Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “I’m not sure if he told her yet, but he was going to. Trace and I wanted to move to Sugar Creek, so we could start our life together. But Rebecca kept getting in the way, refusing to give him a divorce. Do you know she even went as far as to sign the papers, only to tear them up last week?”

  “And when did this happen?”

  She ran her fingernail over the rough hem of her shorts as she pondered. “It was right before a rehearsal. Maybe Wednesday? Yeah, because I’d had a manicure Wednesday morning, and I thought my nails were going to look fabulous if Trace popped the question.” Her face fell. “I guess I shouldn’t have bothered. The divorce was off—again. She said she wanted to stay married, but I think she just liked ruining his life.”

  I wonder what had caused Rebecca to call off the divorce. “Just because Rebecca wouldn’t sign the papers didn’t mean the divorce couldn’t happen.”

  “I understand that, but Trace wanted to handle it with dignity.”

  Handle an affair with dignity. How thoughtful.

  “After all,” Angela said, “Rebecca was tied to the Renaissance faire and everyone loved her. It was a delicate situation. She wasn’t just divorcing him, but she’d be divorcing the Renaissance family.”

  “Did you see Rebecca go to the stage at the end of intermission?” I asked.

  “No, I did not—but that doesn’t mean she’s not guilty. She disappeared for a little while, so where was she? Probably finding the sharpest weapon to rob the world of the love of my life.”

  “And where were you during intermission?”

  Sheepish eyes cut to the floor. “I’m embarrassed to tell you, but I went to have a smoke. I don’t do it often. It’s a nasty habit. But I get terrible stage fright, so I usually sneak a cigarette during intermission when everyone scatters. It drove Trace nuts.”

  “Did anyone see you smoking? Do you have any witnesses?”

  “No, ma’am. But I would take a dagger to my own chest before I’d hurt that dear, dear man.”

  Even with the justifiable mourning, the melodrama was strong with this one.

  “I’ll tell you something I bet Rebecca didn’t tell the police—she wasn’t supposed to be at this Renaissance faire. When she pulled up to the Fox Falls parking lot within minutes of Trace arriving, it was a surprise to him. And you know why? Because they were separated. He was done with their marriage, but then lo and behold, she shows up at the Renaissance faire just like everything was normal.”

  “That must’ve really bothered you and Trace both.” I watched her closely, scanning Angela’s face for any signs of . . .Of what? What exactly did a murderous facial expression look like? “And then Rebecca moved right into that role you wanted—the part of Catherine of Aragon.”

  “That part should have been mine in the first place, but I was fine playing Anne Boleyn. But when Veronica got sick and didn’t show up, it only made sense to make me the queen. I knew the lines already. Rebecca took it out of spite.”

  “Or maybe she was just trying to help.”

  “If Rebecca wanted to help, she could have taken my part, which is considerably smaller.” Angela bounced one crossed leg with gusto. “She’s a terrible actress, as you no doubt saw.”

  “Angela, I don’t really know what to tell you. I don’t have a sixth sense about any of this, and I’m not especially gifted in the sleuthing department. We can’t account for the cast during much of intermission, and that’s a problem.”

  “But you’re looking into this.”

  Was there any point in denying it? “I’ve got my eye on it.” I certainly wasn’t going to let Beau take the fall for some psycho killer. “If you can think of anything else, let me know.” I stood, fatigue creating a circuit of knots in my back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a very tardy employee to reprimand, and I’d like to get that over with before I throw up.”

  “Confrontation makes me queasy, too.” Angela walked to the door, only to turn back. “I imagine everyone in the cast had a motive if you want to get right down to it.”

  I closed my laptop. “Everyone?”

  “It’s possible. No one is as innocent as they seem.” A wistful smile lifted her lips. “We all play these characters and put on someone else’s face and personality, but at the end of the day—we turn back into ourselves and return to our old lives. And I think each one of those lives probably holds secrets.”

  How ominously poetic. “Angela, do you remember seeing or hearing anything strange that night? Anything unusual at all?”

  “Yes.” Her voice held venom and curiosity, a deadly combination. “I saw Rebecca kiss Nathan Moore.”

  17

  “I think your pit bull will make a fine maid of honor.” Sipping my tea Tuesday morning, I smiled at the bride-to-be sitting on the other side of my desk.

  “I’m glad you agree.” Rosa Vasquez, a size-fourteen bombshell with shocks of violet streaking rebelliously through her gray hair, clutched her fiancé’s hand. “Minnie is my very best friend. And really, she’s the one who brought us together.”

  Dimitri, her intended, agreed. “We were both volunteering at the shelter, saw Minnie at the same time, and both wanted to adopt her.

  “I beat Dimitri to it, and three days later got to bring my sweet girl home. But I offered this handsome fellow visitation rights, and he started meeting us at the dog park.” She kissed Dimitri’s smooth cheek. “You know it’s love when he brings poop bags.”

  Rosa and Dimitri had become one of my favorite couples to work with. Laid back with few demands, Rosa was a forty-eight-year-old corporate executive marrying for the first time. She’d waited her whole life to find the one, and she’d found it in a man who was five inches shorter and taught civics at the local junior high. In six months, the couple would marry in a small winter ceremony at Rosa’s mammoth home in Sugar Creek, then have a total throw-down of a reception in their backyard. The weather would be a challenge, but we finalized the details for a chic tropical island theme that would chase away the cold, complete with a catered luau, a Polynesian band, and champagne snow cones.

  Half an hour later, I sat at my desk, sipping hot tea and reviewing a project for a fabulous quinceañera, when Henry escorted Alice inside. “Hey, you two.”

  Henry had not woken up on the happy side of the bed this morning. “Alice mentioned you hadn’t talked to her.”

  “Things got super busy yesterday.”

  Had his eyeballs been lasers, they would’ve singed my head right off my neck. “Alice has something she needs to ask you. She needs to take another vacation.”

  “It’s not a vacation,” Alice protested. “I just need a few more days off.”

  “You took a week off last month,” Henry reminded her.

  “My kid broke his leg! Excuse me not wanting to leave a ten-year-old alone with crutches and a concussion.”

  “You’ve barely been here this month,” he said.

  “Henry.” Just one word, but my voice carried a warning, a reminder to reset the attitude. When I first inherited Enchanted Events, Henry promised to help me run it long enough to fulfill my great-aunt’s will that required I operate it in the black before I could sell. In return, I agreed to give him a little sensitivity coaching with the employees. He successfully trained me enough to keep the business afloat—so much so, I didn’t want to sell. But my part of the bargain? Some days Henry got it, like yesterday when he brought bagels and coffee for all the girls. And then there were lapses like today. When his tone was a rusty blade and his eyes were locked in a perpetual roll.

  Henry softened his volume. “Paisley, yesterday you said you would talk to Alice. I’m leaving you to do just that.”

  I watched my partner walk away, ticked he wouldn’t handle this task, and ticked at myself for being too chicken to take care of it sooner.

  Minimizing my computer screen, I took a fortifying breath. “Is everything okay, Alice?”

  “Henry wants to fire me, doesn’t he?”

  “Only a
tiny bit.”

  Alice eased into an empty seat, deflating like a popped balloon. “My ex-father-in-law isn’t doing very well.” Her ex-husband had passed away years ago, and I had no idea she still kept up with his dad. “Charles was always a good guy. When Mike and I split, his dad never stopped calling me, went out of his way to see the kids. His son divorced me, but Charles didn’t, you know?” Tears glistened in Alice’s eyes. “One time after Mike was gone, I was really stressing how I was going to pay for McKenna’s cheerleading camp, and this money just showed up in my mailbox. Charles never would own up to it, but I knew it was him. He does stuff like that all the time.” She grabbed a tissue from my desk. “Anyway, his health has gone downhill this past year. I’m moving him to the Bradford Hills Retirement Home in a few weeks, but in the meantime I’m dealing with his doctor appointments and selling his house, getting all his affairs in order.” She planted her elbow on the armrest and balanced her chin on her fist. “I’m in over my head, Paisley. I know I’m really dropping the ball at Enchanted Events, but I’m all Charles has. He deserves the best care, you know?”

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “Your father-in-law is lucky to have you. Of course, you can take some time off.”

  “I have so much to do. It’s overwhelming.”

  I certainly understood that.

  Alice held up a finger for each daunting task. “I have to work concessions at my daughter’s dance recital practice, I’ve yet to finish my taxes, my son has a physical therapy appointment at four, Charles needs his dinner, and I have a stack of paperwork they’re waiting for down at the bank.”

  I made a mental note to have their dinner delivered. “Which bank?”

  “Sugar Creek Bank and Trust. Nathan Moore’s assistant has called me four times.”

  “I’ll deliver the paperwork to him.”

  “You would? I know you’re crazy busy too.”

  “I’ll handle it after lunch. I’ve been needing an excuse to drop by the bank—ask Nathan a few questions.” Observe him in his occupational element. Sniff around a bit.

  Maybe ask the bank president how long he’s been seeing Trace Hudson’s wife.

  * * *

  In lieu of lunch, I joined Sylvie, Frannie, and Emma for yoga downtown. “Get centered on the square” was a slogan I’d come up with for Tish Morgan, a woman not much taller than I who could wrap her limbs like a pretzel while balancing at angles that defied gravity and the bounds of friendly envy.

  What started out as five women gathering with yoga mats on the green grass near the fountain had grown to a bi-weekly meeting of forty to fifty women, men, children, and the occasional dog, united in our bare feet to get some fresh air, find some zen, and hear the dulcet-toned Tish remind us to breathe.

  Sylvie stuck up her tush in a Downward Dog. “So Nathan’s having a flingy-ding with Rebecca.”

  “Shhh!” I said, already regretting the details I’d shared of Angela’s visit. I’d also updated Frannie and Emma on everything we’d learned from Cam and Sarge, so this was now a meeting of the minds and sticky mats. “According to Angela.”

  Emma bent in obnoxious gracefulness. “We don’t know for sure Nathan’s seeing Rebecca. One kiss doesn’t imply an affair.”

  “This one’s a no brainer,” Frannie whispered as we moved into Child’s pose. “But maybe not one we discuss outside of our circle, especially until we get more details. That man gave me a great deal on a loan for my sweet van, and I don’t want to mess up our mutually beneficial relationship. I ain’t paying a higher interest rate just because we spill the beans on his romantic interludes.”

  Sylvie lifted her head. “We need to find out how long this fling’s been a dingin’. Did you know they dated in high school?”

  “Really?” I pushed into the stretch, letting my muscles lengthen. “So maybe a case of high school sweethearts reunited?”

  “Possibly,” Sylvie said.

  “We need to talk to the folks in Muskogee about Cam,” Frannie said. “Anyone up for a field trip to Oklahoma tomorrow?”

  At Tish’s mellow prompting, we all stood with hands pointed to the sky in Warrior One.

  My left quad quivered, reminding me I needed to start lifting weights again. I’d only forgotten every day for the last five years. “Does a relationship with Rebecca give Nathan motive? He kills Trace to get him out of the way?”

  “But Angela claims Trace wanted a divorce,” Sylvie said.

  Frannie wobbled as she eased into Warrior Two. “I watch a lot of true crime shows, and the majority of the time, it’s the spouse who kills. And for whatever reason, they think murder is easier than divorce.” She turned her head toward me. “After losing my shirt in two divorces myself, I would almost agree.”

  “Speaking of couples,” Sylvie said. “Emma, tell Paisley who you ran into at the diner this morning.”

  “Don’t even say it.” I grunted as I held my pose, sweat beading at my temple. “If this is about Beau and Haley Jo, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I only saw Haley Jo,” Emma said. “I sat in the booth behind her, and she was talking to a friend.”

  “I said I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Haley Jo told her friend she and Beau were as good as back together, and this time she wasn’t letting him get away.”

  I dropped both hands to the mat and returned to Downward Dog, my head dangling, staring at the space between my knees. “I hope they’re very happy.” This topic was ruining my flow.

  “That’s just Haley Jo’s side of things.” Sylvie exhaled on a whoosh. “You know how she blows and goes, shug.”

  “We could install a little camera on her fancy purse,” Frannie suggested. “Get the real story.”

  “No.” I lowered my whole body to the mat and reached for my water bottle. “Beau and Haley Jo are none of our business.”

  I didn’t have to glance up to know the three had just shared synchronized eye rolls.

  Tish’s voice slowed even more, signaling my favorite part of the session, the very end—when we lay on the ground, closed our eyes, and just breathed in and out, as if the heavy world wasn’t sitting on the chest of each and every one of us. It was my time to be still. My time to push away my problems. Sometimes my time to even pray.

  “Ew, I just ate a bug.” I sat up and spat.

  “Getting zen doesn’t come without a cost,” Sylvie said, eyes closed.

  Frannie patted her tummy. “Yoga makes me gassy.”

  Sylvie pointed in the opposite direction. “Turn it downwind, Agent Breezy Pants.”

  I returned to my resting position, but there was no achieving calm.

  Beau could very well be back with Haley Jo, and though the idea festered in my spirit like poison ivy, my reaction was unwarranted and ridiculous. I had no claim on the man. But why couldn’t I just let it go? Why did the thought of those two together dredge up every negative thought I had about myself? It’s like she was a mirror to my every flaw. She was skinnier, younger, taller, more educated, more confident, and probably successfully ingested kale on a regular basis. Of course Beau would want to be with Haley Jo. She looked fabulous on his arm, and with her PhD in something or another in science, they could get married, raise children, and have all sorts of scintillating conversations on amoebas, worm holes, or the statistical improbability of two people being so genetically perfect.

  It was time to throw myself into work—even harder than before. And I had to figure out a way to unearth info on Nathan and Rebecca’s affair.

  Perhaps Angela was right. Maybe Rebecca was our murderer.

  Or did the guilt lie with our esteemed bank president? A man who possibly wanted his best friend’s wife.

  Or . . . could it be both?

  18

  “Paisley Sinclair to see Nathan Moore.” I smiled at the young assistant who sat at her desk outside the bank president’s domain like a blonde, fresh-from-college sentry.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  �
��I don’t.” This was one of those moments I missed the old days when people recognized me from the band and jumped to do my bidding. “But I’m here with some paperwork he requested and an update on his Renaissance faire.”

  “Just a moment.”

  Sugar Creek Bank and Trust was a flurry of activity at two o’clock. Tellers smiled from behind a mahogany counter while the faint scent of complimentary popcorn wafted all the way to the loan department, singing its carb-tastic siren song.

  “What are you doing here?”

  My buttery-thoughts were rudely interrupted by a familiar testy voice.

  I turned to find Beau standing a little too near, his tanned face sprinkled with a few days’ worth of stubble and much annoyance. It rankled immediately.

  “It’s a bank. I’m conducting bank business.” I held up the folder in my hand. “See? Stack-o-stuff for Nathan right here.”

  “It has Charles Pike’s name on it. Do you usually run his errands?”

  “I’m always glad to help a friend. Need me to pick up some of your dry cleaning or do you just give your t-shirt collection a good scrub down at the river?”

  “It’s a creek.”

  A lady with a doctorate would probably know that.

  “Charles is a friend, is he?”

  “Yes. Dear, dear man.” Why did Beau smell so good? He was overriding the scent of popcorn, which should be some sort of crime and misdemeanor.

  Beau folded his arms, his biceps peeking out from stretched shirt sleeves. “What color is Charles’s hair?”

  Stop staring at his muscles. Rebuke the muscles. “Um, white.”

  “He’s bald as a cue ball.”

  “Since that haircut. Yes, I guess you are correct.”

  “Paisley . . .” Beau’s voice sliced with a warning and razored my nerves.

  “Do not Paisley me.” My stiletto heels closed the narrow distance. “I don’t need your interference here, Beau. I’m dropping off some paperwork for Alice and talking to Nathan about the faire. I do own a business and am currently employed by Nathan to run an event, if you recall.”