The Falcon Always Wings Twice

by Donna Andrews

  I’d taken up blacksmithing as a kind of rebellion from what I’d seen as the useless, abstract and all-too-theoretical world of my college classes. And then persevered at the classes anyway, because for a long time I’d been afraid I’d never amount to much as a blacksmith. Never make my arm strong enough or steady enough; never develop the patience to work the iron at its own pace instead of rushing and ruining it. By the time working with numb fingers in the cold of a Charlottesville winter had given way to sweating over the forge in humid, ninety-degree summer weather, Faulk had stopped asking me if I was a quitter. He didn’t have to. I’d mutter it to myself when the thought of lifting the hammer one more time suddenly seemed impossible.

  “Tad will get another job,” I said aloud. In fact, I already had some ideas on that score. Had both of them forgotten that my brother, Rob, ran a rather well-regarded computer game company? A company that could probably use a programmer as expert as Tad? But I’d wait to mention that until I’d talked to Rob. He’d be down tomorrow with his Morris dancing friends. Or maybe I should call him tonight.

  “Tad’s already sending out résumés,” Faulk said. “But at his level, it takes a while. Especially given that these days so many companies prefer hiring contractors to putting people on payroll.”

  It’s not fair, I wanted to say. But Faulk already knew that.

  “So I just need to hang in there,” he went on. “Stay as healthy as I can and hope for the best.”

  “And here I was worried enough when I just thought you were depressed.”

  “I probably am depressed.” He sounded almost bemused. “Depressed seems a reasonable response to the situation.”

  “Is there any chance Tad’s boss will change his mind?” I asked. “Read him the riot act and reinstate him?”

  “Somehow I doubt it.” Faulk shook his head slightly. “I gather it’s a real hot button with him, having his employees on-site. And Tad knew that. I kept telling him I’d be fine, just put in the face time with his boss and stop worrying so much about me. But he was worried something would happen to me with him a couple of hours away.”

  “I wish you’d told us,” I said. “Not the whole world, but a few of your friends. Me and Michael, for example. If you’d told us, maybe we could have convinced Tad that we could watch over you so he could stay at the office and keep his boss happy. Hell, you could have had Dad watching over you, and he’s pretty good at keeping his patients alive.”

  “I hope not to need your dad’s services, but I certainly won’t object to having him watch over me.” Faulk smiled faintly. “Or you and Michael. Because you’re right—we should have let a few more people in on the situation.”

  “But now we know—so Tad can go on job interviews without worrying quite so much,” I said.

  Faulk nodded.

  I decided to tackle the remaining elephant in the room.

  Chapter 25

  “You know,” I said. “If Terence hadn’t decided it would be fun to blow the whistle on the green-screen setup, maybe Tad would still have his job. Now I have to worry about whether the two of you have an alibi for Terence’s murder. I assume you were down at the ER in Jessop for quite a long time.”

  “Yeah.” He shook his head as if the memory wasn’t pleasant. “From not quite one a.m. until six or so. No such thing as express service there.”

  “Full story.” I said.

  “I woke up around midnight feeling wretched, and Tad insisted on dragging me down there to wherever it was. Total waste of time. We filled out about two miles of forms, then sat around for a couple of centuries, waiting for them to get around to looking at us. And of course there wasn’t anything they could do for me, and even if there had been, I think I’d have insisted on going somewhere else to have it done. Down to VCU in Richmond. Better yet, Charlottesville for the UVA system. Guess that makes me a health care snob.”

  “Makes you a person with a well-developed sense of self-preservation, from what I’ve heard. Chief Heedles shares your low opinion of the Jessop ER. But at least they can probably give you an alibi.”

  “There is that. Assuming their record-keeping is adequate, which isn’t necessarily a given by the look of the place. I kept wanting to ask the doctor to wash his hands—it was that bad. Should I go tell the chief of police my alibi?”

  “I already told her. But you should go talk to her. Get it over with.”

  I stood up to go. Then I thought of something.

  “This expensive operation you need—is it just a question of not kicking the bucket until you can get the surgery? Or is putting off the surgery another problem?”

  “The longer I wait, the greater the chance that I’ll rack up damage that’s harder to fix. Or unfixable. Waiting’s not optimal.”

  “Maybe we should start one of those online funding things for you,” I said.

  “Not sure I know enough people to pay for this,” he said. “Especially since so many of my friends are self-employed craftspeople like us.”

  “You never know.” I decided to leave it there for the time being. Our friends in the crafts community might be self-employed, but they weren’t all broke, and there were a lot of them. If we spread the word in the crafts community …

  Better yet, I could sic Mother on it. If we got her fired up to rescue Faulk, she could tap her side of the family—the entire far-flung Hollingsworth clan, most of whom—unlike our friends in the crafts community—were sufficiently well off to participate regularly in the various charities and projects Mother came up with.

  I’d work on talking Tad and Faulk into it later.

  My phone vibrated, and I pulled it out to check the screen.

  “Speak of the devil,” I said. “Tad.”

  “Tell him I’m behaving myself,” Faulk said.

  I nodded and pushed the button to take the call.

  “Meg, where are you?”

  “At the forge. Have you been up to the main house yet?”

  “Yes.” His voice sounded hurried. That unnerved me slightly. Surely he wasn’t going on the lam or anything melodramatic like that. “Look, thanks for packing my stuff, and I got your message, and I’m about to go in to talk to the cops. But I wanted to ask you something—can you figure out a way to keep Faulk from doing any demos today? Long story why—”

  “And Faulk already told me,” I said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him get his hands on a hammer for the time being.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “And good luck. I couldn’t get him to lay off. Not even when I reminded him that the cardiologist wanted him to lay off blacksmithing entirely for the time being. And after an episode like last night—does he want to kill himself?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  “Fat chance.”

  “By the way—can I recruit you to help out with something? Just for today?”

  “If I can.”

  “Can you put on Horace’s palace guard uniform and march around keeping an eye on things? So it at least looks as if we have some kind of security here?”

  “Do I get to carry that enormous cleaver?” Tad asked. “The one that looks like what the Wicked Witch of the West’s guards carry when they march around the castle chanting ‘O-Ee-Yah! Eoh-Ah!’?”

  “Yes, you can carry the bardiche, and you can even chant ‘O-Ee-Yah! Eoh-Ah!’ if it makes you feel better. And you can look in on Faulk as often as you like.”

  “Awesome. You’re on. I’ve already sent out résumés to every place I can think of. I need something to distract me while I wait to hear back about them.”

  With that Tad hung up.

  “Don’t worry,” Faulk said. “I can handle a few demonstrations.”

  “Not according to Tad,” I said.

  “Tad’s just a worrywart.”

  “And not according your cardiologist,” I shot back. “He’s just a worrywart, too? Because according to Tad, your doctor isn’t too happy that you’re continuing to do blacksmithing at all, and he made it very clear that you
need to rest after an episode like you had last night.”

  “So you’re going to do all the demonstrations yourself?” he asked. “And leave your grandmother to cope with the murder investigation?”

  I thought of pointing out that it was Chief Heedles who’d be coping with the murder investigation. But yeah, he had a point. Someone had to run interference, to make sure the murder investigation didn’t interfere with the Faire. And for that matter, that the Faire didn’t interfere too badly with the chief’s investigation.

  Because the sooner Chief Heedles caught the killer, the better. The Faire was a hot attraction right now, and in the short run we might even see increased attendance by people eager to visit a murder scene. Not an uncommon interest, and in the case of notorious murders—especially serial killers—this appetite for the sensational often gave rise to cottage industries. I could, after a fashion, understand the plethora of Jack the Ripper tours in London. But the Helter Skelter Tour in Los Angeles, the Zodiac Killer Tour in San Francisco, tours devoted to the crimes of Jeffrey Dahmer, H. H. Holmes, the Boston Strangler, Ted Bundy, and who knows how many others—not my cup of tea.

  And a Renaissance Faire was aimed at a more wholesome, family-friendly market. People came to eat turkey legs and drink mead, to watch jugglers and jousters, to have their kids’ faces painted, and to have their picture taken with Good Queen Cordelia or the Muddy Beggar—not to visit the site of an unsolved murder, and maybe even rub elbows with a still-at-large killer.

  Even a long investigation could hurt the Faire. Maybe even kill it. And Cordelia had invested a non-trivial sum of money in the project—of that I was sure. Money she could lose if the Faire got a reputation as a dangerous place infested with murderers and thieves. And while I doubted she’d have invested more than she could afford to lose, I knew she’d also put her heart into the project.

  “Maybe we could find another blacksmith to help out,” I said.

  Faulk smiled briefly, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge my tacit admission that he had a point.

  “It’s July,” he said. “Do you really think there are a lot of competent blacksmiths out there who are willing to do events like this but aren’t already booked for this weekend?”

  Again, he had a point.

  “Um … can I make a suggestion?”

  Faulk and I turned to see Josh leaning against the door frame, with Jamie looking over his shoulder.

  “You don’t have to find a new blacksmith,” Josh went on. “Faulk could just supervise us.”

  “We know enough to give a basic demonstration,” Jamie said. “And if Faulk corrected us and guided us, that would be educational for the audience as well, wouldn’t it?”

  “And Faulk wouldn’t have to lift a finger,” Josh added. “He could just sit on the stool and boss us around.”

  “He could also talk about how the apprentice system worked in the olden days,” Jamie suggested.

  They both had their eyes fixed on me, and although they’d kept their tone casual, I could detect the eagerness underneath. I glanced over at Faulk. I knew he was a good teacher—had been a good teacher for me two decades earlier. But did he feel up to coping with two beginners? I lifted one eyebrow. Spike appeared at the chicken wire barrier and uttered a short, sharp bark. I knew he was only demanding more bacon, but it did rather sound as if he were adding his two cents to our efforts to persuade Faulk.

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “We can give it a try. Although I intend to hold them to that not lifting a finger part.” He turned to the boys. “For your first assignment as apprentices, I want a tall, cold mug of lemonade and a shepherd’s pie. Have the innkeeper put it on my tab. And get something for yourselves if you’re getting peckish.”

  The boys looked at me.

  “Did you overhear what Faulk and I were talking about just now?” I asked.

  They quickly glanced at each other and then both nodded.

  “We didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Jamie began.

  “I did,” Josh said. “And I’m glad I did so I can help take care of Faulk.”

  “It’s private and personal,” I said. “So keep it to yourself. Unless you run into your granddad,” I added, frowning at Faulk. “You can tell him. Now go fetch that shepherd’s pie.”

  They raced off. Faulk and I left the back room so we could watch over the forge and the shop until they returned. Fortunately, traffic was light—I could hear cheering coming from the jousting field, where Cordelia was presiding over the archery tournament.

  “If you’re sure you’re okay supervising the boys…” I began.

  “It’s the perfect solution,” he said. “Tad can relax, knowing that not only am I not exerting myself, I’m also being watched every minute by two guardians who won’t hesitate to call their grandfather over to minister to me if I so much as sneeze. And you can go around doing whatever you need to do, secure in the knowledge that even if someone’s roaming the Faire looking for another victim, both boys are under the watchful eye of someone who may have a dodgy heart but can probably manage to fend off the killer if need be. We’ve even got Spike as backup.”

  I wouldn’t have called it a perfect solution. Perfect would require Faulk to be healthy and the boys not even in the same county as whoever had killed Terence. But it would do for now.

  “And thanks for thinking of something to distract Tad,” Faulk said. “He’s going to love marching around carrying the bardiche. Of course, I’m not sure I see him as the law enforcement type.”

  “Neither do I, but he’s not otherwise occupied at the moment, and I think he’ll fit the uniform.” I winced at how that sounded. “Not that I’d put it quite that way if I were talking to him.”

  “Of course not,” Faulk said. “You chose him for his quick wits and his people skills.”

  “Actually, yes,” I said. “If we can’t have actual cops, like Horace and Lenny, then I want people who can defuse a situation with wit and charm.”

  “You’ve got the right guy, then,” Faulk said.

  I nodded. I was texting Horace and Lenny, arranging for them to get their uniforms to Tad and the Muddy Beggar.

  “By the way,” I asked Faulk. “Do you remember the Muddy Beggar’s real name? I’m blanking.”

  “No.” Faulk shook his head. “Not sure I’ve ever heard it. If I have to call him anything, I generally go with ‘Mr. Beggar’—in a suitably ironic tone, of course.”

  “That’s better than ‘Mud,’” I said. “But we can’t very well call him the Muddy Beggar while he’s in the palace guard. Maybe Michael knows.”

  I texted Michael, being careful to begin my message with “NO RUSH.” He’d be occupied with the archery tournament.

  A lot of people would be occupied with the archery tournament. Maybe this would be a good time to go up to the main house. The personnel files were in Cordelia’s office, and surely the Muddy Beggar’s real name would be in them.

  And maybe I could get a clue from the chief on how the investigation was going.

  Chapter 26

  I headed for the main house. But as soon as I was out of sight of the forge, I tucked into a sheltered spot, pulled out my cell phone, and called Dad.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “I’ve been busy most of the day with patients—nothing serious, a senior with heat exhaustion and a very pregnant woman having Braxton-Hicks contractions, but I’m completely out of touch with the investigation. Has—”

  “I’ll fill you in later,” I said. “Right now I have another patient for you.” I gave him a quick rundown on what little I knew about Faulk’s condition. “Of course, he didn’t volunteer any details,” I added. “All I know is some kind of serious heart thing—”

  “Don’t worry,” Dad said. “I’ll dash right over and examine him. Goodness—the Jessop ER? I’m not even sure that place is accredited anymore. Talk to you later.”

  I peered around the corner of the ring toss booth in time to see Dad, medical bag in hand, bustle across the short di
stance that separated his medical tent from the forge. Then I set out for the main house with a lighter heart.

  I found Mother in the costume shop, frowning at a perfectly innocent length of lace.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Feeling guilty,” she said. “About all the uncharitable things I’ve said about Terence, and now the poor man’s dead.”

  I thought of pointing out that being dead hadn’t suddenly turned Terence into a saint. But I decided to let Mother enjoy feeling guilty for a little while longer—it would distract her from her still-painful foot.

  I found the chief sitting at Cordelia’s desk, frowning at her notebook while gnawing on a roasted turkey leg.

  “Be my guest,” she said, when I asked if I could check something in the files. “And by the way, thank you—any number of people I want to talk to that my officers can’t seem to track down have been showing up here under their own steam, saying you told them to come.”

  “My pleasure,” I said. “By the way, has the murder hit the news?”

  “After a fashion. We sent out a statement.” She picked up and handed me a sheet of paper—a press release on official Town of Riverton letterhead.

  “‘The body of a middle-aged white male was found in the woods on Biscuit Mountain early Saturday morning,’” I read aloud. “Do you have any idea how much Terence would have hated being called middle-aged? ‘Identity of the deceased is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. The Riverton Police Department is continuing to investigate the cause of death.’ Well, that’s boring enough to put any sane editor to sleep.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  “Who is Terence’s next of kin, anyway?”

  “I was hoping you’d know.” She sighed.