Harrowing Hats (3 page)

The dapper little man (probably just five feet tall, at least a foot shorter than me) sat down heavily on a fabric-covered chair. He looked to be in his early fifties but was dressed very youthfully. “Not today, Chase. I can’t face another failure today. Maybe tomorrow. I know I need a new apprentice, but these youngsters are not qualified.”

I felt like this was my thing now. Chase got me here—got me interested. Now that I was facing the hat-making promised land, it was up to me to find my place. “I’m Jessie Morton.” I moved toward him and held out my hand. “I’d love to be your apprentice and make hats this summer.”

Andre looked straight up from his vantage point until he reached my face. To his credit, his eyes didn’t linger
too
long on my bosom. I liked him, but I’m impulsive that way.

“My, you’re a tall one, aren’t you? Did you know most of Hollywood’s leading men were very short? They stood on stools to kiss their leading ladies in many cases. Can you name any of them?”

“James Cagney was one of them, right?”

“That’s right!” He smiled a little. “You like the movies?”

“I do. How did those short leading men jump on horses if they had to stand on stools to kiss the girls?”

Andre laughed in a quiet, elegant manner and smoothed his hand across his already flat hair. “It’s funny you should ask that, Jessie. Many of them had to be helped into the saddle from the side the camera couldn’t see. Of course there were always stunt men to fill in.”

And just like that, Andre Hariot and I were friends. Chase waved as he backed out of the shop, and I smiled in return. I could tell this was going to be a good summer at the Village.

But you know how you should never say things are too good? There’s some kind of ancient Chinese curse about that. I had doomed myself.

N
ot that the rest of the day at Hariot’s wasn’t awesome. Working with him was so different than making swords or any of the other things I’d done at the Village. He was demanding, fastidious, detailed, and focused. But he also made me laugh with his Hollywood stories from his heyday in the 1980s. I never realized how important hat making was to movies and TV.

It was my first day, so I didn’t get to do much actual hat making. But it was amazing looking at all the colors, fabric textures, and styles of hats that Andre had made for Village residents and visitors. Unlike most of the items in other shops, Andre’s hats were usually special orders. Customers didn’t wander in off the cobblestones as much and flip out Lady Visa. There wasn’t that feeling of being a slave to the cash register.

“You might want to consider a change of costume to work as my apprentice,” Andre remarked as I was getting ready to leave for the day. “Bosomy wenches are wonderful out there. In here, perhaps something a little more tasteful. See you tomorrow, Jessie.”

I knew that meant tackling Portia for a new outfit. Not something I was looking forward to. The costume mistress didn’t like costume changes by residents. Once you were assigned a costume, you were supposed to keep it—at least that style—for the entire time you were working.

Portia was responsible for costumes that were worn by Village actors as well as visitors. There was always a long line of people waiting to see her. I saw her pale, tired face and black hair as she leaned on the counter at the costume shop. Good old Portia. She never changed.

“What now?” she demanded when she saw me.

“I started working as an apprentice at Hariot’s today. He said I need something tasteful. I’m not sure what that would be, something different than this, obviously. I’d appreciate whatever you can dig up for me that’s appropriate.”

I braced myself for her usual rant about expecting too much from her. No matter that we’d known each other for years and I’d even helped her with her love life once (matchmaking is a sideline of mine), Portia always complained. We never got through a summer (or any other time) without clashing.

To my surprise, she put a pale green gown on the counter. It would be considered a day dress or work gown for a lady of leisure. It was modest and looked pretty good. When she added a pair of matching green slippers, I felt ready to drop on the sandy ground in amazement.

“These are great!” I raved, hoping that would encourage her in the future. “Thanks!”

“Anything for Andre.” She sighed as she so often does. “You know Beth has had a thing for him for years. He can’t see her though. I guess we’re all doomed to be alone and unhappy our whole lives. Enjoy the dress while you can.”

Well, the doom and gloom aspect was Portia’s natural demeanor, kind of like gossip. There was always a heaping helping of both from her. I smiled, thanked her again, and made a quick retreat. I had what I wanted.

Beth and Andre seemed like a good match to me—both in fashion, close to the same age and character. I might have to follow up on that. I was probably the best matchmaker in the Village, at one time or another. Too bad that wasn’t a craft.

I hummed a little as I passed the Main Gate, which was closing for the day. Visitors leaving the Village were serenaded by musicians while jugglers juggled and ladies waved tearful good-byes. A few crones gave out candy to the children, inviting them to return for more.

The entrance to Sherwood Forest was close by. It was unusually quiet. There was normally something going on in or around the five acres of woods that made up Robin Hood’s kingdom. Maybe the sultry day with a hint of rain was keeping them in their tree houses.

One of the new carriage rides went past me on the cobblestones, headed for the Main Gate. The carriages were open and very pretty with their blue and gold design—fit for Cinderella. There was barely enough room to pass on the road, however, and I stepped to the side on the grass.

One of the Village minions followed behind the horses, picking up what they had left behind. It wouldn’t do for an expensive costume to drag through animal poop. Goats, sheep, a few pigs, and some chickens kept by Village characters also had to be cleaned up after. I wouldn’t want that job.

I was surprised to find Chase already finished for the day and waiting at the Dungeon when I got back. Because he’s the bailiff for the Village, he lives in an apartment above the dungeon area, where displays of prisoners in fake cells draw in visitors each day. The stocks, where vegetable justice is done, are right outside. For a fee, good friends can hit each other with squishy vegetables. On a slow day, Village folk are recruited to take their places in the stocks. It’s a favorite attraction for visitors.

The apartment is nice, especially compared to standard Village housing. It’s cozy—two big rooms and a bathroom—and the shower always has hot water. It has plenty of space for the two of us.

“Greetings, fair lady.” Chase bowed gallantly before me at the door. “I have been anxiously awaiting your arrival. Would you deign to sup with me this eve?”

I curtsied (not so worried about my peasant blouse showing a little too much in this case) and smiled at him. “I would happily sup with you, good sir. Allow me to go upstairs and take a shower, as you have already done.”

He kissed me lightly. “Hurry, wench. I’m hungry.”

That was either the
worst
protocol I’ve ever heard or a very quick fall from grace. “I beg thee to recall, sir, that the king himself named me
Lady
Jessie for my deeds. Just because I’m dressed like a wench, doesn’t make me one.”

“My apologies, lady. I am ready when you are ready.”

I laughed, not really caring what he called me. Whenever Chase was around, everything was good. “Thanks for linking me up with Andre. I wouldn’t have looked in that direction for a craft experience. But I think this is going to be great!”

On that note, I went upstairs and changed into more modern clothes—shorts and a tank top. It was the only way to compete with the cute, disgusting fairies flitting around the Village showing off a lot more than some cleavage. I have legs, too!

Once the visitors went home and the Village closed down for the day, it was like a big, weird neighborhood filled with storybook creatures—and actors with big egos. The taverns and restaurants offered whatever food was left over from the day free to employees. Even the places that took your money took less of it when the Village was closed.

Chase and I had a nice dinner at the Pleasant Pheasant right across the cobblestones from the Dungeon. We indulged in some ale, too, and left the pub feeling good. There was music coming from the dancing girls who were rehearsing at the Stage Caravan next door. From across the way, elephants bellowed, waiting for their dinner, while Bo Peep’s sheep
baaed
in time to the music. The sights and sounds of life in the Village were heavenly to me.

Chase and I retired for the night, grateful for another Dungeon indulgence—air-conditioning. Life was good. Portia might like to find fault with all of this, but it was what kept me going when I was away most of the year in Columbia at the university. I wished I could let myself go and trust that everything would always be this good. I could take up Chase’s invitation to live here full-time with him.

But a tiny voice in the back of my head reminded me that I needed more. Someday I might not be here. Chase might not be here. I needed that PhD to make enough money to buy a place of my own. This was make-believe. Wonderful and seductive—but still make-believe.

A little after two A.M., Chase’s radio—one of the few modern-day devices allowed in the Village while visitors were there, went off. They needed him at one of the shops.

“What is it?” I whispered as he got dressed.

“I’m not sure. Security found something strange over at the Three Chocolatiers Shoppe.”

“I want to come.” I got up, too, and searched in the dark for my hastily tossed shorts and sandals. “I’ve heard they make their chocolate early in the morning. Maybe they made too much and need to give some away.”

“It might be better if you stay here. It could be anything. A few weeks ago, one of the goats got into Fabulous Funnels. It was a mess.”

“Like I said—chocolate all over the place. How bad can it be?”

Chase gave in gracefully. We walked across the dark, still Village. Most people were asleep, dreaming about what lunacy they would get into tomorrow. The lamps glowed softly, showing us the way. As though we were at one with the sleeping houses, we were quiet, too.

Two security guards were waiting outside the chocolate shop. The front door was open beneath three crossed swords symbolizing the Chocolatiers’ coat of arms. There was a faint light coming from inside.

I nudged Chase with my elbow. “See? What did I tell you? Plenty of chocolate to be had.”

He didn’t respond, turning to the security men instead. “What’s up? It better be more than an open door.”

“You have to see it,” one of them, a man I didn’t recognize, blurted out.

“The door was open, like Fabulous Funnels.” The other security guard shrugged as though that statement explained it all. “We just walked inside. We didn’t know what was going on. We didn’t touch anything.”

I noticed they stayed outside as Chase and I went in. I wasn’t sure if that was because what happened wasn’t serious enough to call Chase and they were scared to come in or because they’d already seen whatever it was and didn’t want to see it again.

Chocolate was, indeed, everywhere. Not really edible, though, unless you like licking it off the floors, walls, and windows. There have been days when I would’ve done that for a chocolate fix, but the wasted deliciousness wasn’t the worst thing about this scene.

The Chocolatiers blended their own chocolate mixture (a dark secret) in a huge, stainless steel vat behind the main counter. In the dim light, I could see someone bending over the vat—a large, red, plumed hat covering him.

“It’s Cesar,” Chase said. “I guess he had a little too much to drink before he came to make chocolate.”

“What a waste!” It was all I could think of—until Chase tried to wake the eldest chocolatier. Cesar fell backward out of the vat, splashing up another few gallons of liquid chocolate across us and the rest of the shop. He was wearing red shorts and a white apron with red hearts beneath his extravagant, plumed hat. Like the rest of the kitchen—he was covered in chocolate.

“I don’t think he’s drunk after all,” Chase said in a subdued voice after checking Cesar’s pulse. “I think he’s dead.”

The security guard coming in behind me sighed. “Poor Cesar. I guess this is what they mean when they say death by chocolate.”