The deputies and the coroner turned the stretcher to the left, where on Laura’s map, another arrow pointing off the page had read, Employee Parking. Robbi watched the stretcher disappear around a curve in the trail. Then the sheriff cleared his throat, reminding her that there were other people waiting.
She hurried to keep up with Mal and Guy, thinking that if the situation weren’t so serious it would be amusing. With the kestrel in his carrier and the cat, dog, and pig trotting alongside, they could almost be the Bremen Town musicians. They turned to the right, past a row of empty booths fashioned like medieval village buildings and still boarded up for the off-season. Beyond the booths stood a long wood and stone structure labeled King’s Moot.
Robbi shifted Falcor’s carrier to the other hand. He seemed to like the box just fine—raptors often perched in the same spot for hours in the wild—but she’d be glad to get him settled in the mews where he could relax and stretch his wings. As she followed Mal into the room, she sent the kestrel a mental promise: Soon.
Inside, Deputy Debba stood beside a massive stone fireplace, one hand resting on the butt of her gun. The expression on her face was earnestly grim, as if she wanted everyone to know she took her responsibilities Very Seriously. There were five others in the room. Joanne sat at a table by herself, while two women and two men perched at another. Tuck wandered over and flopped down at Joanne’s feet.
The sheriff, a thin man whose paunch and spindly legs looked like a tennis ball glued to a pair of chopsticks, sauntered to Deputy Debba’s side and hitched up his pants. He took off his glasses, the old-fashioned kind with thick plastic frames, and cleaned them on the tail of his shirt before putting them back on. “All right, everybody. If Deputy Debba has done her job properly, you’re probably wondering what’s going on here. Well, most of you. My guess is, one of you knows full well what this is about. So here’s what’s gonna happen.”
He glared at the group, his gray eyes magnified behind his lenses. “One at a time, each of you is going to come back to Guy’s office and answer some questions. Deputy Debba will stay out here and make sure the rest of you don’t compare notes.” He pointed to a small, round-shouldered man with a balding pate. “We’ll start with you.”
The little man gave a nervous yelp and looked around at the others, licking his lips. The sheriff beckoned him with an index finger. He swallowed hard and climbed slowly off the wooden bench, as if he were being led to the guillotine.
Robbi arched an eyebrow, Vulcan style, as the black cat fell into step at the small man’s feet.
“That’s Miller,” Mal whispered. “Afraid of his own shadow.”
Maybe, Robbi thought. But perhaps that fear was caused by a guilty conscience.
Guy trailed into the office behind Miller and closed the door. That was definitely not standard, but maybe Guy had already been eliminated as a suspect and was now acting as a consultant. That made sense, in a way. It was his faire.
“Let me introduce you to the others,” Mal said. “You already know Joanne.”
His hand on the small of her back, he guided her to the rest of the Troupe. Deputy Debba edged closer, presumably to monitor the conversation.
Mal pointed to a thirtyish woman in a gray peasant dress and a tartan shawl. Her hair was dark and curly, and her tentative smile revealed a familiar-looking dimple. Mal said, “My sister, Elinore.” He pointed to the other woman. “And this is Cara. That’s Cah-ra with an ah, not Care-ra with an ai. Don’t get it wrong, or she’ll let you know about it.”
She was a stunning woman, with high cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, and full red lips in a heart-shaped face. Unlike the rest of the Troupe, she wore modern dress. Tight jeans accentuated her curves, and her thick dark hair cascaded across the shoulders of her red silk blouse.
And, lord, the bangles. Bracelets and rings, dangling earrings and strands of gold necklaces. The kind of bling that might have looked tacky on someone else but instead came across as artistic and Bohemian. She met Robbi’s gaze and held it with a confidence that said she’d grown up beautiful, the kind of girl Robbi and Laura would have whispered about behind their hands in high school, two plain girls sitting alone on the bleachers. Part envy and part pre-emptive rejection. Robbi felt ashamed of that now.
Mal’s voice brought her back. “And this is Dale.” He nodded toward a lanky young man with a boyish face.
“Dale Allen,” Cara said, flashing the young man a flirtatious smile. “Musician, composer, creator of handcrafted instruments. So, of course, he performs as Alan a’ Dale. Really, Mal, are these what you call introductions?”
At Mal’s shrug, Cara laughed. “Mal is a man of few words. But let me guess. You’re new here. The first of the Seasonals.”
Elinore snorted. “You don’t have to be psychic to guess she’s new. It’s not like there are too many of us to count. And she’s Laura’s friend—we’ve been hearing about her for weeks. What we don’t know is why she’s dragged Sherwood’s finest and his lackey in with her.”
“I’m Robbi,” Robbi said quickly. “Laura—”
Deputy Debba stepped in. “You can’t discuss the case.”
“Case?” Dale was halfway to his feet when a sharp look from the deputy dropped him back onto the bench. “What does Laura have to do with any case?”
From the table behind them, Joanne said, “We found her in the river, hung up under the bridge. Dale, I’m sorry. Laura’s dead.”
Mal laid a hand on Dale’s shoulder to keep him from lunging across the table. The group broke into startled chatter, and while Deputy Debba tried to regain control, Joanne lapsed into silence.
The deputy slammed her hand down on the table. “That’s enough! Next one of you who says a word will spend the night downtown.”
Mal clenched his teeth to keep from laughing at the thought of their tiny village square as “downtown.” Sherwood, Tennessee was barely a wide spot on the map. The faire was the town’s only claim to fame, and when the season ended, the rest of the town hunkered down to wait for the grand opening the following spring. But during the season, it was a heck of a draw. Mal had to give Guy credit for that. He’d taken a forty-two acre plot of forest and turned it into something the whole town could be proud of.
Miller came out of Guy’s office, sweating and pale. He scurried to the water cooler by the window and gulped down a cupful, then sat at the other table, as far from Joanne as he could, blinking like a mole in sunlight. Elinore went next, then Dale, who came out looking red-eyed and ashen. He pointed to Cara.
“Guess I’m up,” she said blithely, then turned back toward Robbi. “Remind me to read your cards sometime soon.”
Mal glanced over at Robbi, who sat straddling the bench, one hand on Falcor’s carrier. She looked a million miles away. And no wonder. Poor kid must be exhausted.
Poor kid, huh? He hadn’t been thinking of her as a kid when he stared into those incredible brown eyes.
He looked away and headed over to sit beside his sister, giving Dale a comforting thump on the back as he passed. Robbi Bryan was no kid, and whether she was exhausted was no concern of his.
It was just that Galahad complex Elinore had always teased him about, rearing its ugly head. He’d be damned if he’d let it get him into trouble again.
It was cool in the King’s Moot, and Robbi’s clothes had dried to a clammy dampness. She wished she hadn’t said she didn’t need the blanket Mal had offered. It was her stupid pride, not wanting to seem needy. If she caught pneumonia, it would serve her right. She rubbed her arms, then her legs, with her palms. All it did was spread the chill to her hands.
Cara came out of the office, as poised as when she went in. She tapped Joanne’s shoulder as if they were playing a macabre game of “Duck, Duck, Goose,” and Joanne stumped into Guy’s office, looking like she wished she could carry her axe. Then it was Mal’s turn. He came out and gestured to Robbi with a look she could only describe as fatherly. He couldn’t be much older than she was, i
n his thirties at most, but there was something of an old soul about him, as if some long-ago hurt had attuned him to the suffering of others. He was rooting for her, she realized. The thought made her a little less anxious.
As she reached for Falcor’s carrier, Mal said, “I’ll watch him for you.”
She nodded and made her way to the office, feeling numb.
Guy’s office looked like it had been decorated by a group of sixteen-year-old boys with attention deficit disorder. The desk was cluttered with paperbacks, a dragon-shaped pencil holder, a spinning kinetic sculpture made of paper clips, several magnetic sculptures, and a mermaid-shaped tray filled with office supplies. Vintage circus posters, Ren Faire posters, and a map of Middle Earth covered three walls; the other was crammed with newspaper clippings and photos of Guy in costume, either brandishing a weapon or posing with one or several attractive wenches.
Guy-in-the-flesh leaned against the window, petting Trouble, who had hopped onto the ledge. Guy’s eyes brightened when Robbi came in.
The sheriff sat at the desk, an open laptop in front of him. He gestured toward an empty chair across from him, and she slid into it, perching on the edge. Her right leg shook, foot bobbing like the needle of a sewing machine, and she pressed down on her thigh to make it stop. Under the sheriff’s chilly gaze, she felt as fidgety as Miller.
“Interesting timing,” Sheriff Hammond said mildly. His glasses glinted in the light. “You show up just in time to find your best friend’s body.”
He made air quotes around “best friend.”
“Terrible timing.” Robbi held his gaze. “Whatever happened, if I’d been here earlier, maybe I could have stopped it.” If she hadn’t had to walk those extra miles, if Old Reliable, had lived up to its name…would that have gotten her here in time?
An image of Ophelia flashed through her mind again. Poor, weak Ophelia, drowning herself over that lout, Hamlet. Laura would never have done that, never. She was spunky and strong.
Guy’s chair squeaked as the sheriff leaned back in it. “What makes you say that? What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know what happened. But if it was an accident, maybe I could have saved her. And if she did it herself, I could have talked her out of it, and if someone else did it, maybe we—the two of us together—could have fought him off. Or her off. Whoever did it.”
It had to be an accident. Or maybe a stranger. One of those guys who moved from town to town, preying on pretty young women with big hearts. No one who knew Laura could possibly want to kill her.
Hammond laced his hands behind his neck, and the overhead light reflecting in his lenses turned the glass to silver. She wished she could see his eyes. He said, “We have only your word your vee-hicle broke down.”
“You’re welcome to try and start it.”
“Oh, no doubt it won’t start now. Don’t mean you couldn’t have sneaked in here and killed her, then drove a few miles down the road and sabotaged your car.” He looked down at the laptop in front of him, read off the make and model. “I had a buddy used to have one of those. That’s a lot of cargo space for a little gal like you.”
Her face burned with indignation. Swallowing a retort about the implausibility of her sabotaging her own car, she focused instead on his assessment of her chosen vehicle. In a brittle voice, she said, “I’m a falconer. The back is split into two spaces, half for the falcon and the other half for storage. Coolers for his food, equipment, archery supplies…”
“You’re an archer too, huh? I used to shoot at Scout camp. Takes some strength.”
She gave an angry shrug. “It depends on the bow.”
“To some extent.”
She wasn’t going to play this game. “What happened to Laura?”
He leaned forward, edging aside a small pyramid of magnetic balls. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Because I don’t know. I just looked up and saw her…” Her voice broke, and she turned her eyes upward, blinking hard. “She was just floating there.”
Guy pushed away from the wall. “Come on, Ham. You don’t really think she coshed Laura in the head and threw her in the river? I mean, look at her.”
Hammond did. “A little on the small side, but she’s not exactly a Keebler elf. And you heard how she flipped Joanne right off that bridge. She could’ve done it.”
Guy rubbed the cultivated stubble on his chin, as if thinking it through. “Let’s say she did do it. Why stage the bit about the car breaking down? She could have shown up tomorrow or a week from tomorrow, and she wouldn’t have even been on your radar.”
The sheriff blew out an exasperated breath. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Guy, maybe she’s just not that smart. And if you can’t shut up and let me run this investigation, you can go out there and wait with the rest of them. Truth is, that’s where you oughta be anyway. Who’s to say you didn’t kill Miss Bainbridge yourself?”
Guy sputtered something incomprehensible and propped himself against the window again. In his chagrin, he seemed to have forgotten Trouble, and after a half-hearted bat at his hand, the cat jumped down and strolled over to Robbi. She picked him up, and he settled onto her lap with a dignified meow. She resisted an urge to snuggle him. It might make her feel better, but she could tell by his stately demeanor that snuggling was a liberty she would have to earn.
She found a spot beneath the chin that made him purr, then looked up at the sheriff. “Someone hit Laura on the head? Was that what killed her?”
Hammond shot Guy a reproachful glare, then seemed to relent and heaved a sigh. “Too soon to say without the coroner’s report. But it does look like she was hit on the head—or coshed, as my little helper here would say. Some kind of blunt object. Could be that killed her. Or maybe she drowned. She could have gone in anywhere upstream.”
Robbi grasped at the sliver of hope. “Could she have slipped and hit her head? Just…fallen in?”
“Accident? Maybe. Or maybe the two of you had a fight, and you hit her, and she fell in. That how it happened?”
He was just doing his job, Robbi reminded herself. She forced her clenched fists to open and said, “I’ve known Laura since we were eight, and I can count our arguments on one hand and still have all my fingers left over.” Sure, they’d sometimes gone their separate ways, both of them busy with school, guys, stuff. But they’d always drifted back again, as close as ever. “We never fought. Never.”
“Sure you didn’t. I know how girls are. Got two of my own. Drama.” He rolled his eyes. “Best friends today, mortal enemies tomorrow. Next week, best friends again, and in between a lot of crying. Never fought, my eye.”
Robbi’s eyes narrowed. “Ask anyone. At school, or in our hometown. Teachers. Other kids. They’ll tell you.”
He threw up his hands. “That’s what you wanta go with, I won’t stop you. But don’t waste my time. Let’s go over what happened. Start when you woke up this morning, and don’t leave anything out.”
She walked him through it, the final packing, loading Old Reliable, the five-hour drive from school with two stops to refresh and refuel, then the fateful clank and rattle as the car gave up its ghost. She dug out the time-stamped service station receipts as she finished with the events at the bridge, then slid them across the desk.
He spent a long time looking at them. Then he pulled a pen from Guy’s dragon pen holder and scrawled something across the bottom of each one. “I’ll just hold onto these. Evidence and all.”
“I’d like a copy, please.” She looked at Guy. “You have a copier, don’t you? Or a scanner?”
Hammond frowned but didn’t protest as Guy moved a wire tree from atop a small photocopy machine. When the copies had been made, the sheriff handed them to Robbi and said, “I’ll talk to you again when we get back the autopsy reports and have an official time of death.”
Robbi sucked in an involuntary breath. Of course there’d be an autopsy. The thought seemed to leech all the air out of the room.
“Miss Bryan?”
Hammond’s voice cut through the fog in her brain. “Are you all right?”
“I’m…I’m fine.” She stood, forgetting the cat until it launched itself off her thighs and onto the floor.
I’m sorry, Trouble. But I have to get out of here.
Robyn Bryan, more familiarly known as Robbi, is the last of the group to be questioned. I forgive her for unceremoniously dumping me to the floor, as clearly all this has come as quite a shock. And no harm done. I’m exceptionally agile, even for my kind, and stick a perfect landing on all four paws.
I’ve also managed to acquire a great deal of valuable information by simply trading on my feline charm. While I’m not naturally inclined to be so demonstrative with strangers, you’d be surprised at how effective a rub and a purr can be at lowering a biped’s guard. Really, Homeland Security could learn a lot from us cats.
But as I was saying: valuable information. For example, in addition to a wealth of information from the articles on Guy’s walls, I learned more about the breakup Joanne mentioned at the bridge. It seems our Laura recently ended a long-term relationship with Mal McClaren in favor of the minstrel, Dale Allen, and that she and Miller have been at odds over a recipe both claim as an old family dish. Miller is an odd little chap, a timid type few human females would find notable at first glance. His teeth practically chattered as the sheriff questioned him, and at least once I thought he might pass out. Whether this was due to a fragile constitution or a guilty conscience is too soon to say.
But Mal and Miller are far from the only suspects. Joanne is noted for her quick temper, and while I’ve been here only a few days, I’ve noticed a chill between Laura and Cara. Not even Dale is beyond suspicion. After all, many a murder has been spurred by a lover’s quarrel.
I linger as Robbi exits, pretending to clean my paws, in hopes of gleaning one last bit of information from Sheriff Hammond. The door closes behind her, and the sheriff turns to Guy and says, “Well? What do you think?”
Trouble Most Faire Page 3
