Authors: Joyce Lavene,Jim
Wicked Weaves (8 page)
“What’s up with you, Jessie?” His voice was breathless when he finally stopped kissing me.
“For one thing, you weigh a ton.” I tried to throw him off of me, but he wasn’t moving. “And you were gone when I woke up. In my experience, that’s a bad thing.”
He ran his fingers through my hair and took out a few pieces of straw. “I went for coffee. It’s not like I left for years or something. You were in my bed. Where was I supposed to go?”
“I don’t think that makes me feel any better.”
“Look. Everything is good between us, right? This is something we’ve both wanted for a while. Let’s not screw it up.”
I didn’t want to admit how long I’d wanted Chase. I vaguely remembered telling him about it last night when I’d gushed all manner of stupid things. “I’m not trying to screw anything up. It was a great night.”
Chase’s sweet brown eyes looked into mine. “I thought so.”
I wasn’t sure where that meant we should go from here. Now that we’d finally done the deed, I knew I really cared for him. That was too scary for words. But with him sitting on top of me, his handsome face inches from mine, I couldn’t deny what I felt. “Me, too.”
He kissed me again and started both of us rolling through the hay until the animal keeper came up and told us to leave the stuff alone. “You think these poor animals want to eat that after you’ve cavorted all over it?”
We laughed like little kids and got out of the hay. I grabbed my shoes, finally, and we walked together through the early morning. Okay. Maybe it wasn’t a match made in heaven, but it was pretty good. And who knew where it might go?
It was nine before I got to the costume shop. I had to wait in line with fifty college and high school drama students who left with costumes for everything imaginable. Ten of the young, giggling girls were going to be belly dancers in the new section of the Village that was becoming the Caravan Stage. A dozen other men and women became wandering scribes or musicians. One of the Village astrologers had a tear in his purple robe and had to trade it for a blue one. Fairies flitted with their new costumes, checking their wings, and another dozen people became knaves and squires.
By the time I’d reached Portia, she was a frazzled costume keeper who kept yelling back to her varlets and servants in the back to speed it up. She took one glance at my dirty costume and let go a stream of modern day cuss words. “What’ve you done? Beth is going to have a fit! Do you think we can just clean that up? Linen isn’t good at releasing soil. And what’s that stain on the back of your skirt?”
I wasn’t about to tell her I’d sat in dog poop, although the smell that lingered seemed to be evidence enough. I made up a story about sitting on a bench and not noticing a piece of fudge left behind by some careless eater. “I’m sorry, but I’m running late. Do you have something apprentice-like for me?”
“You’re a craft apprentice, right?” Portia started looking through her catalog of costumes. “Beth is working on some new stuff, but it isn’t ready yet. It’s been busy all morning, Jessie. You’re gonna have to take what you can get and come back tomorrow.”
“All right. As long as it’s not a fairy costume, anything’ll do.”
Portia passed me a troubadour costume; some green and gold satin tunic with green tights. “I heard about what happened to Mary’s ex-husband yesterday. That was awful.”
I was still staring at the costume, knowing Mary was going to have my head. “Yeah. It was bad.”
“I wonder what he was doing here. I don’t think she’s ever seen him since she’s been here. Do you know why the police questioned her?”
“Not really.” I knew Portia was just looking for gossip. “Are you
sure
you don’t have something else?”
sure
you don’t have something else?”
“That’s all there is, Jessie. Sorry.” She leaned closer through the opening cut in the wall above the countertop. “You know, they say Mary killed someone, and that was why they ran her out of her home. Maybe it’s true. People like that don’t just stop killing after they get a taste of human blood.”
“That’s really disgusting!” I stared at her, wondering what else her little mind could come up with. “And I think you might be talking about dogs or chickens. I don’t think Mary killed anybody. And no one tasted anyone’s blood.”
She shrugged and waved her hands. “That’s just what I heard. Of course, Ham the blacksmith knows more about it. He’s Mary’s cousin or something. They came here together, you know.”
I didn’t know that, but I didn’t tell her. I thanked her for my costume and rushed off to Wicked Weaves. The Village was opening at ten, and I only had a few minutes to take a shower and change clothes before Mary would need me in the shop.
I made a mental note to talk to Ham later about what had happened to Joshua. Portia was mostly useless, but she knew her gossip. Maybe there was something Ham knew that could help Mary.
Every year I stayed someplace different in the Village. Last year, I had a nice little apartment above the stables that I’d shared with a minstrel. It had been her job to walk around the Village and make up songs. Tourists paid her five dollars to make and sing a song about whatever they’d wanted to hear. She’d left at the end of the summer, going back to the University of Iowa with a sweet nest egg. If I didn’t sound like a screech owl when I tried to sing, I might’ve considered that. Of course, that wouldn’t happen now, since I’d decided to go after my Ph.D. in history.
This year, I was staying by myself in a room barely big enough for a twin bed and a bathroom. It looked like the inside of one of those tiny little campers. There were no windows, and the electricity was skittish. Sometimes there was air-conditioning and sometimes there wasn’t.
I didn’t stop to notice that this was one of those times when there was no air-conditioning. I took a quick shower, the only kind you can take with no hot water, and got dressed. I twisted my hair up on my head and secured it with a large clip. It was naturally thick, so it stayed where I put it. I didn’t bother with makeup. It was too hot.
Thankfully, I didn’t have any idea how bad I looked in the gold and green troubadour’s getup until I reached Wicked Weaves. Mary took one look at me and burst out laughing. “Oh
that’s
nice.”
that’s
nice.”
I shook my head, and all the little bells on my tunic jingled.
Thank God I didn’t wear the crazy hat.
“I do the best I can to be here for you, and you make fun of me.”
Thank God I didn’t wear the crazy hat.
“I do the best I can to be here for you, and you make fun of me.”
She didn’t stop laughing until tears ran down her dark face. “Thank you, child. I needed a good laugh. What is it you’re supposed to be? You’re too tall to be an elf.”
“Elves were very tall and slender, actually. That’s why they were so good with the long bow. You’re thinking of dwarfs.”
“Whatever you are, you’re funnier than anything. I think we’ll have good sales today with people wanting to look at you.”
“They were out of peasant apprentice outfits.” I moved a few baskets around on the display table. One of them, my favorite, had a circle base of about nine inches and sides two and a half inches high. The inside contained the most intricate weaving, with six twirl circles of woven sweetgrass. It was meant to hold iced tea glasses. There was a band left open on each side that formed a handle. It sold for $500. A little pricey for me. Maybe I could make one for myself someday.
“You’ll do. It’s not us that sells the baskets anyway.” Mary lit up her pipe. “The baskets sell themselves. How’ bout you even off some sweetgrass?”
I’d almost rather pluck a chicken down at the butcher shop. It sounds easy: take a bunch of grass, hold it together, and cut the ends so they all match. Piece of cake, right? Think again. The grass won’t keep still, and as you’re cutting one side, the other side gets uneven, though it was even just a minute before. It’s an exercise in patience and handling high levels of frustration without running away screaming. A little like teaching a freshman history class.
Mary settled down on the back step to start weaving for the day. We still had a few minutes before the gates opened. I grabbed a bunch of sweetgrass and sat beside her in the still, cool morning air. If I was going to have to do this slightly disgusting task, I was at least going to pick her brain. “I hope you’re okay after yesterday.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” The smoke from her pipe circled her head before it moved off.
“Well, your husband’s dead. That’s kind of traumatic. Even if you didn’t kill him, you could still be upset after all of that stuff with the police.”
“I’m not saying Joshua didn’t mean nothin’ to me,” she corrected with careful words. “At one time, I lived and breathed for that man. But that was a while ago. It was hard seeing him there, but that’s where we’ll all be one day. From the dust to the grave. That’s the journey all of us is taking.”
I let some sweetgrass drop when I looked up at her. I’d learned the first day she didn’t like swearing so I cursed inwardly. I was sorry I’d brought the incident up. Now I’d be depressed for the rest of the day thinking about what she’d said.
But I pushed forward anyway. In my vision of the world, there’s rarely a time I shouldn’t be talking. “So, what do you think happened? Do you think Abraham sneaked in here, stole a piece of basket weaving, and choked Joshua with it outside?”
Mary’s black eyes narrowed. “You’ve got way too much imagination, Jessie. What makes you think Abraham would kill Joshua? They were brothers.”
“Brothers? You didn’t say that. But it wouldn’t be the first time one brother killed another.”
“Don’t be foolish, Jessie, and watch the ends of that sweetgrass!” She took her pipe out of her mouth and studied the twisted branches of the small tree, the only thing that grew behind Wicked Weaves. “Abraham would never hurt Joshua. Don’t you know nothin’ about family? Sometimes even if they grow all twisted like this old, gnarly plum tree, it all comes right. Sometimes you think the fruit is bad, but there’ll be a plum or two in there.”
I was sure there was a lesson to learn from her words, but I was totally confused. I gave up on the metaphor of the plum tree and concentrated on what I was really trying to get at. “If you don’t think Abraham murdered Joshua, who did? He didn’t strangle himself.”
“And now you don’t think I did it?”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have to. I’m not deaf and blind, Jessie. You were trying to protect me yesterday because you thought I’d killed my Joshua.” She took a puff from her pipe. “While I ’preciate the help, I didn’t murder nobody. I ain’t running.”
I didn’t want to get caught up in protesting that the idea didn’t cross my mind. “Where were you when Chase and I went outside to find Joshua?”
“What difference does it make? The police told me Joshua died earlier. That’s really the only reason he let me go. He has to try to figure out how I moved Joshua’s body after I strangled him.”
I hadn’t thought of that. I was still on the idea of how Mary could forcibly strangle such a large man. I didn’t think she was strong enough. “You must have some idea of what happened. If you don’t think Abraham killed his brother, who else would do it? It had to be someone who knew he was here and had something against him. Did anyone know Joshua besides you?”
She shook her head. “There’s only me.”
“Then don’t you think it’s odd Abraham was here, too, for the first time in twenty years? And Joshua just happened to die?” I felt a little like one of those shows about lawyers on TV. I didn’t know any lawyers personally, except for Chase, of course, and that was too new to tell if he ever really talked like that.
Mary stood up. “Mind that grass and your tongue. You don’t know what you’re saying. Too much can be a bad thing said.”
“And what about Ham?” I pulled the question out of my brain like a magician pulls a rabbit out of his hat. “I know about your cousin, Mary. Are you trying to protect him?”
“Ham is my brother. I’ve had enough, Jessie. Go tend to that customer in the shop and leave me be.”
She walked off with her pipe, leaving her half-finished basket on the steps. I felt bad because I could see she was upset. On the other hand, she was obviously protecting someone, even if it meant her own life would be ruined because of it. I wasn’t going to let that happen.
Six
Two hours later, I was sitting in Sir Latte’s Beanery next to the tart shop across from Wicked Weaves. Between the TV and newspaper reporters and the crime scene people, they had all but closed the basket shop down. The yellow lines of crime scene tape blocked off the alley and extended to both sides of the area where we’d found Joshua.
Chase was taking a break with me over a couple of iced mochas when Debby decided to join us. I didn’t mind so much. She was my best history student and always a big help in class. Chase and I were having conversational problems. Most of what we had to say revolved around what had happened to Mary rather than what had happened to us.
Debby grabbed a cup of coffee, and the three of us sat at the window, watching the police and media circus that had come to Renaissance Faire Village. “What do you think they’re looking for?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I gave up watching detective shows a long time ago. I could never figure out who did it.”
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