Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos (13 page)

"Now that might work," I said. "Better yet, I'll confess."

"That you didn't cook the sauce?"

"No, I'll confess that I lost the copy of the recipe Mother gave me, and was trying to write it down from memory, and that she'll have to get it from Mother. Mother can do the old family recipe bit much better than I ever could."

"Yes, and Mom would certainly understand your mother not wanting to give her the recipe," Michael said.

His mother had taken up a post near the center of the party, about ten feet from my mother. The two had their backs to each other, and they were both laughing, talking, and gesturing with practiced gaiety.

Suddenly they both turned and, as if on cue, reacted with visible (though implausible) delight and surprise at seeing each other and managed, despite their enormous panniers, to maneuver themselves close enough to kiss each other carefully on or near the cheek.

I wondered if real colonial grande'dames lost quite so much hair powder over the course of an evening. Mrs. Waterston's shoulders had been speckled with it, like artificial dandruff, and now, when her towering wig and Mother's happened to touch during their choreographed embrace, a small cloud of powder rose, reminding me of the haze of musket smoke that began to cover the reenactors' battlefields after the first volley or two of musket fire.

"I have a bad feeling about this," I said.

"Maybe I should go round up your dad, so he and I can distract them if necessary," Michael said.

He kissed me on the cheek and launched himself through the crowd.

"Start looking near the food," I called after him. I wasn't sure he heard me, but then he knew Dad well enough by now to figure that out on his own.

I wasn't sure what had happened to set them off, but Mother and Mrs. Waterston definitely looked as if they were squaring off for battle, which in their case didn't get beyond polite sarcasm and veiled insults, but I would still rather not see them get into it.

I was about to work my way closer to them, to see if I could do anything to distract them, when I sensed someone coming up behind me. I caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of one of Mrs. Waterston's ubiquitous blue rental coats.

Not again, I thought.

"So what's the scoop with this Faulkner character?" Wesley Hatcher said stepping a little closer. "Where have I seen him before?"

"At craft fairs, I suppose," I said, wincing inwardly. "He's a nationally known blacksmith."

"No, that's not it," he said. "I don't normally waste a lot of time at these things, but I know I've seen him somewhere."

Unfortunately, he probably had, in a way. Faulk and his prominent patrician father did have a strong family resemblance, and I could imagine how old Mr. Cates would react if he found his family's private life plastered across the front page of the
Snooper.

"I know there's a story there somewhere," Wesley mused.

"Wesley, could you interrogate me later?" I said. "I have a bit of a headache."

Which was, I realized, not entirely a lie.

"Probably oxygen deprivation," Wesley said. "I don't know how you can breathe in that outfit."

"Wesley – "

"Although, come to think of it, I can see it every time you do breathe."

"Very funny."

"Hey, you don't feel a sneeze coming on, do you? I'd love to see that."

He had, I realized, inched close enough so that he was now staring down the front of my bodice. He must have had enough alcohol to overcome his previous caution.

"Wesley, if you drool on me, you'll be the one with the headache," I said, taking a giant step away. "In fact, if you don't go away this minute, I will claim you tried to paw me, and even the people who don't know you will believe it when they see this dress."

"Spoilsport," Wesley said, but he knew better than to argue with me. He melted into the crowd, heading toward the bar. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. Maybe I shouldn't have chased Wesley away. At least when he was leering at my cleavage, he wasn't pumping anyone else for information on Tad and Faulk. Maybe I should go after him.

But no, someone else had already distracted him. Tony-the-louse, who had been standing by the bar, drinking steadily, greeted Wesley's arrival with a bellow of rage.

"You lousy snoop!" he shouted, and threw his pewter mug at Wesley.

"Hey!" Wesley said, as the mug bounced off his head. "What do you think you're doing?"

"If you publish that damned article, I'll rip you in two," Tony said, lurching forward to grab Wesley by the arm.

"Leave me alone," Wesley said, shaking Tony's grip off while backing away.

"Cheap, shoddy workmanship!" Tony roared. "Wait till I test one of my pokers on your head! See how shoddy that is!"

Wesley turned and ran. Tony gave chase, and they careened through the party like billiard balls. Conversation stopped until they broke free of the crowd, and then resumed, as Tony, loping slowly but persistently, disappeared in the direction he thought Wesley had taken.

I wondered, briefly, if someone should go after them. Probably unnecessary, I decided. Drunk as he was, I didn't think Tony could catch Wesley, much less do him any harm. And judging by the frown on Mrs. Waterston's face, I had every hope she'd declare each of them persona non grata for the rest of the festival. I closed my eyes again and smiled slightly, contemplating the prospect of Wesley getting kicked out of Yorktown, or at least banned from the craft fair.

"Good job, lady."

I opened my eyes to see another of Mrs. Waterston's blue rental coats, this one containing Roger Benson. Someone had made the mistake of letting him get his hands on a pewter mug that probably held at least a pint and a half of liquid, and the bartenders had compounded the mistake by filling it with something alcoholic – probably more than once, from the boiled lobster color of bis face, which nearly matched die bloodstains on his shirt.

"It's your doing, I know that," he said, slurring his words slightly. "Told that brother of yours to hold out on me. Think you can hold me over the barrel for more money."

"That's not the idea at all," I said.

"Crap!" he said, lurching forward and thrusting his face toward mine. Since we were almost the same height, I found myself standing practically nose-to-nose with him – close enough to identify the fumes from his mug as gin and tonic rather than beer. "You don't mean you really believe I stole some lousy program from that miserable little – "

"It's nothing personal, Mr. Benson," I said, interrupting him before he could say anything about Tad that would make me really lose my temper. "But I'm sure you can see that, under the circumstances, it's better for all concerned if we clear up these accusations before proceeding."

"I can't believe you'd actually listen to that crap from Jackson," Benson went on. "You know what they're like – pathological liars, every one of them."

"I've found most of the programmers I've met are unusually honest," I said. "Maybe a little overly literal, but I suppose they can't help that. Or were you talking about MIT graduates? I admit, I do find them a little vague on the difference between reality and cyberspace, but you know, it's not really Tad's fault. They offered him a better scholarship than Caltech and Carnegie-Mellon."

"I don't care where he went to school. He's lying."

"Mr. Benson, I've known Tad for some months, and I've never had any reason to suspect him of lying," I said. "I barely met you five hours ago, and already, if I knew where you were staying, I'd call them up and tell them to lock up the silverware. Don't push it."

"Go ahead, Missy," he said, taking another step forward and spilling some of his gin and tonic on my skirt. "If you want to screw up your brother's chances of ever getting his miserable little game published, just keep on the way you're going. If I were you – "

"If I were you, I'd drop it," I said.

"But – "

"Get the hell out of here," I hissed.

Benson opened his mouth, then realized, even through the alcohol, how serious I was. He lurched away. I saw him stop by the bar for a refill, then he left the party. Good riddance.

Yes, I was definitely getting a headache. If I were a better person, I would go in search of Faulk and/or Tad; hunt down Mother and keep her away from Mrs. Waterston; mingle with the crowd to show off Mrs. Tranh's handiwork; or do any one of a thousand things to make the party a success. Instead, I snagged another glass of wine from a passing waiter and moved a little farther back into the shadows, hoping no one would notice me.

I could see Michael standing in a small group that included Dad, Mrs. Fenniman, Aunt Phoebe, and Uncle Stanley, within easy reach of the food tables and only a few paces away from the bar. They were all talking animatedly about something. A kamikaze installation of wrought-iron flamingos throughout the neighborhood, perhaps? Probably not. There were bound to be laws against that, and Uncle Stanley was a judge – a federal judge, though. Maybe federal judges didn't care about mere local infractions.

As I watched, Michael stepped toward the bar – a little away from the
ffonp,
but still close enough to talk to them over his shoulder. I watched as he ferried fresh drinks back to my relatives. I thought of joining them, then decided I was better off where I was. I'd rather be back in the tent, preferably with Michael. I'd have suggested leaving, but I knew that a few more glasses of wine would greatly increase the odds that, when we got there, Michael would be too busy helping me out of my stays to get into a discussion about the state of our relationship.

Someone cleared his throat behind me, and a hand touched my upper arm. I could see that the hand emerged from a sleeve of the now-familiar blue that both Wesley and Benson were wearing.

Okay, I should have stopped to take a deep breath and counted to ten, but I'd had it with these jerks.

"Dammit!" I said, whirling around. "Just leave me the hell alone, will you? I don't want to – "

I suddenly realized that I was yelling at cousin Horace who, of course, was wearing one of Mrs. Waterston's standard-issue blue coats, like Wesley and Benson and half the men at the party.

"Sorry, sorry," he was muttering, backing away as if from a rattlesnake.

"I'm sorry, Horace," I said. "I thought you were someone else."

"I usually am," he said, continuing to back away with a fixed smile on his face.

"Horace! Wait. I – oh, never mind," I said, as Horace collided with a waiter carrying a food tray and melted into the crowd under cover of the falling hors d'oeuvres. People were staring at me, including several disapproving relatives.

Well, I couldn't blame them. Shouting at poor, harmless Horace had to be a new low, even for me. I don't think I'd have felt any worse if I'd kicked Spike. Actually, Spike sometimes deserved kicking, while poor Horace…

Clearly I was unfit for human company right now. People were turning back to their conversations, and from my place at the edge of the lighted area, I found it easy to slip into the shadows under the trees. No one seemed to notice my absence – not even Michael, still absorbed in his animated discussion with Dad.

Which was okay. I needed some time alone. My mother was fond of remarking how wonderful it was that Meg had grown up from a cantankerous child into such an even-tempered young lady. The first time I heard her say it, I burst out laughing. I felt as if I'd spent half my life searching for ways to control my temper. I'd discovered a lot of great stuff along the way – yoga, for example, and even my ironworking career. Pounding on things with a hammer does wonders to work off anger. But I still thought of myself as a volcano waiting to blow. Although these days I usually managed not to blow until I was by myself, and to get my anger out of my system before going back into the human race again. Which isn't my definition of even-tempered, but I suppose it's better than nothing. Lurking in the shadows wasn't going to do the trick tonight, though. I needed someplace more private where I could pace, mutter, curse, and maybe even kick a few things for good measure.

There was precious little privacy to be found in the tent city where Michael and I were camping. Mother and Dad were hosting the usual motley assortment of relatives, some of whom were sure to be lurking around the house.