Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos (10 page)

"What's wrong?" Amanda asked. "Have an argument?"

"More like a continuation of an ongoing discussion," I said. "Which isn't much better, actually."

"So I gathered. What's the problem anyway? I mean, the mother's an ogre, of course, but you of all people should be used to dealing with impossible relatives."

"He wants me to move in with him," I said. "Or at least move closer, so we can see more of each other."

"And your problem is?"

"I don't know," I said. "Makes me nervous, though."

"Honey, every unmarried woman I know complains all the time about how she can't find a guy who isn't scared of commitment. Sounds like you found one who's interested in commitment."

"And I'm the one who's scared."

"If that mother of his comes as part of the package, maybe you should be scared."

"And maybe I should just be committed. Michael's great, and like you say, I'm used to dealing with crazy relatives. What's one more? It's not him or his mother. It's me."

"Well, stick to your guns," she said, patting me on the shoulder. "You'll know when the time is right."

She scurried back to her booth to accost a customer, and I sighed. Would I know when the time was right? Maybe the time was as right now as it ever would be, and I was blowing it, big time.

"Well, Faulk finally showed up," Michael said, strolling in. "Just in time, too. I have no idea how to shut up his booth."

"Thanks for filling in for him," I said. "Hope you didn't have to miss any regimental events."

"I thought you resented me going to regimental events," he said.

"No, I don't," I began, and then changed my mind. "Look, let's not get into that again now, when we only have maybe fifteen or twenty minutes before we're late for your mother's party."

His face relaxed into a smile.

"Good point," he said. "Only we actually have about thirty seconds before we're late," he added, glancing at a pocket watch that he'd pulled out of his waistcoat.

"Damn!" I said. "Hang on a minute while I shut things up."

"Don't worry. She's not calling the roll and taking off points for attendance."

"That's what you think," I muttered.

I hastily grabbed my cash box and my laptop and ducked behind the curtain into the storage area, where I nestled them safely in one of my metal storage cases, and padlocked the case.

"Oops," Michael said. Apparently he'd tripped over my haversack and was now shoveling the contents back in.

"Thanks," I said as he handed it over. "Although I don't think I had quite that much hay and straw in it to begin with."

"Well, you never know when they might come in handy," he said, with a grin. "Come on. The party awaits."

We left the craft-fair grounds, nodding good evening to the members of the Town Watch who were going to patrol it for the night, and headed for the party.

The craft fair occupied a large field that belonged to the Park Service, just south of the small neighborhood where my parents lived, and separated from it by a two-lane blacktop road. If you followed the road west a few hundred yards, you'd arrive at the edge of the Yorktbwn Battlefields, where we were all encamped with our picturesque but uncomfortable period tents. Most of the reenactors had gone back there to attend one or more regimental meetings, rehearsals, or parties. By this time, we were almost the only ones heading in the other direction, toward Mrs. Waterston's party.

We did run into someone we knew, though. When we glanced down the highway before crossing, I saw a sleek Jaguar, pulled off to the side of the road, its silver paint glowing in the fading light. The driver's side window was open, and someone in one of the generic rental coats was leaning down, talking to a sleekly coifed blond woman inside.

"That'd make a great photo," Michael said, nodding toward the car. "Study in contrasts, then and now, and all that."

Then the pedestrian straightened up and we recognized him.

"Benson," I said, though not loudly enough that the man himself could hear me. He glanced round, as if looking to see if anyone had seen him. We pretended not to notice him, and he hurried off ahead of us. The car drove away in the other direction, past us, and back toward the battlefields and town. The driver didn't seem to notice us.

"Wonder what he's up to," Michael mused.

"Something sinister," I said. "I think Tad is right; I don't trust that man."

"I don't know," Michael said. "You'd mink a really hardened villain would have figured out how to skulk around without the telltale furtive body language."

"Yeah, he might as well just jump up on the table and shout, 'Look at me! I'm up to something!" I said. "But just because he's a bad actor doesn't mean he isn't a villain."

"Recognize the woman he was talking to?" Michael asked.

"No," I said. "Don't think she's from around here."

"Well, let's not worry about it," he said. "You can tell Rob you think the guy is crooked, and that'll be the end of it."

"Good idea," I said, and felt a lot more cheerful. The very idea of Rob telling Benson to take a hike made me more cheerful. In fact, if Rob balked, I might even volunteer to do the job myself.

Buoyed by the thought of telling off Benson, I led Michael along the path toward the Moore House, the white-frame farmhouse where, in 1781, the British and Americans had signed the surrender documents to end the siege of Yorktown and, for all practical purposes, the Revolutionary War. Mrs. Waterston wanted to hold her party inside, but the Park Service hadn't approved. They'd let her use the grounds, though. As we drew near, I could see that the house was softly lit from within, as if by candlelight – although knowing how picky they were about fire hazards in historical buildings, I doubted they used real candles.

Strings of lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating the lawn with pools of light and pockets of shadow. Electric lanterns, of course, which probably irritated Mrs. Waterston, but they had the kind of flickering bulb that could almost fool you into thinking of real candles. A string quartet played soft classical music, and I could hear the faint hum of conversation.

Mrs. Waterston swept through one lighted area. Either I'd forgotten how extreme her costume was, or she'd gone home to put on an even taller wig. I glanced down at my sensible linsey-woolsey gown, feeling underdressed.

"Don't worry," Michael said, catching my glance. "Mrs. Tranh has a ball gown for you."

I sighed. Mrs. Tranh was Mrs. Waterston's partner in the dress shop. Like everyone else in town, I'd originally assumed Mrs. Tranh worked for Mrs. Waterston. Over Memorial Day weekend, after watching the strike scenes in a TV rerun of
Norma Jean
and imbibing a few too many glasses of Merlot, I'd become quite agitated about Mrs. Waterston's apparent exploitation of Mrs. Tranh and her other Asian employees. I had threatened to go down to Yorktown and organize the downtrodden sewing ladies. I had visions of us singing "We Shall Overcome" in Vietnamese, while waving beautifully embroidered protest banners.

Michael had spoiled all my fun by revealing how things really worked. His mother and Mrs. Tranh each owned half of the business. Mrs. Tranh hired and managed the seamstresses, kept the books, paid bills and taxes, ordered fabric and other supplies, and generally ran the place.

"So what does your mother do, anyway?" I'd asked.

"Well, she got together the initial capital, and she handles sales and marketing," Michael said. "And she deals with the customers. Mrs. Tranh would hate doing that."

True, but still, if you asked me, Mrs. Tranh was doing the lion's share of the work, yet having to split the profits fifty-fifty. Perhaps that accounted for Mrs. Tranh's dogged insistence on not speaking English with Mrs. Waterston.

I knew perfectly well that Mrs. Tranh could speak reasonably fluent, if somewhat eccentric, English and that she understood the language almost perfectly. The only time she ever pulled the
"je ne comprends pas"
line on me was when I tried to disobey her orders.

With Mrs. Waterston, however, she insisted on speaking only French. Mrs. Waterston's French was considerably worse than mine.

"Anyway, she's done a wonderful costume for you," Michael said, interrupting my wandering thoughts.

"Oh, dear," I said. "As hot and sweaty as I am, I'd rather crawl into a bath, not a brand-new costume."

"You'll hurt her feelings," he said, "and mine. I helped her figure out what to make."

"It doesn't have panniers, does it?" I asked. "I am not wearing panniers."

"I have no intention of disfiguring you with panniers," Michael said. "That has got to be one of the most ludicrous, unflattering fashions ever invented."

"Amen," I said. "But let's not tell your mother."

"Of course not," Michael said. "But having seen Mom's idea of colonial fashion, I'm thinking next year we should forget about the Revolution and reenact the War of 1812. I'm rather partial to Empire fashions – all those low cut, clinging, diaphanous gowns – "

"Oh, is that what you have in mind for my ball gown?" I said. "Much better than the panniers."

"I wish," he said. "Ah, there's Mrs. Tranh."

Mrs. Tranh's stern features broke into a smile when she saw us. She was standing by the costume racks with two of "the ladies," as she called her seamstresses. We had managed to convince Mrs. Waterston that requiring costumes of mere spectators would decimate attendance, but for certain key events that were open mostly to staff – such as her welcoming party for the crafters – Mrs. Waterston had made costumes mandatory. Just in case anyone showed up without a costume, Mrs. Tranh had brought a large rack of the rental costumes – colonial dresses in demure Williamsburg colors and a range of sizes for the women, and for the men, a collection of shirts, knee breeches, and coats. Mrs. Tranh and the ladies were there to collect the modest rental fee and help stuff the guests into costumes.

At the moment, Mrs. Tranh seemed to have her hands full.

Two men had arrived wearing Hawaiian shirts so garish that even Dad would have turned up his nose at them, over cutoffs so ragged they contained more hole than cloth. I recognized both of the men wearing these glaring anachronisms as fellow crafters – a soapmaker and a leatherworker – and would have waved if I thought I could get their attention. They were both intent on escaping to the bar. They didn't stand a chance. Mrs. Tranh's ladies routinely dealt with brides having prewedding hysterics and bridesmaids whose mood veered toward homicidal when they saw their dresses and realized the acute embarrassment and physical torture their supposed good friends were inflicting on them. Dealing with a few reluctant men would be child's play.

The clothing rack was already two-thirds full of confiscated modern garments. Normally, only a minority of my fellow crafters favored gaudy Hawaiian shirts, shorts in fluorescent colors or horse-blanket plaids, and other luridly colored garments – we were a diverse crowd, but jeans and natural fibers tended to dominate most gatherings. I suspected a plot to sabotage the period purity of the party, but Mrs. Tranh and the ladies would take care of that.

"Hello, dear," came my mother's voice from behind me.

"Hello, Mother," I said, turning. "How are – "

I stopped short, my jaw hanging open, when I saw Mother's costume. She had outdone herself, as usual. More to the point, she had outdone Mrs. Waterston, and I had no doubt it was deliberate. I glanced over at Mrs. Waterston who, luckily, was playing gracious hostess to a group of newly arrived guests. She hadn't seen Mother's costume yet, and if I ran for cover now, I might make it far enough from ground zero before she did.

Still, I couldn't help lingering long enough to compare the two. Mother's outfit went just a little bit further than Mrs.

Waterston's did, in every way I could think of. Her white powdered wig was a few inches taller, and sported a noticeably more varied collection of bows, flowers, baubles, and artificial birds. At least I hoped they were all artificial. Her waist was laced smaller, and her panniers were a few inches broader. Her overskirt seemed to have at least one more set of ruffles than Mrs. Waterston's, and her petticoat definitely had a slightly wider lace edging. About the only thing not bigger and better was the beauty mark. Although, come to think of it, I didn't remember Mrs. Waterston sporting a second beauty mark. Mother had one, perched precariously at the edge of her decolletage, which was, of course, alarmingly more extreme than Mrs. Waterston's.