Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Everything okay in here?” I asked with a curious smile.

  “Just fine, Paisley,” Nathan said. “You’re brave for checking on us.”

  “I don’t have the correct costume,” Angela said. “Rebecca, you brought this extra-large dress on purpose.”

  Rebecca pinned her crown in place. “Just make it work.”

  Trace stood in a corner, a bottle of water in one hand, a mirror in the other, as Cameron helped him with his royal robe.

  “Prithee, is there anything else you require, my lord?” Cameron asked, his face alight with hope as he pulled his phone back out and lined Trace up in his sights. “Say hello to your fans on social media.”

  “Get that thing out of my face. I can’t concentrate with your hovering.” Trace put down the mirror. “Rebecca, are you sure you’re up to the part? I want this to be absolutely perfect. I think Angela probably knows the queen’s lines and—”

  “I’ve got it, Trace.” His wife’s rejoinder snapped like a rubber band.

  The heat was clearly getting to everyone.

  Nathan raised his voice loud enough the small cast could hear. “This is our Sugar Creek debut. It’s taken years of planning and lots of hard work, but we finally made it.” His satisfied grin was contagious, and I found myself returning his smile. “I’m very proud of everyone. We’ve really pulled together as a team, and I know we’re going to knock ’em dead tonight.”

  Trace stepped in front of Nathan, his crown shining beneath the lights. “Don’t forget for a moment that our performance must be flawless. This town has been deprived of the class and culture we’ve brought them. Think of the good you’re giving back to the world tonight.”

  Henry crossed his arms over his chest and grunted a quiet disapproval.

  Sugar Creek was full of class and culture, but I didn’t think now was the time to argue. Funny how I’d only been back a few months, and I was already protective of my hometown. I didn’t recall ever feeling particularly primal over insults to my former home of Los Angeles.

  “I want absolutely no lines flubbed.” Trace’s tone punched with authority. “No cues missed. No ridiculous pauses. You will project your voices, you will enunciate, and you will be your characters or you’ll never work in this show again, is that clear?”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Very inspiring. Cam, did you get that for his fans?”

  Angela, tonight in the part of Anne Boleyn, ran her hand over the thick braid in her hair. “Nothing wrong with taking this serious. Some of us care about our show.”

  “Dante’s Inferno, it’s hot as blazes in here.” Trace blotted his rouged cheek with a tissue. “Is this air conditioning even working? Cam? Where are my props?”

  Cameron stumbled toward Trace, his feet struggling in his knee-high boots. “Your weapon, my liege.”

  “Be careful with my sword!” Trace snapped. “How many times have I told you that? It was used by Sir Lawrence Olivier himself!”

  “Forgive my carelessness,” Cameron said. “I know better. Mayhap I could fan you?” He unfolded a hand fan and flapped it in Trace’s direction.

  “Now you’re messing up my hair,” Trace said.

  “I beg your humble pardon, my good king.”

  “And don’t forget my dagger for Act II this time. If another prop goes missing, you’re gone. Understand?”

  “Yes, my liege.” Cam bowed like he feared Trace would send him to the dungeon.

  “Back off, Trace.” Rebecca shot her husband a sour look. “He’s a volunteer. A lost prop isn’t his fault. Maybe you should keep up with your own property.”

  Trace scratched his beard in exaggerated thought. “My dagger goes missing, as does Angela’s dress. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

  Rebecca advanced on Trace. “What are you implying?”

  Angela jumped between them. “He’s implying—”

  “Okay!” I cleared my throat and lifted my hands.

  “Are you conducting a symphony or trying to get their attention?” Henry asked.

  “You could help here.”

  “It’s your event.”

  I’d yet to fully graduate from Henry’s training as an event planner, but he seemed to cut our tandem cords when things got awkward, so even he didn’t want to deal with it. “Guys! Faire friends!” The arguing rose to a pitched crescendo. “Shakespeare didn’t write any of his own works!” I yelled.

  A collective gasp filled the tent. Then came blessed silence.

  “I didn’t mean that.” Pained faces stared back at me. “Not true. Sorry if that hurt anyone’s feelings.” I ignored Henry’s eye roll, and I pasted on a smile. “Listen, the show will be great. I know everyone’s filled with pre-show nerves. I certainly can relate to that. But it’s time to wow Sugar Creek with your dazzling performances.”

  “She’s right,” Nathan said. “We’re a team. Let’s remember that.”

  Everyone grumbled or nodded, while Trace and the two ladies shot disgruntled looks to one another as if waiting for their soap opera close-ups.

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to come to blows tonight,” Henry said. “I’ll let you take it from here. You know temperamental artists better than I.” He slipped out the exit, leaving me with the overheated actors.

  “How else may I be of assistance?” Cam bounced toward Trace. “Maybe you require a makeup touchup? A quick run-through of lines? A bit of—”

  “Just go. Your next job is to handle the curtain.” Trace pointed toward the exit. “This time is for cast. For royalty and royal subjects only. Please, just depart now, young man.”

  “Thank you for your help, Cam,” Nathan said kindly.

  “I’ll be back at intermission to freshen up your water glasses.” Cameron slowly backed away, stopping only to give his royal idol one last look.

  Trace waved him away with a dismissive hand then regarded his cast once again. “Where was I? Ah, yes, don’t screw this up. Are we ready?” He surveyed his band of followers. “Let’s show Sugar Creek how it’s done.”

  One industrial-sized portable air conditioner chugged and choked in the corner, as if it were taking tiny little breaks in between breaths.

  Nathan cast a nervous glance in my direction. “Is that normal?”

  “You there!” Trace pointed his kingly scepter in my direction. “Miss Sutton!”

  “Yes?”

  “The generator’s not cooperating.” Trace projected that actor voice of his—loudly. “I’m concerned it’s about to quit completely.”

  This was an aspect of the job that I thoroughly disliked—when things failed that I had no control over and no experience in fixing. What did I know about generators? Yet, I was in charge. I was the boss. “What exactly is it doing?”

  “The lights have been flickering, and the air conditioning quit for most of today’s rehearsal,” Rebecca said.

  Great. “Okay. I’ll see if I can find someone.”

  “I called Beau.” Trace fluffed his faux fur stole. “But so far he hasn’t responded.”

  Why hadn’t Trace told me sooner? Now was not the time to have a protesting generator. “I’ve got a handyman, but until he gets here, we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed it holds up through the dinner.”

  “If the show is ruined on account of losing power, I will not be happy,” Trace said.

  “I understand. I’ll go to work on this right away.” I was nearly out of my reserve of fake smiles for this man. “On the bright side, if you to have perform by candlelight, it’ll give the show even more authenticity.”

  “I am not amused, Miss Sutton.”

  Trace turned on his booted heel and walked away, his cape flowing behind him like a middle-aged super hero. Had he truly been King Henry, I’m pretty sure he would’ve offed my head. I thought back to this morning’s dire warning from the palm reader.

  And hoped technical difficulties weren’t about to make my fortune of doom come true.

  5

  “Did every
one play nice?” Henry asked as I returned to the table. “Need me to take care of some more things? Preferably back at the office?”

  “They’re all blissfully happy.” I rested my phone beside my plate and reached for my water cup. “And you’re going to stay here and enjoy every thee and thou.”

  While the band struck up a tune, costumed wait staff—locals Enchanted Events had vetted—appeared and presented each table with a basket of bread. By the time they brought small dinner salads, a jester appeared on the stage and entertained everyone with a ten-minute comedy routine. He told jokes, did a few magic tricks, and pulled some folks from the audience to join in his act.

  After a rousing round of applause, the jester cleared his throat and waited for the room to quiet. “Tonight you’ve stepped back in time. The year is 1526 as Henry VIII sits on the throne.” He gestured toward the curtain behind him, his flouncy purple sleeve billowing. “Our king is married to the beautiful Catherine of Aragon, but alack! Our liege has a wandering eye.” The portly fellow waited for the tittering laughter to subside. “And, pray tell, whom does he desire now? That, of course, would be Anne Boleyn, a member of the queen’s very own entourage. Sit back, enjoy your delicious fare, and join us for a little Renaissance soap opera we call. . .Days of our Wives.”

  “A soap opera?” Frannie arched a brow. “Oh, I like this already.”

  While the servers swiftly brought out the main course, I kept an eye on my phone, impatiently waiting for a text from my handyman and praying the generator would hold out.

  The curtain rose, and the audience applauded at the sight of Trace as King Henry. He sat on a golden throne, while his wife Rebecca stood beside him, her expression as bland as her gown exquisite. Trace scanned the crowd, taking in the moment of adoration, soaking it up as if it were the sunshine he’d long been denied.

  “What a glorious day this is!” King Henry proclaimed.

  “Do you have any big plans today, husband?” Catherine of Aragon inquired with a loud sigh.

  “I was thinking of taking over France.”

  “That’s nice, dear.”

  He inspected his nails. “Having a few people beheaded.”

  “That’s nice, dear.”

  “And annulling our marriage.”

  And with that, the first act took off in a fast-paced, slap-sticky race to intermission. It was a spoof of a history lesson, taking many liberties, but I had to admit, the show was quite entertaining. Even Henry laughed a few times, so that was a major feat.

  When the lights dimmed on Act I, the audience clapped and cheered.

  Sylvie stood at the table. “Huzzah!”

  Frannie leaned toward Henry and me. “That’s like a sixteenth century woohoo.”

  While a teenage girl wearing braids and a sweeping dress served me a very modern looking peach cobbler, I studied the crowd. “Everyone seems to be enjoying this,” I said to Henry. “They’re really getting into it.”

  “Good.” He dipped his spoon into his cobbler. “Another success for Enchanted Events.”

  The lights chose that moment to flicker three times before dimming.

  “Not good,” Henry said.

  The lights blinked again, and the industrial air conditioner beside us went silent.

  “Uh-oh.” I looked at Henry. “I better go backstage and run interference.”

  Sylvie reached for my plate. “Can I have your dessert?”

  Telling her no was futile.

  I raced “backstage,” exiting through a door that led outside where the cast gathered in a smaller, separate tent. The closer I got, the more certain I heard yelling.

  “I should’ve been Catherine of Aragon!” Angela Simpson stood a breath away from Trace, who held her back with a restraining arm. “She’s ruining the show!”

  “She’s doing no such thing,” Nathan said calmly. “Rebecca’s giving a stellar performance, and we should all be grateful she stepped in.”

  “Grateful?” Angela snorted. “Grateful she took my part?”

  Rebecca leaned toward Angela like she was ready to rumble. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the one who’s taken anything, am I?”

  Wow. Drama behind the drama. “Hey, guys.” I bravely stepped forward, going into battle. “What a show, huh? You should see the audience eating it up.”

  Trace pulled his warning glare off his wife. “Thank you, Miss Sutton.”

  Rebecca stepped away from a red-faced Angela and spoke through clenched teeth. “Nathan wrote it.”

  Trace didn’t even look at his business partner. “But it wouldn’t be the smash it clearly is without its stars.”

  “We’re having a few hiccups with the generator.” My transition was terrible at best. “But nothing to be concerned with.”

  “I’m not concerned,” Trace said. “That’s what I pay you to do.”

  Fair enough.

  The group broke into a cacophony of jabs, complaints, and all-purpose meltdowns.

  “I’m sweating through my dress!”

  “Maybe you should wear something more appropriate!”

  “Trace, can I be of more assistance, my good sir?”

  “Get out of my face!”

  I took a few steps of retreat, afraid this was going to come to blows, only to back right into a sturdy someone.

  “Paisley?”

  I turned to find Beau standing behind me.

  “Hey.” I smiled. My gosh, he looked good. He wore his usual jeans and t-shirt, with brown boots covered in a layer of fine dust. “What are you doing here?”

  “He finally answered my phone call,” Trace said.

  “I’m not here for you.” Beau tightened his grip on a tool box. “I’m here to help Paisley.”

  They were sweet words amidst all the rancid chaos.

  “Well, whatever. Just get it done,” Trace said. “This is a Broadway-worthy show, there are important people out there watching it, and if it gets ruined, I’ll make sure no one stays at your retreat.”

  “A man can hope,” Beau said quietly beside me.

  “This faire is going to become bigger than anything Sugar Creek has ever seen.” Trace glared at Beau. “Certainly no thanks to you.”

  “You are such a jerk.” Rebecca gave her husband’s shoulder a shove. “Do you ever think about anyone besides yourself? Nobody wants to hear your immature threats.”

  “Why don’t you go study your lines, Rebecca?” Angela snarled. “Some of us care about this show.”

  “Let’s all just calm down,” Nathan warned. “Everyone is doing the best they can.”

  “I work my tail off for this,” Angela said. “If I had gotten the queen’s part, we wouldn’t have to worry about amateurs.”

  The two women squared off like boxers about to spar, and the volume rose once again.

  “Beau, I want to talk to you,” Trace said over the bickering.

  “I’m not here to talk.” Beau turned to me. “Where’s the generator?”

  Trace reached for his nephew. “I said, I want to speak to you now and—”

  “Touch me again, and you’ll regret it.” Beau yanked his arm from Trace’s grip, his body poised and on the defense, as if deciding whether to strike. If he did, Trace wouldn’t be getting back up.

  I watched Beau’s chest rise and fall in three breaths before he retreated two steps, slowly lifting his piercing gaze from his uncle. “I’ll find the generator myself.”

  “Okay, people,” Nathan said. “Go take a bathroom break, then mingle with the crowd for ten minutes, in character. We’ll meet back here when the band begins. Oh, and Trace, when that curtain opens on Act II, it’s King Henry on the stage, all alone. It’s your big scene.”

  “Are you doubting my ability to deliver?” Trace asked.

  “No, but do us all a favor,” Nathan said. “Don’t bring your ego with you.”

  I left the crabby troupe and walked around the corner to check on Beau, but before I could find him and the generator, my phone buzzed with a text.
There was a problem in food services that needed immediate attention.

  Five minutes later, I settled back into my seat at the table, my cobbler noticeably absent. “What kind of grandmother eats her beloved granddaughter’s dessert?”

  ‘This one.” Sylvie licked her spoon. “You gotta get me the recipe.”

  “Not as divine as my cupcakes,” Frannie said, “but good enough to eat two or three more.” She licked her fingers. “For taste-testing purposes.”

  Sylvie eyed Henry’s plate. “Reminds me of the apple crisp we had in Madagascar, Frannie.”

  “Ah, yes.” Frannie reapplied her cranberry lipstick. “Right before we spent two days as hostages in a titanium heist.”

  “Nearly got our throats slit.” Sylvie shared a warm look with her friend. “Such good times.”

  “Dear, sweet memories.”

  The band struck up a rollicking tune, and the voices around us hushed. As the lights dimmed, I hoped Beau had been able to fix the generator. Knowing him, he had it amped up and running like new.

  The dimming lights flickered once.

  Twice.

  Then darkness fell over the room. The candles on the tables cast eerie shadows around us, and the roar of the air conditioners ceased.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Trace is gonna kill me.” I rose, ready to return backstage.

  Just as I pushed in my chair, the air conditioning chugged to life.

  The lights illuminated the tent once again.

  A relieved Cam pulled the curtain, revealing the stage.

  There Trace sat on his royal throne.

  His crown lying on the floor.

  His white tunic now a crimson red.

  And King Henry’s dagger driven through his chest.

  6

  A freight of exploding dynamite couldn’t have caused more chaos than the sight of Trace’s impaled body on that stage. Screams ricocheted off the tent walls, building in volume and pitch.

  “What in the name of homicides is happening?” Frannie asked.

  What should I do? I was in charge of this event, but Henry certainly hadn’t given me protocol for a post-intermission murder. I watched Dr. Travers, a local pediatrician, race for the stage, but not before Nathan Moore beat him to it, Rebecca trailing behind, bellowing her husband’s name.