Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos (12 page)

"Oh, dear," said the sheriff, who was standing nearby, sipping punch and absentmindedly combing the occasional stray tomato seed out of his beard. "I suppose I should do something about those boys."

"Definitely," I said. "Tell them to lay off my craft-fair friends and our family and go after someone who deserves to break his neck. Like him," I added, pointing to the buffet, where Tony-the-louse was loading up a plate.

The sheriff laughed, nervously.

"Or better yet, them," Michael said, pointing to the other end of the buffet, where Wesley Hatcher and Benson stood talking.

The sheriff followed Michael's finger, then, when he saw Wesley and Benson, his eyes widened, and he choked on his punch.

"What's wrong?" I asked, as Michael slapped him on the back.

"I'd better go talk to those fool boys," he said, when he'd coughed most of the punch out of his windpipe.

"What do you suppose got into him?" Michael asked.

"Good question," I said. "Something certainly shook him up, and I suspect it was Benson. I just wonder why."

"Could have been Wesley Hatcher," Michael pointed out. "They were standing together. Why don't I go help him out with the kids, and maybe I'll get the chance to ask him."

"Good idea," I said.

I sipped my wine and watched from the edge of the yard while Michael and the sheriff tracked down the rogue bowlers. I was enjoying being quiet and alone. Having spent the whole day talking to customers, craftspeople, tourists, reenactors, and stray relatives, I just wanted to sip my wine in peace and talk to nobody.

With his usual flair for turning up when least wanted, Wesley Hatcher sidled over toward me. He was staring rather fixedly at my decolletage, and I wondered if I should keep an inch or so of wine in my glass to throw at him in case he said something disgusting.

Apparently, Wesley hadn't completely forgotten what I was like. When he realized I had seen the direction of his stare, he smiled nervously and developed a keen interest in the other guests.

"So, is this a party or a wake?" he asked.

"Oh, come on, Wesley," I said. "It's a very nice party."

"Boring," he chanted. "How can you stand it around here?"

"Welcome to small-town America, Wesley," I said. "Last time I looked, they hadn't blockaded Route 64; you could leave any time."

"Yeah, but what's the point?" he said. He sounded a little tipsy. "I had vacation coming to me, so I'm taking it while I can. You can be sure they won't pay me for it if the rag folds."

"Is your paper going to fold?" I asked. Not that I cared one way or another about the
Super Snooper.
Apart from scanning the headlines if the grocery line was running slow, I never paid the slightest attention to it. But this did rather cast Wesley's triumphant return to his hometown in a very different light.

"Who knows?" he said, shrugging. "Whole industry's going down the tubes. Maybe I should do the whole roots thing, come back and work at the
Town Crier."

Or maybe not, I thought, since he'd left town one step ahead of several juicy libel suits. "I should think going back to the business magazine would be more interesting," I suggested.

"Don't rub it in," he growled.

"Don't rub what in?"

"The magazine's dead," he said. "Bigger company bought it out and sacked the whole staff. I got out just in time, moving to the
Snooper."

"Sorry," I said.

"Yeah," he muttered, and took a gulp from his drink. "So am I. I did some good work there."

"Charlottesville Businessman Kidnapped by Aliens?" I suggested. "Elvis Sighted in Norfolk Shopping Mall?"

"Real work," he said. "Legitimate journalism. Not the crap I'm doing now. It ruined my career when the
Intelligence
folded, if you want to know the truth. If I could just break a story, a really juicy story, something I could use to land a job on a legitimate publication…."

He chugged the rest of his drink.

"Hell, even a better tabloid," he added. "Then I'd still be a scum-sucking bottom feeder, but at least I'd be a well-paid one."

To my surprise, I found I was starting to feel just a little sorry for Wesley. It was a novel sensation, and I pondered it in silence, while Wesley crunched an ice cube from his glass.

"So help me out, will you?" he said, through a mouth full of ice. "You know everything that goes on in this burg; you always did. Your mother said you could find me a story, something juicy I can run with."

"Get lost, Wesley," I said. "The only story I know is that we're having a fabulous celebration of Yorktown Day, with the biggest crowds the town has seen since the Bicentennial, and everyone's having a wonderful time."

"That's not news, it's PR," Wesley grumbled. "Why don't you – hey, what's that?"

"That" was Tad and Roger Benson, raising their voices in another argument. Wesley scurried over to get closer to the action, reaching into his pocket for his notebook as he went.

I decided I could hear just as well from where I was. Neither was trying to keep his voice down.

"I never touched your damned booth," Benson was saying. He was holding a bloody handkerchief handy, as if he expected his nose to begin bleeding again at any moment.

"The hell you didn't," Tad shouted back. "I know damn well you went through everything in the booth; you didn't put things back carefully enough to hide that. But it won't do you any good. I've put the evidence where you'll never find it."

"Evidence," Benson snorted. "You haven't got a shred of real evidence and you know it."

"I've got enough to prove everything."

"Should we do something?" Michael said, appearing at my side.

"No," I said. "Not yet anyway."

"I suppose this would be a bad time to bring up the fact that if anyone rifled the booth it was me, looking for another pad of receipts when I was filling in for Faulk."

"A very bad time, I should think. Later, when Tad has calmed down. I wish Tad would stop going on about how he's got the evidence put away in such an incredibly safe place."

"Why?" Michael asked. "Don't you think he has evidence?"

"I bet he has," I said. "But I'm not all that sure my purse is such a safe hiding place. I have this sneaking feeling the evidence is on a CD-ROM Tad handed me earlier."

"Good grief," Michael muttered.

The shouting match reached a crescendo, and Tad stormed off. He hit a stray lawn-bowling ball on his way and for a few seconds, he pedaled and flailed his arms furiously like someone trying not to fall off a unicycle. Then he recovered his balance, if not his dignity, and strode out into the darkness beyond the glow of the lanterns.

When Tad disappeared, I glanced back to see what Benson was doing. And saw, though I couldn't hear, that Faulk, too, had a few things to say to the software pirate. He stopped talking as I watched, and they stared at each other for a few minutes. It was scarier than watching Tad square off with Benson, partly because of what had happened earlier. I think everyone at the party was watching, fearing – or hoping for – a rematch. And partly because Tad and Benson were about the same size, while Faulk towered over either one of them. And maybe partly because, despite the
sturm und drang,
I'd never heard of Tad hitting anyone, but I'd seen Faulk lose his temper and finish an argument with his fists, especially in college, when I first knew him. He'd worked a lot on controlling his temper over the last fifteen years, but I still kept my fingers crossed every time I saw him get angry. And, apparently, accidentally bloodying Benson's nose hadn't done a thing to improve his temper.

I breathed a sigh of relief when he turned and stalked out of the party. Following Tad, I suspected, since he headed in the same general direction. I wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

So did Michael, apparently.

"Should someone go after him? Them?" he asked.

"I don't think so," I said. "Tad seems to be pretty good at calming Faulk down," I said.

"And pretty good at involving Faulk in his problems," Michael said. "Would Faulk need calming down if it wasn't for Tad?"

I shrugged.

"I just wish Rob would at least try to keep Benson out of trouble," I said. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Rob? I haven't seen him all afternoon."

"If he's in my booth playing with the flamingos again – " I muttered.

Michael chuckled.

"Yes, he does love the flamingos," Michael said. "You should make him a brace."

"Never," I said. "Those are the only flamingos I will ever make and I'm beginning to wonder if it might not be easier to scrap the damned things and give Mrs. Fenniman her money back."

"You mean you wouldn't even make me a flock?"

"Not unless you were planning on putting them somewhere I'd never ever have to look at them."

"What a pity. I was thinking they'd make such a nice present for Mom. We could install them in a couple of weeks, when she goes down to Florida to visit her sister. It's still warm enough to pour concrete, right? She'd be so surprised."

"Okay," I said, smiling in spite of myself. "I might make an exception for your mother, since I know how overwhelmed she'd be."

Michael and I burst out laughing. I glanced around to see where Mrs. Waterston was before making another joke and saw her, rather nearby. She heard our laughter, turned, saw me, and frowned.

I sighed, wondering what I'd done now. I could never get over the feeling that she saw me as a highly unsatisfactory incumbent in the position of Michael's girlfriend, and as a completely unsuitable candidate for the vital position of daughter-in-law. Maybe she was a big part of my problem with commitment after all. Maybe I'd feel differently about moving in with Michael, much less (maybe? eventually? if things worked out?) marrying him, if I sensed something even vaguely resembling approval from her.

Suddenly she headed our way.

"Hello, Mother," Michael said when she reached us. "You look very nice."

"Hello," she said. "So do you."

She glanced over at me as she said it, leaving me to guess whether I was supposed to be included in the "you" or not. I resisted the impulse to tug at my dress. Not only did the neckline seem much lower all of a sudden, but every time I looked down, my breasts looked much closer than I was used to seeing them. I had to fight the irrational fear that if I stumbled they would fly up and smack me in the face.

"Meg," Mrs. Waterston said, "did you find that recipe yet?"

"Recipe?" Michael echoed. He knew perfectly well how implausible it was for anyone to ask me for a recipe.

"I'm sorry. I've been so swamped getting ready for the fair that I really haven't had time to look. I will as soon as I get home, though."

"I'd appreciate it," she said, and sailed off.

"What was that about a recipe?" Michael asked.

"I owe your mother a recipe," I said.

"What recipe?"

"The beef with peppercorn sauce she had when she came to dinner at my place in June."

"You made the beef with peppercorn sauce?" Michael asked.

"You don't have to sound so incredulous," I said. "I'm not such a lousy cook."

"No, just an infrequent one," Michael said.

"I had no idea you made that. I thought you got it from Le Rivage after you burned the roast."

"Well, of course I did," I said.

"Then why is she badgering you for the recipe?"

"Well, I didn't want to admit that I'd served her carryout food."

"Didier's
filet au poivre
isn't exactly carryout food."

"Yes, but I didn't want to admit I hadn't made it myself. So, when she asked for the recipe, I pretended I'd mislaid the card, and I looked up a recipe that sounded like the same thing and sent it to her. Apparently I didn't guess that well."

"I still don't understand…." he began.

"You never will," I said, with a sigh. "It's a chick thing."

"Next time, just tell her it's an old family recipe, and your mother forbids you to give it out."