Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

face I could tell she was kicking herself for not researching period party clothes. 'And you've lost weight,' she added. 'I didn't notice it in that baggier dress you were wearing all day.'

'That's because I didn't lose any,' I said. 'I'm wearing a set of stays under this dress; the damned things really do take inches off your waist.'

'Where does it put them?' she asked.

'It pushes everything up and out,' Michael said, with an appreciative glance.

'Well, yes, actually it does,' I said, adjusting the lace at the edge of my bodice in a vain attempt to disguise exactly how very much of me there was to push up and out.

'Isn't that a mite uncomfortable?' Amanda asked me.

'Actually, it isn't,' I admitted. 'Sounds weird, but it gives your back a lot of support which, after standing around all day, isn't exactly a bad idea. And it doesn't feel constricting – but more regal, if that doesn't sound too weird. I mean, there's no way you can slouch in this thing.'

'Yes, it makes you look taller,' Michael said. Which didn't bother him, of course, since at six feet four inches he still towered over me, no matter how much taller the stays made me.

'Taller, yeah; and that's not all,' Amanda said, chuckling.

'Honey, you'd better keep your eye on her in that thing. You don't want some fast-talking redcoat to cut you out.'

'Don't worry,' Michael said, putting a proprietary arm around my waist. 'I intend to.'

We strolled around the party, taking in the sights. The string quartet was a little shaky. Obviously, they hadn't been here all day, like the rest of us. They still jumped every time the cannon fired, while most of us had learned to ignore the artillery. I wondered if the residents of Yorktown in 1781 had gotten so oblivious to cannon fire. Probably not, if each boom signaled that somewhere in town a cannonball was about to fall. A couple of houses in town still had cannonballs in their sides. Although I knew at least one of the most picturesquely embedded cannonballs, the one in the Nelson house, had fallen out in the twentieth century and was cemented back in by a Hollingworth cousin who worked for the Park Service, during preparations for the 1931 Sesquicentennial – one of the things they don't tell the tourists.

Someone had told Mrs. Waterston that lawn bowling was a popular social activity in colonial Virginia, so she'd roped off part of the lawn and provided several sets of balls, hoping some of the guests would strike up a game and add to the picturesque period atmosphere.

Unfortunately, she'd neglected to provide a set of rules, and anyone who actually knew how the game was supposed to be played had long since deserted the bowling lawn.

By the time Michael and I arrived, we found a standoff between a group who wanted to play something resembling horseshoes without any stakes and a flock of my aunts, advocating a mutant form of wicketless, malletless croquet. The argument was purely theoretical, since the balls had long since been appropriated by my nine-year-old nephew, Eric, and his friends. They hid in the bushes, rolling balls out among the guests' feet, trying to see how close they could come to selected relatives' ankles without actually hitting them. From time to time, you could hear startled squawks from various parts of the crowd, as someone stepped on a ball. If you happened to be watching, you'd see the victim's head suddenly disappear into the crowd, usually accompanied by a small eruption of food and drink.

'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….'