Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  I took a drink of cold water from my stainless steel bottle and wished I had reapplied sunscreen. “Here’s your flower halo, sweetie.” I secured it to the blonde head of a six-year old girl. “Mr. Johnson, if you’re going to be Pirate Black Britches, you’ll need your eye patch.” I handed three more helpers some hand fans and water. “You look lovely, ladies.”

  Moving to the back of the line to the royals, I kept my eye on Nathan and Rebecca. Aside from a few stolen glances, I didn’t see any overtly romantic overtures. No interactions that said, “We killed for love!”

  “Here we go!” Nathan yelled, his face sun-kissed and happy. “Smiles, everyone!”

  Tambourines lifted to the sky, ribbons swirled in the air, and women twirled and laughed as the music flared to life. The group moved as one, and their enthusiasm was contagious. In these days of depressing newscasts, turbulent politics, and social media upsets, it did a heart good to see this community of people spreading such full-bodied joy. As I walked alongside the troupe, on-lookers stood on either side of their path, and I saw smile after smile. Pride filled a corner of my heart that had been bullied and bruised by years of feeling like I couldn’t quite measure up. And even though I wasn’t robed in a period costume, I was a part of this. I’d help bring this event to Sugar Creek.

  Filling in as the king today, Cam couldn’t have been happier if he’d been marching to accept an Olympic medal. His crown perched crookedly on his head, but still looked as if it was right where it belonged. “Good tidings from your liege! Feel free to bow and curtsy!”

  Angela wore a beautiful burgundy brocade gown, her hair in a swirl of braids. She handed a little boy a piece of candy and waved.

  A woman videoed beside me. “Christine?” She lowered her phone. “Christine!” She pushed through an assembly of people, and I followed as she waved her hands to get Angela’s attention. Was this one of those stalker playtrons Nathan had told me about?

  “Christine!” she called again, her brown curly hair slipping from a clip.

  Angela turned toward the woman, and her smile vanished.

  “Excuse me.” I shoulder bumped a couple, forcing them to part like the Red Sea, power walking to Angela’s side like I was her Secret Service. “Someone you know?”

  Worried eyes flitted to mine as the parade stalled for a sing-along. “I’ve never seen her in my life.”

  Clippy-haired woman wasn’t taking Angela’s dismissal. Before I could say cease and desist, she trotted right to us. “Christine Fitzsimmons?” Chocolate brown eyes narrowed for a closer examination. “It is you!” She attempted a hug, but I stepped between them.

  “I think you have the wrong person,” I said. “This is Angela.”

  The woman acted as if she hadn’t heard. “I’ve always wondered where you’d turn up.” She peeked around me, clearly not intimidated by my five-foot-two stature. “Girl, you’re looking mighty well.”

  Angela didn’t look well to me. She looked like she’d just seen the ghost of King Henry. “I . . .I’m not sure who you think I am, but my name is Angela. Angela Simpson.”

  “It’s me—Marjorie Hardcastle. From church?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Angela lifted her hem and gained some distance. “I’m needed at the front of the parade.”

  “Sioux City Church of Faith?” the woman shouted. “We both sang in the choir!”

  The parade once again chugged into motion.

  But Angela Simpson was nowhere in sight.

  28

  “Those health code violations are scarier than a vial of skin-eating acid.” Frannie turned a left on Barton Street as we traveled to Rex and Ida Aldersons’. “I’ve already had one surprise inspection, and despite my offer of free cupcakes and a peep of cleavage, that inspector still dinged me on something.”

  Sylvie changed the radio station. “He must’ve been blind.”

  “It was a woman.”

  The minivan bounced over potholes, jostling me in the backseat. “Seven violations for Rex and Ida on four separate occasions.”

  “Yep.” My aunt adjusted the glasses she wore for night driving. Though they looked like normal specs, occasionally a tiny red light blinked at the bottom of a lens, and I figured her eyewear either had x-ray vision or could blow up a small town. “The infractions began last summer when they still operated out of Tulsa.”

  Rex and Ida had been longtime Sugar Creek citizens. They lived on an acreage out west out town where subdivisions had yet to intrude. The van meandered down a newly paved road, slowing as we approached a blue two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch. A large American flag waved from the pole in the yard, and a spotlight shined on Old Glory as she danced over a circle of begonias.

  The Aldersons kept a tidy yard, and Ida’s green thumb was evident with every plant and flower we passed as we approached the front door.

  I heard a TV inside as I rang the bell.

  Ida opened the door, a curious smile on her lips. “Hello, ladies. Just cruising the neighborhood?”

  “I wondered if we could talk for a moment,” I said. “I know you’re both tired. We won’t keep you long.”

  “Is everything all right?” Ida waved us into her living room, a spacious area with a brick fireplace, a matching set of recliners, and a TV that loudly played Sesame Street. “Rex, look who’s here.”

  Rex stood, his hair damp from a shower, and I could smell his soap from steps away. “Is everything okay at the faire grounds?”

  “It’s fine.” I moved a toy truck to sit on a faded leather couch, Sylvie and Frannie flanking my sides.

  “Any updates on Trace’s murder investigation?” Ida perched on the arm of Rex’s recliner.

  “None that have come from the police,” Sylvie said. “Rex, Cam mentioned he was over-the-moon giddy you and the guys invited him to his first poker night.”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t take much to make Cam happy,” Rex said. “I’m not sure why we didn’t do it sooner. I don’t think the kid has many friends.”

  “He certainly looks up to you and Nathan,” Ida said.

  Rex frowned. “He didn’t see any role models that night.”

  “Cam mentioned there was an argument.” I watched Rex’s face, but found nothing but tired resignation.

  “Yeah, I had words with Trace all right.” He muted the TV with a push of the remote. “Ida and I managed the food services for the Tulsa faire with zero problems for fifteen years—long before Trace and Nathan took over the event. When they did, they kept us on, but I knew Trace didn’t want to. He had visions for the food that were more eclectic, more modern. And he let me know he had friends who could do it.” Rex scrunched his sun-blistered nose. “He wanted sushi, fancy coffees, frou-frou cookies, and lots of things with kale.” He shook his head, looking a little seasick. “Kale.”

  “So we added a few items,” Ida said. “I have to admit, I don’t mind the fancy coffee.”

  “Tastes just like my favorite drive-thru,” Sylvie said.

  “But I put my foot down on the rest,” Rex snarled. “I ain’t serving raw fish from a trailer in the middle of summer. Nathan told us he understood. Acted like he was on our side. Really backed us.”

  “I thought that was the end of it,” Ida said. “I assumed it was settled.”

  “Then you started getting health code violations,” I ventured. “Right?”

  “Those violations weren’t our fault.” Getting a second wind, Rex sat up straighter. “We’ve run our food stands and trailers with excellence for years. They’re clean, they’re compliant, and they’ve always passed inspections before—even surprise visits.”

  “He must have better cleavage,” Frannie whispered.

  “But the health department started doing lots of surprise visits.” Anger laced Rex’s every word. “Said they were getting complaints. I wasn’t too alarmed because I was confident we’d pass their test, but one day we didn’t. We got written up for milk not being stored cool enough. For meat left out. For dirt
near griddles.”

  “Everyone has a bad day,” Sylvie said. “One time I got a surprise observation by my boss, and I accidentally blew up half an embassy.” She lifted her shoulders. “It happens.”

  Rex adamantly shook his head. “We don’t make those mistakes.”

  “No, we don’t,” Ida echoed.

  “Someone planted those infractions for the inspector to find,” Rex said. “It’s happened two more times since we’ve been here. And on the last instance, Nathan said he couldn’t continue to keep us on. He said we’d finish out this inaugural season in Sugar Creek, but we wouldn’t be back. He was gonna hire Trace’s friends.”

  Stifling a yawn, I knew I needed to hurry this thing along. I had at least another two hours of work waiting for me and my laptop at home. “Naturally you got angry.”

  “Of course I did!” Rex’s voice boomed. “I confronted him that night of the poker game. Told him I knew what he’d been up to. He denied it all—just smiled like the pompous jerk he was. He knew I couldn’t do anything about it. It’s not so much that we’d lost the contract, but that he’d wreaked havoc with our reputation.”

  “Was the argument why you didn’t bring the cast dinner during intermission?” Sylvie leveled him with her truth-extracting stare.

  “Rex delivered dinner,” Ida protested. “I sent him with his usual big tray. Even included cobbler this time.” Her eyes narrowed when her husband averted his gaze. “Rex?”

  His head lowered as he contemplated the floor. “I got distracted.”

  Ida rested her hand over her heart, three vertical lines of worry between her dark brows. “With what?”

  He coughed into his fist, then cut his eyes toward his wife. “Our daughter.”

  “Don’t you dare tell me you—”

  “Yes, I gave her money again.”

  “We’ve talked about this!” Ida took to pacing. “What was it this time? Was it a new sob story or did she dust off an old one?” She finally remembered we were in the room. “My thirty-year-old daughter can’t seem to find the time to grow up. She goes from job to job, boyfriend to boyfriend, in and out of college.” She pointed her finger toward the ceiling. “We’ve got her two sweet babies upstairs, and where is she? Who knows! We haven’t seen her in two weeks. Rex and I agreed to cut her off financially a year ago. One of us realizes we’re just enabling Julia. One of us realizes we’ve done her no favors by supporting her for far too long.”

  “You met your daughter during intermission?” I asked.

  “I didn’t plan it,” Rex said. “I carried that tray of food outside and back to the cast tent, just like I was supposed to. But right as I stepped into the entrance, there was my daughter.”

  “Oh, sure.” Stopping her pacing, Ida planted her hands on her hips. “She just showed up right when you walked by. How convenient.”

  “I might’ve talked to her on the phone that day,” Rex confessed.

  “And you might’ve given her your exact time schedule, ATM pin number, and location coordinates?” His sweet wife’s temper was a sight to behold.

  “You met with your daughter,” I repeated. “For what purpose?”

  “To give her money,” Ida snapped. “Am I right, Rex?”

  He nodded.

  “How long were you with her?” Sylvie asked.

  “Maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Can she verify your story?” Frannie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And I guess so could our bank account,” Ida said. “Rex, I’m very disappointed.”

  It looked like we could cross Rex off our list. “Did you tell the police about meeting with Julia?”

  “No.”

  Sylvie fluffed the pillow behind her back. “Why on earth not?”

  “At the time the prospect of jail sounded a lot easier than dealing with the wrath of my wife.”

  Ida looked as if she’d like to commit her own health code violation. “Either way he’s gonna get some solitary confinement.”

  If Rex was innocent, that left only left Cam, Angela, Nathan, and Rebecca.

  One of them had killed Trace.

  We just had to figure out who.

  29

  On Sunday morning I sat in the fifteenth row of the Sugar Creek Community Church, my eyes brightened by every makeup trick I’d ever learned as an Electric Femme. I wanted to tuck my legs beneath me, rest my head on Sylvie’s shoulder, and close my eyes. But the choir had just filed in, and Frannie was all fired up to sing her solo. She brought some much-needed gospel and soul to our church, and when she sang goose bumps covered my skin, my heart lifted, and I caught a glimpse of what admittance beyond the Pearly Gates must surely sound like.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I looked up to find Matt Quincy, a vision of handsomeness.

  “Have a seat, hon.” Sylvie waved a hand toward the empty space beside me. “How wonderful to see you.”

  Emma employed no subtlety when she leaned forward to watch the new addition. Her husband, Noah, shot me a thumb’s up.

  Matt smiled as he sat, his light cologne a delightful blend of spice and playfulness. “Hi, there, Paisley.”

  The church was fundraising for a new, bigger building, and in the meantime, our chairs were scrunched in tight, and Matt’s shoulder pressed into mine. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” I said.

  “Your grandmother’s never invited me before.”

  “How thoughtful of her.”

  “I’ve been visiting the Methodist church,” he said, “but this congregation seems to have a lot to offer.” His infectious grin spread wider. “You look beautiful today, by the way.”

  We were a casual gathering, and I wore jeans and a simple blazer, saving my Sunday best for the work week. “I appreciate the flattery.”

  “You say flattery, I say simple, true words.”

  A large man with two kids entered the row, and Matt slipped his arm around the back of my chair to angle himself out of their way. “What are you doing after church?” he asked, his lips near my ear.

  “Headed to Fox Falls to check on the Renaissance faire.”

  “She has time to grab some lunch,” Sylvie said. “There’s a new Mexican restaurant I hear is divine.” She regarded me with pride. “Our girl loves queso.”

  “I’d love to take you to lunch,” Matt said. “Miss Sylvie, would you like to join us?”

  “Why, yes, I—”

  “She’s busy.” I smiled at my grandmother. “On Sundays she likes to crochet in her rocking chair and organize her adult diaper collection.”

  Sylvie’s mouth opened wide on a sassy retort, but the praise team belted out their first notes, and her opportunity died with the loud entry of the band. We stood with the congregation, as folks clapped and sang to the words on a screen.

  Singing was an invisible shard of glass stuck in my soul, one I’d yet to extract. If Matt noticed I was only mouthing the words, he had the good manners to leave it alone.

  His hand pressed to my back as he bent low enough to be heard. “Detective Ballantine wants me to find out what you know.”

  It was a full three measures before I replied. “Is that why you asked me to lunch?”

  He shook his blond head, reminding me of a romantic lead in old beach movies. Matt looked like a man who could ride a giant wave on his surfboard while his wholesome bikini girl cheered from the shore. “I asked you out because I like you.” He waved hello to Frannie on stage. “And I’m tired of eating nachos alone.”

  A little over an hour later, the congregation emptied into the parking lot, while the heat from the August sun warned us to go back in.

  We stood in a small circle congratulating Frannie on her stunning musical performance and swapping Renaissance faire funnies.

  “Now you kids get along and enjoy your lunch date,” Sylvie said. “Oh, and by the by, we’ll have Noah’s birthday dinner at my house tomorrow night. Bring your stretchy pants because we’re gonna eat good.”


  “I’ll be there,” I said, adding it to my overwhelming list of things to do.

  “And stop by Sylvie’s and give us all the details later,” Emma whispered.

  “Isn’t that your friend?” Matt gestured to an approaching couple.

  Beau—with Haley Jo all but surgically attached to his side.

  “Hi, Beau, sugar!” Frannie pulled him into the gathering, her arm entwined with his. “You missed my singing. It was one of my better performances this year, if I do say so myself.”

  His gaze seemed to be stuck on me. “We saw it. Beyoncé’s got nothing on you.”

  “Oh, the things you say.” My aunt practically levitated off the ground. “If you’d like to brag some more, I’ve got the time.”

  “Beau, you remember Officer Matt Quincy.” Sylvie looked way too proud of herself, like one of her romance novel chapters had come to life. “Matt, you’ve met Paisley’s dear friend.”

  The two men exchanged a stiff handshake.

  Frannie turned to the beautifully coifed Haley Jo. “And what was your name?”

  As if she didn’t know.

  “Nice of you and Haley Jo to join us for the service,” I said. Did my voice sound uninterested and moderately kind? Was my face devoid of all raging jealousy and a mask of pleasant delight? “Matt and I were just headed to lunch.”

  “Were you?” Beau looked between us, as Matt took a step closer. “Great.”

  “Yessirree.” I was surely bowling Haley Jo over with my eloquence. “Great.”

  “We should go,” Matt said. “If we want to beat the rush.”

  “Aren’t they the cutest?” Emma linked her arm through her husband’s, gushing like Matt and I were scampering off to plan our engagement.

  Haley Jo opened her pouty, uppity mouth. “Officer Quincy, shouldn’t you be pounding the streets, working on this unsolved murder?”

  Matt’s gentle visage never faltered. “It’s my day off, but I assure you we’re all putting in overtime to keep the citizens of Sugar Creek safe.”

  “The only citizen I care about is this one right here.” Haley Jo squeezed Beau’s sinewy arm and pressed her head to his shoulder. Unlike me, her long legs didn’t provide over a foot long gap between the top of his head and hers. “He’s completely innocent, and should your department make a single misstep, I have a whole team of attorneys at my disposal to make you regret ever casting a hint of suspicion on Beau.”