Trouble Most Faire

by Jaden Terrell

  She’d handled her father’s affairs four months ago, after cancer bridged the gulf between them and then ate him alive, but Laura wasn’t blood kin. Robbi had no idea where to start.

  She pulled up short, halfway between Dale’s cottage and her own, clutching the CD he’d given her. Joanne would know. Joanne was an attorney. Maybe she could help with the legalities.

  A small voice in Robbi’s head said, What if she’s the killer?

  But Robbi didn’t believe that. And even if she was wrong, what better way to flush the woman out than to enlist her help? Robbi could continue to investigate her best friend’s death, and if she started to get close, the killer, whoever it was, would come after her.

  She’d be making herself bait.

  She turned the idea over in her mind. It sounded foolish, but what other way was there, really? With Hammond as Guy’s most likely silent partner, she couldn’t leave it up to the police.

  She would try to spring Joanne, and then she’d take whatever steps she needed to claim Laura’s body, and then she’d visit the funeral home, and then…

  She passed her cottage by. She could look up the local funeral homes on her computer, florists, all of that, but someone local might have better insights into the various options. And Mal had been Laura’s closest friend here—at least until recently. He might know others from the Ren Faire circuit she should invite.

  Are you sure you don’t just want an excuse to talk to Mal? said the little voice in her head. Since it had a point, she didn’t deign to answer.

  Instead, she quickened her step as she passed Joanne’s cottage with its backyard forge now cold, and rounded the curve of the Loop nearest the McClarens’ stone cottage. Its shutters were pine green, its door a brilliant red. A thread of smoke rose from the chimney. A Christmas house. The windows were open, white lace curtains rippling in the breeze. Homey.

  Twin flower beds flanked the front stoop, and a vegetable garden stretched along one side of the cottage, the first shoots beginning to push through the earth. Beyond the house, a pair of Andalusian horses grazed beside the barn; in a second pasture, lambs and kids gamboled in the grass, returning at intervals to nurse from their mothers. Robbi paused with a silent squee to watch the babies frolic for a few moments, then noticed a smaller pen equipped with a child’s plastic pool and slide. Its gate hung from a broken hinge. Tuck’s enclosure, she surmised. Naturally, he wasn’t in it.

  On one side of the stoop, someone had stacked a pile of firewood. She stepped past the pile, noting the long-handled modern axe propped against it. Then with a little start, Robbi realized the front door was ajar.

  An image of Laura’s ransacked cottage flashed through her mind. Then, something worse. What if Mal and Elinore had been inside? Her imagination added two sprawled bodies to the scene.

  “Mal?” She hurried to the door and pushed it open wide. Saw a plush gray couch piled high with sweaters and afghans, a matching chair, and a woman in a long brown dress and knitted shawl seated at a spinning wheel in the center of the room.

  Elinore looked up, one hand frozen around the fleece she’d grasped from a basket at her feet, the other pinching the length of yarn that ran to the bobbin. Her foot rose from the treadle as recognition seeped into her eyes. “Most of us knock,” she said, her slight brogue reminiscent of her brother’s.

  “Sorry. I just thought—I was afraid…” Robbi waved a hand toward the door behind her. “It was open.”

  “You thought maybe we’d been murdered in our beds?” Elinore chuckled. The wheel slowed. “Fair enough, but no. Just letting in a little air.”

  Robbi let out a relieved breath. “It is a gorgeous day out. Is Mal around?”

  “Out working with Scarlett. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Maybe.” She explained about the funeral, about friends she might notify, about the music and the poetry.

  When she’d finished, Elinore stopped the wheel with her fingertips and tied off the loose end of the thread. “Whispering Cedars is the only decent funeral home, and there’s a florist on the square called Katye’s Petals. I’m afraid I can’t help much beyond that. My understanding is that Laura had no family and not a lot of friends.”

  “I thought she and Joanne were close.”

  “I suppose. At least, they spent a fair amount of time together before your Laura got her hooks into Mal.”

  “That’s not—” Robbi started.

  Elinore waved away her protest. “Not fair. Aye, you’re right. And I know there was no malice in her. I suppose after the debacle with Mal’s first wife, I’m a wee bit too protective.”

  “First wife? How many have there been?”

  “Just the one. And what a piece of work she was. Mal and that big heart of his, he let her stomp all over him.” Elinore dropped the hank of fleece into the basket at her feet, then stood and wiped her palms on her skirt. Flicked away a stray piece of fluff. “Mal still thinks he’s that little geek he was in high school. He never could get used to the idea that he’d grown into a catch. But I’m being a bad hostess. Tea?”

  Robbi wasn’t sure she wanted tea, but she still had a slight buzz from the Coke and Captain Morgan Dale had given her. If she was going to drive back into town, a little caffeine might not be a bad idea. “Tea would be great, thanks.”

  While Elinore heated the water, Robbi picked her way around the spinning wheel and the basket of fleece to look at the bookshelf. You could tell a lot about people by the kinds of books they read. Of course, in this case, there were probably two sets of interests at play.

  “Cream?” Elinore called from the kitchen. “Of course, cream. And sugar. I’ll bring us some shortbread biscuits too.”

  Cookies, Robbi translated, but whatever you called them, you couldn’t go wrong with shortbread.

  She ran a finger down the spine of a book on engineering, then another on medieval architecture. On the shelf below sat a row of books on animal behavior and physiology, along with a Chinese puzzle box and a pair of wire kinetic sculptures like the ones she’d seen on Guy’s desk. A wooden tray at the end of the shelf held a miniature Rube Goldberg-type contraption, its cogs, ramps, and levers ending with the “capture” of a small ceramic dragon.

  “Nosy little thing, aren’t you?” Elinore said, making Robbi jump.

  Robbi turned to apologize, but found Elinore smiling, holding out a tray filled with shortbread, a tea pot, and the appropriate accoutrements—a pitcher of cream, a jar of honey, two silver spoons, and a pair of sturdy cups.

  Robbi pointed to the bookshelf. “Are these Mal’s?”

  “The animal books are Mal’s. The rest are mine.”

  “These too?” She gestured toward the sculptures. “They look complicated.”

  “Lots of practice.” Elinore shifted the tray into the crook of one arm, moved a basket of yarn from the coffee table to the floor, and slid the tray into the empty spot. “Mal and I have been making traps and puzzles for each other since we were kids.”

  “Traps?” Robbi looked more closely at the sculptures, then at the wicker puzzle box. She could imagine them as part of a larger Rube Goldberg invention with a human-sized mousetrap at the end.

  Elinore pushed aside a stack of folded afghans and slid onto the couch, waving Robbi to the chair across from her. “Once, he pulled up the kitchen tiles,” she said. “About a four-foot square. He took it all the way down to the insulation and then tossed a throw rug over the hole. When he called me in, I ran across it and fell all the way through to the apartment below. Scared poor Mrs. Ferguson half to death.” She laughed at the memory as she poured the tea, then handed Robbi a cup.

  If a man seems too good to be true…So much for Mr. Perfect. “You could have been killed!”

  “Aye, but we were quite young. Strong bones, don’t you know?” Elinore stirred a spoonful of honey into her cup, along with enough cream to turn her tea a light tan. “We’ve always been good at making things.”

  Robbi patted an
afghan draped across the arm of her chair, then made a sweeping gesture toward the blankets and sweaters scattered around the room. So many colors, so many intricate patterns and cables. “You made all these?”

  “Design my own patterns too.”

  Robbi and Laura had tried once to take up knitting. They’d finally managed a few simple squares, which, to make themselves feel better, they’d called potholders.

  After a nibble of shortbread, Elinore added, “And I’m working on some larger versions of those sculptures over by the river, big enough for people to climb on. The first one might be ready for the public by the end of the season.”

  Robbi tried to fathom the scope of such a project. “I can’t even imagine.

  “Same concept as the smaller puzzles, really.” Elinore said. “It’s all just math.”

  Robbi reached for the honey and cream. “I’m hopeless at math.”

  The back door opened and Mal came in, wearing a blue chambray shirt and a navy blue utility kilt. Nice legs. But damn, he’d looked good in those jeans. He stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene. A half-smile played across his lips, then faded. “How’s Old Reliable?”

  “Running great!” Robbi said brightly. Too brightly. She ratcheted it down a notch and held up her crossed fingers. “So far, so good.”

  “Just having a little girl talk, then, are you? I won’t keep you from it.” He plucked a cookie from the tray and headed toward what was probably his bedroom. It would be a manly room, Robbi thought. Greens and blues, a map of Scotland on the wall, maybe a tartan bedspread smelling of sandalwood. An image of Mal tangled in the sheets made her cheeks warm.

  She said, “Your sister has been telling me about the time you almost killed her.” At his blank stare, she added, “You know. The hole in the kitchen floor?”

  He looked at Elinore, eyebrows raised, a hint of a smile on his lips. “That’s not how I remember it. Trust me, she gave as good as she got.”

  “Actually,” Elinore said, “she came to talk to you. She’s making arrangements for your friend Laura.”

  Robbi set her cup down and quickly explained her mission. “I thought you might know some of her Ren Faire friends I should invite…notify, I mean. Some that I don’t know. And maybe help me choose some songs and readings.”

  “You knew her best,” he said.

  “But you knew a side of her I didn’t.”

  “Dale—”

  “I’m going to ask him if he’ll play a song he wrote for her.” She gave Mal a beseeching look. She simply could not get through this alone. “I know she’d want you to do something too.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer than he needed to, that clear blue gaze that seemed to bore into her soul. “We’ll talk about it. When will the service be?”

  “I’ll have to ask the sheriff when the…when she’ll be released and I can claim her.”

  Claim her body.

  When the body is released.

  Why was that so hard to say?

  His eyes softened. “Would you like me to go with you?”

  She nodded, eyes welling. “Something else too. I want us to get Joanne out of jail.”

  “We’ll take my truck,” he said.

  Robbi didn’t argue. His head would brush the roof of Old Reliable, and his knees would fold up to his chin. Not to mention there’d be no place for Joanne. Or the animals. Somehow she knew they would find a way to be included. “Just let me help your sister clean up here,” she said.

  Elinore made a shooing motion with her spoon. “You’ll do no such thing, girl. Not if you want to get things taken care of before the courthouse closes.”

  “But—”

  “Get along with the two of you. That great giant of a woman’s languished long enough.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was easier than Mal expected to talk Hammond into releasing Joanne. It was true that there was little evidence against her, but Mal suspected the decision to let her go had more to do with Guy’s influence than with Mal’s eloquence.

  “Thanks, guys,” Joanne said. She picked Tuck up and plopped him onto the seat beside her. With a cheerful grunt, he scooted his haunches closer to her thigh and heaved a contented sigh as Mal turned onto the main road and picked up speed. Scarlett, beside the rear passenger-side window, spared a quick glance at the pig, then resumed her vigil, eyes fixed on the landscape flashing past as if keeping a lookout for lost sheep.

  Pointedly ignoring her porcine admirer, Joanne finally answered the question Robbi had asked a few moments before. “Three days. That’s how long the family has to claim the body before you can step in and make a claim of your own.”

  “It’s already been three days.” Robbi gave Trouble’s ears an affectionate scratch. “And there’s no family. Her parents died when she was a baby.”

  Mal knew he was imagining it, but he could almost feel her warmth from across the seat. “Raised by her great-aunt, right?”

  “Great-Aunt Esther.” Robbi looked into the distance with a wistful smile. “She died three years ago. My father used to call her Auntie Mame.”

  Mal had heard tales of Aunt Esther’s adventures. The time she’d taken the girls to India with only a few hundred dollars and a single carry-on each; the time she’d helped them build a go-cart that had won the downhill race at the fair and then crashed into a booth full of plush animals; the time she’d bought a Jeep Wrangler and taken the girls off-roading. That one had ended with the three of them thigh-high in mud, laughing uncontrollably as the abandoned Jeep puttered into a nearby pond. “Auntie Mame?” he said. “More like the Incredible Mr. Toad.”

  Robbi laughed. She had a nice laugh. Musical and genuine. Then, dreamily, she said, “The Wind in the Willows. I love that book. My father used to read it to me.”

  “Elinore read it to me. Way past our bedtime, under the blanket with a flashlight.”

  “You two must have been close.”

  “Peas and carrots,” he said. “Mom was sick a lot. El and I took care of each other.”

  Why had he gone there? It must have been the reference to a childhood favorite. It had lowered his defenses.

  “So was my mom. Sick a lot.” Robbi looked across the seat at him as if she meant to pursue the subject. Instead, after a searching moment, she looked away and said, “I always thought flashlight reading was the best. You feel like you’re getting away with something, but the something is reading, so how bad could it be?” She turned toward Joanne in the back seat. “How about you? Did you have a favorite book when you were a kid?”

  Without turning away from the window, Joanne said, “Johnny Tremaine.”

  Mal grinned. “I guess that explains a lot.” He’d read that book as a boy, and the memory of the scene where the apprentice silversmith’s hand is maimed by molten silver still gave his fingers a phantom ache.

  Joanne pushed the pig away again and asked, “Have they finished the autopsy?”

  “Sheriff Hammond said the coroner finished his examination,” Robbi answered. She repeated what Hammond had told her.

  Mal said, “He’s probably keeping some things close to the vest. They’ll hold something back to help them catch the bad guy.”

  Robbi picked a piece of invisible lint from Trouble’s fur. “Who do you think is the bad guy?”

  “Miller,” Joanne said at once, just as Mal said, “Deputy Debba.”

  In the rearview mirror, Mal saw Joanne’s eyebrows shoot up. “Deputy Debba? Why?”

  “She and Dale dated for a while. Until he lost his head for Laura.”

  Mal felt Robbi shift her weight on the seat. She said, “He didn’t tell me about that. This place is like a reality show.”

  Mal shrugged. If that meant drama, he guessed she was right. The faire was a retreat, but people brought their baggage with them. Lots of little complications.

  Joanne said, “It’s a small community. And the faire season is pretty intense. Relationships, drama, it all gets compressed. Shorter and more exaggerate
d. But I still think Miller is our bad guy. Every time Laura and I were together, we’d catch him staring at her. There’s something creepy about him.”

  “Your turn, Robbi,” Mal said. “Who are you thinking?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Robbi bite her lip. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Sheriff Hammond.”

  “Hammond?” Joanne leaned forward, resting her forearms on the back of Mal’s seat. “Why would he kill Laura?”

  “Just a feeling. There’s something off about him.”

  Joanne chuckled. “Won’t hold up in court.”

  Robbi pushed back a stray lock of hair and said, “I think he has an interest in the faire. Guy told me he had a silent partner, someone he’d sold a few shares to. What if it was Hammond?”

  Trouble sat up with a stern meow. It sounded like an assertion.

  “Back up a minute,” Mal said. “Guy said he had a silent partner?”

  He supposed it didn’t matter. Guy wasn’t obligated to inform the Troupe of what he did with his own shares, and he would never sell enough of them to risk losing control over the fate of his little fiefdom. Still, it bothered Mal that Guy had brought someone else in on their deal without consulting the rest of them.

  Robbi gave a quick bob of the chin. “He didn’t say who, but Hammond seemed awfully interested in those shares.”

  Joanne sank back with a snort, and Tuck squirmed back onto her lap. “Of course he is. Those shares might be a motive for Laura’s murder and the attack on Guy’s life.”

  “All I’m saying is—”

  “I’m telling you, it’s Miller.”

  Mal said, “At this point, it could be anyone. If there’s a silent partner, it’s just as likely Hammond as anybody else.”

  Robbi shot him a grateful look. Then, blushing, she bent to stroke the cat, a hank of hair the shade of buttered toast falling across her face. There was something about her that made Mal want to slide an arm around her, to protect her from the unknown assailant who might yet prove a danger to them all, or perhaps give her some comfort over the loss of her friend.