In the dark, Victor Emerson’s furry cape made the fallen man look like an animal, but once lit by several flashlights, Alejandro’s victim was clearly human. Victor lay on his stomach with his arms outstretched. From the bit of clothing I could see, he was wearing pajamas. When the security guards rolled him over, the llama vented a catarrhal sound that could have been a sob. As for me, I was relieved that one of the guards had positioned himself between me and Victor. I had never liked the man but had no desire to see his dead face.
The guard closest to me made a gagging noise. Another swore.
“Uh, Teddy?” Walt’s usually confident voice wavered even more. “Why don’t you, uh, tie that animal up someplace and keep it out of the way. Seems it didn’t have anything to do with this, ah, this situation. And as soon as you’ve got it secured, get the hell out of that pen. Duck under the fence so you don’t track all over this area.”
“Him,” I snapped. “Alejandro’s a ‘him,’ not an ‘it.’” Nomenclature was a silly thing to be worried about at a time like this, but I’m a zookeeper, and to me, no animal is an “it.” I started to lead the llama over to the hitching post at the back of the enclosure, then stopped. “Wait a minute, Walt. Are you saying Alejandro didn’t stomp the poor guy to death?”
Now the security guards did an odd thing. In unison, they flicked off their flashlights, and with Walt leading the retreat, walked backwards until they had exited the enclosure.
“I’m calling Sheriff Rejas, Teddy,” Walt said.
“You can’t ‘cause Joe’s…he’s…he’s in Virginia,” I stuttered, reminding him of my fiancé’s whereabouts. “He’s on that Homeland Security thing and…and he told me before he left that he might be out in the woods somewhere on some exercise and he can’t be reached because they’re clamping down a whatchacallit a…a news blackout or something like that on him and the other sheriffs and…and they took away everyone’s cell phone so they can’t talk or get calls and…and he won’t get back until…” I stopped babbling and forced myself to think. “Did you check for a pulse?”
Walt nodded. “No pulse, fixed pupils, enough blood to float a boat. He’s dead all right, but he didn’t get llama-stomped. He’s been shot in the jugular with some kind of arrow and he bled out.”
Alejandro moaned. Or maybe he was mimicking me.
I swallowed. “In that case, I’d better remove Alejandro from the enclosure, too. Tell you what. I’ll walk him over to the Camel Rides pen and stash him there. The camel didn’t take well to the crowds, they usually don’t, you know how they are, so his owner trailered him home and they won’t be back. But that won’t be a permanent solution. It’s louder over there than here and Alejandro won’t like that anymore than the camel did. Actually, I can’t move him at all right now, because then Alejandro and I would be tromping all over the, um, crime scene. We shouldn’t disturb it more than it already has been, because the authorities, well, you know, they don’t like people messing with…”
“Stop babbling, Teddy. I’ve got the sheriff’s office on my cell!”
I stopped babbling.
Time crawled as we waited for the authorities. Alejandro and I comforted each other while Walt and the other security guards huddled in the shadow of the big plywood castle. Shivering in the damp night air, I pressed myself against Alejandro’s shaggy side. As if he understood, he looped his big head around and nuzzled me. Whatever tension had once existed between us was gone. We were two frightened creatures huddling together for warmth.
The guards tried to keep their voices down, but it was too late: the llama’s cries had awakened Faire workers. One by one, they emerged from their tents and trailers onto the High Street to see what the fuss was about. For the most part they were respectful when they heard there had been a fatality, but the more curious of them surged forward for a better look. The guards pushed back, keeping them away from the enclosure’s entrance. The onlookers whose costumes required fur capes were lucky; they’d thrown their capes over their nightclothes. Watching them, I realized that was what Victor must have done. He had wrapped his regal fur cloak around him before stepping outside.
But why leave his warm tent in the middle of the night in the first place?
A romantic encounter was the first thing that sprang to mind. Like many mail-order reverends, Victor had no church other than his little wedding chapel, and he wasn’t in the business of delivering sinners from the clutches of Satan. Religiously speaking, he was free to play around. And he did. With considerable enthusiasm. Who could have been tonight’s lucky lady? Victor was frequently seen squiring Bambi around town, but it was not unknown for him to be involved with several women at a time. What they saw in him was a mystery.
Soon the wail of sirens pierced the night. Minutes later, a herd of uniformed officers galloped toward us led by Deputy Elvin Dade, Joe’s fifth-in-command.
“Where’s the body?” he barked.
Walt, along with around thirty others, pointed to the furry lump on the ground.
“Get outta my way!” Elvin ordered, shouldering aside the security guards. He swaggered into the llama enclosure, circled the body several times, then knelt down and began pawing at it.
After watching him tug at the arrow implanted in Victor’s neck, I yelled, “Hey, Elvin! Shouldn’t you wait until the crime techs get here? You know, to check for fingerprints and stuff?”
“That’s Acting Sheriff Dade to you, Teddy Bentley! And you stay out of this. You’re not dealing with that indulgent boyfriend of yours now. Leave the crime detecting to people who know something about it.”
He yanked on the arrow again, finally succeeding in pulling it out.
At the age of fifty-eight Elvin held more seniority than anyone else in the sheriff’s office. He’d run for the top job twice, but Joe beat him each time. Not because of Elvin’s abrasive personality, although I’m sure that factored in, but because the man was so full of himself he turned people off. Elvin had a temper, too, and all too often arrested people who annoyed him, whether they’d broken the law or not. Once he even tried to arrest my mother when her Mercedes CL beat his aging Ford Focus to a prime parking spot outside Sydd’s Salad Supreme. Only the pleas of his hungry wife kept him from hauling Caro off in handcuffs.
If Elvin hadn’t been the brother of California’s powerful attorney general, Joe would have fired him years ago.
Still, given Elvin’s less than pristine record as a peace officer, he was now in charge only because of a string of unfortunate events that not even a man as intelligent as Sheriff Joe Rejas could have foreseen. Two days earlier Head Deputy Stan Berringer, Joe’s second-in-command, had suffered an attack of acute pancreatitis and lay hooked up to a glucose drip in San Sebastian County Hospital. Deputy Pete Rimstead, Joe’s third-in-command, was recovering from a gunshot wound in the leg inflicted day before yesterday by a grandmother protesting the arrest of her teenage grandson for shoplifting. Ralph Wilson, Joe’s fourth-in-command, had suddenly eloped with his girlfriend to Las Vegas. Or maybe it was Reno. Wherever he was, no one could find him, and thus—according to the command structure set down by the county commissioner—the officer with the most seniority then ascended to rank of acting sheriff.
Ergo, Joe’s worst nightmare—Elvin Dade elevated to command.
“Look what I found!” Elvin crowed, standing up and brandishing the arrow. Whisking a handkerchief from his pocket, he proceeded to wipe it off.
Several other deputies actually groaned.
Aghast myself, I did a quick calculation. It was closing in on three o’clock here in California, which would make it around six in Virginia. Just in case the spooks at Homeland Security had changed their minds about cell phone confiscation, I would try to reach Joe anyway if I hadn’t left my cell phone in the Silly Slatterns’ RV. I looked over at Walt. Witness to the acting sheriff’s incompetence, he was already punching in a number on his cell. Joe’s, I hoped. I saw Walt’s lips move for mere seconds, too short a time for a conversation. Voice mail.
Alejandro began muttering. Standing still for so long was getting on his nerves. I doubted he was wild about the smell of blood, either.
“Hang in there, big boy,” I whispered. “This can’t last forever.”
Almost as if he’d heard, Elvin glanced over at me. “What the hell’s that thing?”
“Llama. Name’s Alejandro.”
“Get it away from me before I shoot it.”
Since the moronic man had already contaminated the crime scene beyond repair, I led Alejandro out of shooting range. I was tempted to transport him back to the zoo, never to return to the Faire. Only ghouls would turn up at the bloodied llama pen when the Faire opened, anyway. Then I remembered Aster Edwina’s orders the day before: “Don’t you give me any lip, Teddy. Conduct those llama rides or else!” God only knew what she meant by “or else.” The irony here was that although I worked with bears, wolves, tigers, lions, and rhinos with nary a qualm, the old bat terrified me. Accepting the reality of my situation, I straightened my shoulders and led Alejandro to the deserted camel pen.
Halfway there, I ran into Melissa and Cary Keegan. The last time I’d seen them had been at the medieval weapons demonstration, when they were working with the longbow and crossbow. This realization made me stop so suddenly that Alejandro almost ran me down.
“What’s happening, Teddy?” Melissa flowed toward me in a white, vaguely medieval nightgown, her waist-length black hair darker than the night itself. “Someone said there’s been an accident.”
I thought for a moment before I answered. “Is the Royal Armory missing any stock?”
Melissa started to answer, but Cary interrupted her. “Why do you ask?” The stormy expression on his face made me suspect that Melissa’s answer would have been in the affirmative.
“Victor Emerson’s dead.” Given the size of the crowd at the crime scene, keeping it secret was a no-hoper, anyway.
Cary frowned. “Are you talking about that reverend guy who plays Henry the Eighth?”
“Yep. He had an arrow in his neck.”
The two looked at each other. Melissa opened her mouth, but Cary shushed her again. “All our weapons are accounted for.”
“But isn’t that…?” Melissa suddenly winced as Cary’s hand gripped her forearm tightly. Too tightly, I thought, for the first time noticing what a large man he was and how frail she seemed in comparison.
“There’s nothing we can do about any of this,” he told his wife, in a tone that wouldn’t be argued with. “Let’s go back to bed.”
Melissa didn’t argue.
I watched them walk toward their quarters behind the Armory until Alejandro bumped me impatiently with his nose.
“All right, all right,” I said. “The camel pen it is. I’ll get you some more hay, too. But promise me you won’t spit on anyone tomorrow. Except for Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade. Spit on him all you want.”
***
After everything that had transpired, sleep proved impossible. I lay in the Silly Slatterns’ RV with my eyes wide open, thinking about Victor. Who would have murdered such a harmless, if annoying, person? Although I’d never cared for the man myself, he had many fans, especially among those whose approach to marriage tended to be on the casual side. Until his dust-up with my mother over the Anne Boleyn situation, I had never known him to make an enemy since he’d moved to San Sebastian County. Even women he once dated bore him no ill will. Maybe it was his gift of gab. He had been slick, no doubt about it.
I also couldn’t stop thinking about the arrow Elvin pulled from Victor’s neck. Something seemed “off” about it. While attending Miss Pridewell’s Academy, I was on the archery team, yet never saw an arrow like it. For starters, the thing appeared to be less than a foot long, which was much shorter than the standard archery arrow. In fact, it had looked almost like…
A crossbow bolt.
Sunrise found me still staring up at the ceiling of the Silly Slattern’s RV. Somehow I managed to haul myself out of bed, clean off in a tiny shower stall, and dress in my Renaissance duds without ripping the fabric. This time, however, I dispensed with the corset. I felt miserable enough already.
Hoping against hope, I punched in Joe’s number on my cell, but the call rolled over to voice mail. Good ol’ Homeland Security and their no-phones rule. I left a message anyway.
“Elvin tromped all over the crime scene and then pulled the arrow right out of Victor’s neck, Joe. If a miracle happens and Homeland Security gives you your cellphone back, please call that foolish man and give him a talking to. Victor was horribly murdered, and the way Elvin’s going he’ll have the case so screwed up by the time you get back home it’ll take you twice as long to solve it. Love you. Call me as soon as they let you. And for God’s sake, call Elvin and put some sense into him!”
I rang off wondering when Joe would get my message. What was Homeland Security doing with him and the other sheriffs, anyway? Were they bivouacking in the Virginia woods, or sitting in stuffy meeting rooms listening to FBI agents drone on and on about suspicious-looking Middle Easterners? Remembering Ted Kozinski, Timothy McVeigh, and Anders Brevik, I hoped they would warn them about suspicious-looking Anglo-Saxons, too.
Since there was nothing more I could do at the moment I left for the camel pen. This early in the morning few people were up and about. The vendors’ shops were still closed, except for Ye Queen’s Bakery, which was serving breakfast.
Four miles inland, this narrow valley seldom suffered heavy bouts of the morning fog that plagued the coast, but today a few wisps had made it over the surrounding hills from the Pacific. Thanks to my low-cut bodice, the damp chilled me, and I was cursing under my breath by the time I reached Alejandro. Knowing how sensitive he was, I forced a cheerful note into my voice.
“Miss me, sweetie?”
A soft chuffle assured me that he did.
After giving him a friendly ear-scratch, I dished out his morning meal of alfalfa pellets mixed with oat hay topped with a sprinkling of chopped carrots. Llamas are modified ruminants with three stomach compartments. They chew their food well, swallow, then bring it up again later for another round of chewing. Unlike cows, they don’t have a fourth stomach compartment, so colic can be a problem. When dealing with domesticated llamas, proper food measurement is critical so as always, I took great care with the proportions.
Alejandro quickly polished off his breakfast, then walked over to nuzzle my ear. All signs of yesterday’s spit-fest vanished, he was now in his llama-ish way, declaring me his BFF.
“Love you, too,” I crooned.
For the next hour I swept llama turds out of the enclosure and took care of all the other chores necessary to keep a llama happy, which wasn’t much different than my job at the zoo. Work finally accomplished, I set off for Alejandro’s previous habitat to get the LLAMA RIDES sign and transfer it to his new digs. The entire enclosure was now blocked off by yellow police tape. At least Elvin got that part right. Even better, he had posted a deputy I knew at the entrance. Emilio Gutierrez was an old friend of mine who descended from one of my great-great-great grandfather’s vaqueros in the halcyon days when we Bentleys owned most of San Sebastian County. A string of bad investments, lawsuits, and the Depression had changed all that.
“Hola, Teddy!”
“Buenos dias, Emilio. Bad scene last night, wasn’t it?”
He pulled a face. “Made even worse by our inglorious leader. We’re counting the hours until Sheriff Joe gets back.”
If intelligence mattered as much as seniority, the very bright Emilio—who had served only four years with the Sheriff’s Department—would now be the acting sheriff of San Sebastian County, but thanks to bureaucratic short-sightedness, he wasn’t.
“Have you tried to reach Joe?” I asked him.
His face grew longer. “Yeah. And so has every other deputy in the county. I called Homeland Security itself, not that it did any good. The agent I talked to said that unless there was a dire emergency—and he didn’t consider one measly murder an emergency—none of the sheriffs could be reached until their training sessions are completed. Which means Joe has no idea what we’re going through, and he won’t until they give him his cellphone back. Heck, I even called the state police about our situation, but because of jurisdictional issues, they can’t override Elvin no matter how goofy he gets. Unless he actually breaks the law, that is, and it’s not illegal to act like an ass. The county commissioner is standing firm on the seniority issue, too, so we’re screwed.” He sighed. “I hear you’re set up at Camel Rides now. You need your sign?”
“That, plus any more information you care to give me.”
“No problemo.”
As I detached LLAMA RIDES from the post it had been hammered onto, he filled me in on Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade’s latest misadventures.
Elvin was moving through the Peasant’s Retreat like a hurricane, Emilio told me, rousting sleepy people and demanding to know where they were and what they were doing at two in the morning. Everyone except Walt McAdams and the other security guards claimed they had been asleep. When Walt confessed he had been less than three hundred yards from the crime scene when the alarm was raised, Elvin had all but pulled out a rubber hose to work him over.
“Geez, Teddy, he put Walt through such a grilling I thought he was gonna arrest him right then and there,” Emilio said. “But after Walt told him you reached the body before he did, Elvin started carrying on about you, yelling that you had no business tramping all over the crime scene, that you…”
“I heard screams. What was I supposed to do, roll over and go back to sleep?”
“Of course not, but logic isn’t Elvin’s thing. You’d be sitting in an interview room down at the station right now except for what Walt said next.” He paused for dramatic effect.
“Which was?”
“He claimed he’d seen a ghost.”
I blinked. “Did you say, ‘ghost’?”
“Can you believe it? First, somebody’s been out in the middle of the night playing bows and arrows, Walt sees ghosts, Henry the Eighth winds up dead. You can’t make this stuff up. So yeah, Walt saw a ghost, or at least something pale and filmy floating around near that Ye Olde Imagery place.”
Ye Olde Imagery was the photo booth where Faire-goers could pose in medieval or Renaissance garb. It was located at the north end of High Street between the Gunn Zoo Information Booth and the Royal Armory. Picturing it, I remembered Melissa Keegan’s filmy nightgown. Her black hair could have blended into the shadows, but her white gown could easily have been seen as a ghostly apparition. Victor had been killed by a crossbow dart, and the Armory not only stocked working crossbows, but their ammunition as well. Melissa’s demonstration yesterday in the jousting arena proved she was skilled with the weapon, but for the life of me I couldn’t see her as a murderer. Besides, it was well known around the county that she was too timid to even talk back to her bossy husband, let alone kill someone she knew only in passing.
“Do you know where Elvin is now?” I asked Emilio. “As much as I hate the idea, I need to tell him something.”
Emilio jerked his head in the direction of the RV parking area. “He’s still back there. My advice is to stay out of his way, but do what you have to do.”
I tucked the LLAMA RIDES sign under my arm and headed for Peasant’s Retreat. Finding Elvin was easy; all I had to do was follow the cries of outrage.
He was outside the RV shared by Deanna and Judd Sazac, who took turns manning the Information Booth. Standing next to them were Howie Fife, the Faire’s teenage “leper,” whose injured ankle remained wrapped in bandages, and Dr. Willis Pierce, head of the Drama Department at San Sebastian Community College. Dr. Pierce had been roaming the Faire dressed as Shakespeare, quoting the sonnets and handing out flyers advertising the school’s upcoming production of Much Ado About Nothing. The four of them were strung out along the side of the Sazacs’ motor home like suspects in a lineup. The adults merely looked miffed but seventeen-year-old Howie appeared petrified.
“What do you mean, your costume disappeared and you didn’t tell anyone?” Elvin screamed at the kid.
“I…I…”
“Quiet, Howie,” Dr. Pierce snapped. “You don’t have to tell Deputy Dade anything. You’re a minor. Ex parentis. Keep silent until your mother gets back with breakfast.”
“Oh, so you’re a lawyer now, Pierce?” Elvin sneered. “Just because you’re some fancy-pants college teacher doesn’t mean you know what you’re talking about.”
Pierce rolled his eyes. “‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’ As You Like It, Act V, Scene I.”
Rightly suspecting he’d been insulted, Elvin scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a quote from a play,” I said, jumping in. “Elvin, before you question these folks any further, I have important information for you.”
He transferred his scowl to me. “Teddy Bentley, did I or did I not tell you to address me as Acting Sheriff Dade?”
If Pierce rolled his eyes any further, they’d unscrew from his head. Averting my own eyes from that fascinating display, I answered, “Sorry, Acting Sheriff Dade. It’s just that I…”
“Let me guess. You want to stick your nose in another murder case. Go back to your big hairy pet.”
I threw a despairing glance at Dr. Pierce, who rolled his eyes again. As I walked away the other deputies gave me sympathetic looks. They didn’t like the situation, either, but there was little they could do about it.
On the way to the Queen’s Bakery I ran into Ada Fife, Howie’s mother. She carried a tray loaded with muffins and coffee, and was walking slowly so as not to drop or spill anything.
“Ada, Elvin Dade is giving Howie a bad time.”
She looked so startled she almost dropped the tray. “What? Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so. Dr. Pierce is trying to protect him, but you’ve lived here long enough to know what a dunderhead Elvin is. He’s asking Howie all sorts of questions, so you’d better…”
I wasn’t finished with my sentence before Ada hustled off toward the RV parking area, coffee sloshing as she ran.
A few minutes later I’d purchased my own coffee and a bran muffin the size of a soccer ball. By now it was almost eight, and even local Faire workers who had been lucky enough to spend the night in their own beds at home were trickling in. The day was warming up and the remnants of the morning fog burned off. When I entered the food tent, everyone was talking about last night’s events.
“I heard the guy was shot,” said a rotund jester I didn’t recognize. In his yellow and orange costume, he looked like an overripe peach.
“My money’s on a stabbing,” a sleepy-eyed monk offered. “I didn’t hear any shots.”
“Considering what you were up to with that blonde last night, you wouldn’t have heard the charge of the Light Brigade.”
The monk snickered. “Methinks I detect a note of jealousy.”
“Next time, take it outside. As a favor to me.”
“Anything to make the court jester happy.” The monk’s face grew serious. “Speaking of court, how’s the Royal Progress going to be handled today? No king, no Progress?”
The jester brushed away a fly. “The buzz going around is that they asked that Shakespeare guy from the college to step in, seeing as how he’s so good at the lingo. He’s the right height, if not weight, but I imagine pillows will help with that.”
“The King is dead, long live the King.”
I was a quarter way through my muffin when Melissa and Cary Keegan sat down across from me. The couple manned the Royal Armory and ran a mail order medieval and Goth weapons company from their house in San Sebastian. From spring to fall they travelled the circuit from Renaissance faire to Renaissance faire throughout the west to sell their wicked-looking wares, spending almost as much time in their RV than at home. I noticed that even though it had a well-equipped kitchen, they had purchased coffee and rolls from the bakery. The better to hear gossip about last night?
Given Cary’s shoulder-length black hair, multiple ear studs and nose rings, he looked like Satan on his way to collect a soul. He was study in black: black beard, black fingernail polish, black leather vest, black satin shirt, black leather pants, and black leather boots. All he needed to complete the resemblance to Old Scratch was a forked tail.
Melissa wore black, too, but on her it wasn’t scary. The bodice of her long ebony dress barely covered her milk-white breasts, and her matching eye shadow and lipstick played up her flawless skin. The monk and jester almost fell off their bench ogling her. When Cary shot them a look they hurriedly returned their attentions to their muffins.
“Cops arrest anyone yet?” Cary asked me as soon as he sat down, confirming my suspicions.
“You mean Acting Sheriff Dade? Not that I know of.”
“I thought he was quite rude when he questioned us this morning,” Melissa said, her voice a vulnerable soprano. “He’s not a very nice man, is he?”
“Nice” not being a word normally associated with Elvin Dade, I made no reply.
“When we left the RV this morning,” she continued, “I heard a couple of the ladies-in-waiting talking. One of them said she’d gone down to the llama pen when she heard all the noise. She got close enough to see everything and she said it looked to her like a crossbow dart killed Victor, but I don’t see how…”
“That’s enough, Melissa,” her husband said.
“But Cary, that missing crossbow, it wasn’t my fault! I keep as close an eye on our stock as possible, but with all I had to do…”
“Quiet!” he hissed.
“Don’t you see that…”
“Melissa,” I said, “When Elvin Dade finds out about the missing crossbow he might want to talk to you again, so you’d better get your story straight.”
“Mind your own business, Teddy,” Cary snapped. Then, to his wife, “Time to open the booth.”
“But I’ve only started drinking my coffee. And I haven’t touched my muffin.” Melissa couldn’t have sounded more mournful if her dog had just died.
He frowned. “Bring it with you. On second thought, leave it here. I don’t want it slopping all over the stock.”
Ignoring her protests, he dragged her away.
“That brute doesn’t deserve her,” the monk said to the jester.
“I thought you preferred blondes,” the jester parried, as he helped himself to Melissa’s leftovers.
“Depends on the brunette.”
Looking around, I saw that Cary’s behavior had had the same effect on all the men. The women appeared more puzzled than outraged. Especially Speaks-To-Souls, who had entered the big tent with her greyhounds in time to catch the end of the conversation. Spotting me, the animal psychic came over to my table.
“What did you think of that little scene?” She smoothed her white abbess robe and sat down carefully, greyhounds at her feet.
“The monk said it best, Cary’s a brute.”
“Making Melissa a damsel in distress?”
Her tone surprised me. “That’s what it looked like to me.”
“Yes, it did, didn’t it?”
Uncomfortable, I changed the subject. After we shared a thorough rehashing of last night’s events, Speaks-To-Souls mused, “I wonder what Victor was doing in the llama enclosure.”
I had wondered, too, before remembering that Victor once officiated at a wedding between a couple of San Sebastian llama owners who brought along their two llamas to serve as best man and maid of honor. The local newspaper ran an article about their nuptials, illustrated with a picture of the bride and groom in formal wedding attire posed between the llamas. It was my guess that besides the vows themselves, there had been a certain amount of conversation between all parties about the animals’ frequent use as herd guards.
“Maybe Victor thought Alejandro would protect him,” I said.
“Isn’t Alejandro a spitter?”
“Getting spit on’s better than a crossbow dart in the neck. Besides, I doubt if he knew about Alejandro’s dislike of adults.”
“Hmm.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we? Which brings me to the main reason I wanted to talk to you. Have you seen your mother this morning?”
“Caro? No, why?”
“You might want to give her a call.”
“I’m sure I’ll see her sometime today. She’s supposed to take part in this morning’s Royal Progress.”
“Call her anyway. When I was walking over here, I passed Bambi O’Dair. She was talking to Deputy what’s-his-name, and I didn’t like what I heard.”
“Elvin Dade. And he prefers being addressed as Acting Sheriff Dade.”
A faint smile from Speaks-To-Souls.
“Anyway, why should anything Bambi says worry you?” I asked. “She’s the kind of blonde that gives all blondes a bad name. She…” I stopped, remembering the conversation between the jester and the monk. The monk had spent a noisy night with a blonde. Bambi, perchance? The woman did have a reputation for being free with her affections.
Speaks-To-Souls interrupted my thoughts. “I heard Bambi tell Elvin Dade that your mother threatened to kill Victor. Behead him, I think.”
I laughed. “Caro’s always running her mouth. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Does Elvin Dade know that?”
“He should, since he’s known her all her life. Went to high school with her, dated her once, even asked her out again one time when she was between marriages, the second and third ones, I think. Or was it the third and fourth? Mother’s been married so many times it’s hard to keep track. No, it had to be between the second and third, because not long afterward, Elvin married Wynona Foster from over in Castroville, and they’ve been together for, what, fifteen years? Twenty? As a matter of fact, Victor officiated at their wedding. This was before Wynona got religion, and still thought one reverend was as good as another. But since they were all dressed normally and didn’t bring any animals with them, they didn’t get their picture in the paper. She’s younger than Elvin, but it wasn’t like she was a child bride or anything, so there was no story there.”
Speaks-To-Souls face hadn’t lost its solemnity. “Caro needs to know what Bambi’s been saying, Teddy.”
I glanced at my watch. “She’ll be driving in from Gunn Landing any minute. I’ll stop by the Royal Pavilion and tell her to turn her mouth off, at least until all this blows over.”
I probably should have taken Speaks-To-Souls’ advice and called Caro right away, not that it would have made any difference. By the time the Faire opened for the Sunday crowds, Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade had already placed my mother under arrest.