Eat, Drink and Be Buried (11 page)

“I think we'd better take refuge here,” laughed Felicity. We were passing a wooden hut with a sign outside proclaiming: “Madame Kravatsky—Fortunes Told.” Colored drawings of the heavens adorned the hut. “The children at the local school did all of these,” Felicity said. “One of their many contributions to this fair.”

We stopped to admire the drawings, nearly all of which were remarkably imaginative. One in particular had a moon with human features. I took Felicity's arm. “Look at this one,” I said, and I was pointing when—

A whistling sound seemed to come out of nowhere. It turned instantly into a whirring like an overstretched spring, then, as if by magic, an arrow slammed into the wall of the hut. The head disappeared, buried deep, and the shaft still vibrated.

Felicity gasped in fear as she stared at me, eyes wide. The arrow had passed between us, missing us by inches.

E
VERYTHING ELSE FORGOTTEN FOR
the moment, Felicity flew toward the archery range. I followed. Bales of hay had been stacked in a rough semicircle behind the targets to absorb stray arrows. A hundred paces away, a large tent had one side open. Displays around the inside held different kinds of bows and arrows and showed the assembly from individual components. Reproductions of old woodcuts and drawings depicted archers of various nations locked in battle through the centuries.

The local Archery Society had posted a large sign which stated that they were responsible for this exhibit and demonstration, but when Felicity arrived they must have wished they had kept a lower profile. Staying just barely short of profanity, Felicity gave her razor-edged opinion of their safety and security arrangements. Her eyes blazed, her hands were in constant motion, and her voice lashed them like a bullwhip. All activities ceased and everybody listened.

When a tiny fissure opened up in her tirade and one member of the society was able to get a word in, several of them went pounding across the grass to look at the offending arrow. They returned, full of chagrin and apologies, and an impromptu inquiry was immediately opened.

It was quickly evident that nothing was going to come of it. Several of them had been standing around, archers in the contest and members of the society, as well as numerous interested visitors. Some had gone outside the tent to test the pull of this or that bow, and although the society members were reluctant to admit it, it was quite possible that someone could have taken an arrow and shot it. With all the coming and going in and out, no one was sure of anything.

“Who is or has been here, I wonder?” I murmured to Felicity, half musing, but knowing that she would pick up on it. The list included Frank Morgan, the stuntman we had left a while ago; Norman and Richard, who were both accomplished archers; and Don McCartney, who occasionally participated in contests. Norman was still here, but Richard had gone, no one was sure when. Everyone present denied loosing off an arrow or seeing anyone with one in their bow.

“What's the range to the fortune-telling booth?” I asked the vice president of the Archery Society, a nervous, twittery man with bony features, doubly agitated now.

He peered beyond the tent flap. “About a hundred paces.”

I looked at the targets lined up in front of the bale of hay backwall. “About the same as to the targets.”

“Well, yes,” he agreed. He twisted his fingers together. “I can't understand it, though. It couldn't have been anybody here, none of them would—”

“A mischievous child?” I suggested.

“Yes!” He seized on that eagerly. “It must have been.”

“There are a few of them here,” I noted.

“Quite a lot.”

“They all seem to be with adults, though,” I said. Another thought struck me. “What is the pull on these bows?”

“Forty, forty-five pounds—why do you ask? Ah, I see, yes.” His face clouded. “He'd have to be a strong boy, wouldn't he?”

Felicity rejoined me. Norman was with her. “Funny business, this,” he said. He was regarding me suspiciously, I thought. “An accident, don't you agree?” he asked.

“I'm not sure you really think that,” I said.

Norman hesitated, rubbed his cheek, then half-smiled. “As a matter of fact, I don't. The problem is—if it wasn't an accident, what was it?”

“Kenny's death throws doubt on any incident like this.” I hoped the noncommittal comment would draw him out. Was there something he wanted to tell me? I had the feeling there was, but what was holding him back? His glance flickered to Felicity but only for a split second. Why was he afraid to speak in front of her?

“I was just talking to the vice president over there,” I said. “Forty pounds pull or more on those bows means it couldn't have been a child.”

Norman nodded. He seemed glad to be able to be decisive on some point. “No question about that, I'd say.”

“You didn't see anybody yourself? Hanging around the tent entrance? Waiting for an opportunity to step outside and let off a shot?”

He shook his head firmly. “No. I was talking to Richard about the wind. He thought we ought to delay the start till it dropped. It can spoil an event like this.”

“Did it drop?” Felicity asked.

“Well, yes, it did.” His eyes searched her face.

“That's really important, isn't it?” She was trying to get out of him what he knew or what he thought, just as I was.

“I see what you're saying,” he said slowly. “If the arrow was aimed at either one of you, just a breeze could have caused a miss.”

“Which brings us to the other question.” She turned to me. “Which of us was the target?”

“I can't believe anyone wants to stop the menu being changed,” I said lightly. I wanted to retract the words as soon as they were out of my mouth but life doesn't provide reruns. I saw her mouth quiver, and added quickly, “But then nobody could want to kill you either. No, it must have been a silly accident.”

I saw another familiar face coming out of the crowd around the tent. It was Neville Woodward, whom Angela had introduced as her cousin. “You both okay?” he asked, but he didn't appear too solicitous. We assured him we were, but before we could say anything more, Lord Harlington came striding across the lawn.

“I just heard. What is this all about?”

Heads turned and conversation quieted as everyone wanted to hear what the lord of the manor had to say. He noticed the change his arrival had brought about and waved to the people around the tent. “It's all right, no harm done,” he called out. “Don't want this to spoil the festival.”

He took us aside and asked for a detailed account. Felicity gave him one, keeping it brief but not sparing the criticism. “I just stopped by the fortune-telling booth on the way here, saw the arrow,” Lord Harlington said, appalled. “My God, it could have killed you!”

“Well, it didn't, Daddy, so stop worrying. Just an accident.” Felicity had recovered her composure and was making light of the incident. We talked for a few more minutes, Felicity steering the conversation further and further away from archery.

Her father left us, counseling us to be careful. Norman went with him. “I'm going to watch the dance troupe,” Neville said. “They're doing sarabandes and gavottes and some of those other real old dances. Want to come along?” He ignored me, directing his question at Felicity.

“Go ahead,” I told her. “Have a good time.”

She smiled and the two of them walked away. I watched an acrobatic team that strolled across the grass, tossing their smaller members into the air and catching them expertly. I might have spent more time here at the Children's Festival, but I decided it was too dangerous a place for me. I walked off toward the castle where the supplies office sounded safer.

The business wing of the castle was just like the interior of any large and busy company. Some rooms had been converted into offices, the larger ones partitioned to provide working cubicles.

Phones rang, computer screens glowed, keyboards rattled, and men and women bustled around, some with papers in their hands, others with cups of tea.

“Supplies” was a fair-sized operation, handling such diverse commodities as toilet paper, feed for the horses, wax for the wooden floors, stationery and candles for the chapel. Donna Rowlands was telling me this after accepting my visit without question. She was a plump girl with horn-rimmed glasses and a crowded but not untidy desk.

“But it's the food you're interested in talking about,” she concluded.

“Right,” I agreed, coming straight to the point. “I would have wanted to talk to you anyway, but I was at Seven Seas and that's what I'd like to discuss first.”

“The seafood people. What do you want to know?”

“Quality-control visits. Who visits them and how often?”

She reached for a file. I saw that the big label said “QC.” She turned the pages.

“Victor does that,” she said. “On an annual basis.”

I didn't respond immediately and she was quick to frown. “Something wrong?”

“Routine, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have copies of his reports?”

“No, they're kept in the office at the kitchens.” She wasn't satisfied with my diversion. “Nothing wrong, is there?” she asked.

“Just details,” I said airily, and she looked relieved.

“How about bread?” I asked before she could pursue her question.

“We buy from a bakery in Stony Stratton.”

“That's near here, isn't it?”

“About fifteen minutes in a bakery van. That's one reason we chose it. Always fresh. ‘The Muffin Man.' Ë®

“Is that what it's called? Cute name.”

“They have a good product and they're reliable. Do you want to go and see them?”

“Yes. I'd like to talk to them about the possibility of rye and barley breads. The wheat bread you serve now is not bad, but one of these others should be more tasty and also more authentic.”

She reached for the phone. “I'll tell them you're coming.”

“I'd rather you didn't. Bakeries run all the time anyway.”

She released the instrument reluctantly. “They often like some warning—”

“This isn't a QC visit. Just a few questions. Who's your contact there?”

She opened her book again. “That's funny. We don't have a name—I wonder why?”

I wondered too. The operation at Harlington Castle seemed generally sound but there were some gaps. I went down a different avenue.

“Vegetables—there's an aspect we haven't touched on yet,” I said.

Donna pushed her glasses back on her nose and smiled. “We grow most of those ourselves. You've heard about Miss Felicity's Plantation, I'm sure?”

“I have heard about it and I've been wanting to see it. I must do that right away.”

“Oh, you must. She's so proud of it. Yes, she grows most of our vegetables and some of our fruit, too. Some of the exotic ones we have to buy in, like pineapples and oranges and grapefruit, but she grows kiwis, strawberries, and figs in her greenhouses.”

“A clever girl,” I commented.

The phone rang and I left her to wrangle over changes in delivery dates.

T
HE MUFFIN MAN WAS
in a smart, neat-looking building on the outskirts of Stony Stratton. The village itself was pretty, well kept, with flowers everywhere. It was the next morning. Clouds scudded low and tried to look threatening but it was mostly bluff. Behind the clouds, blue sky showed and a coy sun peeked through more and more, like a bashful child increasingly bold in showing its face.

The reception area of The Muffin Man was tiny. They evidently did not do much receiving. A young girl with a ponytail slid open a plastic panel. “Was there something?”

I explained that I was at the castle and working with the chefs. I said I wanted to see the bakery facilities and discuss their products. She looked nonplussed, as if no one had ever asked this before. “We don't get visitors.”

I gave her my best smile. Sometimes it works. “I'm not a visitor. I just want to look around. The castle is one of your biggest customers.”

She shook her head. “You have to see the Muffin Man.”

“I thought this was The Muffin Man.”

“It's the name of the bakery, right. But it's the Muffin Man that owns it. Like the owner.”

“Fine. I'll see him,” I told her.

“Can't, he's not here.”

“When is he here?”

For some reason, that question baffled her. She looked at a blank sheet of paper that was on the desk but found no inspiration. She turned to look behind her but there was nobody there.

“I really need to see someone,” I said pleasantly, but putting a steely ring into the words. The girl was young enough to be intimidated, I reasoned. Maybe she was, but she was also persistent.

“We don't really have anybody—”

“Every business has somebody,” I assured her. “The master baker will do. If he's busy, his assistant. If he's busy—”

“Just a minute.” She went to a desk just far enough away that I could not hear her words on the phone as she talked with her back to me. She came back. “Just a minute,” she said again.

I waited. There were no chairs, so I stood. I fidgeted and drummed fingers. I walked to and fro; the space was almost big enough for three paces each way. The girl left the panel open but ignored the manifestations of my impatience. Finally, a door opened and a young woman came in, wiping her hands on her apron, which had small hunks of dough stuck here and there.

“May,” she said.

At first, I thought she was telling me when to come back, but after I told her who I was and why I was here, I found out that her name was May. I went through my presentation about the castle once more. “So I'd like to see the bakery,” I said, “and talk to someone about some different breads, say rye and barley for a start.”