Damsels in Distress (5 page)

I crossed my arms and waited as the two struggled to their feet. “If you have a dispute to settle, then take it outside. This is not Bosworth Field.” I grimaced as I looked at the overturned rack and scattered books.

Anderson draped his arm over Benny’s shoulder. “You’ll have to forgive Sir Kenneth of Gweek. He can be overly exuberant.”

“So I noticed,” I said, unappeased.

“I’m sorry if I alarmed you,” Benny said as he righted the rack and began to gather up books. Each time he bent over, his armor creaked. “My company sent me overseas, and I just got back yesterday. Duke Pumpernickel here is my best friend. It was just my little way of letting him know I was back.”

Anderson kicked Benny’s backside, but without enough force to knock him down. “Benny’s a crude, lice-ridden Viking. He should be locked up, but not in a petting zoo. He spits and slobbers, and is capable of biting off some little tyke’s finger.”

“Perhaps, but I do not sweat like a pig, and stink like a sty.”

“Ah, but the vile miasma of your breath has put many a comely wench on the floor.”

“Or on my bed, her lips moist and her eyes glittering with lust. Speaking of such, how is the Duchess of Glenbarrens? Did she pine in my absence?”

“I’m sure she would have if she’d noticed it.” Anderson laughed, but with an edge of hostility. “Why don’t you come over later and tell us about your trip?”

“Lanya’s already invited me to dinner,” said Benny. “She called this morning to make sure I was back and willing to participate in the demo. She wanted me to surprise you, so she had to cut short the call when you blundered in.” He put the last of the paperbacks on the rack and nodded at me. “My apologies, milady. I would be delighted if you would allow me to make it up to you in a more intimate setting. My abode is humble, but I can offer a bottle of wine, candles, a simple meal-”

“Sorry, but I’m not available,” I said.

Anderson thumped his fellow warrior. “C’mon, Benny. Let’s go beat each other’s brains out. Loser supplies the wine tonight.”

Benny gave me a forlorn look as he waited while Anderson put on his helmet, and then followed him outside. I took a moment to catch my breath. A bull in a china shop could not rival what had seemed like a herd of buffalos in a bookstore. That, along with Edward Cobbinwood’s extraordinary compulsion to confide in me, was more than enough to give me the stirrings of a headache. I wished I could close the bookstore for the rest of the day, but I couldn’t lock the door until the wires were unplugged and the sound system removed—or brought inside to be stashed in a corner until the next debacle. And then the next, and so forth until the weekend of the Renaissance Fair arrived.

I went into the office and started searching through desk drawers for a bottle of aspirin. Ignoring the withered corpses of moths and beetles, I finally found the bottle, poured myself a cup of coffee, gulped down a couple of tablets, and settled down in the chair, resigned to wait. From the portico, I could hear Edward’s voice and the appreciative laughter and bouts of applause from what sounded like a decent-sized crowd of spectators. The specter of blood and violence would undoubtedly draw even more of them. I could only hope I would not be held accountable if traffic backed up in both directions.

And I could only hope that Edward Cobbinwood was not the product of a relationship in which Carlton had engaged before he met me. Carlton had lived in California for a year, fancying himself to be a soulful literary novelist in search of the ultimate truth found only in the core of American decadence (or something like that). He’d mentioned going to rock concerts in San Francisco and the Bay area. He’d never said much about his jobs, which had led me to believe they must have been ignoble rather than worthy of his delicate sensibilities. He’d finally come to his senses when he realized he could make more money by droning about Cannery Row than by living there.

If Carlton was indeed Edward’s father, then Edward would not be related to me in any form or fashion. Caron, however, would be Edward’s half sister. Her reaction was difficult to predict, but I doubted it would be accented with whoops of delight. Nor would Carlton’s family be thrilled. I’d met them once and been appalled by their pedigreed pomposity and hypocrisy.

I was still lost in dark thoughts when Caron and Inez came into the office through the back door.

“What Is Going On?” Caron demanded, quivering with indignation.

I shrugged. “Beats me.”

“She means out front,” Inez said helpfully.

I realized I’d been too preoccupied to notice the noise from the portico. Edward’s cheerful babble had been replaced with the jarring sounds of metal on metal. The crowd was no longer laughing, but instead was roaring with approval or groaning. Individual voices bellowed encouragement. The din was worse than I’d imagined it might be.

“Oh, that,” I said. “Cling and Clang are attempting to cause grievous injury upon each other. Bloodshed is not allowed.” I flinched at a particularly loud clash. “In theory, anyway. Is there a first-aid kit in the bathroom?”

Caron peered through the doorway at the windows in front, then brushed a few papers off the corner of my desk and perched there. “This is so embarrassing, Mother. We could hear them from three blocks away, and the traffic’s so snarled that we gave up and left the car behind Luanne’s store. Those two men look ridiculous.”

“Like comic book characters,” Inez said, still standing since she didn’t have the nerve to clear off a corner of the desk for herself. “Or toys, anyway. My nephew got a set of action figures for his birthday. It came with a cardboard castle and all these little weapons and shields, as well as plastic horses and a green dragon. His dog chewed off the dragon’s head the same night.”

I looked at Caron. “This is all your fault, dear. If you’d signed up for home ec, all we’d have to worry about is a cooking demonstration.”

“That’s so not fair! You told me I
had
to take all the AP classes so I could get through college in three years. The only reason Rhonda’s taking AP history is because Louis Wilderberry is. She’s terrified that he’ll dump her for somebody else, so she clings to him like a tick. She’d probably follow him into the locker room if the coach would let her.”

“She waits outside after every practice and game,” added Inez. “She’d better hope he doesn’t get into a college that requires decent SAT and ACT scores. The only way she’ll get into any college is if her father pays for a library wing or endows a chair.”

“I thought she made good grades,” I said.

Caron rolled her eyes. “A toadstool could make good grades if it took typing, home ec, basic English, beginning Spanish, and math for morons. She gets straight A’s in phys ed because she’s a cheerleader.”

“Enough,” I said as I stood up. “I’m going home. You’ll have to stay until that nonsense out front is finished and you can lock up.”

Caron glared at me. “What if we have other things to do?”

“Then you’ll have to do them later. I’ll slip out the back door and walk, so you can have the car to go do your other things. Should the issue of bail arise, don’t call me.”

Inez cut me off before I could make my escape. “Are you okay, Ms. Malloy? You look kind of pale. You shouldn’t worry about those guys in armor. Miss Thackery explained how they’re actually careful not to hurt each other, that they just like to make a lot of noise.”

“No, Inez,” I said, “I can promise I’m not worried about them. I have a headache, that’s all.”

Caron was not about to be upstaged, even if it required feigning compassion. “Do you want one of us to go with you in case you get dizzy?”

“I’ll just have to risk it on my own,” I said. “There’s a stack of books on the counter. Arrange them in the window and put the ones currently there back on the racks. I’ll see you later.”

“We were going to have dinner at Inez’s and then get her mother to help us with our costumes, but if you’re getting sick or something, I can stay home.”

I held up my hand. “No, you go work on your costumes. I’ll see you much later.” I went out the back door, paused to listen to the uproar—much ado about nothing—and then walked along the railroad tracks to the bridge. There was a well-worn path that led up to the sidewalk across from the Azalea Inn, a charming mansion that predates the Civil War and is rumored to have been a stop on the Underground Railroad. Despite its picturesque façade, it had housed more than one murderer in recent times. Lieutenant Peter Rosen had failed to appreciate my investigative prowess in the matter, as always, and I’d solemnly promised to mind my own business in the future. Which I had, for at least a month. I wondered if FBI camp might teach him to be a tad more skeptical. He was much too young for ulcers and premature wrinkles.

As I trudged up the side street toward the campus, I heard music from inside one of the rental houses. For the most part, these were inhabited by those students without the funds to live in dorms, sorority and fraternity houses, or even the bland apartment complexes. This music, rather than the raucous dissonance that was more common, was light and melodic. Curiosity slowed me down briefly, but I thought of the cold drink awaiting me and turned at the alley behind the duplex. I went up the back steps and into the kitchen. The sound of ice clinking in my glass was equally melodic, as was the splashing of scotch.

Carrying the glass, I continued to the bathroom, and within a few minutes was immersed in steamy water and bubbles. Willing myself not to entertain troublesome thoughts, I imagined myself curled up next to Peter in a variety of exotic locales, all of them uninhabited except for faceless waiters delivering cocktails made with freshly squeezed fruit juices.

We were heading for reckless passion when the phone rang. I opened my eyes and realized the bubbles had long since dissipated and the bathwater was chilly. The jarring rings were not coming from a cozy cabana, but from the living room. I hastily wrapped a towel around myself, grabbed my watery drink, and dashed for the phone.

“Hello?” I gasped, trying to keep the towel from slipping.

“Is something wrong?” asked Peter. “You sound upset.”

“Nothing’s wrong, but you owe me big-time.” I put down the drink, tucked in the towel, and sat down on the sofa. “Tracked down any terrorists lately?”

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong? I called the store, but there was no answer. I was ready to catch the next flight home.”

He could be so adorable when he dithered over me, I thought with a small smile. “Nothing’s wrong.” I told him where I’d been and what I’d been envisioning, which led to a most satisfying conversation that included some scandalous details and promises. I then told him about the upcoming Renaissance Fair and my reluctant involvement, omitting any reference to Edward Cobbinwood’s paternal dilemma. He found the wrestling match in the bookstore much funnier than I did, but I tried to keep any tinge of annoyance out of my voice and admitted that, in retrospect, it had been an inimitable experience.

“So when do you graduate?” I asked.

“Ten days, and then a week in Rhode Island with my mother. There’s something I suppose I should tell you, but you have to promise not to get upset.”

“I never get upset,” I said stiffly, although the hairs on my arms were prickling.

“Well, Mother thinks I should tell Leslie about the marriage.”

“Send her a telegram. ‘Getting married. Stop. None of your business. Stop.’ That ought to cover it.”

“In person,” he mumbled.

“Why? She’s your ex-wife, for pity’s sake!”

“Mother just thinks I should tell her in person, so she invited her to the house. Listen, I’ve got to go. There’s a lab class on identifying and classifying fragments from explosive devices, and it’s mandatory. I’ll call you later. I love you.”

He hung up before I could have the satisfaction of hanging up first. Lovely Leslie, lioness of the Wall Street jungle, manicured, pedicured, and polished, who owned Russian wolfhounds and never missed the St. Petersburg opera season. Who sailed in Newport and skied in Aspen. Who’d probably been taught to ride a unicycle by her nanny.

I sat on the sofa as the sun sank behind Old Main and the room grew dark.

Chapter Three

I
’d freshened my drink, sliced an apple and some cheese, and was sitting on my small balcony above the duplex porch when Caron came up the sidewalk. She glanced at me, then continued inside and upstairs. The downstairs apartment was vacant, a nice change from the endless procession of tenants that my landlord seemed to recruit from caves, psychiatric wards, or maximum security prisons. Some of them appeared to have experienced all three, although in no particular order.

“Did anybody call me?” she asked as she joined me.

“I wouldn’t know. I unplugged the phone.”

“You did
whatr

I smiled serenely. “I undipped the little doodad that connects the receiver to the vast electronic universe of buzzing and humming. Thus liberated from the shackles of societal demands that exhaust our souls, we are free to watch the moon rising above Old Main and listen to the plaintive bleats of lovesick sorority girls. ‘To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.’ “

Caron looked at me for a long while. “Maybe I should call Luanne.”

“So she can listen to a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m fine, dear. I just wanted a little peace and quiet.” I settled my feet on the railing and picked up my drink. “Did you and Inez make progress on your costumes?”

“Mrs. Thornton got kind of upset after all the thread started spewing out of the sewing machine and the bobbin flew off and hit her on the forehead. I think we’re going to have to figure out another way. Staples and duct tape, maybe. You want anything from the kitchen?” When I shook my head, she went inside for a moment, then returned with a can of soda and a handful of cookies made by generic elves. “Did Peter call you?”