Harrowing Hats (15 page)

Maybe I was wrong about Andre. I hadn’t known him for long. It was more a gut feeling, the kind cops and private detectives rely on to find the truth, at least on TV. But maybe my gut was wrong. He had motive. He had opportunity. And, probably worst of all, he might have done it before. In a lot of ways, I wondered why the police hadn’t already arrested him, like Roger said.

Bernardo was the dark horse. Chase said he was out of the Village when Cesar was killed. Maybe he was—or maybe he’d gotten someone to lie for him.

There were musicians playing at the Village Square in the middle of the King’s Highway. There was a crowd of people around them, sitting and standing in the lush green grass. I stopped and listened to their music for a few minutes. Susan Halifax from the Merry Mynstrel’s Stage was playing her harp. There was also a lute player and someone on the reed pipes.

They made beautiful music together. I knew the real Renaissance wasn’t like this every day. Renaissance Village represented the best and most romantic ideals of that time. Let’s face it, not many visitors would come here if it was dirty, plague-ridden, and full of church doctrine like the real thing had been. There was no way to really be historically accurate and still make money.

Seeing the musicians made me realize that I was running late again for the hat-making process.
Chase was right,
I thought as I ran the rest of the way to the Hat House. I needed to get my mind off Cesar’s death and focused on hat making.

“Where have you been?” Andre demanded. “I needed you an hour ago.”

“You sent me to have lunch and get your packages.” Maybe stress was affecting his memory.

“You know, Chase described a different woman to me when I agreed to take you on as an apprentice for the summer. I’m feeling very let down, Jessie. You’re always late. I never know what you’re doing. I don’t know if we can continue this way.”

My Renaissance fantasy bubble burst, at least temporarily. Andre’s temper tantrum roused my temper—not a difficult thing to do.

“Look, I know you’re busy with everything. I know it hasn’t been easy being accused of murder. But I was expecting to be treated like an apprentice and not an errand-running, shop-cleaning lackey. An apprentice learns things, Andre. I already knew how to sweep and pick up packages. Let’s say we’re both disappointed and move on.”

I could tell right away that he was surprised when I said something back to him. His little mouth hung open and his eyes bulged. Maybe I’d said too much, but it was the way I felt. Sometimes I open my mouth and the words just fall out.

“I think you should leave, Jessie. Maybe your talents are better served helping small children throw frogs at targets.”

“That’s fine,” I retorted. “You have enough lackeys to go around.”

“Good-bye then.” He turned his back on me.

“Bye.”

“You can leave now.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Not fast enough.”

If this was a contest to see who could have the last words, Andre was going to find he could never best me. “Is this a race?”

“It might be. You’re standing in the middle of my shop.”

“Not for long.”

“The sooner that changes, the better.”

“I’m sure.”

Andre stared at me. “You are one of the most stubborn women I’ve ever known. You remind me of Sigourney Weaver. I worked with her on
Ghostbusters
. The first one—the real one, as far as I’m concerned. She was stubborn, too. But a great actress.”

“Yeah?” He almost took the wind from my sails with that remark. “Well, you remind me of Joel Gray in
Remo Williams
. I can imagine you dodging bullets and dancing away.”

He looked pleased. “I know Joel very well. I worked with his daughter on the set of
Dirty Dancing
. He asked for me personally. We had lunch every day.”

I wasn’t sure where to go from here. The contest to see who could have the last word seemed to be over. I was already feeling the loss of my apprenticeship—such as it was. I wasn’t looking forward to possibly waiting tables or helping visitors in any game capacity again.

“You should stay, Jessie,” he said. “You and I are cut from the same cloth. We may have our disagreements, but we make a good team. I’ll try to treat you more like an apprentice.”

“And I’ll try to be on time,” I conceded, glad to have my job back. “Thanks, Andre.”

He waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. “Not at all. You’ve paid me a deep compliment without realizing it. What more could I ask?”

We cleaned off one of the long tables and started work on the new hats for the dancing girls at the Stage Caravan. They were like small boxes with trailing veils that matched the costumes they wore. Some of them were pink and purple while others were blue and purple. In most cases, the hats were the biggest part of their skimpy costumes.

Andre and I worked well together. He talked constantly as he worked—small hands moving quickly as he cut the material and pinned it to the stiff backing that created the shape of the hat.

“Making hats has always been in my blood,” he said as the scissors slashed through the material. “My grandfather made hats during Hollywood’s heyday. My father took over from him, and I followed suit. My son or daughter should be taking over for me right now. I guess that isn’t going to happen.”

I held the material in place as he pinned and then basted it. “It must’ve been hard to leave your life behind that way. How did you end up here?”

He sighed and wiped a tear from the corner of one eye. “Please don’t get me started. There’s nothing worse than an old hatmaker no one wants anymore.” He paused for a moment, then explained. “I hated leaving Hollywood, but my life there was over. Even though they never found me guilty of anything, they never said I was innocent either. No one would hire me. Friends in the industry I’d known since I was a child turned their backs on me. I made a lot of money there—more than I could keep track of, truth be told. I’m still trying to figure out what happened to some of it.”

I thought about Cesar’s death and hoped it wouldn’t end up being the same way here. Most of the residents in the Village had something to hide. Maybe it was part of why they were living here in this make-believe world. Secrets were layered on secrets in the shops and apartments that lined the cobblestones.

But when those secrets were revealed, many times it went badly for the resident. I recalled being here one summer when everyone found out that dear old Paddy at Paddy’s Pub was a member of the Irish Republican Army.

He was arrested by the FBI early one morning. After that, Hephaestus came in and changed the name of the place to Peasant’s Pub.

That was one of the more dramatic secrets—but it seemed to me like everyone who lived here had one.

“And ending up here,” Andre continued. “That was a fluke, my dear. One of my old pals was working for Carolco and took pity on me. He let me come in on one of the last movies made at that studio. It was a bust that only went to video, and the studio closed down. I had sold my house in the Hollywood Hills, and I knew I couldn’t go back. I heard about Renaissance Village and I’ve been here ever since. It may not be Hollywood, but there’s a need for me here—a purpose, if you will.”

“I know everyone appreciates your efforts.” I tried to cheer him up.

“Everyone except whoever murdered Cesar and wants to pin it on me.” He paused and stared at me. “Excuse the bad pun. I didn’t mean it that way. But I’m not leaving this time, Jessie. They’ll have to arrest me or Adventure Land will have to kick me out. I made that mistake last time.”

By this time we had the shells for a dozen little hats. The long, sparkling veils came next. The hats and veils were too delicate to sew with a machine. We sat in chairs and stitched until a few of them were done.

My fingers were starting to get sore when Andre called a halt to the work. “Take these over and have a few of the girls try them on. Check the length of the veil and make sure they don’t look like little monkeys without organ grinders. I wouldn’t have created these for them, but they’re made to their specifications. Let me know what happens.”

I gathered the finished hats into a cloth carry bag, brown, of course, to fit in with Village dress requirements. No shocking colors that didn’t exist during the Renaissance.

“That’s not too errand-like, is it?” he asked.

“Not at all. And we made these hats. I feel like a real apprentice. Thanks, Andre!”

He smiled at me in his sad way. “Thank you for listening to my meanderings. In one way, I can’t believe this has happened to me again, this thing with Cesar. In another way, it doesn’t surprise me. Life isn’t finished with me yet, I suppose. Thank goodness it wasn’t my darling Eloise who was sacrificed to the evil gods of conflict. Even if I end up going to prison for Cesar’s death, at least I’ll know she’s out here and safe.”

When he put it that way, what could I say? Knowing me, there had to be a reply. “Why Eloise? What happened between you and Beth? You seem perfect for each other.”

He thought about it for a minute. “I suppose you’re right. Beth and I make a good couple. But there’s no spark, no fire. When I look at Eloise, when I touch her, I feel young again. I feel like nothing else matters.”

I couldn’t let that stand. “You know she goes out with almost
every
man in the Village, right? She even acted like she’d go after Chase when I’m not here. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“The question, my girl, should be, doesn’t that bother
you
? Eloise is a wild, passionate creature. Of course she isn’t happy with just one man. My wife was the same way. We can never truly expect to hold these creatures. They are only with us for a short time. But what magic they make!”

I thought about Andre’s explanation for wanting to be with Eloise. It was stupid, really. I was glad my relationship with Chase wasn’t so flimsy.

I left the Hat House for the Stage Caravan, which was close to the Dungeon, on the other side of the big tree swing. I thought I might go home and shower, get cleaned up for the big night, then go out and find dessert for dinner.

“Hey, there.” One of the madmen who I’d noticed around the Hat House stopped me. His face and hands were dirty (no surprise), and his clothes were mismatched and torn. He had the usual madman pan and other paraphernalia on his side like most of us wore our cups for free drinks. He was an older man with graying hair and sharp eyes above sagging jowls. “Jessie, right?”

“Lady Jessie,” I reminded him. There was a certain protocol that needed to be observed when dealing with knaves, varlets, and madmen. “What do you want of me, sir?”

He glanced around uneasily as visitors walked back and forth around us. “My name is Neal Stevenson. I’m a reporter for the
LA Times
here on assignment. I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time to talk about the murder of Kathleen Hariot.”

W
e went into Peter’s Pub and found a secluded booth in one dark corner. The lunchtime rush of visitors had cleared out, and it was too early yet to be busy with residents stopping in for dinner.

I signaled Peter for my usual, and Neal Stevenson—reporter and madman—ordered ale when Peter brought mine. I was interested in what Neal had to say. It might shed some light on Cesar’s death.

“Look, I got a job as a madman in this crazy place so I could fit in. I’ve been hanging out, waiting to see what breaks ever since I heard about Hariot’s involvement in another murder,” Neal said. “I’ve been waiting for some kind of break in this new case, but everything seems to be on hold. I’ve talked to the police and they don’t seem to know what’s going on.”

“But you think I do?”

“You live with the closest form of law enforcement around here
and
work for Hariot. I’d say that makes you a good source.”

I looked into his face—middle-aged, eyes still bright with the need to find the next story. “I don’t really know anything you can’t get from the police.”

He sipped his ale. “Come on, Jessie. Level with me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

I squared my shoulders and nodded at him. “Let me repeat, sir, my name is Lady Jessie. You will find yourself in the stocks facing vegetable justice if I have to tell you again.”

“You’re as crazy as the rest of them.”

“Quite.”

“But you know something. I’ve seen you skulking around the Village. It reminds me of myself. What’s between Hariot and the tart on the other side of the Village? Why did he kill the chocolate maker?”

“Even if I had answers for these questions, you’d be the last person I’d tell.” I smiled, finished the rest of my ale, and got up to leave.

“Wait!” He got up and took my arm. “Just tell me what you’ve heard. I don’t care how small it seems. I want to know.”

Peter, good tavern keeper that he is, sensed my distress and came to my aid. “You’d better pick up a copy of the guidelines for correct behavior in the Village, madman. Your kind doesn’t grab ladies—unless it’s part of a skit or something. Be glad it’s me telling you this and not the bailiff.”