Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

"What a horrible day," Rob said, "and more to come. I'd better take Spike back to Mrs. Waterston's house and feed him."

"Fine," I said. "You didn't leave Mr. Benson alone, did you?"

"He went back to his motel," Rob said, sounding tired.

"Are you sure?"

"I watched him drive off."

"Good riddance," I said. "I hope that's the last we see of him."

"Well, actually, I think he's coming to Mrs. Waterston's party," Rob said.

"Are you sure?"

"He rented a costume," Rob said, with a shrug.

"Oh, great," I said, as Rob ambled off with Spike. "That should be a laugh a minute."

I sighed, plopped my haversack on the ground, and sat down, feeling suddenly tired.

Two members of the Anachronism Police came in, carrying a birdbath, accompanied by a potter, presumably its maker. I wasn't in the mood, but I closed my eyes, counted to ten, then opened them again, and smiled as sweetly as I could manage.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Oh, no," one watchman said, starting to back away.

"It's not really important," the other said. He tripped over an andiron in his haste to leave, sending the dish of the bird-bath sailing. The potter leaped up and caught it as if it were an oversized ceramic Frisbee, then followed them out of my booth. I could hear the three of them bickering as they scurried down the lane. Apparently I'd just blown the Miss Congeniality award. I closed my eyes again and massaged my temples.

"Long day," Amanda said, coming up and leaning against my table.

"The longest," I agreed. "And not over yet. We still have the party."

"You make that sound like as much fun as a firing squad," Amanda said. "What's wrong with the party?"

"I just want to put on my jeans and relax, not keep wearing these damned skirts," I said, shaking the hem of my dress and raising a small cloud of dust. "And Michael's mother will be having conniption fits at every real or imaginary thing that goes wrong."

"Well, tell her not to get her panniers in a twist," Amanda said, smiling. "The tall, dark, and handsome Michael will be there, of course."

And Michael, of course, which would make up for everything – normally. But if Michael showed up at the party hellbent on having a serious discussion on the progress of our relationship…

"What's wrong?" Amanda asked. "Have an argument?"

"More like a continuation of an ongoing discussion," I said. "Which isn't much better, actually."

"So I gathered. What's the problem anyway? I mean, the mother's an ogre, of course, but you of all people should be used to dealing with impossible relatives."

"He wants me to move in with him," I said. "Or at least move closer, so we can see more of each other."

"And your problem is?"

"I don't know," I said. "Makes me nervous, though."

"Honey, every unmarried woman I know complains all the time about how she can't find a guy who isn't scared of commitment. Sounds like you found one who's interested in commitment."

"And I'm the one who's scared."

"If that mother of his comes as part of the package, maybe you should be scared."

"And maybe I should just be committed. Michael's great, and like you say, I'm used to dealing with crazy relatives. What's one more? It's not him or his mother. It's me."

"Well, stick to your guns," she said, patting me on the shoulder. "You'll know when the time is right."

She scurried back to her booth to accost a customer, and I sighed. Would I know when the time was right? Maybe the time was as right now as it ever would be, and I was blowing it, big time.

"Well, Faulk finally showed up," Michael said, strolling in. "Just in time, too. I have no idea how to shut up his booth."

"Thanks for filling in for him," I said. "Hope you didn't have to miss any regimental events."

"I thought you resented me going to regimental events," he said.

"No, I don't," I began, and then changed my mind. "Look, let's not get into that again now, when we only have maybe fifteen or twenty minutes before we're late for your mother's party."

His face relaxed into a smile.

"Good point," he said. "Only we actually have about thirty seconds before we're late," he added, glancing at a pocket watch that he'd pulled out of his waistcoat.

"Damn!" I said. "Hang on a minute while I shut things up."

"Don't worry. She's not calling the roll and taking off points for attendance."

"That's what you think," I muttered.

I hastily grabbed my cash box and my laptop and ducked behind the curtain into the storage area, where I nestled them safely in one of my metal storage cases, and padlocked the case.

"Oops," Michael said. Apparently he'd tripped over my haversack and was now shoveling the contents back in.

"Thanks," I said as he handed it over. "Although I don't think I had quite that much hay and straw in it to begin with."

"Well, you never know when they might come in handy," he said, with a grin. "Come on. The party awaits."

We left the craft-fair grounds, 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.