Sugar and Spite (15 page)

He squeezed her arm. “We will, dear. I promise.”

“Do they have these shindigs all the time?” she asked Ryan, who had just purchased a wreath of daisies for her hair.

“The big one, the official Renaissance Faire, is held in the spring and summer. This is a smaller version, but a lot of the same people attend. Hopefully we’ll be able to get a line on our armorer.”

Several booths down, they found a burly fellow with a bushy red beard, selling ornately decorated shields.

“This is as good a place to begin as any,” Ryan said, as he took Savannah’s hand and escorted her over to the armorer, who looked rather bored with the whole affair.

“Good day to ye, m’lord, m’lady,” he said, summoning a bit of pseudoenthusiasm. “May I interest you in a fine shield to ward off the enemies’ darts and arrows? Maybe one with your family crest thereon?”

“Our interest is more offensive than defensive,” Ryan said. “I’m looking for someone to forge a dagger for my lady. Something special, with… say… a wolfs head on the hilt.”

The vendor muttered something about, “… turkeys…” into his red beard, then said, “I beg your pardon, m’lord, but shields are this craftsman’s specialty. You’ll have to find another to design your dagger.”

“Anyone you would recommend?” Savannah said. “I want a really pretty one, with diamonds in the eyes.”

She was pretty sure she saw the vendor shudder ever so slightly. Then he said, “Most of the armorers here prefer to create articles that are true to the period, m’lady. And such a weapon would… well… would not be historically accurate, and therefore, most of the artisans would… decline the honor of designing such a weapon. Even for one so fair as yourself.”

John stepped forward, exuding wizardly authority in his purple-and-scarlet robe. “But what if the lady… or her escorts… were willing to pay handsomely for such a dagger. Very handsomely, indeed.”

After glancing in both directions, the fellow leaned toward them and lowered his voice. “Then you could probably get somebody to do it… if you promised not to tell where you got it.”

“And who might be interested in selling his artistic soul in such a mercenary manner?” Ryan asked, his voice low and equally conspiratorial.

“Oh, almost anybody. Joe Campanella would do it, or Tony Rodriguez, or Patrick McCarthy. Their booths are down there in the gypsy’s woods… by the tarot-card reader.”

“Thanks,” Savannah said. “It’s comforting to know you can still buy what you want in this world.”

As they walked away, she glanced back at the vendor, who had settled down for a nap on a pile of furs among his wares. “Did you guys hear what he was mumbling under his breath… something about us being… turkeys?”

“That’s what I thought he said, too,” Ryan replied.

“I’d wager a sixpence that was what he called us,” John added.

“Mmm… wonder what it means, ‘turkeys’,” she mused. “Somehow I’m pretty sure it isn’t complimentary.”

“I’d wager another sixpence on that,” John said. “Maybe even a pound sterling.”

* * *

The vendor was wrong. Not every craftsman at the faire could be tempted to sell his historically accurate soul for cold hard cash. Both Joe Campanella and Tony Rodriguez told them in no uncertain terms, “No way.”

But the two agreed on one thing: Patrick McCarthy was their man. Fortunately for them, Patrick could be hired to create almost anything, if the price was right. Unfortunately, Patrick wasn’t working the faire that day. He was at home in his studio forging stock for the big, spring/summer faire.

But it wasn’t a total waste of time. Patrick’s competition was kind enough to give Savannah and her friends his phone number and studio address in the San Fernando Valley.

With Patrick’s pertinent information tucked in her bosom and a roasted turkey leg in her hand, Savannah left the faire a far more cheerful maid than when she had arrived. On their way out, they encountered a number of bizarre characters: an old beggar dragging a “withered” leg and pleading for alms, an ominous-looking warlock in red-and-black robes with an inverted pentacle on his back who warned them to “beware the wrath of the ancient dragon’s breath” or some such nonsense.

Savannah’s favorite was the woman dressed in a Red Sonja skimpy, furry bikini costume who had the body of a seventy-year-old, two-hundred-pound-plus, couch potato. As the female strutted by, Savannah turned to Ryan and John. “I’ve got my information, food in my gullet, and for some strange reason, I suddenly feel svelte. It’s enough. Let’s go while the gettin’s good.”

* * *

Before taking the trip to the valley to check out Patrick McCarthy’s studio, Savannah went home to change clothes, having had enough corset restraint to last a lifetime.

“Wow!” Tammy exclaimed as Savannah came through the door. “Now there’s a couple of—”

“Can it. I’ve heard so many boob jokes today that my cup runneth over, if you don’t mind. Any messages?”

“From Larry Bostwick. He wants you to return his call.”

Savannah decided to call Lawyer Larry, even before the Grand Unlacing. Costume changes could wait.

“Did he say what he wanted?” From Tammy’s hand she took the bit of paper on which she had scrawled his phone number.

“He wouldn’t say, just that it was important.”

Feeling her adrenaline level rising, Savannah punched in the number and wondered if it would be good news or bad.

“This is Savannah Reid, Larry. What’s up?” she asked without preamble.

“Looks like the prosecutor is going to go for it,” he said. “They firmly believe he did it, and they’re out to show that they don’t cut wayward cops any slack.”

“Cut a cop slack. Now there’s a novel idea.” Savannah shook her head and sank onto her living room sofa. “What’s next?”

“Bail. I’ve pulled a few strings, and it should be set this afternoon. I’m afraid it’s going to be up there.”

“How up there?”

He named a figure, and she thought it might as well have had a few more zeros tacked on to the end. It would be just as impossible either way. There was no way Dirk had money like that lying around.

“Call me as soon as it’s set,” she told him. “I’ll see what I can do. And Larry…” She swallowed hard. “How is he?”

“He’s holding up pretty well. Quiet. Rather resigned.”

“Oh, shit, that’s bad. Dirk’s normally loud, obnoxious, mouthy, and full of attitude. Quite and resigned are bad. Very bad. We’ve gotta get him out of there ASAP.”

“I’ll do what I can, Savannah, but this is first-degree murder.”

“Yeah, but it’s Dirk Coulter who’s being charged with that first-degree murder. Whatever you can do isn’t enough. Do about twice that much.”

“I will. Just don’t get your hopes up.”

“They’re up. They’re way, way up, and if you let me down, I’m going to be crushed, and I’ll snivel and cry, day after day, right there in your waiting room and tell everybody what a worthless, overpaid, overrated mouthpiece you are. So don’t you disappoint me, Larry. I’m not at my best when I’m disappointed.”

“I’ll take care of it, Savannah. I promise. I’ll take care of him.”

“Thanks. I know you will.”

* * *

“If you hear anything at all from Larry, you give me a call. That second, you hear?” Savannah told Tammy as she headed out the door. In her camel slacks and matching sweater, she looked far less like a buxom ale-serving wench and more like a dignified private investigator. If, indeed, there was any dignity in the world of a P.I.

“I will, I will, I wi-i-i-i-ll, I swear!” Tammy promised. “In fact, if I even hear a weather report about whether it’s going to rain in the county jail, I’ll give you a ring.”

“Don’t be a smart aleck. I’m worried.”

Tammy’s look and tone softened. “I know you are, Mother Hen. Us little chickens are okay for the moment, even Feather-Brained Dirk. So, leave the nest already.”

“I’m gone. Be back in a couple of hours.”

She flew the coop.

* * *

Patrick McCarthy was definitely into his Celtic heritage. And viewing the incredible art that was displayed in the form of swords, daggers, poniards, and shields, Savannah felt a tug at her own Scotch-Irish genes.

Walking around the lobby of his studio, looking into the cases of magnificent, gleaming weapons, she could see why John had called the poniard left in Dirk’s trailer gaudy. These pieces were far more intricately worked, covered in minute etchings and filigree, yet were classy beyond description. Precious metals inlaid with gemstones, twisting, turning, Celtic knotwork that metamorphosed into mythical creatures, benign and malevolent… all testified to the skill and vision of the artist.

“May I help you?” asked a voice behind her. The words had a softness, the lilt of old Ireland in them.

Savannah spun around and saw a young man with straw-colored hair, a ruddy face, and emerald eyes watching her. She could tell by the look of pride on his face that he knew how much his talent was appreciated.

“Gorgeous,” she said. “Absolutely breathtaking.”

“Thank you.”

Driving to his studio, she had considered ruses to approach him. The old “will you make something like this for me” routine sprang to mind, but she discarded the lie. This man’s openness, his innocent, yet appraising eye contact, made her feel she could dispense with the pretenses.

“I’m looking for the armorer, Patrick McCarthy.”

“And what is it you’d be wantin’ with ol’ Patrick once you’ve laid eyes on him?”

“I need his help,” she said, hearing the desperation in her own voice. “A friend of mine is in trouble, very bad trouble, and Patrick McCarthy is the only lead I have at the moment.”

“Lead? You sound like a police lady,” he said, wiping his blackened hands on his large leather apron.

“I’m a private investigator. But this is personal.”

“I can see that by the look in your eyes,” he said, his gentle brogue soothing on her ears and heart. “I’m Patrick McCarthy himself, in the flesh. How can I be of service to a bonny private investigator lady with a troubled friend?”

“You can tell me if you’ve ever seen this weapon before.” She reached into her purse and produced the photo of the cobra-headed poniard.

He took the snapshot, gave it a quick look, and handed it back to her.

“Do I look like the sort of fella who would make a monstrous thing such as that?” he said with a coy smile.

“You look like a sensible fella with a practical side, who might make such a thing if the price was right. You probably have as many bills to pay as the next person.”

He laughed heartily. “Ye’ve got that right. With a dozen sisters and brothers back in Dublin and a wife and two wee ones here in the States, I’ve an expense or two.”

“Did you make that weapon, Patrick?” Savannah asked. “I swear I won’t tell anyone… at least no one who would hold it against you.”

“Aye. I’m the culprit you’re looking for. Made it for a handsome fee. ‘Twasn’t my own idea to be sure. ‘Twas custom-made for a turkey who wouldn’t know a fine Celtic weapon from a pain in his arse.”

“A turkey? I believe I’ve heard that term before… recently. What exactly do you mean by that?”

Patrick’s ruddy complexion blushed a couple of shades deeper red. “Actually, it’s ashamed I am to admit it… but it’s a not-very-complimentary term we use at the faire to describe those who come to the faire without any notion of what it’s about. They dress in bizarre, Hollywood-style clothes and carry strange weapons that never existed on God’s green earth… until the turkeys dreamed ‘em up.”

“Not too concerned about authenticity, eh?”

“Not at all, at all. Now those of us who actually participate in the faire, we check everything, once, twice, even three times to make sure the design of a garment or a weapon is true to history, before we create it and use it at the faire. We’re interested in the educational aspects of it all, not just the roarin’ good time.” He grinned broadly. “Though we enjoy that side of it, too.”

“And medieval warriors didn’t carry poniards adorned with cobra heads?”

“Most wouldn’t have known what a cobra was if it had bitten them on the backside. Weren’t a lot of cobras lurkin’ in the hillsides of Ireland or Scotland in those days.”

“So, you made this poniard this way for a turkey,” she said, “someone with more money than taste or good sense.”

He laughed. “You can say that if you please. I’ll not be say in’ it about a payin’ customer. And he did pay me plenty.”

“Who?”

“The Snake.”

“The Snake? That was his name?”

“‘Tis the manner in which he addressed himself. A bit bizarre if you ask me.”

Savannah’s heart sank. “Don’t tell me that’s the only name he gave you.”

“‘Twas the only one he spoke. But don’t let your chin drop so. I can give you a bit more help than that.”

She brightened. “Really?”

He beckoned her over to the counter and cash register in the corner of the room. After rummaging around beneath the counter for a moment, he came up with a dark green, old-fashioned bookkeeper’s ledger.

“Mr. Snake paid with a check, he did,” Patrick said proudly as he scanned the rows of entries with one blackened fingertip. “And I always jot down the addresses and phone numbers off checks, to add to my mailing list. Then when I’m going to be at a faire, I drop my customers a postcard, informing them of my whereabouts.

“Ah, here’s his real name, and his address as well. But before I give it to you, I’d like to know why you’re lookin’ for him? What’s he done to you or yours?”

Again Savannah weighed the pros and cons of truth and lying. And decided to give Patrick McCarthy the benefit of the truth. “I think he may have killed someone, and my friend is being blamed for that murder.”

Patrick’s face blanched white beneath his freckles. “Mother of God,” he whispered. “Tell me it wasn’t with my poniard he did the deed.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Really? Are you just sayin’ that now to spare my feelings?”

Savannah gave him a reassuring smile. “If he did it, he did so with a gun, not your weapon.”

“Thanks be to heaven,” Patrick said, crossing himself.