They had a lot to talk about. In addition to riding in the procession and in the arena, they’d played in the bouncy castle, learned to braid rope, eaten wild boar sausages on sticks, watched a Punch and Judy show, learned to juggle two beanbags, listened to a story about a lost dragon, met a woman who had a unicorn tattooed on her shoulder, learned how to churn butter, snacked on sugared almonds, fudge on sticks, and cotton candy, and visited the petting zoo, where, as I’d predicted, they’d been overjoyed to make the acquaintance of Ajeeta, the six-foot-long python Lilian Bunting and I had seen before Saturday’s opening ceremonies.
I was delighted to hear that they’d adopted Flame and Fireball not because they admired a certain unworthy knight, but because they pitied the lost dragon in the story. I nearly lost it, however, when they informed me that they’d turned down King Wilfred’s offer of knighthoods because I wasn’t there to see the ceremony, and when they asked why I hadn’t been at the arena to cheer them on, my guilt glands went into overdrive.
“I was having lunch with Jinks the jester,” I explained. “The only time Jinks can eat lunch is during the joust.”
The boys’ faces lit up as soon as they heard the jester’s name.
“We like Jinks,” said Rob, with a firm nod.
“He showed us how to do cartwheels,” said Will. “Want to see?”
“Let’s save the cartwheels for tomorrow,” I suggested. “It’ll give me something to look forward to.”
“Okay,” they chorused.
I gazed at my sons fondly. Although they hadn’t offered to forgive me, because they saw nothing wrong with skipping the joust in order to have lunch with a likable man who’d taught them a cool new trick, I felt forgiven.
I was about to clear the table and bring in dessert—fresh strawberries with absolutely no added sugar—when the boys announced that they had something for me. After exchanging significant looks with Bill, who promised not to say a word while they were gone, they left the room. They returned a short time later bearing a tiny gold crown, a little red cape, and a minuscule silver scepter.
“They’re for Reginald,” said Will, laying the scepter and the cape beside my plate.
“King Reginald,” Rob corrected, handing the crown to me.
“We found a stall dedicated entirely to costumes for stuffed animals,” Bill informed me. “I was tempted to buy a cape for Stanley. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff we saw there.”
I would have believed it, since I’d discovered the stall the day before, but I wasn’t going to spoil the fun by saying so. I gave the boys big hugs and many kisses, and beamed happily at Bill. The crown they’d presented to me was more precious by far than King Wilfred’s would ever be.
We trooped into the study to hold a coronation, and ate our strawberries in the living room, attended by King Reginald and his bodyguards, Flame and Fireball. His powder-pink Majesty’s presence inspired a game of Kings and Queens—a card game similar to Go Fish—and then it was off to bed for my little ones.
By nine o’clock, my extremely tired husband and I were stretched out on the couch facing each other, with our heads propped on cushions and our legs entwined. Stanley was curled into a sleepy ball on Bill’s favorite armchair. The playing cards had been put away, my wench garb had been hung up to dry, the dishwasher was running, Flame and Fireball were keeping watch over the twins, and King Reginald had returned to his realm in the study. A companionable silence had settled over the living room, broken only by the steady hum of Stanley’s purr. All was well in our world.
“So,” said Bill. “How was your day?”
I couldn’t help smiling. Not many men were as forbearing as Bill. Instead of demanding an immediate explanation from his hysterical wife, he’d waited until the storm had passed, then asked for one indirectly. It was good to be reminded of his finer qualities just then, when I was about to throw myself open to his caustic wit. Dreading the trial-by-sarcasm to come, I took a deep breath and answered his deceptively simple question.
“It sort of started yesterday morning,” I began, “after you and the boys left for Anscombe Manor. I was standing in the back garden when I heard a saw. . . .”
I made a clean breast of everything, from the sound of the handsaw to my failure to search Edmond’s shed. I told him about the parapet and the quintain, the crown and the cannon, Edmond and Mirabel, and my fruitless quest for the crown. Bill’s jaw muscles tightened alarmingly when I described my unfortunate encounter with Randy Jack, but he didn’t interrupt. He didn’t say a word until I’d finished.
“Are you all right?” he asked, after I’d fallen silent.
I knew what he meant, and nodded.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Grossed out, but fine.”
“Do you want me to have a word with him?” Bill asked.
“I’d like you to put him on an island filled with strong, fastidious women,” I said. “He’d come back a changed man.”
“I’m serious,” said Bill.
“I know you are, and I love you for it, but a word won’t penetrate his cast-iron ego,” I said. “If he comes within ten feet of me again, you have my permission to punch his lights out, okay?”
“Okay,” said Bill, but his jaw muscles still looked a bit tense.
“What about the rest of my story?” I said, hoping to lighten his mood. “Go ahead, have a good laugh. Tease me about my overactive imagination. Tell me I’ve been on another vampire hunt. I can take it.”
“I’m not going to laugh at you,” he said. “You’re not on another vampire hunt.”
“Sure,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m on a dragon hunt, right? Good punch line, Bill.”
“There’s no punch line, Lori,” said Bill, gazing levelly at me. “You’ve been right all along. Someone is trying to harm Calvin Malvern.”
It was the last thing in the world I’d expected to hear from my husband. I blinked at him in disbelief and said hesitantly, “The assassination plot is . . . real?”
“It’s real,” said Bill. “Horace Malvern told me about it just before the fair closed today. You haven’t been imagining things, love. Someone deliberately weakened the struts supporting the parapet. Someone tampered with the cannon early in the morning, long before the teenaged boys stopped to look at it. Horace didn’t know about the quintain’s rope, but he won’t be surprised when I tell him what you saw. And the king’s crown was stolen from his motor home.”
I frowned. “Jinks told me—”
“Jinks is under strict orders to quash rumors,” Bill informed me. “The entire royal court has been ordered to keep mum about the situation. Calvin refuses to listen to his uncle. He won’t call in the police or hire bodyguards or move into the farmhouse, where he’d be less vulnerable. I think he’s afraid that the fair will be shut down if word gets out that someone is trying to kill him.”
“The fair should be shut down,” I said earnestly. “What if an innocent bystander gets hurt? What if you or the twins end up in the line of fire?”
“The fair can’t be closed without Calvin’s cooperation,” Bill informed me. “And he’s not cooperating. He’s written off everything that’s happened as an accident or a prank. It’s a pity you lost the quintain rope.”
“Yeah, I know.” I gazed past him at the bow window that overlooked our front garden, and thought of the traffic that had clogged our lane. The fair’s popularity meant that Calvin’s wasn’t the only life in danger. “I hate to say it, Bill, but I think we have a responsibility to go to the newspapers with the story. It’s a matter of public safety.”
“I agree, but I’d like to hold off for a few days,” said Bill. “Horace has hired a private investigator. If the PI can collar the perpetrator before the fair opens next weekend, there’ll be no need to shut it down.”
“I should tell the investigator what I’ve learned about Edmond Deland,” I said.
“I’ll fill him in,” said Bill. “Horace wants to limit the number of people who know about the i
nvestigation, so keep it to yourself, will you? The PI’s job will be ten times harder if his presence on the case becomes common knowledge.”
“Mum’s the word.” I rested my head on the cushion and gazed up at the ceiling. “I hope Mr. Private Investigator is good at his job. Will and Rob will be crushed if the fair closes after its first weekend.”
Bill sat up, swung his legs over the side of the couch, and peered at me intently. “Now that Horace has hired a professional detective, I want you to promise me that you’ll stop your investigation, Lori. No more snooping around on your own. No more following Edmond Deland or sneaking into his tent or eavesdropping on his conversations. There’s no telling what the perpetrator might do if he felt threatened by you. He might . . .” Bill took a shaky breath before adding steadily, “The boys need their mother. And I need my wife.”
“You’re going to make me cry again,” I said, taking his hands in mine. “I promise to stop sneaking around, but I can’t promise to stop listening to people. I’m an unregenerate eavesdropper. It’s too late to change the habits of a lifetime.”
“All right. I won’t expect miracles.” Bill managed a smile, but squeezed my hands to drive home his point. “Listen if you must, but don’t act on what you hear. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said.
“Back to work tomorrow.” Bill groaned as he got to his feet, then yawned hugely and stretched. “I’m off to bed. The boys wore me out today. I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow.”
“Any trips on the schedule this week?” I asked.
As an international attorney who specialized in estate planning for the fabulously wealthy, Bill spent a lot of time flying all over Europe to meet with his demanding clients. It was a rare treat to have him at home for more than two weeks in a row.
“None planned,” he replied, “but you know how it is. If a client kicks the bucket unexpectedly, I’ll be summoned to sort out the paperwork.”
“Let’s hope everyone stays healthy, then.” I rose from the couch and put my arms around his neck. “I like having you here.”
“That’s good, because I like being here.” He pulled me into a long good-night kiss, then murmured, “Coming to bed?”
“In a little while,” I said. “I want to—”
“—report to Aunt Dimity,” he finished for me. “Try not to stay up too late.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “You’ve had a very long day.”
Nineteen
The satisfaction of knowing that I hadn’t imagined the assassination plot vanquished my need for sleep. I strode confidently into the study, curtsied politely to King Reginald, lit a fire in the hearth, and settled into the tall armchair with the blue journal. I was wide-awake and ready to chat until dawn with Aunt Dimity.
“Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “You’re not going to believe what I have to tell you. You’re simply not going to believe it!”
I smiled wryly as Aunt Dimity’s old-fashioned copperplate curled gracefully across the blank page.
Why shouldn’t I believe you, my dear? I’ve never doubted your veracity before—except on a few occasions when I had reason to believe that you were withholding details about your unfortunate interactions with certain good-looking men.
“There aren’t any good-looking men in the picture this time,” I assured her. “Except for Bill, of course.”
I’m extremely pleased—and relieved and somewhat surprised—to hear it. Well? What is your incredible news? Out with it!
“Hold on,” I said, disconcerting myself. “Before I give you the big news, I should probably tell you what happened after church this morning. It’s pretty incredible all by itself.”
I’m never bored by news of Finch.
“You definitely won’t be bored,” I told her. “Today will go down in the annals of Finch as the day of too many tourists. . . .”
I was anxious to move on to Bill’s gratifying revelations, so I sped through a description of the havoc wrought on the village by the tourist tornado, gave a thumbnail sketch of the cleanup campaign instigated by Calvin Malvern, and outlined the schemes Horace Malvern had implemented to prevent such a catastrophe from occurring again. Aunt Dimity listened without comment until I’d finished. Then the handwriting began flowing again.
You’ve left me quite breathless, Lori. As I’m sure the tourists left Finch.
“The villagers were completely overwhelmed by the barbarian invasion,” I said. “And when the guys from the fair showed up, they were overwhelmed in a different way. They may erect a statue of King Wilfred on the village green. Without him, we’d still be picking candy wrappers out of George Wetherhead’s front garden.”
Has Mr. Wetherhead found the courage to emerge from his house yet?
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow. I have to stop by the Emporium to pick up some milk.”
While you’re in the village, please ask after the vicar as well. It was brave of him to face a horde of blundering louts on his own, but it may take him several days to recover.
“I’ll drop in at the vicarage to make sure he’s okay,” I promised.
I’ll also be interested to hear if Peggy Taxman’s display window has been replaced.
“Knowing Peggy, I’m sure it has,” I said, then added wryly, “Knowing Peggy, I’m sure it’s been replaced with a better window.”
She certainly wouldn’t hesitate to demand one. I do hope that Miranda Morrow has been thanked properly for replanting the flower beds around the war memorial. And you must find out if the pub sign has been repaired. You should be able to tell whether or not Horace’s police officers have done their job as soon as you enter the village.
“True,” I said. “If the village looks like a shipwreck, a couple of constables are going to find themselves in hot water with Horace.” I shifted restlessly in the chair. “Do you mind if we leave the village for a little while and return to the fair?”
Not at all. I assume your incredible news has something to do with the fair and I’m eager to hear it.
I gazed down at the page with an air of quiet triumph and announced, “I was right about the assassination attempts, Dimity. I was right from start to finish. I wasn’t imagining things or reading too much into situations or jumping to conclusions. My instincts told me that something was out of kilter at King Wilfred’s Faire, and they were spot on.”
Your instincts have always been quite sound, Lori. It’s your imagination that has led you astray from time to time.
“It hasn’t led me astray this time,” I said. “Someone really is trying to kill King Wilfred.”
I understand the reason for your elation, but I’m afraid I can’t share it. In truth, I wish with all my heart that you were wrong. Has the saboteur been arrested?
“Not yet,” I said. “I don’t know if he’ll ever be arrested. But I’m sure he’ll be caught soon. Let me explain. . . .”
I gave Aunt Dimity a lengthy and detailed recapitulation of my conversation with Bill, including everything I’d told him about my day as well as everything Horace Malvern had told him about the behind-the-scenes drama at the fair. After Aunt Dimity’s unnecessary comment about my unfortunate interactions with good-looking men, I was tempted to skip over the part about Randy Jack, but since I’d been an incredibly unwilling recipient of his amorous attentions, I decided that it would be safe to leave it in.
Predictably, Aunt Dimity zeroed in on the Randy Jack episode as soon as I’d finished my account, but her take on it seemed to come out of left field.
I’m glad you were able to repel Sir Jacques’ attack, but I wish you’d been equally firm with the jester.
“What do you mean?” I asked, bewildered.
He took you to an isolated location, poured wine for you, paid you too many compliments . . . Need I go on?
“No, but for the first time in living memory, I think you’re the one who’s reading too much into a situation,” I said, laughing. “Let me make a few things clear,
Dimity. First, Jinks is a highly recognizable performer. People expect him to be funny all the time. If he tried to eat lunch inside the fairground, he’d be constantly harassed by fans. Second, he made no attempt to get me drunk. He poured one small glass of wine for me, and he didn’t try to refill it when I wasn’t looking. Third, I was grateful to him for critiquing my garb. Fourth, I didn’t take his compliments seriously. They’re part of his job. He dispenses them automatically, and when I asked him to stop, he stopped. End of story.”
But will it be the end of the story? Handsome men aren’t your only weakness, Lori. You’re also attracted to men who make you laugh.
“Well, I’m not attracted to Jinks,” I said firmly. “After seeing my husband in his medieval dude garb, I doubt that I’ll ever look twice at another man.”
Hope springs eternal.
“You seem to be missing the big picture, Dimity,” I said. “It isn’t about me. It’s about Calvin and Edmond and little Mirabel.”
I must confess that I feel sorry for each of them. It goes without saying that Edmond must be stopped, but he can hardly be blamed for wanting to protect a girl as foolish and naive as Mirabel. As for Mirabel . . . I agree with you, Lori. She’s blinded by the stars in her eyes. I fear that she’s in for a very rude awakening.
“And Calvin?” I said.
He should have his face roundly slapped for toying with Mirabel’s affections, but he doesn’t deserve a death sentence.
“I don’t think he realizes that he’s doing anything wrong,” I said thoughtfully. “According to Edmond, he has a reputation for taking advantage of new cast members. I’m willing to bet that, in his mind, he’s just following his usual routine and enjoying a bit of slap and tickle with the new girl in town.”
In that case, Mirabel isn’t the only one in for a rude awakening.
“He’ll find it hard to believe that someone on his payroll hates him enough to want him dead,” I said, nodding. “Calvin sees himself as a merry monarch. He thinks everyone loves him.”
Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon Page 19
