Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

"Killer!" I snarled at Wesley. I kicked him in the face, quite deliberately, while scrambling up, and shoved my way through the mass of white- and red-clad soldiers to throw myself down at Michael's side.

"Michael!" I cried. "Can you hear me?"

"Ma'am, we're trying to have a battle here – "

"Call an ambulance!" I shouted. "Dad, put that thing down and get over here. Dammit, Michael, hang on!" I cried, as I tried to figure out whether I should cradle his head or whether moving him was a bad idea. "I'm sorry; I've been awful to you. Just hang on, please. I promise if you just hang on – "

He opened his eyes. This was a good sign, right?

"Meg, will you do something for me?" he gasped.

"Anything, Michael, but don't try to talk now," I said. "Dad, where the hell are you?"

"Meg, you're spoiling the filming," Dad said, looming over me with his camera-filled powder keg.

"You're filming this!" I said, looking up at him. His video-camera was whirring away. He didn't seem upset. I noticed that a couple of the soldiers around us were smothering giggles. I looked down at Michael. The red stain didn't seem to be spreading. And it looked very red. Almost unnaturally red.

"Michael?"

He opened one eye and winked at me.

"You're all right?"

He opened his hand to reveal a plastic bag that still contained a few drops of stage blood.

"Do you want me to keep filming this?" Dad asked.

"Shh," Michael said, closing his eyes again. "I think she's about to say something I want to hear."

"Michael, you jerk!" I shouted.

"No, that's not it," he said, shaking his head.

"I thought you were dead!" I shrieked, snatching off my cocked hat and hitting him with it. "I thought the little weasel had killed you!"

"And you came running to save me," Michael said, pulling me down on top of him. "I'm overwhelmed."

"You're overwhelmed!" I said. "I'm furious. Do you realize – "

"Hey, you're in my light," I heard Dad say to someone. "I'm trying to film."

I looked up to see Dad's powder keg pointed at Michael and me.

"We can discuss how grateful you are later," I said, pulling myself up again. "Right now – "

"Meg Langslow!" came Mrs. Waterston's voice through the bullhorn. "Why are you ruining my battle? Get out of there immediately!"

"Ma'am," a nearby soldier said, obviously fighting laughter. "If you're finished having hysterics now – "

"Laugh all you want," I said, standing up and dusting off my uniform. "But one of your soldiers – make that someone pretending to be one of your soldiers – is using live ammo here. He tried to kill Michael."

"Meg Langslow! Get off my battlefield this minute!"

"Her battlefield," someone muttered.

"She's not kidding," another soldier said. "I've been hit! Someone put a round right through my canteen!"

"There he is," I said, pointing to the other end of the redoubt, where Wesley was trying to slink away. "He killed Benson and now he's trying to kill the only witness! Catch him!"

Fortunately, Wesley did his best to convince them I was telling the truth by bolting out of the redoubt the second he heard me. And I gather even the suspicion of live ammo on the field really ticked people off. The soldiers gave chase – a few at first, and then both units of French and British, when the word of what Wesley had done had made the rounds.

In fact, within a few minutes, half the soldiers on the field were merrily running up and down the battlefield, chasing Wesley – several hundred soldiers, not to mention assorted camp followers and stragglers, Dad with his camera, Horace in his gorilla suit, and Spike, barking happily.

I heard the sound of cannonfire and whirled around to see if anything had happened to Duck and Mrs. Fenniman, but they were both still calmly perched on their proper ends of the cannon. Jess and his man had hauled out the speakers and punctuated the chase with an almost nonstop series of cannon blasts.

"He's pretty fast," Michael said, as we watched Wesley temporarily outpacing his pursuers – although from our vantage point we could see a group of buckskin-clad riflemen and Indians crouching behind some bushes, waiting to ambush him.

"Used to run track and field in high school," I said. "Never was good at contact sports, though," I added as Wesley, cut off by the frontier unit, made the mistake of trying to break through a flanking unit of Highlanders and ended up at the bottom of a small plaid mountain.

By the time someone found Monty and dragged him out onto the battlefield, Wesley had been rescued from the overly enthusiastic Highlanders and tied up, while a picked honor guard of American, French, British, and German soldiers watched over him.

"What's going on here?" Monty snapped. "Why is this man tied up?"

"Because he's the one who really killed Roger Benson," I said.

"And you have some kind of evidence?" he said, with a sneer.

"Hold your horses, you miserable carpetbagger," Amanda said, as she came trailing after him.

"Wrong period, ma'am," a soldier said. "How about miserable Tory?"

"That'll do just fine," she said, handing me my haversack. I pulled out the McDonald's sack and the file folder and presented them, with a flourish, to Monty.

He still looked a little dubious after I'd showed him the loot I'd found in Wesley's tent, but he began looking interested after the redcoats showed him the second live round they'd found in Wesley's cartridge case, not to mention the newly ventilated canteen. And after Tony Grimes showed up, escorted by a squad of the Virginia militia, confessed to his color blindness and his ignorance of how colonial-era padlocks worked, Monty looked positively triumphant.

"Well, it looks as if we have this, thing wrapped up," he said. "I think – "

"What is going on out here?" Mrs. Waterston demanded, storming up to Monty. "We're trying to have a battle here! I've been working for nearly a year to arrange this event and you're ruining everything. And you – " she said, turning to me. "It's all your fault! What do you mean, running out here and – "

"Mom, shut up," Michael said.

Her jaw dropped. I heard scattered applause from the ranks, followed by a lot of shushing.

"The man who killed Roger Benson was planning to kill me under cover of the battle," Michael said. "Meg found out and rushed out here to risk her own life to save me."

"She did?" Mrs. Waterston said.

Gee, I thought, you don't have to sound quite so surprised.

"But I thought you put the killer in jail," she said, turning to Monty.

"That was only a ruse to lull the real killer into a false sense of complacency," Monty said, ignoring the catcalls and raspberries from the soldiers.

"Well, then who is the killer?" she asked.

"Him," chorused several dozen soldiers, pointing to Wesley – who managed, despite being tied hand and foot, to give a fairly convincing impression of snide villainy.

"Then he's banned from participating in this festival," Mrs. Waterston announced, turning on her heels. "Permanently," she added, more loudly, over the chorus of laughter that accompanied her departure.

"Oh, I'm crushed," Wesley muttered.

"Yeah, you've got bigger things to worry about," Monty said, gesturing for two of his officers to help Wesley up. "like whether the DA goes for the death penalty."

"It was an accident," Wesley said. "Yeah, I know it was stupid to try to cover it up, but I wasn't thinking clearly."

"An accident?" I said.

"He fell on the eamingo!"

"Wesley, Wesley," Dad said, shaking his head. "You know they're not going to believe that. How could he possibly have fallen on the flamingo four times?"

"Four times?" I repeated.

"At least," Dad said. "According to the autopsy report, anyway. I wasn't given the chance to examine the deceased myself," he added, in an injured tone.

"Take him away, boys," Monty said.

"Attention," came Mrs. Waterston's voice on the bullhorn. "Please excuse the interruption to the battle. Our local sheriff's department has apprehended the parties responsible, and as soon as they have been removed from the field, we will start the battle over."

"She's got to be kidding," one soldier muttered, but he and the others turned and began ambling off in various directions to retake their starting positions.

"Oh, good. I can get some different angles this time," Dad said. He popped open one end of his powder keg, ejected a tape from the camera, replaced it with a fresh tape from his cartridge bag, shouldered the keg, and ran off after the Gatinois chasseurs.

"I think I'll sit this one out," I said, heading for the barriers that marked the edge of the battlefield. "I did enough damage for one day in the first skirmish."

"Or possibly to the first skirmish," Michael said, falling into step beside me.

"Uh… Meg?"

I turned to see the sheriff, resplendent in buckskins with a coonskin cap, trying to catch up with us.

"When you searched that fellow Wesley's tent, did you happen to find…"

"Hang on," I said, digging into my bag. "I have the pictures here."

"Thanks," he said.

"Just tell me one thing," I said, as I handed over Wesley's CD-ROM. "What were you doing talking to her?"

He winced.

"You may not believe me, but as God is my witness, I was trying to talk her out of that damned fool project," he said.

"And why is that?" I asked, trying very hard to pretend I knew who the woman was and what project he was talking about.

"People around here don't want a Yorktown theme park," the sheriff said. "Can you imagine it – cartoon characters walking around in tricorn hats, a phony early American village, colonial-style rides in the amusement park! I paid attention just fine in school, and I don't recall anything about our forefathers building rollercoasters and selling corn dogs, for heaven's sake. I don't care how many jobs her company promises, that stuff never turns out the way they promise; and even if it did, it's a trashy idea, and I don't want any part of it. And I told her so."

"Bravo," I said. "I agree."

"And that Wesley took pictures of me telling her, and he threatened he was going to make it look like I was in cahoots with her," the sheriff said.

"I can't swear those are the only copies," I said. "But even if they aren't, I doubt if anyone's going to believe anything Wesley has to say for a while."

"Well, mat's true," the sheriff said. "Thanks."

He saluted. Remembering I was technically in uniform, I saluted back, and he shambled off.

"Meg!"

"Suddenly I'm Ms. Popularity," I said, seeing Tad and Rob running my way.

"Do you still have my CD-ROM?" Rob asked.

"And mine?" Tad added.

"More CDs, coming up," I said, handing each of them the proper little square envelope.

"Okay," Rob said. "It's a deal."

He and Tad exchanged CD-ROMs, and they shook hands formally.

"Okay, I'll bite," I said. "Now what are you both up to?"

"I'm going to find a reputable company to develop and market Lawyers from Hell," Tad said, as he stowed Rob's CD-ROM in an inside pocket of his velvet coat. "Maybe make a few tweaks to it first. I've got a few ideas that'll jazz it up; make it run like a scalded dog."

He smiled, started to leave, then turned back.

"Oh, you know that deputy guy you wanted me to check on? He only worked for the Canton PD for about a year. Parking enforcement."

"So the evil Wesley was right about something; Monty's not a detective," I said.

"Well, he was in Cleveland," Tad said. "But they kicked him out for sexual harassment. That's how he ended up in Canton. And eventually in Yorktown."

With that, he sauntered off toward the bleachers.

"So he's not a phony," Michael said. "Just a male chauvinist pig."

"I could have told you that part," I said.

"Should we tell the sheriff about this?" Michael asked.

"Or Mrs. Fenniman?" Rob added.

"Or maybe both?" I said. "So, Rob, what are you doing with Tad's disk?"

"I'm going to talk one of the lawyer uncles into taking Tad's case against Benson's company on spec, and help out with it," Rob said, tucking the CD-ROM into his haversack. "I've decided I want to specialize in some kind of computer-related law, and this looks like a good way to get started."

He began to leave, then stopped, reached into his pocket, and handed me a sheet of paper.

"Mother told me to give you this," he said.

"Sauce au poivre," I read. "Well, let's hope it's close to the way Le Rivage does it."

"Actually, it's from Le Rivage," Rob said. "And Mother said to tell you to call Didier and let him know when you're coming in to measure for the wine rack."

"Wine rack?"

"Yeah, don't you remember? You're making him some kind of custom wine rack in return for the recipe."

With that, he ambled back onto the battlefield.

"How on Earth did Mother know I wanted die recipe?" I wondered.

"I told her," Michael said. "Although I thought she'd find some way to get the recipe without trading who knows how many days of your work for it."

"I’ll manage," I said. "And it'll be worth it."

"Definitely," Michael said, as we resumed strolling. "My mouth waters just thinking about that sauce."

"Actually, I meant 'worth it,' knowing I can give your mom the recipe so she'll stop hounding me."

"Well, that, too," he said. "Anyway, everyone's happy."

"Not quite everyone," I said.

"True," he said, as we ducked under the barrier at the edge of the battlefield and began shoving our way through the crowd.

"Monty!" I called, seeing the deputy ahead of us.

"I can't talk now," he said. "I have to go down to the jail to book our suspect."

"And to release Faulk, I assume," I said. "You won't be holding Faulk now that you have the real killer, I hope?"

"And have every lawyer in your family breathing down my neck and yelling about false-arrest suits? Are you kidding?"

"That's good," I said. "And while you're at it, make sure your boss knows why you left Cleveland."

"He knows all right," Monty snapped, turning to face me with his hands on his hips. "And also about all the damned diversity training I had to take to get hired anywhere. You are looking at the most culturally enlightened, diversity-sensitive law-enforcement officer this misbegotten hick town will ever see."

With that, he stomped off toward his waiting squad car.

"I can tell he's a changed man," Michael said.

"If that's the post – diversity training Monty, I can see why Cleveland canned him," I said. "Ah well – he's the sheriff's problem now."

"Or perhaps, in a few weeks, Mrs. Fenniman's," Michael added.

"Ms. Langslow?"

I turned to see three members of the Town Watch, holding several long sheets of authentic-looking old-fashioned paper.

"All the crafters who check out have been saying that you're taking care of their fines," one said.

"Naturally," I said. "How much does the bill come to?"

"Seven thousand, eight hundred and forty-five dollars," he said, with a sharklike smile.

"Here," I said, reaching into my haversack and hauling out a wad of bills. "This should cover it."

"What's this stuff?" he said, frowning down at the bills.

"Colonial currency, of course," I said. "You wouldn't expect me to pay you in anachronisms, would you? Oh – and you can keep the change."

"Colonial currency?" Michael asked, as we walked off, leaving the watchmen staring with astonishment at the bills.

"Tad did some research on the Internet this morning, and ran the stuff off on his color printer," I said. "And Eric spent several hours staining the bills with tea and drying them with Mother's hairdryer. I owe them one."

We'd shoved our way past the crowd, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Any other loose ends you need to tie up?" Michael asked. "Not that I can think of," I said.

"Well, I have just one," he said. "Now that all that's over with, I hate to sound like a broken record, but – "

"We need to talk," I said. "Somehow I predicted that."