Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

by Donna Andrews

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Also by

  Praise

  GET A CLUE!

  Owls Well That Ends Well

  No Nest for the Wicket

  Copyright Page

  To all the dedicated reenactors and craftspeople who contributed to my research. Thanks for preventing so many embarrassing mistakes and anachronisms—I hope you can forgive and laugh at the equally embarrassing ones I’ve made instead.

  To the friends who listened oh so patiently to everything I learned about muskets, cannons, eighteenth-century costume, Colonial-era medicine, and countless other subjects that went into the writing of this book. I can only promise that at least I’ll have a new and different set of obsessions next time.

  And especially to Tracey and Bill, for continuing to let me borrow Spike; Elizabeth, for always pushing me to be a little better (not to mention the usual ending magic); Lauren, Mary, and Sheryle, for sharing words, wisdom, and pizza; Suzanne, possibly the world’s best long-distance coach and cheerleader; Dave, who unmasked Cousin Horace, despite the assumed name; and all my on-line friends who were there when I needed them and understood when I wasn’t there because I had to write.

  To Ruth Cavin, Julie Sullivan, and the crew at St. Martin’s, and to Ellen Geiger and Anna Abreu at Curtis Brown, for taking such good care of all the practical publishing stuff so I could concentrate on the fun part.

  And to Mom and Dad, for choosing to live in the middle of the Yorktown Battlefields. It’s all your fault, you know, and I can’t thank you enough.

  Chapter 1

  “I’m going to kill Michael’s mother,” I announced. “Quickly, discreetly, and with a minimum of pain and suffering. Out of consideration for Michael. But I am going to kill her.”

  “What was that?” Eileen said, looking up and blinking at me.

  I glanced over at my best friend and fellow craftswoman. She had already unpacked about an acre of blue-and-white porcelain and arranged it on her side of our booth. I still had several tons of wrought iron to wrestle into place.

  I scratched two or three places where my authentic colonial-style linsey-woolsey dress was giving me contact dermatitis. I rolled my ruffled sleeves higher up on my arms, even though I knew they’d flop down again in two minutes; then I hiked my skirts up a foot or so, hoping a stray breeze would cool off my legs.

  “I said I’m going to kill Michael’s mother for making us do this craft fair in eighteenth-century costume,” I said. “It’s absolutely crazy in ninety-degree weather.”

  “Well, it’s not entirely Mrs. Waterston’s fault,” Eileen said. “Who knew we’d be having weather like this in October?”

  I couldn’t think of a reasonable answer, so I turned back to the case I was unpacking and lifted out a pair of wrought-iron candlesticks. Eileen, like me, was flushed from the heat and exertion, not to mention frizzy from the humidity. But with her blond hair and fair skin, it gave the effect of glowing health. I felt like a disheveled mess.

  “This would be so much easier in jeans,” I grumbled, tripping over the hem of my skirt as I walked over to the table to set the candlesticks down.

  “People are already showing up,” Eileen said, with a shrug. “You know what a stickler Mrs. Waterston is for authenticity.”

  Yes, everyone in Yorktown had long ago figured that out. And Martha Stewart had nothing on Mrs. Waterston for attention to detail. If she’d had her way, we’d have made every single stitch we wore by hand, by candlelight. She’d probably have tried to make us spin the thread and weave the fabric ourselves, not to mention raising and shearing the sheep. And when she finally pushed enough of us over the edge, we’d have to make sure our lynch mob used an authentic colonial-style hemp rope instead of an anachronistic nylon one.

  Of course, my fellow craftspeople would probably lynch me, too, while they were at it, since I was her deputy in charge of organizing the craft fair. And in Mrs. Waterston’s eyes, keeping all the participants anachronism-free was my responsibility. When I’d volunteered for the job, I’d thought it a wonderful way to make a good impression on the hypercritical mother of the man I loved. I’d spent the past six months trying not to make Michael an orphan. Speaking of Michael …

  “Where’s Michael, anyway?” Eileen asked, echoing my thoughts. “I thought he was going to help you with that.”

  “He will when he gets here,” I said. “He’s still getting into costume.”

  “He’s going to look so wonderful in colonial dress,” Eileen said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Lucky we don’t have a full-length mirror in the tent, or we wouldn’t see him for hours.”

  “You know you don’t mean that,” Eileen said, with a frown. “You’re crazy about Michael.”

  I let that pass. Yes, I was crazy about Michael, but I was a grown woman in my thirties, not a starry-eyed teenager in the throes of her first crush. And Michael and I had been together a little over a year. Long enough for me to fully appreciate his many good points, but also long enough to notice a few shortcomings. The thing about costumes and mirrors, for example. And the fact that getting dressed to go anywhere took him two or three times as long as it took me.

  Not that I complained, usually; the results were always spectacular. But at the moment, I’d have traded spectacular for available to help. I wrestled an eight-foot trellis into position and sat back, panting.

  “Maybe I will wait until he gets here to finish this,” I said.

  “But Mrs. Waterston wants us all set up by ten!” Eileen said. She rummaged in the wicker basket she was using instead of a purse, then shot a guilty glance back at me before pulling out her wristwatch.

  “It’s 9:30 already,” she said, thrusting the watch back out of sight beneath the red- and white-checked fabric lining the basket. Familiar gestures already: the furtive glance to see if anyone who cared—like me, theoretically—was looking before someone pulled out a necessary but forbidden modern object. And then the hasty concealment. Eileen should have figured out by now that as long as nobody else spotted her, I didn’t give a damn.

  Then again, we’d found out this morning that Mrs. Waterston had enlisted a dozen assistants, whom she’d dubbed “the Town Watch.” In theory, the watchmen were under my orders, available to help with crowd control and prevent shoplifting. In practice, they were the reason I was running late. I’d spent all morning trying to stop them from harassing various frantic craftspeople about using modern tools to set up, and keeping them from confiscating various items they’d decided were “not in period.” The crafters had started calling them “the Anachronism Police.”

  “I’m nearly finished with my side,” Eileen said. “If you like, I could—”
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br />   A loud boom interrupted her, seeming to shake the very ground. Both of us jumped; Eileen shrieked; and her pottery rattled alarmingly. We could hear more shrieks and oaths from nearby booths.

  “What on Earth!” Eileen exclaimed, racing over to her table to make sure none of her ethereally delicate cups and vases had broken.

  “Oh, Lord,” I muttered. “I thought she was kidding.”

  “Kidding about what?” Eileen asked.

  “What the hell was that, a sonic boom?” shouted Amanda, the African American weaver in the booth across the aisle.

  “The artillery,” I shouted back.

  “Artillery?” Eileen echoed.

  “The what?” Amanda asked, dropping a braided rug and trotting over to our booth.

  “Artillery,” I repeated. “For the Siege of Yorktown. That’s what this whole thing is celebrating, you know—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Amanda said. “October 19, 1781. The British finally throw in the towel and surrender to George Washington and the Revolutionary War is over. Whoopty-do. Let freedom ring, except for my people, who had to wait another eighty years. So what’s with the sound effects?”

  “Another of Mrs. Waterston’s brainstorms,” I said. “She hired a bunch of guys to fire a replica cannon to add to the authenticity of the event.”

  “You mean, like a starter’s gun to open the fair?” Amanda asked.

  “Demonstrations for the tourists, maybe,” Eileen suggested.

  “Actually …” I said.

  Another thunderous boom shook the encampment. This time we heard fewer shrieks and more angry yells.

  “Actually,” I began again, “she’s going to have them firing continuously, to simulate the siege. Washington’s troops shelled the British nonstop for a couple of weeks before attacking their entrenchments.”

  “She’s going to have them doing that all day?” Eileen asked.

  “Probably all night, too, unless someone can find an obscure county ordinance to stop it.” Someone like me, probably. I’d already promised half a dozen townspeople who’d seen the artillery setting up that I’d find a way to silence the cannons at bedtime. Now that the shelling had actually begun, I’d be swamped with complainers any second—and no matter how irate they were, none of them wanted to tackle Mrs. Waterston directly.

  “Bunch of loonies,” Amanda muttered.

  No argument from me.

  “Bad enough I have to dress up like Aunt Jemima,” she said, as she returned to her own booth. “And now this.”

  “Oh, but you look … wonderful,” Eileen called. “So authentic!”

  Amanda looked down at her homespun dress and snorted. She was right, unfortunately. I’d always envied Amanda’s stylish urban wardrobe, with its vivid colors and offbeat but sophisticated cuts. I’d never before realized how well her chic outfits camouflaged a slightly plump figure. And when you threw in the cultural associations an African American woman raised in Richmond, Virginia, was bound to have with colonial-era clothing …

  “Oh, dear,” Eileen murmured. From the sudden crease in her normally smooth forehead, I could tell that the last point had just dawned on her. “This must be awful for poor Amanda! Do you think we should—”

  “Look sharp!” hissed a voice nearby. “Here she comes! Put away your anachronisms!”

  Chapter 2

  “Oh, dear, Mrs. Waterston will be furious that you’re still unpacking!” Eileen exclaimed.

  “I still have fifteen minutes,” I said, turning to see who’d given the warning. Just outside our booth I saw a man, a little shorter than my five-feet ten inches and slightly pudgy, with a receding chin. I had the feeling I’d recognize him if he were in, say, blue jeans instead of a blue colonial-style coat, a white powdered wig, and a black felt hat with the brim turned up in thirds to make it into a triangle—the famed colonial tricorn hat.

  “Oh, you look very nice, Horace,” Eileen said.

  Horace? I started, and peered more closely.

  “Cousin Horace,” I said. “She’s right. You look great in costume. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  Cousin Horace looked down at his coat and sighed. Normally he loved costume parties—in fact, he assumed (or pretended) that every party he attended was a costume party, and would invariably turn up in his beloved gorilla suit. Usually even Mother had a hard time convincing him to take the ape head off for group photos at family weddings. I wondered how Mrs. Waterston had managed to browbeat him into putting on the colonial gear.

  “It’s just one of the standard rental costumes from Be-Stitched,” he said, referring to Mrs. Waterston’s dressmaking shop. “You’ll see dozens just like it before the day is out.”

  “Well, it looks very nice on you,” Eileen said.

  “Meg, you have to talk to Mrs. Waterston,” he said. “She listens to you.”

  News to me; I hadn’t noticed that Mrs. Waterston listened to anyone—except, possibly, Michael. What Horace really meant was that no one but me had enough nerve to tackle Mrs. Waterston.

  “Talk to her about what?” I said, feeling suddenly tired. Cannons? Anachronisms? Or had some new problem arisen?

  “Now she’s going on about talking authentically,” he added. “Avoiding modern slang. Adopting a colonial accent.”

  “Oh, Lord,” exclaimed Amanda from across the aisle. “Who the hell does that witch think she is, anyway?”

  Horace glanced at me and skittered off. Eileen looked pained.

  “Who died and made her queen?” Amanda continued.

  “Great-aunt Agatha,” I said. “Who didn’t actually die; she just decided that at ninety-three, she didn’t have quite enough energy to continue chairing the committee that organizes the annual Yorktown Day celebration. Mrs. Waterston volunteered to take her place.”

  “Yeah, she’s got enough energy,” Amanda said. “It’s the common sense she’s lacking.”

  “We’ll probably be seeing a lot of Mrs. Waterston,” Eileen said. “She’s Meg’s boyfriend’s mother.”

  “Oh,” Amanda said. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize on my account,” I said. “You can’t possibly say anything about her that I haven’t said over the past year. Though not necessarily aloud,” I added, half to myself.

  “Take my advice, honey,” Amanda said. “Dump him now. Can you imagine what she’d be like as a mother-in-law?”

  Unfortunately, I could. I’d spent a lot of time brooding over that very prospect. But for now, I deliberately pushed the thought away, into the back of my mind, along with all the other things I didn’t have time to worry about until after the fair.

  “Oh, but you haven’t met Michael!” Eileen gushed. “Here, look!”

  She walked across the aisle to Amanda’s booth, digging into her wicker basket as she went, then pulling out a bulging wallet. She flipped through the wad of plastic photo sleeves and held up one of the photos. Amanda peered at it, her face about three inches from the wallet.

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “He’s a drama professor at Caerphilly College,” Eileen said. “And a wonderful actor, and we all think he’s just perfect for Meg.”

  “If you could lose the mother,” Amanda said. “Is he going to be around today?”

  “Of course,” Eileen said. “He and Meg are inseparable!”

  Well, as inseparable as a couple can be, living in different towns several hours’ drive apart and trying to juggle two demanding careers that didn’t exactly permit regular nine-to-five hours. Another reminder of problems I was trying to put on hold until the damned craft fair was over and done with.

  “Okay, I’ll try not to say anything too nasty when ‘Blue Eyes’ is around,” Amanda said. “If I recognize him. My glasses are banned,” she said, with a disapproving glance at me. “Not in period. Only wire rims allowed.”

  “Sorry,” I said; shrugging. “Anyway, Michael’s pretty hard to miss.”

  “Everyone’s a blur from two feet away,” Amanda grumbled.


  “He’ll be the six-foot-four blur in the white French uniform with violet cuffs and gold lace trim,” I said.

  “You’re right,” she said, with a chuckle. “I think I’ll probably manage to pick him out of the crowd.”

  “That’s my son Samuel he’s holding,” Eileen said. “It was taken at the christening. Here’s another one we took at the reception afterward.”

  “Very nice,” Amanda said. She glanced nervously at Eileen’s wallet, beginning to suspect how much of its bulk came from baby pictures.

  “And here’s one of Samuel with his daddy,” Eileen continued, flipping onward. I could see a trapped look cross Amanda’s face.

  “Not in period,” I sang, clapping my hands for attention as our first-grade teacher used to do. And when Eileen turned with a hurt look, I added, “Come on. Help me out. We’re supposed to be setting a good example for the others.”

  Eileen sighed, stowed her anachronisms, and returned to our booth. I don’t know why I bothered. She’d pull the photos out the minute my back was turned. Amanda would have to fend for herself if she wanted to dodge Eileen’s hour-by-hour photographic chronicle of the first two months of young Samuel’s life.

  Don’t get me wrong; I’ve got nothing against kids. I love my sister Pam’s brood, all six of them—although I prefer them one at a time. As young Samuel’s godmother, I was perfectly willing to agree with his parents’ most extravagant boasts about his winsome charm and preternatural intelligence. I could even see that producing an offspring or two might be something I’d be interested in doing eventually, under the right circumstances and with the right collaborator.

  But, I’d already seen Eileen’s pictures several dozen times. At least she’d left the infant prodigy himself home with a sitter. I was getting very, very tired of having people dump babies into my arms and warble to the immediate world what a natural mother I was. Especially when they did it in front of Michael. Or his mother.

  Speaking of Mrs. Waterston, if Horace was right, I probably would need to straighten her out about the accent problem, before she browbeat all the crafters into mute terror. But at least I could postpone the ordeal until she dropped by my booth. I peered outside to see how close she was, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was still a good way off, standing in front of her tent, in the middle of our temporary, fictional town square.