(LB1) Shakespeare's Champion

by Charlaine Harris

  “Honey, this is Lily Bard,” Arnita Winthrop said as if her husband should be happy to hear it. At least her equal in manners, he tried to look delighted I’d come, and he and his son both rose without hesitation.

  “Pleased to meet you, young lady,” the older man said, and I could hear his age in his voice. “I’ve heard a lot of nice things about you.” But his tone said “interesting stories” rather than “nice things.”

  Howell Jr. and I nodded at each other. I hadn’t seen Howell since the day of the break-in. He was giving me the strangest, most intense look. I could see he was trying to transfer some thought directly to my brain.

  This was becoming more complex by the second. Now, what might he want me to say, or not say? And why? Could I manage to care?

  “Lily and I will just go into the other room for a minute,” Arnita Winthrop excused us. Underneath her courtesy and the mask of her expensive turnout, I realized the older woman was anxious. Very anxious. That made three of us.

  Her husband looked cool as a cucumber.

  “Now, sugar, wait a minute,” Howell Sr. said, with the greatest good nature. “You can’t just whisk the prettiest woman I’ve seen in ages out of the room before I have a chance to get a good look at her.”

  “Oh, you!” said Arnita with an excellent imitation of perfect good humor. She relaxed visibly. “Sit down, then, Miss Bard.” She set an example by easing into the couch opposite the two men, who were in higher wing chairs. I had to comply or look like a clod.

  I was sorry I’d come. I wanted to go home.

  “Miss Bard, weren’t you in the church during the explosion, and at my son’s house at the time of this very mysterious break-in?”

  My senses went on full alert. The older Winthrop knew full well I had been there.

  “Yes.”

  He waited a second for me to say more, saw I wasn’t going to.

  “Oh my goodness,” Arnita murmured. “I know you were scared to death.”

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  Howell Jr.’s forehead was beaded with sweat.

  I didn’t want to talk about the church. “Actually, I didn’t know anyone was breaking into the house until he left. I probably scared him more than he scared me.” I hoped making the burglar singular would make me sound more ignorant. Howell Jr. looked off at a stag’s head, but I could read relief in his posture. I’d given the correct response.

  Looking at the three other people in the room, I had the strangest feeling: It seemed so unlikely that I was in this house, in their company. It was like falling down the rabbit’s hole in Alice in Wonderland. I wondered if I was suffering some strange aftereffect of the explosion.

  Howell Sr. found my last remark quite amusing. “You got any idea what they were after, young lady? You even know if they were niggers or whites?”

  I was used to taking people in their context, but I felt my back stiffen and probably my face, too. I felt Howell Sr.’s tone was contemptuous and hectoring. But if I’d been tempted to upbraid the old man, that temptation passed from me when I saw the anxiety in my hostess’s face.

  “No,” I said.

  “My goodness, a woman of few words, ain’t that unusual,” Howell Sr. cackled. But his faded blue eyes were not amused. The oldest living Winthrop was used to more respect.

  “A break-in in broad daylight,” Arnita said, shaking her head at the evils of the modern world. “I can’t think what was going through their minds.”

  “Oh, Mama,” said her son, “they could have taken the VCRs and the camcorder and even the television sets and gotten enough money to buy drugs for days.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Arnita shook her head in dismay. “The world’s just not getting any better.”

  It seemed a strange point to make with me, but perhaps the older Winthrops were the only two people in Shakespeare who didn’t know my history.

  “Honey, Miss Bard knows how bad the world is,” her husband said, his voice sad. “Her past, and this terrible bombing…”

  “Oh, my dear! Forgive me, I would never want to—”

  “It’s all right,” I said, unable to keep the weariness from my voice.

  “How’s your leg, Miss Bard?” the old man asked. He sounded just as tired as I was. “And I understand you lost part of your ear?”

  “Not the important part,” I said. “And my leg is better.”

  All the Winthrops made commiserating noises.

  Arnita seized the ensuing pause to tell her husband and son firmly that she and I had something to discuss, and I heaved myself to my feet to follow her erect back down a hall to a smaller room that appeared to be Arnita’s own little sitting room. It was decorated in off-white, beige, and peach, and all the furniture was scaled down for Arnita Winthrop’s small body.

  Again I was ensconced on a comfortable sofa, again Arnita sat, too, and she got down to business.

  “Lily, if I may call you that, I have something of Marie’s to give you.”

  I digested that in silence. Marie hadn’t had much at all, and I’d assumed Chuck would be handling whatever little odds and ends of business Marie had left to be completed. I nodded at Arnita to indicate she could continue when she chose.

  “You came by on days you weren’t supposed to work at Marie’s.”

  I looked off. That was no one’s concern.

  “She appreciated it more than you will realize until you get old yourself, Lily.”

  “I liked her.” I looked at an oil painting of the three Winthrop grandchildren. Somehow it felt even odder seeing Bobo’s young face in these unfamiliar surroundings. Amber Jean looked more like her mother in the picture than she did in the flesh. Howell Three looked gangly and charming.

  “Of course, Marie was always conscious that she didn’t have much, and Chuck was helping her live in a tolerable way.”

  “As he damn well ought to,” I said flatly.

  Our eyes met. “We certainly agree on that,” Arnita said, her voice dry. I almost found myself liking her. “The point is, Marie couldn’t leave you money to thank you for your kindness to her, so she told me she wanted you to have this little ring. No strings. You can sell it or wear it, whatever.”

  Arnita Winthrop held out a shabby brown velvet ring box. I took it, opened it. Inside was a ring so pretty and feminine that I smiled involuntarily. It was designed to look like a flower, the petals formed of pinkish opals, the center a pearl circled by tiny diamond chips. There were two leaves, suggested by two dark green stones, which of course were not real emeralds.

  “It’s a pretty little thing, isn’t it?” my hostess said gently.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. But even as I spoke, it was occurring to me that I didn’t remember seeing the worn velvet box among Marie’s things, and I’d been familiar with her belongings for years. I could tell my smile was fading. Marie could have concealed it somewhere clever, I supposed, but still…

  “What’s the matter?” Arnita leaned forward to look at my face, her own deeply concerned.

  “Nothing,” I said, quite automatically hiding my worry. “I’m glad to have it to remember her by, if you’re sure that’s what she wanted.” I hesitated. “I can’t recollect ever seeing Marie wear this ring.”

  “She didn’t, for years, thought it looked too young for an old wrinkled woman like the ones we’d turned into,” said Arnita, with a comic grimace.

  “Thanks,” I said, there being nothing else to do that I could think of. I stood and pulled my car keys out of my pocket.

  Arnita looked a bit startled.

  “Well, good night,” I said, seeing I’d been too abrupt.

  “Good night, Lily.” The older woman rose, pushing a little on the arms of her chair. “Let me see you out and get your coat.”

  I protested, but she was adamant about fulfilling the forms of courtesy. She opened the beautiful doors to the family room so I was obliged to say good-bye to Howells Sr. and Jr. I hadn’t brought a purse so the ring box was in my hand. Howell Jr.’
s eyes registered it, and suddenly he turned white.

  Then his eyes met mine, and he looked as though he were going to be sick. I was bewildered, and I am sure I looked it.

  What was wrong with these people?

  I said the minimum courtesy demanded, and I left the room, taking my coat from Arnita at the door. She saw me to the porch and stood there while I climbed into my car. She waved, called out admonitions to drive carefully on the wet streets, thanked me for coming, hoped she would see me again soon. At last she closed her doors behind her.

  I shook my head as I turned my keys in the ignition, switched on my headlights. Then my head jerked, following a movement I’d caught out of the corner of my eye. I was out of the car as quickly as I could manage, staring through the dark shapes of the bushes lining the drive, trying to figure out what I’d just seen. I wasn’t about to run from the lamplight illuminating the drive into that outer darkness, and I wasn’t really sure that I’d seen an actual living thing. Maybe it had been shadows shifting as I turned on my lights. Maybe it had been a dog or cat. As I began to ease down the drive, I scanned the shrubbery for movement, but I saw nothing, nothing at all.

  My summons and visit to the Winthrop mansion had been peculiar and strangely off-kilter, and I was tempted to think over the problems this family obviously had. But getting involved in the internecine squabbles of the most powerful family in the county was no way to earn a living. Head low, go forward; I needed to go home and write that a hundred times.

  I had a bad feeling. I was already enmeshed in more trouble than I could imagine.

  THE NEXT DAY was so normal it was a relief. Though I couldn’t stop myself from looking side to side when I was out driving from one job to another, at least I didn’t have that jumpy feeling that something—or someone—was about to leap out in front of me in challenge.

  The assorted minor bruises on my face and arms had faded to a dusty eggplant shade, and the worst ones on my back were at least less painful. My leg felt much better. The cut on my scalp was almost healed and the notch in my ear was somewhat less disgusting.

  I had no appetite for lunch, so after eating a piece of fruit at home I decided to go make a necessary purchase, one I’d been putting off for a few days. My workout gloves were falling apart at the seams, literally. Maybe if I got new gloves, I would go back to Body Time. I hadn’t worked out or been to karate since the explosion. I knew I was hardly up to my former routine, but I could be doing abdominal crunches or some biceps work. All my energy seemed to be absorbed in just making my body get through the movements of life, and sometimes I swear I had to remind myself to breathe, it felt like so much trouble. New gloves, a little treat, might set me back on my former track.

  Since my street is the bottom stroke of a U-shaped dead end, I had to take a circuitous route to Winthrop Sporting Goods. If I’d wanted to walk up the hill and cross the railroad tracks behind my house, I’d have reached the chain-link fence enclosing the huge back lot of Winthrop Lumber and Supply, which abutted directly onto the equally huge fenced back lot of the sporting goods store. But the fences and the rough ground made walking impractical, especially in my weakened state, so I had to make a ten-minute drive that routed me through a portion of downtown Shakespeare, then off to the right on Finley.

  I had too much time to think as I drove, and was scowling when I walked in the front door of Winthrop Sporting Goods. Darcy Orchard looked up, flushed nearly the color of the red store sweatshirt, and flinched in exaggerated terror as I came in.

  “You better smile, girl!” he called. “You gonna crack any mirror if you walk by.”

  I looked around me. I was always staggered by the sheer size and complexity of Winthrop’s. The building had been remodeled inside any number of times, until now it consisted of a huge central cavern with specialty rooms lining the walls on either side of the store. There was a room for rifles, and one for bows—bow hunting is very popular in Shakespeare. There was a room over on the left wall just for fishing paraphernalia, and another for camping accessories. There was at least an acre of open yard out back for Jet Skis, boats, deer stands, and four-wheelers.

  But the main room was full of everything else. There were high racks of camouflage gear in every conceivable shade of green and brown, in sizes down to infant sleepers. There were hunting caps, and insulated socks, and special gloves, and thermoses, and coolers. Life vests screamed in neon orange, deer corn was piled in fifty-pound bags, and oars were arranged in upright racks. There was a display of bottles containing fluids that made you smell like raccoon pee or a doe in heat or a skunk.

  There were other clothes for every sport, even a small section for skiing outfits, since the wealthy of Shakespeare went to Colorado when the snow was deep. Every time I came to Winthrop’s, it was to be amazed all over again that a place this size could thrive in a town as small as Shakespeare. But the surrounding area was known for its hunting, and sportsmen came from all over the region to the numerous hunting camps in the deep woods. Engaged couples were known to keep a list of desirable gifts hanging behind the counter. Whole families came from Little Rock to shop at Winthrop Sporting Goods, and there had been a rumor Howell Jr. was going to start sending out a catalog.

  I realized as I looked around that the Winthrops must be incredibly rich, on paper at least. I’d seen the evidence in the size of the houses the family lived in, their clothes and jewelry and toys: But seeing the vastness of the store, thinking of the huge lumber and home supply store right next to this place, remembering all the fences I’d seen across areas containing working oil wells marked WINTHROP OIL, NO ENTRANCE, the amount of money the family must have in the bank just winded me.

  Well, I didn’t want it. All I wanted was gloves.

  I would have to safari into the camouflage jungle to reach the little area I wanted, a far hike to the rear if I remembered the store layout correctly. Darcy Orchard seemed to feel I wanted his company, and when he found out what I needed he led me down the narrow middle aisle and veered to the left. I lifted a hand to Jim Box, who was explaining to a teenager why he needed a gun case that would float. The young woman who worked in boating accessories came up and gave me a half-hug and asked about my leg, and one of the men who’d worked in the store for over twenty years—his sweatshirt said so—patted me on the back in the friendliest way, though I hadn’t a clue who he was. These were nice people, and their kindness and their courtesy in not asking questions reminded me of why I’d liked Shakespeare in the first place.

  “You can meet the new guy, if you haven’t already. He’s ’bout as mean as you,” Darcy said in that jocular tone some men reserve for insults they don’t want you to take them up on. I suddenly remembered who the new man was, suddenly and for the first time realized…Just as a jolt of alarm went through me, I made myself pay attention to Darcy.

  Darcy’s voice had been offhand, but something in his tone had made the hair on my neck stand up. “You sure turn up in funny places,” he said now. “You in the Winthrop house when it’s not your day to work, you in the church when everyone going to that meeting is black.”

  “Did your wife tell you everything she was going to do, Darcy?”

  I recalled he been married for six years or so, though he’d been divorced as long as I’d known him.

  “My wife had more plans than the Pentagon,” Darcy said grimly, but he seemed to relax.

  We rounded a corner consisting of men’s jumpsuits (very popular in Shakespeare) which led us into the small open area devoted to workout equipment and workout clothes.

  Reading the instructions for an abdominal exerciser gadget, with a skeptical sideways pull to his lips, was the detective, Black Ponytail. I’d just figured out who I was going to see, but he didn’t have any warning. I admired the calm with which he took me in. His hands tightened on the brochure, but that was the only outward sign that we weren’t seeing each other for the first time.

  “Lily, this is Jared Fletcher,” Darcy said. “He’s got t
hose abs of steel, don’t you, Jared?”

  His name wasn’t Jared. I knew him now. He’d had the same skeptical look in the newspaper photos. I could feel my breath shorten.

  “Jared, this is Lily, the toughest woman in Shakespeare.” Darcy completed the introduction with relish. “You two ought to hit it off great.”

  Even Darcy seemed to realize there was something tense in the ensuing silence.

  “You two already know each other?” he asked, his beige head turning from me to “Jared” and back again.

  “I’ve seen Lily at the gym,” the new man said easily. “But we’ve never actually met.”

  “Oh, sure.” Darcy’s face cleared. “I’ll leave you two to it, then. Jared, Miss Lily here needs herself some new gloves. Might oughta sell her some body armor, too, since she seems to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What size?” the dark man asked as Darcy reluctantly went back to his work area.

  I held out my hand. “What do you think?” I asked, meeting his eyes.

  He took my hand with his right and stepped closer to me. This area of the store seemed isolated and silent, suddenly, though I knew there were people just through the dense racks of clothes. His other hand reached up to touch the bruise on my forehead. Among my other injuries, the place he’d bopped me had paled into insignificance.

  “Sorry,” he said. He was so close I was afraid he could hear my pulse. I laid my finger on his wrist. I felt his blood leap. The apathy that had lain on my shoulders like a fog seemed to be lifting.

  “Gloves,” I reminded him. My voice was scratchy.

  “Right,” he said, stepping away. He looked around him like the new employee he was. “Jared” hadn’t had much time to get acclimated.

  “There,” I pointed. “Women’s mediums?”

  “We have some in black,” he said.

  “Black is okay.”

  He pulled down a plastic container and popped it open. “You better try them on.”