My aunt appeared deep in thought. So did Dolly, whose eyes were shut. Deep furrows lined her forehead as she absently ran a finger along the décolletage of her emerald green wench costume.
Quietly, so as not to disturb Dolly’s session with my aunt, I picked up the box of Celtic jewelry that was sitting on the checkout counter and tiptoed to the display window.
Bailey gripped a cookbook and followed me. “I love the artwork on this one.” She held up a copy of Seven Centuries of English Cooking: A Collection of Recipes, an amusing book with clever pen-and-ink drawings and a wealth of recipes. A largish woman in colorful garb graced the cover. “Is it okay to set it out?”
“Sure.”
She fanned the pages so the book stood upright. “What were you going to say before?”
“When?”
“Before we spotted your aunt and Dolly, you said what if.”
“What if”—I set an ornate silver-and-green stone necklace on a white lace handkerchief between the bow and arrow and shaft of wheat—“Katie’s mishap was what your mother was picking up on?”
“I don’t think so.” Bailey tweaked a few other items in the display window. “She didn’t mention smoke. She didn’t mention fire. She—” My pal shuddered.
“What?”
“She said she had visions of blood.”
“Whoa, not good.”
Call me nuts, but suddenly I was experiencing vibes like I’d never felt before. I glanced at Dolly, who lived and breathed by vibes. All good Louisianans did, she’d once told me. Her eyes fluttered open. She pulled free of my aunt’s grasp and cut a look at me. Her mouth dropped open; her green eyes glistened with fear.
Nope. Definitely not good.
• • •
Around two in the afternoon, Pepper Pritchett entered the shop and sang, “Good morning, Jenna. Happy day off!” Pepper, who was somewhere north of sixty-five and owned Beaders of Paradise, a shop kitty-corner from ours, usually wore drab-colored dresses that were adorned with beads. Today she looked colorful and almost youthful in a long rose pink dress, the hem hovering above a pair of Birkenstock leather sandals. She’d added a cream-colored smock and wore multiple strings of exotic beads. “Mind if I come in?” She didn’t wait for an invitation. She never does.
“Please do.” I continued to sweep the floor by the children’s table. After tussling with the ribbon beneath the vintage table, Tigger had decided that shredding paper every which way from Sunday was a wonderful pastime. Now, he watched the bristles of the broom with rapt attention as I made quick flicking movements to gather up the mess. Whatever was up with him was driving me batty, but I adored him and didn’t chastise him.
“Pepper,” Bailey said from the sales counter, where she was counting cash, “you’re already dressed for the fair.”
“Do you like it? I’m a milkmaid.” She did a twirl, then faced us while fidgeting with her short gray bangs. “I’ve been out and about, getting set up for the opening. I bought this at Dolly’s shop on Buena Vista.” Buena Vista Boulevard is our main drag and runs parallel to the seashore. “Dressing the part is appropriate, even if a day early. There are others, like me, already in the mood.” In girlie fashion—highly unusual for Pepper—she gripped the seam of her skirt and swung it to and fro, then she stopped short and held her breath, as if she were ready to crow about something.
I bit back a laugh; so did Bailey. Pepper is pretty readable. Her mouth purses; her nose draws down. She loves lording something over anybody. Not that she is a bad person. She isn’t. She simply needs reassurance that her life has meaning.
“Got gossip?” Bailey asked.
“It’s not gossip.” Pepper swept the door closed and bustled to the counter. “My, that’s a lot of money, Bailey.”
“Sure is.” I swept the paper into a dustpan and dumped it into the trash. “Aunt Vera said fairgoers like to pay in cash, in keeping with the feel of the era.”
Pepper’s eyes widened. “I’d better get to the bank then.”
“Not until you tell us why you popped in,” I said.
“Yes, do tell.” Bailey stopped counting and leaned forward on her elbows. Her mouth was twitching, which meant she couldn’t care less.
“We-ell . . .” Pepper dragged the word out. “You won’t believe it, but I’ve set up my house as an Airbnb rental.”
I’ve heard of Airbnb. They find hosts in a variety of cities with extra rooms or entire homes to let. They even drum up unique accommodations like igloos, prairie tents, and castles. Pepper’s ranch-style house in the hills was fairly typical for Crystal Cove.
“Is that safe?” I asked.
Pepper clucked her tongue. “It’s regulated.”
“It is?” Bailey raised an eyebrow.
“Absolutely. It’s a worldwide company now. Quick as a wink, the moment I put the house on the market a couple—a very lovely couple from San Francisco—took me up on the offer. They’ve already settled in.”
“Are you staying in the house?” I asked, worried that she might be a little too eager and, therefore, an easy mark for a hustler.
“Of course not,” Pepper said. “I’m rooming with my daughter.”
“Does she know that you’ve rented out your place?”
“Yes, and she said she’s delighted to spend some quality time with me.”
I stifled another laugh. I’m sure that was not how her daughter had phrased it. Cinnamon Pritchett, the town’s chief of police, is an extremely private person. She and I are friends, but even our friendship borders on the cool side because she doesn’t like to reveal much about her work or her life. I’ve asked her numerous times about her budding relationship with a hunky fireman, only to get shot down.
“The couple I’ve rented to are so excited that I have a garden,” Pepper went on, undaunted. “They’re health nuts and eat only organic. Did I mention they make pottery? Well, she does. Beautiful long-necked pottery. He runs the business.”
“How did you find them?”
“They found me, silly. Through Airbnb.” Pepper exuded positive energy. “There are lots of folks in town renting their places these days.”
That was news to me. “What else do you know about your tenants?” I asked and resumed sweeping.
“They’re called guests, and FYI,” she went on, using the abbreviated term for for your information, “he has stayed with me before.”
I gawped. “He has?”
“Yes. The first time I let him a room, it was for a weekend. He wanted to scope out the area.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sean Beaufort. He and his wife plan to develop a chain of pottery stores in California. Melody—that’s his wife—teaches pottery classes in addition to making her own. They have a booth on the Pier. You’ll see it.”
Crystal Cove is set on the coast of California, south of Santa Cruz and north of Monterey. To the west is a beautiful crescent of sandy beaches and shops. To the east are the Santa Cruz Mountains. An age-old lighthouse marks the border at the north end of town, and the Pier marks the south end. It features a carousel, a number of shops, a theater, carney games, and restaurants. In addition, tourists can hire boats for sunset or sightseeing cruises and fishing expeditions. The Crystal Cove Renaissance Fair, which was smaller and more in keeping with our town’s size than the typical fair, would take place on the Pier.
“Sean is a darling. So is Melody. The two seem perfectly matched. They’re the same height and they have the same winsome smiles.” Pepper used her hands to describe them. “Did I mention that they’re both athletic? He’s a long-distance runner. She loves to hike. Sean says exercise is good for the heart. Those hills in San Francisco can be quite tasking.” Obviously, her guests had impressed her. “He’s very protective of Melody, making sure she has sunblock and such. It’s quite sweet.” Pepper started to leave and turned back. “I almost forgot. For Ren Fair—that’s how fairgoers shorten the name, by the way—they’re going to dress as two of Shakespeare’s f
amous lovers.”
“Really? Which two?” I asked. My boyfriend, Rhett Jackson, and I were dressing as a well-known medieval couple.
“Petruchio and Kate.”
“From Taming of the Shrew?”
“Exactly.” Pepper chuckled, an endearing sort of snort-sniff. Cinnamon had a similar laugh. “I would cast them as Romeo and Juliet, but what do I know? Maybe they felt they were too old for that. They’re close to forty.” She chuckled again and gathered the seams of her skirt. “Well, that’s all the news that’s fit to print. Too-ra-loo,” she crooned—a saying she’d picked up from my aunt—and departed.
As if on cue, Aunt Vera entered the shop from the breezeway that led to the café. She was carrying an armload of boxed tarot cards. Lola Bird, who was almost the spitting image of her daughter, Bailey, other than the silver hair and a few more well-earned wrinkles, traipsed behind my aunt. Her royal blue skirt and white blouse with its royal blue corset waist cincher made her look quite regal. It didn’t hurt that she was wearing a sparkling silver tiara.
“What are you two up to?” I asked.
Lola pecked her daughter on the cheek.
“We had tea”—Aunt Vera set the boxes of cards on the vintage kitchen table—“and chatted about our respective offerings at the fair.” My aunt had rented a stall so she could give palm readings or tarot card readings. She was also selling tarot cards; hence, the boxed sets. She claimed people who asked to hear their fortunes were often curious how to pursue the art on their own. I particularly liked the whimsical Tarots of the Renaissance decks she had found, which vividly captured the feel of Renaissance art while evoking the diversity of an age when courtiers dominated the palace halls and farmers worked the fields.
Lola flapped a recipe card. “I am hawking Katie’s famous chicken kebabs. Of course, I’ll call them meat on a stick.” In a big, boisterous voice, she chanted, “Come fair maidens and gentlemen. Prithee, quench thy hunger here!”
I applauded. “I love fair-speak. Good job.”
“Why are you selling Katie’s kebabs, Mother?” Bailey asked. “Yours are to die for.”
“I’m selling both, but mine are made with soy sauce, and there might be too many who can’t eat it, like the soy-free or the gluten-free people. Why have a product half the population can’t or won’t buy? Katie’s are made with olive oil and a secret blend of spices.” Lola spread her arms to include everyone in the shop. “What better way to show the world that a competing diner and café can work hand in hand? We’re all family, right?”
“What did Pepper want?” Aunt Vera jutted her chin toward the front door. “She rarely comes in to visit.”
“She came to boast,” Bailey said.
I swatted her. “She wasn’t boasting. She’s excited because she has rented her home as an Airbnb for the week.”
“My word,” Aunt Vera said. “Isn’t that dangerous? I’ve heard some horror stories.”
Lola blanched. “Me, too.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” I assured them, though I was skeptical.
I peered out the display window. Was Pepper’s new venture the reason we were experiencing worrisome vibes? Were there scam artists or drifters coming to town to take advantage of our gracious locals?
A shiver skittered down my spine as I made a mental note to chat with Cinnamon about her mother’s new business.
Chapter 2
That evening, after a crazy afternoon unpacking a boatload of Renaissance-themed cookbooks, which included Cooking and Eating in Renaissance Italy: From Kitchen to Table, as well as Medieval Celebrations: Your Guide to Planning and Hosting Spectacular Feasts, Parties, Weddings, and Renaissance, Bailey and I donned our costumes and drove to the Pier for a night of fun.
The parking lot for the Pier was packed with cars and campers. A large white tent stood off at a distance. I wasn’t quite sure what it was for. No one was making a beeline in that direction. Perhaps it was a staging area. The majority of fairgoers were filing toward the admission booth. Others, if they’d already purchased their fair passes, as we had, strode to the entrance, an archway that was elaborately swathed with gold and burgundy fabric.
A bagpiper in a green-and-red kilt greeted everyone who passed beneath the arch with a cheery drone. Barkers in tan peasant shirts, trousers, and bold burgundy sashes stood on either side of the entrance calling “Hi-ho” or “Good morrow” to all who entered. At the booth to the right of the entrance, a sign was posted stating that all sites accepted cash, and vendors could elect whether to accept the ethereal plastic kind of payment. The instructions on the sign added that if one desired, one could purchase farthings, which were coinlike tokens.
Once we passed through the archway, I drew to a stop and studied the fair’s layout. To the left, between Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store and the other year-round establishments along the Pier, stood a stage as well as a variety of stalls—many were plain white tents; others were designed with a distinctive flair. To the right, which was usually wide open and provided a view of the beach and ocean, stood another string of tents and venues. Down the center of the boardwalk there were smaller stalls. The lanes created by the divider were aptly named North Street and South Street. As we proceeded, I noticed a few cut-throughs in the center aisle, each marked with a wooden, hand-carved sign. Overall, the layout gave the Pier a small-town feel.
I caught the aroma of everything from roasted meat to sweet desserts and my stomach grumbled. “Yum.”
“Double yum!” Bailey said. “I’m starved.”
“Fine maiden!” Rhett hailed me from the front of Bait and Switch, the store he’d purchased after his career as a chef ended. My heart did a happy dance when I saw him. In his Robin Hood costume, complete with a brown hat lined in green velvet and a green feather accent, he was as handsome as any movie star. My darling Tigger, who I’d left at home, would be dressed in a similar costume tomorrow. “Stop a while and pass the time, my lady!” He doffed his hat, offered his typically roguish grin, and did a courtly bow.
I hurried to him, the skirt of my Maid Marian costume fluting up and revealing my medieval leather sandals. I had ordered them online. They were as comfortable as moccasins.
Rhett drew me into a warm embrace and kissed me tenderly. “You look beauteous.”
“So do you,” I murmured. And he did. That dark hair. That strong square jaw. I melted nearly every time I saw him. Now that my deceased husband was really dead—sad story that was better told on a rainy day, not on a star-filled night like tonight—I was emotionally free to give my love to Rhett, and I was thrilled to do so. He deserved every ounce of my affection.
He eyed Bailey, who had opted for a dark blue tavern wench’s costume, complete with apron. “Good e’en, young lass. You look pretty, as well.”
“Good e’en to you, sir.”
E’en means evening in fair-speak. For the past few days, Bailey and I had been practicing words we were to use throughout the week. Good morrow means good day, verily means truthfully, and so on. Thanks to Nick Baldini, I’d learned there are tons of Internet sites to help fairgoers through the process.
Rhett pressed a scroll of parchment tied with ribbon into my hand. “For you.”
“What is it?”
His ocean blue eyes twinkled with delight. “Open and you’ll see.”
I unfurled the paper and read in beautiful, handwritten script:
A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
My eyes welled up. I gazed at Rhett and blinked. “Did you write this?”
“Ha! Are y
ou kidding?” His eyes twinkled with humor. “That’s Shakespeare’s sonnet number twenty. I am no poet.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “I bought it at Shakespeare’s Poetic Inspirations. It’s the tent beyond the theater, near the games.”
At the far end of the Pier regularly stood a series of carney games. Many of the vendors had switched out typical games with fair-style pastimes. Darts was for everyone; the ax toss was for adults.
“It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?” Rhett asked.
“I love it. And I love—”
“Me?” he asked.
“Don’t get cocky.” I winked as I tucked the poetry into the pocket of my skirt.
Rhett and I are an official couple and have been for a few months. We have taken a number of mini trips, including a delicious jaunt to the wine country and an exhilarating outing to Santa Barbara for a hot air balloon ride.
“Come with me.” He clasped my hand and led me along North Street. Bailey followed, keeping a sharp eye out for Tito. He was somewhere in the vicinity doing interviews for the newspaper. Because of the crush of fun-loving people and Bailey being so short, she had to pop up and down to catch a glimpse.
When she leaped for the fifth time, I said, “Cool your heels. I’ll keep a lookout.” At my height, I had an advantage. “What is he wearing?”
“He’s a town crier, what else?”
A man dressed like Friar Tuck pulled alongside Rhett and said, “Prithee, sir, which way to the, um, outhouse?”
Pressing the Issue Page 2
