Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

by Donna Andrews

Wesley laughed as if he thought I was joking. Obviously he’d been out of touch with the rest of the family for quite some time. I walked on, shoving flyers into the hands of startled tourists along the way.

  As I reached my booth, I heard a cheer go up from the town square. Wesley snickered.

  “I could swing that election,” he boasted.

  “Yes, isn’t the power of the press a wonderful thing?”

  “I could,” he said. “I’ve got the dirt right here.”

  He was holding up something. Déjà vu all over again—yet another shiny CD in a paper envelope, although characteristically Wesley had managed to mar his envelope with a number of grease stains and what looked like a smear of ketchup.

  “Put it away before the Town Watch see it,” I said, wishing he’d leave. Two women were examining a candelabrum on the outer edge of my booth. I was trying to overhear their conversation without looking too obvious.

  “Don’t you want to see it?” Wesley said.

  “Why should I care?” I asked. “I don’t live here anymore. Why should I care which of our crazy relatives gets elected sheriff?”

  “You’ll never guess what’s on it,” Wesley said.

  “No, I won’t even try,” I said.

  “But if you knew what was on here—”

  “Then you wouldn’t have a secret to tantalize me with, now would you? You’re welcome to come back later and wave your anachronism around to torture me some more, Wesley; right now I’m a little busy. Here, go and pass these out,” I said, shoving the rest of the flyers into his hands.

  “Your mother said you were going to help me with my story,” he complained as he slouched out.

  “Later,” I muttered, and strolled a little nearer to the customers who were examining a fireplace set—a new design that I was particularly proud of, with a delicate metal vine motif that had been fiendishly difficult to do. I’d been working on getting it just right for over a year, and only in the last couple of months had I produced pieces I thought were good enough to sell. I drifted a little closer, in the hope of overhearing what they said about it.

  “Yes,” I heard one say. “It’s very nice. But much too expensive.”

  I gritted my teeth and ignored them, pretending to straighten something on the table. I hoped they wouldn’t come and tell me to my face that my fireplace set was too expensive. I’d have a hard time saying something polite and noncommittal. And if they tried to bargain the price down—well, did they know how much work it took to make it? How few blacksmiths could have done something that delicate looking and yet that sturdy?

  “The other blacksmith had something just like it, and the price was much more reasonable,” her friend said. “Let’s go back there.”

  Other blacksmith?

  “Eileen,” I said, as the two left the booth. “Can you hold things down here? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Meg, do you have any change?” Michael said, reappearing in my booth. “Your cousin Horace is—what’s the matter?”

  “A sneak thief,” I said, slipping into the lane to follow the two women.

  Michael ran after me.

  “Who?” he asked. “Those two women?”

  “Keep your voice down,” I said. “They’re not thieves, but I think they’re leading me to one.”

  “Right,” Michael said. “Here, take my arm. We’ll try to look inconspicuous, as if we’re just out for a stroll.”

  Of course, in his white-and-gold uniform, Michael had never looked less inconspicuous in his life, but we fit in. Every few steps Michael would salute a squad of soldiers or we’d exchange good morrows with some costumed civilians, but luckily we didn’t run into anyone who wanted us to stop and talk. And, as I suspected, the two women headed straight for the far end of the fair, where I’d assigned the less-accomplished craftspeople.

  “Bingo,” I muttered, as they entered a blacksmith’s booth in the last aisle.

  “What is it?” Michael said.

  “Tony Grimes,” I said. “Fancies himself a blacksmith, the louse.”

  “He’s not very good?” Michael asked.

  “He’s not half bad at running a hardware store, which is his day job,” I said. “As a blacksmith—well, he should stick to selling nails, not making them.”

  “That bad, huh.”

  “Take a look at his stuff sometime,” I said. “In fact, take a look right now; I think we’ll pay old Tony a visit.”

  “Meg,” Michael said. “You’re pretty upset. Why don’t we—”

  But I was already striding toward Tony’s booth.

  “It’s amazing, Tony,” I said, sweeping my glance around booth. “Absolutely amazing.”

  Tony flinched at my voice, dropped the book he was reading, and hunched his shoulders defensively. He’d have been about my height, if not for that familiar protective stoop, as if he were constantly expecting someone he’d cheated or defrauded to strike him. Apart from that, he was a singularly unremarkable figure, with features so bland even his mother probably had a hard time recalling them when he wasn’t around.

  The two women I’d followed looked up from the fireplace set they’d been examining. As I suspected, it was a cheap knockoff of the one they’d passed over in my booth.

  “Very nice,” I said, picking up the tongs from a similar set and eyeing them critically. “You’ve almost got the shape right—a little lopsided, but most people wouldn’t notice. Of course, if I were you, I’d paint it; hide all those nasty weld spatters. I doubt if those welds will hold up in the long run, but then, most people aren’t looking to use a fancy set like that, are they? It’s just for decoration.”

  I could see the women looking more closely at the poker and tongs they were holding, and frowning.

  “In fact, the only thing I can see really wrong with it is that it’s an exact copy of a design I introduced this spring,” I said.

  “You’d better watch it,” Tony snapped. “You could get into trouble, making accusations like that.”

  “No, you watch it,” I said. “What you’re doing is a flagrant violation of the copyright laws. I’ve been talking to a lawyer about what you’re doing, and I know a couple of other people have, too.”

  Tony swallowed nervously at this remark. And it wasn’t exactly a lie. After the last time I’d seen Tony at a craft fair, hawking his badly made imitations, I’d spent a long time bending my brother Rob’s ear about the problem. Not that Rob knew anything useful about copyrights—after squeaking through the Virginia bar exam last year, he’d spent most of his waking hours working on his role-playing game and supporting himself by what he called “legal scut work” for various lawyer uncles.

  “There’s only so many ways of shaping iron,” Tony said, defensively. “You get all upset whenever I do anything that’s the least bit like what you do, and I keep telling you, it’s an example of parallel development.”

  Parallel development? Odd turn of phrase for Tony—where had I heard that before?

  “Yeah, right,” I said, aloud. “Come on, Michael, let’s get back to my booth.” And we strode out of Tony’s booth—now, for some odd reason, much emptier. Not, alas, completely empty. As we reached the end of the lane, I glanced back and saw that Wesley Hatcher had insinuated himself into the booth.

  “Damn,” I said. “Now I’ll have to talk to that little weasel to make sure Tony doesn’t sell him a phony version of the story.”

  “Tony doesn’t look too happy,” Michael remarked. “And look, Wesley’s taking pictures. I should think the pictures would speak for themselves.”

  “Yes, definitely,” I said. “Good for Wesley; he’s finally found something useful to do with himself. I want to warn Faulk. From the looks of it, Tony has ripped off some of his designs, too. I hope he doesn’t explode when he hears.”

  “Maybe someone’s already told him,” Michael said, as we neared Faulk’s booth. “Sounds like an explosion to me.”

  Chap
ter 9

  A crowd surrounded Faulk’s booth, and we heard arguing voices. We pushed through to find Faulk and Roger Benson squared off, looking as if they were about to come to blows, to the delight of a growing audience. Including Spike, Mrs. Waterston’s dog, who was barking with great enthusiasm at both combatants and straining at the leash in his eagerness to jump into the fray. Since he weighed about eight and a half pounds and looked like a black-and-white dust mop, people in the crowd were pointing at him and saying how cute he was. I hoped they’d have the sense to keep their distance.

  At the other end of the leash, trying to hide behind a small holly bush, was my brother Rob.

  “You had to bring him by here,” I said, frowning.

  “Mrs. Waterston dumped him on me.”

  “I meant Benson. Did you have to bring him by Faulk’s booth after what happened earlier with Tad?”

  “I was sort of distracted,” Rob said, nodding his head at Spike.

  “Well, go and distract Mr. Benson,” I said. “Michael, come help me talk to Faulk.”

  “Right,” Michael said, squaring his shoulders. Rob rolled his eyes but knew better than to disobey his older sister. We marched into the booth together.

  “Mr. Benson,” Rob began, although it was hard to hear him over the barking.

  “Faulk, I need to talk to you a minute,” I said. I was trying to pull Faulk away, without much effect, when suddenly I heard a yelp of pain—was that Spike?—followed by an eruption of yells, shrieks, and even louder barking.

  “What on Earth?” I muttered.

  “You kicked that poor little dog!” a stout woman was shrieking, right in Benson’s face. “I saw it! How dare you!”

  “He was going for my ankle,” Benson said. “And I didn’t actually kick him. I just kicked at him. See, he’s fine.”

  “Time was they’d put a dog down if it bit someone like that,” someone in the crowd said.

  “Nonsense! The man started it, kicking the poor little thing,” someone else said.

  While the crowd debated whether or not any actual kicking or biting had occurred, Rob was having trouble holding Spike, who had turned into a snarling, growling fury, trembling with the intensity of his desire to dismember Benson. Suddenly, Spike began making choking noises and fell over on his side. Gasps and shrieks went through the crowd. Rob froze and stared down at the small limp figure at his feet.

  “Is he dead?” Rob said. “Mrs. Waterston will kill me if he’s dead.”

  “Nonsense,” I said, in a low voice. “He’ll be fine. He just pulled too hard against the choke chain and cut off his own wind.” As if to prove me right, Spike stirred slightly, lifted his head, and growled.

  “He’s coming around; he’ll be just fine,” I said, more loudly. “Happens all the time. I’ll take him to the vet to make sure he’s okay. You get him”—I indicated Benson with a jerk of my head—“away from here, and keep him away.”

  “Right,” Rob said. He handed me the end of the leash and went over to Benson. The stout woman had backed off to rejoin the ring of hostile faces standing in a semicircle around the entrance to Faulk’s booth. Benson was face-to-face with Faulk again.

  “You can count on that,” Faulk was saying, in the cold tone I knew meant that Faulk was very, very angry. His hands were clenched into fists, and he was holding one at shoulder level. His shoulder level meant eye level for Benson, and if I were Benson, I’d have thought twice about crossing Faulk.

  “Come on, Roger,” Rob said, taking Benson by the shoulder and trying to lead him away. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “The hell I will,” Benson said, but he let Rob lead him a few steps toward the entrance of the booth, Faulk following behind, as if to make sure they really left.

  But just as Benson reached the entrance, Spike, seeing his prey on the move, suddenly leaped up to bark again. He knocked over an andiron right into Faulk’s path, and Faulk stumbled forward. Unfortunately, just as this was happening, Benson apparently decided he needed to say a few parting words. He began to turn around, open his mouth, and step back into the booth.

  “Another thing—” he began, then he squawked as Faulk’s fist met his nose. Then they both lost their balance and fell in a heap, banging various bits of iron on the way down.

  Amazing, how much blood a simple nosebleed can produce. And how much panic. A few onlookers fled—I like to think they were going in search of help. A few people waded in to separate the combatants, which wasn’t really necessary, as Faulk had the wind knocked out of him and couldn’t move, and Benson was less interested in fighting than in flailing about dramatically, yelling that he couldn’t breathe, and alternately demanding a doctor and a lawyer.

  Wesley appeared, like a vulture scenting carrion, and hovered around in everyone’s way, taking notes and snapping photos with his little camera. Mrs. Fenniman and the sheriff both showed up and tried to give Benson conflicting forms of first aid, simultaneously. When it looked as if they were about to come to blows over whether to apply cold or heat to his nose, I ordered them to take Benson over to Dad’s first-aid tent, and sent Rob after them to try calming Benson down.

  Faulk recovered his breath, stood up, dismissed the departing patient with a look, then went out through the back of his booth and began walking very fast, away from the center of the fair.

  “Should someone go after him?” Michael asked.

  I shook my head.

  “He needs to walk his temper off. He’ll be fine if we just leave him alone. Although that does leave the problem of what to do about his booth.”

  “I can watch it until either he or Tad gets back,” Michael offered. “I’ve helped out with yours occasionally, and he’s got all the prices marked and everything.”

  “That’d be great,” I said.

  “What about the dog?” the stout woman said. Now that things had calmed down, the crowd was breaking up, but she still stood just outside the booth, watching Spike, who had tottered over to the railing that marked the outside of the booth and was growling half-heartedly at her. I sighed. I had forgotten that in sending Rob off to deal with Benson I’d saddled myself with Spike.

  “You were going to take him to the vet,” the woman reminded me.

  “I’ll do better than that,” I said, giving Spike’s leash a tug to get him moving. “I’ll take him to a doctor.”

  “Oh, I’m sure your Dad will love that,” Michael commented, taking a proprietary pose at the back of Faulk’s booth.

  I helped Michael pick up the booth before I took off—I wasn’t anxious to arrive before Dad had finished with Benson. Then I made my way across the town square and over to Dad’s booth—actually a large tent at the opposite edge of the green, with a sign over the entrance that said, PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON.

  Things looked a little different from when I’d last seen his tent on my way into the fair that morning. Dad had recruited two bedraggled-looking reenactors to lie outside, pretending to be patients and adding atmosphere. The patient to the left of the tent’s entrance had a bloody bandage over both eyes. The one on the right appeared to be an amputee until one noticed that there were bits of straw poking out of his truncated leg and that the real leg disappeared into a hole in the ground.

  “Very impressive,” I said, as I approached the tent.

  “If that miserable beast tries to pee on my leg again, I’ll use this,” the faux amputee said, waving an authentically crude wooden crutch.

  “Oh, lord,” said the other man, peeking out from under his bandage. “Hang on to the leash this time, will you?”

  So they’d already met Spike.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, shortening the leash to keep Spike away from them.

  “Meg!” Dad said, appearing in the opening of the tent. “What’s up? Another nosebleed?”

  I sighed. In just a few hours, he’d managed to give his new colonial costume the same well-worn, rumpled look as all the rest of his clothes. And while he’d carefully grown his hair long
enough to tie back in colonial fashion, he had so little hair left that the black velvet ribbon almost hid it. From a distance, it looked as if he’d glued the bow to the back of his largely bald head. Ah, well.

  “Could you take a look at Spike?” I asked. “I’m not sure whether Benson actually kicked him or just tried.”

  “Certainly!” Dad said, taking Spike’s leash and leading him into the tent. I followed, ignoring the muted cheers for Benson from the two reclining patients.

  I looked around. Dad had been improving on the decor inside, too. I’d already seen the ramshackle operating table, the side tables piled with reproductions of period jars and bottles and flasks, and the artistic arrangement of scary-looking metal instruments. The skeleton dangling from the top of the tent was new. And he’d brought in several jars of leeches. His booth was probably the only one in the fair that the Anachronism Police hadn’t complained to me about. I wondered if they were impressed by its authenticity or just too horrified to come in.

  “Isn’t it grand!” he exclaimed, seeing me look around.

  “Lovely,” I said, glancing down at the sawdust coating the ground around the operating table. “Please tell me those aren’t real bloodstains.”

  “Of course they are,” he said. “Real chicken blood.”

  “I should have guessed,” I said, dragging Spike back from some blood-soaked sawdust that he’d decided looked tasty.

  “Let’s get the patient on the examination table, shall we?” Dad said, moving several glittering surgical knives aside to make room.

  “We?” I said. “You mean you’re going to help me pick him up?”

  “Well, maybe you should do it,” he said. “I don’t want to alarm him.”

  Didn’t want to get bitten, more likely. Because I’d once saved Spike’s life, he’d developed an inexplicable and unrequited fondness for me, which meant that my odds of getting bitten were much lower than most people’s. Although trying to hold him while Dad performed his examination would normally have leveled out the odds again.

  Fortunately, Spike was too busy trying to spit out the blood-soaked sawdust to bite, though keeping him still was a lost cause.