I was about to work my way closer to them, to see if I could do anything to distract them, when I sensed someone coming up behind me. I caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of one of Mrs. Waterston's ubiquitous blue rental coats.
Not again, I thought.
"So what's the scoop with this Faulkner character?" Wesley Hatcher said stepping a little closer. "Where have I seen him before?"
"At craft fairs, I suppose," I said, wincing inwardly. "He's a nationally known blacksmith."
"No, that's not it," he said. "I don't normally waste a lot of time at these things, but I know I've seen him somewhere."
Unfortunately, he probably had, in a way. Faulk and his prominent patrician father did have a strong family resemblance, and I could imagine how old Mr. Cates would react if he found his family's private life plastered across the front page of the Snooper.
"I know there's a story there somewhere," Wesley mused.
"Wesley, could you interrogate me later?" I said. "I have a bit of a headache."
Which was, I realized, not entirely a lie.
"Probably oxygen deprivation," Wesley said. "I don't know how you can breathe in that outfit."
"Wesley – "
"Although, come to think of it, I can see it every time you do breathe."
"Very funny."
"Hey, you don't feel a sneeze coming on, do you? I'd love to see that."
He had, I realized, inched close enough so that he was now staring down the front of my bodice. He must have had enough alcohol to overcome his previous caution.
"Wesley, if you drool on me, you'll be the one with the headache," I said, taking a giant step away. "In fact, if you don't go away this minute, I will claim you tried to paw me, and even the people who don't know you will believe it when they see this dress."
"Spoilsport," Wesley said, but he knew better than to argue with me. He melted into the crowd, heading toward the bar. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. Maybe I shouldn't have chased Wesley away. At least when he was leering at my cleavage, he wasn't pumping anyone else for information on Tad and Faulk. Maybe I should go after him.
But no, someone else had already distracted him. Tony-the-louse, who had been standing by the bar, drinking steadily, greeted Wesley's arrival with a bellow of rage.
"You lousy snoop!" he shouted, and threw his pewter mug at Wesley.
"Hey!" Wesley said, as the mug bounced off his head. "What do you think you're doing?"
"If you publish that damned article, I'll rip you in two," Tony said, lurching forward to grab Wesley by the arm.
"Leave me alone," Wesley said, shaking Tony's grip off while backing away.
"Cheap, shoddy workmanship!" Tony roared. "Wait till I test one of my pokers on your head! See how shoddy that is!"
Wesley turned and ran. Tony gave chase, and they careened through the party like billiard balls. Conversation stopped until they broke free of the crowd, and then resumed, as Tony, loping slowly but persistently, disappeared in the direction he thought Wesley had taken.
I wondered, briefly, if someone should go after them. Probably unnecessary, I decided. Drunk as he was, I didn't think Tony could catch Wesley, much less do him any harm. And judging by the frown on Mrs. Waterston's face, I had every hope she'd declare each of them persona non grata for the rest of the festival. I closed my eyes again and smiled slightly, contemplating the prospect of Wesley getting kicked out of Yorktown, or at least banned from the craft fair.
"Good job, lady."
I opened my eyes to see another of Mrs. Waterston's blue rental coats, this one containing Roger Benson. Someone had made the mistake of letting him get his hands on a pewter mug that probably held at least a pint and a half of liquid, and the bartenders had compounded the mistake by filling it with something alcoholic – probably more than once, from the boiled lobster color of bis face, which nearly matched die bloodstains on his shirt.
"It's your doing, I know that," he said, slurring his words slightly. "Told that brother of yours to hold out on me. Think you can hold me over the barrel for more money."
"That's not the idea at all," I said.
"Crap!" he said, lurching forward and thrusting his face toward mine. Since we were almost the same height, I found myself standing practically nose-to-nose with him – close enough to identify the fumes from his mug as gin and tonic rather than beer. "You don't mean you really believe I stole some lousy program from that miserable little – "
"It's nothing personal, Mr. Benson," I said, interrupting him before he could say anything about Tad that would make me really lose my temper. "But I'm sure you can see that, under the circumstances, it's better for all concerned if we clear up these accusations before proceeding."
"I can't believe you'd actually listen to that crap from Jackson," Benson went on. "You know what they're like – pathological liars, every one of them."
"I've found most of the programmers I've met are unusually honest," I said. "Maybe a little overly literal, but I suppose they can't help that. Or were you talking about MIT graduates? I admit, I do find them a little vague on the difference between reality and cyberspace, but you know, it's not really Tad's fault. They offered him a better scholarship than Caltech and Carnegie-Mellon."
"I don't care where he went to school. He's lying."
"Mr. Benson, I've known Tad for some months, and I've never had any reason to suspect him of lying," I said. "I barely met you five hours ago, and already, if I knew where you were staying, I'd call them up and tell them to lock up the silverware. Don't push it."
"Go ahead, Missy," he said, taking another step forward and spilling some of his gin and tonic on my skirt. "If you want to screw up your brother's chances of ever getting his miserable little game published, just keep on the way you're going. If I were you – "
"If I were you, I'd drop it," I said.
"But – "
"Get the hell out of here," I hissed.
Benson opened his mouth, then realized, even through the alcohol, how serious I was. He lurched away. I saw him stop by the bar for a refill, then he left the party. Good riddance.
Yes, I was definitely getting a headache. If I were a better person, I would go in search of Faulk and/or Tad; hunt down Mother and keep her away from Mrs. Waterston; mingle with the crowd to show off Mrs. Tranh's handiwork; or do any one of a thousand things to make the party a success. Instead, I snagged another glass of wine from a passing waiter and moved a little farther back into the shadows, hoping no one would notice me.
I could see Michael standing in a small group that included Dad, Mrs. Fenniman, Aunt Phoebe, and Uncle Stanley, within easy reach of the food tables and only a few paces away from the bar. They were all talking animatedly about something. A kamikaze installation of wrought-iron flamingos throughout the neighborhood, perhaps? Probably not. There were bound to be laws against that, and Uncle Stanley was a judge – a federal judge, though. Maybe federal judges didn't care about mere local infractions.
As I watched, Michael stepped toward the bar – a little away from the ffonp, but still close enough to talk to them over his shoulder. I watched as he ferried fresh drinks back to my relatives. I thought of joining them, then decided I was better off where I was. I'd rather be back in the tent, preferably with Michael. I'd have suggested leaving, but I knew that a few more glasses of wine would greatly increase the odds that, when we got there, Michael would be too busy helping me out of my stays to get into a discussion about the state of our relationship.
Someone cleared his throat behind me, and a hand touched my upper arm. I could see that the hand emerged from a sleeve of the now-familiar blue that both Wesley and Benson were wearing.
Okay, I should have stopped to take a deep breath and counted to ten, but I'd had it with these jerks.
"Dammit!" I said, whirling around. "Just leave me the hell alone, will you? I don't want to – "
I suddenly realized that I was yelling at cousin Horace who, of course, was weari
ng one of Mrs. Waterston's standard-issue blue coats, like Wesley and Benson and half the men at the party.
"Sorry, sorry," he was muttering, backing away as if from a rattlesnake.
"I'm sorry, Horace," I said. "I thought you were someone else."
"I usually am," he said, continuing to back away with a fixed smile on his face.
"Horace! Wait. I – oh, never mind," I said, as Horace collided with a waiter carrying a food tray and melted into the crowd under cover of the falling hors d'oeuvres. People were staring at me, including several disapproving relatives.
Well, I couldn't blame them. Shouting at poor, harmless Horace had to be a new low, even for me. I don't think I'd have felt any worse if I'd kicked Spike. Actually, Spike sometimes deserved kicking, while poor Horace…
Clearly I was unfit for human company right now. People were turning back to their conversations, and from my place at the edge of the lighted area, I found it easy to slip into the shadows under the trees. No one seemed to notice my absence – not even Michael, still absorbed in his animated discussion with Dad.
Which was okay. I needed some time alone. My mother was fond of remarking how wonderful it was that Meg had grown up from a cantankerous child into such an even-tempered young lady. The first time I heard her say it, I burst out laughing. I felt as if I'd spent half my life searching for ways to control my temper. I'd discovered a lot of great stuff along the way – yoga, for example, and even my ironworking career. Pounding on things with a hammer does wonders to work off anger. But I still thought of myself as a volcano waiting to blow. Although these days I usually managed not to blow until I was by myself, and to get my anger out of my system before going back into the human race again. Which isn't my definition of even-tempered, but I suppose it's better than nothing. Lurking in the shadows wasn't going to do the trick tonight, though. I needed someplace more private where I could pace, mutter, curse, and maybe even kick a few things for good measure.
There was precious little privacy to be found in the tent city where Michael and I were camping. Mother and Dad were hosting the usual motley assortment of relatives, some of whom were sure to be lurking around the house.
The booth. No one would be at the fair grounds this time of night. I could not only get the privacy I needed, but I could even work off some of my temper rearranging my ironwork. And, come to think of it, I would feel better if I collected my cash box and laptop and took them to the tent. Even though I had locked them in the storage cases, I'd actually rather have them with me.
I fished in my pocket and checked the wristwatch I'd hidden there. It was nearly ten; the party was supposed to go on until eleven. I'd have at least an hour to cool down and meet Michael back here at the party.
I slipped away, stopping by the dressing room to collect my haversack from Mrs. Tranh's ladies. The string quartet faded in the distance as I strode down the lane toward the craft-fair grounds. I fumbled in my haversack until I found the laminated badge that identified me as one of the exhibitors and hung it around my neck, just in case I ran into any nitpicking members of the Town Watch, although that seemed unlikely. The last time I'd looked they were all at the party, diligently guarding the buffet tables and the cash bar.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, I thought, as I slipped through the silent lanes, starting at shadows. The party noise seemed far behind now. Even the intermittent boom of the artillery sounded subdued, and the crackle of my footsteps on the straw-covered lane seemed deafening. And then, as I neared the town square –
"Help!" came a cry. "Can anyone hear me? Help!"
I quickened my steps and got a good grip on my haversack, so I could use it as a weapon if need be, all the while telling myself I was an idiot for not going in search of help. The bag wasn't much of a weapon, and if I actually had to cosh someone with it, I'd probably break my cell phone.
When I reached the square, I stepped on something. A hand. I peered down, and saw Tony-the-louse lying facedown on the gravel.
"Tony!" I exclaimed. I bent down and touched the hand. Still warm. I was about to check for a pulse when a loud snore reassured me that Tony wasn't dead. Only dead drunk.
"Meg? Is that you?"
Wesley's voice. I recognized it now.
"Wesley?" I called. "What's wrong? Where are you?"
"Over here."
"Over where? In case you hadn't noticed, it's a little dark out here."
"Over here in the stocks."
I ventured further into the square, until I could see the stocks. I could also see Wesley's back, rump, and legs. He was wiggling, trying either to escape from the stocks or to turn and look at me, but his head and arms were pinioned too tightly for either.
I strolled around to the front of the stocks. Wesley, still trying to break free, rattled the padlock that secured the stocks.
"There you are!" he said.
I checked the padlock. It wasn't just for show. Someone had locked it. And the spare key wasn't hanging on the hook beneath the platform where we left it in case of accidents.
"Don't just stand there, get me out," Wesley said.
"I'd be happy to if I knew where the key was."
"That idiot Tony has it, of course."
"You might have mentioned that before I walked all the way over here," I said, turning back to where Tony lay snoring.
But Tony didn't have the key – not in his hand or any of his pockets, and I didn't find it lying on the ground around him.
"He must have dropped it while he was capering around," Wesley said, when I reported my failure.
"Capering around?"
"After he locked me up, he was running up and down the square, taunting me until he passed out," Wesley said. "You'll need to search around some more."
"Fat chance," I said. "See you."
"You can't abandon me here!" Wesley shrieked.
"I'm not abandoning you. I'm going in search of help," I said. "I'm sure one of the other watchmen has the key, and if I can't find one, I'll use Horace's wrench and unbolt the hinge on the other side."
"Hurry up," Wesley grumbled.
I felt a little less nervous as I left the square for the lane leading to my booth. And, I had to admit, also a lot less out-of-sorts. Seeing Wesley in the stocks had improved my mood, and taking refuge on the familiar ground of my booth – not to mention taking possession of my laptop and my cash box – would complete the recovery, I was sure. Illogical, of course, since the ground my booth stood on was no more familiar than a hundred other small squares of land on which Eileen and I had set it up over the last few years. Still, the booth was, however temporarily, my turf. But instead of feeling safe, I felt my anxiety soar when I stepped into the booth and looked around.
It was a shambles. Half the ironwork on the table had been tipped over, and the rest had been knocked off to join the jumbled heap on the ground.
A strong wind? No, Eileen's pottery was completely undisturbed. Even the spray of dried heather gracing one delicate vase barely stirred in the still, humid air. Someone had vandalized my side of the booth.
"Tony, you snake," I muttered, as I reached down to set a candelabrum upright.
Which probably wasn't fair; I could think of a few other people who might have it in for me. But for some reason I was sure Tony had done this.
Even if I hadn't known about the time he'd done the same thing to Faulk's booth, I'd have guessed; it was just his style.
Crude. Mindless. And ultimately ineffective, since he'd at least had the decency to leave Eileen's stuff alone, and he'd have had to work a lot harder – and use better tools – to cause any permanent damage to my stuff.
Unless he'd gone after my laptop, I thought, suddenly. Or unless someone had cleverly faked the kind of damage Tony would do as a cover-up for a raid on my cash box.
I put down the andirons I'd been picking up, rushed to the back of the booth, and swept the curtain open. I was expecting to find a similar scene of shambles – the storage case jimmied ope
n, fragments of my laptop strewn around, my cash box overturned and empty, save for a few small coins.
I wasn't expecting to find a body.
"Well, at least he's in period," I muttered, as I looked down at the body. Whoever he was – his face was hidden by an inexpensive tricorn hat – he was wearing one of Mrs. Waterston's ubiquitous blue colonial coats. With my falcon dagger buried to the hilt in the middle of the back.
I backed away, rumbled in my haversack, and managed to locate my cell phone. Thank heaven for anachronisms. It took me two tries to hit the ON button, and I was so rattled that I got directory assistance instead of 911 the first time I dialed.
"I do hope you're somebody I used to like," I said to the body as I stood looking down at it and waiting for the police to arrive. "Not a lot, of course; but if you're someone I didn't like, the sheriff will probably arrest me on the spot." At least that was the way it always happened in the mystery books my dad constantly read and recommended to me – the cops loved to suspect whoever found the body. Owning the murder weapon and the scene of the crime probably weren't too cool either. I found myself resenting the deceased, whoever he was, for managing to involve me so thoroughly in his murder.
And of course, by that time, I couldn't stand not knowing who he was. I picked up a pair of iron firewood tongs, stepped a little closer to the body again, and used the tongs to lift up the edge of the tricorn hat, just enough to see his face.
Roger Benson.
"Damn," I said, letting the tricorn hat fall back into place. I could feel my headache kick in again, just at the sight of him, even before I started to consider all the complications his murder could cause.
"So, what's the problem here?" came a familiar voice from behind me.
"Someone's been murdered, Sheriff," I said "Murdered!" the sheriff exclaimed. "Oh, dear."
He stepped forward, rather hesitantly, and peered at the body.
"He's in costume," he said.
"Most of us are," I said. Including, of course, the sheriff himself, who had changed out of his tomato-spattered blue colonial coat into another one in an astonishingly vile shade of greenish mustard.
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