Damsels in Distress

by Joan Hess

  The news came on. The two current anchors stared solemnly at us. One was an aging male with suspiciously black hair; the other was a distressingly young woman with a perky nose and artfully applied makeup. Ken and Barbie, eager to share Farberville’s celebrations and calamities. After a quick teaser about the “purported” homicide, they took turns relating tidbits about car wrecks, a factory closing with “a major impact on our regional economy,” and the deadline for a children’s essay contest in which tykes could express their innermost feelings about Labor Day. I doubted Caron and Inez would hole up one afternoon to produce the winning entry and be rewarded with a kiddie burger and fries from a fast food restaurant. After all, mailing in their entry would eat up a third of the value of their winnings.

  “What a wonderful opportunity for the children in our viewing area,” Barbie said, squinting at us. “As I told you at the beginning of the broadcast, police have been called to what is likely to be homicide at Farberville’s first Renaissance Fair. Channel Five’s own field reporter, Penelope Poplin, is at the scene. Penelope, what’s going on?”

  Penelope’s grim visage appeared on the screen. She was standing below the arch at the entry gate, apparently having been stopped there. To her annoyance, people were jostling her as they left. No one seemed inclined to stop for an interview. As hard as she tried to sound as if she were at the edge of the crime scene and privy to updates from the investigators, the best she could produce was a lame story about the police and paramedics arriving earlier. Someone leaving had told her that the police had detained an astounding number of people well into the night and—she paused to allow us to realize the significance—had asked for identification and telephone numbers. She did her best until at last she acknowledged that we could expect more information on the morning news show and smiled bravely at the camera until Ken and Barbie took over with a promise to give us the weather outlook for the upcoming week.

  “Sheesh,” Caron said as she turned off the TV, “I was hoping we’d get to see the fairies and the drunken pirates. The only person I recognized is that guy who works part-time at the pizza place. He’s a dork.”

  Inez nodded. “Worse than my brother.”

  Having never met either of them, I had no opinion. “I’m surprised Madam Marsilia d’Anjou didn’t demand her fifteen seconds of fame.” When they looked blankly at me, I added, “Sally Fromberger, Farberville’s very own prioress.”

  Caron has minimal tolerance for adults who behave foolishly. “Can you believe she had the nerve to park her stupid cart in the middle of the food court and badger everybody who walked by. If ever there was a reason not to become a nun ...”

  “She wasn’t as creepy as that lady with the rags and trinkets pinned all over her,” Inez said. “Half the little kids in town will be having nightmares about her.”

  “Very creepy,” I said. “I’m sure you have phone calls to make, but let me ask you a question first. Did either of you go to the archery range during the afternoon?”

  Inez glanced at Caron, then said, “We took turns wandering around to look at things. I went to the archery range, but only for a minute. The guy—I guess the one who was killed—was talking to Mrs. Peru. You know, the Duchess. She had the same look that Miss Thackery had when she slapped Edward. Well, she was talking. He just looked pissed. I didn’t get close enough to hear what she was saying.”

  “Any idea what time?” I asked her.

  “An hour or so after the rush at lunch. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, mentally trying to formulate a timetable. “You two are dismissed. Don’t stay up all night.”

  Caron pursed her lips for a moment. “I guess we didn’t do a very good job of taking care of Edward, Mother. Is he okay?”

  “I don’t know. I spoke with him after the police arrived, so Miss Thackery didn’t do him any permanent injury.”

  “As long as he’s not locked in one of those awful portable potties,” she said, having absolved herself of guilt. “By late in the afternoon, we could smell them.”

  “But very authentic,” I pointed out. “Indoor plumbing was not a concept in the Renaissance era. Chamber pots were emptied on the street.”

  “Eeew,” Caron said as she went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Why is there never anything to eat in this house?”

  Somehow she managed to scrounge up enough to sustain them, and they retreated to her bedroom with chips, crackers, cookies, and sodas. I went out to the balcony and idly gazed at the campus lawn across the street while I tried to piece together the day’s events. In retrospect, the Renaissance Fair seemed more garish than a county fair midway. I could not retrieve the faintly euphoric glow when I’d swished down the walkways in my emerald-green gown. My clothes were at the farmhouse, but there was no urgency to fetch them. It would be no great loss if they were pitched. I would need my purse as soon as I could retrieve it, along with the non- medieval plastic bag with the unicorn and Mrs. Jorgeson’s garden gnome.

  I wondered how Lanya, Anderson, and the members of their court were holding up to intensive questioning by the police. Lieutenant Peter Rosen could be daunting, as I knew from personal experience. From what Caron and Inez had said, it sounded as though Fiona Thackery were already teetering on the threshold of an emotional breakdown. I could think of no other reason to explain her attack on Edward, unless she had convinced herself that he was responsible for Salvador’s death. But why would he be? He’d spent four years chasing down his biological father, who had turned out to be intelligent, successful, and reasonable (as far as I could tell). Likable when he was in the mood. If Edward had already presented him with the facts, then Salvador’s obtuse comments about being confused and wanting to talk it over with me made sense.

  Lanya had been devastated by the announcement of Salvador’s death, but it was hard to decide if that was because they’d been friends or they’d been lovers. I wasn’t convinced she’d halted her affair with Benny, despite what Salvador had told me. It was also possible that all of his gossip had been fabricated to intrigue me.

  I went back inside, locked the door, and headed for bed. I could hear squeals and giggles from Caron’s bedroom, which was normal on almost any night. If by some bizarre series of events, she landed in a priory under the benign guidance of Sally Fromberger, my daughter would undoubtedly be cloistered with her fellow novices, babbling about Sister Beatitude’s midnight cookie binges and Sister Sylvestor’s obsession with rosary beads.

  I was ambiguous about Peter’s unexpected arrival. I was delighted to see him, naturally, but his timing was inopportune—and his motive suspect. Jorgeson had been in communication with Peter, but he knew perfectly well that I wasn’t really involved in the recent peculiar happenings. Peter would not have been worried that I’d discovered a latent fondness for arson. But he wanted to talk. Something was afoot.

  I ground my teeth for a long while before I fell asleep.

  When I arose the next morning, I peeked into Caron’s room. Their outfits from the drama department were piled on the floor amid the remnants of their junk food fest. I found the telephone on the floor next to the bed and took it with me to the living room. I wasn’t in the mood to open the bookstore, but I’d promised Jorgeson that I would be available and I didn’t want to sit around and wait for his call. Half an hour later I went out through the kitchen and down the steps to the alley. I had no particular reason not to walk to the store and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine, since it was likely that I might be spending numerous hours in the police department later in the day. I’d done so in the past, and the ambience was not to be savored. The walls were painted a shade best described as municipal green, and the floors were grimy. The redolence was that of sweat and burned coffee.

  I was surprised to see a police car parked in front of the remains of Angle’s house. Being of a moderately curious nature, I stopped and waited until an officer came outside. Her face, hands, and uniform were caked with
sooty ashes, and she was limping. She gave me a chilly smile. “We’re not conducting tours, ma’am, so you might as well move along. If you cross the yellow tape, you’ll be charged with trespassing and interfering with an investigation.”

  “And good morning to you,” I said politely. “What are you looking for?”

  “Evidence.”

  I eyed her, not sure how to elicit information without landing in the backseat of one of the vehicles. Although I’ve never worn handcuffs, I doubted they were comfortable. The officer was shorter than I, but stocky and clearly not having much fun inside the house. “I saw the investigators several times last week. I guess I thought the investigation had been completed. It must be dreadful in there. You look exhausted.”

  She allowed herself to sigh. “It’s no damn picnic, that’s for sure. It’s filthy and it stinks. All I want to do is go home and take a long, hot shower, but we’ll probably be stuck here most of the day.” She clasped her hands together and stretched her arms above her head. “My back is killing me, and I’ve only been here an hour. I’m usually assigned to a desk job. I’d give anything to be filing reports and making coffee. My softball team’s playing tonight, but I’ll be too tired to swing a bat.”

  I grimaced as if I’d been in that very same predicament. “They certainly stuck you with a rotten job. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find whatever you’re looking for before too long. Is it something specific?”

  “I wish,” she said with a groan. “We have a lead on the woman who was killed in the fire last week. This morning someone at DHS called to report that one of their clients went missing two weeks ago. Her description matches what the lab has been able to determine about age and height. The missing woman broke her arm in a fall last February. The victim had a healed fracture just below the elbow, same arm. They also matched some kind of congenital jaw deformity. I don’t know why the captain has us here to sift through debris for more evidence to confirm the identity. It’s not like we’re going to find her driver’s license.”

  “Did the social worker have any idea how Angie came up with enough money to rent this house?”

  “The name wasn’t Angie,” the officer said. “Rose or Rosalyn, something like that. A sad case. Mid-forties, no relatives, in and out of psychiatric wards since she was a teenager. A couple of months ago, when she was on her meds, the social worker found her a minimum-wage job and a rooming house. Then two weeks ago the social worker dropped by to check on her. She’d disappeared—moved out of the rooming house and quit her job without giving notice. One of her coworkers overheard her say she’d found an easier job. It took the social worker a while to get around to filing a report with us. I guess they’re more concerned about children.”

  “I guess so,” I murmured.

  “Wilcoxen,” a male officer shouted from the precarious doorway, “what do you think you’re doing? The captain’ll bust you back to traffic control if he finds out you were giving information to a civilian.”

  “Oooh, what a threat,” she said wryly, then went back inside the skeletal structure.

  I continued toward the Book Depot, mulling over what I’d learned. Rose did not fit my impression of Angie, a card-carrying member of ARSE and a volunteer dance instructor. Edward could have met her at a fair when she was between bouts of hospitalization, but it was hard to imagine. Even if she’d found a better job, she’d been working for minimum wage. How could she have saved enough money to send a deposit to the owner of the blue house? All things were possible, I concluded as I arrived at the back door of the bookstore and dug through my purse for my key.

  The door was already unlocked. I stepped back and tried to think if there was any way I could have failed to lock it when I left the previous day. I had not left in a panic. I’d kept an eye on the time, and when Luanne drove up, I’d been ready to go. I was looking forward to the Renaissance Fair, but I wasn’t in a mad tizzy to get there and start buying unicorns. I could remember locking the front door, turning off the lights, unplugging the coffeepot, and locking the back door on my way out.

  I couldn’t stand in the parking lot indefinitely. Neither of the two options that came to mind appealed. Going inside might lead to an awkward encounter with an intruder. Trotting up to Sally’s health food restaurant to use her phone to call the police would result in a bothersome conversation with her. She might force me to eat a multi- grain muffin or a carob cookie while we waited. I was still trying to decide when the door opened and Edward looked out at me.

  “Aren’t you going to come inside, Claire?” he asked. “I’ve already started the coffee.”

  “How did you unlock the door?”

  “Magic shops stock more than top hats and rabbits. Look, if you’re afraid to come in, then say so and I’ll leave. You don’t happen to keep any clothes here, do you? I’m going to be conspicuous if I have to walk home in my jester’s garb. I really don’t want to attract any attention at the moment and end up at the police station.”

  “Are the police looking for you?” I asked, still unsure what to do.

  He shrugged. “I should think so. I can tell that I’m making you nervous, so I’ll go. Maybe I’ll find out where the railroad tracks lead. I’d rather sleep under a bridge than in a cell with a bunch of drunken rednecks.”

  Despite his nonchalant tone, I could see that he was exhausted and close to tears. “No, I’m not nervous,” I said, since I was too apprehensive to be merely nervous. “We’ll have some coffee and talk, but afterward you have to call the police. Do you promise?”

  “Scout’s honor.” He opened the door wider and waited until I came inside. “Do you mind not opening the store just yet? I don’t want to have to hide behind the boiler while you deal with customers.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sorry. It’s all too much for me. It’s crazy. None of it makes any sense. If I don’t talk to someone, I—I don’t know what I’ll do. Kiss off grad school and become a wandering minstrel. ‘Will juggle for food.’ It’s a career I never considered. “ He abruptly went into the tiny bathroom and closed the door.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down behind my desk. The only weapon I had in a drawer was a bottle opener given to me by a sales rep as a promotional gimmick. It lacked panache. I hoped Edward was pulling himself together, since I tend to be softhearted when faced with tremulous youth. I crossed my fingers as Edward emerged, relieved to note that he seemed more composed.

  “All right,” I said briskly, “let’s hear the whole story. When did you tell Salvador that he was your father?”

  Edward hesitated, perhaps disconcerted by my bluntness, then sat down across from me. “Friday afternoon—the day before yesterday. Less than forty-eight hours ago. I went to his house. Some peculiar woman let me in and told me he was in his studio. I couldn’t figure out who she was. Really spooky and not exactly glad to see me. Is she like a housekeeper or something?”

  “Close enough. So what happened?”

  “Salvador—I can’t bring myself to call him anything else—was cleaning brushes. I told him I had something important to tell him, so he suggested we go sit on the deck. All I could think to do was just blurt it out. He didn’t say anything at first, just went to the bar and made himself a drink, then sat back down and looked at me. I didn’t know what to say, so we sat there in silence for maybe ten minutes. Finally, he asked me if I had any proof. He didn’t sound upset or angry, just interested.”

  “Do you have any proof?” I asked.

  Edward slumped in the chair. “His name’s not on my birth certificate, but I have the legal right to require him to give a DNA sample.”

  “Even though you’re not a minor?”

  “Yeah, I looked into it. Judges order the parties to do it all the time, mostly in child support or custody cases, but also in ones like this. The test costs a couple of hundred dollars, and the results are entered into the record. Salvador said he’d cooperate voluntarily, but he figured that the results would show that he was my father.
He said my mother’s story was basically true, that they’d lived together one summer. He was really angry when she told him she was pregnant, because she was supposed to be on birth control pills. He was planning to go to New York and get into the art scene, and he had no intention of being stuck with a wife and kid. He gave her as much money as he could and left. Never heard from her again, never tried to get in touch with her.”

  “How do you think he felt about discovering he was a father twenty-two years after the fact?” I asked, trying to imagine the scene on the deck. “Did he act as though it was just a pesky little problem that could be resolved with an apology and a handshake?”

  “No,” Edward said. “He didn’t hug me and profess his affection, but he looked kind of pleased at the idea. Not thrilled, but not upset. He asked about my mother, and I told him about everything that she’d gone through to support me. He just sat there and nodded the whole time. Finally, when I couldn’t think of anything else to say, he said that we should probably have the DNA test, but he was willing to accept me as his son. Once he got used to the idea, he wanted to make things right. I told him I didn’t want anything from him, but he said he would acknowledge me publicly, support me while I was in grad school, and help me get my career started. We talked about my painting, and he insisted that he would take me to New York in the fall and introduce me to his important friends. If I wanted, I could use the room over the carport as a studio. It was better than any of my fantasies.”

  “So you went home and wrote the ballad,” I said.

  He grinned. “I wrote it ten years ago, when I was into King Arthur and those legends. Except for the archery stuff, of course. In my original version, the foundling’s father turns out to be a claimant to the throne who had some sort of dalliance with Guinevere while Arthur was off in battle. I revised it Friday night. It was supposed to be a surprise for…my father.” His grin vanished. “I was so happy yesterday. Then it all blew up in my face, like a damn grenade.”