Grace Interrupted (18 page)

“That people will have a problem with me strolling around?”

“Yeah.”

He dug a baseball cap out from his back pocket and snugged it over his head. “I can’t wear sunglasses for a couple of days yet—doctor’s orders—but I think I’ll be fine. None of these folks have actually ever met me. I’d be surprised if anyone even gives me a second look.” He rubbed his clean-shaven face. “Especially now. Nobody really ever does. I kinda blend, you know?”

The only person who had seen Davey close-up was Pierpont, and that was when Davey still had his beard. With that gone, and the addition of the hat, he should be safe.

“Anyway,” Davey continued, “I think this Civil War thing sounds like fun.”

Fun. Although I’d known the young man only a short time, I sensed he rarely found life “fun.” “It does,” I agreed.

As we descended the hill to enter the re-enactors’ camp, Davey stopped and looked around. “Way cool,” he said, stepping into the crowd.

“Have a good time.”

He started away, then called for me to hold up. “Here you go,” he said, handing me the keys to the van.

“But . . .”

“I’ll find my own way back. I left a note with the maintenance guy. Told him thanks but no thanks on this job. I’ll give my notice to Jack later today. I guess that means I’m telling you now, huh?”

Stunned, I said, “But Davey, you were doing so well.”

“No,” he said, “you just wanted to believe I was. Thanks for your support, Grace. I really do appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course,” I said, but he’d already turned away, setting off for the far end where the Confederate tents were set up.

I ENTERED THE LIVING HISTORY STUNNED BY Davey’s abrupt resignation. There was more going on than he let on, of that I was sure. I sighed. With him no longer employed at the manor, I might never find out what it was.

There were so many visitors—easily distinguishable from the re-enactors by virtue of their contemporary clothing—that it looked more like a giant block party than a soldiers’ camp. Surrounded by tourists in capris and sports jerseys consulting BlackBerrys, Civil War women carried pots and baskets, their skirts generating little puffs of dust as the material skimmed the ground. Even though the re-enactors had only been here since Friday, patches of grass had already been worn down to bare dirt. The participants concentrated on their tasks, but seemed happy—eager, even—to take the time to answer questions whenever a T-shirt-clad tourist stopped them to talk. The sutlers in the very center of camp were doing a brisk business. No wonder the re-enactors, for all their disparagement of “farby,” chose to open their camp to the public from time to time.

I had no difficulty finding Rob Pierpont. Standing at the northeast corner of the camp with his arms folded and an intense expression on his face, he looked exactly the way I would have expected a high-ranking officer to look. His buttons and decorations contrasted brightly against the dark blue of his jacket. Although the temperature was only in the seventies, he had to be sweltering under all that wool. Plus, he wore a hat and boots. Angled as he was toward the gathering, he didn’t see me approach.

Pierpont wasn’t a tall man. But what he lacked in stature he made up for in his bearing. Nodding and murmuring greetings to passersby as they said hello, he stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his gaze darting from spot to spot to spot, surveying everything with keen interest. He reminded me of a chubby, bearded meerkat. In uniform.

“Mr. Pierpont,” I said.

He turned, smiling when he saw me. “Good afternoon, Ms. Wheaton. What brings you here today?”

“I’m sorry to bother you. Are you allowed to talk with me? Or is that . . . farby?”

“Of course I can talk with you. That’s part of what Living History is all about. We strive to educate nonmembers. Who knows, we might even entice you to join us in future outings.”

“You never know,” I said.
Not a chance,
I thought. “I spoke with the police about your concerns.”

“And?”

“It’s up to them now. I offered them a location to use off-site, but I don’t know how convincing I was.”

“Thank you for your efforts, Ms. Wheaton,” he said. “I truly appreciate it.”

“By the way,” I continued, “do you remember Davey, the young man Zachary Kincade attacked?”

“He and I were never introduced, if that’s what you mean, but I do recall the incident.” Pierpont fixed me with a quizzical stare. “Why?”

Despite Davey’s attempts to wander incognito there was still a chance, however slight, Pierpont might recognize him. The last thing we needed was for this Union general to sound an alarm.

“He’s here,” I said.

Pierpont’s eyebrows jumped. “I don’t understand. Shouldn’t the police have forbidden that? After all, he is a suspect.” The little man shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with him wandering around.”

“Davey was under sedation at the time of the murder,” I said smoothly, pushing away any of my own suspicions as I tried to allay Pierpont’s fears. “He’s got an airtight alibi. And remember, it was Zachary who attacked Davey, not the other way around. Davey probably hadn’t even met the man before the altercation.”

Concern tightened Pierpont’s features. “What in the world is he doing here, then?”

“He claims to be interested in your re-enactment. He says it looks like ‘fun.’ ”

For the second time in as many minutes, I could tell I’d surprised Pierpont. “Do you believe him?”

I gave a very Davey-like shrug. “I guess I do.”

“Hmm . . .” Pierpont was silent for a long moment. “Maybe I’ll have a talk with him and assess for myself.” He began scanning the crowd. “He could be anywhere, but I should be able to recognize him.” Turning to me again, he said, “Do you really think he’s interested in joining? He’s not just here to do some intelligence-gathering to exonerate his brother?”

“Who am I to know?” I said. “But his motives seemed genuine. By the way, his beard has been shaved.”

“Pity. I hope he’s willing to grow it back. We like beards.” He stroked his own and said, “I’ll see what I can find out from the young man. If he’s truly attracted to re-enacting, then I’ll coach him. Mentor him if he needs it. But if he has a hidden agenda, I’ll have no choice but to have him removed.”

A troop of soldiers, most of them in ragtag outfits, marched by.

“Drills,” Pierpont explained as they passed. “The crowds really enjoy them.”

“By the way, I’m here to talk with Frances. Have you seen her?”

“Your assistant? No, not for some time. I didn’t even realize she was still here.”

“I hope she is,” I said, taking my leave.

“She may prefer to leave the premises by sundown,” he said. “The doves can get pretty intimidating.”

“Thanks for the warning. She and I will be heading back shortly.”

He nodded acknowledgment and turned back to watch more troops march by.

I made a wide circuit of the area, reasoning that I’d have better luck spotting Frances from the outside looking in. Out here on the perimeter what grass remained was coarse and dry, tickling my ankles as I picked my way around. I’d been smart enough not to wear heels today, but the flats I’d chosen were not made of solid material. Designed for airiness, they had little decorative holes up and down both sides. Holes just perfect for prickly weeds and burrs to scratch my feet.

Circling counterclockwise, I’d gotten about halfway through the Union side and almost to the sutlers’ tents when I spied her—still in her ball gown—talking with a tall gentleman in a Union officers’ uniform. They faced each other on either side of a cold campfire complete with cauldron, just waiting for someone to start a fire. From here, the man looked to be in his late forties, with muttonchops and a thick mustache. I started toward her, reluctant to interrupt, but when she saw me she waved me to join them.

“This is Ms. Wheaton,” she said to the man as I took a spot next to her. “She’s the one I told you about.”

Inwardly, I groaned. What tales could she possibly be telling?

I extended my hand, but instead of shaking it, the man grasped my fingers in his gloved ones and made a courtly little bow. “A pleasure.”

I reassessed. Late thirties or early forties. All that facial hair aged him.

Before I could ask, Frances provided the answer. “This is Jim Florian. He and I were having a lovely conversation just now about how important it is to keep things as authentic as possible.”

“Jim Florian,” I repeated. “I know your name. You’re . . .”

Frances delivered a sharp kick to my ankle.

I’d been about to say that he’d been the one to find Zachary Kincade’s body, but I took the hint. “You’re . . .” I stretched to find an appropriate finish to my sentence. Frances apparently had no faith in me and kicked again, this time harder. I sucked in the pain so he wouldn’t see me wince. “You’re . . . second in command here, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” he said, smiling. “From what I understand, that’s a position you and I share.”

I inched away from Frances. She inched with me.

“Yes, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.” Reluctant to say anything that might further incapacitate me, I smiled blandly at Frances. She smiled back.

We both smiled at Jim. He smiled back.

This wasn’t getting me anywhere. “Well,” I said, bringing my hands together in an “all done here” gesture, “we might want to start heading back, Frances. That is, if you’re ready.”

“So soon?”

She’d been here all day. It was nearly five o’clock and I had a dinner date tonight with Jack. “You’re planning to return tomorrow, aren’t you?” I asked.

The smile still plastered on her face, she narrowed her eyes and cocked one eyebrow. Quite a feat. I doubted I could duplicate it. “But I’m having such a nice conversation with Captain Florian here,” she said.

“Colonel,” he corrected.

“
Colonel
Florian,” Frances amended smoothly, “will probably be promoted at the end of the week. He’ll take over for General Pierpont, who is stepping down. I guess the job gets to be too much after so many years. Is that it?” she asked him.

“Pierpont has been the top man for more than ten years. It takes a lot of effort, even off the field, to organize this many people, to notify everyone when we’re meeting. To set up the location . . . you get the picture.”

“But I’m sure there’s prestige in holding that position,” I said.

He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh yeah. Big time. When you’re in charge here, you’re the man.”

Frances jumped in. “And you’re the next in line, right?”

Jim Florian’s expression fell. “I wish I could feel better about it. I’ve been gunning to take the job for a while, and I thought I had it, but Zachary Kincade—the guy who got killed—started to talk about taking over. To be honest, he wasn’t cut out for the job, but that didn’t stop him from trying to muscle me out.”

Was Florian actually giving us his motive for killing Kincade?

Frances fixed me with a look that said, “See why we needed to stay?” She asked Florian, “And it looked like he was going to win, didn’t it?”

Florian nodded.

“Were you disappointed?” I asked.

“Oh sure. I’ve been re-enacting since I was a kid. My dad died before he could rise to the rank of general, so I’ve always wanted to do it, you know, in his honor. It would have meant a lot to him to see his son as the top man.”

Before I could come up with a way to keep him talking, Florian offered up another tidbit. “But then”—he jerked a thumb toward the hill behind which Kincade was murdered—“that happened. I felt real bad about that.” He pointed to himself. “I found the body, you know.”

“Did you?” I asked innocently.

Frances continued to smile encouragingly. “That had to be devastating,” she said.

“Tell me about it. I mean, I’ve seen death before, but not like this.” He looked away, shaking his head. “And I’ve never
benefited
from somebody dying. This is just terrible. I feel guilty, you know? The troops really wanted Zachary to be the new general. He’s not as hard-core as Pierpont, and I think in this day and age people still want to immerse themselves but they crave their creature comforts as well. Zachary understood that and I guess that’s why everyone supported him.” He worked his tongue in his cheek. “I’ve always been more of a progressive myself. I like to keep the event as authentic as possible. I can get obsessive about it, actually. Almost as much as Pierpont. And it bugged me that Zachary planned to change everything. To loosen our standards. That’s why I didn’t think he was a good choice for the job. But things change, I guess.”

I wanted to ask him to write all that down and sign it. I’d be happy to deliver a copy to Tank on my way home.

“The mood has shifted in the ranks,” he said. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s been slowly changing every year. Gives me food for thought. Maybe when I take over I’ll consider implementing some of Zachary’s updated ideas. I won’t like it, but it’s better to be commanding happy re-enactors than to command no one at all.”