Grace Interrupted (3 page)

Behind both men were two additional security guards. Wasn’t this a party?

My mini-assessment time came to a shattering halt as Tamara’s face grew red. She practically vibrated with fury. It was like watching Mount Tamara, seconds before hot lava spewed from the top of her head. I took a preventive step toward Kincade just as she let out a shrill cry. She charged the man, pulling her hands from her pockets, gurgling a feral scream.

“She’s got a gun!” I shouted.

Terrence didn’t need the warning. Already in motion, he raced to intercept. She nimbly sidestepped his grab as Rani attacked Terrence, first using what looked like a karate maneuver, then jumping onto his back and smacking him repeatedly in the head. All the other security staffers raced forward but not before Tamara got close enough to raise her weapon.

Not a gun. A Taser.

I dashed into the fray. Just as Tamara pulled the trigger, I shoved her sideways. The weapon’s two electrodes shot forward into empty space. Like dud fireworks, they extended their tethers and dropped listlessly to the floor without so much as grazing their target.

Security took Tamara down, elbows and knees hitting the marble floor in a muffled
rat-a-tat-tat
of bone-jarring thuds. Terrence wrestled himself away from Rani and handcuffed her, all the while shouting directions to his team. Zachary Kincade had leaned out of the way when the Taser fired and burst out laughing. His guffaws were coarse, unpleasant sounds that reminded me of angry ducks squawking. Except ducks know better than to let their mouths hang open. Whatever attraction he might have possessed was gone in a quack.

Damp and wide-eyed, Rob Pierpont ran a handkerchief across his pasty forehead, looking ready to go into cardiac arrest. As security regained control, I sidled up to him. “You okay?”

He nodded but the sweat dripping down the sides of his face contradicted him. Rob Pierpont barely topped fiveand-a-half feet and looked more like a conquered Napoleon than a general in the War Between the States. From our brief conversations leading up to this week, however, I knew that in the real world he was a partner in a Florida accounting firm and that he was looking forward to his impending retirement. “More time to devote to my Civil War hobby.”

“I’m so sorry about this,” he said.

“Not your fault.”

Zachary moved in and crouched next to Tamara, who was restrained facedown on the floor. “You just couldn’t let it go, could you?”

Tamara called Zachary a very bad name.

Terrence signaled to his team. “Get him out of here. He’s just making things worse.”

“Do you know what all this is about?” I asked Pierpont.

He lifted his shoulders. “Zachary can be a troublemaker, I’ll give you that. But until these two women made it to our camp, I had no idea it was this bad.”

“How bad is it?” I asked.

Zachary called to Pierpont as he was led away. “I’ll meet you out back,” he said, pointing, as though we wouldn’t understand what he meant.

Pierpont suddenly looked much older than his years. “These ladies didn’t tell you?”

“They said he broke up with their friend via text.”

“That’s not exactly the whole story. Zachary didn’t
directly
text the woman he was engaged to . . .”

“Engaged?” I was aghast. “He broke off the
engagement
via text?”

Pierpont winced. “Last Saturday, fifteen minutes before the wedding was to begin, with everyone gathered at the church and his bride-to-be waiting in the wings, he masstexted the entire bridal party to let them know he changed his mind.”

“That’s despicable.”

Pierpont shrugged. “That’s Zachary.”

I KNEW TERRENCE WOULD BRING ME UP TO speed later. Right now, I decided to escort Pierpont out. The poor man was visibly shaken and I wanted to ensure he had transportation back with someone to keep him company. Even if it was only Zachary. “You sure you’re okay?” I asked again as we left the West Salon and took the long corridor toward what had once been the servants’ back entrance.

He squared his shoulders and gave a little huff, settling himself. “Much better now,” he said. “Thank you. Our re-enactments are generally very exciting but it’s a controlled environment. This was so . . . savage.”

“You’ve been involved in re-enactments for a long time?”

“My father got me started. Years ago.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Back then, we were so much more authentic. No plastic coolers or blow-up mattresses in our tents. When we roughed it, we roughed it. It was more real.”

“I think I’d be a terrible re-enactor,” I said. “I’d want to bring my blow-dryer.”

“Some women try to sneak them in. But I’m way ahead of them. That’s why your property here is so perfect for our run-through. No electricity unless someone brings a generator. No running water nearby. That would be farby.”

“Farby?”

He nodded, warming to his subject. “Conventional wisdom says it comes from the phrase: ‘
Far be
it for me to criticize you’ when re-enactors catch anachronisms in one anothers’ costumes. For instance, Velcro. There was no Velcro in Civil War times, right?”

“Right.”

“Hence, Velcro is farby. Zippers are farby. So are cigarettes that you don’t roll yourself with the proper components, and any type of synthetic fabric.”

I tried the word out again. “Farby.”

“That’s what you want to avoid at all costs. Nobody wants to be known as a Farb. I avoid it, always. In fact, participants like me are considered ‘progressive’ in that we believe in complete authenticity and try to fully immerse ourselves at every opportunity.”

He continued as we walked, explaining the camp’s reporting structure and how long it took to set up a Living History. I knew that they’d set up this weeklong encampment to run drills and work out the bugs in preparation for the group’s big outing at Gettysburg in July. According to Pierpont, that was the year’s main event and a chance to re-create that historic battle.

At the exit, I pushed open the back doors and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the warm afternoon air.

“Beautiful,” he said, surveying the south grounds.

That was an understatement. “It is.”

I didn’t mind making small talk with Pierpont, nor accompanying him out back. When I’d been called to the West Salon to meet with our intruders, I’d been on my way outside anyway. Jack Embers, the manor’s landscape architect, had asked me to meet him near the entrance of the hedge maze to discuss a couple of gardening issues.

Jack and I had been playing date-tag for the past several weeks. We had originally planned to go out together—without my roommates this time—back in April. But situations had conspired to prevent us from keeping our plans. I rubbed my right arm, remembering my terror the night Abe’s murderer had finally been apprehended.

Since then, Jack and I had tried and failed to set up another date. Spring was a busy time for Jack anyway, but he’d recently taken on a new responsibility. His younger brother, Davey, had joined the firm. More important, he’d rejoined Jack’s life. From the little I’d learned, twenty-seven-year-old Davey had “issues” and hadn’t yet found his way in the world. After several brushes with the law, Davey had promised his family he would change but needed help to do so. He’d moved into Jack’s home about a month ago and all Jack’s free time had been taken up by his little brother.

I’d met Davey a couple of times. Except for his beard and slighter build, he could have been Jack’s twin. Well, except for Jack’s scar, that is. An uneven white line sliced across the left side of his face. I wondered if I’d ever find out where that scar had come from.

“There he is,” Pierpont said, interrupting my reverie and picking up his pace. “Kincade!”

Zachary Kincade leaned against a stone wall, chatting up one of our female groundskeepers. A youngster, barely twenty-two, she looked relieved to see us. The moment Kincade’s attention was pulled by Pierpont’s call, she waved to me and scurried off to tend to a distant flower bed.

Kincade ambled over. “I’m sorry about the trouble back there,” he said, indicating the mansion with a dispassionate glance.

“I thought you’d be down at the police station, giving a statement,” I said.

“Not pressing charges,” he said. “What’s the point? They had their fun and have been escorted off the grounds by your efficient security team. I’m not worried. Those girls don’t have the guts to try again.”

I wasn’t so sure, and said so.

Kincade smiled. “I appreciate you worrying about me. But I’m a big boy.” He held out his hand. “And you are? You have me at a distinct disadvantage here.”

Pierpont gave an exasperated sigh. “This is Grace Wheaton. She’s in charge. She’s the one to contact if we need anything.”

Kincade and I shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

Pure reflex and good manners combined to make me smile and say how nice it was to meet him, too. But when I got my hand back, I resisted the urge to wipe it down the side of my skirt.

“In charge?” Kincade said, eyes brightening. “So much power in such a lovely package.”

What era was this guy from? “Let me arrange for transportation back to your camp,” I said, calling into my radio for a shuttle to be brought around back. The estate provided free transportation between the hotel and the manor, and between the manor and a remote parking lot. We’d recently expanded that lot to accommodate visitors whose numbers we expected—and hoped—to grow over the next several years.

Part of my job was to boost our image, increase tourism, and establish the Marshfield brand. No small feat—any of them. But before we could expect hundreds of thousands of new tourists to flock to our doors each year, we needed to make certain we had infrastructure issues settled first. Parking lots and shuttles weren’t sexy upgrades, but they were important pieces of the whole. Fortunately my boss, Bennett, owner of this palatial estate, agreed with me. Just wait until he heard about today’s excitement.

Kincade had to be almost fifteen years older than I was, but as he moved in closer I caught the smolder of interest in his eyes. Ugh. He reached again for my hand. “I hope you’re planning to visit our camp,” he said in a low voice. “I’d love for you to see me in action during one of our battles.”

I yanked my hand back. “Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough of your battles for one day.”

“Ooh,” he said, making his lips all pucker-y. Moving close enough for me to see the yellow flecks in his brown irises, he curled his mouth into what he probably thought was a provocative smile. This treatment might work on a lot of women, but I wasn’t one of them. Not any longer at least. “You don’t really believe what those ladies said, do you?” he asked softly. “No one really understands me, you know? I try to be a good guy but all I ever get . . .”

His attention shifted to just over my shoulder. For a split second, I wondered if it was a ruse just to get me to drop my guard and turn, but Kincade’s body language suddenly shifted, too. No longer relaxed, no longer focused on me, his posture grew rigid and his eyes wide. He whispered under his breath, “How the . . . ?”

I turned to see what had grabbed his attention. Jack and Davey were about twenty feet back, headed toward us. Jack was in the lead, carrying a clipboard. He saw me. “There you are,” he called, waving hello with his free hand. Davey followed, a couple steps behind him.

I felt a rush of air as Zachary Kincade bolted past me. He took Davey down in a flying tackle, Davey giving a
woof
of shock as they hit the ground, their bodies skidding hard against the uneven brick pavers. Grappling, the two combatants grunted and rolled while Pierpont and I shouted. Jack dropped his clipboard and jumped in to wrestle the two apart. Davey, having quickly recovered from the surprise of being attacked, fought back with fierce desperation.

I froze to the spot for three heartbeats before I thought to call for help. As I spoke into my radio, I realized I’d registered the look of utter surprise on Davey’s face. I got the clear impression he’d never seen Kincade before. But Kincade obviously had an ax to grind. In fact, he was grinding right now. Using his body to keep Davey immobilized, he smashed the younger man’s face sideways into the ground with one hand while punching him with the other, shouting something about “a long time.” Davey managed to pry an arm out from beneath Kincade and grabbed at his attacker’s shirt, straining to pull him off.

Next to me, Pierpont threw his hands up. “Oh, oh, oh!”

Unable to get between the two, Jack wrapped himself around Zachary’s back, struggling to immobilize the man’s arms. Though still punching and grunting, Kincade was tiring. He wasn’t able to both fight Davey and fend off Jack, and the moment Jack wrestled Kincade into an armlock, Davey writhed away and leaped to his feet. Blood dripped from his now-crooked and obviously broken nose. “What is wrong with you?” he shouted, wincing as he wiped his face with the back of his hand.