Trouble Most Faire

by Jaden Terrell

  He didn’t answer. Both he and his sister knew something about unrequited love. Finally, he said, “You know, I can make my own.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She waved him off. “It’s no trouble. But speaking of trouble…”

  “Laura’s cat? I mean, the one she was looking after?”

  “No, the other kind.” She slid the fish into a pan and turned the oven on. “Salad? Chips?”

  “Just fish is fine. What kind of trouble?”

  She turned to face him, back against the fridge, her eyes soft with concern. In this light, with her hair to her waist and prematurely threaded with silver, she looked so much like their mother that his breath caught in his throat.

  She said, “I saw how you looked at that new girl. Be careful, Mal. Sometimes heartache comes in small packages.”

  An image of those deep, dark eyes came to him, followed by the memory of how she’d slipped out from beneath his arm. She’d been polite, but that was all. Any spark he’d fancied between them had been nothing more than his imagination.

  “You needn’t worry on that count,” he said, his voice gruffer than he’d intended. “She isn’t interested.”

  “Remind me to be buying you a cup and a cane next time I’m in town.” Elinore laid a palm against his cheek. “My poor blind brother.”

  Alas, my foray into Miller’s shop reveals nothing in the way of evidence. He neither retrieves the paper from his pocket nor confesses his sins over the generous servings of steak and kidney pie he offers us. Naturally, I proceed with caution in case he has laced the pie with poison, but a thorough sniff reveals no untoward ingredients. Since by the time I finish my inspection, Tuck is halfway through his share with no apparent ill effects, I finally partake of the repast. This is why the monarchy employs official tasters.

  I must admit, it is delicious. I enjoy a generous serving of the meat and gravy and leave the crust for Tuck. While he inhales my leftovers and a second serving, I take the opportunity to prowl. I find nothing unexpected for a bakery, though there are several areas I’m forced to leave unexplored. The closet doors are closed, and lacking both a human’s height and at least one thumb, I’m unable to open them. I manage to nudge open a cabinet door, but before I can properly investigate, Miller pulls me out.

  “Time for you lads to go,” he says. “I have a lot to do before the Bazaar. I mean, assuming we’ll still have one.”

  Laura told me about this when I first arrived. On the Ren Faire circuit, the Bizarre Bazaar takes place the Monday following an open faire weekend. The vendors trade things like massages, unneeded equipment, services, and whatever else they have to barter. Guy carries the tradition throughout the year: during the off season, the Rennies have one every few weeks. Sometimes it’s only Miller selling pies and flour, and the McClarens selling milk and wool. But sometimes everyone brings something. Honey from Dale’s beehives; one or two of Elinore’s hand-knitted blankets; Cara’s candles, skin care creams, and perfumes, all made from essential oils; and occasionally a piece of art or furnishing someone has grown tired of.

  Miller shepherds us outside and closes the door behind us. Clearly, there is something in that cabinet he has no wish for me to see. I must find a way to look inside. In the meantime, I shall carry on.

  Two tasks down and two to go. I trot toward Guy’s little castle while Tuck toddles behind. His feelings are hurt because I left him at Joanne’s, but I point out that he was buried to his ears in corn. Was it my fault he was too engrossed in his ill-gotten snack to see me leave?

  Tuck is a simple soul, and when I promise not to abandon him again, this mollifies him. By the time we reach the castle, which Guy has dubbed Cavanaugh Castle, or the Laird’s Keep, Tuck has forgotten his pique. He rhapsodizes over Miller’s pies until, were I less of a gentleman, I would throttle him.

  The Laird’s Keep is constructed of two circular towers separated by a rectangular living space. My second day here, I slipped inside and found it quite impressive, with a genuine suit of armor, a collection of medieval daggers, and several historic tapestries. The towers were sealed, but an article on the office wall says they are filled with original artwork and collectible replicas from the Middle Ages through the end of the Renaissance. Apparently, young Guy inherited a fortune from his maternal grandmother and used a goodly portion of it to create this little sanctuary.

  Tuck and I climb the wide stone stairs and stop before a sturdy wooden door with a lion’s head knocker, a handle in place of a doorknob, and a velvet bell pull. One quick leap, and I pull the bell rope, dangling from my claws. A sequence of chimes rings from inside, but no one answers. I drop to the ground and am about to ring the bell again when I hear a faint moan from inside.

  Quickly, I confer with my compatriot. Then I climb onto his back and wrap my paws around the handle. My fourteen pounds is not enough to move the door, but it is enough to turn the handle. Tuck, with his greater weight, shoves the door open.

  Guy lies just inside the door, an empty glass in his open palm, a sweet-smelling amber pool beneath his hand. Tuck bends his head to lap it up, but I make myself big and drive him away with hisses and fierce yowls. Poor fellow looks terrified, but this is for his own good.

  I meow for him to run for help, and he finally toddles down the steps and onto the Loop, his short legs pumping so fast he looks like a wind-up toy. For my part, I fish Guy’s phone from his pocket with my dexterous paws. Thank goodness he hasn’t password protected it.

  There’s a red emergency icon in one corner of the screen. I bat at it until a woman’s nasal voice says, “What is your emergency?” Then I dash off to Laura’s cottage to find Robbi.

  There is no time to lose.

  Robbi stood beside Mal, watching the paramedics take Guy away on a stretcher, an oxygen mask strapped to his face. Lucky for Guy, he’d managed to dial 911 before losing consciousness, even luckier that Trouble and Tuck had found him and run to fetch help.

  The cat’s intentions could not have been clearer. He’d yowled at the door until she’d answered it, then tugged at her pants leg and run to the Loop path, where he looked back with an insistent meow that could only mean one thing: Are you coming?

  She’d seen too much in the past twenty-four hours not to trust his instincts. Resisting the urge to ask if Timmy was stuck in the well, she sprinted after him. Thank goodness she had. By the time she got there, Guy was barely breathing. His skin felt clammy to the touch.

  Mal had arrived less than two minutes later, Tuck and Scarlett at his heels. Under Mal’s direction, Robbi covered Guy with a blanket and tried to rub the circulation into his cold hands. When his breathing stopped, Mal laced his hands over Guy’s chest and pumped while Robbi blew life into Guy’s mouth.

  It was hard to believe this pale, limp man on the stretcher was the handsome rogue who had flirted with her just the day before.

  Robbi rubbed her upper arms as if that might warm the chill in her heart. She looked at Mal. “You seem to know your way around a medical emergency.”

  “I took a few first aid courses. And I was a vet for a few years, in a previous life.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “I liked it fine. But I like this too.”

  She waited for him to explain further. When he didn’t, she said, “Is Guy going to be okay?”

  “Depends what happened to him.”

  Robbi rubbed her mouth, then frowned and ran her tongue across her upper lip.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Something’s not right. My whole mouth’s tingling.” She turned and walked inside, where Trouble straddled Guy’s spilled drink, warning Tuck off with a ferocious growl. The pig looked up with a frustrated oink.

  Robbi pointed to an amber bottle on the foyer table. “Isn’t that a bottle of Joanne’s mead?”

  With a thoughtful expression, Mal watched the cat guarding the mead. Then he picked up his pig and said over his shoulder, “I think someone had better call the sheriff.”

 
Chapter Seven

  Joanne sat on the jailhouse cot, hands on her knees, head bent. “I swear, I never. Why would I try to kill the guy who gave me a place to live and the best job on the planet?”

  Robbi, in a folding chair outside the bars, spread her hands in an “I-don’t-know” gesture. “They found hemlock in the bottle, mixed with a strong sedative. Lucky for Guy, the sedative knocked him out before he drank enough to kill him. The bottle was just like the one you brought over the night Laura died.”

  Joanne moaned. “If I was going to poison someone, I wouldn’t use my own mead. I’d put it in one of Miller’s pies.” Her face brightened. “Hey, if it were me, I’d frame Miller, but if I were Miller, I’d frame me. Maybe that’s what happened.”

  “Maybe.” It did seem plausible. There was something ferret-like about Miller. It was easy to suspect him.

  “No, look.” The big woman stood up, paced her cell. “I kept those bottles in the barn. Anybody could have tampered with one. Or…” Her face paled. “You don’t think there could be more?”

  “I’m sure they’re checking that. You don’t have any hemlock stashed in your sock drawer, do you?”

  “Poison is a lady’s weapon.” Joanne did a pirouette, as if to say, Do I look like a lady to you?

  “Miller’s not a lady,” Robbi pointed out.

  “I know, I know. It was a joke. Mostly. There are plenty of men who poison. But if I were going to kill someone, I wouldn’t use poison. I’d bash their head in with an axe.”

  The image struck Robbi like a boomerang between the eyes. Softly, she said, “That’s how Laura died.”

  Joanne drew in a sharp breath. “Someone hit her with an axe? Please tell me it wasn’t my axe.”

  “She was hit with something,” Robbi backtracked. “I don’t know if it was an axe.”

  “Probably not an axe,” Joanne said thoughtfully, sinking onto the cot. “Didn’t you say the sheriff said it was a blunt instrument? An axe is not blunt.”

  “Not usually,” Robbi conceded. “But point taken. Anyway, I don’t think you poisoned Guy, but you’ve got to give us something we can use to convince the sheriff.”

  “Us? Who’s us?”

  “Well…all of us, I guess. Mal, and me, and…” She bit her lip, considering. She hadn’t really talked with anyone but Mal.

  “Got it, yeah. The bottles in the barn are all I’ve got. But that’s pretty good. It shows accessibility, enough to cast reasonable doubt.”

  Robbi tried an encouraging smile. “Reasonable doubt is all you need.”

  “If you get an honest jury, yeah.” Joanne sank back against her pillow. “But they’re going to take one look at me and come at me like I’m Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “Come on, Joanne.”

  “You don’t know. You’re a little thing. Oh, I know that has its own set of problems. People want to do things for you. They want to treat you like you’re helpless. And it drives you crazy.”

  Robbi didn’t answer. She wasn’t quite the squirt she’d been as a kid, but Joanne had the gist of it. And it did drive her crazy.

  The larger woman went on. “But me, people see me, and they see someone not quite human. Like…a guy threw a cheeseburger at me once. Just rolled down his window and yelled, ‘Hey, you stupid cow, say hello to your cousin!’ Anybody ever throw a cheeseburger at you?”

  Robbi shook her head.

  “No, of course not. So when I say I’d never hurt Guy, that’s why. He gave me a place where I can be the best damn blacksmith on the circuit and people respect me for it. Where nobody throws cheeseburgers at me.”

  Robbi nodded, thinking of a quote her father had been fond of: Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. She wished she’d been better at following that advice.

  Joanne sighed. “They can only hold me for seventy-two hours without charging me with something. I hope you can convince the sheriff before then.”

  “Keep the faith,” Robbi said, as Sheriff Hammond poked his head in, rattling the keys.

  She was halfway to the door when Joanne called her name. “Robbi? You know the other night? I don’t remember everything I said, but…just forget it all, okay? Whatever I said, it was the mead talking.”

  “No worries.” Robbi forced a grin. “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much of it myself.”

  It was a kind lie, she told herself, as Sheriff Hammond ushered her out and locked the door to the holding area behind her. Even though Joanne’s drunken confessions were probably the most honest words she’d heard since she arrived in Sherwood.

  The attempt on Guy’s life changes things. Unlike Laura’s murder, which appears to have been a crime of passion, Guy’s poisoning was planned. Granted, if Joanne is the culprit, it was a shoddy plan. However, I don’t believe that for an instant. Which means it was a crafty plan indeed.

  That’s not to say she mightn’t have killed Laura. It’s possible someone else wants Guy dead and is using Laura’s murder to cover their tracks. It’s also possible that the same person committed both crimes and intends to pin both on our hotheaded young blacksmith. Despite their inauspicious first meeting, Robbi’s visit to the jail seems to have convinced her that Joanne is innocent. While I agree, I intend to keep an open mind. In any event, the motive for at least one of these attacks lies with Guy, which means I need to get inside his keep to look for clues.

  I shall not invite Tuck. My mission for the evening requires stealth and agility, neither of which are hallmarks of his species. No matter how valiant his heart, poor Tuck shall never climb a tree. I don’t even consider approaching Falcor. He could neither carry me onto Guy’s parapet nor open the castle door from the inside.

  I wait until Robbi is asleep on the workroom cot, then slip out the attic window and climb down Laura’s rose arbor to the ground, where I make haste to the castle. I feel confident in my ability to navigate the interior. One of the articles I saw on Guy’s wall included a rather detailed floor plan.

  The unfortunate thing about weighing a sleek fourteen pounds is the inability to open heavy wooden doors. The good thing about weighing a sleek fourteen pounds is there are few places one cannot find a way into.

  In E.A. Poe’s masterpiece Murder in the Rue Morgue, the killer enters the victim’s domicile by leaping from the lightning rod onto the ledge of an unlocked window. Guy’s castle has a plethora of windows, far too many for even an industrious feline such as myself to test. And, alas, our careless laird has neglected to fit his keep with a lightning rod. There is, however, a convenient sycamore tree from which an athletic young cat might leap onto a parapet. From there, our intrepid hero might climb down one of the great stone chimneys.

  If the chimneys were of brick, I would never attempt it, but Guy’s are made of hand-laid stones, which means I have plenty of footholds. Even so, it’s treacherous work. The theme from the latest James Bond film plays in my mind as I pick my way downward into the tower on my left, the one referred to in the article as the Great Hall Tower. According to the author, the walls of the hall are lined with period tapestries and iron sconces, while the floors above house one of the country’s most extensive collections of medieval and Renaissance art, literature, and artifacts.

  I exit the chimney on the upper floor and make my way down the wide stone stairs, my paws still tingling from the strain. It’s dark, but the moon shines through the windows, and I have exceptional night vision. What I see are bare floors and walls, the starkness broken by an occasional treasure—a painting by Holbein, an antique spinning wheel, an illuminated copy of a rare Flemish manuscript bound in crimson velvet, each page edged with gold leaf.

  Floor after floor, virtually empty, save for what must have been Guy’s most valuable treasures.

  Tower Two, the Armory Tower, is worse. The only treasures I find there are a dented suit of chain mail and a broadsword proclaimed on the gold plaque beneath to be a Scottish blade from the time of Rob Roy. I can tell by Guy’s footpr
ints in the dust beside mine that it has been a long time since anyone else has come here.

  Has Guy sold most of his prized collection? If so, I assume it’s due to financial difficulties. But why? Bad investments? Mismanagement? Perhaps he’s being blackmailed. Or perhaps he’s grown tired of the Ren Faire life and is divesting himself of its trappings. I don’t believe that for an instant. I’ve only been here a week, and already it’s clear that he loves it too much for that.

  I suppose it’s possible he’s lent his treasures to a museum, but such generosity would likely have been met with more fanfare. By all accounts, Guy is something of a wunderkind when it comes to promoting the faire. It strains credulity that he would pass up such an opportunity for good press.

  No, surely whatever has led to these empty galleries has also led to a bottle of mead laced with hemlock.

  As I carefully make my way back up the chimney, I feel a swell of accomplishment. Perhaps somewhere on the property, a villain wakes, quivering abed, sensing an impending reckoning.

  My father would be proud. I am growing closer.

  “Fetch, Scarlett!” Mal tossed the stick, and the border collie bounded after it with the single-minded focus of her breed. He brushed his hands on his jeans and took in a deep breath. It was a beautiful day, the sunlight slanting golden in the morning mist. The dew soaked his sneakers and cooled his feet; the sun warmed his shoulders through his shirt; and the air smelled of damp moss, hyacinth, and pine. It was almost enough to lighten the pall cast by Laura’s death and the attempt on Guy’s life.

  He followed the Loop past Guy’s keep, then strode along the path beside the herding demonstration pens and then the tourney field. Scarlett trotted beside him, occasionally darting away to herd a squirrel or bring him a stick to throw. Occasionally, he’d reach into the pocket of his jeans and slip her a nugget of freeze-dried liver. Just past the tournament field, she stopped short, ears pricked forward.