“What’s up?” I asked.
“Could you come and help us with something?” the voice said. “There’s someone here who claims he’s Terence’s guest.”
“Terence’s guest?” I echoed. The chief looked up with an interested expression, and I put the phone on speaker so she could hear.
“Yes—he says Terence was going to leave a ticket for him with us, but he didn’t and the guy’s asking us to call Terence and I don’t know what to say and…”
“I’ll be right there.” I hung up.
“And I’ll go with you,” the chief said.
We set out at a brisk pace. The chief wasn’t quite as tall as I was, but she had probably gotten a full night’s sleep and was a lot more awake and alert, so we were well matched.
“Does the front gate know what happened?” she asked.
“I’m sure they do by now, but Cordelia would have ordered them not to tell anyone, and to say no comment if anyone asks them about it. Which is why they called me instead of just telling the guest what happened.”
She nodded her approval.
As we passed through the Faire, I tried to assess the crowds. They were at least as big as yesterday’s, weren’t they? Of course, as far as we knew, the news about Terence hadn’t gotten out yet, so it was too soon to tell what effect the murder would have on attendance.
And was it shallow of me to worry about attendance? I hoped not. After all, if Terence’s murder ruined the Faire, it might cause serious financial problems for Cordelia.
And if the murder drew hordes of gawkers who’d try to invade the crime scene, the chief wouldn’t be very happy.
As we drew near the gate, I was pretty sure I’d spotted the man who was causing the ticket sellers such stress. He was standing just outside the gate—rather a large man was my first impression. And then I began second-guessing that impression. He couldn’t have been more than an inch or two taller than me, so barely six feet if that. And beefy, but not fat—though you could tell he was starting to fight the effects of middle age on his waistline. He just seemed to take up more space than the people around him. An actor’s trick. He was dressed entirely in black, which seemed to be a popular wardrobe strategy for theater folk. And he looked vaguely familiar. Probably an actor. Someone Michael had invited to replace Terence, maybe? But no. A replacement would have asked for Michael. He was claiming to be a friend of Terence.
The gate staffers wore looks of relief, and I didn’t need their discreet gestures toward the man to tell that I’d guessed right.
“May I help you?” I asked the beefy man. His face was still handsome, though starting to go a little soft in the jowls. I wondered if the stubbly three-or four-days’ growth of beard festooning his jaw was intended as camouflage.
“There seems to be some mix-up.” His tone and expression were designed to convey that while the mix-up was entirely due to our stupidity, he was deliberately exercising a positively supernatural degree of patience.
“Let’s see if we can straighten it out, then. Will you come into the office?”
I led the way into the large shed we grandly called the office, although its main purpose was to have a secure place to lock up stuff, like the lost-and-found collection, or anything bulky that we didn’t want to haul all the way up to the house at the end of the day. And to check the weapons people had bought here at the Faire, although this early it probably didn’t contain many of those. I made a mental note to ask the chief if she wanted to see the notebook in which we logged the weapons.
At present the office also served as an overflow bunkhouse for a couple of the rank-and-file staff members whose tent had developed a leak, and I was relieved to see that they had followed procedure and hidden away their stuff before going on duty.
Chief Heedles followed me into the office and closed the door behind us.
“Maybe I should speak to the boss-lady,” our visitor said. “Ms. Cordelia Lee.”
“I’m Meg Langslow, her second-in-command,” I said. “Maybe I can help you.”
“Neil O’Malley.”
No wonder he looked familiar. But what was the wayward director doing down here, instead of up at Arena Stage auditioning actors for his Hamlet production?
He shook my hand with what he probably meant as a crushing grip. Or was he actually oblivious to how over-the-top his handshake was? No. The look of surprise when I didn’t wince or even react told me the overkill was deliberate. But he’d have to find another way to intimidate a blacksmith.
Curiously, he didn’t ask who Chief Heedles was. Did he assume the senior management of a Ren Faire normally traveled with a police escort? Or was the chief deploying her superpower of unobtrusiveness to avoid his notice?
“And you’re a friend of Terence Cox,” I said.
“We’ve worked together on a number of productions. I’m a director—”
“Yes, I know. And Terence said he’d leave you a ticket?”
“He did. I came up here especially to see him. I’m casting him in a show I’m directing—Hamlet, at the Arena Stage in Washington. He’s going to be my Polonius.”
Casting Terence as Polonius? Well, that was interesting. Another reason to be grateful that Michael had declined to audition for Laertes. If he’d won the part, he’d be spending time with O’Malley and Terence. Then again, maybe O’Malley would have given the part to someone else, and even Michael might be a little hurt at being rejected by someone who’d rejected him and cast Terence.
O’Malley was looking expectant, and maybe a little peeved, as if he thought it was long past time for one or both of us to exclaim “Oh my goodness! Are you Neil O’Malley the director?” Clearly he didn’t get out in the real world much.
“If I may,” the chief said. It wasn’t exactly a request—more a polite order. I didn’t mind—in fact, I was already happy to turn over dealing with O’Malley to someone else.
“Be my guest,” I said aloud.
“Mr. O’Malley.” At her words, he jumped as if only just noticing her. “I’m Chief Heedles of the Riverton Police Department. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Terence Cox is dead.”
“Dead? Dead? Oh, my God!” He covered his mouth with both hands in what struck me as a rather stagy gesture of shock.
Or maybe I was allowing my initial negative impression of him to influence me. No—that first “dead” sounded more like happy surprise than shock or grief. He’d fixed that quickly, and by “oh, my God!” his grief had sounded as genuine as you could wish, but still—that first reaction.
From her expression, I deduced that the chief had noticed the same thing.
“What happened?” O’Malley went on. “I didn’t even know he was ill. He looked fine the last time I saw him.”
“And when was that?” The chief had her notebook in hand.
“Let me think.” O’Malley frowned in visible effort. “Tuesday? Or possibly Wednesday? I’d have to ask my assistant to be sure. He came up to do a second audition.”
“Came up where?”
“To the Arena.”
“Arena? What arena?”
“The Arena Stage.” O’Malley didn’t hide his look of astonishment that she had to ask. “It’s a theater,” he added. “In Washington. D.C.”
“And it was at that meeting at the theater that he promised you a ticket to the Renaissance Faire?” the chief asked.
“No, that was … Thursday, I think. When I called to confirm that he had the part. He told me he was currently working down here and asked when the Hamlet rehearsals started, so he could give notice if he wasn’t going to be able to finish out the summer here, and I said I didn’t think we’d start quite that soon, and he should definitely keep working here. You see I gathered a lot of what he was doing here was some kind of improv, and we’re definitely going to do a lot of that in my production, so it was a good thing, keeping his improv instincts alive. And then he suggested I should come down—I could join in the improv if I liked, and I said i
t sounded fabulous, and he said he’d leave a ticket for me at the box office.”
I kept my face neutral. Which was more annoying—that Terence had auditioned for and accepted another part and hadn’t even told Michael so we could start to work on replacing him? Or that he’d invited this consummate jackass to join the Game, again without telling Michael?
And improv in a production of Hamlet? I could imagine how Michael would react to that.
The chief merely nodded.
“Are you going to tell me what happened to Terence?” O’Malley asked. “Because I’m thinking if he’d merely dropped dead of a heart attack or something I wouldn’t be standing here telling a police officer when the last time I talked to him was. Was there an accident?”
“Mr. Cox was murdered,” the chief said.
O’Malley’s face took on an exaggerated expression of shock and concern. Or maybe he really was shocked and concerned and just had an annoyingly melodramatic way of expressing it.
“Sometime this morning or late last night,” the chief went on. “We’re waiting for official word from the medical examiner on time of death. So we’re taking an interest in anything he did over the last few days.”
“Naturally.” O’Malley nodded absently and pulled out his phone. “Damn! He’d have made a great Polonius. I should call my assistant. Have her remind me who else we liked for the role. And I could ask her to check on exactly when Terence was up at the Arena, if that’s of any use.”
“Before you do, I’d like to ask you a few more questions about Mr. Cox,” the chief said. “Meg, do you mind if I use this office for now?”
“No problem,” I said. “And in the meantime, I’ll round up a few more of the people you want to interview.” I picked up the weapons log and looked around for something to use as a temporary substitute.
The chief nodded.
“And Mr. O’Malley,” I added, “if you still feel like checking out the Faire, I’ll leave a pass for you at the ticket office.”
“Yes, of course.” He was still frowning down at his phone.
I lettered TEMPORARY WEAPONS LOG at the top of a sheet of paper torn from a yellow legal pad, put it in the center of the desk, then went out and closed the door firmly behind myself. The gate staffers were all busy, either selling tickets or collecting them and passing out programs, but they all glanced over, obviously curious.
“The chief’s using the office for the time being,” I told the head ticket seller. “So keep everyone out. And if Mr. O’Malley, the guy she’s talking to, still wants a free ticket, give him one and log it to the PR account.”
The ticket seller nodded and went back to explaining the difference between children’s and student tickets to a harried-looking parent with, by my guess, two students and five children in tow.
I dodged into the costume shop and commandeered a basic women’s costume—white blouse, brown skirt, red vest. Who knew when I’d get back to our room in the main building to change? Then, once I was properly in uniform, so to speak, I found a quiet corner where I could call Michael—who didn’t answer until the fourth ring.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I said.
“I’m due at the Dragon’s Claw any second to trade insults with George,” he said. “But I can always show up a bit late if you need anything. Or better yet, if you have news.”
“News, of a sort, but first a question—did you find anyone to replace Terence?”
“Not for today, alas,” he said. “For tomorrow I’ve got a former student who’s driving up from Atlanta, but he won’t be here until late. We’ll just have to work around it. What’s the news?”
“Neil O’Malley just showed up.”
Chapter 21
“O’Malley? Seriously?” He whistled, and I wondered briefly if whistling was an anachronism. “That’s weird. Any idea why? I know better than to assume he’s asking for me.”
“No, he’s asking for the free ticket Terence was supposed to be leaving for him at the gate.”
“Weirder still. Wonder how they know each other.”
“According to O’Malley, Terence was going to play Polonius in his production of Hamlet.”
“Polonius? Are you sure? Because— Got to run. Meet me at the Dragon’s Claw; there’s much to discuss. Bye!”
Much to discuss? Now my curiosity was piqued. So, since he hadn’t specified when I should meet him at the Dragon’s Claw, I decided to head over there now, so I could find out what needed discussing as soon as there was a break in the Game.
A thought hit me, so I crossed the lane to the men’s costume shop and sought out the head of the crew.
“Did you see that guy who was making a fuss at the gate?”
“Demanding a free ticket? Yeah. What about him?”
“Actor. Friend of Terence.”
“Oooh—suspect?”
“No idea yet. If the chief turns him loose and he wanders in here looking for a costume, comp him one of the fancier nobleman outfits on my tab.”
“Can do.”
I set out for the Dragon’s Claw. Judging from the occasional gales of laughter coming from the general direction of the inn, whatever theme they’d chosen for today was starting out well.
There were five of them in action. Michael and George were standing at opposite sides of the ring of spectators, occasionally casting scornful glances at each other, but mostly looking on while Jacks and Nigel argued over who should succeed Queen Cordelia. Dianne just stood nearby, looking elegant, beautiful, and very, very cheerful.
Jacks was arguing persuasively that Michael was the most qualified, while making it clear that Nigel was mainly interested in marrying his daughter to the new king and running the kingdom from behind the throne. Nigel didn’t have a whole lot to fight back with, apart from implying, in a distinctly oily manner, that Michael kept such unsuitable company that it disqualified him from the throne. I found myself wondering if we couldn’t draft Nigel to be the official troublemaker in Terence’s place. It wouldn’t be typecasting, as it had been with Terence, but judging from how well he was doing now, Nigel could manage it.
“Why can’t Duke Michael marry the Lady Dianne?” someone in the audience eventually called out.
“I have already given my heart elsewhere,” he said, in such a simple and straightforward manner that I suspect it instantly undid most of Nigel’s efforts to blacken his name.
“To a baseborn wench who cannot possibly become queen.” If Nigel had mustaches, he would have been twirling them.
“To a maid of humble station,” Michael countered. “But as honest as your daughter, and as fair.”
I was relieved that he didn’t single me out in the crowd, and hoped the other players would take their cue from him.
“Your Majesty!” Lady Dianne interrupted the debate by announcing Cordelia’s arrival and sinking into a deep curtsey. All of the other players and quite a few of the audience bowed or curtseyed.
“Rise, good people.” I could tell Cordelia was stressed, but I doubted the audience could. “No ceremony today, as we celebrate the summer in this festive grove.”
“Welcome, Majesty.” Nigel took a brown leather tankard from a nearby table and offered it. “Will you share a cup of cheer with us?”
“At a later time, good Sir Nigel. At present, we have other pressing matters in hand. Lady Jacquelynn, will you have the goodness to walk with us? We have need of your counsel.”
I suspected it was actually Chief Heedles who wanted to speak with Jacks—who looked anxious for a moment, then regained most of her composure.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” She curtseyed deeply.
Cordelia took Jacks’s arm as if she needed the support to steady herself, though from Jacks’s strained expression I suspected she was the one more likely to need support. We all bowed and curtseyed again as the two sailed away.
Michael and George tossed a few more witty insults at each other, then bowed and agreed to meet again at noon to watch
the archery contest.
As the actors were all wishing each other good morrow, Michael said a quick word to Nigel, who fell in step with him. They headed my way.
“Let’s use the inn’s private room,” Michael said.
We made our way inside the Dragon’s Claw, collected mugs of fake ale from the bar, and then climbed a flight of stairs to the so-called private room. It wasn’t actually all that private—it was a sort of balcony on top of the bar, so anyone who sat there was completely visible to almost every customer in the room. But even if there weren’t any musicians playing on the postage-stamp stage across the room and all of the patrons were drinking in morose silence, a would-be eavesdropper would have a hard time hearing conversations in the private room. Anyone who truly needed a break from talking to tourists could retire to the room to regroup while still being a visible part of the Game, and it was one of the best places for participants to have a private conversation.
I noticed that Nigel took a careful sniff at his tankard before sipping it.
Michael wasted no time once we were seated.
“Tell Meg what you told me,” he said.
Nigel winced and closed his eyes. Then he opened them again and turned to me.
“I told Michael I was afraid the police are going to suspect me,” he said.
“Because of Terence trying to trap you into drinking?” I asked.
“Well, that too.”
That too? There was something else? I made sure I had my pleasant, nonjudgmental listening face on.
“Remember last weekend when I missed most of the day?”
“I remember,” I said. “You told us you were down for the count with a migraine.”
“That wasn’t exactly true.” He took a long pull on his diluted tea with an intensity that made it all too easy to visualize him back in the bad old days, when he might have wanted a drink to steady himself. “I did have something of a headache by the end of the day. All the stress of sneaking around and lying to people who have been so good to me.”
“You could have asked for the day off,” Michael said. “Not that I mean to give you a hard time, but if it comes up again—”
The Falcon Always Wings Twice Page 14
