Floral Depravity (3 page)

“Actually, they collected men's urine,” Kathleen said, now apparently in her element (history, not urine). “Not sure why, but some specifically thought that stale human male urine made the best dye. Of course, others insisted the urine had to come from prepubescent boys. A few years ago we set up pots to collect it, but they never really caught on.” She sniffed the garment again. “But maybe they got enough to do this one.” She handed it back to me. Or rather, she tried to offer it back to me.

“I can't wear that,” I said, rubbing my arms against the cold.

“Maybe I have something,” Nick said. “You'd have to dress as a man, but you might be more comfortable than . . .”

As he trailed off, I nodded and followed him to what turned out to be a colorfully striped tent. It was tall enough to stand in and remarkably spacious, despite the wooden crates of baking equipment scattered around.

When I got inside, he lowered the tent flaps and drew me into his arms.

“It was an unfortunate costume,” I said, “not an advertisement.”

He kissed me heartily. Normally he smelled like his bakery, of vanilla and almond. Now, he smelled of woodsmoke and the open woods. And maybe a few pheromones thrown in, because I suddenly didn't want to let go. Instead, I deepened the kiss.

When he finally broke the kiss, he held me for a moment longer. In the dimness of the tent, the shadows added a new ruggedness to his face.

“I suppose we should get you out of those clothes,” he said. Then he winced. “I did
not
just say that. I didn't mean . . .”

I laughed and pulled away from him. “I know you didn't.” My relationship with Nick Maxwell had always been suitably chaste, by mutual consent. Grandma Mae would have adored Nick's traditional values. “You said you might have something for me to wear?”

“Yes.” He led me to a wooden trunk. “I wasn't going to bring all of it this year, but now I'm glad I did.” He rummaged inside and handed me what looked like a pair of skinny jeans. “Basic hosen,” he said, then rummaged around some more before pulling out a long black shirt with elaborate embroidery. “A nice tunic.”

I fingered the shirt, recalling what was said about participants making their own clothes. “Did you make this?”

“A lifetime ago,” he said. Then he reached into the trunk again and pulled out a neatly folded bundle. “And you might as well wear this, since it's cold tonight and I'm going as a baker.”

“What is it?” I asked, unfolding the lovely blue fabric.

“A surcoat. Part of a knight's attire.”

“I can't—”

“No, please. You'll freeze to death without it, and I'd be happy to see you wearing my colors. I'll, uh . . . wait outside while you change.”

Changing into Nick's handmade clothing in Nick's tent with only Nick standing guard outside felt a little uncomfortable—a level of intimacy we hadn't shared before. Still, I couldn't help appreciating the care and attention he must have put into each of these hand-stitched garments. And fortunately, none of them were yellow.

I didn't have a mirror to check the final result, but I was glad to leave the harlot's attire behind, even if I probably now looked more like Joan of Arc.

Let's just hope there were no stakes in my future.

*   *   *

Amber Lee pointed
to an area in the clearing, walled in by a three-foot stone fence, but away from the thronging marketplace. “I guess the wedding is going to be held over there.”

A few rickety-looking chairs and benches were set up, and those were mostly full. I pointed to the stone fence, and we hoisted ourselves up onto it. Melanie and Opie and their new friend Carol soon joined us.

“Good thing this fence is here,” I said.

“Actually, this is as far as we've gotten on the castle walls,” Carol explained. “The mortar should be set on this section, so I think we're okay.”

“Carol knows the Middle Ages inside and out,” Melanie said.

Carol blushed. “Well, I'm sure I don't know everything, but enough to get by teaching it.”

“You're a professor?” I said.

“Oh, no, no!” she said. “Just a TA. The time period is a favorite of mine, though. But I'm in that awkward stage of studying what I love, and of course it's something that's not marketable in the least. But for this place? If they ever decide they need a paid historian, I'd be here in a heartbeat.”

I nodded politely. For me the idea of studying history for the rest of my life was right up there with waterboarding and flossing. Still, I glanced around. With a little imagination, I could almost see a castle growing up from these stones. And as more guests arrived dressed in their medieval togs, I began to understand the fascination with this time period. It truly was like stepping back in time. Unfortunately, it smelled like it, too. As if to substantiate my thought, a horse tied up just outside the enclosure made a very uncivilized mess on the worn pathway.

I shuddered. Of course there'd be horses here. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. There was no shame in being afraid. Everyone has their fears: snakes, spiders, heights, even clowns. Mine was horses. Nothing wrong with that. After all, this was more of a result of that unfortunate merry-go-round incident. Could happen to anyone.

Two men, one older and one younger and dressed in almost regal attire, walked into the enclosure. Someone with a history degree, or even a fondness for the subject, could have detailed their outfits and their entourage. Let's just say they looked pretty snazzy and leave it at that.

“That's the groom,” Melanie said. “And his father.”

“Megabucks?” Amber Lee asked.

“At least around here,” Opie said. “Barry Brooks—that's the father—owns some kind of pharmaceutical company. Apparently he's been coming to this thing for years. He brings the horses and a lot of the livestock from his own stables.”

“Audrey!” Brad ran up just behind us. “Oh, shoot!” He looked down before wiping the side of his athletic shoe in the grass. “Stupid horses. Someone should follow them around with a pooper scooper. Hey, can I borrow your girls?”

“My girls?”

He pointed to Melanie and Opie. “They work for you, right?”

“Not at the moment. They're here for school.”

“Oh, good. You girls want to earn a little extra cash?”

Melanie and Opie looked at each other, then at Carol.

“We're supposed to be observing for class,” Melanie said.

Carol shook her head. “Oh, go ahead.”

“Doing what?” Melanie asked Brad, but Opie had already hopped off the wall.

“My crew's still not here yet. Something about a roadblock on the other side of the county. And I'd hate to miss shooting the wedding. Do you think you guys could handle some basic camera equipment?”

“We can try,” Melanie said. And soon the girls were following Brad over to his anachronistic tent. I recognized it right off from the time when we were dating and he tried to get me to go camping with him—not going to happen.

Yet here I was, practically committed to doing just that. Only dressed a little fancier. Melanie and Opie had said there'd be room for Amber Lee and me in their rented cottage—one of the more permanent buildings in the encampment. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. But I still dreaded that first call of nature. I'd already checked out the alternatives, which included using one of the public and foul-smelling garderobes, which appeared to be basically medieval porta-potties, or a lone trek into the woods.

That thought was interrupted by a buzz from my hidden cell phone. I tapped Amber Lee on the arm. “Save my place. I'm going . . .” And I pointed into the woods.

After walking a safe distance, I pulled out my cell, which had just started buzzing again.

“Audrey,” Liv said, “I can't find that little black kitten. You don't think it could have gotten out?” Liv had promised to check on the cats for me.

“She just likes to hide. Especially when Chester is around.”

“Chester is acting weird, too. I put his food out, but he's not eating. He just keeps staring at that old hutch in the kitchen.”

“Then I think you've found the little black kitten. Look underneath it.”

“Oh, Audrey. I'm not getting on my hands and knees and crawling around on that old floor.”

“Is Eric there?”

“He's patching a couple of shingles on your roof. They're saying we might get some rain soon.”

“About time.” The whole county was under a severe drought. We hadn't had more than a few drops since spring. “When he's done with that, ask if he could put Chester in my room. His litter box is already in there. I thought they were starting to get along, but—”

“Oh, there it goes!” Liv cried. Then I heard nothing but a few screams and some crashing sounds. One of which I think was Liv's phone hitting the floor. More yelling followed and then more crashing. I sure hoped Liv's manner with cats didn't translate into how she'd parent her children.

A few minutes later, Liv came back, breathless. “Okay, Chester is now eating the food in the kitchen, and the little one is in your room. Will that work?”

“It's going to have to. I'll be back tomorrow anyway.” I refrained from explaining about cats, territories, and litter boxes. If they didn't adjust to the litter box switch, at least all the flooring needed to be replaced anyway.

“Oh, good.” Liv sounded relieved. I pictured her sitting at my table in Grandma Mae's old kitchen. “You're going to have to come up with a name for that kitten. I don't know what you're waiting for.”

I swallowed. My vet hadn't been all that keen on the little thing when I took her in. He seemed a bit pessimistic, not only about her survival—since she had lost her mother before she was weaned—but also her ability to adjust to being a house cat, let alone learning to socialize with another cat. Especially Chester. When he cautioned me about what kind of behavior I might find from taking in a feral cat, I had second thoughts about keeping her. Until she curled up and put her paws on my hand as I gave her the bottle of kitty formula. Then I knew I could never let her go.

But naming her was another story. Giving a cat a name is like giving them a piece of your heart. What if she didn't make it? Or if I couldn't make it work with the two cats?

“I'll come up with something,” I said.

“Hey, how's the camp?”

I quickly filled her in on the experience so far, leaving out the dress and cloak fiasco. She homed in on the fact that Brad was here.

“I thought you were back to being steady with Nick.”

“Well, dating Nick exclusively. But I've been talking and texting with Brad.”

Silence.

“Liv?”

“What would Grandma Mae say about all this sneaking around?”

“I'm not sneaking around,” I said, then lowered my voice. “If you recall, Nick was the one who suggested I see other people. And Brad knows I go out with Nick.”

“I don't understand how you're all okay with that.”

“Easy. Apparently none of us are ready to make a commitment. Nick, because he wants his business to be more secure first. Brad, because he's pursuing his dream career.”

“And Audrey because . . . ?”

The blast of a trumpeted fanfare sounded from the clearing.

“Look, I have to get back. I think they're starting the ceremony. Thanks for checking on the cats. See you tomorrow.”

As I made my way back to the castle-in-progress, I wondered what I'd tell Liv when she asked the question again. Because she would. Did I tell her that I didn't think I was ready for a life-long commitment, either? That I feared getting in too deep? After all, Liv had grown up with both mother and father. They'd recently celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary and are still going strong. Maybe even a little bit frisky for a couple their age. It was all right for Liv to believe in happily-ever-afters. She'd grown up thinking that was normal.

But that was not always the case, and as if to illustrate my point, as I entered the clearing, Andrea was walking down the aisle with her mother.

And my parents . . . my father had taken off without warning when I was nine. Just went to work one day and never came home. Granted, my mother wasn't the easiest person to live with, but what kind of coward takes off like that? Sure, a divorce would have been rough on me, too, but nothing like not knowing. Or feeling like I didn't matter to him. Like I didn't matter at all . . .

And here I was, practically getting ready to shed tears long dry, and on the happy occasion of Andrea's wedding. I swallowed hard, trying to clear the emotion out of my throat and plastered on a smile before reentering the now full clearing.

I regained my seat on the stone wall, just as the hire-a-friar began explaining the symbolism of the hand-fasting.

That voice
 . . .

I tried to convince myself that my imagination was running wild. I had just been thinking about my father, so surely the power of suggestion caused me to notice the similarities. But as I squinted at the older man in the simple brown robes, there was no mistaking it. He now had a circle of gray hair surrounding a mostly bald head, and more than a few crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, but the man now officiating the wedding was Jeffrey Bloom.

My father was back.

The light was beginning to fade, sending shadows from the forest across the wedding guests. Goose bumps erupted on my arms, but my face flamed hot as I glared at the man I'd once called Daddy. What was he doing? Did he know I was here?

He had little to do with the ceremony but smile some silly beatific smile and nod pleasantly. The parents gave their consent, as did the bride and the groom as they wrapped a decorative cord around their wrists to join them forever in wedded bliss. At least, I thought, if my record held. No bride who'd ever carried one of my bouquets down the aisle had ever split up.

I breathed in the cool evening air. I would not let my sour attitude toward my father ruin Andrea's big day.

But I couldn't take my eyes off the man officiating the wedding.

Once he looked up at the crowd. When his eyes passed in my direction, his smile faltered and his skin blanched. Yes, he'd recognized me. No, apparently he hadn't known I would be here. He managed to refocus his smile on the happy couple.

My brain played my options:

I could act dumb. Pretend I didn't recognize him. I wasn't sure how to explain the glaring. Maybe that unfortunate past incident with a friar?

Or I could leave. Now. While he was busy and before darkness fully settled, trapping me overnight in the encampment.

Or I could confront him. Demand an answer to those questions I've had throughout the years. But did I really want answers? Or just the chance to ask the questions.

Or I could . . .

Before I could plan another response, the wedding ended with a kiss and a shout. The bride and groom picked up the handles of a large covered basket, and opened the lid. Two white doves took off flapping.

One headed straight for the bride's hair. Andrea screamed and ducked, then tried to swat it away and stepped back. Too far. Her arms windmilled as she tried to catch her balance. She failed to recover and instead tumbled off the makeshift platform.

The other dove swooped in a wide, low circle over the rest of the crowd, who squealed and shouted, and more than one hit the dirt. Then the bird gained altitude and fluttered off into the sky.

A few people applauded, then the shadow of a large hawk zoomed over the guests. I was afraid to look. An “oooh” came from the crowd, then a collective gasp, and people winced and turned away.

But then friends and family gathered to congratulate the happy couple . . . after they helped Andrea out of the dirt.

The friar turned on his heels and strode quickly into the woods.

Without another thought, I hopped off the wall and ran after him, grateful I didn't have to worry about that long dress catching in the brush.

He, however, wore long clerical robes, and I caught up to him while he leaned against a tree, out of breath, trying to dislodge his vestments from a prickly bush.

As an angry teenager, I had penned long speeches of what I would say to my father if I ever saw him again. The gist of all these missives was that I'd been getting along fine without him and didn't need him now. Not that that was entirely true, I later considered, or I'd never have written them.

But none of those words were coming, so I stared at him, both of us out of breath from the exertion.

“Audrey?” he finally managed.

I nodded and brushed an unwelcomed tear from the corner of my eye.

“I must say, you've grown into a lovely young woman.”

I crossed my arms and looked away into the woods to avoid his gaze. Everything from my throat down to my chest felt heavy, like my lungs were suddenly recast in lead.

“I'm sorry.” He closed the distance between us. “It must be a shock to see me like this. If I knew you were going to be here, I wouldn't have come.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I snapped, looking back into his face in the darkening woods. “Not sorry you walked out of my life. Just sorry you came back.”

“I never meant to walk out of your life. Things just got . . . complicated. And I still haven't come back. You must understand, I can't come back. Please, Audrey, I can't explain it right now, but you need to trust me. Dangerous things are happening here, things I can't explain. I'm going to have to ask that you pretend you don't know me.”

“I
don't
know you.”

He took a step back. Even I was surprised at the venom my words contained.

“Fair enough,” he said.

“I didn't mean . . .” I started. But maybe I did mean those words.

He opened his mouth to respond, but just then a scream sounded, coming from the encampment.

“Help, oh, help!” someone cried. “I think he's dead!”

*   *   *

No one was
dead by the time I arrived, but a man lay on the ground in the middle of a convulsion while people dressed in medieval attire stood in a wide circle around him, some of them holding torches.

“Is there a doctor?” I asked, rushing into the circle. The man writhing in the dust was Barry Brooks, father of the groom.

“No, just an herbalist,” someone said.

“Oh, and we have leeches,” another added. Fat lot of good that was going to do.

Andrea and her groom dropped to their knees next to him. “Dad?” he said.

I crouched on the ground next to the ailing man and managed to get a pulse. It was irregular and racing out of control. His skin felt cool to the touch, but sweat beaded on his forehead. He was conscious only long enough to vomit onto the dusty path.

“When did this start?” I asked.

“Just before the wedding,” Andrea said. “He said he felt a little dizzy.”

“He has high blood pressure,” the younger Brooks said, “if that makes a difference.”

“Did he have anything to eat or drink just before?” I asked.

Andrea shrugged and shook her head.

“He ate some of the stew I made for the wedding feast,” Nick said, leaning in to my ear. “You don't think it could be tainted, do you? I tried to keep all the ingredients cool. It tasted fine. I ate some myself, and I'm okay.”

“Just . . .” I had a bad feeling about what was happening. “If I were you, I'd keep everyone else away from the stew. Could you do that?”

“Gotcha.” He took off.

“This man needs medical attention immediately.” I pulled out my cell phone, ignoring the tsks and gasps of the encampment, and dialed 911. Within minutes I was talking with a doctor and the dispatcher, describing the symptoms, the limitations of my nursing background, and the remoteness of the location. They were sending a medical rescue helicopter to the nearest road, and the county sheriff was on his way.

I turned to the crowd. “We need to get this man to the road. Any volunteers? I could use a few strong men to carry him and something to put him on.”

The crowd managed to round up a rough-hewn cot and some rope. Then a few of the burly college students, including Darnell, tied Barry Brooks to the makeshift gurney.

“The helicopter will meet you at the road,” I said. “Now hurry.”

They lifted the unconscious Brooks up like pallbearers hoisting a coffin. Hopefully that's where the analogy would end. But I didn't like the looks of him.

With one young man holding a torch in front of them, they started trotting off into the woods.

I turned to follow them.

Amber Lee stood in my path. “Where are you going?”

“I should go with them.”

“And do what?” she said. “At that rate, they'll have him at the road in minutes, and I'm not sure you can keep up with them, especially in the dark. You'll end up getting lost.”

I looked up, and already the men were out of sight. “You're right.”

When I turned back to face the crowd, they applauded.

“Great job, Audrey,” Brad called, his video camera hoisted on his shoulder. “I got it all. Just fantastic.”

I could feel the color rush to my face. I turned and paced toward the woods.

I had jumped in out of instinct and need, but now the familiar doubts roiled in my stomach. What if I did something wrong? What if I failed to do something I could have? What if Barry Brooks dies and I could have done something to prevent it? This was why I became a florist and not an RN.

I shivered and crossed my arms against my chest at the advancing cold and darkness, as a thousand and one different courses of action ran through my brain.

Amber Lee laid a hand on my shoulder. “You did a great job. Don't second-guess yourself.”

I let her pull me into a hug.

Soon Shelby, Melanie, Opie, and Carol made their way over to join us.

“What was it?” Melanie asked. “Some kind of seizure?”

I gathered them into a tight circle. None of what I would say needed to spread around the camp.

“Was it the food?” Amber Lee asked in a hushed whisper. “Please tell me it didn't turn. That could mean lawsuits for Nick. He's catering this whole shindig, you know. I saw the stew. It was in a caldron-type thingy, and he stirred it with a big old paddle, like a witch making a potion.”

“I don't think it's food poisoning,” I said. “The symptoms are wrong and way too quick.” I paused as the rotors of the helicopter zoomed over us, rushing Barry Brooks for further medical attention. I let my gaze follow the copter until its lights were no longer visible over the tree line.

“But I heard you tell Nick not to let anyone near the stew,” Amber Lee said.

I scanned the faces, now barely visible in the distant torchlight.

“I think Mr. Brooks was poisoned,” I said.

*   *   *

Most of the
encampment had quieted and huddled around a central bonfire—sans marshmallows and “Kumbaya”—when a bit of a hubbub occurred. Two men in contemporary uniforms emerged into the clearing. And I'd have recognized that sneeze anywhere.

Kane Bixby, Ramble's chief of police, pulled out a handkerchief. I'd imagine he was as uncomfortable with the allergens in the middle of the woods as he was with the flowers from our shop. While he scrubbed the area under his nose raw, the beam from his high-powered flashlight bobbed over the faces in the crowd. Bixby was joined by Ken Lafferty, the town's rookie. Recent rumor had it that Ken was moving quickly up in the ranks the old-fashioned way. Nepotism. He was dating Bixby's only daughter.

Finally Bixby's flashlight beam found my face. “Audrey Bloom. I should have known.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought the sheriff was coming.” The encampment was outside of Ramble proper, and therefore out of Bixby's territory. A fact I'd ascertained from Brad, who, in his younger and wilder days, had a few altercations with both jurisdictions.

“He's coming,” Bixby said. “A bit tied up with the wildfires on the other side of the county.” Bixby glared at our bonfire. “Be careful with that. There's a burn restriction.”

“We have an exemption,” one of the men said. “In writing. Should I go get it?”

“Foley will want to see it,” Bixby said. “And whatever you do, be careful. With the drought, these woods will go up like a pile of kindling. So, who can tell me what happened here?”

I swear every head in the encampment swung in my direction.

“I should have guessed.” Bixby rolled his eyes and drew me aside. “So what do we got?”

“Shouldn't we wait for the sheriff? If this isn't your jurisdiction . . .”

“We have reciprocity in emergency situations. Since I was closer, he asked if I'd come check it out, just to secure the crime scene, if we have one. Do we have one?” Bixby was a man of several different temperaments. He could be the no-monkey-business cop sometimes, with a grim expression and those gunmetal gray eyes. At other times, he could be the lead runner in a Mr. Rogers look-alike contest. This is when he was most dangerous, since he could get people to tell him—or do—almost anything. Just to be his neighbor.

“You tell me,” I said. “All I know is that Barry Brooks is pretty sick. Vomiting, irregular heartbeat, chills, convulsions.”

“Is he the only one sick?”

I hazarded a glance around the encampment. What would we do if an epidemic arose? They'd have to call in the National Guard to get all these people out of this remote location. I had to bet the people who programmed this little shindig hadn't been counting on reproducing the plague for the enjoyment of their guests. Talk about authenticity.

“Thankfully, yes. At least so far.” Although I grew queasier by the moment. “The thought did cross my mind that he might have been poisoned.”

I winced. I truly hated bringing this up, especially without any real evidence. My theory, if Bixby took me seriously, would have ramifications. Nick had prepared the food. I explained about Brooks sampling the stew before the ceremony. “Nick is making sure nobody else has any,” I said.

“I'll check it out. Before I do, any ideas—if Mr. Brooks was poisoned—who might have had reason to?”