The Falcon Always Wings Twice

by Donna Andrews

  “Between you and George?”

  “Between any two characters you like,” Michael said. “As long as it amuses the crowd. And remember, we’re a family-friendly event, so keep everything G-rated.”

  “Oh, come on now,” O’Malley exclaimed. “The Renaissance was a time of bawdiness! Of riotous living! Of excess and magnificence!”

  “Unfortunately we’re living in a time of political correctness,” I said. “Since you’re a volunteer performer, the Faire’s liability insurance won’t cover you, so if anyone lodges a sexual harassment complaint it’ll be on your dime. And, of course, a public figure like you is so much more a target for that kind of thing.”

  “Really!” O’Malley actually recoiled. “I never would have—”

  “How remiss of me.” Michael was fighting back a grin. “I didn’t introduce you two. Meg, this is Neil O’Malley. I’m sure I’ve told you about the times we’ve worked together. Neil, my wife, Meg Langslow. She’s au courant with practical things like the Faire’s insurance, since she helps her grandmother run the thing.”

  “Her grandmother?” O’Malley echoed.

  “She of the Steely Gaze,” I said. “The only really unbreakable rule of the Game is that Queen Cordelia always has the last word. If she tells you to jump, you don’t ask how high—you should already know. I should be getting back to the forge.”

  I winked at Michael—with the eye facing away from O’Malley—and set off again.

  As I approached the forge I was so focused on trying to spot Faulk or the boys that I started when I heard my name called.

  “Meg!” I turned to see Rose Noire heading my way. “You need to Do Something!”

  She was bearing down on me, wearing an expression that suggested that she had a mission. And how had she managed to perfect such a flawless imitation of Mother’s imperious voice of command?

  “I’m sure I ought to be doing a great many things,” I said, in the mild tones I normally used to calm Mother. “Both to keep the Faire running and to help Chief Heedles with her investigation. What would you like me to add to the list?”

  “How can we kick someone out of the Faire?” Her voice trembled with—was it rage?

  “Kick someone out?” What could anyone have done to get Rose Noire this worked up? “If they’ve done anything that warrants kicking out—well, Horace and Lenny are kind of occupied, which leaves us without any palace guard, but I could probably recruit someone to put on the gear and do the job. Or I could do the kicking myself if need be. If they’ve actually broken any laws, we have no shortage of police on-site. Whom do you want to kick out, and what have they done?”

  “That man over there.” She pointed to a rather gawky thirtyish man standing across the clearing.

  “The Mad Monk?” I’d seen him wandering around before. In fact, last weekend, so he was a repeat customer. He was dressed in a badly fitting knee-length burlap tunic tied with a rope belt, wearing muddy braided-straw sandals on his equally muddy feet, revealing the entirety of his singularly unprepossessing shins. An odd sight. Most men of his rather scrawny shape opted for the camouflage of ankle-length robes. And for that matter, most people who bothered to put together their own costumes opted for something with a little more pizzazz, appearing as well-dressed merchant class if they couldn’t manage nobility. Well, it took all kinds.

  “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing yet.” She was staring at him with narrowed eyes.

  “If you’re having a premonition, I’m sorry,” I said. “We can’t throw him out on a premonition. You’ll have to wait until he actually breaks the rules.”

  “Not a premonition—a deduction. Remember the problem Linnet and I reported last week? When someone stuck ‘wool is murder’ stickers all over the labels on her skeins of wool?”

  “I remember.” Linnet, one of the Faire’s weavers, had been quite upset over the vandalism. I’d had a tough job calming her down, and then I’d helped with the tedious and time-consuming cleanup. I was pleasantly surprised that she’d agreed to come back this weekend. “It took us hours to get all those stickers off, and half the labels were in such bad shape that she had to print up new ones. Did he do that?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” she said. “But he was lurking outside my booth just now, looking at the wool I’m selling and muttering about cruelty to animals. As if I’d ever be cruel to an animal! I tried to explain to him I’d not only spun every hank of yarn I was selling but sheared them, too, under the most humane and life-affirming conditions.”

  “A pity he didn’t stop to listen, then.” She could have called me as a witness—I’d watched her shear the sheep belonging to Seth Early, our across-the-street neighbor. I wasn’t sure the sheep cared one way or another about the soft New Age music and lavender aromatherapy incense that accompanied the shearing, but they definitely appreciated the full body massage that preceded and followed it. The newly naked sheep kept circling back begging to be sheared again, so the only way to keep traffic moving was for Seth to bribe them with apple slices and drag them back to their pasture.

  “And of course they’re free range.” She continued to frown at her suspect.

  “I can testify to that.” Seth’s sheep were the most freely ranging creatures I’d ever met. They regularly turned up in our backyard. Or in our house, for that matter—they seemed to like drinking from the toilets and found our basement a refreshingly cool place to nap. “But I doubt if the Mad Monk will listen. So keep an eye on him. We can’t kick him out just because he looks suspicious. But if he harasses you or Linnet or your customers—”

  “If he does that, you might have to rescue him from us!” With that she walked off, chin held high.

  I smothered a laugh. Rose Noire was militantly nonviolent. I wondered what she and Linnet, the almost-as-mild-mannered weaver, could possibly do that would require us to rescue the Mad Monk. I could think of nothing—with the possible exception of forcing him to drink one of her notoriously bad-tasting herbal teas.

  Still. The man was a menace. I should do something.

  I strolled over to the nearest craft stall—Seamus, the leatherworker.

  “Mind if I use your back room for an anachronism?”

  “Aye, lass.” His Irish accent was both charming and authentic. “Any time ye please.”

  I ducked into the back room, pulled out my well-concealed cell phone, and called Horace.

  “What happeneth?”

  I winced. Well, at least he was working on period dialogue. “I know you’re not doing the palace guard thing while the chief needs you for forensics, and this isn’t anywhere near as important as the murder, but—”

  “If something’s wrong, let me know. Plenty of cops around—I’m sure the chief could spare one to deal with a malefactor. Might cheer her up to have something that she can actually take care of quickly.”

  “Remember the vandalism we had last weekend at the weaver’s shop? Rose Noire thinks she’s found the culprit. Have you seen the Mad Monk?”

  “The guy who looks like Friar Tuck’s evil twin? Yeah. Been keeping my eye on him.”

  “You have? What’s he done?”

  “Nothing—yet. But he totally sets off my spidey sense. Although I guess I should call it my cop intuition.”

  “Rose Noire thinks he’s the one who stickered Linnet’s yarn with the ‘wool is murder’ stickers. Not sure if that’s illegal.”

  “Destruction of property. But only if you’ve got proof.”

  “We’ll keep a weather eye out,” I said. “Especially if we spot him near Rose Noire’s booth or Linnet’s.”

  “Or any of the other booths that would set off a militant animal rights activist,” Horace said. “The leatherworkers, the food concessions that serve meat, the animal acts.”

  “Good thinking. And I’ll spread the word to the rest of the palace guard.”

  “There was only me and Lenny, you know,” he said. “And we’re both unavailable for the immediate future.
”

  “I’m going to recruit a couple of temporary guards,” I said. “And if we actually catch the Mad Monk doing anything nefarious, we’ll pretend there are legions of guards, all foaming at the mouth to apprehend him.”

  “I hope I’m back to join in by that time,” he said. “Well, actually I hope nothing happens—Rose Noire was really upset about what happened to Linnet, and it would definitely stress her out if it happens to her. So if anything does happen, I want to be there to help. If you order him to leave and he refuses, you’d have every right to ask the police to remove him. And I’m deputized in Riverton, remember—so call me.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  We signed off. I checked to see if the chief had tried to reach me. No voicemails, emails, or texts. And I’d already sent her several suspects—no, make that witnesses—to interview. I could take a little more time to deal with the Mad Monk.

  Chapter 24

  I returned to the public part of the booth, gestured to Seamus the leatherworker, and drew him aside.

  “We’re keeping an eye open for someone Rose Noire thinks might have vandalized Linnet’s booth last weekend.” I described the Mad Monk.

  “I’ll keep a weather eye open.” Seamus clasped the hilt of the dagger hanging from his belt—a gesture that would have been a lot more menacing if I hadn’t known perfectly well that it was only a hilt, with no actual blade in the ornate leather sheath. “Could be the rapscallion who threw red paint on a bunch of my hides last weekend.”

  “I didn’t hear about that.” I tried not to sound accusing.

  “I didn’t notice the damage till after the show closed, so whoever did it was long gone. I was going to tell you about it yesterday, but there’s been rather a lot going on. We’ll be keeping a closer eye on the goods this weekend. So now you know why my booth is suddenly all abloom with red-dyed leather.”

  I looked around and had to laugh. Yes, last weekend Seamus’s stock of belts, pouches, vests, hats, sheathes, and tankards had been almost entirely done in shades of black, brown, and tan. Now many of the goods—maybe a third—were either brilliant red or deep burgundy.

  “And the wretch may have accidentally done me a kindness,” Seamus said, with a laugh. “Took me the devil of a lot of work to get those hides completely re-dyed in a shade that looked historically accurate. I ended up throwing more red paint on them all to even the color out before dying them with the usual natural dyes—mostly madder root. But I think they turned out okay, and they’re selling like wildfire.”

  “Okay?” I glanced around at the new items. “More like awesome. You are now officially the king of making lemonade when life hands you the ingredients.”

  “But seriously—just because I turned it around doesn’t mean I approve of what that smug son-of-a-cocker-spaniel did.” Seamus scowled. “And if he’s back and sees how I’ve recovered from the paint damage, what’s to stop him from going after my goods with a sharp knife?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “So if you see him acting suspicious, haul out your mobile anachronism and call me. And if he causes any trouble, we’ll ban him from the Faire.”

  “Aye, I’ll keep me eyes on him.”

  As I left the booth, he was grimly scanning the crowd outside. A good thing his wife was there to charm the customers until he cheered up.

  I strolled back to where the Muddy Beggar was sitting in his puddle, exchanging jibes with Jacks. Evidently the Beggar had just gotten off an excellent sally, since he was preening, Jacks was pretending to glower, and the crowd was roaring with laughter.

  “Away with ye, ye horse-faced poxy rogue!” Jacks exclaimed when she could make herself heard. “Hanging’s too good for you and—”

  She was interrupted by trumpets, as Cordelia’s heralds—three members of the brass section of the Riverton High School Band in black-and-gold doublets—played a fanfare.

  “I’m off to the archery contest!” She and the Muddy Beggar glared theatrically at each other for a few moments, then she swept away—taking most of the tourists with her. I sidled over to where the Beggar was sitting.

  “Can I recruit you for something?” I asked him.

  He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Horace and Lenny have gotten sucked into the murder investigation. We need palace guards.”

  “You do remember why I’m sitting in this puddle instead of joining more actively in the Game, don’t you?” He looked glum. “I’m counting the days till my knee replacement, and I can’t do that much walking.”

  “You won’t need to walk,” I said. “I’ll get you the Renaissance equivalent of a patrol car.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “The little donkey cart Cordelia uses when she gets tired,” I explained. “It’s only for the short term, and we’re not talking about you doing any physical enforcement—I want someone with sharp eyes and common sense to keep an eye out for problems. And with the wit to defuse them if it’s possible. If anything really dicey happens, you’ll have the whole Riverton police force as backup.”

  “Ooh—both of them?” He chuckled at his own joke, then nodded. “I’ll do it, then. If you send the cart over to Camp Anachronism, I’ll get cleaned up and into uniform. Assuming I get a uniform, that is.”

  “Lenny’s should fit you,” I said. “I’ll arrange to get it to you.”

  He rose–though rather unsteadily—before I could give him a hand, retrieved a stout wooden cane from under some muddy rags, and limped off at a dignified pace.

  I headed toward the forge.

  I was hoping to find Tad there, but he was nowhere to be seen. Faulk was there, sitting on his stool, watching as Josh and Jamie explained something to a brace of tourists.

  Faulk looked a little better. But only a little. An idea struck me.

  “How goes the … day?” he asked. I suspected he’d been about to say “investigation” before remembering the need for discretion when tourists were around.

  “Let’s go inside and I’ll fill you in.”

  I led the way into the back room. Thank goodness we had a back room—most days we only used it to make phone calls, but it came in handy now. Spike hurried to the chicken wire barrier and stared balefully at us.

  “Back to your guard work,” Faulk said. The command would have done no good, except that he accompanied the words by tossing a bit of bacon into the far end of Spike’s pen. The Small Evil One dashed off to retrieve it. “So what’s up?”

  “Level with me.” I scowled at him.

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “Look,” I said. “I was up at the house just now—Tad left all his green-screen equipment in a room the chief wants to use to store all her evidence. I was helping pack up the stuff—”

  To my relief, he interrupted me, since I was running out of ways to avoid admitting that I hadn’t yet talked to Tad yet.

  “I don’t know what Tad told you,” he said. “But he’s a worrywart. Overprotective.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Pretend I haven’t even talked to Tad. Tell me your way. But none of this ‘cardiac false alarm’ crap.”

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and the anger drained out of his face, leaving only a bleak, tired look.

  “It wasn’t entirely a lie,” he said. “I do have a heart problem. A potentially serious one.”

  “A heart problem? You?” My jaw dropped. “But you’ve always been the healthiest person I know. Even before most of us figured out we needed to take better care of ourselves you were always the one eating the right diet, and exercising and—well, doing everything the way we’re all supposed to. If you’ve come down with a heart problem, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

  “More than you think.” He gave a slight smile. “Most people aren’t in any danger of coming down with what I’ve got. I guess I never let on that there was a reason I was doing all those disgustingly healthy things—because I knew there was a good chance I’d inherited this thing. Runs in my family. B
lue bloods with weak hearts—that’s the Cates family for you. You want the intricate medical details?”

  “Save them for Dad. Just tell me the prognosis.” I braced myself. Given the look on his face, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.

  “I need surgery. If the surgery goes well—and the chances of success are pretty good—then my odds of living out the biblical three score and ten and then some are pretty good. Assuming I continue to take care of myself, and see my cardiologists on a regular basis, and take whatever meds they want me to take.”

  “That sounds optimistic,” I said. “You don’t look very optimistic.”

  “Did I mention that it’s really expensive surgery?” Faulk said. “And the medicines aren’t cheap. And cardiologists have this peculiar fondness for being paid.”

  Light dawned.

  “And thanks to Terence, Tad’s beastly boss just fired him,” I said. “Which means that after spending far too long battling to get his health insurance to take care of your heart, now you’re completely without health insurance.”

  Faulk nodded. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself.

  I tried to think of something encouraging to say. But all I could think of was how tired he looked. Tired. Depressed. Sick. Old, even, when I knew he was only a few years older than me.

  Defeated.

  I stopped myself from saying the first thing that came to mind: “Are you a quitter?” I wasn’t sure Faulk would remember how many times he’d said that to me, in those long ago days when he’d started teaching me blacksmithing. Or even if he remembered, would he realize I recalled those words with nostalgia, rather than resentment?

  I heard the ringing sound of one of the boys striking the anvil with the hammer, and somehow it transported me back a couple of decades, to the ramshackle barn where Faulk had set up his first forge. Where I’d learned to work iron. That first winter, snow drifted down from all the holes in the barn’s roof, my breath made puffs of smoke in the frigid air, my fingers were nearly numb, but I kept hammering, slowly but steadily, because I’d be damned if I’d stop and hear him ask me again if I was a quitter. Some days, those words were the only thing that kept me from throwing the hammer at his head and storming out—well, that and the chorus of “I told you so” I knew I’d hear from nearly everyone else in the world.