Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos ml-3

by Donna Andrews

  "She specifically told us to keep firing sporadically all night," he said. "Said she wanted to make the experience more genuine. Help people understand what our forefathers and foremothers really went through."

  "Should have told her no, like you did with the live ammo," Mel said.

  "Live ammo?" I echoed.

  "First time she saw us fire the cannon, she heard me explain about the recoil," Jess said. "If we were firing real shells, the gun would recoil, oh, about fourteen feet on a piece this size. That's one reason they used a larger crew than we need; about six of the guys just hauled the cannon back in place after it fired. Also the reason we shout 'Stand clear!' before firing; make sure no one's standing behind it, 'cause anyone who was, they'd be toast. If we fired live ammo, that is. When you're just firing powder, you don't get much recoil at all."

  "And of course she didn't think that was authentic enough, did she?"

  "Thought I'd never get her to see what the problem was," the captain grumbled. "Those shells go a long way. They shelled the town from here, remember."

  "You could fire over the river," Michael suggested.

  "Oh, yeah, great idea," Jess said. "There're only about five hundred fancy yachts anchored out there right about now, with the festival on."

  "Sorry," Michael said.

  "Hey, we could aim at the highway," one of the crew suggested. "Course I wouldn't want to waste ammo on small fry like cars. Let's see how many eighteen-wheelers we can pot."

  "Tour busses," Mel advised. "You want to maximize your enemy casualties, go for the tour busses."

  "Don't mind him," the captain said. "Likes to pull the tourists' legs."

  "I hope they don't know where Mom lives," Michael muttered.

  "Getting back to the night firing," I said.

  "She doesn't hear gunfire, she'll say we're in breach of contract," Jess said.

  "Yes, but she's probably gone to bed by now."

  "Yeah, 'bout an hour ago," Mel said.

  "How do you know – " Michael began.

  "Always good policy, in the army, keeping track of what the brass are up to," Jess said, giving Mel a dirty look.

  "I'll make a deal with you," I said. "You cut out the cannon fire until, say, six A.M. and I'll make sure at least a dozen people go up to her tomorrow and complain about the cannon firing all night."

  Jess looked thoughtful.

  "And I'll even make sure a couple of people are nearby to tell them not to be so fussy. Once you get used to it you don't even hear die cannon, in case she doesn't remember hearing it herself."

  "Be nice to get some sleep, Jess," one of his men said.

  "And the same thing holds for the rest of the festival, if you stop firing between midnight and six A.M."

  "You sure you can manage that?" Jess said.

  "Absolutely," I said.

  "No problem," Michael added.

  "Shake on it then," Jess said. We shook hands, and cheers went up around the campfire. Several people said goodnight and scurried away toward tents, and Mel refilled everyone else's coffee mugs without a single complaint about the anachronistic preparation method.

  "I tell you what," the captain said, winking at his crew. "Let's fire the thing off one more time, just to seal the bargain."

  The crew leaped up with such enthusiasm that I didn't have the heart to protest. After all, I decided, it was so soon after the last shot that most people wouldn't have fallen back asleep.

  "In fact, you can help us," Jess said. "You can set the whole thing off."

  "Thanks, I appreciate the honor, but – "

  "We insist!"

  Okay, if it kept them quiet the rest of the night, I'd tap dance on the bloody cannon barrel. But to my surprise, instead of leading us to the cannon, Jess stopped in front of a tent at the edge of the encampment.

  "What's this?" I asked.

  "Go on, look inside," Jess said.

  Hesitantly, I lifted up one flap of the tent front – and found myself staring at a huge, gleaming, modern sound system, the kind roadies haul around to fuel rock bands.

  "Mel, Frank, run those speakers out," Jess ordered. "Carrie, you make sure the tape is cued up right."

  Mel and another soldier dragged out a pair of enormous speakers to flank the tent, while a homespun-clad woman put on a pair of earphones, fiddled with some of the controls of the sound system, and nodded to Jess.

  "Earplugs, everyone," Jess ordered. "You might want to put these on, ma'am. Now, on my cue, just hit that button Carrie's pointing to, and we'll give those no-good redcoats one last volley before we retire for the evening."

  I pressed the button and jumped back. Through the earplugs, I could faintly hear Jess's prerecorded voice ordering his crew through the steps of the firing drill, culminating in a satisfactorily loud boom.

  "That's it for the night, folks," Jess said. Mel and Frank put the speakers away while Carrie, putting the headphones back on, rewound the tape to the proper place.

  "That's how come we know your mother had already gone to bed," Jess explained, as we returned to the campfire. "As long as there's anyone here to watch us, we go through the whole drill. We like doing it, but it just seems a waste of time and powder to do the whole thing with no one watching. So we assigned a couple of our guys to take turns shadowing her. She heads our way, one of them uses the cell phone, calls my pager, and we're all correct by the time she gets here."

  "Brilliant," I said.

  "And so historically accurate," Michael murmured.

  "Well, hell, we're not nut cases," Jess said "We're big on authenticity, don't get me wrong. You get some guys, they're not interested in the history."

  "Just want to come out, fire off their black-powder guns a few times, then sit around and drink beer," Mel said, frowning at one of the other men lounging around the fire. The man lifted his mug, uttered an improbably loud belch as if it were a toast, and drained the mug.

  "Some others, they're so gung-ho they want to come out and pretend the twenty-first century doesn't exist," Jess said, with a glance at Mel. "Want to do everything exactly the way it was done back then, no matter how long it takes or if there's a good reason not to. Dig privies instead of using the chemical toilets. Drink unpasteurized milk. Boil their coffee like eggs. Hell, why don't they just go ahead and bleed people when they feel sick; that's pretty authentic."

  "People have a right to do what they like," Mel put in.

  "And I respect that right, as long as they don't come over and try to interfere with our right to do what we like."

  "Halt! Who goes there?" the sentry shouted.

  "Is Meg Langslow up here?" came the reply.

  "Oh, God," I said. "Wesley."

  "Someone you're trying to avoid?" Jess said. "We could send him back the way he came."

  "I wouldn't want to interfere with the freedom of the press," I said. "That's part of what you're all fighting for, isn't it? Let him pass if you want."

  A minute later, Wesley Hatcher scuttled over to where I was sitting.

  "I've been looking for you all night," Wesley said. "I understand you found the body!"

  "Body?" Jess said. "You mean all that talk about a murder was real? I thought it was just one of those weekend murder games."

  "Oh, it was real, all right," I said.

  "By the time they finally found someone to let me out, the body was gone, and there was nothing to see," Wesley complained. "I've got to get an interview with you!"

  "Wesley, as Mrs. Fenniman always says, the only thing you've got to do in this world is live until you die. Can I have another cup of your anachronism?" I asked, turning back to Jess.

  "Certainly, ma'am," he said. He served out coffee all round, and we studiously ignored Wesley, who paced up and down, whining an occasional complaint. He sounded pitiful, like a dog that badly needed to be let out.

  "Halt! Who goes there?" we heard again.

  "Place is Grand Central Station tonight," Mel muttered.

  "Danny must b
e loving it," one of the loungers said. "Usually hard to keep awake on sentry duty this time of night."

  "Hey, Jess," said one of the two men who now approached the campfire. "Xavier from the Victory Center wants to know if we could help him out by making some charges."

  "Hate to ask, when you're pretty busy all day," Xavier said. "But I'm really in a bind."

  "No problem," Jess said. "Thought you made these up way ahead of time, though."

  "We did, weeks ago, but we had a burst pipe in the storeroom last night," Xavier said. "Everything is soaked, including the charges."

  "Ouch," Jess said, and the men around the fire shook their heads in sympathy.

  "You want to learn how to do this?" Jess asked. Michael seemed interested, and I'd gotten my second wind, so Jess showed us how to cut trapezoidal pieces of paper in the proper size, measure the precise amount of gunpowder with a little scoop, roll the paper into a cylinder like a clumsy homemade cigar, and twist the ends closed.

  I thought it was a little incongruous that we were making authentic colonial-style musket charges using old copies of the Newport News Daily Press and the York Town Crier, but no one else even batted an eye.

  Wesley joined in, too, but I'm not sure how useful he was. He kept looking at me, as if hoping I'd reward him with an interview if he made enough cartridges.

  "Be real careful not to go over on the powder," Xavier said, not for the first time. "It's better to be a little short than to go over."

  "Just what are these cartridges for, anyway?" Michael asked.

  "A lot of times, when a reenactment takes place on park land, they arrange for us to hand out the ammo," Xavier said. "For safety reasons."

  "You get some of these guys, like to overcharge to get a bigger bang, and that gets dangerous," Jess said.

  "Not to mention the fools who do black-powder hunting with the same guns and aren't careful about keeping the live ammo separate from the blanks."

  "You mean this is what you'd use if you were shooting for real?" I asked. "With old newspapers and all?"

  "Sure," Xavier said. "I do a bit of black-powder hunting myself, and I always use the comics for the live ammo and the rest of the paper for the blanks, to be sure of keeping them straight."

  Was he pulling my leg?

  "You make the live rounds the same as we're doing it," Jess said. "Only after you've rolled one up and closed off the first end, you'd put the bullet in after the powder before you twist the other end closed. When you come to load the gun, you tear the cartridge open with your teeth and pour the powder down the barrel."

  "One of the few physical requirements for the Continental Army," Mel said. "Must have two teeth that meet, so you can tear cartridges open."

  "Dental care being what it was, a lot of guys couldn't qualify," Xavier put in.

  "Couldn't they just rip the cartridge open with their fingers?" Michael asked.

  "Yeah, but it'd be pretty hard, 'cause they'd already be juggling the gun and the ramrod." Jess said. "See, it goes like this."

  He took up his musket and demonstrated tearing the cartridge open with his teeth, tapping a small amount of powder in the firing pan, then tucking the paper cartridge into the end of the barrel.

  "If I was shooting live ammo, I'd leave the bullet wrapped in this paper, for wadding, which is what made the bullet fit snug in the barrel," he said. "Bullet on top of the powder, of course, or it's not going anywhere. Next I take the ramrod and make sure the charge is all the way down the barrel. And take the ramrod out and put it back in its holder. Last thing we need is ramrods flying every which way in the middle of a skirmish. Now the gun's loaded. If it wasn't the middle of the night, I'd fire her off and show you the cleaning routine, but you get the idea."

  "You're not going to leave that thing loaded, are you?" Xavier asked. Jess shook his head.

  "You use this worm to snake the charge out," he said, holding up an object like a corkscrew on a two-foot stem. We watched as he dug out the remnants of the cartridge, shook the gunpowder out of the barrel into the general supply, and blew the powder out of the firing pan.

  "Most any well-run reenactment either hands out ammo or does an inspection," Xavier remarked as we watched. "And most units do their own inspection, too, just in case."

  "Couldn't you tell by the weight of the cartridge that it was live?" I said. "I mean, the bullets are made of lead, right? So the live cartridges have to be heavier."

  "Yeah, but in the heat of battle, who notices?" Mel said. "You know what I mean," he added, turning to Michael.

  "I'm pretty new at this," Michael admitted.

  "Had an incident a long time ago where some fool shot a guy's hat off with live ammo," Xavier said, shaking his hat. "At least he was aiming high like he was supposed to."

  "And my guys wonder why the unit's insurance fees for the events keep going up," Jess said. "Even using blanks, you're supposed to aim over the enemy's heads. Blanks aren't harmless, you know; the paper cartridge still gets shot out, and at point-blank range that could put your eye out."

  I frowned, and looked over at Michael. Had he already heard all this from his unit, and not told me? Or was this his first exposure to the dire perils of his new hobby?

  "Gruesome," Wesley said, a little too eagerly. "Stuff like that happen often?"

  "Almost never," Jess said, squelching Wesley's hopes of an expose on the perils of reenacting.

  After a while, Michael spotted me yawning while I was trying to cut a cartridge paper and suggested that we head back to camp. We said goodnight to the cannoneers remaining around the campfire, and to the sentry when we passed him.

  "Or am I supposed to say 'Gatinois chasseurs' like you did when we came?" I asked Michael.

  "No, why would you?"

  "I don't know. What is 'Gatinois chasseurs,' anyway?"

  "It's my unit," Michael said, sounding mildly hurt. "I was identifying my unit to the sentry."

  "Oh," I said. "Sorry. I know how it's spelled, but that's not how I'd been pronouncing it."

  "I hadn't noticed that you'd been pronouncing it at all," Michael said, chuckling.

  "Well, no," I said. "Not out loud, anyway. But I was working my way up to pronouncing it, and that's not how I would have done it."

  "Hey, wait for me," Wesley called, scrambling after us. "I'm going your way, remember."

  "Give it up, Wesley," I said. "I'm too tired to talk about the murder."

  "Look, I need to know what happened," Wesley said.

  "Go see Monty," I said. "He warned us not to talk to the press."

  "It's not just for the story," he insisted. "I need to know for myself. I'm worried about my safety."

  "Considering some of the articles you write, I don't wonder," I said.

  "Hey, you don't have to tell me any details you're not supposed to mention, but just tell me this: could that Benson guy have been killed by mistake?"

  "By mistake?" I repeated.

  "He was wearing a blue coat, just like mine," Wesley said. "And we're about the same height and weight."

  "Wesley, dozens of men were wearing blue coats just like yours," I said. "And a lot of them were about your size."

  "Yeah, but how many had people who wanted to kill them?" Wesley said. "I know things. Things I haven't written about yet. Things that could ruin people's lives and stuff. I've had death threats, you know."

  "Yes, I know. I made a few myself back when you worked for the York Town Crier."

  "Anonymous death threats," he said. "And some of them came from some pretty scary people, people who wouldn't just make idle threats."

  "How would you know, if they were anonymous?"

  "Because I know who knows what I know!"

  "Not to mention who's on first base," Michael murmured.

  "Look," Wesley went on. "A lot of people saw your friend Tony chasing me off in the direction of the craft fair."

  "He's no friend of mine," I said.

  "What if one of them followed, intending to do
me in, and then got Benson by mistake? If there's any chance that was what happened, I have to take precautions."

  "Take them anyway," I said. "You know how people feel about paparazzi. Not ransacking my booth in the middle of the night would be a good precaution; that's what Benson was doing when he was killed. And not ticking off people who can lock you in the stocks. If the killer really was after you, you're lucky I came along, aren't you? Think how easily anyone could have sneaked up behind you and – "

  "Don't rub it in. I'm already having nightmares," Wesley grumbled. "Fm going to sue that jerk Tony for every penny he has, see if I don't."

  "You'll have to stand in line," I said. "First, I'm going to sue him for copyright infringement."

  "You don't let anything go, do you?" Wesley said. "I bet you still blame me for what happened after we went to the prom."

  "The prom?" Michael repeated.

  "Drop it, Wesley," I said.

  "You went to the prom with him?"

  "His prom, not mine; and not voluntarily," I said. "Our mothers ganged up on me after he couldn't get a date."

  "It wasn't like that at all," Wesley protested. "They asked me to do it as a favor. How many sophomores do you think went to the senior prom?"

  "One more than wanted to," I said. "Keep it down, Wesley. We're getting close to camp."

  "You do still blame me," he muttered. "And don't try to tell me you didn't wear those heels deliberately."

  I suppressed a giggle. Wearing four-inch heels, which made me a good five inches taller than Wesley, had been the only form of retribution I'd dared take at the time of the prom.

  I thought Wesley was going to follow us back to our tent and try to interrogate me again, but to my relief, just after we got into the crafters' section of the camp, he waved goodnight and ducked into his own tent.

  "Good riddance," I muttered.

  "What did happen after the senior prom?" Michael asked.

  "Not what you're thinking," I said.

  "How do you know what I'm thinking?"

  "Because whatever you're thinking, that isn't it," I said. "Some guys Wesley ticked off decided to play a prank on him.

  Kidnap him, strip him down to his underwear, and drop him off someplace with no wallet and no idea where he was. I guess they weren't expecting him to have a date along."