Grace Interrupted (13 page)

“No . . . no . . .”

He placed his hat atop his head, tipped it, and bounded off my porch before I could stop him. “Thank you, Grace!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Great,” I said to myself. “Just great.”

 

 

JUST AS I SETTLED MYSELF WITH A SANDWICH and a glass of lemonade, my cell phone rang. It had been only about twenty minutes since Ronny Tooney left. I had a feeling it was him calling. I was wrong. And it took me a moment to place the breathless voice.

“Ms. Wheaton?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you on your day off . . .”

Light dawned—Rob Pierpont.

“. . . but something has come up.”

Gripping the phone tightly, I asked, “Is anyone hurt?”

“It’s more than that . . .” I heard him swallow.

“More than anyone getting hurt?” I envisioned another dead body, a second murder among the Civil War re-enactors. “Did you call the police?”

“No, no, it’s not like that. It’s a problem we’re having.” I could almost see him bouncing with impatience.

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“You know how I am about avoiding anything farby. The fact that I’m speaking on a telephone should lend some weight to my words.”

“All right, Mr. Pierpont. Please go on.”

“It’s about the police. They’re still here and they’re stopping and questioning every single person in our camp. The officers refuse to allow anyone to participate in drills until they’ve been questioned. But we have plans. A schedule. This is throwing everything off. Worst of all, they won’t let us handle weapons. Our
own
weapons.”

“You have to remember, Mr. Pierpont, they have a murder to investigate.”

“Yes, yes, and we’ve given them plenty of room. In fact, we moved two sections of tents just so that we’d be out of their way. Were they happy that we’d been so accommodating? No. They were angry because they hadn’t had a chance to
process
those tents yet. What in the world needed to be processed? We didn’t move Zachary’s tent. We left that one alone.”

Had Pierpont not watched a single crime-based television show in his life? You never moved anything without approval. “What made you decide to move tents?”

“To be frank, it wasn’t my idea. Jim Florian took care of that. He suggested we separate ourselves from the activity going on with the police. That way we could resume our schedule. But it’s not working.”

“I can’t stop the police from doing their job,” I said. Nor would I want to.

He sighed. “It’s not just the police, though. It’s other guests. People staying at the hotel. The murder is pulling gapers out of the woodwork. Strangers are getting into everything. Upsetting our plans. I think they’re contaminating the crime scene, too. Dozens, maybe even close to a hundred guests have driven their automobiles up into our encampment area. Motorized vehicles! Do they not understand that their very presence ruins the illusion? They say they want to see what we’re doing, but it’s clear they just want to poke their noses into where the murder happened.”

“Security isn’t keeping them away?”

“Does security care if twenty-first-century vehicles are cluttering up our sight lines? No. Nor do they care about maintaining the illusion of the 1800s. All they worry about is making sure no one walks past their precious yellow tape—and yet people are tramping through there all the time. Gawkers, all of them. We asked them nicely to park their cars where ours are parked—well out of sight. But no! They claim that’s too far to walk.”

I sighed. With our security department stretched thin between assisting the local police and maintaining control over the Marshfield property, there was not much I could do. The southern grounds were currently off-limits to guests. But people were like ants. They crawled in to get what they wanted and at this point there were just too many of them to control.

“I’m sorry to hear you’re having difficulty,” I began, “but I’m not sure what can be done at this point . . .”

“I know it’s your day off, and especially after yesterday’s tragedy, I truly hate to involve you, but I have a request . . .”

“What do you need?”

“First and most important, I need order. The police are running amok here. As soon as we get one of our drills set up, they come along and ruin it.”

The man sounded near tears, but I had little patience for his complaints. I wondered how he could be so focused on his war games and miss the big picture.

“Ms. Wheaton, it’s unbearable. Can you come out here, please?”

“Mr. Pierpont, there’s really not much I can do . . .”

“Yes, yes, there is. If you talk to the police in person and you tell them to leave us alone, they have to listen. Just like those two women. You were marvelous handling them. So marvelous.” His flattery made my teeth hurt, but Pierpont obviously couldn’t see my grimace over the phone. “Can’t you do that again for us. Please?”

“Speaking of the women—they didn’t ever come back, did they?”

Pierpont’s voice went very low. “I didn’t see them, no, but a handful of other soldiers mentioned seeing a couple of out-of-costume individuals skulking around that night. It was late, they were wearing dark clothing, and my colleagues couldn’t ascertain whether they were male or female.”

“You reported that to the police, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” he huffed. “And I reported something else, as well.”

I perked up. “What was that?”

“Can’t you just come down here? Please,” he repeated, “I’m not comfortable being on the phone like this. Really . . . something needs to be done about—” Raising his voice, he shouted to someone else, “You! Get out of there. That’s not yours!” To me again, he said, “I’m at my wits’ end. There are just too many issues to handle and I can’t do it on my own.”

One thing I wished I could change about myself is the fact that I wear down far too easily. That insufferable politeness, yet again. A determined individual relentlessly hammering at me always eroded my resolve. Unfortunately, far too many people in my life seemed to be in on this knowledge. I needed to work on that.

I sighed. “Okay, fine.” Glancing at the clock, I added, “Give me a half hour.”

“Thank you, oh, thank you.”

“Great,” I said when he hung up. Bootsie joined me in the kitchen as I slapped my phone shut. “So much for relaxing on my day off.”

PIERPONT MET ME AT THE NORTHERN BOUNDARY of the re-enactors’ camp atop a small hill that overlooked the meadow below. When he and Abe had established guidelines for this event, they had chosen this spot with care. The enormous flatland populated by tents and re-enactors was surrounded on all sides by slightly higher ground—an effective buffer against high winds. Had this been the middle of summer, the location would have been far too hot, but right now—though warm—it was ideal. The participants in the low-lying ground couldn’t see outside their encampment, nor could idle passersby see in. I supposed that’s why Pierpont felt overrun by nosy tourists. Guests’ cars parked at the top of the embankment would be impossible to miss.

Pierpont waved a greeting as I parked and made my way up the rise. He was again in uniform but had unbuttoned the collar of his navy wool coat. The morning chill had dissipated and from the pink in his cheeks to the sweat dripping along the side of his face, I could tell the uphill walk had taxed him. “Thanks for coming,” he said between breaths. “I thought this would be the easiest place to meet.”

“I’m impressed,” I said. Below us, the tents stretched out in neat rows, forming the transient community where costumed participants socialized, worked, and played. For the first time I grasped the scale of this exercise. “How many participants do you have here?”

“Over three thousand came out for this,” he said with pride.

I nodded. With so many people walking, running, talking, and cooking, there was no corner without movement. In the meadow’s far reaches, past the last line of tents, men marched in formation, carrying what looked like tree branches instead of rifles.

I would have felt transported into the 1800s except for the presence of the touristy folks gathered along the outskirts pointing in, and the police who were easy to pick out, even from here. Emberstowne had brought in a task force to help investigate and officers from several other departments were interacting with the participants. “There’s tremendous police presence here,” I said. I almost added, “this time,” but caught myself before the words tumbled out. “How long do they anticipate staying?”

Three vertical lines formed between Pierpont’s bushy brows. “I can’t believe they haven’t moved off-site yet. We’re so far behind on our setup.” He flung a hand toward the parked squads behind and below us. “At least they’ve managed to keep their cars out of sight, but they insist on conducting their questioning in our midst. I can’t tell you how much this has thrown our schedule off.” He led me down the hill into the camp itself. “It’s spoiling all our plans.”

I stopped short. “You do realize a man has been killed here,” I said, disdain slipping into my voice. “What do you expect?”

“I know, I know.” He waved his hands in the air and indicated that we should resume walking. “I apologize for sounding flippant, but I can’t stand to see plans ruined.”

Our footsteps made soft noises in the wild grass as we descended the hill and continued our trek. “I’m not trying to diminish your concerns,” I said, “but murder is a pretty big deal.”

He nodded. “I’m doing everything in my power to help, but I’m sure you understand what it’s like to be responsible for a large group.” Gesturing out over the crowd, he said, “Most of these folks use their vacation time to be here. They’ve been looking forward to this for months. Although some are pushing harder than others, they’re all waiting for me to make it right. They’re depending on me.”

I understood where he was coming from, but countered, “Didn’t you tell me this was just a practice week before the big Gettysburg get-together?”

He stopped. “Get-together?” he repeated, fixing me with a glare. “This is much more than a get-together. Do you have any idea how much work it is to achieve authenticity? I’ve been doing this for over forty years and I still feel the need to improve each and every time I participate.”

“Bad choice of words, sorry.” Changing the subject, I asked, “What exactly did you need from me? It looks as though everything is being handled as well as it can be.” I noticed him about to interrupt so I quickly added, “That is, of course, except for the gawkers. I’ll talk with security about that. As far as having the police in your camp, however, I don’t think there’s much that can be done.”

“Can’t you talk with them? Ask them to set up their interrogation away from the heart of the action?”

“Don’t you believe a murder investigation warrants a little inconvenience?”

“With over three thousand people this is one of the largest gatherings of the year. If any of our participants saw or heard anything suspicious, don’t you think they would rush to report it?” His voice rose as he emphasized his point. “Of course they would. Zachary was our friend. And yet this task force is determined to question each and every person on-site. Do you have any idea how long that will take? The cops claim they’re starting with a ‘quick canvass’ of everyone, but that’s only their first round. They intend a second and third round. More if necessary. There’s no end in sight. People here are angry with me because of it. They’re yelling at me almost constantly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

We’d made it all the way down and started wending our way through the tents. I didn’t know if he had a destination in mind or if we were just wandering as we talked. I caught the aroma of corn bread and sizzling meat. Heavenly. My stomach growled.

He turned and raised an eyebrow. “Somebody’s hungry.”

“No, not at all,” I lied.

The grass in the lowlands had been trampled flat by the comings and goings of the many re-enactors. We stayed along the northern perimeter, but I found myself gaping. Just about every tent boasted its own personal campfire with a black cauldron bubbling above dancing flames. It was close to dinnertime. The women tending to meals wore dark muslin dresses. Others, in patterned gowns with wide hoop skirts, wandered about the camp, hems skimming the dirt as they walked. Hundreds of kids were left to run like wild things. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell which parents any of them belonged to.

It frightened me to think that these children were unattended.

“I hate to point out the obvious, Mr. Pierpont,” I said, keeping my voice low, “but has it occurred to you that there’s a murderer in your midst? That you could wake up in the morning with a musket pointed at your head—all in the name of fun? With a killer on the loose, why wouldn’t everyone want to hightail it out of here as quickly as they could?”

“Like I said before, you just don’t understand Civil War re-enactments.”