Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  Sarge slipped on a pair of red bifocals. “Yep. That’s the kid. Couldn’t look me in the eye. Sweated a lot.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell the detective who bought the knife?” I asked. “Why make them wait?”

  “Yes, dear Sarge, why not befriend the local police?” Sylvie laughed.

  “Aw, come on, you know how I feel about those people.”

  I had to defend our men and women in uniform. “Those people protect and serve our city every day.”

  “They also cruise by my business on a regular basis as if I’m involved in shady dealings.”

  Sylvie’s perfectly waxed eyebrow did a slow rise.

  “Fine,” he said, “I occasionally do conduct some shady business, but have I ever hurt anyone? No. I’m simply a misunderstood businessman offering my fellow citizens quality anarchy literature and the freshest of beanie-weanies.”

  “You’re a saint among men.” Sylvie squeezed Sarge’s tattooed hand.

  “You tell that to Frannie.”

  “I’ll do that, shug. Anything else we need to know?”

  “Nah.” Sarge gave a chin lift in greeting to a customer. “But you know why else I didn’t tell the police about that kid yet?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because he didn’t murder anyone.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “I see all types of folks in here—some good, some bad. That boy’s probably never done anything worse than show up tardy to P.E.” He eyed my grandmother. “What’s your take, Sylvie?”

  “Right now everyone’s guilty until proven innocent. Did Cam purchase anything else?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know where Trace and Nathan were planning to build the permanent home of the Ren faire?” I asked.

  “No clue. Do I look like I’m up on all things dress-up and make believe?”

  “Nah,” she said. Behind Sarge hung a display of aluminum suits guaranteed to keep you alive in space with shields promising to deflect gamma ray beams. “Not in the least.” Sylvie eyed a counter display of flashlights no bigger than a lollipop. “Have you sold Beau Hudson any knives of late?”

  I startled at her question.

  “The police have already asked,” Sarge replied.

  She sighed. “It would be nice if you’d repeat your answers.”

  He shrugged. “I did not recall personally selling anything to Beau.”

  “Thanks for the info, Sarge,” Sylvie said. “You’re a real peach.”

  “Shucks.” He flopped a dismissive hand. “When you gonna come to one of my survival meetings?”

  “Honey, I could teach one of those meetings.”

  “What about you?” Sarge’s voluminous eyebrows met as he frowned in my direction.

  “I . . .I’ll have to check my calendar.” Pretty sure I was all booked up till eternity.

  He nodded toward a display beneath a Willie Nelson poster. “Can I interest you in a 100 pound bag of rice?”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

  “How about a solar-powered garden tiller?”

  “I think I’m good.”

  “Five-year supply of potted meat?”

  “Oh, I’ll take that!” Sylvie dug right into her purse. “I hope you give cash discounts.”

  Sarge pointed a stubby finger right at me. “If you change your mind, I’ll throw in my self-published book Beef Jerky for the Lactose Intolerant.”

  Ew. “So tempting.”

  “You nonbelievers.” He rang up Sylvie’s purchase on an iPad. “When the sun explodes, aliens shoot out of the sky, and it’s total pandemonium in idyllic Sugar Creek, don’t come crying to me. I’ll be twenty feet below the ground in my fallout shelter with my five course meals and 400 channels on my satellite TV, thinking about all the people who said no to my wares.”

  After saying goodbye to Sarge, which involved a complicated secret handshake that included a curious amount of bootie shaking, we finally took our leave.

  My mind weighed heavy with thoughts that seemed to move in circles instead of a simple line. Had we gained any ground at all?

  I shut my passenger door and reached for my seatbelt. “Do you seriously suspect Beau?”

  Sylvie slipped on her Ray Bans. “Of course not.”

  “Then why’d you ask Sarge about him?”

  She turned down the radio and drove out of the parking lot. “Because we want to know what the police know. Hear what they’ve heard. If they’re building a case against Beau, it’s gotta be a weak one.”

  “They think he has motive.”

  “Well, a handful of other people have motive as well. We just have to find out which one had reason enough to kill.”

  “Do you think Cam could’ve done it?”

  “He’s an unlikely choice, so. . . he goes to the top of my list. Should we pay him a visit?”

  “I told Nathan I’d get Cam back to the faire.” I thought of my limited interaction with the guy. “He’s such a young, innocent nerd.”

  “The perfect facade to hide behind—” Sylvie’s voice took an ominous tone—“if you want to get away with murder.”

  14

  If Cam wouldn’t come to the faire grounds, then we would just go to him.

  Sylvie and I used what was left of our lunch hour to drive to the other side of town and see if we could talk to him, get some answers, and see for ourselves why he was no longer reporting for duty.

  “Third house on the left.” I checked the GPS and pointed to a brick house tucked into a cul-de-sac. The neighborhood consisted of three hilly streets dotted with homes built in the 1980s, some updated, and some—like Cam’s—had been left to fend for themselves.

  I mashed the doorbell, and an alarm system of yippy dogs barked their high-pitched warnings.

  On the third ring, a frazzled, middle-aged woman threw open the door. “I told you I don’t want to know anymore about my eternal soul! Geez! The pressure!”

  Sylvie and I exchanged a look.

  “Are you Cam’s mother?” I studied the woman who was as stocky as Cam was thin.

  She gently pushed back a ginger dachshund. “Calm down, Zippy. Mama’ll get you some nummy-nums later.” The woman regarded us with no abundance of patience. “Yeah, I’m his mom. If you’re with the paper, I’m telling you again, he’s not talking. He doesn’t know anything about that murder.” She started to close the door, but I reached out to stop her.

  “Please, Mrs. Paxton—”

  “It’s Miss—”

  “Miss Paxton,” I corrected. “I’m not with the newspaper.”

  “You reporting for Channel 5 news?”

  Sylvie stood on tiptoe and spoke over my shoulder. “We’re two gals who’ve been working at the faire, just like Cameron. We want to see if he’s okay. Talk to him for a bit and hopefully convince him to return to work.”

  “Have you found his phone?”

  “I didn’t know it was missing,” I said. “We’re just here to visit.”

  Uncertainty flitted across Miss Paxton’s face. “I don’t know.”

  “I know he must be terribly upset,” I said.

  His mom snorted. “Upset doesn’t begin to cover it.” She took one step back, holding open the door. “Come on in.” She cupped her hand over her mouth then bellowed loud enough to rattle my eardrums. “Cam! Cam! Get up here! Two ladies are here to see you!”

  With three puppies sniffing like anteaters at our heels, we followed Miss Paxton into the living room. A large geometric rug covered the beige carpet, and family pictures hung crooked over the large TV. The photos included a flattering senior picture of a smiling Cam, a picture of his mother and him at a Razorback football game—with a young Cam looking thoroughly bored, and a baptismal baby photo taken at the Sugar Creek Methodist Church.

  “Take a seat.” Miss Paxton swept her hand toward a leather couch that had been surgically altered by many a dog claw. “Cam’s in the basement. Probably playing those stupid vid
eo games. Heaven forbid he talk to a real person.” She hollered for her son one more time.

  “I said I was coming!” Footfalls pounded on stairs, growing heavier and louder until finally young Cam appeared.

  He wore a long sweatshirt, the hood covering his hair, jeans that hung on his lean frame, and an expression of fear at the sight of us. He pivoted on his heel and turned to descend to the pit again.

  “No you don’t, buster!” his mother called. “If you go back down in that basement, I’m coming in after you.” She looked to us for commiseration. “As far as I know he hasn’t showered in two days. Living like a weird hobbit down there, and I won’t have it. He’s only come up here to grab Cheetos or talk to the police.”

  “Hi, Cameron.” I took a slow step toward him. “How are you doing, buddy?”

  His angry, defiant face crumbled, and he dissolved into tears. “I killed Trace!”

  My heart walloped inside my chest. “What?”

  “It’s true!” He dropped to the floor, a melting puddle of sobs and wails.

  “Oh, boy.” His mom lifted her eyes to the popcorn ceiling and shook her head. “Here we go.”

  Sylvie lowered herself to one knee, a Yorkie terrier seizing the opportunity to bestow her hands with unruly kisses. “Tell us all about it, shug. We’re your faire sisters.”

  Cam opened one bleary eye.

  “Okay,” Sylvie amended. “I’m your slightly older faire aunt.”

  “Cam,” I said. “We know you bought the dagger that was used to kill Trace. We’d like to hear your side of the story.”

  “What can I say?” He dragged the back of his hand across his drippy nose, rolling to a sitting position on the carpet, absently petting a poodle. “The dagger prop went missing, Trace blamed me, and told me I had an hour to fix it or I was fired.”

  Miss Paxton guffawed as she plunked down on the couch. “Fired from what? From indentured servitude? Fired from working twelve and thirteen hour days for no pay?”

  “Mother.”

  “It’s true.”

  “She doesn’t understand,” Cam said. “Trace was my idol, like a father to me.”

  Miss Paxton reached for the poodle. “Yeah, like one of those fathers who misses all your ball games and doesn’t pay child support. I will never know what you saw in that man.”

  Cam clearly had reviewed this information with his mother before. “Trace was a successful businessman. He put together one of the greatest shows on earth, one that could grow to be the biggest of all Renaissance faires. He understood all about historical accuracy, cared about every detail.”

  “Every detail but his little underlings,” his mother cracked.

  “Did you know that he said I’d one day possibly step into his shoes and take over? He was training me for that.” At my look of disbelief Cam rushed to finish his defense. “He did. I’ve learned a lot the last few years. He was letting me take on more and more super important responsibilities.”

  “Right—super important.” Miss Paxton was clearly not a Trace Hudson fan. “Like pick up his dry cleaning and iron his cape three times until it was perfect or bring him a bottle of water every time he snapped his fingers.” She snapped her own fingers twice. “And I mean literally. The guy was a jerk to my kid—took advantage of him.”

  “He was a legend!” Cam punched the air with his fist, like Jean Valjean ready to fight for the Revolution. “Why would anyone want to kill Trace? He was a legend! A visionary!” His head fell into his hands. “And because of me—he’s dead.”

  “It’s a little anti-climactic when he says that,” Mama Paxton admitted dryly. “He did buy the weapon used to kill Mr. Hudson. But that’s where his involvement ends. Right, Cam?”

  Cam shook his head, dislodging his hood. “All I know is the prop knife wasn’t there. Maybe I did lose it. And maybe if I hadn’t, there never would’ve been a real dagger. Don’t you get it? I supplied the weapon of death.”

  Sylvie settled on an ottoman littered with tabloid magazines. “Who first noticed the prop was missing?”

  It took a few sniffly moments for Cam to compose himself. “Trace.”

  “And when was this?” I asked.

  “Tuesday. We looked everywhere, and the prop was nowhere to be found.”

  “Had it been on the supply trailer?” Sylvie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cam said. “I’m not sure it ever made it to Sugar Creek.”

  “Which isn’t my son’s fault,” his mother said. “That lost prop just provided more target practice for that verbally abusive buffoon.”

  I was starting to wonder where Miss Paxton was at the time of the murder.

  “But I was in charge of unloading the trailers,” Cam said. “And I should’ve noticed sooner if the fake dagger was missing. If I had—there would’ve been time to replace it with another prop.”

  “That doesn’t sound like it was your fault.” Sylvie used her most sincere, grandmotherly voice. “Did someone tell you to buy another dagger?”

  “Trace.”

  “With his own money,” Miss Paxton added. “Like there weren’t knives already at the faire for some of those weird events they do. Too many pointy things lying around, if you ask me.”

  “But we needed a dagger. Something ornate—bigger. A weapon worthy of Trace’s grand performance.” Cam side-eyed his mom at her snort of disdain and continued. “I went to a dozen stores, but I couldn’t find a prop knife anywhere. Eventually I ended up at Sarge’s Pawn, and he helped me find something that would work. It was in some back room.” Cam frowned. “Lots of moth balls and toilet paper back there.”

  “Who all knew the replacement dagger was real?” Sylvie asked.

  “I guess everyone in the cast. We used it for a final practice run through.”

  That didn’t narrow things down.

  I removed my purse straps from the jaw-like teeth of the dachshund. “How long have you been with Trace and his Renaissance faire?”

  “About five years,” Cam answered.

  “He auditioned for the cast,” Miss Paxton said, “but always got turned down. I tried to tell him to put his energy into something more worthwhile— like going to college and finding a girlfriend.”

  “Mom, how many times have I told you? The festival is my life. There are people out there who make a living at it, and Trace told me I was well on my way.”

  We needed to get Cam back on track. “Did you audition for the cast again this year?”

  “Yeah.” Cam gave a curt nod. “And even though I didn’t make it, he said I’d gotten even closer this time. Said I was making progress and maybe next year.”

  “Next year, next year. It’s always next year.” His mother removed the dachshund gnawing on her pant leg and handed him a ball. “Kind of like every time I ask Cam when he’s gonna get a real job, he tells me soon, soon. He graduated from high school two years ago and still doesn’t have a real job.”

  “And you once worked for the Muskogee faire as well, right?” I watched Cam’s face go blank before he turned his head.

  “I don’t want to talk about that time.”

  “How many years did you work with Muskogee?” Sylvie asked.

  When Cam said nothing, his mother responded. “Since he was twelve. He’d spend most of his weekends either with Trace and his crew in Tulsa or in Muskogee. I finally talked some sense into him, and he gave one up.”

  “So leaving the Muskogee Renaissance faire was your choice?” I asked.

  Cam continued to stare at a muted TV screen. “Uh-huh. My choice.”

  But if Nathan was correct, that wasn’t true.

  “You want to know my take on this thing?” Miss Paxton didn’t wait for our agreement. “I think this Trace was just using Cam as his errand boy. My son is very impressionable, always has been. And Trace saw that Cam would do anything to get to be part of the cast and used that to put him to work as an unpaid errand boy. He was basically a personal assistant without the pay. When the faire was i
n Tulsa, my son would stay there for nearly a month so he could help. Last year when he worked the Tulsa faire, he lived in his car.” Detective Ballantine couldn’t shoot a glare as withering as Miss Paxton’s. “How’s he gonna get a girlfriend living in his car?”

  “You don’t understand.” Cam jumped to his feet, scattering two dogs. “These things take time. You don’t wake up one day, audition for the role of the king, and get the part. There’s a hierarchy. There are dues to be paid. And I have to be willing to put in the time and the effort if I want to get to the top.”

  “Where were you at the end of intermission?” Sylvie asked.

  “I walked Rebecca to the bathroom.”

  “See?” Miss Paxton threw up her hands. “Are you seeing what they make my kid do?”

  “I was her sentry on guard.” Cam held his head up with pride.

  His mother was not impressed. “You were a flashlight holder for a trip to the john.”

  “I thought Nathan escorted Rebecca,” I said.

  Cam nodded. “It’s a good two or three minute walk to the portable bathrooms. We were about halfway there when Nathan joined us and walked her the rest of the way. And if I hadn’t lost my phone, I could prove that. I recorded the whole intermission for the faire Instagram.”

  “It’s only his third phone this year,” his mother said. “Kid loses everything.”

  That possibly left time for Cam to go back and kill Trace. Or for Nathan and Rebecca to detour and carry out the horrible deed. “Did either Nathan or Rebecca seem nervous or display any behavior that was unusual?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  Sylvie brushed some dog hair from her skirt. “Did you happen to stay there and keep an eye on them?”

  “I hung outside for a while. Then I returned to my usual intermission duties—fetching Trace a diet soda and some slices of fresh lime.”

  Trace really had this kid wrapped around his greedy finger. “Did you see anything at all? Perhaps you saw someone on stage with Trace? Heard talking or noises?”

  “Like I told the police, I forgot to give Trace his fresh handkerchief. He uses it to wipe his weary brow. After giving him his drink, I retrieved his handkerchief then went back to the stage. And that’s when I heard the voices.”