Damsels in Distress (16 page)

This was not a question I cared to answer. Years ago, when I thought she was old enough to understand, I’d explained the situation. Now all three of us were annoyed. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a drink, then returned with a forced smile. “Did the fairies say anything about Madam? Did she tell them where she was from or why she’d moved here?”

“Not really,” Inez said. “She sort of slouched around while she poked them with an umbrella and made nasty remarks about how clumsy they were.”

“She didn’t mention any friends or enemies?”

“You’ll have to call Rhonda and ask her. They should be back from the lake in an hour or two,” Caron said. “Can we have the car now, Mother? Mr. Valens wants us to come early so he can redo the lighting. I told him the play would be better if it was performed in the dark—and in pantomime. He looked pissed, but I could tell he agreed.”

“I doubt the retirees of Hasty are ready for alternative theater,” I said, then told them they could go search the hills for the sound of music, as well as a few of their favorite things. I was relieved to be rid of them for the evening. I tidied up, turned on the news, and settled down on the sofa. Peter had promised to call once he arrived at his mother’s house. I wanted to tell him about the area where Salvador lived, but it might be tricky to explain why I’d spent part of the afternoon sitting on Salvador’s deck, with a martini glass nearby. Then again, it might be the moment to remind him that I was not without appeal to others of his gender.

As for Edward Cobbinwood, there was nothing I could do until he showed up at the bookstore. If I called Lanya to ask for his phone number, she would demand to know why. I wasn’t ready to implicate him in the arson investigation, and I wasn’t about to mention his parentage until I talked to him in private. Without a reasonable explanation, she would conclude, as Salvador had done, that I had designs on him.

If I ended up in court, I would do so with my dignity intact.

Luanne called while I was eating dinner. I allowed her to grovel, then accepted her apology and gave her an update. We agreed that it was all very peculiar and puzzling. After we’d run out of speculation, we planned an evening of popcorn and movies later in the week. Peter finally called to say that his flight had been delayed by weather, but he was at his mother’s house and was looking forward to a hot shower and a decent bed. Caron came home much later, took a soda out of the refrigerator, and retreated to her bedroom.

And so to sleep, perchance to dream.

The next few days passed uneventfully. The fairies performed as scheduled on the portico, drawing attention primarily from children, college boys, and geezers clad in Bermuda shorts. Caron and Inez had chosen costumes from the theater department, but refused to model them. I finished the Sunday crossword puzzle (in ink, of course) and resumed reading the real estate ads. Anderson and Benny appeared in armor once again to whack at each other, while Fiona watched from the sidelines. Madrigals were sung. Lutes were strummed. Tickets were sold. Edward Cobbinwood did not appear, however, so I’d finally told Sergeant Jorgeson that it was possible that there might be a link between Edward and Angie. Underwhelmed by my revelation, Jorgeson agreed to look into it. Peter’s calls were infrequent and inevitably cut short by a whimsical demand from his mother. Sally and her entourage had paraded past the Book Depot several times, perhaps readying themselves for a crusade. Best of all, I’d had minimal contact with the ARSE members, limited to watching Julius struggle with his sound equipment.

By Friday, I was optimistic that the Renaissance Fair would come and go without any demands on me. Luanne and I planned to attend on Saturday afternoon, both out of curiosity and to support Safe Haven, the battered-women’s shelter. I’d just sold a guide to indigenous wildflowers to a retired couple when Edward came into the store.

He waited until the transaction was finished and the couple gone, then said, “Good morrow, Claire, for that is your name, I hear.”

“Good morrow,” I said politely.

“I guess you’ve been wondering where I was all week.”

I pretended to consider this while I put away the sales slip. “No, Edward, I haven’t.” This was, of course, a lie of immeasurable magnitude. I’d imagined him in a endless variety of situations, including one in which he approached Caron to give her a brotherly hug. Half of one, anyway. I turned around and looked at him. His face was pale and his hair uncombed, and he looked as though he’d lost weight. Dark smudges under his eyes suggested he hadn’t been sleeping. “A police detective questioned me this morning. He wouldn’t say why he thought I’d known Angie. I finally figured out that you were in the car that drove by her house when I was there.”

“I had no choice,” I said. “They’re investigating arson, if not murder. The fire was set intentionally. As far as I know, they haven’t had much luck learning anything about her past or present. You knew her?”

“Yeah, sort of. I met her at a Ren Fair in Sacramento. She was selling fairy wings and wands, and junk like that. We sat at a picnic table and had a couple of pints of ale, talked about ourselves. When Lanya mentioned that a woman named Angie was going to work with the fairies, I wondered if it might be the same woman. Funny, the two of us running into each other fifteen hundred miles from California. I went by to say hello and to ask if I could shop for her or anything. She stayed in the doorway, said she didn’t need any help, and thanked me for coming by. I’m not sure she even remembered me. I felt like an idiot.”

“She never told you where she was living when you met her?”

“Some little town in Arizona. If she told me the name, it didn’t register. All I could tell the detective was that she was about forty years old, brown hair, and was using an umbrella as a cane. Not much help, I’m afraid.”

I was watching him closely, unsure that he was telling me not only the truth, but the whole truth. “You said the two of you talked about yourselves over ale. She must have said something.”

He blushed. “I guess I did most of the talking. I’d just found out about my father, and I didn’t know how I felt about it. Up until then, I’d never had a father. I mean, well, I knew some guy had impregnated my mother, but he didn’t have a name or a face. He wasn’t real. When I was a kid, I used to fantasize that he was a cowboy or an astronaut, then later that he was a celebrity. I didn’t hide girlie magazines under my mattress; I had issues of
People
and
Entertainment Weekly
. Whenever I was in San Francisco, I’d stare at the restored Victorian houses along the trolley route, picturing him living in one with his perfect wife and two adorable, polite children. His name would be Michael, his wife’s Stephanie. Mike Junior and Julia would attend a private school and take music lessons. I even gave them a dog.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “I’m sure a lot of children in your situation do the same thing.”

Edward tried to blink away the tears welling in his eyes. “One day I saw them—all four of them—walking on Fisherman’s Wharf. Michael and Stephanie were holding hands. The children had balloons. I followed them all afternoon. I’d just gotten up the courage to approach them when they got in a car with a Nevada license plate and drove away. I felt like I’d been slapped.” He turned away, his shoulders hunched and trembling.

It was almost—but not quite—enough to move me to tears as well. I went around the counter to pat him on the back. “Edward, you’re going to have to tell me your father’s name. You told me that you came to Farberville specifically to find him. By now you surely know enough to step forward and acknowledge him. Instead, you’re playing some silly game that only hurts you all the more.”

“I just can’t get up my nerve,” he said in a low voice. “It could go so wrong. Another slap in the face, but this one would sting forever. No more silly fantasies about Michael and Stephanie, or anybody else.”

“You’d still have your mother.”

“She packed up and left two years ago. She didn’t even warn me before she disappeared, but later I heard that she was living on a farm up north. Not long after that, one of her old friends told me that she died and was buried courtesy of the state. No funeral, nothing.” He paused and wiped his eyes. “My college friends made more of a fuss when their goldfish died and was flushed into eternal bliss. We had to crowd into the bathroom and sing hymns.”

I felt worse than what might euphemistically be considered evidence of the proximity of livestock. He was still a kid, despite his college diploma. I was begrudging him what family he might have. Carlton’s relatives were not likable. In truth, most of them were loathsome, and that was putting it kindly. However, Edward would have aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as Caron and me.

“Okay, Edward,” I said, “let’s cut to it. Tell me your father’s name.”

“When the time is right.”

My sympathy was rapidly being replaced with exasperation. “I have no idea why you’re being so coy about this, unless you enjoy tormenting me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I really don’t know, Edward. Just tell me his name and get it over with—okay?”

He fidgeted for a moment, then said, “I promised Fiona that I’d go out to the mall and draw a crowd so she can sell tickets. She’s picking me up in half an hour, so I need to get home and change into my garb. You’ll be at the Renaissance Fair tomorrow. We can talk then.” He dug into a pocket and handed me a folded envelope. “These are free tickets for admission and the banquet. The Duke and Duchess have requested your presence at the royal table. You don’t have to wear garb if you don’t want to, but it would be better. Lanya said she’ll find a gown for you. I’ll see you there.”

He scurried out the door, leaving me to gape at the envelope.

I went into the office, picked up the phone, and dialed a familiar number. “Luanne,” I whimpered, “we have a problem ...”

Chapter Eight

o
n Saturday morning Caron was long gone before I bestirred myself to crawl out of bed. I’d yet to see what she and Inez were wearing, so I could only hope that they had anticipated Fiona Thackery’s wintry judgment. If they incurred her disapproval, she’d have two semesters to exact her retribution. Julius Valens had supervised their selection from the theater department’s wardrobe. He, too, would have enough sense to keep the girls’ cleavage covered. Caron’s, at least. Inez had expectations.

Luanne had agreed to go with me to the fair, but had balked at the idea of attending the banquet. Her comments about eating greasy food with one’s fingers while seated on a long wooden bench had not imbued me with enthusiasm. I could see no way out of it. I was to be an honored guest of the Duke and Duchess of Glenbarrens, who might call for my beheading if I snubbed them. Sally had lost herself in the role of Madam Marsalia d’Anjou to such an extent that I was concerned about her unraveling sanity. If I failed to take my place with the Duke and Duchess, as well as Lord and Lady Bicklesham (the Threets), the Baron of Firthforth (Salvador), Sir Kenneth of Gweek (Benny), Squire Squarepockets (Julius), Lady Olivia of Ravenmoor (Fiona), and whomever else, I would hear about it for months, if not years. Sally has not only the bulk of an elephant, but also its memory. A rogue elephant that tramples villages and everything else in its path, including bookstores.

And after all, with the exception of slippery fingers, how bad could it be? There would be lots of pomp and pomposity, processions, heralds, trumpets, and so forth to amuse the bourgeois. Wine, as well as lemonade. Entertainment from Pester the Jester, the musicians, the madrigal singers, the dancers, and, of course, the fairies. Their faces might be green with greasepaint, but they would be bright red underneath it. Two hours, max. I’d spent longer than that in a sadistic plastic chair in an airport.

I avoided the side street when I walked to the bookstore. Business was brisk, as it usually was on Saturday mornings when my regulars discover the need for books on gardening, decorating, grilling, or escaping into fantasy in a hammock The sky was dotted with only a scattering of clouds, boding well for those who would park in a pasture and slog through weeds. Toothy Dan, the weatherman on the local TV station, had predicted sunshine and temperatures in the mid-eighties. A lovely day for parsley, sage, rosemary, and mead.

Sergeant Jorgeson came into the store late in the morning, dressed in slacks and a cotton shirt. “Ms. Malloy,” he said with a nod, “I thought you might be at the Renaissance Fair.”

“Luanne’s picking me up at one. Aren’t you and Mrs. Jorgeson going?”

“I fear we are not. A number of her relatives—sisters and cousins and aunts and such—are arriving later this afternoon. Maybe nieces and nephews. Ex-husbands and stepmothers. She comes from a large family prone to divorces and remarriages, and I have difficulties figuring out who they are. Instead of spending the weekend relaxing on my deck, I am working my way through a list of chores.”

I tried not to smile. “And I made the list? How fascinating.”

“Technically, I am on the way to the paint store. Mrs. Jorgeson has decided the guest bathroom is dingy, so we’re going to paint it lilac. I just stopped by to tell you that we’ve made no progress identifying the victim of the fire. The remains have been sent to the state lab. We won’t hear from them for several weeks.”

“And the arsonist?”

He shrugged. “No one has admitted seeing anything. Most of the residents on the block were either at the biker rally or in their living rooms watching TV. The woman next door had her blinds drawn. All of the residential fires in the county in the last year were caused by wiring, space heaters, or stupidity on the part of the homeowners, so there’s no reason to think we have an arsonist in the area. Until we identify the victim, we have no leads as to motive. The young man whose name you finally brought to my attention had nothing useful to contribute. We are at a standstill, which is a very unsatisfactory position to be in. Lieutenant Rosen will not be pleased to find the open file awaiting him when he returns.”