ran into him over in the encampment, asking directions to your booth.”

  “Quite a shindig you have here,” Benson said, glancing around. “Very profitable, I suppose.”

  “Well, I hope the crafters are going to do well,” I said. “I don’t think the organizing committee is looking for a profit—they’re not charging admission, of course, and any proceeds from the concessions are going to the local historical society.”

  “Still, it promotes tourism, doesn’t it,” he said. “Big industry around here.”

  Yes, it was, but he’d struck a sour note somehow. Of course I was hoping to make a tidy profit for the weekend. But still, how could someone walk from an encampment straight out of a history book, and through the picturesque streets of the craft fair, passing so many incredibly believable costumed reenactors, and only think about how profitable it must be?

  Cool it, I told myself, forcing a smile. You don’t have to like him. If he buys Rob’s game and makes it a hit, who cares how mercenary he is? In fact, maybe mercenary is a good thing under the circumstances.

  Still, as I introduced him to Rob, who was just returning with two authentic pewter mugs—discreetly filled, thank goodness, with the dual anachronisms of ice and Diet Coke—I cast a glance over at Michael. A British grenadier and a buckskin-clad frontiersman were in the lane just outside, giving an impromptu lesson on the differences between a musket and a rifle to half a dozen boys. Michael was watching, too. Then he noticed a freckled little girl clinging to her mother’s hand, but trailing behind, taking in the sights with wide eyes. He bowed deeply to her, the white ribbon cockade on his hat nearly touching the ground, and she broke into a wide smile. Then she and her mother disappeared into the crowd and Michael returned to watching the gunnery demonstration.

  Okay, I thought, as I turned back to Rob and Roger Benson. If he likes all this, we’ll go to more reenactments. It’s not that bad.

  “Quite an outfit,” Benson was saying, looking at Rob’s costume.

  “Well, I wanted to fit in,” Rob said, looking sheepish.

  “Oh, I understand,” Benson said. “When in Rome. Wish you’d warned me it was going to be like this; I could have gotten a costume myself.”

  “Oh, you can rent one, very inexpensively,” Eileen put in. “Mrs. Waterston, the festival organizer, had her dress shop run up dozens, so people who get here and want to join in the fun can do just that.”

  “Really,” Benson said. Why did I suspect he wasn’t all that thrilled at the idea of renting a costume?

  “Yes, what a good idea,” I said. “Rob, why don’t you take him along to the costume rental shop?”

  “Uh … yes, thanks,” Benson said, looking resigned. “I’ll do that. Before we do, Rob, I just wanted to ask—”

  “How is it going, anyway?” Michael said, drawing me aside.

  “Not bad,” I said. “Getting a lot of commissions, assuming they don’t all fall through.”

  “I doubt that,” he said. “My unit alone wants enough ironwork to keep you busy for a couple of months. Bayonets, swords, buckles, things I don’t even know the names of.”

  “I could get to like your unit,” I said. “If someone in it would learn to cook edible period food, I could love it.”

  “I had no idea you knew how to make all that reproduction hardware—I mean you do, don’t you?”

  “Most of it, yes; or I can figure it out,” I said. “I’ve already done a lot of period medical instruments for dad, you know. And if I need help, I can always ask Faulk. If he doesn’t know how, he’ll know who does.”

  “Faulk again,” Michael said, his good mood evaporating. “I’m sorry, but I’m really getting tired of hearing about Faulk all the time.”

  Chapter 6

  “Michael,” I said, with exasperation. “You can’t possibly be jealous of Faulk.”

  “Why not?” he said. “Ever since he got back from California, it’s Faulk this and Faulk that—”

  “Language, young man!” chirped a gray-haired colonial dame, rapping Michael smartly on the head with a folded-up fan.

  “I hear more about Faulk than I do about your family,” Michael went on, but in a slightly lower voice.

  He was exaggerating, of course; but I didn’t think it would help things to say so.

  “Well, I have been working very hard on my swordsmithing for the last six months,” I said instead. “And he’s the one who’s helping me.”

  “And did you have this burning ambition to become a swordsmith before he turned up doing it?” Michael demanded.

  “Michael, Faulk is no threat to you. Not only has he been in a serious relationship for several years, he’s—”

  “Do you mind?” Michael snapped, suddenly. For a second, I thought he’d snapped at me, and I froze in astonishment. Then I realized he was looking over my shoulder. I turned to see Wesley Hatcher lurking just within earshot, notebook in hand. Wesley must have sidled gradually closer, until he could overhear what we were arguing about.

  “Trouble in paradise, kids?” he said, with a snicker. “Don’t mind me; just pretend I don’t exist.”

  “I usually do,” I said, pointedly turning my back. “Look, Michael, let’s talk about this later. Just come with me to see Faulk; I’ll fill you in on the way.”
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  Michael sighed, and was opening his mouth to reply when—

  “Thief! Miserable, low-down thief!”

  I whirled and strode back toward our booth. I could see several other crafters heading our way. Crafters take theft alarms very seriously. For many of us, running on tight budgets, with a big part of our capital tied up in stock, it didn’t take much shoplifting to turn a weekend craft fair from a profitable venture into a financial disaster. I was relieved to see that the people like Amanda who were running their booths solo weren’t leaving them, in case the real thief was lurking to strike while a confederate cried “Wolf!” nearby.

  I even saw one of the watchmen. Good. Let the Anachronism Police do something useful for a change.

  But when I reached the booth, I was surprised to find Tad giving the alarm. He’d knocked his own wig askew and was shaking his fist at Benson.

  “What are you missing?” the watchman was asking Eileen.

  “I’m not missing anything,” she said. “He just got here.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said, pointing to Benson’s slender briefcase. “Do you really think that thing would hold very much pottery or wrought iron?”

  Although I confess, I did glance at the table to make sure my dagger was still there.

  “Tad,” I asked. “Where did you spot him stealing?”

  “He stole CraftWorks!” Tad said.

  “CraftWorks?” I repeated, glancing toward the curtain behind which my laptop was hidden. “How did he manage that?”

  “He’s with the company that’s putting out a pirated version of CraftWorks.”

  “Nonsense,” Benson said. “I admit, we’ve put out our own craft-administration software product. Nothing wrong with a little honest competition.”

  “Honest competition?” Tad shouted. “You took a copy of my software, changed the graphics slightly, and now you’re selling it as if you programmed it. Maybe that’s what you call honest competition; I call it software piracy!”

  “The two programs perform similar functions,” Benson said, apparently unruffled. “Naturally there is a certain similarity between the two. A case of parallel development.”

  “You stole it, outright; and I’ll prove it in court,” Tad said.

  Benson shrugged.

  “You can try, of course,” he said. “But you’ll be wasting your time … and a great deal of money,” he added, with an unpleasant and patently phony smile. “Particularly if you persist in publicly defaming our corporate name.”

  “Go ahead,” Tad hissed. “Smirk all you like. But you’ll see; I’m not going to take this lying down. And you,” he said, turning to Rob. “Don’t you let him have your software. Oh, he’ll make a lot of promises about how much he’s going to pay you, but you won’t see a dime. The minute you let him have a copy, you might as well kiss it good-bye. I’m not the only one he’s done this to; ask around.”

  With that, he strode off in a cloud of flapping lace and dreadlocks. Benson shrugged.

  “So, Rob,” he said. “As we were saying …”

  Rob looked stunned. I had a bad feeling about this. I elbowed the watchman.

  “Go make sure he isn’t pilfering, too,” I ordered.

  He lumbered over to interrogate Benson, and I pulled Rob aside.

  “What’s going on, anyway?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” Rob said, looking wild-eyed. “Mr. Benson and I were just talking when Tad ran in, shouting. Do you think there’s anything to it?”

  I hesitated. Tad was not only a brilliant programmer and systems engineer, he was also a very canny businessman. Companies lined up to pay the seemingly exorbitant fees he charged to build or fix systems. If he thought the man was a software pirate … .

  On the other hand, in the six months I’d known him, I’d seen Tad get hot under the collar more than once about things that later turned out to be honest misunderstandings or even rumors. He always apologized so charmingly that most people forgave him. What if this was one of those times, and what if Benson was the unforgiving type? We couldn’t let Tad spoil Rob’s chance of making a good sale.

  “Just be nice to Benson until I can find out more,” I said. “You don’t want to alienate him, but if there’s any chance Tad is right, we need to know.”

  “But Meg,” Rob said. “He’s expecting me to turn over the software for them to study. I was going to give him a copy today.”

  He opened his coat and pulled something from the inside pocket—yet another small, square, paper envelope with an iridescent CD-ROM gleaming through its round, cellophane window.

  “Give it to me,” I said, grabbing the envelope.

  “Meg, I know it’s an anachronism; I didn’t have it out.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said, shoving it into my haversack. “When Benson asks for it, just tell him you don’t have it with you, but you know where it is. That’s true, right? I’ll give it back when I’m sure he’s okay—or let you know when I’m sure he’s a crook.”

  “He won’t like that,” Rob said.

  “Blame me if you like,” I told him. “I don’t give a damn.”

  “Okay.” He looked relieved.

  “But stall as long as possible before you tell him,” I said.

  “Right.”

  I rejoined Michael, and Rob ambled back to Benson, who seemed to be telling something remarkably funny to the watchman. Both were laughing and slapping their knees.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked Michael.

  “Nothing that I can see,” he said, with a shrug. “The versatile Mr. Benson appears to be rapidly acquiring a slight southern drawl.”

  “Hmph,” I said. “I never trust people who do accents that easily.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Oh, it’s all right for you,” I said. “You’re an actor.”

  “And therefore allowed to be linguistically promiscuous?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “But yes; it’s what you’re supposed to do, but I don’t trust people who do that kind of chameleon act in real life. They’re either very impressionable or very calculating. Guess what I’m putting my money on.”

  We watched as Benson shook hands with the watchman, then flung his arm around Rob’s shoulder, and led him off.

  “Come on,” I said. “We have to see Faulk now. He needs to know about this.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?” Michael said, his exasperated tone returning as he followed me down the lane toward Faulk’s booth.

  “Faulk and Tad have been living together for the last year or so,” I said. “That’s why he came back from California. I like Tad well enough, but he can be a bit of a hothead, so if he’s running around shouting threats, Faulk should know. And for that matter, Faulk doesn’t lose his temper easily, but when he does—well, I want to make sure he hears about the whole mess from someone calm enough to not make it sound like more than it is. He tends to be a little overprotective of Tad. We don’t want either of them messing up your mother’s big event do we? And—Michael?”

  He had stopped in the middle of the lane.

  “Living together?” he said. “As in living together? I mean—Faulk’s gay?”

  “Is that a problem?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips.

  “Of course not,” he said, “It’s just that … well, I didn’t realize … .”

  “That you’ve been having fits of jealousy over Faulk for absolutely no good reason?”

  He shrugged, rather sheepishly.

  “Come on,” I said. “We need to talk to Faulk.”

  “So, I guess he’s in the closet?” Michael said, as we turned into the lane where Faulk’s booth stood.

  “Not really,” I said. “But he tries to keep a low profile; his family’s very prominent—First Families of Virginia and all that—and a bit conservative. You can’t imagine how upset they were when he first brought Tad home to meet them.”

  “Because Tad’s black, or bec
ause he’s gay?” Michael asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Hard to say which upset them most. His father, anyway; his mother’s so glad to have him back in Virginia that she doesn’t really care, from what I heard.”

  “Hard to believe there’s still that much prejudice around,” Michael said, shaking his head.

  “They’ve had a tough time,” I said, hoping sympathy for Faulk and Tad would crowd out any remaining resentment. “Ah, here’s the booth.”

  Chapter 7

  Faulk had a flashier booth than mine, more like an art nouveau wrought-iron gazebo, really, and cleverly designed to show off his ironwork as much as possible. You could assemble and disassemble it quickly with a few basic tools; it packed down into a surprisingly small space; and though it looked airy and delicate, I’d seen it weather high winds that had overturned far more solid and sturdy-looking booths. And, to my amazement, he’d managed to make both the booth and the small iron fence that defined the front of his space completely free of rough edges and points on which clumsy shoppers or rampaging children could cut or impale themselves.

  “What’s wrong?” Michael asked. I realized I was staring at Faulk’s booth.

  “I confess: I covet that booth,” I said. “Not that particular booth, exactly, but I want one like it.”

  “I’m sure you could do something just as good,” Michael said. “Even better.”

  “I’m sure I could, too,” I said. “I helped make parts of his, ten years ago. I just haven’t gotten a good idea. I don’t want a clone of Faulk’s booth; I want one that’s as cool as his, but completely me.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Michael said. Did he really think it was a great idea, or was he just happy to see me showing some signs of professional rivalry with Faulk? Hard to tell.

  Several tourists had stopped and were pointing up at Faulk’s sign, which said, in old-fashioned lettering, WILLIAM FAULKNER CATES: BLACKSMITH. They glanced into the booth, then stepped inside.