Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos ml-3

by Donna Andrews

  I hastily grabbed my cash box and my laptop and ducked behind the curtain into the storage area, where I nestled them safely in one of my metal storage cases, and padlocked the case.

  "Oops," Michael said. Apparently he'd tripped over my haversack and was now shoveling the contents back in.

  "Thanks," I said as he handed it over. "Although I don't think I had quite that much hay and straw in it to begin with."

  "Well, you never know when they might come in handy," he said, with a grin. "Come on. The party awaits."

  We left the craft-fair grounds, nodding good evening to the members of the Town Watch who were going to patrol it for the night, and headed for the party.

  The craft fair occupied a large field that belonged to the Park Service, just south of the small neighborhood where my parents lived, and separated from it by a two-lane blacktop road. If you followed the road west a few hundred yards, you'd arrive at the edge of the Yorktbwn Battlefields, where we were all encamped with our picturesque but uncomfortable period tents. Most of the reenactors had gone back there to attend one or more regimental meetings, rehearsals, or parties. By this time, we were almost the only ones heading in the other direction, toward Mrs. Waterston's party.

  We did run into someone we knew, though. When we glanced down the highway before crossing, I saw a sleek Jaguar, pulled off to the side of the road, its silver paint glowing in the fading light. The driver's side window was open, and someone in one of the generic rental coats was leaning down, talking to a sleekly coifed blond woman inside.

  "That'd make a great photo," Michael said, nodding toward the car. "Study in contrasts, then and now, and all that."

  Then the pedestrian straightened up and we recognized him.

  "Benson," I said, though not loudly enough that the man himself could hear me. He glanced round, as if looking to see if anyone had seen him. We pretended not to notice him, and he hurried off ahead of us. The car drove away in the other direction, past us, and back toward the battlefields and town. The driver didn't seem to notice us.

  "Wonder what he's up to," Michael mused.

  "Something sinister," I said. "I think Tad is right; I don't trust that man."

  "I don't know," Michael said. "You'd mink a really hardened villain would have figured out how to skulk around without the telltale furtive body language."

  "Yeah, he might as well just jump up on the table and shout, 'Look at me! I'm up to something!" I said. "But just because he's a bad actor doesn't mean he isn't a villain."

  "Recognize the woman he was talking to?" Michael asked.

  "No," I said. "Don't think she's from around here."

  "Well, let's not worry about it," he said. "You can tell Rob you think the guy is crooked, and that'll be the end of it."

  "Good idea," I said, and felt a lot more cheerful. The very idea of Rob telling Benson to take a hike made me more cheerful. In fact, if Rob balked, I might even volunteer to do the job myself.

  Buoyed by the thought of telling off Benson, I led Michael along the path toward the Moore House, the white-frame farmhouse where, in 1781, the British and Americans had signed the surrender documents to end the siege of Yorktown and, for all practical purposes, the Revolutionary War. Mrs. Waterston wanted to hold her party inside, but the Park Service hadn't approved. They'd let her use the grounds, though. As we drew near, I could see that the house was softly lit from within, as if by candlelight – although knowing how picky they were about fire hazards in historical buildings, I doubted they used real candles.

  Strings of lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating the lawn with pools of light and pockets of shadow. Electric lanterns, of course, which probably irritated Mrs. Waterston, but they had the kind of flickering bulb that could almost fool you into thinking of real candles. A string quartet played soft classical music, and I could hear the faint hum of conversation.

  Mrs. Waterston swept through one lighted area. Either I'd forgotten how extreme her costume was, or she'd gone home to put on an even taller wig. I glanced down at my sensible linsey-woolsey gown, feeling underdressed.

  "Don't worry," Michael said, catching my glance. "Mrs. Tranh has a ball gown for you."

  I sighed. Mrs. Tranh was Mrs. Waterston's partner in the dress shop. Like everyone else in town, I'd originally assumed Mrs. Tranh worked for Mrs. Waterston. Over Memorial Day weekend, after watching the strike scenes in a TV rerun of Norma Jean and imbibing a few too many glasses of Merlot, I'd become quite agitated about Mrs. Waterston's apparent exploitation of Mrs. Tranh and her other Asian employees. I had threatened to go down to Yorktown and organize the downtrodden sewing ladies. I had visions of us singing "We Shall Overcome" in Vietnamese, while waving beautifully embroidered protest banners.

  Michael had spoiled all my fun by revealing how things really worked. His mother and Mrs. Tranh each owned half of the business. Mrs. Tranh hired and managed the seamstresses, kept the books, paid bills and taxes, ordered fabric and other supplies, and generally ran the place.

  "So what does your mother do, anyway?" I'd asked.

  "Well, she got together the initial capital, and she handles sales and marketing," Michael said. "And she deals with the customers. Mrs. Tranh would hate doing that."

  True, but still, if you asked me, Mrs. Tranh was doing the lion's share of the work, yet having to split the profits fifty-fifty. Perhaps that accounted for Mrs. Tranh's dogged insistence on not speaking English with Mrs. Waterston.

  I knew perfectly well that Mrs. Tranh could speak reasonably fluent, if somewhat eccentric, English and that she understood the language almost perfectly. The only time she ever pulled the "je ne comprends pas" line on me was when I tried to disobey her orders.

  With Mrs. Waterston, however, she insisted on speaking only French. Mrs. Waterston's French was considerably worse than mine.

  "Anyway, she's done a wonderful costume for you," Michael said, interrupting my wandering thoughts.

  "Oh, dear," I said. "As hot and sweaty as I am, I'd rather crawl into a bath, not a brand-new costume."

  "You'll hurt her feelings," he said, "and mine. I helped her figure out what to make."

  "It doesn't have panniers, does it?" I asked. "I am not wearing panniers."

  "I have no intention of disfiguring you with panniers," Michael said. "That has got to be one of the most ludicrous, unflattering fashions ever invented."

  "Amen," I said. "But let's not tell your mother."

  "Of course not," Michael said. "But having seen Mom's idea of colonial fashion, I'm thinking next year we should forget about the Revolution and reenact the War of 1812. I'm rather partial to Empire fashions – all those low cut, clinging, diaphanous gowns – "

  "Oh, is that what you have in mind for my ball gown?" I said. "Much better than the panniers."

  "I wish," he said. "Ah, there's Mrs. Tranh."

  Mrs. Tranh's stern features broke into a smile when she saw us. She was standing by the costume racks with two of "the ladies," as she called her seamstresses. We had managed to convince Mrs. Waterston that requiring costumes of mere spectators would decimate attendance, but for certain key events that were open mostly to staff – such as her welcoming party for the crafters – Mrs. Waterston had made costumes mandatory. Just in case anyone showed up without a costume, Mrs. Tranh had brought a large rack of the rental costumes – colonial dresses in demure Williamsburg colors and a range of sizes for the women, and for the men, a collection of shirts, knee breeches, and coats. Mrs. Tranh and the ladies were there to collect the modest rental fee and help stuff the guests into costumes.

  At the moment, Mrs. Tranh seemed to have her hands full.

  Two men had arrived wearing Hawaiian shirts so garish that even Dad would have turned up his nose at them, over cutoffs so ragged they contained more hole than cloth. I recognized both of the men wearing these glaring anachronisms as fellow crafters – a soapmaker and a leatherworker – and would have waved if I thought I could get their attention. They were both intent
on escaping to the bar. They didn't stand a chance. Mrs. Tranh's ladies routinely dealt with brides having prewedding hysterics and bridesmaids whose mood veered toward homicidal when they saw their dresses and realized the acute embarrassment and physical torture their supposed good friends were inflicting on them. Dealing with a few reluctant men would be child's play.

  The clothing rack was already two-thirds full of confiscated modern garments. Normally, only a minority of my fellow crafters favored gaudy Hawaiian shirts, shorts in fluorescent colors or horse-blanket plaids, and other luridly colored garments – we were a diverse crowd, but jeans and natural fibers tended to dominate most gatherings. I suspected a plot to sabotage the period purity of the party, but Mrs. Tranh and the ladies would take care of that.

  "Hello, dear," came my mother's voice from behind me.

  "Hello, Mother," I said, turning. "How are – "

  I stopped short, my jaw hanging open, when I saw Mother's costume. She had outdone herself, as usual. More to the point, she had outdone Mrs. Waterston, and I had no doubt it was deliberate. I glanced over at Mrs. Waterston who, luckily, was playing gracious hostess to a group of newly arrived guests. She hadn't seen Mother's costume yet, and if I ran for cover now, I might make it far enough from ground zero before she did.

  Still, I couldn't help lingering long enough to compare the two. Mother's outfit went just a little bit further than Mrs.

  Waterston's did, in every way I could think of. Her white powdered wig was a few inches taller, and sported a noticeably more varied collection of bows, flowers, baubles, and artificial birds. At least I hoped they were all artificial. Her waist was laced smaller, and her panniers were a few inches broader. Her overskirt seemed to have at least one more set of ruffles than Mrs. Waterston's, and her petticoat definitely had a slightly wider lace edging. About the only thing not bigger and better was the beauty mark. Although, come to think of it, I didn't remember Mrs. Waterston sporting a second beauty mark. Mother had one, perched precariously at the edge of her decolletage, which was, of course, alarmingly more extreme than Mrs. Waterston's.

  Mother swept away, fanning herself with a fan ever so slightly more ornate than Mrs. Waterston's.

  "Your mother looks nice," Michael said, in a suspiciously noncommittal tone.

  "Yes, I can't wait to see your mother's reaction," I said.

  He rolled his eyes.

  "It's very odd, don't you think?" I went on. "It's almost as if she knew exactly what your mother was wearing and deliberately set out to show her up."

  "But how could she possibly know that?" Michael said.

  I pointed to Mrs. Tranh, who, while ostensibly supervising her seamstresses, had turned her attention to the party and was glancing intently from Mother to Mrs. Waterston and back again.

  "Oh, God," he said. "They must be feuding again. I hate it when they do that."

  Maybe the party wouldn't be so boring after all, I thought, as Michael and I approached Mrs. Tranh.

  "We got your costume," she said. "You go in dressing room and change now."

  "I wish you hadn't gone to so much trouble," I said.

  "I rather make ten dress for you than one of those," she said, indicating the blandly pretty colonial dresses on the rack.

  "Yes, but this whole weekend is already such a lot of work for you."

  She shrugged.

  "No problem," she said. "Lot of work; lot of money for the ladies. Lot of work for her, too," she added, jerking her head at Mrs. Waterston, who was over by the bar, apparently giving the bartender the third degree about something.

  "Yes, isn't it lovely how it's kept her out of your hair for so long," I said.

  Mrs. Tranh rolled her eyes.

  "Don't worry," I said. "I'm sure she'll find another project before too long."

  "She better," Mrs. Tranh muttered. "You and Michael gonna get married, maybe? Let her plan the wedding?"

  Michael chuckled. Had he put her up to this, the rat? Or had she come up with the idea on her own? Either way, I wished she'd drop the subject.

  "I should change," I said.

  "Make it a big wedding, biggest one we ever had in town," Mrs. Tranh said. "Keep her busy for a whole year, planning a wedding like that."

  "I'll keep it in mind," I said, retreating toward the dressing room.

  "And grandchildren!" Mrs. Tranh called after me. "Plenty of grandchildren! Keep her real busy!"

  I ducked into the dressing room. Outside, I could hear Michael laughing and talking with Mrs. Tranh in a mishmash of French and Vietnamese. I pressed a hand to my cheek, which felt hot. Was it the weather, or my embarrassment? Dammit, I thought, I wish everyone would stop trying to push us toward the altar. Maybe my problem wasn't fear of commitment; maybe it was just plain, old-fashioned stubbornness. Maybe if everyone started trying to pry Michael and me apart….

  Later, I told myself, and I shed my workday gown and turned to see what Mrs. Tranh and her ladies had made.

  They'd designed it to go with Michael's white-and-gold uniform that was clear. Off-white dupioni silk shot with gold threads, and trimmed with lots of lace, most white but some gold.

  The improvised dressing room contained a full-length mirror. I held the dress up in front of me and sighed. I couldn't just let Mrs. Tranh do this for me for nothing. Even though Michael had probably already paid her, I had to do something to thank her.

  First, of course, I had to get into the dress. And for that I was going to need help; it hooked up the back. And was it my imagination…no, I spread the material at the waist to see how it fit. Definitely too small. I wasn't fat, but I wasn't anorexic either; I could see no chance of squeezing into that dress.

  I heard the curtain rustle. Mrs. Tranh, I assumed, or one of her ladies, come to help me into the dress. I'd have to break the news that they'd miscalculated, I thought as I turned.

  And found myself looking up at Michael.

  "Mother would have a fit if she saw the glaring anachronisms you're wearing instead of plain, sensible, colonial undergarments," he said, putting his arms around my waist. "Although I rather like them."

  "Not surprising," I said, reaching up to put my arms around his neck. "You picked them out. Do you own stock in Victoria's Secret or something?"

  "No, but maybe I should buy some," he said, reaching down to kiss my neck.

  "You should," I said. "Might as well get something out of all the money you spend there."

  "Oh, I do," he said, with the sort of soft laugh that distracted me completely from the business of getting into the costume.

  I was about to suggest that we skip the party and adjourn to our tent when I heard Mrs. Waterston's voice outside, berating someone. .

  "Damn," Michael said. I had reason to believe his thoughts had been running along the same lines as mine, but his mother's voice brought both of us back to Earth. "We don't dare leave her alone for long; she's so keyed up there's no telling who she'll upset. I'd better behave, and lace you into your costume."

  "Hook me up, actually, but I don't think it's going to work," I said. "This thing is definitely too small."

  "Not when you put the corset on," Michael said.

  "Corset?" I said. "You've got to be kidding!"

  But no, when I looked back at the hook on which the dress had been hanging, there was, indeed, a white-and-gold corset. The real thing, with boning and laces up the back.

  "You're right," I said. "Although they'd have called it 'stays' in this time period."

  "I stand corrected."

  "Look at all the work she put into this," I said, "All that lace and decorative stitching that no one will ever see."

  "I think it was intended for a small but select audience," Michael said. "She told me you'd need help getting into it."

  "Badly thought out," I said. "It should be designed so I need help getting out of it."

  "Oh, I'm sure you will," he said.

  Although it took longer than expected, for one reason or another, Michael eventua
lly managed to lace me into the stays – not all that tightly, thank goodness. I'm not into bondage. But it did take enough off my waist that the white-and-gold gown fit like a second skin.

  "I suppose we'd better go out and let Mrs. Tranh admire her creation," Michael said.

  "And see what your mother has gotten up to," I added.

  "That, too," he said.

  "I like this dress already," I said. "It's probably an anachronism of the first order, but she's given me pockets."

  I put a few essentials in the pockets and stepped outside, where we allowed Mrs. Tranh and the ladies to ooh and ahh over their handiwork for a few minutes. Then we braced ourselves and stepped out into the party.

  We must have stayed longer in the dressing room than I realized – the party had gotten crowded, and almost all of the rental costumes were in use. The effect was rather impressive, as if we'd really been transported back into colonial Yorktown.

  At least from a slight distance. Closer up, women didn't look too bad – "One size fits most" is easier to achieve with period dresses. Although most weren't wearing stays, of course, so they hadn't quite achieved what I was now learning to recognize as the authentic period silhouette.

  The men, alas, looked pretty motley. Apparently, Mrs. Tranh had estimated on the small side in making the men's costumes, and a fair number hadn't been able to get into the tight knee breeches. Looking around, I could spot half a dozen men whose costumes looked perfectly fine until you noticed that beneath their blue coats you could spot denim or fluorescent polyester or garish plaid.

  Luckily, Mrs. Tranh and the ladies had also made a lot of what the reenactors called "overalls" – though to me, they looked more like long white gaiters. The overalls began at midthigh and reached down to cover the tops of the shoes, which meant that you only caught occasional glimpses of the modern pants when their wearers walked. Or modern shoes, for that matter. Evidently Mrs. Waterston hadn't even tried to provide period shoes, simply instructing people to show up in dark shoes if they didn't have proper footgear. She'd had me make a quantity of large buckles that could be clipped onto a shoe to give at least a suggestion of authenticity. I saw my handiwork gracing a remarkably wide range of shoes. They made penny loafers and black leather Reeboks look rather plausible, at least from a distance, but I wasn't sure they did anything to improve the authenticity of Air Jordans.