Trouble Most Faire

by Jaden Terrell

  So these are the shares Guy and the sheriff were so concerned about. I wonder if these combined shares are enough to give Laura the controlling stake in the faire’s fate. If so, did Guy know she had bought the others? Unlikely. Based on Joanne’s description of the contract, he had made certain he had the majority of shares. He would surely not have risked selling any had he known they could tip the balance into someone else’s favor.

  Robbi studies the papers, a small furrow between her eyebrows. Then she slowly closes the green folder and picks up the blue one.

  “It’s so weird,” she says, echoing my earlier thoughts. “It’s never crossed my mind to make a will. I mean, isn’t that something you do when you’re, like, forty?”

  I sit back on my haunches, wondering if this is a clue. If Laura had some inkling that her life might be in danger.

  “Besides,” Robbi adds, “it’s not like either one of us has anyone to leave anything to.”

  I know then what the will says, even before she opens the blue folder. She reads in silence. Then her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open. The blue folder slides to the floor.

  “Oh, Trouble.” She scoops me up and squeezes me a bit more tightly than I prefer, but sometimes one must suffer for the greater good. “Trouble, she’s left everything to me.”

  I see the implications dawn on her as she gently sets me down and hurries to check all the doors and windows. I don’t know if Laura told anyone about her will, or who, other than Joanne, knew she was buying up shares from the other members of the Troupe. Joanne was quick enough to share that news with Robbi, but I don’t know the blacksmith well enough to determine whether that was due to grief and alcohol, or whether she is simply prone to gossip.

  In fact, I don’t know any of these bipeds well enough, an oversight I shall begin to rectify first thing tomorrow morning. Then it will only be a matter of time before I ferret out the miscreant.

  I failed Laura, but I shall not fail Robbi.

  Chapter Six

  She couldn’t bring herself to sleep in Laura’s bed. Instead, grief and shock kept her awake until well after midnight. Then she slept fitfully on the cot Laura must have set up for her in the workroom. She woke up early to take Falcor for a short hunt in a nearby meadow, then returned to the cottage with her kestrel on her shoulder, only to find Sheriff Hammond and Deputy Debba on the doorstep.

  Hammond eyed the falcon warily and said, “Thought I’d come by, see about that mess you and McClaren called about.”

  Robbi hurried to unlock the door. “I straightened up, but like I said in my message, I took pictures first. I put things away, but I didn’t wash anything. And you can see the slashes in the pillows. I didn’t fix them. I just turned them over.”

  “Photos only show so much.” He spread his hands. “Wish you’d left things like they were, but there’s not much we can do about it now.”

  That wasn’t fair. If he’d wanted her to leave things as they were, he should have told her so—or asked Mal to tell her. But there was no point in challenging him; he didn’t seem the sort to take a challenge lightly.

  Besides, maybe he was right. Maybe she should have waited.

  “Sorry,” she muttered sulkily.

  The deputy shot her a sharp look, a warning to watch her tone.

  Hammond took a short prowl around the living room and stopped on the rug almost directly above the secret compartment. Robbi’s heart pounded in her ears like the one in Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Did he know?

  He seemed unaware of what he was standing on, but if his deputies had discovered Laura’s secret compartment during their search, he might be playing her. She’d learned from sad experience that her ability to suss out a man’s deception was her kryptonite.

  “So you straightened up,” he said. “At least that gave you a chance to look through Miss Bainbridge’s things. Anything missing?”

  She tried to keep her expression neutral, even though her cheeks burned at Hammond’s snide question. Should she tell him about the journal? Or the hidden documents beneath his feet? Years of social programming told her she should confide in him, but her instincts said she couldn’t trust him.

  She’d just opened her mouth to mention the missing journal when Trouble growled. Startled, she looked over at him. His gaze shifted between her face and the sheriff’s, and he growled again, as if he knew what she’d been thinking and was warning her against it.

  She almost laughed. But was it really so farfetched? If a cat could cook—or at least supervise—why couldn’t one be versed in human behavior?

  Okay, big guy. My lips are sealed. For now.

  “Is anything missing?” Robbi repeated, cutting off the cat’s growl. “I didn’t know what was here originally, so it’s hard to say.”

  Sticking as closely to the truth as possible, she added, “We roomed together before grad school, but I have no idea what she might have bought or gotten rid of since then.”

  He grunted. “Well, keep an eye out, and call if you notice anything suspicious.”

  She watched them leave, the deputy half skipping to keep up with Hammond’s long strides. Deputy Debba hadn’t said much, but she didn’t seem to miss much either. Robbi hoped the sharp-eyed little woman hadn’t noticed she was hiding something.

  Her pulse quickened as Hammond turned and walked back up the path. “You should know, our coroner finished his examination this morning.”

  “Oh?” It was all she could find breath to say.

  “Miss Bainbridge died from a blow to the head from a blunt instrument. There was no water in her lungs, so she was dead before she ended up in the river.” He glanced at the deputy, his expression grim. “His ruling was homicide.”

  “Was she…? Did it…?” Robbi couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. She drew in a quivering breath and tried again. “Did she suffer?”

  For the first time, something that might have been compassion crossed his face. “Your friend was lucky. He said with the kind of wound she had, she would have died almost instantly.”

  As soon as the sheriff and his deputy are gone, I make sure Robbi is safe and then head out for a spot of detecting. Unfortunately, the pig, Tuck, is rooting for something at the edge of Laura’s garden and spots me. He has taken a liking to my company and, in his mangled Scottish accent, insists on tagging along. He’s not a bad little chap, but like most of his species, he’s a bit of a plodder. Before I leave, I introduce myself to Robbi’s kestrel. He’s full of mice and grasshoppers, but while he scans the world outside the mews for prey or danger, I see him take my measure from the corner of his eye. He dismisses me as prey, but unlike Tuck, has no desire for friendship. Nor do I, but he has skills that may yet come in handy. Best make the overture in case they’re needed.

  My to-do list contains a daunting number of tasks.

  1) Find out why Miller was in Laura’s house yesterday;

  2) Discover why Cara left in a snit the last time she visited;

  3) Learn what Guy and Sheriff Hammond know about Laura’s acquired shares;

  4) Discern more about Joanne’s conflicted relationship with Laura, as the blacksmith is tall and strong and could easily have injured Laura in a fit of pique.

  I must also investigate Dale, Mal, and Elinore. Mal because of his breakup with Laura and—if Joanne’s intelligence is correct—because of Laura’s failure to hand over the agreed-upon shares, Dale because the lover is always a suspect, and Elinore because…well, she has as much interest in those shares as Mal does.

  I share my plans with Tuck. He suggests we start with Joanne, but the glint in his eyes tells me it isn’t clues he’s interested in. It’s her corn crib. I overrule him, and after a brief pout, he seems to forget his disappointment, trotting along beside me with his usual jovial demeanor.

  Although I think Miller a more likely suspect, Cara’s cottage is closer, on the far side of the Loop, between Guy’s castle and the McClarens’ farm. Like the others, it’s wood and stone, with shut
tered windows and a modern roof made to look like thatch. Tuck and I are aided in my mission because her shutters are open, showing purple silk curtains and cut crystal orbs in various sizes hanging on strings. They sway in the breeze, catching the light. Living inside must be like living in a rainbow.

  Beneath the front window is a narrow herb garden, the first shoots beginning to emerge. Already, I can smell the faintest hint of mint. Not for the first time, I revel in the ambience of this place. If not for the recent tragedy, this would be the perfect setting for an Anglophile like myself.

  I tell Tuck to stay out of sight. Then I creep to what I surmise is the living room window. I hear Enya music, no other voices.

  In back there is a hemlock, the lowest branch of which affords a look into Cara’s rear window. From there, I can see past the kitchen and all the way through to the front door, a design that Alabamians call a shotgun house, but which originated in Ireland as a method for outwitting faeries. The reasoning goes that, if the fae enter through one door and can see straight out the other, they’ll pass on through without pausing to make mischief. But if both doors don’t align, it gives them time to look around—and that gives them ideas. It is never a good idea to give the fae ideas. I have often wondered if they might be part cat.

  At any rate, down that long tunnel of cottage, I see the kitchen and living room on the right. To the left is a closed door that, based on the layout of the other cottages, leads to the bathroom and laundry, then an open door to the bedroom. In the living room, a wooden bookshelf filled with New Age titles fills one wall, while the mantel and end tables are covered with crystal balls and a variety of tarot card decks.

  Cara is in the living room, dancing, spinning, dark hair flowing around her shoulders, a bangled scarf knotted around her hips. She is a stunning woman, and there is something magical about this wild fusion of Romanian, Middle Eastern, and modern dance. If I were a biped male, I would be utterly enchanted. Fortunately, as a member of a different species, I am able to remain objective.

  An elaborate gypsy-style gown in royal purple, with gold trim and a swirling skirt, is draped over one chair. Based on the design and the style of the embroidery, I’m sure it’s one of Laura’s. Could this be what they argued about?

  I am in the midst of devising a fiendishly clever plan for gaining entrance to the cottage when Cara stops dancing and cocks her head as if listening. She turns off the music, and I hear, quite clearly, a grunt from the front of the house.

  Did I say grunt? I mean, an oink.

  As Cara flings open the front door, I leap from the tree and race for the front of the cottage. Her shriek confirms my fears.

  “Tuck! You wicked little marauder! Get out of my rosemary!”

  I skid around the corner as Cara runs out, waving her arms and shouting, “Shoo! Shoo!” until Tuck looks up from his rooting with a self-satisfied expression.

  For a moment, I think I have a chance to dart inside while Cara is distracted by my hapless partner in crime. Instead, she slams the door behind her and stomps her feet at him until he trundles away.

  I crouch beneath the window, muscles bunched, tail lashing, ready to dash inside when she again opens the door. Then she turns and jabs a finger in my direction. “Oh, no you don’t. Go on now. Shoo!”

  Shoo. As if I were some common pest.

  I roll onto my back with a kittenish expression, but she is a canny lass and fails to succumb to my charms.

  “I said go!”

  With a disdainful look, I stalk away, tail high to hide my injured pride. Briefly, I wish my dad were here. With his Sam Spade persona, he had quite a way with the ladies. Then I realize even the famous Familiar would be unlikely to thaw this woman. The pig had already poisoned the well.

  I find the silly duffer in the woods, still chewing on a sprig of rosemary, with a contented expression that says he’s either unaware of or unworried by the fact that he’s sent everything pear-shaped. Not only has he let our quarry tumble to our presence, he’s alienated her. My whiskers tremble in indignation.

  He squints up at me and asks again if we can do our next detecting at Joanne’s.

  And this gives me an idea. I assure him this is a brilliant plan, and while he gorges on an overturned barrel of corn in Joanne’s barn, I slip away to the new mill to do some real investigation.

  There are two mills on the property, on separate branches of the river. The path to the Old Mill has a chain across the entrance and a sign that says: Danger! Condemned! Keep Out! A crumbling eyesore from yesteryear, the building is preserved from demolition only by sentiment and a smidgen of historic significance. The river beside it makes it even more unsuitable, as several years ago, a developer artificially diverted part of the waterflow into this branch to create a sluice for kayakers. The whitewater by the mill is treacherous, one of the most challenging in the region, as proclaimed by an article on Guy’s office wall. Because almost no one goes there, it’s become Guy’s favorite spot to practice swordsmanship. He puts in his earbuds and listens to music while going through his maneuvers. I don’t know what he listens to, but from his sweeping movements, I suspect it’s something epic.

  The New Mill, an authentic replica of a gristmill from the Middle Ages, is another matter. With its ever-churning water wheel, it serves as a picturesque backdrop for selfies and wedding photos. Miller’s cottage, just a few feet from the mill door, connects to a shop where he creates and sells both sweet and savory pastries and an assortment of other baked goods.

  Miller is something of a cipher. I have no idea whether Miller is his given name, a nickname, or a surname, and in the week I’ve been here, I have never heard him called anything else. His family has been baking for generations, he says. This claim is the root of his feud with Laura.

  The day I arrived, she’d shared her third recipe book, Still More Medieval Flavor, with the Troupe. Miller completely threw a wobbly—or as they say here in the U.S., went ballistic—claiming Laura’s recipe for bread-and-butter pudding was his own, a secret passed down through his family since the days of Richard the Lionheart. Of course, Laura insisted that the recipe had passed down through her family as well.

  What a foolish, senseless thing it would be if Miller should turn out to be the killer. Of course, murder is always foolish. And this one appears to have been a crime of passion—a quick cosh on the head, most likely in the heat of a disagreement. Which means it could indeed have happened over something as insignificant as a recipe for bread-and-butter pudding.

  I can tell right away that Miller is in the shop, because the window is open and a delightful smell is wafting from it. Pastry crust and kidney, if I’m not mistaken, laced with English herbs. I spring onto the window ledge, expecting to see the little baker busy at his stove. Instead, he sits slumped at a long wooden table lined with cooling meat pies. He’s staring at a ragged sheet of paper, tears streaming down his face.

  Could it be a missing page from Laura’s notebook?

  I crane my neck to see if I can make out the words, but all I can tell is that there is something handwritten and blurred by tears.

  A sharp knock at the door jolts him upright. He shoves the paper into his pocket and wipes his face with his sleeve. As he starts for the door, he sees me in the window and, with a teary laugh, says, “Now, now. That won’t do.”

  He gives me a gentle nudge that forces me to hop out to the ground, then closes the window. The knocking grows more insistent.

  Chagrined, I look toward the front door to see who has foiled my attempt to learn the contents of that paper. If this is some trivial matter, the knave shall suffer my wrath.

  Naturally, it’s Tuck. I’m beginning to see why one might be tempted to go after the wretched creature with an axe.

  The door opens, and Tuck looks up at Miller with a goofy pig-grin, one front foot extended in mid-knock. Miller breaks into a grin. “Oh, it’s you. You might as well come in.” Then, with a wave in my direction, he adds, “And I suppose you might as we
ll come in too.”

  My whiskers tremble, this time in excitement. Tuck has bumbled our way into the suspect’s lair.

  Mal kicked the mud off his boots and shouldered through the screen door on his way to the sink. As he washed the blood from his hands, Elinore looked up from a pot at the stove and said, “Well, doctor, was the operation a success?”

  “Mother’s grazing, and baby’s suckling. No surgery required, just shoved the little one back up and turned her the other way around.”

  “A happy ending, then.”

  “Aye, and God knows we could use one.” He bent to smell the steam rising from the pot, then pulled back, disappointed.

  “Laura, you mean?” She gently stirred the soaking wool with a dye-stained wooden spoon. “I thought you two were on the outs.”

  He shook the water from his hands and dried them on an embroidered dish towel. “I told you, it wasn’t that way. We were friends for two years. You can’t be saying I shouldn’t miss her?”

  “We’re all in shock, I think. Of course, you miss her.” Elinore rinsed the spoon and tapped it dry on the edge of the sink, then turned the heat down on the burner. “A bit of lunch will do you good. I’ve still got half of Miller’s pie from supper yesterday. We can eat while this simmers.”

  “Maybe just warm up some frozen fish sticks. I don’t feel much like eating anything that came from Miller’s kitchen.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “You think he did it? Killed Laura?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something off about him. She used to say he stared at her like a croissant someone said he couldn’t have.”

  “He must have had a crush on her, poor thing.”

  “Poor thing, him or her?”

  She shrugged, went to the freezer for the fish. “Both, I suppose. There’s nothing pleasant about unrequited love, from either side.”