Trouble Most Faire

by Jaden Terrell

  Oh, Laura.

  They needed to call 911, but as far as she could tell, the man in the kilt had no pockets, just a leather pouch at his waist too small for a cell phone. That left the giantess.

  Robbi held up her dripping phone and raised her eyebrows. The giantess—what had the man called her? Joanne?—turned her palms upward and said, “Sorry.”

  Normally, Robbi would have considered freedom from cell phones a perk of living in a cottage in the woods and wearing costumes with no pockets, but now it just seemed foolish. How would you call for an ambulance if you got bitten by a copperhead?

  The man in the kilt said to Joanne, with a hint of a Scottish brogue, “One of us will have to go back up and call the sheriff. Might as well let Guy know, while you’re at it.”

  Guy Cavanaugh, Robbi remembered from Laura’s emails, was the owner of the faire. Charming, she’d said. Rakishly handsome. Extremely rich. An incorrigible but lovable cad.

  “While I’m at it? Sounds like ‘someone’s’ being drafted.” The tremor in Joanne’s voice belied the brashness of her words.

  “Well, she can’t go.” He nodded toward Robbi. “She doesn’t know where Guy lives. And I’m not leaving you alone with her. We’d have three bodies to deal with instead of one.” His voice broke off as he glanced toward Laura’s body, still bobbing gently beneath the bridge. “And you can’t stay here by yourself. We need to be able to corroborate that no one’s touched her, touched anything.”

  Robbi looked up from her waterlogged phone. He sounded so calm. Too calm. But there was a shimmer of tears in his eyes.

  Joanne said, “I know better than to tamper with anything.”

  “You know Sheriff Hammond,” the Scotsman rumbled. “He’s been trying to shut us down for the past six months. If he can find a reason to accuse one of us of anything, he will. And it’s not like you and Laura were best friends.”

  Joanne drew in a startled breath. Then her nostrils flared. “But we were friends. And it’s not like she didn’t dump you for Dale less than a week ago. If I’m a suspect, so are you.”

  “Maybe so, but I’ll have a witness to ensure I don’t muck with anything.” He dipped his head toward Robbi.

  The giantess heaved a sigh. “You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you, Mal?”

  Robbi searched her memory for some reference to a man named Mal and came up with an offhand comment about a sheepherder who’d spent much of his youth with a grandmother in Scotland. And at Christmas, Laura had mentioned seeing someone special. But Laura had always been reticent about her love life. She’d always said she was afraid to talk about it because that might break the spell. So Laura’s failure to mention a relationship with Mal didn’t necessarily mean anything. But the idea that Laura had done the dumping was a big red flag. As far as Robbi knew, Laura had never broken up with anyone before. They had left her, every time.

  Maybe the breakup had gone badly, and Mal was the one who’d thrown her in the river.

  Robbi shivered. Maybe it was neither he nor the giantess. Maybe it was someone else, or just an awful accident. His surprise at seeing Laura’s body had seemed genuine. But the thought of being left alone with either of them felt suddenly unappealing.

  I can take care of myself, she thought. But it would be harder now, because she’d shown her hand when she flipped Joanne off the bridge. They’d be prepared, instead of expecting her to be defenseless.

  Still dripping, she trudged further up the bank and stood in a patch of sunlight, rubbing her arms for warmth. Mal gave her a speculative look, then scanned the area. His gaze skimmed the kestrel carrier and came to rest on the purse she’d dropped near the bridge.

  “No luggage?” he asked.

  “My car broke down. I had to walk. I was going to have Laura drive me back for my stuff and call for a tow.”

  He nodded. “Jo, after you call the sheriff, stop by our place and ask Elinore to send along a blanket or something dry for our new friend to wear.”

  Joanne picked up the corners of her leather blacksmith’s apron and curtsied. “Yes, milord. Should I ask the lady Elinore to send along a flagon of ale to slake your thirst? For surely thou art thirsty after such exertion.”

  “Funny lady,” Mal said, dryly. “A blanket will do.”

  “I’m all right,” Robbi said. “I’m drying out already.”

  His concern for her assuaged her fears, at least a little. It seemed sincere. Almost sweet. Except that Mal must have been cheating on “the lady Elinore” with Laura, if Joanne’s accusation about the breakup was true. Which it probably was, since he hadn’t denied it. Her train of thought sent a new wave of guilt through her. What kind of person thought about gossip when her best friend had just died?

  The kind of person who didn’t want to think about what—or who—was under that bridge.

  That thought led her back to Joanne’s accusation. Maybe Laura’s death was just a tragic accident, but if it wasn’t, an illicit affair might be a motive for murder.

  Joanne started up the bank, legs pumping in long, ground-covering strides. She paused on the bridge to pick up her axe, and Robbi thought she saw the woman’s broad shoulders slump. Then her back straightened and she stomped across the bridge and disappeared into the trees.

  A soft, warm presence rubbed against Robbi’s legs, and she looked down to see the black cat gazing up at her. To keep herself from bursting into tears, she picked him up and gave his chin a scratch.

  “Mal, right?” she asked the man in the kilt. At his nod, she said, “I’m Robbi. Robbi Bryan.”

  “Of course. Laura’s friend. She’s been talking about your visit for weeks.”

  The thought made Robbi’s throat tighten, so she forced her focus elsewhere. “Mal, whose cat is this?”

  “Some bookseller from Alabama. Laura was cat-sitting for her.”

  “Tammy,” she remembered. Laura had found the bookseller online while searching for a first edition book on Renaissance costuming. The two had struck up a friendship, two red-haired animal lovers with a love of books and history.

  “Right. Tammy. The cat’s name is Trouble.” He bent to pat the pig, who had followed the cat up the bank. “And this is Tuck.”

  He had a soothing voice, a rich baritone that made her feel a little less awful.

  Trying to lighten the mood, Robbi said, “Methinks Tuck is the troublemaker in this crew.”

  “An unrepentant stealer of grain. And your bird?”

  “Falcor. An unrepentant scourge of grasshoppers and mice.”

  The border collie nuzzled Mal’s hand, and he gently rubbed her ears. “This is Miss Scarlett. Scarlett for short. No vices worth speaking of.”

  The sun had moved, and a patch of light had shifted closer to the kestrel’s carrier. With a final stroke, Robbi set the cat down and moved the hawk box farther into the shade.

  She looked back at the bridge. From here, all she could see was a corner of the white gown billowing on the water, but she could still see it in her mind, her friend floating on the water with her hair splayed out around her head like a painting of Ophelia.

  The thought sent her mind in a new direction. Could Laura have drowned herself? Over this man? Surely not. If she hadn’t killed herself over any of the men who had left her before, then surely she wouldn’t do it over a relationship she herself had ended.

  She turned back to Mal. “What did Joanne mean, Laura dumped you?”

  “Joanne was being dramatic,” he said. “It was more of a mutual thing.”

  “And what about Elinore?”

  He looked perplexed. “Not really her concern. I mean, she worries over me, I guess, but all big sisters do.”

  Sister.

  Robbi busied herself with Falcor’s carrier, confused by her urge to smile. It wasn’t because she was interested. She’d just extricated herself from the worst relationship in the history of the world and had no desire to walk that path again. And even if she had been so inclined, Laura had broken up
with him for a reason. Maybe he was emotionally controlling. Or maybe he was a cheat. The cute, charming ones almost always were. And she’d had enough of cute, charming men to last a lifetime.

  Still, there was something about him. A softness in his eyes, his obvious affection for his dog and his pig. More kind than charming, really.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he said. “She was so excited about you coming to work here. Said you’d been best friends since you were wee ones.”

  “Since third grade.” Robbi had been the new kid, just moved to Watertown after her father got a professorship at a nearby university. She could still remember sitting alone on the playground, watching her classmates play a rowdy game of Red Rover, Red Rover and praying no one would invite her to play.

  It wasn’t holding the line that worried her. She had a grip like a snapping turtle. But she was small and light, which meant that no matter how fiercely she rushed the line, she would find herself hanging over the other team’s linked arms like a sheet folded over a clothesline.

  A voice had come from behind her. “I hate that game.”

  She’d turned to face a slender girl with new-penny hair and the brightest green eyes she’d ever seen. The girl held up her hands for Robbi to inspect. “Aren’t these the tiniest wrists in the world? Even the little kids can break right through.”

  “I hate it too,” Robbi said. Her heart pounding, she took a deep breath and revealed her status as a misfit. “I’d rather read.”

  “Reading’s the best.” The girl held out a pinkie. “I guess we’d better be friends.”

  And they had been, not just friends but best friends, that year and every year since. Robbi sank to the ground beside Falcor’s cage and crossed her arms on top of her knees. Her eyes burned, and her throat felt swollen, but she managed to keep herself from crying.

  Mal sat down beside her, arranging his kilt. She felt the warmth of his thigh beside hers, close but not quite touching, and despite her reservations, she was glad for his presence.

  To be alone with her best friend’s body, that would simply be too awful.

  Mal absently stroked Scarlett’s ears as the border collie lay on the grass beside him. Tuck rooted nearby for earthworms or mushrooms, while the cat trotted down the bank and sat beside the bridge pilings, staring at Laura’s body.

  He wondered what the cat was thinking, if Trouble understood that his caregiver would no longer be around to braise fish for his dinner. Mal suspected he did. Animals were smarter than people gave them credit for, and Trouble was an exceptionally clever animal. The last time Mal had spoken to Laura, she’d said, “It’s uncanny how smart he is. I swear, last night he changed the television channel to the BBC.”

  It seemed impossible that she could be dead, when just last night she’d invited him over to share a bottle of wine and a bananas foster crème brûlée with her and Dale. Truth be told, Mal would have preferred a plain banana pudding, but then, he’d never been known for his sophisticated tastes. His ex-wife used to call him a Philistine, which he guessed he was. Only a Philistine, she said, would have any use for haggis.

  The woman beside him drew in a quivering breath. Robbi, short for Robyn. Laura had called her the closest thing to family she had left. What a shock it must have been, thinking you were spending the next six months with a friend and then stumbling over her body instead. He wished he could say something to comfort her, but nothing seemed adequate.

  He sat beside her in silence until he heard voices coming from the woods across the bridge, Joanne’s urgent, Guy’s smooth and sincere. Probably thinking about PR, how to assure the public that whatever had happened to Laura was unrelated to her work with the faire. Guy was good at spinning things.

  Mal climbed to his feet, smoothing his kilt, and extended a hand to Robbi. Her hand felt cold, and he realized she was shivering. “You going to be okay?”

  “I think so,” she said. Her gaze drifted to the bank, where the cat had tipped his head toward the approaching voices. “Like Laura would have said, I guess I’d better be.”

  Guy and Joanne arrive and mill about, Guy looking rather green, until the sheriff and his deputies arrive with the county coroner in tow. After they remove Laura’s body from the river, I trot over to her. She’s wearing a white silk gown with a full skirt and a fitted bodice. Both are embroidered with ivory roses, each with a tiny pearl at its heart. She’s been working on this dress for the past three nights, sewing on the pearls by hand, then holding it up for me to admire as she completed each new section.

  “Trouble,” she’d said just the night before, “is this not the most beautiful dress you’ve ever seen? It’s going to be my wedding dress, and then I’m going to put it on the cover of my new online catalog.”

  Batting at a stray length of embroidery thread, I half-listened as she rambled on about the wedding, then shared her plans to subsidize her seasonal Ren Faire income with a high-end custom costume boutique and gift shop. She’d sell her costumes and recipe books, along with imported delicacies from the British Isles. She was talking to herself more than to me, and so my inattention caused me no guilt.

  Now, though, I wish I had listened more closely.

  Careful not to disturb the scene, I sniff at her sodden gown. It’s ruined, marred with streaks of mud and moss. It smells of river water and the lavender soap she wears…or rather, wore. She baked shortbread early this morning, and I catch a whiff of flour and vanilla, but if her killer’s scent was ever on her, it has been washed away.

  I move to smell her hair and find a nasty wound.

  The coroner, an elderly gentleman wearing plastic gloves, glances up and waves me away. “Shoo! Go on, kitty. Get on out of here.”

  I move a few feet away, uncertain whether I should be more offended by the shooing or by being called ‘kitty.’ Both, I decide. I sit and lick a paw before sauntering away so he doesn’t think he can order me about.

  Some people have no understanding of their station in life. There is a reason humans once revered my kind as gods.

  Sheriff Hammond and a petite female deputy lean over the coroner’s shoulder. The sheriff rubs his chin. “Sad. Musta tripped on that fancy skirt and hit her head.”

  The coroner squints through his thick glasses and nods agreeably. “Could be, Ham. Unfortunate accident.”

  The deputy, whom Hammond just calls Debba, shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” She points to the wound on Laura’s head. “Look at the angle of the wound. And it’s not like she’d be hiking on treacherous ground, not in these clothes. This doesn’t look like an accident to me.”

  The coroner shifts his attention to her. “Well, now, Debba, you could be right.” He takes off his glasses and wipes them on his shirt, peers closely at the wound, then cranes his neck around toward Hammond. “You got a bright one there, Ham. You sure enough do. I think you’re looking at a homicide.”

  From the crime shows I’ve watched, I know what he should say is that he can’t be sure until after the autopsy. Perhaps that’s what he means, but he seems a little too eager to accept whatever narrative is set before him.

  While Robbi, Mal, and Guy look on, the sheriff sends Joanne with one of his deputies to round up the rest of the Troupe and bring them to the King’s Moot, the common hall where he plans to interrogate them. He calls these little chats interviews, but I know what he really means.

  I must find a way to listen to these conversations.

  Chapter Three

  The deputy, a wiry woman with short-cropped sandy hair and a name tag that said Debba Holt, was a few inches taller than Robbi, but still had to break into a half-trot to keep pace with Joanne. As Robbi watched them disappear among the trees, Joanne shortened her stride to match the smaller woman’s. It reminded Robbi of another childhood game.

  Take two hundred baby steps to the end of this path.

  Mother, may I?

  Yes, you may.

  She put her hand over her mouth to stifle an inappropriate laugh
. There was something about death that did that to her. At fourteen, she’d had to bite her cheek throughout her mother’s funeral to keep from giggling at the preacher’s badly knotted tie. When the soloist had warbled out “Amazing Grace” in a tremulous soprano, Robbi had buried her face in her father’s handkerchief, shoulders shaking with silent laughter that the other mourners had, thankfully, interpreted as tears.

  “It’s whistling past the graveyard,” her father had said later, when she’d asked him if her laughter meant she hadn’t really loved her mother. “It has nothing to do with how much you loved her. Just like blaming me has nothing to do with how much you love me.”

  But she didn’t want to think about that, because she did blame him, she blamed him for everything, and because—as unfair as it was—she loved, had always loved him best.

  It took another twenty minutes for the coroner to finish. Robbi watched his every move, feeling more and more nauseated, until Mal took her by the shoulders and turned her around.

  “You don’t have to see this,” he said. “You think you owe it to her, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want you to.”

  Guy nodded and took up a position on her other side. He was as cute as Laura had said, his hair carefully tousled and his dark eyes glazed with what seemed to be genuine shock and sorrow.

  The two men kept her occupied with small talk until Sheriff Hammond said, “Okay, let’s go,” and Robbi turned in time to see that they had placed Laura’s body on a stretcher. The coroner zipped up the body bag, and the deputies wheeled the stretcher onto the path and then onto the bridge.

  The sheriff shepherded the rest of them across and into the woods on the other side. They walked in silence, and after several minutes the trail split in two. A wooden sign stood at the fork, with arrows pointing left and right. Those pointing left read in calligraphic letters, King Richard’s Tourney Grounds, Jousting, Fairy Grove, Living Chess, and Herding & Hawking. The ones to the right said: Market Road, The Queen’s Feasts, King’s Moot, Millhouse, and Main Stages.