At six I locked the doors and went across the street to the beer garden to meet Luanne Bradshaw, who owns a vintage clothing shop on Thurber Street. It could have been a hobby, not a livelihood, since she not only comes from a wealthy family on the East Coast but also divorced a successful doctor and left him barefoot in the park—or, at least, penniless in the penthouse. However, she chose to rid herself of most of her ill-gotten gains via trusts and foundations, dumped her offspring on the doorsteps of prestigious prep schools, and headed for the hinterlands. Farberville definitely falls into that category. Despite being in the throes of a midlife crisis that may well continue until she’s ninety, she’s disarmingly astute.
She was seated at a picnic table beneath a wisteria-entwined lattice that provided shade and a pleasant redolence. Her long, tanned legs were clearly visible in scandalously short shorts, and her black hair was tucked under a baseball cap. As I joined her, she filled a plastic cup with beer from a pitcher and set it down in front of me.
“You didn’t mention Peter when you called earlier,” she said by way of greeting. “Are you having prénuptial jitters? It’s unbecoming in a woman of your age.”
“My age is damn close to yours,” I said, “and I’m not the one who scrambled all over the Andes with a bunch of virile young Australian men for six weeks.”
“I kept claiming I needed to rest just so I could watch their darling butts wiggle as they hiked past me. So what’s going on with Peter?”
“The captain sent him to FBI summer camp so he can learn how to protect our fair town if the terrorists attempt to create havoc by jamming the parking meters. It’s a real threat, you know. The mayor will have to flee to his four-bedroom bunker out by the lake. The Kiwanis Club won’t be able to have its weekly luncheon meetings at the diner behind the courthouse. The community theater won’t be able to stage its endearingly inept production of
Our Town
for the first time in nineteen years. All hell could break loose.”
Luanne failed to look properly terrified. “How long will he be gone?”
“Two weeks at Quântico, and then a week at his mother’s.”
“Oh,” she murmured.
I took a long swallow of beer. “It’s not like that. She’s resigned to the idea that Peter and I are getting married, or so he keeps telling me.”
“But she’s not coming to the wedding.”
“No, she’s not,” I said. “She always goes to Aspen in September to avoid the hurricane season.”
“Rhode Island is hardly a magnet for hurricanes, but neither is Farberville,” Luanne said as she refilled her cup and mine.
“It’s a tradition. She goes with a big group of her widowed friends. They take over a very posh condo complex and party all day and night. Besides, it’s not as if this is Peter’s first marriage—or mine. I’d look pretty silly in a flouncy white dress and veil, with my teenaged daughter as maid of honor. There’s no reason why she should disrupt her long-standing plans for a simple little civil ceremony in a backyard.”
“She’s probably afraid she’ll have to eat ribs,” said Luanne, “and toast the happy couple with moonshine in a jelly jar. Have you spoken to her on the phone, or received a warm letter on her discreetly monogrammed stationery?”
The topic was not amusing me. “Not yet. Peter thinks we ought to give her some time to get used to the idea, and then go for a visit. Will you loan me a pair of jodhpurs?”
“Yes, but they’ll make your thighs look fat.”
I brooded for a moment, then said, “Did you happen to encounter Pester the Jester this afternoon?”
“Oh, my, yes. I couldn’t take my eyes off his codpiece.”
I told her about the letters Caron and Inez had received from the history teacher. “They’re appalled, of course, and were rambling about their constitutional right to spend the summer sulking. I didn’t have the heart to remind them that they’d already had their fifteen minutes of fame a month ago, when they were interviewed by the media after that unfortunate business with the disappearing corpse.”
“Fame is fleeting,” Luanne said.
We pondered this philosophical twaddle while we emptied our cups. The remaining beer in the pitcher was getting warm, and a group of noisy college kids arrived to take possession of a nearby picnic table. I told Luanne I’d call her later in the week, then walked the few blocks to my apartment on the second floor of a duplex across the street from the campus lawn. A note on the kitchen table informed me that Caron and Inez had gone out for burgers with a few of their friends. It was just as well, since my culinary interests were limited to boiling water for tea and nuking frozen entrees. In the mood for neither, I settled down on the sofa to read. I hoped Peter would call, but as it grew dark outside I gave up and consoled myself with images of him on the firing range, learning how to take down grannies with radioactive dentures and toddlers with teddy bears packed with explosives. Or librarians and booksellers who refused to turn in their patrons’ reading preferences to cloak-and- dagger government agencies.
What I did not want to think about was the wedding, scheduled for early September. Not because I was having second thoughts, mind you. I was confident that I loved Peter and that we would do quite nicely when we rode off into the sunset of domestic bliss, which would include not only more opportunities for adult behavior of a most delectable sort, but also lazy Sunday mornings with coffee, muffins, and
The New York Times,
and occasional squabbles over the relative merits of endive versus romaine. He’d been suggesting matrimonial entanglement for several years, and I’d given it serious consideration. But after my first husband’s untimely and very unseemly death, I’d struggled to regain my self- esteem and establish my independence. I hadn’t done too well on the material aspects, as Caron pointed out on a regular basis. However, the Book Depot was still in business, and we lived on the agreeable side of genteel poverty.
A distressingly close call with mortality had led me to reassess my situation. The emotional barrier I’d constructed to protect myself collapsed during a convoluted moment when a hit man had impolitely threatened to blow my brains out (not in those exact words, but that was the gist of the message). If commitment meant sharing a closet, then so be it.
The problem lay in my inclinations to meddle in what Lieutenant Peter Rosen felt was official police business. It wasn’t simply a compulsion to outsleuth Miss Marple. In all the situations I’d found myself questioning witnesses and snooping around crime scenes, I’d never once done so for my personal satisfaction—or to make fools of the local constabulary. It just happened. Peter, with his molasses-brown eyes, curly hair, perfect teeth, and undeniable charm, never quite saw it that way. He’d lectured me, had my car impounded twice, threatened me with a jail cell, and attempted to keep me under house arrest. One had to admire his optimism.
I was going to have to sacrifice my pursuit of justice in order to maintain domestic tranquility, I thought with a sigh. Somewhere buried within the male psyche is a genetic disposition to drag home the carcass of a woolly mammoth to display to the tribe. Women, quite clearly, are above that sort of thing. We only desire to tidy things up.
I tried to return to my novel, but the specter of the wedding still loomed. The ceremony itself would be low-key and aesthetically appropriate. Jorgeson, Peter’s partner, had offered us the use of his garden. Luanne had insisted on handling the reception food and drink. I would, when I had the wherewithal, purchase a modest dress at the mall. Peter would no doubt wear one of his Armani suits. Caron was the designated maid of honor. She’d been unenthu- siastic about the upcoming event, ambivalent at best, but a few weeks earlier she and Peter had gone off for a long lunch, and she’d come home in a suspiciously elated mood. Neither of them would elaborate on the negotiations.
It wasn’t as though we were going to be married in a church amid all the pomp and piety, but I have an aversion to any kind of formal ceremony, especially one that obliges me to wear panty hose. I’d barely survived Caron’s kindergarten graduation. Carlton and I had eloped, and ended up being married in a leaky chapel during a thunderstorm. The justice of the peace’s wife had served chocolate chip cookies and flat ginger ale afterward. I remember the cookies better than I do the actual exchange of vows. Carlton must have, too, which would explain why he’d been in the company of a buxom college girl when his car collided with a chicken truck on a slippery mountain road. The college administration had done its best to hush up this particular detail, since liaisons between instructors and students were a big no-no. When a local writer threatened to expose the tawdry business, along with several other skeletons in the faculty lounge closet, she’d been conveniently silenced. I’d been high on Detective Rosen’s list of suspects, which had not made for an auspicious inaugural relationship, although in retrospect, it had been flattering.
I resolved to stop fretting about the wedding, at least for the rest of the evening, and gave my attention to Lady Cashmere’s stolen jewels and the mysterious light in the chapel.
The following morning I was perusing the fall reading lists from the area junior highs and high schools. Nothing was remotely controversial, indicating the religious right had cinched in the good ol’ Bible Belt another notch or two. Intellectual constipation was not too far in the future. I’d gone into my tiny office to hunt up some catalogs and start calculating orders when the bell above the door jangled.
I went back into the front room, my fingers crossed that Pester the Jester was not coming back to further annoy me. A couple were waiting for me. The woman had short dark hair, a flawless complexion, and large, wide-set eyes that were already appraising me. The tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows suggested that she was less than impressed. Although she appeared to be no more than thirty years old, her white blouse and gray skirt gave her the serious demeanor of an executive assistant or a bureaucrat. That, and the briefcase she was carrying.
“Mrs. Malloy?” she said, daring me to deny it.
I chose not to be intimidated despite the mess on the counter and the cobwebs dangling from the rafters. The original structure of the Book Depot dated back to the days when passenger and freight trains had been vital to a burgeoning rural town. I still relied on an antiquated boiler for what heat I could coax out of it. Many of the cockroaches I encountered daily were likely to be nonagenarians, and some of the mice had gray whiskers. “May I help you?”
“I’m Fiona Thackery, the history teacher at the high school. I believe your daughter is taking my AP class in the fall.” I nodded warily. “I’m sure she’ll do fine,” the woman continued. “I’m here to talk to you about the Renaissance Fair in two weeks. I realize this is short notice, but the idea came to me while I was on vacation after the semester ended. I attended one, and thought it would be a wonderful project. My students will have the opportunity to make history come alive, not only for themselves but also for all the children and the community. Profits will go to Safe Haven, the battered- women’s shelter. I do hope you’ll add your support.”
“I’m pretty busy these days,” I said, unmoved by her slick sales pitch.
Her consort cleared his throat. He was perhaps a bit older than she, but two inches shorter and significantly less polished. His face, pudgy and pale, was marred by the remnants of acne, and his hair looked as though he’d cut it himself—in the dark. He was wearing wrinkled slacks, a short-sleeved white dress shirt, and a bow tie. He reminded me of a suburban missionary. “I’m…ah, Julius Valens. I teach in the drama department at the college. Well, I don’t teach acting or anything like that. My area is set construction, lights, technical stuff.”
“Thank you, Julius,” said Fiona. “I’m sure Mrs. Malloy appreciates knowing your field of expertise.” She took a file out of her briefcase and handed it to me. “This is the schedule of events during the fair. I’ve included a copy of the information I’ll be handing out to the students this afternoon, which will explain in more detail the various booths, concessions, and staged presentations over the two days. Members of ARSE will participate. Are you familiar with the organization?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “purple tights and all.”
She frowned. “Not all of us are fools, Mrs. Malloy. I’ve only been a member for a year, but I’ve encountered very few court jesters. Most of the men prefer to wear the garb of knights and royalty. Our fiefdom is honored to be under the leadership of the Duke and Duchess of Glenbarrens. They’ve offered their farm for the fair. I’d planned on holding it at the high school or even on the college campus, but we can generate more profits with the sale of ales and mead. Please let me assure you that none of the students will have anything to do with the alcoholic beverages, and any of them caught indulging will be punished.”
“Were thumbscrews in use during the Renaissance?” I asked.
“I’ll look into it,” she said with her first attempt at a smile. It softened her face and gave her a faint glow. I realized she was quite pretty, if not a classic beauty. Julius seemed to agree with me; he was gazing at her with unabashed adoration. Ignoring him, she added, “Now what we’d like to do is stage a few short events in front of your store in order to create curiosity and start selling advance tickets. It won’t be the least bit inconvenient for you. Julius will hang a few banners and set up the sound equipment. There will be sword fights, musical presentations, and crafts demonstrations. I was thinking we could do this tomorrow and Friday this week, and Monday and Wednesday next week, for no more than an hour at a time.”
I considered her proposal. “I don’t want access to the store blocked. I’m certainly in favor of raising money for Safe Haven, but I can’t risk losing sales.”
Julius nodded. “We understand that, Mrs. Malloy. It’ll take no more than half an hour to set up, and about the same when it’s over. So two hours, altogether.”
“And,” Fiona said, “it will draw a huge crowd. You can feature books on the Renaissance in your window displays.”