“This is really something,” I said as we walked through the grounds. Their main event stretched through May and June, but there was still lots to see.
Sylvie surveyed the expansive amount of buildings and store fronts. “They’ve put some serious time and money into this place.”
“It’s 150 acres,” I said as we passed a costume rental shop bigger than my house.
Frannie had contacted one of the main owners, who’d agreed to chat with us tonight.
“There he is.” Frannie’s eyes locked on a middle-aged man headed our way. “Right on time.”
I halfway expected the owner to greet us in period garb, so it was a tiny letdown when he appeared in khaki shorts, a Grateful Dead t-shirt, and Birkenstocks. He looked a bit like a very chill Denzel Washington, and Frannie’s eyes lit up like she’d just been offered the winning scratch-off ticket.
“Y’all see this beautiful man?” She fussed with her hair and gave the contents of her bra a none-too-subtle boost. “This could be my next husband.”
“We’re just here to get intel,” Sylvie said. “Not sexually harass our informant.”
“I don’t see a wedding ring,” Frannie leveled a red fingernail at Sylvie and me. “Y’all better talk me up good or I will never serve you another cupcake, just see if I don’t.”
Sylvie began to dig into her silver purse.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Looking for my tranq gun.”
“Ladies, hello!”
Mr. Denzel Washington, otherwise known as John Barowitz, greeted us with a warm smile, one of those that came easily and frequently. I envied that level of natural jolliness. I had a natural level of sarcasm, but that didn’t seem to light up a room in the same way.
“Aren’t you the cutest thing? You get on over here.” Frannie’s lashes fluttered like they were about to achieve liftoff. “I’m Frannie Nelson.” She took his outstretched hands with both of hers, as if afraid he might escape. “I run Frannie’s Cupcakes. And these are my two associates, Sylvie and Paisley Sutton.”
We all shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
“What can I do for you today?” he asked.
“We had some questions about a faire participant you might know,” Frannie said. “We’re doing a little investigation because two of us here are retired and highly decorated CIA.”
“That’s impressive.”
“I nearly died twenty-seven times.” Frannie could be a little heavy handed with her romantic hustle. “But they couldn’t keep this woman down, you know? My blood runs with American loyalty and my heart beats with desire . . . to see justice prevail.”
Wingman Sylvie began to hum Battle Hymn of the Republic.
“Mr. Barowitz, we’d like to talk to you about Cameron Paxton,” I said, trying to stop this conversation from totally derailing. “You mentioned to Frannie he had, indeed, spent a number of years working at your faire.”
He pulled concerned eyes from the AARP twins. “Er, yes. Cameron. I think he worked our seasons when it alternated with the Tulsa faire. Interesting fellow.”
“What can you tell us about him?” I asked.
“Why don’t we sit down somewhere more comfortable?” he suggested.
I spun on Frannie as John led us away. “Do not suggest your lap.”
“I would never,” she whispered. But her teenage giggle said otherwise.
We sat down beneath a pavilion with rows and rows of tables, flanked by a worn oak bar. Made to look like an old tavern, the place would’ve gotten Nathan’s approval I was sure.
“Cam began with us when he was about twelve,” Mr. Barowitz said. “He did some grounds keeping, assisted with trash pickup detail. Also did some technical work for us—helped us with our website and newsletter. Operated a few of the games in the last few years.”
“Did you see him this season?” I asked.
“No, we parted ways. I hear he’s very happy working at your growing faire.”
“It’s not my faire,” I said a little too abruptly. “My event planning business helps, but we’re just support.” I didn’t want Enchanted Events to be tied to any more murders than necessary.
“You say that now,” Mr. Barowitz said, “but once it gets in your blood, you’ll be donning tights and brushing up on your Elizabethan English like the rest of us.”
“Just so,” Frannie said in her British accent. “I do find myself rapturously in love with the Renaissance life. In fact, I could see myself enjoying it. . .the rest of my days.”
“Did you ever have any problems with Cam?” Sylvie asked.
Mr. Barowitz gave a noncommittal shrug. “I guess he annoyed some folks, but I’d grown to like the kid. He’s quirky, that’s for sure. Full of ideas for the faire, and some people didn’t like that. Some in our group also didn’t like that he took our ideas to the Tulsa gang.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
His amiable expression clouded. “I’ve gotten wind that the plans for the permanent grounds for the Sugar Creek faire look a lot like some top secret remodel plans we have. Only my board of directors and some investors knew about the updates.”
That was a serious offense. I glanced at Sylvie who gave me a nod.
“Mr. Barowitz, I have a few low quality photos of the Sugar Creek Renaissance Faire blue prints.” I dug into my purse until my hand closed over my phone. “Would you like to see them?”
“Indeed, I would. How did you come by these plans?”
I thought of my kiss with Beau. “A little bit of teamwork.” I pulled up my photos and handed over my phone, watching Mr. Barowitz scroll through each one, his brows knit in concentration.
The three of us had reviewed the pictures on the drive over, and we’d been disappointed the plans had been more conceptual than concrete. There was little to identify the property and more about the construction of the site.
“I’d hoped to see an address for the land or distinguishing landmarks,” Sylvie said to Frannie.
Frannie nodded her black bob. “Other than a windmill and a pond shaped like . . .” She leaned close to Mr. Barowitz with a squint for the print. “Shaped almost like a heart, there really isn’t much to identify the property. Half the farms in Sugar Creek probably have those characteristics.”
Mr. Barowitz turned the phone ninety degrees at least twice, then magnified his view. “Yep. I see a lot of our ideas on here. The castle design, the amphitheater, the grand entrance.” He handed the phone back and rubbed his hand over his mouth. “I wasn’t sure they’d use our designs, but they are.”
“So you think Cam somehow stole your plans?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. The kid’s a whiz at the computer stuff, and I’d occasionally hire him to come to Muskogee for the weekend and do technical work, make changes to our website, update my computer, that sort of thing. I had the files for our renovation saved, and I’m fairly certain he accessed them and passed them on. I tried to protect his job, but my board of directors refused. I had to fire him.”
“Why would he steal your plans?” I asked.
Mr. Barowitz leaned his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers. “The faire culture isn’t just entertainment or a hobby for everyone. For a number of folks, it’s a family. You make friends. You’re bonded by the experience—the unique shared interest. You see these people multiple times a year and grow closer. For Cam, I always sensed he was looking for a father figure. He tagged along with me when he could, but eventually got bored when he realized I was more about the business side of it and usually working behind the scenes.”
“But Trace would’ve been different,” Sylvie said to Frannie and me. “He was never behind the scenes.”
“Yeah, I always assumed Mr. Hudson paid Cam to get the faire design blueprints,” Barowitz said. “I’ve kept an eye on Trace over the years. While his team hasn’t put the stolen plans into action yet—if they ever do, I’m watching. I do like to keep up with the competition.”
“At church.”
“Ah, a man who loves the Lord.” Frannie all but floated to the ceiling fans above us. “I like me some church myself.”
“Do you have witnesses to that?” Sylvie asked our host.
“Yeah, about five hundred,” he said. “I got married.”
Frannie slowly shook her head, as if watching her short-lived dream fall on a sword before her eyes. “How nice,” she muttered.
“I don’t understand what Cam would gain from giving the plans to Nathan Moore or Trace,” I said. “It would be poor judgment on their part to copy your faire layout.”
“Unless they got to it first,” Barowitz said. “We’re not putting our changes into motion for a few years, giving us time to fundraise. But if someone had the money already and started construction now, they’d beat us to it. And have a beautiful, innovative faire ground to show for it.”
“But they’d risk a lawsuit and bad blood,” I said.
“Maybe,” Barowitz said. “Or maybe they’d change the plans just enough to make it their own.”
“Where would Trace and Nathan’s group get money to buy land and start building?” Sylvie wondered aloud.
“I’ve wondered the same thing,” Mr. Barowitz said. “Had they been fundraising? Gotten some big donations? I know they made money on the Tulsa faires, but my guess is they hadn’t been in business long enough to clear a huge profit.”
Sylvie elbowed my aunt. “Frannie, we’re gonna need you to do a little financial research.”
“You said people might’ve found Cam a little annoying,” I said. “How so?”
“You’ve met him?” He smiled when we nodded. “He’s relentless in trying to be a part of the inner circle group—to be one of the regulars. He would latch onto one or two of our cast and just follow them around like a faithful puppy. Doesn’t give a person much breathing room, if you know what I mean.”
“Maybe you’d like to demonstrate this close proximity?” Frannie suggested. “I’m not sure I get your point.”
I put a hand on my aunt’s arm to hold her down. “Did Cam’s lack of personal space ever cause concern? Creep anyone out?”
“Not really. On paper, it sounds a little psycho, but we all knew Cam well. He had good intentions. A good heart—minus the possible theft.”
Did he? “Had he ever threatened anyone or made them feel in danger?” Sylvie asked.
“No. I think most people learned to use it to their advantage—had him running errands, helping out. A few kind souls took him under their wing and gave him training opportunities.”
“Did he ever get to be part of the cast?” I asked.
“Naw,” Mr. Barowitz said. “But it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for his future. If he hadn’t gotten fired, it probably would’ve happened his next year.”
I blinked against the heat pressing in and wished, not for the first time, I’d brought my bottle of water. “What other training opportunities did Cam have?”
“Cam could work the iron smith’s cottage with some skill. He had a way with the horses and did a fine job in our jousting matches.” He scratched his clean-shaven chin. “But the place where Cam really shined? The place where he became an absolute expert and we miss him most?”
Apprehension skittered down my spine. “Yes?”
“That would be knife throwing,” he said. “That kid’s got a wicked aim.”
20
First dates were strange things.
Personally, I wanted to outlaw them, but I wasn’t sure how you’d then get to dates two and three, the ones that didn’t involve as much nausea and stilted conversation. On this Thursday night, I was torn between wanting to get to know Matt better . . .and wishing I had a body double.
I hadn’t really dated in years. I’d been in a relationship with the jerk ex-fiancé for five years before he all but lit a fire on our wedding altar and walked away. The closest connection I’d had with a man after that had been my daily wave at the FedEx guys who dropped off my Amazon packages. I’d been out of circulation so long, I didn’t know what the rules were. Was it slutty to kiss on the first date? Prudish if you didn’t? Would I even want to kiss Matt? And who paid for dinner? Did he? Did I? I seriously needed a rule book for this stuff—one that was updated on a regular basis. Emma told me I was overanalyzing it all, but she had Noah locked down in matrimonial bliss, so her opinion currently didn’t count.
While the news blared on the TV in my bedroom, I retouched my makeup at my bathroom vanity, sliding pink gloss over my lips. Thoughts on Trace’s death spun in my mind on an out of control hamster wheel, over and over, one right after the other. John Barowitz had thought Cam to be harmless. I still needed to talk to Nathan and see if he’d been in on the faire blueprint duplication. Rex had been in the vicinity of Trace during intermission, but he’d just delivered food. Nathan might be having a torrid affair with Rebecca, and we still had no idea how long that had gone on. And then there was Angela, who professed to love Trace, but every woman had her limits. Maybe she’d snapped when she’d met hers.
I nearly dropped the lipstick when I heard a knock at the door. I glanced at the time on my phone, and it was still a full 30 minutes before Matt was due to arrive. If he was one of those uber early birds, we were not going to get along. A girl needed time to fix her face and have a good stress out.
I shuffled downstairs and opened the door to find Sylvie on my front porch, two shopping bags dangling from her contoured arms. “Hi, there, shug. Let your dear grandmother in.” She kissed my cheek then shoved her way into my living room.
“Sylvie,” I said, “I’m kind of in a hurry. Did you need something?”
“Yeah, I need to help you.” She looked me up and down with eyes that had been trained to miss nothing. “Is that what you’re wearing?” She gestured to my black pants and polka-dot blazer.
“No,” I said defensively. “Well, maybe. I mean, I did have an alternate.” I threw my hands up in despair. “It’s what I had on from work, but I thought it would be fine for the date.”
“Yeah, if you’re going to a PTA meeting. Do those top two buttons come undone?”
I slapped her hands away “I have a little dress in my closet I can wear.”
Sylvie marched straight up the stairs like she was single-handedly in charge of this rescue mission. “Let’s go check out your options.”
I doggedly followed her, finding myself unexpectedly grateful for her company. My own mother had never been one for bonding time, leaving me to my own devices to fix my hair and pick out my clothes, never coming to my room just to talk about boys and school and things on a young girl’s heart. She’d been too busy working or too busy going to some award program for my siblings. Or just too busy being. . .her.
Sylvie reached my bedroom and held out the bags. “I walked by Mason Boutique on the square today and saw this blouse and skirt in the window and thought now that’s an outfit for a night out with a honey.”
“I don’t have a honey.” I plucked one bag from her hand, peeling away the delicate pink tissue paper. Inside was a blue and white gingham blouse, with off-the-shoulder sleeves, and tiny pearls that buttoned up the back. “Sylvie, I love it.”
“Well, you don’t have to act like you’re surprised. I do have good taste.”
It was true. If there was a granny’s fashion runway, Sylvie always looked like she’d just stepped off of it. I always thought my love of clothes probably came from her.
“Put it on, and let’s see.” She handed me the other bag. “Here’s the coordinating short skirt. It’ll show off your legs.” She frowned. “I sure hope you shaved your legs. Nobody likes to date a cactus.”
I slipped into the bathroom and shucked out of my clothes. I pulled on the skirt and smiled. It fit like a dream.
The blouse was another matter entirely.
I stepped back out of the bathroom. �
�Did you know there are padded boobs in this blouse?”
Sylvie grinned. “There might be some light padding.”
“Lightly padded?” I poked at my impressive bazingas, feeling absolutely nothing. “These are basically pillows sewn in here. Are you telling me Mason Boutique sold you this blouse?”
“This blouse did come from the boutique.” She folded a blanket at the foot of my bed. “But I might’ve added an enhancement here and there.”
“And you probably stuffed in a tracking device to see if anyone touched my enhancements.”
My grandmother stuck a hand on one sassy hip. “I am not that intrusive,” she said. “Plus, the tracking device fell out in your driveway. Still working on that design.”
I waved to my chest. “This is ridiculous.”
“I was just wanting to point out some of your finer assets.”
“These things point straight to the ceiling.” I ripped off the blouse and returned to my closet, kicking off the skirt and reaching for the summer dress I’d bought last week. I held it up for my grandmother’s approval.
Sylvie smiled at my pick. “If you’re not going to get hussied up, then that will certainly do.”
The dress was a funky floral fit and flare with a V neckline. The skirt halted above my knee where the twirl-worthy fabric of pink roses provided a nice contrast to my red hair. Bending down, I searched the lower dregs of my closet until I located a pair of wedge sandals and slipped them on, struggling with the last buckle.
“Are you nervous?” Sylvie asked.
“Of course I am.”
“Hon, you just go on this date and have a good time. It’s not like you have to marry the man.” She seated herself on my bed. “Unless he’s secretly a Russian diplomat and threatens the life of your grandmother. Then… I’ll send you a nice place set of China.”
“Very thoughtful of you.”
“Get the dessert, if you know what I mean.”
I slipped a hoop earring into my ear. “Is that one of your double entendres?”
Royally In Trouble Page 14
