Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Ye got something against me cause I’m a gypsy?” The woman had a tip jar as big as a punch bowl.

  I peered closer, inspecting the face beneath the heavy black eyeliner and icing-thick powder. “Is that you Mary Lynn?” The high school drama teacher was about as gypsy as Frannie’s Siberian Husky.

  “It is.” She coughed from the strain of her deep, affected voice. “Afraid of what the fates hold for ye?”

  I sincerely hoped the fates held a strong glass of iced tea in my near future. “Maybe another time. Have you seen Nathan?”

  “Gimme me your palm. This will only take a second.” She grabbed my hand, and I winced when she flipped it over with little care to my wrist. “Trouble’s a brewing.”

  “Is it?” My bored tone did not inspire Mary Lynn to give back my hand. “Exactly what kind of training have you had that makes you an expert?”

  “I watch a lot of YouTube.” Her head hovered over my hand. “I see anger. Resentment. Tempers flaring.” She traced a finger over a line in my palm. “Oh, my child, you must beware! Beware!” She paused for another fit of coughing before poking her finger a few inches below my thumb. “See this? This right here means one you love is in grave danger. Grave danger, I tell ye!”

  “That spot right there is where my brother jabbed me with a steak knife when I was thirteen.”

  “Don’t believe me?” She lifted her chin, her makeup line an orange streak at her jaw. “Fine. But you mark Madame Mystique’s words.”

  “Paisley?”

  Saved by a man in tights.

  Nathan Moore, president of the Sugar Creek Bank and Trust and co-organizer of the Renaissance faire, joined us, a happy smile on his face. “Are you ready for some Renaissance period fun?”

  “I think so.”

  Nathan glanced to the fortune teller. “Hello, Mary Lynn.”

  “There’s a cloud of doom over ye all!”

  “And a good day to you as well.” Nathan steered me away from the hollering woman and toward the shade of a towering oak. “She’s a little intense.”

  I rubbed my hand where she’d jabbed. “My fortune was quite dismal and disturbing.”

  “Her husband just ran off with a twenty-year old dog walker.” Small lines framed his gray eyes as he held back a smile. “Mary Lynn foretold I’d fall keister-first into a vat of tar and cat hair.”

  Mr. Moore was a handsome pillar of the community, according to Aunt Frannie, who knew an attractive pillar when she saw one. He sported a full head of gray hair, was always impeccably dressed, and as a recent divorcée in his early fifties, was pretty much one of the town’s most eligible bachelors. A whiz with numbers and organization, Nathan had been a dream to work with, and if I could, I’d order a hundred clients just like him.

  We walked toward a picnic table and sat down, where I gave him the day’s update. My job was less about event planning for the Renaissance faire group and more about event management. They’d organized their every vendor, performance, and activity, while my role was simply that of stage manager. I handled logistics and made sure everyone had what they needed and stayed on schedule so Nathan and his crew could just do their thing. Enchanted Events had hired additional faire workers needed, recruited volunteers, and oversaw their schedules. And of course, I dealt with the owner of Fox Falls. Oh, boy, did I.

  I consulted the agenda on my phone. “The buses will begin shuttling people here in two hours. We’ve got the electricity fixed to the fish and chips food truck, and the scabbards for the jousting match were delivered just last night.” I rattled off a list of other concerns that had been resolved, such as the rental tents.

  “It sounds like you’ve taken care of everything. I knew we were in good hands.”

  “I do have a few details to clear up with tonight’s dinner theater. Lisa’s notes were a little vague.” All I knew was we’d had a giant tent set up to accommodate the play and had a devil of a time finding enough portable air conditioners.

  Nathan’s eyes lit up. “Every night at seven we put on a two act play while our guests dine on a meal prepared by a lovely local couple in charge of catering. Our festival’s set during the time of Henry VIII, and I’ve written a funny production for our small cast. I took quite a few liberties with history, but I think even the staunchest scholar will enjoy it.”

  “Are you playing the part of Henry?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, heavens, no. The role of king always goes to Trace Hudson. I love this stuff, but I’m mostly the business man of the troupe. Though I did write myself a small part. You should don a costume and join us.”

  “Very tempting.” As tempting as naked pole-vaulting into the fountain on the square.

  “Next year we hope to break ground on our permanent location,” Nathan said.

  “In Sugar Creek?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Our troupe has spent years in Tulsa, and we finally decided to move it here. I’d been trying to talk Trace into it since we began, and he finally agreed. We’ll have a jousting arena, multiple stages, an amphitheater, and a castle to rival any faire in the four state area.”

  “That sounds fabulous. Where’s the new location?”

  “I can’t disclose that yet. We’ve had a few setbacks, but we’re hoping to finalize everything soon and make a big announcement this fall.”

  A large group of people walked toward us, their costumes regal and bright.

  Nathan checked his phone. “Right on time. Why don’t you stay for our morning meeting, and I’ll introduce you to the crew?” He waited a moment for more people to join the crowd. “Everyone, this is Paisley Sutton.” Nathan extended his hand toward me, his voluminous sleeve flapping in the breeze. “She’s co-owner of Enchanted Events and our go-to person for your needs.”

  “Welcome.” Trace Hudson said, and it was everything I could do to fake a smile for Beau’s uncle. “My wife, Rebecca.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “She works behind the scenes, dealing with costumes, props, and any matter of crises.”

  “I loved the Electric Femmes,” Rebecca said. “I was a big fan of yours.”

  “Oh.” A familiar awkwardness settled in, forcing out my usual ability to put words into complete sentences. “Thank you.” My music career was still a sensitive subject. How long before I wouldn’t feel like “your band was great” wasn’t just a nice way of saying, “Sorry you flunked out of the music business?” Along with two other teens, I’d rose to fame in the Electric Femmes years ago, only to fall right back down in spectacular fashion when Jaz, our lead singer, went solo. I’d floundered for years trying to make my way back to the business, doing everything from singing on cruise ships to contributing my vocal talents to jingles for upset tummies. You hadn’t reached rock bottom till the phone calls for the diarrhea commercials stopped coming. Combine that with last year’s jilting at the altar, and my confidence and I had been dumped one too many times.

  Next Nathan introduced Rex and Ida Alderson, the retired couple in charge of food. Loud and jolly, I could tell they were my kind of people. Plus, they had direct access to funnel cakes.

  “This is Angela Simpson,” Nathan said. “She plays the role of Anne Boleyn.”

  Angela’s dress didn’t leave much to the imagination with a deep v-neck and a tightly cinched waist. It was hard to tell with the makeup, but she looked about thirty-five, with blonde hair so enviably straight, even the heat didn’t warp it.

  “I’m Cameron,” said a young twenty-something who reminded me of Tigger—bouncing with overeager energy. Tall and slender, he wore leggings, knee boots, a green tunic, and a peacock feathered hat that must’ve set him back some serious cash. I’d done enough Ren faire research to know these costumes did not come cheap. “Anything you need to know about faire life, you just ask me,” he said.

  “And who are you in the royal troupe?” I asked.

  “I’m Trace’s understudy.”

  “No, you’re not,” Trace snapped.

  “His intern.”

 
“More like his stalker,” someone called.

  “But a friendly one.” Nathan rested a hand on Cam’s shoulder. “And very helpful. Cam here is a heck of a stagehand. Makes sure we have all our props or feeds us a line when we mess up.” The banker moved to the center of the group. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, the parade runs daily at two o’clock. We’ll start at the entrance, royalty leading, of course.” Trace took that opportunity to regally bow. “I do have some dire news, though. Veronica Meadows, our Queen Catherine of Aragon, will not be joining us after all. Her husband has fallen ill.”

  First day in this Renaissance England, and the plague had already hit.

  “No Catherine of Aragon?” Trace turned to Angela Simpson. “I guess we could let Angela take her spot.”

  “I’m sure Angela’s worked hard on her own role,” Rebecca said. “I’ll play Catherine, and maybe Veronica will eventually return.”

  “I really don’t mind,” Angela said.

  “I’m sure you don’t.” Rebecca took a step closer to her husband. “I know everyone’s part by now, so it won’t be any big deal, right?” Her eyes seemed to dare Angela to argue.

  “Well.” Trace extended a hand toward Rebecca. “My wife—ever our savior.”

  “Tonight’s dinner theater is going to be outstanding,” Ida Alderson said. “The chicken will marinate all day, and Nathan’s plays are always a riot. You should join us, Paisley.”

  “Yes, please do.” Trace’s Cheshire smile confirmed that he recognized me from the lodge. “Maybe you can bring my nephew. Why, there he is right now. Perfect timing.”

  Unease crept up my spine as I turned to find Beau steering toward us, his work boots kicking up little angry clouds of dust.

  He stopped a few feet from his uncle and held out a piece of paper. “What is this?”

  “Forsooth,” Trace said in an impressive British accent. “I have no idea. Mayhap it’s a note.”

  “Can you step out of your imaginary world for one minute to shoot straight with me?” Beau held the paper closer to his uncle’s face. “It says to meet you here at seven. What do you want?”

  “While I’m touched you did, indeed, come to see me,” Trace said, “the request was not made by me. I didn’t write that.”

  “Yesterday you left a sink running in your cabin, and it flooded the bathroom floor. Today this. I get that you’re trying to lure me out, but it stops right now.”

  “I neither wrote the note nor left water unattended.”

  “Last night I saw you cruising by my house, Trace.” Beau pointed right at the medallion on the man’s shirt. “I’m warning you, back off. It’s all I can do to let this crazy festival happen on my property knowing you’re part of it. I’ve tolerated this event for the town, but I don’t have to see you or talk to you.”

  His uncle frowned. “I don’t appreciate your tone one whit—”

  “If there’s another summons, just know I won’t answer it.” Beau seemed oblivious to the growing crowd who were all ears. “I’ll toss your bags out in the dirt road and remove you from my property myself.”

  Trace’s gaze hardened, and he took a dangerous step closer. “Your property? You mean the property where I grew up? The fields where I played as a child? The place my father ran his farm?”

  “Yeah, the place I bought. I didn’t inherit this land. I bought it. You could’ve done the same.”

  “You think I didn’t try? The previous owner wouldn’t even talk to me. I know that guy was a friend of yours and cut me out. There’s no way I didn’t outbid you.”

  “Fox Falls is mine,” Beau said. “And you’re welcome to leave it anytime.”

  Trace jabbed Beau’s chest. “You’d do anything to get back at me wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d suggest you remove your hand.”

  “I’m the one who brought the Renaissance festival to Sugar Creek. And when Nathan suggested this land, I went along with it, because I knew it would help you. Bring in some money.”

  Beau looked like he could spit lava. “I don’t need your money. I don’t need anything from you.”

  “Well, you needed me twelve years ago, and that’s what this is all really about, isn’t it? You’re still mad because of ancient history.”

  “I don’t have time for a therapy session. I came here to tell you to back off and steer clear of me. If you have something to say, you get it over with because this is our last meeting.”

  “I didn’t send you that note, son” Trace said. “And I don’t appreciate your threatening demeanor.”

  “I’m not your son. I’m not even your family.” Not even a breath of space remained between the two men as Beau loomed tall over his uncle, his body taut like a boxer waiting for the bell. “I’d suggest you remember that.”

  “Beau.” I stepped forward, my hand pressed to his back. “Let it go.”

  “You heard the lady.” Trace smiled easily, completely unfazed by his nephew, a warrior who’d been trained for combat. “Let it go.”

  4

  “You seem preoccupied tonight.” Henry took his gaze off the crowd of dinner theater attendees seated around us and turned those knowing eyes to me. He was only thirty-two, but somehow seemed older, wiser. Or maybe everyone did when you’d spent a big chunk of your life living on a bus and singing hits like “Your Face Gives Me A Hot Attack.”

  My watch read ten minutes until show time for the play, a sold out event, with wall-to-wall people. It was a definite win for the faire and for Enchanted Events, but I was having trouble enjoying the victory.

  “Beau and his uncle got into an argument this morning.” I absently tapped a rhythm with my fork. “I’m just concerned.”

  “For Beau?”

  “He was pretty upset. I called him a few times, but no answer.” And I hadn’t had the nerve to check his office, as I didn’t want to see him in the soothing arms of Haley Jo.

  “He’s a big boy,” Henry said. “He’ll be okay. Let’s just focus on how great this space looks.”

  It really was fabulous, if I did say so myself. I’d taken Lisa’s plans for the large tent and added a few touches of my own, as I was no stranger to the stage myself. We’d put candles on every table, set up a smaller tent for the cast dressing room out back, and I’d found a local guy to quickly design a lighting setup that would function better for a play. Standalone air conditioning units battled against the oppressive heat and pumped cool air into the tent, while a rented state-of-the-art sound system enabled the actors to wear forehead mics so their voices could rise above the noise.

  Round dining tables I’d procured from one of our rental outlets filled the tent, decorated with white linen tablecloths and serving ware that looked as if it came from the sixteenth century. A band to the right of our constructed stage played a merry jig.

  “We could also discuss the fact that you owe me big time for being your date tonight.” Henry took a sip of water from his metal tankard, setting it back on the table with a clunk.

  “Don’t act like you’re not going to enjoy this. This is totally your thing. Though I am disappointed you didn’t wear the tights and tunic I found for you.”

  Henry’s dark brown eyes narrowed. “Number one, I don’t do costumes. And number two,”—His voice dropped in volume—“those pants made my buns looks lumpy.”

  My partner and I had a rough start when I’d first inherited Enchanted Events. We were as different as day and night—or in our case, pop star and stuffed shirt—but we’d come to a place where we worked well together, and occasionally, he even resembled a friend. Not that he’d admit it.

  “Hello, darlings!” Sylvie descended upon our table, her voluminous navy blue dress swishing to and fro, and a smart hat sitting askew on her blonde head. “Have we missed anything?”

  “Henry here was just thanking me for his invitation,” I said. “Please sit down before he drowns me in more effusive gratitude.”

  Henry stood and pulled out a chair for Frannie. “Don’t listen to Pais
ley. She’s just ticked they’re not serving real mead.”

  “Some faires do, you know,” Frannie said. “Some of them are so authentic, it’s like you don’t know where reality ends and the fantasy begins.”

  “I think some of the participants certainly buy into the fantasy more than others.” I inclined my head toward the left, where I watched Cameron walking backwards, filming the crowd with his phone before he slipped outside to where the actors would be assembled “backstage.”

  “He’s an odd one,” Sylvie said. “But a sweetie. He lives and breathes this Renaissance crew.”

  “Really knows the historical era,” Frannie said. “Nathan’s nice to him, but that Trace fellow treats him like a lackey. Really takes advantage of the young man’s desperation to be part of the cast.”

  “I should go check on them,” I said. “See if anyone has any last minute needs.”

  Henry placed his napkin on the table. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Tell Trace I’ve thought of a character for myself for the rest of the faire,” Sylvie said. “I’m the Duchess of Yorkshire by day, but by night I become the queen of the wood fairies.”

  “Yeah,” Frannie said. “And I’m a lady pirate who sails the high seas looking for her lost sugar pie who got turned into a dragon by a warlock.”

  “Fairy royalty and dragons. Got it.” I was pretty sure this faire had made Sylvie and Frannie fans for life.

  Henry and I slipped away, walking past the stage and outside to the cast tent. I was happy to see most of the tables were full of eager spectators. At least half were dressed in costume, getting into the spirit of it all.

  The August sky held faint sunlight at this late hour, but was also muggy as the Delta. The silver chain I wore around my neck stuck to my skin, and I vowed to make my backstage appearance quick, so I could return to the cool air. The actors in their heavy costumes and multiple layers had to be suffering.

  I stepped through the tent opening and was immediately struck by a tension that had nothing to do with the Arkansas humidity. Henry and I exchanged a knowing look. We’d worked with enough Bridezillas to smell the drama and turmoil like funnel cakes in the air.