Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

by Donna Andrews

  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. “I’m going to sue that jerk Tony for every p
enny 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.”

  “They kidnapped you, too?”

  “Yeah, but at least they let me keep my prom dress on. Although that wasn’t much of a favor, considering where they dropped us off.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Where?”

  “The Dismal Swamp.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Unfortunately not,” I said. “It’s only about an hour and a half from here, you know.”

  “How did you ever get back?”

  “I waited for daylight, then followed a likely looking path until I ran into some bird-watchers. They gave me a ride to Skeetertown, and Dad drove down to pick me up.”

  “And Wesley?”

  “Decided he could do better without me slowing him down, so he struck out on his own half an hour after they dumped us. The bloodhounds finally found him three days later.”

  “Okay, now I understand why Wesley isn’t exactly your favorite cousin,” Michael said as he held up the flap of our tent.

  “He isn’t even a cousin as far as I’m concerned,” I said, as I ducked inside. “Mother’s about the only one who puts up with him any more.” I winced, remembering Mother’s orders to find Wesley a nice story. Well, the murder would certainly qualify, but I wasn’t sure I trusted what Wesley would write. I’d worry about it later.

  I collapsed onto the bedroll, feeling very grateful for the well-concealed, anachronistic air mattress beneath. I was, I thought, too tired to lift a finger. If Jess and the entire artillery crew rolled their cannon here and shot it off over our tent, I’d probably sleep through the whole thing.

  “I’m certainly going to sleep soundly tonight,” I murmured.

  “Soundly, yes,” Michael said. “But not, I hope, immediately.”

  Okay, so maybe I wasn’t quite as tired as all that.

  Chapter 20

  Either the artillery crew decided to sleep in, or I really was getting used to the sound of gunfire. When the familiar boom woke me up, I scrabbled in my haversack for my watch and found it was a little past seven.

  Michael not only slept through the cannon, he also didn’t seem to notice getting kicked or elbowed several times while I struggled into my dress in the tiny tent.

  I stumbled outside, stretched, and blinked at the bright sunlight. Another unseasonable steam bath of a day.

  “Pardon me, mistress, could you direct me to the necessary?”

  “The necessary what?” I asked, turning to see a disheveled-looking man clutching a lumpy haversack.

  “The necessary,” he said. “You know—the privies?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I said, belatedly recognizing the colonial euphemism for toilets. And not entirely inappropriate, since the sanitary facilities were a collection of portable toilets and sinks that we all used only when absolutely necessary. I pointed over the tops of the surrounding tents. “Right over there, behind the fences. Men’s on the left.”

  “Thank you, mistress,” he said, and galloped off.

  I pondered visiting the necessary myself, and decided it wasn’t urgent. If I set off now, in fifteen minutes I could be at my parents’ house, partaking of the forbidden modern pleasures of running water and flush toilets. And perhaps even a hot shower, if I could get there before most of the visiting crowd of relatives woke up.

  Even more important, I could talk to Rob. He’d been conspicuously absent from the party last night, and I had a feeling that, sooner or later, Deputy Monty was going to want to talk to him. And I knew Rob was less likely to push himself to the top of the suspect list if he uttered his first, careless comments about Benson’s death to me, rather than Monty.

  I made my way through the sleeping crafter section of camp to the more lively regimental section. The camp seemed more authentic today. Yesterday, when everyone was setting up and on their best behavior, I’d decided it was more like a really well-done movie set than an actual Revolutionary War encampment. Everything seemed just a little too clean and well repaired, not to mention a lot less smelly than the real thing. And the reenactors seemed too much on their best behavior, as if to say, “Look how authentic I am!”

  This morning, as campers got up and stumbled through pared-down and much-adapted versions of their usual morning rituals, the whole place reeked of authenticity. People had stopped worrying about whether the dogs and children were rolling in the dirt and whether their language was absolutely free of anachronisms, and had just started living. I liked it better this morning.

  Until I got closer to the road, where the troops of modern police who’d started searching the encampment at that end spoiled the illusion of walking back into the eighteenth century. I felt a little guilty, since it was probably my cash box they were searching for.

  “Don’t be silly,” I told myself. “It’s the murderer’s fault they’re waking everyone up this way, not yours.”

  A couple of the more wide-awake reenactors decided to use the police incursion as a teaching tool, and pretended the police were British soldiers looking for wounded rebels. One reenactor got up on a barrel and made an impassioned speech about the colonists’ right to freedom from search and seizure, and I could see the local police, who’d had time to get used to this kind of thing, taking the out-of-town police aside and enlightening them.

  “You mean the whole town goes crazy like this every October?” I heard one state trooper say. I didn’t stick around to hear the answer.

  I decided to detour by the craft-fair grounds on the way, hoping the police would have finished messing around in my booth, so I could clean up and get ready for opening. But when I arrived, I saw even more police than before, crawling in and around the place, including a lot I didn’t recognize as local.

  “Stay outside,” Monty called when he saw me. He was talking to a black man, and for an anxious second I thought he was interrogating Tad. Then I told myself not to be silly; the man talking to Monty had no dreadlocks or costume, and was at least ten years older than Tad.

  “Well, thanks for coming in,” Monty said, shaking hands with the man and guiding him out of the booth. “We’ll let you know if we have any other questions.”

  The man nodded and left.

  “You don
’t look all that grateful,” I said.

  “Well, I confess, I did like your friend Tad for the murder,” Monty said, with a shrug. “He seems to have spent the whole day yesterday quarreling with the deceased, and he certainly has motive. But he might have an alibi after all. Supposedly, he spent the whole evening in a coffee shop with our witness there.”

  “Well that’s good,” I said.

  “I said ‘might’,” Monty said. “We still have to check it out. Could be a put-up job. And funny he wouldn’t mention it himself, don’t you think? You can’t come in here,” he added, planting himself in front of me with his arms crossed.

  “Well, I figured that,” I said. “Any idea when you’re going to be finished?”

  “I can’t make any promises,” he said. “We got some guys with the Virginia State Bureau of Investigation down from Richmond to help, and they’re still examining the crime” scene.

  “I’ll check back a little later, then,” I said.

  “Hang on,” he said. “Where will you be if we need to talk to you?”

  “That depends,” I said. “Have you found my cash box yet?”

  “No,” he said. “And if we do, we’ll have to hold on to it until the forensic guys have checked it out.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Right now I’m going over to my parents’ house to take a shower. Then I’ll probably have to go into Yorktown to get some cash, so I can make change for my customers, assuming you finish up with my booth sometime today and I have any customers to make change for. Shall I check in with you when I get back, in case you’re finished?”

  “Don’t count on it. Where will you be later on?”

  “I have no idea. I’d planned to be in my booth all day,” I said. “If you need to find me, check the medical tent, and if I’m not there, leave a message with my dad.”

  “Your dad? He’s the one running the medical tent?”

  “Yes, why?”

  He grimaced, and began to massage the bridge of his nose.

  “What’s Dad been doing to give you a headache?” I said.