by Betty Webb
“Au contraire. A little bird told me Victor Emerson married you and Duane six years ago at that chapel outside of town. Given the state of war that exists between your associates, I understand wanting to keep it secret, but I need to know if you two ever got divorced, and if so, when and why? He rough you up or something?”
She leaned back in her chair and sat there in silence, her face blank. When she finally spoke again, the Spanglish was gone. “Why do you need to know and why should I tell you? What goes on in my life is none of your business.”
We were finally getting somewhere. “In a way it is. You’ve been accused of killing someone, and so has my mother. Unless I’m wrong, you’re both innocent. To get right down to it, your marriage to Duane is on file at the county clerk’s office, and your divorce will be, too—if you got one. It would be the easiest thing in the world for me to walk over there and request those records, so why don’t you save me the walk? My feet hurt.”
Curiosity replaced some of the hostility. “What makes you think I’m innocent? Sure, your mother doesn’t have death in her, a slap or two maybe if someone does something bad to someone she loves, but nothing more.”
“Don’t sell Caro short. She once almost broke a woman’s nose.”
As I recounted my childhood run-in with Aster Edwina and my mother’s subsequent response, the hint of a smile softened Soledad’s face. “Props to Caro. That Aster Edwina is one tough broad.”
“Not that day.”
“Tell me, Rojo, what brought about your fine and generous opinion of me?”
“I’ve heard a lot about you, and shooting someone six times in the back isn’t your style.”
White teeth flashed. “I lean more toward a knife in the gut, Rojo.”
“So you say.”
She shrugged. “Believing that kind of thing keeps the chicas in line.”
“Back to Duane, then. Did you two ever get divorced?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Are you going to laugh if I tell you it’s because I’m Catholic?”
“Some people take that kind of thing more seriously than others.”
“I’m one of them.”
“Then you’re Duane’s widow. Will you inherit anything? Money? House? Car?”
“When we got married I didn’t take anything from him and he didn’t take anything from me. And for your information, he never hurt me. Never. And I never hurt him. Regardless of the the color of our skins, we loved each other.” Tears threatened those hard eyes.
I let her recover before asking, “You kept the marriage secret because?”
“Because those racist dudes in Viking Vengeance would have killed us both if they found out. The chicas wouldn’t have been thrilled, either.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Soledad, have you thought about how lucky you are to be in jail right now? Where you’re protected from the Vikings?”
The eyes softened even more. “Teddy, I thank the Virgin every night.”
***
At first, Saturday seemed even more uneventful than Friday. I awoke on a gently rocking Merilee, fed my appreciative furballs, and as I walked the dogs through the dewy park, saw the disappearing fog uncover a sun-spackled Pacific. Ah, Paradise.
Then I bought the newspaper.
“MURDERED MINISTER WAS ESCAPED KILLER!” screamed the headline on the San Sebastian Gazette.
The article got most of it right, referring to Elvin Dade as “acting sheriff” not capping the title. The reporting team had even printed the names of Victor Emerson’s later customers. Bev Martin, the editor of the Gazette’s Op Ed page, and who had been married by the phony minister with the groom’s pet pig in attendance, summed up her column with the following paragraph:
“This morning some San Sebastian Countyites will be re-examining their marriages, wondering whether to get hitched all over again or say sayonara forever. Since I’m six months pregnant and Gordon’s old-fashioned parents would frown at being the grandparents of an illegitimate child, my maybe-not-legal hubby and I will immediately hie ourselves hither to the nearest real minister to legalize our sinful union, but only after we double-check his credentials.”
When Alejandro and I arrived at the Renaissance Faire, a bevy of fair maids, monks, jesters, and vendors were huddled near Llama Rides reading the newspaper together. Most thought the situation hilarious, especially since Elvin Dade and Wynona were mentioned twice on the front page.
Cary Keegan, a grim vision in his usual black, didn’t find it so funny. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”
“Get married again. If Melissa is willing, that is,” a monk quipped.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’re not exactly Prince Charming, you know.”
Before Cary took a fist to the monk, I told the crowd their noise was upsetting the llama. Since several had been the victims of earlier spit bombs, they dispersed.
All except Speaks-To-Souls. The animal psychic stood there with two new greyhounds, the earlier two already adopted. “Poor Cary,” she said, as she watched him walk away.
“Poor Cary, my foot. The man’s a thug.”
“And poor, pitiful Melissa is an innocent victim?”
Her attitude took me aback. “Please tell me you don’t believe there’s ever an excuse for domestic abuse.”
“There are no bruises in that relationship, just manipulation.”
“Well, yeah, I guess he does plenty of that, too.”
“Teddy, I was talking about Melissa.”
She and her greyhounds strolled away.
Unsettled by her comment, I fitted out Alejandro for the day, making certain his saddle’s cinch was tight enough not to slip, loose enough not to pinch. Having learned that saddles forecast the advent of children, he stood patiently.
The Faire opened promptly at eight. For this second weekend, more fair-goers had opted for costumes and soon the High Street swarmed with scores of sexy wenches, monks, jesters, and pirates. Llama Rides did a booming business. Throughout the morning child after child lined up to ride the serene Alejandro. The children behaved well enough, but the parents were another story. In their eagerness to get photographs of their precious darlings on Alejandro, several moms and dads tried to slip around the gate for a closer shot, although I had posted a sign telling them to stay well back. Fortunately, I was always able to stop them before they made it through.
At ten, Deborah Holt came by to spell me for thirty minutes. The fact that she was no longer legally married to the reptile keeper didn’t seem to bother her.
“Guess Phil and I’ll have to get married all over again,” she said, chuckling. “Good thing we still like each other, unlike a few couples I know. Several of us zookeepers are going to use Pastor Smithfield, in Monterey. He’s around seventy and has lived there since he was a baby, so his life’s an open book. No trouble with the law, either, other than that pot bust back in the Seventies. But how about our old Victor, huh? Robbery. Murder. Escape from prison. Who’d have thought the tubby little guy had it in him.”
“His killer, probably.”
“Guess you’ve got a point there. I’ll feel better once he’s caught.”
I couldn’t resist a grin, myself. “He? Tut tut, oh sexist one. Most women could use a crossbow if the occasion called for it. Didn’t you see Melissa shoot it at the demonstration?”
“That was just a target. In real life a woman wouldn’t do something like that.”
“Didn’t you hear about that woman over in Castroville last week? Fed her boyfriend rat poison and sang Rolling in the Deep while he flopped around on the floor.”
“Poison’s more of a woman’s weapon,” she said, disapprovingly.
“We’ve come a long way, baby.”
&
nbsp; She gave me a look. “Teddy, sometimes you plain creep me out.”
I spent the rest of my break seeing the sights. This was Willis Pierce’s first full day as King Henry the Eighth. For the occasion, he had dyed his black hair and beard red, and put enough padding around himself to resemble the much-married Tudor king. Although he nodded regally when his courtiers bowed and scraped, it was easy to see he didn’t enjoy his new role as much as the old one—roaming the Faire quoting Shakespearean sonnets. Bambi didn’t look happy either; so much for her winning the battle over Anne Boleyn. I smiled to show I bore no grudges over her behavior the other day, but she looked right through me with reddened eyes.
Remembering Speaks-To-Souls strange comment about Melissa and Cary Keegan’s marriage, I drifted by the Royal Armory. The crossbow display was gone, replaced by two long claymores and a goofy Goth-style sword that appeared more decorative than deadly. For once, Melissa looked happy. She was showing one of the claymores to Yancy Haas, who was wearing full Black Knight armor. According to the Faire’s schedule, he had already fought one joust today and would fight three more before the day was over. He seemed spry for a man who was repeatedly knocked from his horse by the actor playing Sir Galahad, then I reminded myself that as a professional stuntman he knew how to fall. Melissa’s glowing beauty might have had something to do with his cheery demeanor, too.
“This claymore is as pretty as you, Melissa,” I heard him tell her.
Looking thunderous, Cary interrupted their conversation. “That’s enough, Yancy. You gonna buy that claymore or not? Put up or shut up.”
Melissa cringed as if expecting a blow, but Yancy merely said, “Shut up, I guess. Since I’m not playing a Highlander, I’ll pass on the claymore, although I’ll admit it’s a fine piece of workmanship. Have a nice day, you two.”
Nodding to Melissa, Yancy headed back to the jousting arena.
Cary scowled at his wife. Recalling what Speaks-To-Souls had said about her, I wondered if her expression of abject terror might be a little too practiced.
Continuing along the High Street I was surprised to see Wynona Dade assisting the high school principal acting the part of the Lord High Torturer as he pretend-flogged a shrieking peasant. I had taken it for granted that after discovering the legality of her marriage was questionable, the holier-than-thou woman would be in seclusion somewhere, mourning her common law wife status in sackcloth and ashes. Yet there she stood, dressed in prim gray Puritan garb, laying out torture implements. Talk about type casting.
I resolved to be pleasant. “How doeth thou today, Maid Wynona?”
She gave me a mean smile. “Passably well, Maid Theodora. And how doeth thou, now that your aged mother rotteth in jail, as well she shouldest?”
You can insult me, but don’t insult my mother. “Dame Caro’s sorrowful habitat is only temporary, Maid Wynona, and I wouldst charge ye to remember that mine so-called ‘aged mother’ looks a hundred fortnights younger than thyself.”
The Lord High Torturer stopped flogging and the peasant stopped shrieking. Behind me, two monks sniggered. Having scored a good one, I flounced off.
But Wynona had put a damper on my break, so after purchasing a large root beer from the Drunkard’s Den I hurried back to Llama Rides, where Alejandro’s deep-throated welcome took the sting out of Wynona’s words.
“No wonder I like animals so much, Alejandro,” I said, scratching him behind his ears. “They can’t talk.”
“Maaaa?”
“Present company excepted, of course.”
“Maaaa.”
It was back-to-back llama rides for the rest of the morning. Watching Alejandro enjoy his tiny admirers kept my spirits from flagging. One nine-year-old boy, already too large for a ride—forty pounds was tops and the kid was built like a linebacker—questioned me about my job as a zookeeper. His parents, dressed as Robin Hood and Maid Marian, looked on fondly as I gave him a rundown on my less than glamorous daily chores.
“Sometimes it’s a lot like construction work, but you’ll need at least a bachelor’s degree to get your foot in the door, preferably a master’s. A major in zoology helps, but any of the sciences are important.”
He frowned. “I don’t like school. Especially science.”
Before I could respond, Robin Hood asked, “Is there a lot of money in being a zookeeper?”
“Not really.”
“We’ll just buy him a llama then. How would you like that, Jimmy?”
Jimmy liked it.
“How many acres does your house sit on?” I asked Maid Marian.
“It’s just a tract house with no yard to speak of,” she answered. “But we have a nice little patio. He’d fit there.”
“Then please don’t…”
Too late. They were already headed for the Swan Boat Rides.
When one o’clock approached, my grumbling stomach reminded me I had skipped breakfast. As soon as Deborah Holt arrived I tied the CLOSED sign to the gate.
“I’ve already given Alejandro some timothy hay sprinkled with chopped carrots, so all he needs now is some rest,” I said. “Don’t let him give any rides until I get back. He’s been working all morning and needs some time off. We still have tomorrow to go, and I don’t want him worn out.”
Knowing Alejandro would be well taken care of, I set off for lunch.
The food tent at Peasant’s Retreat was so packed with hungry Faire workers that I had trouble finding a seat where I could gnaw on my huge turkey drumstick. A place finally opened up next to a smiling Jane Olson, who was sitting at a crowded table next to Deanna Sazac and Yancy Haas. A member of the Royal Court, Jane was resplendent in a deep burgundy gown, a color that almost matched her long hair. Yancy Haas didn’t look as spiffy. From the size of the large scrape on his forehead, he’d been whacked in the last joust.
“Teddy, I’m worried about Caro,” Jane said, after we’d exchanged the usual pleasantries. “When I visited her at the jail yesterday, she didn’t seem to understand the gravity of her situation. All she wanted to talk about was ‘fighting the power.’ You simply must do something to help that woman.”
Jane was a close friend of Caro’s and had been married almost as many times as my mother. I remembered seeing Jane’s name in one of Victor’s marriage ledgers. Unlike Caro’s here-today-gone-tomorrow spouses, Jane’s current husband looked like a keeper. The mega-rich L.G. Olson, known locally as “The Gold King,” had descended from a prospector who struck it rich during the California Gold Rush. As genial as he was generous, L.G. had not only founded an orphanage in Uganda, but was a long-time member of the Gunn Zoo Guild. His latest act of charity was in donating a new Chevy Camaro ZL1 for the zoo’s fund-raising raffle.
Watching Jane carefully for any sign of evasion, I said, “I’m doing all I can to help Caro, but you’ve known her long enough to realize how difficult that can be. Especially now. Victor performed two of her four marriages, which puts her spousal support payments in financial limbo. Say, didn’t Victor marry you to L.G.?”
Not a flicker from those blue eyes. “Yes.”
“What do you plan to do about it?”
“Get remarried as soon as possible. I’m sure the children would appreciate it.”
I smiled. “Especially since two of them are attending St. Xavier’s. Religious school, and all that. The nuns might have trouble with your peculiar, ah, marriage status.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.” She didn’t sound like she cared.
Deanna Sazac spoke up. “A lot of us are in the same boat as Jane.”
“Will you remarry Judd?” I asked, but once the question was out of my mouth, I wanted to bite my tongue.
A hush fell over the table. After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, Deanna said, “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know whether to be grateful to Vic
tor for giving me this out, or to hate him for marrying me and Judd in the first place.”
No one seemed to know what to say about that. Mortified, I made an even bigger blunder. “Jane, didn’t you attend the weapons demonstration last weekend?”
Before she could answer, Yancy said. “Good God, Teddy! Next thing, you’ll be asking her where she was when Victor was killed.”
I felt my face and ears turn red. “Sorry, Jane. Seems like lately every time I open my mouth I insert my foot.” Playing detective was hell on a person’s manners.
Jane returned my rudeness with a faint smile. “Being questioned like a murder suspect would make anyone uncomfortable.”
“I wasn’t trying to…”
“Teddy, for the record, I did not kill Victor Emerson and neither did dear L.G., so please let me finish my lunch in peace. This apple dumpling is quite delicious. I suggest you try it.”
“Maybe after I finish my turkey leg.” Put firmly in my place, I changed the subject. “The zoo’s annual Great Escape is next Friday, and I’ve been tagged as the lion.”
Jane smiled again, this time more genuinely. “Will it be televised? After the grilling you just gave me, I’ll enjoy seeing you hunted down like a wild animal.”
Yancy Haas laughed along with the rest of everyone else the table. “She got you there, Teddy. What is this Great Escape thing, anyway? Since I spend most of my time on one film location after another, I miss a lot of local events but that one sounds like fun. Can anyone go?”
From the table in back of us, a jester piped up, “Friday? But what time? I might even take off work to see that!”
“It starts at six.” I went on to explain that because of possible legal complications, only zoo staff and the media would be allowed in. Even they had to sign waivers. “A posse of zookeepers and park rangers running through the zoo with nets can get pretty hairy, and there have been casualties. But, yes, you can watch the chase on the news because Ariel Gonzales will be covering it.”
They all looked disappointed at not being able to see the carnage firsthand, but Yancy asked, “Ariel’s the new anchor on that morning program, right? The ex-Marine?”