Wicked Weaves Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Epilogue

  Ye Village Crier

  Little-Known Facts of the Renaissance

  Ye Olde Recipe

  Praise for the Peggy Lee Garden Mysteries

  POISONED PETALS

  “A delightful botany mystery.” —The Best Reviews

  “A top-notch, over-the-fence mystery read with beloved characters, a fast-paced story line, and a wallop of an ending.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Enjoy this pleasurable read!” —Mystery Morgue

  FRUIT OF THE POISONED TREE

  “I cannot recommend this work highly enough. It has everything: mystery, wonderful characters, sinister plot, humor, and even romance.” —Midwest Book Review

  “Well-crafted with a satisfying end that will leave readers wanting more!” —Fresh Fiction

  PRETTY POISON

  “With a touch of romance added to this delightful mystery, one can only hope many more Peggy Lee Mysteries will be hitting shelves soon!” —Roundtable Reviews

  “A fantastic amateur-sleuth mystery.” —The Best Reviews

  “For anyone with even a modicum of interest in gardening, this book is a lot of fun.” —The Romance Readers Connection

  “The perfect book if you’re looking for a great suspense.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “Joyce and Jim Lavene have crafted an outstanding whodunit in Pretty Poison, with plenty of twists and turns that will keep the reader entranced to the final page.” —Fresh Fiction

  “Complete with gardening tips, this is a smartly penned, charming cozy, the first book in a new series. The mystery is intricate and well-plotted. Green thumbs and nongardeners alike will enjoy this book.” —Romantic Times

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Joyce and Jim Lavene

  Peggy Lee Garden Mysteries

  PRETTY POISON

  FRUIT OF THE POISONED TREE

  POISONED PETALS

  PERFECT POISON

  Renaissance Faire Mysteries

  WICKED WEAVES

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for authors or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  WICKED WEAVES

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the authors

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2008

  Copyright © 2008 by Joyce Lavene and Jim Lavene.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-436-25997-2

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

  belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  We would like to dedicate this book and the Renaissance Faire Mysteries to Sandy Harding, our editor at Berkley, who makes us laugh and is the best listener in the world, and to Jacky Sach, our agent, who is always encouraging, even when our ideas are crazy. It is a pleasure working with both of you. You guys are the best!

  One

  “We believe he is dead, faithful squire,” Queen Olivia pronounced in grand, dramatic fashion. “The tournament belongs to our favorite, Sir Reginald.”

  “You are right as always, Your Majesty.” The master-at-arms used one foot to push the black knight’s head down when he tried to stand after being forced from his horse during the joust.

  The crowd on Sir Reginald’s side of the field roared its approval. The other side booed, of course. This was Renaissance Faire Village, after all, a faithful replica of an English Renaissance town where one could expect to find fairies flitting about, William Shakespeare creating odes, and strong knights competing in rugged jousts. Or so the flyers from the parent company, which owned three other villages, said.

  “Sir Reginald,” the queen trilled as the handsome knight kissed her hand, “you truly know the meaning of a good knight kiss.”

  The crowd laughed at the queen’s double entendre. I waited impatiently at the side of the hay-covered dirt field, flipping a swath of sweaty brown hair from my forehead. Late June wasn’t the best time to dress in Renaissance costumes, especially in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, but that was part of the show.

  No one in the crowd paid any attention as I bent down to help the black knight, aka my brother Tony, to his feet. They were all watching Sir Reginald depart the jousting field, accompanied by the queen and her court. Queen Olivia was in a flirtatious mood, bending close to her favorite and slapping her fan at one of her ladies-in-waiting when she came too near. Considering the king already knew about the queen’s recent brief affair with Sir Reginald and the fact that the lady-in-question was actually the handsome knight’s wife, I knew there were fireworks to come.

  It wasn’t unusual. Fortunately, it was difficult for the crowd to tell the
difference between what was real and what was acting. They were generally dazzled by the actors, who came from high school and college drama departments across the state to keep up with crowds during the summer months when visitor traffic was at its height.

  Last year, Queen Olivia punched King Harold so hard he fell off the royal dais. The crowd laughed, not realizing Livy had actually caught Harry fondling one of the flower ladies who walked through the Village selling her wares . . . of one kind or another.

  “Looks like Harry and Livy are at it again,” Tony said as he clanked toward the stables. “I don’t know how they stay together. Or why, for that matter.”

  I fell in beside him. “That’s easy. Where else would they find a sweet job like this?”

  He laughed, causing his horse to snort. “Don’t make it sound so great. If I ever get enough money together, I’m going to Vegas. This place gives me the creeps sometimes. It’s unnatural to live stuck in the past, especially when it’s not even your past.”

  “Then why are you still here, besides the fact that you owe me a hundred dollars?” I hoped he’d get the hint and give me my money. He’d owed it to me for more than a month, and it wasn’t like I was rolling in cash. I’m just a thirty-something assistant professor who likes to spend her summers at Renaissance Faire Village. “You’ve been jousting here since you got out of college. You could get on a bus tomorrow for $49.50 and try your luck at the slots you’re always talking about. What’s stopping you?”

  The smile on Tony’s face died. He took off his gauntlets. “You know, Jessie, you have an evil way with words. I have to change. I’ll see you later.”

  As I looked at Tony, I realized how different we were. Despite being twins, Tony had managed to come out handsome, brown-eyed, and useless, like my dad. Fortunately, I looked more like my mother. At least I had her nose, her blue eyes, and her ambition. I wish I had her petite frame as well. She was medium height, while Tony and I towered over people at six feet. That’s not a bad height for a man. It’s not a bad height for a woman, if you’re a supermodel. For an ordinary woman, it means no heels and a little slouching.

  “Before you go, could you let me have that money?” I hated to sound heartless, but I didn’t like living on crackers and Pepsi. The Village only paid once a month. And I wasn’t going to break into my savings.

  Tony gave me the look. That meant he couldn’t believe I was asking him for money at a time when he was feeling sorry for himself.

  Too bad. He always did this, and I always gave in. I was going to stand my ground.

  He took two dollars out of the pocket of his jeans and put it in my hand. This was accompanied by a lot of clanking as he reached beneath his armor. “I hope that helps you out. It’s all I’ve got left.”

  I looked at the money, and I looked at my stupid brother. Then I gave him the money back. “I want that hundred dollars out of your next paycheck.”

  I love my brother, but I wish I’d never brought him to the Village. It was my sanctuary from the modern world. I’d spent every summer here since I was in college. But I wasn’t going to let him push me into leaving, especially since I was in the midst of pursuing my Ph.D. at the University of South Carolina at Columbia.

  I’ve learned a new skill at Renaissance Faire Village each year since I’ve finished college. I apprenticed with Master Archer Simmons last summer and even made my own bow and arrows. I won two of the three archery tournaments after spending all of my time immersed in the subject.

  Simmons commended me for my effort and asked me to work with him this year. But I’d made my decision about the topic of my doctorate dissertation and needed to explore other crafts.

  I’d titled it, “Proliferation Of Medieval Crafts In Modern Times.” And what better place to do my research than Renaissance Faire Village?

  About twenty of my students were also at the Village. I saw two of them working at the elephant and camel ride, helping kids on and off the nervous animals. It didn’t look like much fun, and I was sure they wouldn’t last long. Most were only there for a few weeks. Some might decide to stay for the summer. The pay wasn’t great, but they got a free room from the Village and several credits for my history class when it was over.

  As I came around the corner of the jousting bleachers, I saw Tony kissing one of the fairies. I knew my two dollars would go into buying her something. She was pretty and fragile looking. The type of woman Tony always chose. Last summer, he spent all his money on a volunteer student from Georgia State University who played a Rapunzel-type character whose bodice never stayed closed. This summer wasn’t starting out any better.

  I walked through the Village from the jousting field past shops, eateries, taverns and games. There were plenty of opportunities for apprenticeships with more than one hundred craftsmen in the Village. I probably wouldn’t need to research all of them for my dissertation, but it gave me a wide range of crafts to choose from.

  Beth Daniels at Stylish Frocks was an excellent seamstress who’d created all the costumes, including the dragon, for the Village. The costume shop was close to the castle, where a weekly feast was held by the king and queen. Livy liked to change clothes frequently, and it was easier for Beth to be close to her.

  Master Archer Simmons waved to me from his shop, the Feathered Shaft. I smiled and waved back. I planned to include my time with him last summer in my dissertation. The clock maker’s shop, the Hands of Time, was full of people. I walked around the customers who had spilled out into the street. Clock making was on my list, too.

  Most of the Village was actually facade created to look old. It was built on what was left of the old air force base and studded with cobblestone streets. The heart of the Village was along both sides of the main runway with the jousting arena on one end. Shops and places to eat surrounded the castle, which was built around the old traffic control tower. It took up both sides of the King’s Highway.

  The jousting field blocked the street and effectively ended the Village. Parking surrounded the wall that separated it from the rest of the world. The true purpose of the wall (never mind that most Renaissance towns had one) was to keep out people who didn’t have tickets.

  Sometimes it didn’t work very well. There were too many people. Every day, the cobblestone King’s Highway became a crowded thoroughfare with carriages, horses, the occasional cow, and thousands of pedestrians. It had to be difficult to keep track of all that, but I guessed they managed. The paychecks came at the end of each month.

  No one wore watches, and I missed my cell phone almost as much as I missed my computer during the day while I was in character. Unfortunately, I didn’t need any of those devices to tell me I was running late by the time I reached the basket shop, Wicked Weaves. I always ran late when I was with Tony.

  “Where have you been?” Mary asked as she made change for another basket sale.

  I was her apprentice this summer, which meant she could have me do almost anything. Most of the time, she had me taking care of the shop so she could weave.

  “Sorry.” I took the basket from her and smiled at the customer.

  “You been houndin’ that boy again?” Mary laughed and shook her head, which was wrapped in a bright orange scarf. “You can’t make him something he ain’t.”

  “Wow.” The petite woman in the purple fairy wings gazed at us in awe. “Did you learn that while you were weaving this basket?”

  “That’s right,” Mary agreed. “That’s why them baskets are so pricey. You get all of that with each one.”

  I finished the sale while Mary picked up her pipe and walked outside.

  Mary Shift was a Gullah basket weaver from Mount Pleasant, near Charleston. Not strictly speaking a Renaissance basket weaver, although African baskets have been woven for much longer. She was a tiny, birdlike woman who made me feel like I should carry her around with me. I was sure she’d fit on one of my shoulders.

  She could have been any age. She had an air of the ancient about her, but her skin was as
smooth and dark as a mocha latte. There was a mystery about her past. I felt sure other people in the Village knew what it was, but they were busy protecting their own secrets.

  A few more customers wandered into the shop, picked up baskets of all shapes and sizes, then put most of them down again. Mary was right about them being pricey. But everything at the Village came with sticker shock. I supposed visitors were paying for the ambiance of walking through another time.

  It was a little frustrating to me that I had to wait on customers. I’d spent months collecting information on basket weaving. I’d woven a dozen baskets since I’d gotten here, but that was on my own. I was supposed to sit beside Mary and learn the things books couldn’t teach me. But there I was, a month into summer break, and I still hadn’t learned any of Mary’s techniques. The only thing I’d learned was how to make change from a hundred dollar bill and punch Visa card numbers really fast. I swallowed hard, waited until the shop was empty, and went to join Mary on the back steps, where she wove most of her work. I stopped before I went outside when I heard the sound of muffled voices.