Damsels in Distress (25 page)

“Are the police looking for you?” I asked, still unsure what to do.

He shrugged. “I should think so. I can tell that I’m making you nervous, so I’ll go. Maybe I’ll find out where the railroad tracks lead. I’d rather sleep under a bridge than in a cell with a bunch of drunken rednecks.”

Despite his nonchalant tone, I could see that he was exhausted and close to tears. “No, I’m not nervous,” I said, since I was too apprehensive to be merely nervous. “We’ll have some coffee and talk, but afterward you have to call the police. Do you promise?”

“Scout’s honor.” He opened the door wider and waited until I came inside. “Do you mind not opening the store just yet? I don’t want to have to hide behind the boiler while you deal with customers.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sorry. It’s all too much for me. It’s crazy. None of it makes any sense. If I don’t talk to someone, I—I don’t know what I’ll do. Kiss off grad school and become a wandering minstrel. ‘Will juggle for food.’ It’s a career I never considered. “ He abruptly went into the tiny bathroom and closed the door.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down behind my desk. The only weapon I had in a drawer was a bottle opener given to me by a sales rep as a promotional gimmick. It lacked panache. I hoped Edward was pulling himself together, since I tend to be softhearted when faced with tremulous youth. I crossed my fingers as Edward emerged, relieved to note that he seemed more composed.

“All right,” I said briskly, “let’s hear the whole story. When did you tell Salvador that he was your father?”

Edward hesitated, perhaps disconcerted by my bluntness, then sat down across from me. “Friday afternoon—the day before yesterday. Less than forty-eight hours ago. I went to his house. Some peculiar woman let me in and told me he was in his studio. I couldn’t figure out who she was. Really spooky and not exactly glad to see me. Is she like a housekeeper or something?”

“Close enough. So what happened?”

“Salvador—I can’t bring myself to call him anything else—was cleaning brushes. I told him I had something important to tell him, so he suggested we go sit on the deck. All I could think to do was just blurt it out. He didn’t say anything at first, just went to the bar and made himself a drink, then sat back down and looked at me. I didn’t know what to say, so we sat there in silence for maybe ten minutes. Finally, he asked me if I had any proof. He didn’t sound upset or angry, just interested.”

“Do you have any proof?” I asked.

Edward slumped in the chair. “His name’s not on my birth certificate, but I have the legal right to require him to give a DNA sample.”

“Even though you’re not a minor?”

“Yeah, I looked into it. Judges order the parties to do it all the time, mostly in child support or custody cases, but also in ones like this. The test costs a couple of hundred dollars, and the results are entered into the record. Salvador said he’d cooperate voluntarily, but he figured that the results would show that he was my father. He said my mother’s story was basically true, that they’d lived together one summer. He was really angry when she told him she was pregnant, because she was supposed to be on birth control pills. He was planning to go to New York and get into the art scene, and he had no intention of being stuck with a wife and kid. He gave her as much money as he could and left. Never heard from her again, never tried to get in touch with her.”

“How do you think he felt about discovering he was a father twenty-two years after the fact?” I asked, trying to imagine the scene on the deck. “Did he act as though it was just a pesky little problem that could be resolved with an apology and a handshake?”

“No,” Edward said. “He didn’t hug me and profess his affection, but he looked kind of pleased at the idea. Not thrilled, but not upset. He asked about my mother, and I told him about everything that she’d gone through to support me. He just sat there and nodded the whole time. Finally, when I couldn’t think of anything else to say, he said that we should probably have the DNA test, but he was willing to accept me as his son. Once he got used to the idea, he wanted to make things right. I told him I didn’t want anything from him, but he said he would acknowledge me publicly, support me while I was in grad school, and help me get my career started. We talked about my painting, and he insisted that he would take me to New York in the fall and introduce me to his important friends. If I wanted, I could use the room over the carport as a studio. It was better than any of my fantasies.”

“So you went home and wrote the ballad,” I said.

He grinned. “I wrote it ten years ago, when I was into King Arthur and those legends. Except for the archery stuff, of course. In my original version, the foundling’s father turns out to be a claimant to the throne who had some sort of dalliance with Guinevere while Arthur was off in battle. I revised it Friday night. It was supposed to be a surprise for…my father.” His grin vanished. “I was so happy yesterday. Then it all blew up in my face, like a damn grenade.”

I got up and went around the desk to refill my coffee cup while I considered what he’d told me. “But you must have noticed Salvador wasn’t at the banquet, Edward. Why did you sing the ballad?”

“I noticed,” he said in a low voice. “I suppose it occurred to me that he might have taken off again, the same way he did when my mother told him she was pregnant. Then I realized that I was being paranoid. I mean, earlier in the afternoon I went down to the archery range and he was there. A bunch of little girls were squealing at him and fighting over the bows, so he and I just smiled at each other for a second. If he were going to split, he wouldn’t have shown up at the Ren Fair. He would have been halfway to New York or on a flight to Paris. When I didn’t see him at the banquet, I assumed he was around somewhere. Maybe I shouldn’t have sung the ballad, but I wanted everyone to know that Salvador was my father. The people at the head table, anyway.”

“They do now. Not of all them were enchanted by the idea, though.”

“Like Fiona, for instance?” Edward went to the doorway and looked at the dimly lit rows of racks, as if he thought she might be lurking with the intent of renewing her assault. “Did Caron and her friend tell you what happened? We were just standing there in the pasture. I was so bewildered that I didn’t even know how to process what I’d heard. I couldn’t decide if I should be crying or laughing at the ultimate irony. This man I’d been searching for since I turned eighteen—my father—I finally found him and confronted him. He didn’t call me a lying bastard and throw me out of his house. Even after the DNA test came back, he could have refused to have anything to do with me. But no, he was happy. You have to believe me, Claire. Salvador wanted me as his son. He told me so. And the next day he’s dead—murdered. Can’t you see the irony?” His voice rose. “It took me four years to find him, but only one day to lose him again—forever.”

“Sit down, Edward,” I said in my sternest maternal tone. “You need to collect yourself. I understand that you’re bewildered and in pain. Anyone in your situation would feel the same way.” Not that I could imagine anyone ever finding himself in that situation. It was the second act in a poorly plotted, overwrought melodrama from the Victorian era. Shakespeare would have treated it as a comedy fraught with mistaken identities and a happy ending, in which nobody had died and all the characters were properly sorted out by gender and wedded. Dickens would have at least allowed the son to inherit a great fortune and a title.

Edward sniveled for a few minutes, then wiped his face. “Okay, so now what? Have the police caught the person who did it?”

“If they have, they haven’t shared it with me. Why do you assume they’re looking for you? You talked to them last night, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t handle it, so I stayed away from the Royal Pavilion. I’d left my street clothes at Lanya and Anderson’s house, but there was a cop on the porch and maybe more inside. I finally found an unlocked hatchback in the pasture and hid behind the backseat. A comely lady of the realm and her two dimpled damsels gave me a lift back to town.”

“You escaped in my car?” I said, appalled. “You had no business involving us in your premature departure! How could you do such a thing, Edward? You might have had the courtesy to announce your presence instead of eavesdropping like that.”

“Nobody said much of anything,” he said, trying to smile. “And if I’d asked for a ride, you would have said no. After the three of you

went upstairs, I went down that side street and along the railroad tracks. I didn’t have anyplace else to go, and I was hoping you and I could have a private conversation this morning. Would you like me to make another pot of coffee?”

Before I could tell him that I most certainly did not, the door opened and Sergeant Jorgeson came inside. “Ms. Malloy,” he began, then spotted Edward. “My goodness, look who’s here. We’ve been trying to locate Mr. Cobbinwood since last night. I trust, Ms. Malloy, that you can explain this.”

Chapter Twelve

J
orgeson declined the offer of a cup of coffee, and summoned an officer to escort Edward to a vehicle. I waited silently, not at all sure how much trouble I might be in. Albeit without my complicity, I had helped Edward flee before he could be questioned—and I’d provided a sanctuary for the night. Ignorance seemed like a perfectly reasonable excuse for those transgressions. Although I do have my moments, I am not omniscient.

I gave Jorgeson an accusatory look. “I thought you said one o’clock.”

“I seem to recall saying something like that, Ms. Malloy, but I did not interpret it as an appointment. I assumed you might be eager to share your insights as soon as possible.”

“I am, but at the moment I’d prefer to open the store and read the newspaper. Is there anything else?”

Fifteen minutes later I was ushered into Lieutenant Peter Rosen’s office and left to wait. The air was stale, so I opened a window. I resisted an urge to straighten up his desk, which was covered with piles of folders, bulletins, and interdepartmental communiques involving such portentous matters as the softball team schedule and dirty dishes in the break room. The view from his window was of a chain-link fence, an alley, and the back of a building. The FBI facility in Quântico may well have seemed like a summer camp.

“Have a seat, Claire,” Peter said in a stony voice as he came into the office.

“Is that your idea of a warm welcome?”

He put a cup on the corner of his desk. “I brought you some coffee. I’d like to review your story before you make an official statement. Shall we get started?”

“In that case,” I said as I dusted off a chair seat and sat down, “I should call a lawyer. I’d hate to be in a prison cell on my wedding day. Perhaps my fellow inmates can make me a bouquet out of tissue paper, and the warden can be your best man. Will we be allowed a conjugal visit afterward?”

He made a few uncouth remarks under his breath, then took his sweet time reading through notes on a legal pad. He was in a grumpy mood, I decided, so I busied myself pouring the coffee out the window and watching men share a cigarette on the loading dock of the building. Peter continue to shuffle papers. I tried to remember if I had any change to buy a soda from the vending machine in the hall. There were no magazines in the office, only catalogs for cop paraphernalia. There wasn’t a feather duster, either, or I might have tidied up his collection of plaques and awards.

“Please stop sniffing around and sit down,” Peter said. After I’d obliged, he continued. “I was gone for three weeks, not three months. Even though you promised not to get involved in any more potential crimes, you managed to meet these screwy people, allowed them to perform in front of your store, thereby snarling up traffic in a six-block radius, went to their meetings, heard their woes, reported the fire that killed one of them-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but the fire did not kill one of the them. The victim appears to be a woman who’d been under the supervision of the DHS. The officers who were at the scene earlier this morning told me-”

"—helped sponsor this Renaissance Fair, participated by calling yourself some silly name and wearing a costume-”

“It wasn’t a costume,” I said. “It was garb. You saw it yourself last night when I got home. You were on my sofa, and unless I’m confused, in a much nicer mood. Stop barking at me, Peter. We’re supposedly getting married in two months. Right now I’m more inclined to go to the animal shelter and find a nice, quiet mutt.”

“I apologize,” he said. Before I could reply, however, he snatched up the sheaf of papers and pecked at it with his finger. “Your name is mentioned in almost every paragraph. You’re getting better coverage than a doped-up Hollywood celebrity who can’t stay married for fifteen minutes. Why couldn’t you just stay home and read bridal magazines?”

“As that celebrity would say, I’m out of here.” I picked up my purse and started for the door. “If you have anything further to say, I’ll be at the airport, waiting for the next flight to Camelot. Fare thee well, milord.”

“Claire,” he said, then stopped.

I turned around. Despite his week in Newport, no doubt occupied by sailing and playing tennis with his ex-wife, he looked dreadfully wan and exhausted. He’d found time to shave and put on a jacket and tie, but his eyes were bloodshot. I resumed my seat, took a breath, and said, “I didn’t tell Jorgeson quite everything.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Don’t push your luck, Peter. Do you want the generic version, or the true one?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Door number two.”

Although I knew I would sound like an idiot, I related the conversations I’d had with Edward concerning his biological father. “I didn’t just jump to a conclusion,” I added. “I flung myself at it. I was convinced Carlton was his father, and therefore Caron was his half sister. I was worried sick about how to handle it. I didn’t know if I should welcome Edward into the family or tell him he was out of luck as far as finding his father.” To my dismay, my voice began to quiver as if I were a hapless heroine. “He’s just a kid, but so is Caron.”