Floral Depravity (8 page)

“More like they threatened each other,” he said. “Publically. I thought it was more of an act, a staged disagreement. Like that sword fight. They were going to settle it with a joust—not murder. To poison someone like that . . . it really doesn't fit into that whole Guardians of Chivalry ideal.

“Personally,” he continued, “I think what happened to Dad must have been just a terrible accident. I saw what that monkshood root looks like, and it probably went into the stew as a turnip. I hope our corporate lawyers aren't too aggressive with that poor Nick Maxwell. Apparently those vultures are already faxing forms to my office for me to sign, seeking punitive damages. But I'm no ambulance chaser. They're just going to have to wait until after the funeral.”

“And the honeymoon,” Andrea said.

“Suing?” I'd never even considered the idea that legal actions could be taken against Nick, probably since I couldn't fathom Nick being involved—intentionally or unintentionally. I glanced over to his tent, where loaves of bread were piled waiting for customers—who all seemed to be avoiding that space.

But surely they couldn't sue Nick if the real killer were caught. For Nick's sake, I forced my attention back to Mel and Andrea and the one man on our suspect list who had seemed eager to charge at Brooks with a pointy stick. “A joust sounds dangerous. Can't someone be killed?”

“They have special rules to prevent that kind of thing,” Mel said. “The lances are designed to break apart before they cause serious injury.”

“People still get hurt,” Andrea added.

“Mostly from falling off a horse,” Mel said. “Which, I must admit, had a lot to do with the horses that Dad brought in. They tend to be a little high-strung.”

“Except for his,” Andrea said.

“Ah. So Chandler Hines might not have wanted to settle his dispute on the tournament field if he didn't think the competition was fair.”

Mel's countenance fell. “I never thought of it that way. I just assumed he loved the attention of challenging the dark knight. That's what my dad liked to call himself.”

“Maybe that's the case.” I sent him what I hoped was my most reassuring smile. “If I wanted to have a word with this Hines fellow, where would I find him?”

“Chandler Hines is the blacksmith,” Andrea said. “At the edge of the encampment near the tournament fields. You can't miss the sound.”

I stopped to listen. Even above the crowd sounds and the buzz of the surrounding forest, the unmistakable clang of metal striking metal chimed out at regular intervals.

“Thanks.”

As Mel and Andrea walked off to explore the vendors, Brad came out of the woods and palmed my cell phone back to me, keeping a grip on my hand.

“Uh, Audrey. Now's probably not the best time, but there's something I need to talk with you about. In the next few days.”

“Sure.” I pulled my hand back and turned toward the woods to replace my cell. I sure hoped he didn't want to talk about “us.” I had no idea where I wanted to go with our relationship. “Any news about your crew?”

He shook his head. “Not any good news. They're still trapped between roadblocks, but a farmer took them in, apparently trading food and lodging for help on his farm.” He chuckled. “I can't see any of those guys milking a cow. I hope I can't be held liable if they mess up.” His smile dimmed. “And I really hope the farmer doesn't have a daughter. One hears things.”

I hit him in the arm. “I'm going to talk to the blacksmith. Want to come?”

“That depends. Are you curious about the ancient art of iron working? Or is this part of your quasi-official investigation?”

“The investigation,” I said.

He took my arm as we headed toward the metal sounds. There was something both old and comforting about Brad's touch, but also exciting. He was always spontaneous and a bit adventurous. I could see he loved his new job, despite the lack of a regular income. Our conversations on the phone had revolved around his travel experiences and the interesting people he encountered. A life with Brad wouldn't be predictable.

As we strolled past Nick's stand. I was going to wave to him, but he was busy and facing the other way when we passed. Or was he pretending to be busy? He certainly had no customers to deal with.

The idea that I might have hurt Nick caused me pain. It was different when Brad was long distance and Nick was here. But the two men together in the same place made it obvious to me that I'd have to make a decision between the two. It wasn't fair to pretend a relationship had a future when it didn't. Only which one was I going to let go?

I was so lost in thought that Brad had to steer me around a pile of manure in the pathway in front of the blacksmith's forge.

“Be right with you,” the hulky man who I assumed was Chandler Hines said. He made several more strikes of his hammer on the piece of iron he was working on his anvil, sending flakes of red-hot metal flying into the dust near his boots.

I knew what an anvil was from watching Wile E. Coyote as a child.

Hines quenched the metal in a wood trough before tugging off his gloves. He pulled a rag from his pocket, wiped his forehead, and approached the fence that cordoned off his work area, probably to keep curious kids and animals away from the hot metal.

“Well, if it isn't Peter Pan and Joan of Arc.” He squinted at Brad's camera. “And I categorically refuse to be filmed. You can't put me in your little video without my consent. And you don't have it.”

I may have been wrong about Chandler Hines squinting at Brad's camera. It seems Hines bore a perpetual squint behind what looked like ancient service-issued plastic-framed glasses. He had a sparse head of close-cropped white hair, a mouth void of many of its teeth, and porous, sunburned skin. Or maybe his complexion came from working near the heat wearing a long-sleeved tunic, heavy breeches, a leather apron, and gloves.

“Are you sure?” Brad said. “The series might be good for business.”

Hines just continued to squint at him, then turned back to shovel more coal into his forge. Heat rose in waves above it, and as he stared inside, the glow from the fire reflected from his glasses and face.

“Wait!” I said. “That's not why
I'm
here. I have nothing to do with the filming. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about what happened the other night.”

“I don't get paid none for talking.”

“What if I bought something?” I looked around at the wares of his shop. Nothing struck me as exceedingly useful. Unless I wanted a horseshoe for good luck. Maybe if I tacked it up over the door of Grandma Mae's cottage, a stiff wind wouldn't blow the whole building down.

Then I saw some narrow farming implements and had an idea.

“Plant stand? Like a shepherd's hook? Can you make me one?”

He looked doubtful. “Not much call for those in the Middle Ages.”

“If it helps, you can pretend I'm herding sheep with it.”

He rolled his eyes but put the end of a metal rod into the flames. “What do you want to know?”

“I've heard you weren't a fan of Brooks,” I started.

“A lot of people here weren't exactly fans.”

“Why didn't you like him?”

“Not much there to like, in my opinion. Pompous braggart and cheater.”

“Cheater?”

“Some of us work hard at what we do. I travel the circuit, from the serious re-creation camps to those silly Renaissance fairs, working metal year round. I've made more than one suit of armor. Brooks admires mine one day. Asks me if I'd make him a suit. Can't say I was motivated to give him the friends-and-family rate.”

“So he went elsewhere.”

“Which was fine by me,” Hines said. “That was kind of my objective. Only a month later, guess who comes strolling up in a shiny new suit.”

“And that's a problem?” Brad asked.

“He didn't get a craftsman to make that for him. It would take months.” Hines spat at the ground. “Now, I've heard of a sweatshop in China that uses modern machinery and child labor to make armor for clients at half my going rate. And that's probably with the factory owners taking most of that.”

“And you didn't like him showing it off?” I said. Could Brooks have been killed because he wasn't wearing authentic made-in-America armor? “You must have been concerned that if word got around, the Chinese might eat into your profits.”

“No, I didn't like him showing it off. But it turns out I didn't have to worry about the Chinese. That fool Brooks pretended that he made it himself.”

I quirked an eyebrow.

“Oh, yes, he acted like he'd whipped it off in his workshop over the weekend. I didn't like him strutting around as if that made him a legitimate craftsman. And I didn't like him pretending to be some kind of philanthropist simply because he trucked in his horses and some rented livestock for a week. In short, you could probably say that I didn't like him.”

“But he's dead . . .”

“Doesn't make him a stand-up guy now.” Hines pulled the glowing rod out of the fire and started forming it into a familiar hook shape.

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to see him dead?”

“Besides me, you mean?” He looked up. “Because that is what you mean.”

I shrugged my most innocent shrug.

He finished shaping the hook then quenched it in a trough of water before speaking. “You know, it seems to me that poison is a sneaky kind of weapon.” He crossed two beefy arms across his chest. “I figure you're looking for a sneaky kind of killer.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Look, if someone had bashed his skull in . . .”

“Say, with an iron rod,” Brad said.

Hines glared at him. “Yes, with an iron rod, then I might be a good suspect. But it seems you've got yourselves a sneaky killer. And that's probably someone sneaky enough to come off as liking the guy.”

“And that helps how?” Brad asked.

“Because he wasn't very likable,” I said.

Hines squinted and nodded, then handed over my completed shepherd's hook. “That'll be sixty-nine ninety-nine.”

“But I can get the same thing at the hardware store for ten bucks,” I said.

“Not handcrafted in an authentic medieval forge.”

“I can pay you in American currency? I don't have to trade in for doubloons or something?”

“Nope. We've talked about developing our own script, but never did. Regular U.S. money is fine.”

I turned to Brad. “Could you pay the man? I'll pay you back.”

“You didn't bring any money?”

“I did, but I can't get to it right now.” It was stuffed in my unmentionables along with my cell phone. And I wasn't going to pull it out in front of Chandler Hines.

Brad removed a wad of bills from his pocket. “I don't suppose you'll give
me
the friends-and-family discount.”

Hines shook his head and pocketed the cash in his apron.

“Oh, one more thing,” I said. “You said we should be looking for someone sneaky. Someone who seemed to like Brooks. Can you think of anyone who might fit that bill?”

Hines thought for a moment, and then nodded. “There's this one guy. New to the circuit. Caught him snooping around a time or two, asking a few too many questions. And he did seem rather interested in Brooks.”

Now we're talking
, I almost said aloud. “And who is this?”

“That guy in that stupid cassock. Richard something.”

“Wilson?”

“That's it.”

Of course.

Brad excused himself to film a demonstration on tanning. I assumed he wasn't talking about the tanning that takes place on a beach with a good book and a thermos of lemonade. As he excitedly explained the process, going on about a solution of lime and removing the hair from an animal hide, it threatened to turn my stomach. But apparently not enough to keep me from lunch.

Nick's stand in the medieval bazaar was just as void of customers as it had been when I passed the first time—and the stack of bread just as tall.

“Got any bread to spare for a hardworking lawman?” I said as I slapped the counter. “Wait. What did they call lawmen in the Middle Ages?”

He handed over a whole loaf of crusty brown bread. “For my special customers,” he said with that twinkle in his eye, “I might have even saved some butter.” He reached below the counter and pulled up a ball of pale gold butter. “They churn it fresh daily. I've never had anything like it.”

I tore off a bit of the bread and spread the butter on it with a scary-looking knife he provided.

“And as far as what they called lawmen back in the Middle Ages,” he said, “each shire or county would have a reeve—a representative of the king. I guess shire-reeve eventually became—”

“Became
sheriff
. Cool.” I took a bite of the bread. “Is that honey?” Then I closed my eyes and enjoyed the blend of sweetness and whole grains with the creamy and salty butter. “Mmmm.”

When I opened my eyes, Nick was grinning and several customers had lined up behind me.

“I'll have what she's having,” one said.

“You should make this in the shop,” I said when Nick finished dealing with the new customers.

“I do. But something about the wood oven and the open air makes it even better.”

“Hey”—I picked up my shepherd's hook—“can I leave this with you?”

“Sure.” He lifted it over the counter and slid it under the table. “I . . . uh . . . saw you and Brad headed that way this morning. Learn anything?”

“Chandler Hines thinks we need to look for someone who was pretending to like Brooks. Says anyone sneaky enough to poison him would be sneaky enough to avoid looking like he had a motive.”

“Ah, the old sneaky killer theory.”

“Okay, pretty basic stuff. But you've been part of these encampments. Can you think of anyone who fits that bill?”

“Who liked Brooks? I can't say I've seen too many buddy-buddy with him. Although he seemed pretty friendly with that co-worker of his that came down. Raylene something.”

“More than co-workers, you think?”

“I couldn't prove it,” Nick said. “Brooks seemed to like the ladies. Which you probably would have found out if you'd stayed a few minutes longer in that serving wench's getup. I mean, wow.”

I could feel the heat rush to my face. Fortunately, that's when another customer came up to the counter for bread.

I composed myself by slathering another bit of bread with butter. Or maybe I finished the loaf.

“Whoa,” Nick said when he turned back to me. “Would you like another one?”

“Save me one for the road, will you?” I brushed the crumbs from the counter and leaned toward him. “Another name did come up, though. Someone Chandler Hines said seemed interested in Brooks.”

“Who was this?”

I felt my throat go dry and wished for water to wash down the last few crumbs of bread. “Richard Wilson,” I managed, but found it impossible to keep eye contact when I said it.

“I don't . . . wait. Is that the friar? We just call him Father Richard.”

“He's not a real priest, you know.”

“I kind of figured that. Come to think of it, I did see him with Brooks once.”

“Chandler Hines also thinks Wilson was sneaking around the camp.”

Nick crossed his arms in front of him. “He was asking questions, but they didn't seem out of line for a newcomer.”

“He's not been a part of the re-creations before?”

“Nope. First timer. At least to this one. Can't swear that he hasn't been to others. I don't get to them like I used to. The whole responsible adult thing.”

“Can I ask you a hypothetical question?”

“I think you just did.”

I slapped his arm.

“Okay, shoot. What's the question?”

I sighed. I needed advice about what to do with Richard Wilson, aka Daddy Dearest, and if I asked Liv, she'd never let me keep it hypothetical.

“Say someone you loved disappeared from your life. Just gone. And then maybe years later reappears. No reasons. Just vague excuses. Would you give that person a chance? Even if that meant you could get hurt again?”

“Was this someone important to you?”

“I said it was hypothetical.”

Nick leaned against the counter and reached out his hand. He pointed to a spot of coarse skin on his thumb. “Here. Feel this.”

I ran a light finger against it. “What is it?”

“I had a defective oven mitt. I've gotten rid of it since, but before I did, I burned myself more than once. I guess that's nature's way of protecting me from my own foolishness.”

“So you're saying I should protect myself.”

He shook his head. “I'm saying the opposite. When you ran your finger across that spot, I couldn't feel anything. Not pain. Not pleasure. Nothing. I'm not so sure that's a good thing.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Audrey, I'm not sure I'm the best person to be asking this.” He took my hands in his. “It's up to you how much of your life you open to someone else. But if the fear of being hurt rules your life, you'll put up guards and barriers and end up feeling nothing. And I'm not sure that feeling nothing isn't the worst pain of all.”

I looked down at our clasped hands as he ran his thumbs across my knuckles. Was pain truly better than feeling nothing?

“Audrey,” he said, “there's something I'd like to ask you, and not quite as hypothe—”

“Oh, that bread looks marvelous!”

The familiar voice made me whirl around. “Liv! What are you doing here?”

“Apparently interrupting a tender moment. But if I can get one of those loaves of bread, I'll gladly let you two pick up where you left off.”

My jaw must have dropped as I scanned her outfit. I should say
my
outfit, because her medieval costume came right out of my closet. She wore one of my longer, elastic-waist skirts, with the waistband hiked up just above her baby belly. Because she's considerably shorter, the hem trailed just above the ground. And a white shirt was loose enough to button just above her baby bump. (Did they have buttons in medieval times, or was it just the Amish who don't wear them?) She'd rolled up the sleeves and looked like a proper peasant woman.

“I'm awfully hungry. It's still quite a hike from Larry's place.”

“You walked from his place? Liv, Eric is going to kill me.”

Nick placed a loaf of bread on the counter for Liv, brought up the remnant of the butter, and wisely turned to help another customer.

“Not if you don't tell him I was here,” she said as she tore off a piece and slathered it with butter. She took a bite and closed her eyes. “How does he make it taste like this? It's just bread, right?”

I shook my head.

“It's not just bread?”

“I can't believe you followed me out here. In your condition.”

“I can't believe you conspired with my husband to keep me from coming. If you both hadn't been so all-fired sneaky, I might not have come. As for my condition, I am not an invalid. I am not a child. I don't need anyone's permission to go where I want and do what I want.”

“We're going back right now. One man has died here already. It could be dangerous.”

Liv gestured toward the crowd. People strolled around the bazaar, all dressed in their finest medieval togs. A group of minstrels tuned their strings, and several children engaged in a game of tag near the edge of the clearing. The atmosphere was sunny and cheerful. “The most dangerous things are those garderobes. I'm not going back until I eat my bread and look around a bit. Besides, I'm not eating anything but Nick's bread.”

“That's not the point. Well, that's part of the point. Maybe Brooks died because it took him so long to get help. What would happen if you went into labor right now?”

“We'd go to Larry's. Come on, Audrey. Childbirth isn't like that. Especially for a first baby. It's usually hours and hours of contractions.” Her face paled when she said that last part. “And I'm not due for another two weeks.”

“I don't want to be responsible for putting you or your baby in danger.”

“You're not. I came out here on my own two feet.” Liv glared at me with that determined look in her jaw, then tore off a bit of bread and popped it into her mouth.

Still, I wasn't about to tell her that her arrival put a kink in my new resolve to talk with my father, for which I was almost relieved.

“Is it safe?” Nick asked as his latest customer wandered away.

“Stalemate,” I said. “But you were going to ask me something.”

“It can wait until later.” He ran a rag along the wood planks he was using as a countertop.

“Good.” Liv turned to me. “So are you going to show me around?” She gobbled her last piece of bread.

I took Liv by the arm. “One stroll through this place and then we go.”

I think we'd taken three steps before she stopped to watch a glassblower. He worked on his design, blowing, shaping, and then reheating the glass, while a pudgy woman at the counter sold one of his creations. His glassware was pretty and his methods traditional, but I doubt many people in the Middle Ages would have use for his mostly decorative work. But one tall red vase in the back caught my eye. Liv and I went for the price tag at the same time.

She reached it first. “This would be perfect for our annual Valentine's display. Or even Christmas.” She lowered her voice. “But it's three hundred dollars.”

“Aren't you supposed to dicker at these places?” I said.

“Can I help you?” The pudgy woman had made her way to us.

“We were admiring this vase,” Liv said.

“But it's more than we can pay,” I added.

“Sorry to hear that.” She started to turn away.

“Wait!” Liv called after her. “But we do own a local flower shop, and I was wondering if maybe we could come to an arrangement.”

The glass blower finished his demonstration to the mild applause of the bystanders and made his way over to us. “What's up?”

“These people want a discount on the red vase,” the woman said.

“For our shop window,” Liv said. “We own the local flower shop. It would be on display several times a year for the whole town to see. And if people admire the vase, we can definitely tell them where we got it.”

He stroked his chin. “I could do two hundred.”

Liv bit her lip, but I could see the determination grow. “And if we sold it to them and then bought another one? Say on a consignment basis?”

The pudgy woman sent Liv a nasty look then walked away to another customer who was admiring the “medieval” reflecting balls.

“I could do one fifty.”

“And if we displayed your card predominately right next to the vase?”

“You're killing me,” he said. “One hundred. Final offer.”

“Sold!” Liv said.

As Liv counted out her cash, I turned around and caught a quick flash of cassock headed around a corner. Apparently I needn't worry about avoiding my father. He seemed to be avoiding me.

The herbalist shop was closed as we passed, but I stopped to peek at the fresh potted and dried herbs on display. I couldn't wait to revive Grandma Mae's herb garden in the spring. I saw rosemary (
remembrance
), sniffed the fresh thyme (which can mean
activity
,
courage
, or
thriftiness
), and stopped when I saw the basil. While I adore it on pizza, the meanings always confused me. Sweet basil, which I guess was the kind most used in Italian food, carried the meaning of
good wishes
. We'd given a large pot of it to Jenny and her mother at the grand reopening of their restaurant. But basil? I wasn't sure the Victorians were that keen on it, since in the language of flowers, basil translates to
hatred
.

Had the killer hidden his hatred of Brooks under the guise of good wishes? And why monkshood? If he was cold and calculating, the killer might see poison as a bloodless way of getting the job done. But if someone had truly hated Brooks, he might have chosen monkshood for the suffering it caused. And then watched it happen. I shivered at that thought. Had the killer been one of the bystanders gathered around Brooks as he writhed on the ground?

Which also reminded me that I still needed to look up the meaning of monkshood. Not that the killer would have chosen the plant for its meaning, but it bothered me that I didn't recall it.