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Adam pulled the car in front of the alpinesque A-frame conference center and spied a familiar figure swigging a bottle of root beer. He pointed out the man to Beverly. “Isn’t that our park ranger, His Excellency, Baron Richard Symonnet?”
“Looks like the same ranger to me.”
“Let me take the lead on this one. Don’t want to spook him too soon.” Adam hopped out of the car and approached him. “Ranger Joss Warder?” Adam wasn’t about to call him “Your Excellency” to his face.
The ranger squinted at him in the late afternoon half-sun, half-haze. “Detective Dutton, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. Last time we chatted, you said Braddon Hopper’s father had a stroke, which is why Braddon had to shelve his fencing dreams and run the family business. Do you recall the circumstances surrounding that stroke of his?”
Warder set the root beer bottle down on top of a nearby post. “It was following a car accident. Lucky he survived. Although he may not feel he’s all that lucky, since he’s paralyzed on his left side and can’t talk all that good.”
“Hit and run, wasn’t it?”
“The cowards could have stopped and helped. First few minutes are critical with strokes.”
“So I’ve heard. There’s another question I have...the first time I ran into you, you said you didn’t know Wallace Ryall well, only as part of the Society for Creative Anachronism.”
“That’s true.”
“I have a source who saw you and Ryall drinking together.”
“Some of us got together sometimes after meetings. Doesn’t mean we hung out otherwise.”
Adam nodded. “I see. During any of these bar meetings, did Wally become drunk? Perhaps aggressive?”
Warder laughed. “Sure. We all did. Shit-faced mean drunks. Who doesn’t?”
“Were you also drinking buddies with Braddon Hopper’s ex-girlfriend, Jane Campen?”
“Jane? I hardly knew her.”
“Did you ever try to get to know her better? Possibly after one of those ‘shit-faced’ bar crawls? With or without her consent?”
Warder’s face turned deep red. “I don’t think I like what you’re implying, Detective Dutton. Any more of that nonsense, and you’ll have to talk to my lawyer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have important work to do.”
As he stormed off in his truck, Adam said to Beverly, “Awfully jumpy for a man with nothing to hide.”
Beverly fished into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and gingerly picked up the root beer bottle the ranger left behind. “Will this help?”
Adam grinned at her. “If he left behind some saliva, you bet. I’ll get a rush warrant, and Jinks can use her magic bribery skills on Joe Brimm again and run the DNA stat.” Maybe Beverly did have the makings of a bona fide detective.
With the bottle secure in Adam’s car, he and Beverly headed into the center to track down Braddon Hopper. They ran into a young woman who introduced herself as the conference center’s secretary, Sharon Bogren. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Dutton, Miss Laborde. I do hope you solve Wally’s murder soon. It’s cast quite a pall over the place. Although I understand the main suspect is out on bail?”
“He is. But he’s on strict monitoring.”
She bit her lip. “This might not be a popular opinion around here. But I don’t think he did it. I’ve seen him around town. Such a kindly looking man. And always friendly.”
Adam said, “He is that.”
She smiled. “Or I’m antiques-blind. Always wanted to get into the antiques business.”
Beverly said, “I know lots of people in the biz.” She pulled out a scrap of paper from her purse, wrote down her cellphone number, and handed it over. “If you ever want some advice, give me a call.”
“Thanks. I may do that. Braddon is here today in his office. Should I tell him you’re coming?”
Adam replied, “That won’t be necessary,” and he and Beverly found Braddon in the same office at the same desk, with a cup of his “mud coffee.” It was as if the intervening three days hadn’t happened. Adam had a sudden feeling of being stuck in a time loop.
“Hello again, Braddon.”
Hopper lived up to his name and hopped up to shake Adam’s hand. “Detective Dutton. What can I do for you?”
“First off, an employee of Tossed Treasures antiques saw you there not too long ago looking at swords.”
Braddon frowned. “I have an interest, sure. When I was in the Olympics, I saw actual swordplay in Asia. More interesting than the sabre fencing I’m used to.”
“Fair enough. I also wanted to ask you about Jane Campen, your former girlfriend.”
“Jane? Haven’t seen her in months. Moved to California. Guess she’s a fan of movies and wines.” The forced smile on Braddon’s face told Adam he thought the attempt at humor was as lame as it sounded.
“The car that hit your father and didn’t stop. Do you know who was behind the wheel?”
“I thought you wanted to ask me about Jane.”
“Is it possible she was the one driving that night?”
Braddon’s fists were clenched by his sides, and he didn’t answer at first, staring out the window.
“Braddon?”
“She wasn’t driving, but she knows who was.”
“And she wouldn’t tell you?”
“She didn’t have to. I guessed.”
“It was Wallace Ryall, wasn’t it?”
Braddon’s attention snapped back to Adam. “How did you—”
“We tracked down Jane. She feels pretty badly about it now, that she didn’t go to the police with the info. And I guess it made her feel better to tell the truth.” Well, Jinks had done most of the work, and Adam owed her some more lutefisk for it.
“Fat lot of good that does Dad now.”
“With Wallace Ryall dead, I guess your father was avenged, in a way, isn’t that right?”
“Damn straight. And I know what you’re thinking. But I wasn’t the one who killed him.”
Through a connecting glass panel, Adam saw some SCA members practicing swordplay in the larger room beyond. He pointed at the group. “Thought we’d see you in full Rapier Marshall mode this time.”
“The SCA board wants to wait a while before filling the position. Out of ‘respect’ for Wallace.”
Beverly chimed in, “I’m sure that’s the honorable thing to do. But I’m curious—you’re an Olympic competitor, but where do other people learn how to fence and fight with swords? I mean, how did Wallace learn?”
“His brother taught him. He’s a pretty good sabre-handler, himself.”
Beverly raised her eyebrows at Adam, who nodded. He was surprised at how well they were getting at reading each other’s body signals. He made a note to follow up on that sabre tidbit later.
But he needed to address something else first. “Braddon, you run your father’s lighting shop now, so I imagine you’re pretty knowledgeable about the various types of lights. You sell more than lamps, right?”
“We’re not Home Depot. We sell everything from commercial troffers to dock lights to lighting poles and ballasts.”
“And you’d sell metal halide lamps?”
“Sure. Mostly outdoor flood lamps.”
“I understand metal halide lamps are also used in automotive applications, aquariums, even car headlights.”
“Yeah, but those are called xenon headlamps due to the xenon gas in the bulb instead of argon used in other halide lamps. They’re more intense than incandescents.”
Adam was enjoying the puckered-skin confusion on Beverly’s forehead, but to her credit, she kept her face blank as if she knew where he was going with this. She made a fine detective assistant.
“Do you ever do lighting repair? Or make your own lighting?”
“Sometimes, mostly the former, not the latter.”
“Are you familiar with dysprosium?”
“One of those rare-earths minerals. Some high-end commercial lighting uses it. Makes for a high color temperature. But there’s not enough of a market for those types of lights for us to carry them. And China’s got a corner on the market for dysprosium mining and processing. They could pull the plug at any time. This country’s playing catch-up. There’s only one working mine in all of the U-S-of-A.”
Braddon folded his arms over his chest and sat down on the edge of his desk. “This all feels like a far cry from murder.”
“Tree roots in the ground spread out in strange patterns, but they all lead back to the trunk. Which leads me to my last question, have you heard of Dr. Vernon Atkinson?”
“Wallace’s neighbor, sure. And since Wallace ragged on him all the time, even hated him, I guess, that made me want to meet the guy and thank him. But I never did.”
“Thanks for your time, Braddon. Mind if we take a peek inside to watch the practicing?”
Braddon waved them in, and Adam and Beverly went into the main hall and parked themselves in a corner. Beverly started in with a flood of questions, but Adam held up his hand. “I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I wasn’t kidding about those roots, even though the tree can seem pretty far away.”
They watched the two pairs of combatants, both suited up in armor helmets and shield and wielding “swords” made of rattan. There was some thrusting-and-parrying, but mostly starting and stopping. Near as Adam could tell, if one participant on the receiving end of a blow from the sword felt it was a “death” blow, that round was over. Judging from the amount of contact and lack of effective defense techniques, Braddon’s work as potential Rapier Marshal wasn’t going to be easy.
That brought his thoughts to Wallace, pinned to a tree with a very accurate sword thrust. If a Rapier Marshal was supposed to be an expert at the craft, why wasn’t he able to defend himself better?
Beverly poked him in the arm. “They’re not that good, are they? You think Wallace Ryall was as inept as these guys? How did our killer swordsman get the better of him?”
Adam stared at her, blinking slowly. “You haven’t added reading minds to your long list of unusual talents, have you?”
She stared into his eyes and put her fingers on her temples. “I think I’m getting something. Yes, it’s clearer now. You are bored, you are hungry, and you have a craving for a fudge mocha latte at Uncommon Grounds.”
He shook his head in mock astonishment. “I see I’m going to have to be more careful around you, missy.”
She laughed, and he hoped she’d forgiven him for his comment earlier in Agnes’s shop. A tiny sliver of doubt crept into his conscious mind—how committed was she to her new con-artist-free lifestyle? But he pushed that thought away. If she really was reading his mind, he didn’t want to hurt her again. Trust had to work both ways, didn’t it?
