Wicked Weaves

by Lavene, Joyce

  Peeking around the corner of the door, I saw a black man with a grizzled gray head and a black suit that looked like it was made in the 1920s. He was bent close to Mary, talking fast in what I’d come to recognize as the Gullah language. Some of it I understood, since it sounded like pidgin English. Some of the words might as well have been Martian.

  Mary shook her head and moved her hands furiously in and out of the basket she was working. I was surprised it didn’t catch fire. The man was obviously making her uncomfortable.

  I stepped out of the door and coughed loudly. Sometimes I have a tendency to butt in where I’m not necessarily welcome. It had gotten me in trouble before. It didn’t seem to be something I could control, like biting my nails.

  The man looked up and stared at me in a way as dismissive as if he’d actually said, Get out of here. He made a gesture to Mary, then stalked away. He was quickly lost in the sea of pedestrians.

  “Who was that?” I tried to push my black linen skirt down to keep it from poufing up when I sat beside her.

  “Who?” She exhaled smoke from her corncob pipe.

  “The man who was just here.” If she didn’t want me to know who he was, she’d have to say so. I wasn’t good at hints.

  “He went away. Don’t fool with him. Help me with this basket. My old eyes don’t see so good.”

  I’d spent the last month with this woman. She could see a grain of salt on a sandy beach. Although I wanted to know what was going on, I did as she asked and focused on helping her.

  Mary had the bottom of the coiled basket started with a big knot right in the middle. There were even lengths of the sweetgrass she went to harvest each week woven with pine needles, a nice rust-colored contrast to the yellow sweetgrass. I inhaled its unique smell, like vanilla and fresh air tinged with pine.

  “You might have to wet the palm to sew it.” She watched me as I started weaving the coil she’d begun around the knot at the bottom of the basket. “I think this one is for eggs. We’ll make it not so tall and wider at the base.”

  “Have you collected eggs with a basket like this before?” I hoped to sidetrack her attention and then go back to the strange man’s identity.

  “Many times. They’re good for collecting turtle eggs.”

  I stopped and stared at her. “You didn’t eat turtle eggs, did you?”

  She laughed, a thousand small lines fanning out from her eyes, telling of a thousand things she’d seen and done in her life. “Yes. We ate what we found to eat. Sometimes there wasn’t so much fish, or the crab basket was empty. You do what you have to do to survive.”

  I didn’t want to go inside and get the basket I was working on. I was afraid it might spoil the moment, so I started a new one. I coiled one end of the sweetgrass into the smallest possible ring around the knot, holding the grass and pine together with one hand while I pushed the palm under and over with the bone.

  I had been a little reluctant to use the bone when Mary first showed it to me.

  She had laughed when she saw the look on my face, saying, “See? It’s only an old spoon my great-grandmother found on the beach. See the little rose on the handle? She took off the bowl and used the end. You children today are too worried about everything.”

  Despite her explanation, even now I was a little reluctant to use the smooth tool polished by a century of weaving baskets. The whole “bone” thing really bothered me. Why call it a bone if it wasn’t one?

  This wasn’t like weaving the other baskets I’d practiced before meeting Mary. The grass was more supple than reed and harder to hold in place, even though it was braided. The palm leaf was stiff and held the grass well but also managed to cut my fingers a few times.

  “There.” Mary nodded and puffed smoke. “You’re doin’ fine. If you could only learn to keep better track of time and leave that boy alone, you’d be ready to sell your own baskets.”

  I put another stitch in, catching the beginning of a new bunch of grass and pulling it tight. “Who was that man, Mary? Why was he threatening you?”

  “Let it go,” she urged. “Look, you left out a piece of grass, and your hand is bleeding. Let me take that. You go and clean up. Fetch me more tobacco from the shelf and put a bandage on that hand.”

  Mary was the original whip-cracking boss. She might’ve been small and vulnerable in some ways, but she was as tough as that palm leaf. Those shiny black eyes that reminded me of dark diamonds saw everything. She didn’t mind telling me, either.

  There were two more customers in the shop. I cleaned my hand and bandaged it while they browsed. One of them, a heavyset woman in a long, green velvet gown whose breasts were almost pushed out of her bodice, asked me about the weaving. “Is it true no two baskets are ever the same?”

  “That’s right. In fact, master basket weavers have distinct styles that are never duplicated by anyone outside the family or group of weavers. Some of them, like this one,” I showed her a large, oval basket, “made by our master weaver, have a pattern handed down for hundreds of years.”

  The woman nodded, suitably impressed. “I’ve heard you can keep them outside, too.”

  “Because of the grasses and palm they’re sewn with, they can get wet without any problem.”

  She was convinced and bought two $400 baskets. The skinny woman with her looked around but didn’t buy anything.

  “Jessie!” I didn’t have time to turn around before I was lifted completely off my feet. Not a common occurrence for someone my size.

  I’d been waiting a month to hear that voice. I stared into the familiar face, looking for any changes since last summer. “Chase! I was wondering where you were!”

  “I was visiting my family in Arizona for a few weeks. Are you working at Wicked Weaves this year?”

  Chase Manhattan looked as healthy and alive as always. He was six foot eight, 260 pounds of energy. He reminded me of a pirate with his long brown braid and one gold earring.

  Chase had lived at the Village for the last five years. He told me once he’d played every sport imaginable in college but had a soft spot for history. I found out later, by snooping around, that he took unimaginable crap for not latching on to a pro team of some kind and buying a new Ferrari.

  He was intelligent, well-spoken, handsome, and charismatic. He was also the bailiff for the Village, which meant he was kind of chief of security and circuit court judge rolled into one. He was appointed by the king and queen. Adventure Land, the owners of the Village, appointed Livy and Harry the same way. They’d been the company’s top sales people.

  Unfortunately, it meant Chase was as bad as my brother. He was content to live here and had no real ambition for his life. It was the only thing that kept me from throwing myself on him every time I saw him. Me, and half the other women in the Village. I wouldn’t let myself be involved with someone like that.

  Thinking about it was almost as good as taking a cold shower. “I’m working, Chase. Put me down.”

  “Sorry.” He set me back on my feet and managed to look apologetic. “I just got back, and you were the first person I saw.”

  As though that explained everything.

  A large group of visitors entered the shop. They were dressed in heavy medieval clothing made from leather and velvet, even though the Weather Channel said it would be in the nineties. These were the diehard medieval fantasy visitors. Not everyone gave up modern clothing to come here. A few of them carried real bows and swords. The only restriction on weapons in the Village was that they had to be something you could’ve owned in the 1500s. No visitor could carry a modern gun.

  I let them look around as I talked to Chase. “I’m working as Mary Shift’s apprentice making baskets.”

  “Excellent! I could use a basket at the dungeon. Maybe you could make one for me.”

  I took his remark in stride. Anyone who wears a size twelve shoe, even though it’s a size twelve narrow, has to be realistic. Men who looked like Chase didn’t date women who looked like me. Not that I wanted
to date him. He was like my brother. I repeated the mantra over and over to protect myself.

  “It’s good to see you, Jessie. You should come visit more often during the year.” He smiled at me, and his braid fell across his shoulder. “Meeting every summer like this is hard on my love life.”

  I laughed. I’m sure I was supposed to. Chase was a flirt. I told myself that to keep from being a slobbering mess around him. I’ve known him for so long, but I still don’t know much about him. “What are you doing? Have you seen any thieves or scoundrels today?”

  Chase looked down at his tight jeans and the T-shirt covering what I knew to be his washboard abs. “I’m looking for a costume right now. They seem to be in short supply this summer. I think we have extra workers.”

  I sighed and stared at the ceiling behind his head. “I hear the wizard has two apprentices this year.” That was brilliant, Jessie.

  The sound of trumpets, heralding the king or queen, or both, taking a royal turn through the Village, interrupted us. There was no way either one of us was going anywhere for a few minutes. A royal stroll came complete with either gentlemen or ladies-in-waiting and other courtiers, a minstrel or two and sometimes even a jester. That meant hundreds of people with cameras lined up to take their pictures. Both the king and queen loved being photographed and could pose for hours.

  So I was stuck with Chase, who smiled at me and continued to make polite conversation. The visitors in the shop quit fondling the baskets and rushed to the big windows that faced the street to see what was going on. I glanced toward the back stairs, hoping Mary might decide to come in and watch the spectacle of the royal couple getting free lemonade from the shop next door. But I didn’t see her at the back door. She was too smart and experienced for that.

  “I think our queen, Livy, has put on a few pounds,” Chase observed. “Either that or she needs a new royal corset tightener.”

  “I’m sure she’d be glad to let you have that position.”

  “I don’t think so.” He straightened my shawl. “I’m busy looking at baskets.”

  Before I could answer, a sharp screech came from beside Lolly’s Lemonade Shoppe. I ran out the back door and saw Livy collapse to her knees. “We do believe this man is dead,” she said. “Someone fetch our smelling salts.”

  Two

  At first I thought it was part of the act. Like I said, it’s hard to tell sometimes, and not just for the tourists, either. Half of the time, I’m not sure what’s real and what’s illusion. Of course, I have that problem even when I’m not at the Village.

  Chaos broke out around the queen as all of her court rushed to her side and the visitors with cameras followed them. Shutters were clicking, but the sun was so bright there were no flashes.

  There was only a small walkway between buildings in the Village. Most of the time, you could find the people who worked there sitting around eating lunch or smoking cigarettes in that space. One summer they kept the trash cans there, but the smell drove people away. So they put the trash cans against the back wall and left the space empty between buildings. Once in a while, we had a problem with kids hanging out there trying to get lost in the crowd in the evening so they could spend a night in the Village. Chase always caught them.

  Anyone walking by could’ve seen this man. He was sitting against the wall on the ground, his head hanging forward, arms dangling at his sides. I stepped around the queen, who was still on the ground but at a safe distance from him. He looked dead. If he was breathing, I couldn’t see it. Maybe Livy was right for once.

  I hoped he was asleep. It had happened before. Sometimes older people got tired. The Village has a lot of walking. He was going to be embarrassed, if that were the case, but better embarrassed than dead.

  I gritted my teeth and tugged at his leg, but he didn’t move. Maybe that was a good sign. At that point, it was hard to say. I didn’t want to touch him again, so I crouched close and pretended to be inspecting the area, hoping someone else would come and take charge.

  “Let me take a look at him.” I saw Chase come up behind me, and I moved to one side. He might not really be a police officer, but he seemed like the best person to deal with the situation.

  “He’s not dead,” I assured him and myself. “Livy goes into hysterics regularly. You know that.”

  Chase agreed. “He might be sick.”

  “Maybe. Or he could be asleep. He’s not dead. I don’t see any blood.”

  “Good thing you’re not a medical examiner. There are plenty of ways to be dead that don’t make you lose any blood.” Chase knelt down and put his hand against the man’s throat. “There’s no pulse.”

  It got very quiet around us, and I sneaked a glance back. No one was looking at Livy anymore. She’d even stopped pretending to swoon and was staring at the man with the rest of us. Everyone was waiting to see if he was going to wake up.

  Chase moved back. The man fell toward me. I screeched and moved faster than I’d ever thought I could to get out of his way. He wasn’t moving all that fast, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

  For another instant, there was complete silence. Then a general replica of my screech went through the crowd, and people ran in all directions. Livy lifted her heavy red velvet gown and took off after them, holding her crown in one hand and her scepter in the other.

  Chase calmly reached across and laid the man’s body down. “Well, that answers that question. Livy was right for once. He’s dead.”

  Carefully (I didn’t want to disturb the man on the ground), I moved farther away from him until my back was against the side wall of Wicked Weaves. “We need to call 911. I wouldn’t want to lie here and have to take your word for it that I was dead.”

  “Relax,” Chase said. “I’ve worked as a paramedic. This man is definitely dead. What’s this around his throat?”

  I looked. I didn’t want to. I couldn’t help it. I stepped close to Chase. There was something around the dead man’s throat. It looked like basket weaving. The long lines of sweetgrass intertwined with pine. No way was I getting any closer to find out for sure.

  There was something familiar about the man, too. He was dressed like the man who’d been with Mary earlier. His face was different—it was thinner and longer—but the distinct old-fashioned style of the suit was the same.

  I glanced around and realized Mary still wasn’t on the back step of the shop. I couldn’t find her face in the small group of people who hadn’t run away. She definitely wasn’t there. I hadn’t seen her come into the shop before Livy found the dead man. Where was she?

  I looked up at Chase and started to mention it. Then I thought again. Whatever was going on might be a bad thing for Mary. It might not matter that she was gone. Just because the dead man looked like he was strangled by a piece of her particular basket weave didn’t mean anything.

  “Stand back!” Roger Trent, the glass blower, ran up from the street. “Don’t touch anything. You should know better.”

  Chase shook his head. “Too late.”

  “What happened?” Roger took his past as a police officer very seriously and probably thought he should head up the investigation. He was an older man, still in good condition, whose shaved head was as sun-darkened as his face.

  “He was sitting against the wall when we found him,” Chase explained. “Then he fell over. He doesn’t have a pulse, and he’s cold. He’s been dead for a while.”

  “Livy said he was dead when she ran by me toward the castle.” Roger knelt beside the fallen man. “What did you see, Chase?”

  “I didn’t see anything until I got out here. I was in the shop with Jessie when Livy started screaming. We both ran out at the same time. Jessie got here first.”

  “It’s true.” I glanced at Chase, then at the wall, then at Roger. Anywhere not to look at the dead man. “You couldn’t see anything from inside. There aren’t windows facing this way.”

  Roger examined the wall behind me, then looked back at the dead man. “Does anyone recog
nize him? Have you seen him before, Jessie? Was he in the shop?”

  “I don’t recognize him.” I kept it quiet that his suit looked familiar. I hoped it didn’t make a difference. Anyone could wear a similar outfit. Especially here where so many people rented their clothes for the day. A black suit from the 1920s wouldn’t really fit the Renaissance theme, but I’ve seen weirder.

  Chase responded, “I just got in from Scottsdale. I haven’t even had time to change. I can take a look at the video footage from the gate and find out how long he’s been in the Village.”

  Roger leaned closer to the dead man without touching him. “Smells like he’s been drinking. I think this man was strangled by this stuff around his throat. It’s cutting into his skin. What is it?”

  A shadow fell across the dead man’s face. “It’s my weave.” Mary’s voice was tight and flat.