by Joan Hess
It wasn’t as though we were going to be married in a church amid all the pomp and piety, but I have an aversion to any kind of formal ceremony, especially one that obliges me to wear panty hose. I’d barely survived Caron’s kindergarten graduation. Carlton and I had eloped, and ended up being married in a leaky chapel during a thunderstorm. The justice of the peace’s wife had served chocolate chip cookies and flat ginger ale afterward. I remember the cookies better than I do the actual exchange of vows. Carlton must have, too, which would explain why he’d been in the company of a buxom college girl when his car collided with a chicken truck on a slippery mountain road. The college administration had done its best to hush up this particular detail, since liaisons between instructors and students were a big no-no. When a local writer threatened to expose the tawdry business, along with several other skeletons in the faculty lounge closet, she’d been conveniently silenced. I’d been high on Detective Rosen’s list of suspects, which had not made for an auspicious inaugural relationship, although in retrospect, it had been flattering.
I resolved to stop fretting about the wedding, at least for the rest of the evening, and gave my attention to Lady Cashmere’s stolen jewels and the mysterious light in the chapel.
The following morning I was perusing the fall reading lists from the area junior highs and high schools. Nothing was remotely controversial, indicating the religious right had cinched in the good ol’ Bible Belt another notch or two. Intellectual constipation was not too far in the future. I’d gone into my tiny office to hunt up some catalogs and start calculating orders when the bell above the door jangled.
I went back into the front room, my fingers crossed that Pester the Jester was not coming back to further annoy me. A couple were waiting for me. The woman had short dark hair, a flawless complexion, and large, wide-set eyes that were already appraising me. The tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows suggested that she was less than impressed. Although she appeared to be no more than thirty years old, her white blouse and gray skirt gave her the serious demeanor of an executive assistant or a bureaucrat. That, and the briefcase she was carrying.
“Mrs. Malloy?” she said, daring me to deny it.
I chose not to be intimidated despite the mess on the counter and the cobwebs dangling from the rafters. The original structure of the Book Depot dated back to the days when passenger and freight trains had been vital to a burgeoning rural town. I still relied on an antiquated boiler for what heat I could coax out of it. Many of the cockroaches I encountered daily were likely to be nonagenarians, and some of the mice had gray whiskers. “May I help you?”
“I’m Fiona Thackery, the history teacher at the high school. I believe your daughter is taking my AP class in the fall.” I nodded warily. “I’m sure she’ll do fine,” the woman continued. “I’m here to talk to you about the Renaissance Fair in two weeks. I realize this is short notice, but the idea came to me while I was on vacation after the semester ended. I attended one, and thought it would be a wonderful project. My students will have the opportunity to make history come alive, not only for themselves but also for all the children and the community. Profits will go to Safe Haven, the battered- women’s shelter. I do hope you’ll add your support.”
“I’m pretty busy these days,” I said, unmoved by her slick sales pitch.
Her consort cleared his throat. He was perhaps a bit older than she, but two inches shorter and significantly less polished. His face, pudgy and pale, was marred by the remnants of acne, and his hair looked as though he’d cut it himself—in the dark. He was wearing wrinkled slacks, a short-sleeved white dress shirt, and a bow tie. He reminded me of a suburban missionary. “I’m…ah, Julius Valens. I teach in the drama department at the college. Well, I don’t teach acting or anything like that. My area is set construction, lights, technical stuff.”
“Thank you, Julius,” said Fiona. “I’m sure Mrs. Malloy appreciates knowing your field of expertise.” She took a file out of her briefcase and handed it to me. “This is the schedule of events during the fair. I’ve included a copy of the information I’ll be handing out to the students this afternoon, which will explain in more detail the various booths, concessions, and staged presentations over the two days. Members of ARSE will participate. Are you familiar with the organization?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “purple tights and all.”
She frowned. “Not all of us are fools, Mrs. Malloy. I’ve only been a member for a year, but I’ve encountered very few court jesters. Most of the men prefer to wear the garb of knights and royalty. Our fiefdom is honored to be under the leadership of the Duke and Duchess of Glenbarrens. They’ve offered their farm for the fair. I’d planned on holding it at the high school or even on the college campus, but we can generate more profits with the sale of ales and mead. Please let me assure you that none of the students will have anything to do with the alcoholic beverages, and any of them caught indulging will be punished.”
“Were thumbscrews in use during the Renaissance?” I asked.
“I’ll look into it,” she said with her first attempt at a smile. It softened her face and gave her a faint glow. I realized she was quite pretty, if not a classic beauty. Julius seemed to agree with me; he was gazing at her with unabashed adoration. Ignoring him, she added, “Now what we’d like to do is stage a few short events in front of your store in order to create curiosity and start selling advance tickets. It won’t be the least bit inconvenient for you. Julius will hang a few banners and set up the sound equipment. There will be sword fights, musical presentations, and crafts demonstrations. I was thinking we could do this tomorrow and Friday this week, and Monday and Wednesday next week, for no more than an hour at a time.”
I considered her proposal. “I don’t want access to the store blocked. I’m certainly in favor of raising money for Safe Haven, but I can’t risk losing sales.”
Julius nodded. “We understand that, Mrs. Malloy. It’ll take no more than half an hour to set up, and about the same when it’s over. So two hours, altogether.”
“And,” Fiona said, “it will draw a huge crowd. You can feature books on the Renaissance in your window displays.”
“Erasmus is always a bestseller in the summer.”
“I’m sure he is. Julius, check for outlets for the sound equipment. I’ll do some measuring outside so we’ll be prepared to hang the flags and banners. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Malloy. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” She was taking a tape measure from her briefcase as she went out the door.
“I don’t remember agreeing to this,” I said to Julius as he began to crawl along the baseboard under the front windows.
“Fiona can be forceful, but she’s usually right. Last year she had to go in front of the school board to get their approval to revamp the AP reading lists. This spring almost every student who took the test scored high enough to receive college credit.”
“How long has she been teaching at the high school?” I asked.
Julius plopped down on his bottom and looked up at me. “Just three years. A year ago the AP teacher retired for what was euphemistically called ‘personal reasons.’ According to the gossip in the teachers’ lounge, she was spiking her coffee with brandy every morning and nodding off during classes. Fiona anticipated the likelihood that the woman would be fired and began campaigning for the position. She’s a fighter. She made it through college on academic scholarships, while working at the campus library and tutoring on the side. She has no patience with slackers.”
“Is that so?” I said, beginning to wonder how Caron would fare in the history class. Her grades were always fine, but I’d been called in for more than my fair share of teacher-parent conferences over the years. She had her own file in the principal’s office, and even the custodians greeted me by name. I realized Julius was waiting for me to say something. I opted to change the subject. “Are you a member of ARSE?”
“No, I mean not yet, but I’m going to join. I’ve been busy with the college
productions all year, and I moonlight at several community theaters in the area. My assistants this year were more trouble than help; I couldn’t trust them to do anything right. And Fiona can be demanding. She bought a little house as an investment, and I’m helping her fix it up whenever I have free time. We’re engaged, but it’s not official until I can save up enough for a ring. I’ll be up for assistant professor soon, and I’m hoping to get a decent raise. Fiona enjoys teaching, but she’d really like to stay home and have children. She says she can put all her excess energy into volunteer work.”
I had no hope of finding a subject that would not lead back to Fiona Thackery. “Well, good luck,” I said lamely, then picked up the catalogs I’d dropped on the counter. “I’ll be in my office if you have any questions.”
Julius stood up and brushed off his dusty knees. “These outlets should be adequate, although the wiring is worn. I’ll bring extra fuses, just in case.”
“And I’ll review my fire insurance policy, just in case,” I said as I headed for my cramped office.
I held my breath until I heard him leave, then settled back with the reading lists, catalogs, and order forms to try to predict how many students would prefer to buy their books (and handy yellow study guides) from the Book Depot rather than the brightly lit, sanitized chain bookstores at the mall. If I understocked, I’d lose sales, but if I overstocked, I’d be forced to return unsold copies and lose favor with my distributors. The bookseller’s version of Russian roulette.
Although I knew it was unreasonable to hope that Peter might have a moment to climb out of his hazmat suit and call me, I kept glancing at the telephone. It remained aloof. I ate a sandwich and a handful of limp carrot sticks, sold a gardening book to an elderly woman clutching an evil cat, and helped a newlywed find a cookbook for her first formal dinner party. At least I would never have to sweat over the consistency of hollandaise sauce or the presentation of raspberry mousse parfaits. Should the highly improbable specter of a dinner party loom, Peter understood the concept of caterers, having never seen his mother do more than pour tea. Other than that, any entertaining we did would involve a barbecue grill—and I would not be waving the tongs.
Late in the afternoon Caron and Inez came into the store. Their fatigued and slightly glazed looks suggested the meeting at the high school had not been brief. This time I did feel some sympathy for them, since I loathe meetings on principle. They exemplify the only legitimate reason for carrying concealed weapons.
“That bad?” I said.
Caron sat down on the stool. “Three hours’ worth of ‘That Bad,’ “ she said. “Rhonda Maguire would not shut up. She acted like her entire grade depended on convincing everybody how fascinated she was by this dumb fair. Even Miss Thackery was getting pissed off by Rhonda’s incessant questions and comments. Half the class was dozing, the other half squirming like they needed to pee.”
“Rhonda’s knowledge of the Middle Ages is limited to Disney movies,” added Inez. “King Arthur and the Seven Dwarfs meet Robin Hood and the Little Mermaid Marian. It was too pathetic.”
“So what did you find out about your duties at the festivities?” I asked.
“We’re on the concessions committee,” Caron said, “but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Some woman from ARSE, Lanya or something, is in charge. We’re going out to her farm to meet her tomorrow. Supposedly she’s done this before and knows how to get all the food and drinks donated. We have to round up volunteers to work at the booths, but Miss Thackery said we can recruit from her other classes. If we can pull it off, we may not have to take a shift.”
Inez nodded. “Yeah, but we have to make our own costumes. Peasant blouses and long skirts. Miss Thackery has a bunch of catalogs we can look through for ideas.”
“That should be interesting,” I said. “What about your classmates?”
“Carrie and Emily are in charge of the pony rides,” Caron said, snickering. “They get to hold the ponies’ leads and walk them in a circle. Around and around and around, all day long, trying not to step in piles of pony poop. Maybe we’ll take them some lemonade in the middle of the afternoon.”
“Louis Wilder berry and some of the other football players are going to be pirates,” Inez contributed. “First they have to set up all the tents, stages, tables, and that sort of thing, but then they can spend the rest of the day promenading around, waving their cardboard cutlasses and singing sea chanties. Some of the kids who take band are going to learn to play lutes and recorders so they can be strolling minstrels.”
“And Rhonda?” I said delicately.
“This is way funny,” said Caron. “She and the other cheerleaders are going to be fairies. They have to wear green leotards, flimsy little skirts, pointy ears, glittery wings, and green makeup on their faces. You know, she looked a little green when Miss Thackery told her. They have to dance on one of the stages every hour, and spend the rest of the time painting kids’ faces. Another woman from ARSE volunteered to be their dance instructor, so they have to go to her house to learn how to flutter. I can hardly wait.”
“It doesn’t sound that bad,” I said.
Inez stared at me. “Would you like to dress up like a fairy in front of all your friends? She’ll look like an escapee from a preschool production of Peter Pan. “
“Even Louis was snorting under his breath,” added Caron. “C’mon, Inez. We’d better start calling potential concession workers. I for one am not going to peddle turkey legs and ice cream bars all day.”
I watched them leave, then opened the file that Fiona Thackery had left on the counter. The Renaissance Fair would open at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. Food and drink available included the aforementioned turkey legs, ice cream bars, and fresh lemonade, along with ale, mead, rum drinks (in honor of the pirates, I assumed), and sweets. Areas would be roped off for sword fighting and mud wrestling. At a safe distance, would-be Robin Hoods could test their skill at archery. Stage performances with dancers, magicians, musicians, and one-act plays would occur throughout the day.
On Saturday evening there would be a grand banquet presided over by the Duke and Duchess of Glenbarrens, with a feast and entertainment. Separate tickets required, limited seating, advance reservations suggested.
All in all, it seemed harmless.
Chapter Two
The previous evening had passed uneventfully. Peter did not call, but his chances of getting through were negligible, since Caron and Inez had sequestered themselves in her bedroom with the telephone, bullying their fellow students into working at the Renaissance Fair. When they appeared periodically to make sandwiches and grab sodas, they’d seemed rather smug. I hadn’t bothered asking for a progress report.
I spent the morning with paperwork, wondering why I’d ever thought that owning a bookstore meant reading books. The only ones I dealt with these days were ledgers, and my forays into fiction usually involved catalog copy and petty-spirited reviews. I sorted invoices by degrees of urgency, wrote enough checks to appease the wolves howling at the door, sent in my orders online (I hoped), then dumped the catalogs in a corner next to the boiler. Filing is not my forte.
Edward Cobbinwood ambled in while I was eating a late lunch and dashing off the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. He was dressed as he had been the day before, but was carrying a bulging backpack and a unicycle. “Good morrow, Mistress Malloy.”
“Skip it,” I said. “I gather Fiona has spoken to you?”
“It’s really nice of you to let us use the portico.” He looked around the store, which was sadly lacking in customers at that moment. “I guess things are better during the school year. This is a great little bookstore. I did my undergraduate work in Berkeley, and I always enjoyed hanging around stores like this.”
“Like this?” I said. “Meaning what?”
His eyes flickered nervously while he struggled to come up with a tactful response. “Oh, I mean friendly, cozy, that sort of thing. Do you have events like poetry readings and signin
gs?”
“The only authors who want to sign here sell their books from the trunks of their cars. The poetry crowd prefers to meet in places that sell beer and wine. I can sympathize with that.” Since he showed no signs of leaving, I put down my pen and said, “Why did you decide to come here for grad work?”
“After twenty years, I was getting sick of the California frenzy and fruitcakes. That, and I was offered a full assistantship. I’m an art major, so I’ll still be unemployable no matter where my degrees are from. What about you?”
“I made it halfway to a Ph.D. in English,” I said. “The statute of limitations ran out on my dissertation before I ever got around to finishing it. No great loss to future generations of scholars of justly obscure British novelists.”
Edward began to browse between the racks, but I could see the tip of his cap as it bobbled along like a primitive puppet. “I actually came here for another reason,” he said so quietly I barely heard his voice. “It’s kind of personal.”
I winced. “Then I can understand why you wouldn’t want to talk about it with a stranger. Are you looking for any book in particular?”
The cap bobbled back to the end of the rack and he came into view. “I don’t consider you a stranger, Mrs. Malloy. You’ve been very kind to me.”
“I’m sure I haven’t, Edward,” I said hastily. “I make every effort to be polite to customers, and I don’t mind helping a good cause, but at heart I’m a cold-blooded, money-grubbing mercenary-”
“It’s about my father.”
I must admit that I was disconcerted. “What about your father, Edward?”
He pulled off his cap and began to wring it like a wet dish towel. “My father abandoned my mother as soon as she told him she was pregnant. She had no idea where he went, and he never made any effort to get in touch with her. Maybe he thought she’d get an abortion.” He gave me a wry smile. “She didn’t, obviously.”
