Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos(25)

„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.





Buoyed by the thought of telling off Benson, I led Michael along the path toward the Moore House, the white-frame farmhouse where, in 1781, the British and Americans had signed the surrender documents to end the siege of Yorktown and, for all practical purposes, the Revolutionary War. Mrs. Waterston wanted to hold her party inside, but the Park Service hadn't approved. They'd let her use the grounds, though. As we drew near, I could see that the house was softly lit from within, as if by candlelight – although knowing how picky they were about fire hazards in historical buildings, I doubted they used real candles.

Strings of lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating the lawn with pools of light and pockets of shadow. Electric lanterns, of course, which probably irritated Mrs. Waterston, but they had the kind of flickering bulb that could almost fool you into thinking of real candles. A string quartet played soft classical music, and I could hear the faint hum of conversation.

Mrs. Waterston swept through one lighted area. Either I'd forgotten how extreme her costume was, or she'd gone home to put on an even taller wig. I glanced down at my sensible linsey-woolsey gown, feeling underdressed.

„Don't worry,“ Michael said, catching my glance. „Mrs. Tranh has a ball gown for you.“

I sighed. Mrs. Tranh was Mrs. Waterston's partner in the dress shop. Like everyone else in town, I'd originally assumed Mrs. Tranh worked for Mrs. Waterston. Over Memorial Day weekend, after watching the strike scenes in a TV rerun of Norma Jean and imbibing a few too many glasses of Merlot, I'd become quite agitated about Mrs. Waterston's apparent exploitation of Mrs. Tranh and her other Asian employees. I had threatened to go down to Yorktown and organize the downtrodden sewing ladies. I had visions of us singing „We Shall Overcome“ in Vietnamese, while waving beautifully embroidered protest banners.

Michael had spoiled all my fun by revealing how things really worked. His mother and Mrs. Tranh each owned half of the business. Mrs. Tranh hired and managed the seamstresses, kept the books, paid bills and taxes, ordered fabric and other supplies, and generally ran the place.

„So what does your mother do, anyway?“ I'd asked.

„Well, she got together the initial capital, and she handles sales and marketing,“ Michael said. „And she deals with the customers. Mrs. Tranh would hate doing that.“

True, but still, if you asked me, Mrs. Tranh was doing the lion's share of the work, yet having to split the profits fifty-fifty. Perhaps that accounted for Mrs. Tranh's dogged insistence on not speaking English with Mrs. Waterston.

I knew perfectly well that Mrs. Tranh could speak reasonably fluent, if somewhat eccentric, English and that she understood the language almost perfectly. The only time she ever pulled the „je ne comprends pas“ line on me was when I tried to disobey her orders.

With Mrs. Waterston, however, she insisted on speaking only French. Mrs. Waterston's French was considerably worse than mine.

„Anyway, she's done a wonderful costume for you,“ Michael said, interrupting my wandering thoughts.

„Oh, dear,“ I said. „As hot and sweaty as I am, I'd rather crawl into a bath, not a brand-new costume.“

„You'll hurt her feelings,“ he said, „and mine. I helped her figure out what to make.“

„It doesn't have panniers, does it?“ I asked. „I am not wearing panniers.“

„I have no intention of disfiguring you with panniers,“ Michael said. „That has got to be one of the most ludicrous, unflattering fashions ever invented.“

„Amen,“ I said. „But let's not tell your mother.“

„Of course not,“ Michael said. „But having seen Mom's idea of colonial fashion, I'm thinking next year we should forget about the Revolution and reenact the War of 1812. I'm rather partial to Empire fashions – all those low cut, clinging, diaphanous gowns – “