Trouble Most Faire

by Jaden Terrell

  Comfort? Really? Is that what you want to give her?

  He would have to rein in that impulse. Even if she were interested, even if he could somehow manage to outshine Guy, this was the worst possible time to make a move. You couldn’t come on to woman who’d just lost her closest friend. And even if he could, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. She drew him to her like a lodestone, and the last time that had happened, he’d wound up with a heart ripped out and scraped empty.

  Whatever this was he felt for her, it scared the hell out of him.

  The cab of Mal’s truck has gone silent, except for an occasional grunt from Tuck. Then Mal’s cell phone rings, and Robbi plucks it out of his cup holder and hands it to him. It’s Guy, ready to check out of the hospital and needing a ride. Where we’ll put him, I don’t know. Squeezed in between the pig and the dog, perhaps. Miss Scarlett seems devoted to her post, and Tuck seems determined to graft himself onto Joanne.

  His devotion to her seems inexplicable, considering she recently threatened him with an axe, but he insists that secretly she loves him. Poor Tuck believes everyone loves him, including the dog, who, in truth, just wants the little blighter to tame his free spirit and stay in his pen where he belongs. That is to say, where his bipeds put him. Miss Scarlett has been thoroughly indoctrinated. But then, such is the nature of dogs.

  This is further demonstrated when Guy climbs in and Miss Scarlett scoots over beside Tuck with nothing to show her displeasure but a longing look out the window. Guy asks a bit grumpily if Mal is planning to open a traveling menagerie, but by the time we reach the faire grounds, he seems to have recovered most of his charm. Something is weighing on him, though, perhaps the fact that someone tried to kill him, perhaps the likelihood that “someone” might try again. Or perhaps the future of the faire itself, bound up with the shares he and the sheriff seemed so concerned about.

  These things are weighing on me too. I have not yet managed to unmask Laura’s killer or whomever poisoned Guy. Yesterday, I slipped inside the bakery and thoroughly explored Miller’s mysterious cabinet. Alas, I found nothing but pots, pans, and colanders. Clearly, whatever he was hiding has been moved. He must have realized I was onto him and found another hiding place.

  Over the past few days, I have ingratiated myself with him, the result of which has been an utter dearth of information and a generous supply of succulent meats. Perhaps he means to buy my loyalties, or simply to distract me from my task. I shall not falter, though. A world-renowned detective perseveres, even in the face of such sacrifices.

  Of course, a world-class detective also never assumes a suspect’s guilt. He must look at the case from every angle and consider everyone a suspect until he or she has been exonerated by evidence. To this end, with my faithful Watson in tow (by which I mean my somewhat faithful sidekick, Tuck), I’ve taken to visiting each cottage daily. You might be surprised at how imprudent humans can become in the presence of animals. They often reveal their deepest confidences in the misguided belief that we cannot understand a word they say.

  This insulting delusion of superiority can be exploited by a clever feline. However, thus far, no one has divulged anything more incriminating than the fact that Cara keeps a photograph of Guy in her lingerie drawer, and Dale occasionally wears mismatched socks.

  Mal’s truck bounces onto the gravel parking lot, and I realize we’ve arrived back at the faire. Guy climbs out, still looking a bit pale, and asks Mal to gather the Troupe for a meeting in the King’s Moot. He has something important to tell them, he says, about the future of the faire.

  My ears prick up. Perhaps the killer’s reactions to Guy’s news, subtle though they may be, will betray the culprit. Fortunately, like most felines, I am exceptionally observant and well-versed in the nuances of human body language. I must remain alert.

  Robbi slid onto the bench between Joanne and Mal, with a nod toward Elinore on his other side and another to Cara and Dale across the table. She lifted an obligatory hand in greeting to Miller, who was staring in her direction, and he looked away quickly, his ears turning red. Guy stood at the head of the table, smiling like a diplomat who’d just been offered a cockroach at a state function. Or maybe one who’d been caught with his hand in someone else’s till.

  Guy cleared his throat. “I have something to confess.”

  He licked his lips, then glanced around the room without meeting anyone’s gaze.

  “Well?” Joanne said. “Spit it out, man.”

  Despite a few false starts, it took him less than ten minutes to lay out the situation, from his problem with the mob to the offer from the developers. As he spoke, Robbi watched the faces of the Rennies, their expressions ranging from stunned disbelief to outrage.

  “I’m sorry I got in so deep,” he finished. “But the fact remains, I have no choice. I have to sell.”

  “But—” Miller sputtered, his whole head flushing red, “this is our home!”

  “I know,” Guy said. “Believe me, I do. But it gets worse. I know some of you sold your shares to Laura. Maybe you thought that with her gone, those shares would go back into the pool. That you might still get something out of the sale. They don’t.”

  As Guy’s words sank in, the blood leeched from Miller’s face, turning him from a beet to a mushroom. “But…but…”

  “She left a will,” Guy said. “Which means they go to her beneficiary. Robbi, that’s you, right? Ten shares.”

  Robbi’s mouth dropped open. How did he know?

  An image of the sheriff flashed through her mind, the flint in his eyes as he’d stepped away from her car. Be careful, little girl. She couldn’t prove Hammond was the one who’d let her secret slip, since there must have been others who knew. Laura’s attorney. Maybe Deputy Debba. Maybe even Dale or Joanne. But she’d bet on Hammond. Apparently, confidentiality didn’t mean much in Sherwood.

  “I’m sorry,” Guy repeated. “I really am. The developers want to move on this thing pretty fast, but I promise you, I’ll make sure you’re all taken care of. I mean, once I get my creditors paid off.”

  Robbi could almost see him calculating how much he’d have left. How much he could afford to share. What it would be like to go from the kind of wealth that let you acquire a castle full of historical artifacts to the kind where…well, to the kind where you couldn’t.

  Then a thought occurred to her and she drew in a startled breath. With ten shares, shouldn’t she have an equal say in the fate of the faire? Not that she’d made any real decisions yet. Laura’s funeral was as far as she’d planned. Sure, it made sense for Guy to assume she’d want to sell, especially if it was true that not selling meant they’d all walk away with nothing, but she would have appreciated some time to think it over. He should have asked her before making his big announcement.

  Before she could speak, Mal said, “I have a better idea.” His back was rigid, glacier-blue eyes boring into Guy’s. “You like to wager. Fine, let’s wager.”

  Guy blinked. “What?”

  “A wager. A bet. Your shares against mine. Winner take all.”

  “Oh, come on.” Guy gave a nervous laugh. “What good would that do me?”

  “A bigger slice of the pie. Maybe enough to keep a few of those treasures of yours. If you win.”

  Elinore broke in. “My shares too, Guy. That should sweeten the pot.”

  A muscle in Mal’s jaw twitched, and when he spoke again, his voice came out low and angry. “What’s the matter, Guy? Don’t think you can win?”

  A red wash crept up Guy’s neck and seeped toward his hairline. “What sort of wager are we talking about?”

  “Three trials. You choose one, I choose one, the group chooses one in case of a tie. I choose equitation.”

  This time, Guy didn’t hesitate. “I choose swordsmanship.”

  Robbi glanced around the table. The rest of the Troupe looked as off-balance as she felt. Things were moving too fast. If Guy won, most of the Rennies would lose everything. If Mal won, the faire might re
cover, but Guy could be killed. Neither option was acceptable. A tap on her knee drew her gaze downward and she found herself looking under the table into Trouble’s eyes. He gave her a stern meow and another purposeful tap.

  She nodded, then surged to her feet. “I want in too.”

  Mal turned to look at her, ice in his gaze. Then he gritted out, “Of course you do.”

  The disdain in his voice seemed so unlike him that only the press of the bench against her calf kept her from taking a step backward. It was a tone Jax had used a thousand times, but she’d somehow convinced herself Mal was different.

  Stupid. She’d known him less than a week. But the tightness in her throat and the blur in her eyes didn’t seem to care about that.

  It’s okay to feel hurt. Just don’t let him see. She lifted her chin and forced steel into her voice. “I want in,” she repeated. “And I choose archery.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was all Mal could do to stay in his seat until the tie-breaker had been decided. Axe-throwing. Guy had suggested knives, but the group overruled him because it gave him an unfair advantage. Guy was good with blades, but as far as Mal knew, he wasn’t known for his prowess with a throwing axe. Neither was Mal, but at least the field would be even.

  Unless Robbi was a ringer.

  Not that he’d put it past her. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid, thinking her sweet-girl demeanor was genuine. He should have known. The last time he’d felt this kind of attraction to a woman, he’d married her. Then she’d emptied his bank account and made a false accusation that landed him in jail. She was from a well-to-do and well-connected family, while he was just a small-town veterinarian. Take a plea, his lawyer advised. You’ll serve a few years and get on with your life. If you don’t…. The slight lift of the lawyer’s shoulders told Mal his prospects were dim, but he’d be damned if he’d plead guilty to something he hadn’t done.

  Three weeks before the trial, she offered to withdraw her allegations in return for their house and almost all the proceeds from the sale of his building and practice. He walked away from their marriage with five thousand dollars, his pickup truck, and the clothes on his back, and he considered himself lucky.

  Lucky, too, that Elinore had gotten him on at Guy’s faire and invited him to share her cottage.

  Just like old times, she’d said. I mean, the good parts.

  And it had been good. So good that he’d lowered his guard and let himself fall for yet another woman who’d shown herself ready to leave him with nothing.

  He could feel her beside him, radiating indignation, as if he were the one who’d shown a monster behind the mask. Avoiding her gaze, he stood up and strode from the room.

  No point giving her a chance to twist the knife in his back.

  Tuck heaves himself to his feet and hurries after Mal and Miss Scarlett. Robbi looks like she’s been slapped with a raw fish. I feel indignant on her behalf, but I can’t actually blame Mal for being upset. He and Elinore are in danger of losing their home.

  As are they all. Glancing around the room, I see shocked faces, angry faces, faces aghast at Guy’s revelations. No one looks happy about this.

  I’m proud of Robbi for protecting her interests, though now I wonder if I was wrong to encourage her. Her participation in the wager could put her in the killer’s crosshairs. Then again, Guy’s announcement may have already done that. I suppress an impulse to cuff his ears. What was he thinking, revealing her ownership of Laura’s shares?

  I suppose it was bound to come out sooner or later, but given a choice, I would have chosen later. For the first time, I wonder if Guy might have poisoned himself. It certainly drew suspicion away from him as a suspect in Laura’s murder. Though, if Robbi’s suspicions about Sheriff Hammond being Guy’s secret partner are true, Guy was never in any danger of being a suspect; the sheriff would have kept him safe.

  I must think on this a bit more.

  Still stunned by Mal’s abrupt departure, Robbi jumped when a hand touched her shoulder.

  “Give him time to come around,” Cara said. “You have to admit, you threw a bit of a monkey wrench into his plan to save the faire.”

  Robbi lifted her chin. “Save it? Or take it for himself? Winner take all, he said.”

  Cara shrugged. “I imagine it’s all the same, to his way of thinking. But I owe you a reading.”

  “I don’t really believe—”

  “Nonsense.” Cara waved away Robbi’s objections with one hand and shepherded her out the door with the other. “You can’t enter into a competition of this sort without proper guidance from the spirits.”

  Robbi started to say she didn’t believe in spirits, then thought better of it. This might be the perfect opportunity to take the other woman’s measure. She might even manage to tease out what had caused the rift between Laura and this sultry enigma.

  Robbi glanced behind her. Trouble glided along in their wake, wearing an expression she could only describe as purposeful. She knew it would sound strange if she said it aloud, but it made her feel safer, knowing he had her back.

  “Have you ever had a Tarot reading?” Cara asked.

  Robbi shrugged. “A few.”

  More than a few, truth be told. There was almost always a fortune teller at Ren Faires, and she and Laura had gotten the occasional reading for fun or for clarity. They’d each bought a handcrafted deck one year, and while Robbi had never learned to use hers, it was beautiful, and that was enough.

  Cara lifted an eyebrow and waited.

  After a moment, Robbi shrugged. “Okay. Let’s see what the spirits have to say about all this.”

  I slip in behind Robbi, ignoring Cara's disgusted scowl. She closes the door on Tuck, and I catch a glimpse of his face, startled and disappointed, as he skids to a stop not a moment too soon. Inside, in the center of the living room, is a small round table draped with a lace cloth. Rainbows dance across the fabric as a light breeze from the open window weaves among the hanging crystals. Robbi glances around, her face softening with wonder. Then Cara takes a red silk bag from a nearby shelf, gestures toward a straight-backed chair on one side of the table, and slides into the chair on the opposite side.

  Robbi takes the seat across from her and watches while Cara opens the bag and slides out a deck of tarot cards. I have no interest in fortune-telling, but even from here, I can see the cards are stunning, lush oil renderings of the iconic symbols. Cara fans them out, and I catch a glimpse of men and women in medieval costume, cups, swords, a tower, a wheel. Then she folds them together, shuffles, and sets the deck in front of Robbi.

  "Think of a question or situation you'd like guidance about." Cara says. “Then take a deep breath, focus on your question, and cut the cards.”

  Robbi picks up the deck and holds it quietly for a moment. Then she sets it on the table and lifts the top two-thirds. She divides the deck one last time, so she has three fairly equal stacks, then puts them back together: middle, left, right. I can't tell what she’s thinking.

  Cara smiles and shuffles the deck, then peels off ten cards and places them in a pattern I recognize as a Celtic Cross. It's a complex arrangement, though one of the most common. Even I am familiar with it, despite my lack of faith in divination.

  Yes, I know. Cats are often associated with the spirit world, and many consider us mystical creatures. This is not entirely untrue. But I am also a rational being, and like the great Sherlock Holmes, a firm believer in the scientific method and forensic science. But I digress.

  Cara lays a card on the table in front of Robbi and says, "This covers you."

  It's the Five of Cups, whatever that means. Robbi is already nodding, as if it holds some significance for her.

  While they talk, I slip into Cara's bedroom and nudge the door shut. Like the living room, it's full of beautiful things. The coverlet is purple velvet, royal purple, complete with a duvet and decorative pillows in scarlet and purple laid over the more ordinary ones. I see more candles, crystals, a br
ightly-colored scarf artfully displayed on one wall. Against the other is an armoire with scenes from well-known fairytales carved lovingly into the wood.

  Beside the armoire is a bookshelf that looks like it’s been organized by color rather than by author or subject. I nose open the armoire and find it full of ornate gowns, a variety of modern and period shoes, a modest selection of modern-day clothing, and a collection of scarves. I recognize Laura's trademark embroidery on more than one of the gowns, but I see nothing that raises alarms. The dresses all seem well-made, nothing worth killing for. I rub against some of the softer gowns, then hop out and bump the door closed. I find nothing surprising in her jewelry box or the smaller dresser drawers. A tangle of sparkling jewelry—a less generous soul might have called it gaudy—and a selection of lace and silk unmentionables.

  Then I see a small metal lockbox on top of the bookshelf. Bracketed by knickknacks—a Russian nesting doll, a crystal hummingbird—it looks out of place here, like military ordnance in an art museum. It seems to have been closed in haste, a scrap of yellowed paper protruding from one side. If there is anything incriminating here, it must be in that box.

  My muscles bunch as I prepare to leap.

  “This covers you,” Cara said, turning over the card at the center of the cross. “It’s your situation right now, in the present. It represents who you are today.”

  Robbi looked down at the Five of Cups. Three of the five were empty.

  Cara tapped the card. “This shows us a scene of emotional disappointment. You’ve suffered a loss. Well, we know what that means.”

  Robbi nodded. Laura. But there were two more empty cups. Jax and her father?

  “You’re probably focusing on the empty cups,” Cara said, as if reading Robbi’s mind. “But there are still two full ones. That could mean there’s still a chance of happiness or fulfillment, or maybe an inheritance, but one that doesn’t live up to your expectations.”