Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos (30 page)

"And the sign says…?"

"save our feathered friends,"
Jess said. "Hell of a nice old lady, even if she is a bit of a fruitcake."

"Most of my family are."

"I was only kidding about the fruitcake bit."

I shrugged.

"Just one thing," he asked. "What is the other egg, anyway?"

"Other egg?"

"Yeah, I can tell one of those eggs the duck is sitting on is hers, but the other's way too big. What is it?"

"Ah," I said. "I bet Eric broke one of the duck eggs and had to replace it with a peacock egg. Did Madame Von Steuben notice?"

"No, we kind of stood in front of it so she couldn't get a real good view. Are you serious – a peacock egg? Can I keep the chick if it hatches?"

"Sure," I said. "In fact, if you want some peacocks, talk to my Dad in the medical tent. He has a lot of peacocks."

"You think he might be willing to sell a pair?"

"Good chance."

"Cool," Jess said.

"I just hope Mrs. Fenniman doesn't have to perch there all night," I fretted.

"Heck, no," Jess said. "We've got Mel back on the boss-lady's trail. As soon as she turns in for the night, we've got a bed all made up in the tent for the old lady. She'll be fine. Wish I could say the same for the rest of us. Lord, would you look at that!"

He pointed to an area of the battlefield where several veteran reenactors had begun drilling a collection of Mrs. Waterston's new recruits. Including, to my surprise, Wesley, who normally avoided anything that resembled work. The recruits were marching up and down, holding boards sawed into roughly musket-shaped pieces – three feet long, two inches square on one end, and widening to two-by-four at the other to simulate the stock. I suspect they'd borrowed them from the Victory Center, which used them to demonstrate colonial drill tactics to the tourists.

"Amazing," Jess said, shaking his head, as we watched how hard the drill instructors had to work to get the recruits to form two straight lines, one a few feet behind the other. "First time I've ever seen a bunch who could figure out more than one way to mess up 'Right face!'"

"Are you really going to give those guys muskets?" I asked.

"If I had my way, we wouldn't even give them sticks," Jess said, as the recruits pretended to fire their imaginary muskets, and about a third of the men in the back line managed to whack their neighbors over the head. "They're sure not getting ammo. Or bayonets, for that matter," he added, as several fist fights broke out between the front and rear lines. "I'm going to go down and see if I can help out with this."

I wished him luck and returned to camp – which had grown even larger; more reenactors had arrived for the rehearsal and tomorrow's battle. I could hear at least two competing live musical groups playing English folk dances, and the camp rang with laughter and the shouts of people greeting old friends.

I wasn't in the mood for a party, so I strolled on past the camp, toward the deserted craft-fair grounds.

Okay, considering what I found the last time I went back to my booth after dark, maybe it wasn't a particularly brilliant idea, but I needed the peace and quiet, and I figured it was only in the movies that murderers spent the rest of their lives lurking suspiciously around the scene of the crime. Still, I jumped a foot when I saw movement in one of the aisles I had to pass on the way to my booth.

So, of course, in defiance of all the rules of common sense, I went to see what was going on.

I crept down the lane, acutely conscious of how much my skirts and petticoats rustled, but it wasn't as if I had time to go back to the tent and change into more suitable skulking clothes.

The intruder, whoever he was, had entered Faulk's booth. Probably someone who figured dial Faulk's incarceration gave him a chance to steal things, I thought, grimly. I took advantage of every bit of cover, hiding one minute behind the canvas that covered a quilt display and the next in the shadow of a tall reproduction corner chest. As I passed by one booth, I spotted a hammer on the counter and snagged it – I felt better with some kind of weapon in my hand. Finally, I darted behind the holly bush just outside one corner of Faulk's booth. I could definitely see someone moving about in the boom.

"Stop where you are!" I shouted, leaping out from behind the bush and toward the entrance of the booth, where I ran head on into someone else, trying to do the same thing from the other direction.

We both shrieked and jumped away. I swung the hammer, missed, and hit myself on the leg just as I landed in the holly bush. The other figure – I could see now that it was Tad – fell with a clatter in a display rack filled with tall iron pothooks and lamp-stands.

By the time we picked ourselves up and confirmed that our injuries were minor, the intruder had long gone.

"If there even was an intruder," Tad said. "Maybe it was just your shadow."

"Or your shadow," I said. "The shadow I saw wasn't wearing skirts."

"We were probably seeing each other's shadows," Tad said.

"No," I said. "There was someone here, I'm sure of it. We need to search the booth."

"I'm not sure I'd notice if the intruder took anything," Tad said.

"That's okay," I said. "I think it's more important to make sure that he hasn't left anything behind. Like supposedly incriminating evidence."

We searched but found nothing that looked suspicious – no bloody handkerchiefs hidden in the trash can, no phony notes making it appear as if Faulk had arranged to meet Benson. Nothing much out of the ordinary.

In the next lane over, I saw a watchman's staff lying outside one of the booths, but there was no way to tell how long it had been there. Mrs. Waterston had already chewed me out once about the watch carelessly leaving their staffs lying around.

"Maybe one of the Town Watch was investigating a suspicious noise and ran off in panic when we jumped out yelling at him," Tad suggested.

"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe it was just a souvenir hunter."

"Probably," Tad said. "Let's forget it. I can just pack this stuff up and take the booth down, and it won't matter if anything's left behind."

"Pack the booth up?" I said. "Why? The fair's supposed to be open again from ten to two tomorrow."

"Do you really think I want to stand around selling Faulk's hardware when he's in jail?" Tad asked.

"Can you afford not to?" I said. "I thought you guys needed every penny you could get for legal fees. Even more so now."

"You don't think his getting arrested for murder's going to affect sales just a little?"

"You're right, it'll affect sales a lot," I said. "We've got to change all the price tags tonight. Mark everything up – I think about fifty percent."

"You're
crazy"
Tad said.

"Hey, you said yourself that the intruder could be a souvenir hunter – have you seen my sales today?" I asked. "And my iron was only at the scene of the crime, not made by the hand of the actual suspect. Maybe fifty percent's not enough; maybe we should double everything."

"I think fifty percent should do fine," Tad said, chuckling.

He cheered up a bit while we did the marking, and by the time we'd finished, he obviously felt much happier. Of course, I had no idea how much of his improved mood came from my promise that 1 was going to do everything I could to catch the real murderer.

While we were marking things, I uncovered something that gave me pause. A large key – it had to be one of the keys to the padlock on the stocks. Had Faulk kept a key? Or was this what the intruder had come to find? Or to plant?

Tad didn't even blink when he saw me holding the key. I waited until he wasn't looking, then tucked it into my haversack.

"With you on his trail, that poor killer hasn't a chance," Tad said, as we put away the pens and price tags.

"Maybe," I said, taking a deep breath. "But before I go off chasing the killer, I want you to level with me. Who were you with the night of the murder?"

"Oh, damn, not you, too," Tad said, slumping. "That damned deputy had to say just enough in front of Faulk to make him think the worst, and it's all perfectly innocent, not to mention having nothing to do with the murder."

"Convince me," I said.

"Okay," he said. "You probably won't believe me, but I was meeting my brother."

"Your brother? Tad, I thought you told me you were an only child. And an orphan."

"I lied," he said. "My dad's gone, but my mother's still around, and I have two brothers, three sisters, and lord knows how many aunts and uncles. I hadn't seen any of them in seven years, until my brother came down here to meet me last night."

"What happened? Seven years ago, I mean."

"I don't know," he said. "When I came out, they didn't handle it well. Then again, maybe I didn't give them much time to figure out how to handle it. The whole thing was a mess. So when I got out of college, I didn't give any of them my address, and I rewrote my autobiography. I know that sounds tacky."

"Maybe," I said. "But I found out recently that when we were in high school, both Rob and I had recurring fantasies about finding out we'd been switched at birth in the hospital, and that our rich, glamorous, normal, real parents would show up any day to claim us."

"You?" Tad exclaimed. "Why? I mean, your family's fantastic."

"Try growing up with them," I said. "So, yeah, maybe what you did was tacky, but I understand. What made you change your mind?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's being with Faulk – family's so important to him, even though he doesn't get along that well with his. I sort of got homesick for mine, and I contacted one of my brothers. Only then I couldn't figure out how to tell Faulk. That's why I arranged to meet my brother at a coffee shop in town. I figured if it worked out, I'd tell Faulk and introduce them tomorrow. Only with the murder and everything…"

He shook his head.

"And Faulk doesn't know this yet?"

"No, I can't get in to see him till visiting hours tomorrow. Unless your brother can arrange to get him out on bail, which may not be possible. We're having trouble scraping up the deposit."

"We'll take up a collection at the fair tomorrow," I said. "I can't imagine anyone who knows Faulk thinking he's a murderer; and if they do think it, they'd better not let me know they do."

"Thanks," he said, sounding relieved.

"And speaking of tomorrow, we'd both better turn in."

"Do you think it would help if I staged a protest?" Tad asked, as we turned to leave the booth. "I could put on my runaway-slave outfit and chain myself to the steps in protest. I bet I could generate a lot of publicity."

"I don't think Faulk wants publicity," I said. "I think he wants bail and a good lawyer."

"You're probably right," he said, with a sigh.

"There is one thing you can do," I said. "It might help Faulk, although I can't make any promises."

"Anything," he said. "You name it."

"Find out exactly what Monty did on the Canton PD," I said. I gave him Monty's full name, and the approximate date he'd arrived in Yorktown.

"I'll start as soon as we get back to camp," he promised. "I've got my whole computer setup in the van."

Back at the tent, I tried to work up a show of enthusiasm for the coming battle, but I didn't think I was fooling Michael. He didn't remember whether the key had been in the booth when he'd been minding it, but then I didn't expect him to.

Fortunately, he seemed as exhausted as I was, and didn't try to reopen the discussion on the state of our relationship. He fell asleep almost immediately, while I tossed and turned, trying to put the pieces of the day together in some fashion that wouldn't end with Faulk being arrested. And trying to think what I could do tomorrow to set things right.

I doubt if Michael appreciated it when I finally couldn't stand it any longer and dug out my cell phone to make a late-night phone call and fix the one thing I could do something about.

"It's past midnight," he mumbled. "Who on Earth are you calling?"

"The jail," I said. "Hello, who's this? Hey, Fred. Is Horace there? Okay, what about Ricky? Great, could I talk to him?"