Free Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos by Donna Andrews Page B
Authors: Donna Andrews
nodding good evening to the members of the Town Watch who were going to patrol it for the night, and headed for the party.
The craft fair occupied a large field that belonged to the Park Service, just south of the small neighborhood where my parents lived, and separated from it by a two-lane blacktop road. If you followed the road west a few hundred yards, you'd arrive at the edge of the Yorktbwn Battlefields, where we were all encamped with our picturesque but uncomfortable period tents. Most of the reenactors had gone back there to attend one or more regimental meetings, rehearsals, or parties. By this time, we were almost the only ones heading in the other direction, toward Mrs. Waterston's party.
We did run into someone we knew, though. When we glanced down the highway before crossing, I saw a sleek Jaguar, pulled off to the side of the road, its silver paint glowing in the fading light. The driver's side window was open, and someone in one of the generic rental coats was leaning down, talking to a sleekly coifed blond woman inside.
"That'd make a great photo," Michael said, nodding toward the car. "Study in contrasts, then and now, and all that."
Then the pedestrian straightened up and we recognized him.
"Benson," I said, though not loudly enough that the man himself could hear me. He glanced round, as if looking to see if anyone had seen him. We pretended not to notice him, and he hurried off ahead of us. The car drove away in the other direction, past us, and back toward the battlefields and town. The driver didn't seem to notice us.
"Wonder what he's up to," Michael mused.
"Something sinister," I said. "I think Tad is right; I don't trust that man."
"I don't know," Michael said. "You'd mink a really hardened villain would have figured out how to skulk around without the telltale furtive body language."
"Yeah, he might as well just jump up on the table and shout, 'Look at me! I'm up to something!" I said. "But just because he's a bad actor doesn't mean he isn't a villain."
"Recognize the woman he was talking to?" Michael asked.
"No," I said. "Don't think she's from around here."
"Well, let's not worry about it," he said. "You can tell Rob you think the guy is crooked, and that'll be the end of it."
"Good idea," I said, and felt a lot more cheerful. The very idea of Rob telling Benson to take a hike made me more cheerful. In fact, if Rob balked, I might even volunteer to do the job myself.
Buoyed by the thought of telling off Benson, I led Michael along the path toward the Moore House, the white-frame farmhouse where, in 1781, the British and Americans had signed the surrender documents to end the siege of Yorktown and, for all practical purposes, the Revolutionary War. Mrs. Waterston wanted to hold her party inside, but the Park Service hadn't approved. They'd let her use the grounds, though. As we drew near, I could see that the house was softly lit from within, as if by candlelight – although knowing how picky they were about fire hazards in historical buildings, I doubted they used real candles.
Strings of lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating the lawn with pools of light and pockets of shadow. Electric lanterns, of course, which probably irritated Mrs. Waterston, but they had the kind of flickering bulb that could almost fool you into thinking of real candles. A string quartet played soft classical music, and I could hear the faint hum of conversation.
Mrs. Waterston swept through one lighted area. Either I'd forgotten how extreme her costume was, or she'd gone home to put on an even taller wig. I glanced down at my sensible linsey-woolsey gown, feeling underdressed.
"Don't worry," Michael said, catching my glance. "Mrs. Tranh has a ball gown for you."
I sighed. Mrs. Tranh was Mrs. Waterston's partner in the dress shop. Like everyone else in town, I'd originally assumed Mrs. Tranh worked for Mrs. Waterston. Over Memorial Day weekend, after watching the strike scenes in a TV rerun of
The craft fair occupied a large field that belonged to the Park Service, just south of the small neighborhood where my parents lived, and separated from it by a two-lane blacktop road. If you followed the road west a few hundred yards, you'd arrive at the edge of the Yorktbwn Battlefields, where we were all encamped with our picturesque but uncomfortable period tents. Most of the reenactors had gone back there to attend one or more regimental meetings, rehearsals, or parties. By this time, we were almost the only ones heading in the other direction, toward Mrs. Waterston's party.
We did run into someone we knew, though. When we glanced down the highway before crossing, I saw a sleek Jaguar, pulled off to the side of the road, its silver paint glowing in the fading light. The driver's side window was open, and someone in one of the generic rental coats was leaning down, talking to a sleekly coifed blond woman inside.
"That'd make a great photo," Michael said, nodding toward the car. "Study in contrasts, then and now, and all that."
Then the pedestrian straightened up and we recognized him.
"Benson," I said, though not loudly enough that the man himself could hear me. He glanced round, as if looking to see if anyone had seen him. We pretended not to notice him, and he hurried off ahead of us. The car drove away in the other direction, past us, and back toward the battlefields and town. The driver didn't seem to notice us.
"Wonder what he's up to," Michael mused.
"Something sinister," I said. "I think Tad is right; I don't trust that man."
"I don't know," Michael said. "You'd mink a really hardened villain would have figured out how to skulk around without the telltale furtive body language."
"Yeah, he might as well just jump up on the table and shout, 'Look at me! I'm up to something!" I said. "But just because he's a bad actor doesn't mean he isn't a villain."
"Recognize the woman he was talking to?" Michael asked.
"No," I said. "Don't think she's from around here."
"Well, let's not worry about it," he said. "You can tell Rob you think the guy is crooked, and that'll be the end of it."
"Good idea," I said, and felt a lot more cheerful. The very idea of Rob telling Benson to take a hike made me more cheerful. In fact, if Rob balked, I might even volunteer to do the job myself.
Buoyed by the thought of telling off Benson, I led Michael along the path toward the Moore House, the white-frame farmhouse where, in 1781, the British and Americans had signed the surrender documents to end the siege of Yorktown and, for all practical purposes, the Revolutionary War. Mrs. Waterston wanted to hold her party inside, but the Park Service hadn't approved. They'd let her use the grounds, though. As we drew near, I could see that the house was softly lit from within, as if by candlelight – although knowing how picky they were about fire hazards in historical buildings, I doubted they used real candles.
Strings of lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating the lawn with pools of light and pockets of shadow. Electric lanterns, of course, which probably irritated Mrs. Waterston, but they had the kind of flickering bulb that could almost fool you into thinking of real candles. A string quartet played soft classical music, and I could hear the faint hum of conversation.
Mrs. Waterston swept through one lighted area. Either I'd forgotten how extreme her costume was, or she'd gone home to put on an even taller wig. I glanced down at my sensible linsey-woolsey gown, feeling underdressed.
"Don't worry," Michael said, catching my glance. "Mrs. Tranh has a ball gown for you."
I sighed. Mrs. Tranh was Mrs. Waterston's partner in the dress shop. Like everyone else in town, I'd originally assumed Mrs. Tranh worked for Mrs. Waterston. Over Memorial Day weekend, after watching the strike scenes in a TV rerun of
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