by Robbi McCoy
She nodded. “Don’t worry. There’s going to be a big crowd there. It’s a public event. I won’t do anything foolish.”
Raven gave her a warm hug, then Kyle did the same.
“Don’t forget to call that number,” she cautioned. “Sophie’s life may depend on it.”
“We won’t,” Kyle assured her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Come: The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.
—Hamlet, Act III, Scene 2
It was impossible for Sophie to erase the image of poor little frightened Poppy from her mind as she drove into town, berating herself for not taking that pompous Bâtarde more seriously. Was he really depraved enough to turn Poppy into a stew? At the thought, she nearly started crying, but reined in her emotions.
She parked downtown at twenty after five, hoping she wasn’t too late to catch Wren, and rushed toward the Stratford Inn. Raven was sitting in front of the pub with another man, just the two of them, Raven facing her and the other man with his back to her. They were sitting close, their hands knit together on top of the table. His boyfriend, no doubt, Sophie thought. Her guess was confirmed when Raven leaned into the other man and kissed him on the lips.
As she walked rapidly toward them, Raven’s companion turned to look in her direction and she froze in midstride. It was Wren’s husband Kyle! Wren’s brother was kissing Wren’s husband, Mr. Not Straight and Narrow! At that instant, Raven saw her and stood, looking shocked. As well he might! She felt her knees buckle. She thought for sure she was going down, but she wrapped herself around a lamppost and held herself up through sheer determination. If my legs weren’t jelly, I’d run away this instant, she thought.
Raven was watching her, looking concerned, and then he was bounding toward her. He reached an arm around her waist and pulled her up against him, supporting her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked breathlessly. “How did you escape?”
Sophie’s head was spinning. “Escape?”
She forced her legs squarely under her and was finally able to stand under her own power. She noticed Kyle was here too.
“I’m okay,” she assured them, observing the concern on both their faces, which seemed all out of proportion to her momentary faintness.
“Come on over and sit down,” Raven said, taking her arm and leading her gently to their table where she slid into a chair. “Tell us what happened?” he urged, sitting beside her. “How did you escape that murderous villain Bâtarde?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The kidnapping. Wren told us all about it.”
“You must have misunderstood her, then. It was Poppy who was kidnapped.”
“Poppy?” Kyle asked, his eyebrows arching. “Who’s Poppy?”
“Our kid goat.”
Kyle and Raven looked at one another, then at a piece of yellow paper on the table.
“Your kid,” Kyle said thoughtfully, then his face lit up with understanding. “Oh! Your kid!”
Kyle and Raven looked at one another with their mouths open.
“We’ve got to tell Wren!” declared Raven. He pulled out his phone. A few seconds later, he said, “Damn! Went right to voice mail.”
“Can’t you just send her one of those telepathic messages?” Kyle asked. “You know, the special bond of twins thing you’re always talking about.”
Raven glowered at Kyle.
“What’s going on?” Sophie asked, thoroughly lost.
“Wren thought Bâtarde kidnapped you,” Kyle explained. “She’s gone to rescue you.”
“You’re kidding?”
Kyle shook his head.
“That guy could be dangerous,” Sophie said, worried now about both Poppy and Wren.
“As Wren pointed out,” Raven said, “it’s a public event. She’s just shadowing him, so not likely to be in danger.”
“Good,” Sophie said, uncertainly. “Even though I don’t need rescuing, Poppy still does, and I’m beginning to worry she’s in real trouble. If anything happens to Poppy, it’ll break my mother’s heart.”
Despite her efforts to steel herself, tears fell from Sophie’s eyes as she imagined Poppy’s lifeless body. Raven leapt to his feet.
“O villain, villain!” he cried, pointing at the photo of Bâtarde on the bake-off flyer. “‘Thou shalt be whipped with wire, and stewed in brine, smarting in lingering pickle!’” He slammed a fist on the table. “I’ll rip out his liver with my bare hands and feed it to my dogs.”
Kyle tossed a cautionary glower at Raven. “Meanwhile,” he said cheerfully, putting a comforting hand over Sophie’s, “don’t worry. I’m sure he won’t hurt your goat. We’ll give him what he wants. We’re supposed to call this number at seven and tell him Wren’s name.” He tapped on the yellow paper. “Then he’ll let Poppy go. That’s all there is to it.”
Sophie snatched up the ransom note and read it quickly. “Thank God you’ve got the phone number. What time is it?”
Raven sat down and consulted his phone. “Nearly six. Another hour to go.”
All three of them calmed down considerably, realizing there was little to do for the next hour but wait.
“In all the excitement,” Raven said, “I forgot to introduce you to Kyle.”
“Sophie and I’ve already met,” Kyle said. “I did a drawing for her last weekend. At the time, I didn’t know she was Wren’s Sophie. So, in a way, we’re meeting today for the first time.” Kyle shook her hand. “Glad to meet you, Sophie. Wren has spoken so fondly of you.”
“She has?” Sophie thought for sure she was going to faint. Wren had told her husband about them? So they did have an open marriage. Not only open, but incredibly complicated, she decided, remembering Raven and Kyle kissing.
“Oh, yes,” Kyle said, smiling amiably. “You girls seemed to have really hit it off.”
“Would you like a beer?” Raven asked.
Sophie swallowed hard, feeling completely beside herself. “Several, please.”
Raven laughed. “We’ll start with one, how’s that?”
He ducked into the building. Realizing she was alone with the husband of her lover, Sophie started to panic again.
“I was sorry to hear it,” Kyle said, “when Wren told me you didn’t want to see her again.”
Sophie peered into his face, trying to see some evidence of sarcasm, but if it was there, it was well hidden. He appeared completely sincere, charming and suffused with suave self-confidence.
“She’s really into you,” he continued. “I hope she wouldn’t mind my saying that. But I’m sure you know it already. She wouldn’t reveal her identity to just anybody. It would have to be someone very special to be trusted with that.”
“I don’t mean to sound like a prude or anything,” Sophie said, “but I’m really not comfortable with the whole open relationship type of thing. I’m a one-woman woman. And I want my woman to be the same.”
“Sure.” Kyle shrugged. “I’d be surprised if Wren didn’t agree. She’s a sophisticated woman, but when it comes to love, she strikes me as a traditionalist.”
Sophie was at a loss for words. Raven returned with her beer. She immediately took a long swallow. The two men sat close together, clearly doting on one another.
“I wish there were some way to get in touch with Wren,” Sophie said.
“Chances are she’ll be at the gala tonight,” Kyle said. “Everybody’s going to end up there.”
“Which reminds me,” Raven announced, “we need to change into our costumes.” He bounced to his feet. “‘Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me!’”
“Why don’t you finish your beer, Sophie,” Kyle said, “while we run over to the theater to change? We’ll come back here before we go to the party, in plenty of time to make the phone call.”
Sophie nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you want a costume?” Raven asked.
“No, I think I’m good.”
“We can turn you into Herm
ia or Helena with a lovely ball gown.” Raven raised one eyebrow. “Or a swashbuckling courtier, perhaps?”
“I don’t think so.”
He let his eyes wander over her jeans and cotton shirt with undisguised disapproval. “We could do you up as one of the little fairies. Maybe Cobweb.”
Sophie gave him a discouraging look.
Kyle stood, grinning. “See you in a bit,” he said to Sophie as he led Raven away.
“Mustardseed?” Raven called over his shoulder.
Sophie took another gulp of her beer, then remembered she didn’t like wheat beer.
She phoned her mother to give her an update.
“I’ve got the phone number,” she told her. “I’ll call at seven.”
“What about Wren?” Olivia asked. “You’ll blow her cover.”
“I don’t think I have much choice. Any sign of the rest of the goats?”
“Not yet. Warren stopped by to help. I’ve got him driving up and down the roads. I’m just back from a ride down to Berry Creek and back. I don’t understand where they could be. They’ve never run off before.”
“I’ll call you again later. Don’t worry. We’ll get Poppy back safe. And the rest of them are bound to turn up somewhere.”
She hung up, then picked up the flyer from the table, fixing on the image of John Bâtarde with his overbearing air of conceit. Bastard! she thought. Then her thoughts turned to Wren, her sweet little bird. Sophie was ashamed to think how badly she’d behaved toward Wren. I’ve treated her horribly, she realized, from the very first morning, leaving that perfunctory, breezy note that must have seemed like a dismissal, an almost literal slam, bam, thank you, ma’am. She had been trying to seem cool and sophisticated, but her cavalier attitude must have hurt Wren’s feelings. How could it not have? At every turn since then, she’d done nothing but tromp on her heart. But after all the abuse, that adorable, lovely woman was risking her reputation, her career, perhaps even her life for Sophie’s sake. I can’t let her sacrifice herself, Sophie decided.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him.
And makes me poor indeed.
—Othello, Act III, Scene 3
The problem with confronting Bâtarde had become obvious to Wren as soon as she got in the car to drive to the convention center. She had to be smarter than he was. There was no way he’d kill Sophie, she decided. He couldn’t be that nuts. By threatening to do so, he probably thought he could flush Eno into the open. She had almost played right into his hands by storming in there as herself. Obviously, he was watching her, suspected her. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have broken into their house. So if Wren Landry showed up tonight at the convention center, his suspicions would be confirmed. Yeah, it was a smart move and she had nearly fallen for it.
Maybe there was still a chance to save both her anonymity and Sophie, she had decided. After a detour home to get a disguise, she now stood outside the men’s room in the convention center, staring at the door with its blue triangle. She swallowed hard, then went in. There was a man standing at a urinal. She went past him into the stall and shut the door. When she heard him leave, she came out and examined her appearance in the mirror. She’d gelled her hair, parted it on the side and slicked it back. She had stuck on a tiny sable-colored mustache and goatee she’d found in Raven’s makeup kit. She wore one of his nicer suits, a navy blue sports jacket with a silk handkerchief in the pocket, a pair of his black shoes, a button-down shirt open at the neck, no tie. The sleeves of the jacket were a little long, but otherwise everything was a good fit. She looked so much like her brother, it was startling. An effeminate young man, that’s what she looked like, and that was good enough. All she really cared about was not looking like herself.
Satisfied with her appearance, she turned to leave. The door opened and a brawny sandy-haired man walked in. He wore a gray suit and was over twice as broad as Wren in the shoulders. He raked a thick-fingered hand through his shaggy hair, looking distraught, and caught Wren’s eye. He cast her a small, unconvincing smile, marring the pleasantness of his hunky good looks. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t think how she knew him. Just a familiar type, she decided, a blond, blue-eyed Nordic fellow who belonged on a ski slope somewhere wearing a cable-knit sweater.
“Something wrong?” she asked, adopting a deeper than normal tone of voice.
“The competition,” he said, approaching a sink. “Driving me crazy. So much stress.”
“You’re competing? Sorry, I’ve only just arrived.”
“I’m one of the three finalists. I’m Klaus Olafssen.” He looked earnest and pained. “This is my chance, you know? If I win this, I’m on my way to being a serious baker. I want to make my mama proud.”
“Your mama?”
“My mama, Katrina Olafssen. You must be from out of town. Everybody knows her. She’s famous for her aebleskiver.”
“Oh! Yes, I do know her.” Wren realized her voice had gone up, close to normal. Klaus eyed her warily. She lowered her voice again to say, “I mean, I know her pastries. I haven’t met her. How are you doing, then, in the judging?”
He shook his head. “They’re about to give the decision. We’re on a break. Then they’ll announce it. Mine is one of those with the fairies.” He frowned. “The theme is A Midsummer Night’s Dream. What would you do with that theme?”
“Fairies?” Wren guessed.
“That’s what I figured. But that guy they brought in from San Francisco, that Bâtarde, he says, ‘Fairies? Not especially original, is it?’” Klaus threw up his hands in exasperation. “No, not original, but neither is the whole idea of the gala, is it? It’s based on a play that’s over three hundred fifty years old. How original is the whole thing?”
Wren nodded sympathetically, hearing the tension in his voice.
“That Drew Lippincott,” he complained, “she did fairies too, but hers is totally brainless. When you see it, you’ll agree. And what’s with the pumpkin cupcakes? It’s not Halloween. It’s not even fall.”
Wren tried hard to suppress a smile, thinking about herself in disguise, thinking about her brother in his Titania costume and all the others who would be masquerading tonight. In some ways, it was like Halloween.
“Alison White,” continued Klaus, peering at himself in the mirror, “the other finalist, did toadstools.” He turned abruptly to face Wren. “Toadstools? Hello? Alice in Wonderland calling Alison White. You took the wrong damned pill!”
Klaus leaned over the sink and moaned. Wren’s head began to spin from Klaus’s panic attack. Again she had the feeling she knew him.
“Do you have an aspirin?” he asked morosely.
“No, sorry. Look, everything will be over soon. Either way, you’ll be fine. Try to calm down. I’m going out to find a good spot. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Klaus said weakly.
Wren left the restroom thinking she had at least passed the test of Klaus Olafssen, though he was extremely preoccupied with his own concerns. She proceeded into the main hall where a crowd milled around the floor where the three finalists’ productions were staged for judging. As Klaus had described them, there were two with fairy themes and one shaped like a giant mushroom, one of those classic cartoon types, white with red circles painted on it, its flanks spread wide and curling slightly upward at the edges so it could serve as a platform for hundreds of dainty cupcakes. Beneath the umbrella of its main body, clustered around the stem, were a dozen small mushrooms with brightly colored caps—red, yellow, green, blue and purple with white polka-dots. The cupcakes arranged on top were frosted with similar colors—bright, perhaps even gaudy primary colors. The mushroom idea wasn’t so far afiel
d as Klaus implied, Wren mused, since the display would be located in a forest, like most of the action of the gala’s namesake play.
She approached one of the fairy-themed displays. It was done in pastel colors: lavender, pink and light yellow. Two garish figures, apparently the king and queen of the fairies, Oberon and Titania, sat on top of an oversized leaf, a veined expanse of green that served as the cupcake platform so the little desserts were spread out at the fairies’ feet. The two figures were posed in a chaste kiss. Extending from a pole behind the fairies were pastel-colored cloth streamers, a filmy, transparent material that sparkled, giving the impression of a rainbow of fairy dust. As a whole, Wren thought it beautiful and tranquil.
The third display, that of Klaus Olafssen, was designed as a gigantic open flower, painted brilliant scarlet. Its flattened petals served as trays for the multitude of cupcakes. A brilliant gold six-foot long stamen protruded from its center in an alarmingly erect and suggestive fashion. Wren couldn’t help thinking that was a calculated move, designed to appeal to a man with a very large…ego. The only natural flower Wren could liken it to was a hibiscus. Strategically placed around the display were delicate fairy figures with dragonfly-like wings, mounted on flexible supports. They swayed about as if hovering above the cupcakes. The cupcakes themselves were of three varieties, frosted in yellow, pink and lavender. The pink ones sported a miniature version of the floral phallus as a garnish. The idea of putting that in her mouth made Wren a tad uncomfortable.
The three finalist entries were all elaborate and fascinating. She knew the entrants would also be judged on the quality of their cakes, but she had arrived too late to taste them or even hear them described, and was feeling tremendously sorry about that before remembering why she was here.
She quickly searched the floor for Bâtarde and saw him standing near the overgrown mushroom with a clipboard, making notes. At the sight of him, she became enraged. The last time she’d seen him, she was now certain, was climbing out of the den window at Raven and Kyle’s house. Today, he was formally dressed in a three-piece suit and striped silk tie. He had a look of serious concentration on his face, his brows knit together, his mouth shut tightly under his carefully-trimmed ginger mustache. What’s the plan? Wren asked herself as she stepped toward him.
