Sheila Connolly - Relatively Dead 02 - Seeing the Dead (16 page)

“Abby, you’re crazy,” Ned said.

“Just practical. After all, we have special skills, and we should use them wisely. Remind me to ask the owners at breakfast if anybody else has noticed anything. Discreetly, of course. Now, did you say something about dinner?”

They ate a pleasant dinner in a nearby town and came back to the B&B shortly after ten. They had no visitors, human or formerly human, that evening, and Abby wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed.

Breakfast the next morning was served in the large wood-paneled dining room, and the food was presented on what Abby guessed were mismatched antique-store finds along the lines of the butter dish they had seen the day before. All the food tasted wonderful.

The proprietor, a sturdy middle-aged woman, stopped by their table to ask, “Everything all right? Sleep well?”

“It’s lovely,” Abby said, and meant it. “You have a moment to sit?”

“Sure. You’re the only guests at the moment, so I’m all yours. In case you haven’t guessed, I’m Mary Hicks, the owner of this place—well, with my husband. You’re from Massachusetts?”

“We are, from the Concord area,” Abby replied. “We’re trying to escape some of the Patriots’ Day craziness. I’m glad we found this place on such short notice. Did you inherit the house?”

Mary shook her head. “No, we bought it about twenty years ago. When the kids left the nest, it was too big for us, so it was either sell and find a smaller place or do something useful with the space.”

“Do you know the history of the house and property?” Ned asked.

“The owners before us wrote up something—I could find it for you if you like. I’m not that much into history—my spare time goes to gardening.”

“And it shows!” Abby said warmly. “We should come back in summer and see what it looks like then.”

“That’s our busiest season, so try to book ahead, if you know your plans.”

Abby shot Ned a look, and he seemed to interpret it correctly. “We’ll think about that. I asked about the history of the place because I wondered if anyone had seen any … ghosts?”

“Why?” the woman asked. “Did you? Are you into that kind of woo-woo thing?”

“No,” Ned lied, “but you read about it, and this building has been around for quite a while. Have you seen or heard or felt anything?”

The woman shook her head emphatically—so much so that Abby wondered if she actually had had some experience along those lines. “Not me. A couple of guests have said they heard odd thumps and bumps at night, or a door will swing open, but I tell ’em it’s an old house and that kind of thing happens. When the furnace kicks in, in winter, it sounds like an airplane engine!” Mary stood up quickly. “I’d better go make some more coffee. Nice to chat with you. You going home today?”

“We are,” Abby said. “Big day tomorrow. And if you can find that history of the house, I’d love to see a copy.”

“I’ll see if I can dig it up. Leave me your email in case I don’t find it right away. And thanks for staying here—tell your friends!” She bustled back to the kitchen.

Abby looked at Ned. “You think?”

He nodded. “I’d say so.” He emptied his cup. “Well, if you want to look at old books, we’d better get moving.”

“I’m right behind you.”

16

The trip to the giant book barn was more than successful, and Abby emerged with several dusty nineteenth-century history books. Her carry-on was now straining its zipper, and she hoped it would hold together until she got home. They had to race to the airport, luckily not too far away, and the traffic was light on a Sunday. They made it back to Boston with no problems, but as they drove toward Concord the traffic thickened.

“This is going to be fifty times worse tomorrow,” Ned commented as they proceeded at a stately rate of twenty miles per hour.

“I can’t say I’m looking forward to that part of things,” Abby said. “How do the parades and stuff work?”

“Well, you’ve got the reenactments scattered around the nearby towns at various times, and everybody wants to get into the act. They kind of split up the individual events—Lincoln gets to capture Paul Revere, for example, and other towns like Sudbury replicate the march to Concord. And of course there are parades in both Lexington and Concord, and lots of open houses held by town historical societies—and of course, your museum. It’s a zoo, but everyone seems to enjoy it. Concord makes a nice profit for the day. And then it’s over for another year.”

“Do you think our ancestors are likely to show up?”

“I doubt it. I don’t know why they’d want to. This is an artificial event—the Monday closest to the real day, which was yesterday. I can’t imagine why someone who’s been dead for over two hundred years would want to watch a lot of people marching around.”

“So why did Henry show up at Littleton when we were there? That wasn’t the real date either.”

“He wanted to meet you? Seriously, I can’t answer that. Maybe he’s always there, in some way. Maybe it’s like an endless loop, and he’s forever waiting on the green to march to battle.”

“He and his son, who is
not
my ancestor,” Abby said absently. “In fact, Henry didn’t marry his second wife, Jane, who
was
my ancestor, until well after the war was over. And I haven’t even started looking for details about his sons from that marriage. I wish I had more time!”

Ned, apparently frustrated by the slow pace of the traffic, chose that moment to cut over on a local road headed north, and wound his way through neighborhoods until he came to the northern end of Abby’s road, where traffic was lighter. “One of the pluses of having grown up around here—I know the back ways.”

“Thank goodness! I hadn’t realized how bad it would be.”

They pulled into Abby’s driveway ten minutes later. “You want to stay?” Abby asked.

“You’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he said.

“Wow, that was an enthusiastic response,” Abby teased. “Actually I have an ulterior motive. If you stay over, you can drop me off at work in the morning and I won’t have to worry about parking. Oh, but you weren’t planning to watch the parade, were you?”

“I could park at my parents’ house and walk back. If you want me there.”

“I do. Do your parents usually attend?”

“Not anymore. I think they worry a bit about the house now. You know, lots of gawkers wandering along the Battle Road. Some of them seem to think that any colonial house along the way is open for tourists, so it’s better to have someone keeping an eye on the place.”

“Makes sense. How strange it is, that people compartmentalize their history. You know, the Fourth of July, Patriots’ Day in a few places, Veterans’ Day. Better than nothing, I suppose. At least they remember.”

“Life goes on, Abby. People now are living their lives in the moment, not the past. They’re creating their own history.”

“And wars,” Abby added. “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

“My, aren’t we being literary today! That’s George Santayana.”

“It is. But isn’t it sad that people keep making the same mistakes?”

“I think war is part of being human. People are always fighting over something, from who owns the only cow in the village to who should control the world.”

“What’s worse, for some people it’s the high point of their lives. Look at Henry Flagg from Waltham, who enlisted in the Civil War but never actually took part in a battle. But he spent a lot of the rest of his life honoring the soldiers who did fight.”

“It’s a life-and-death experience, obviously. Either that or some people are addicted to the adrenaline rush of battle.”

“Now that’s just sad,” Abby said sharply. “Did your father fight?”

“No, he had a high draft number during Vietnam. Yours?”

“No. He had a heart murmur, or so they said at the time. It’s never given him any trouble. I must say I can’t imagine my father fighting with anyone. So neither of us has any direct experience—well, once removed—with war. All we seem to know is that it’s a very intense experience and it leaves a trail, psychic or whatever.”

“You’ve seen Valley Forge now. Does it change your understanding?”

“Yes and no. There was a lot of suffering there, and it adds up. But it didn’t reach the same level as an actual battle, with cannonballs flying and all that.”

Abby realized with a start that they were still sitting in the car, arguing the philosophy of war. “We should go in. So you’re staying tonight, and you’re taking me to work in the morning, and we’ll take it from there?”

“It’s a plan.”

• • •

Ned dropped Abby off at the museum at seven thirty the next morning, and traffic was already heavy. Abby walked in to a scene of barely controlled chaos, and the place wasn’t even open to the public yet. She walked up to the first staff member she encountered and asked, “Amy, where do you need me?”

Amy was clearly frazzled. “What? Oh, hi, Abby. Check to make sure there’s enough toilet paper in the bathrooms, will you? I know we’re not supposed to let just anyone in to use them, but it’s hard to say no to a mom with small kids.”

“Will do,” Abby replied. When she’d accomplished that, there was another small task, and another. The next time she looked up, Ned was standing in the doorway, looking amused. “Busy?” he asked wryly.

“Oh, no, not at all!” she replied in the same tone.

Leslie chose that moment to rush past the door, then backtracked when she saw Ned. She gave him a quick hug. “Hey, long time no see! Where’ve you been hiding?”

“Working, mostly.”

Leslie grinned. “I already know about you two”—she nodded at Abby—“so you don’t have to be coy about it. Not that she says anything about you, ever. So discreet! You here for the battle?”

“I thought we’d skip the crowds.”

“Aw, that’s half the fun. You still have time to get over there, if you hustle.”

Ned glanced at Abby, who shrugged. She didn’t feel strongly either way. “Up to you, Ned. I might be needed here, though, in case the toilet paper runs out.” Abby winked at Leslie.

“Go see it. You should, once in your life. Consider it a business-related activity. But then scoot back here, because we’ll be busy after the battle is over. Wow, doesn’t that sound odd! Hey, we should all get together, right, Ned? I should have you two over for dinner, once I’ve recuperated from this craziness.”

“Sounds good,” Ned said.

“Great!” Leslie said, then hugged him again. “It’s been too long. Oops, gotta go.” Leslie disappeared as quickly as she had arrived.

Abby looked at Ned. “I guess I’ve been ordered to attend the battle at the bridge. Unless you’d really rather not?” After all, he had already walked from his parents’ house.

“No, I think Leslie’s right—you should see it once. After that, you’re on your own. But we’d better hurry.”

The fickle New England weather was cooperating, and the tourists were swarming toward the battle site. It was difficult to carry on a conversation while wading through a crowd. “What are we going to see?” Abby panted.

“Well, no surprise, it all starts with ‘the shot heard round the world,’ which usually happens right around now, starting at eight. Then they restage the battle, with a lot of marching and firing of muskets—blanks, of course, but there’s lots of smoke and noise. Then the parade shows up, and the other minuteman companies arrive, and there are even British reenactors. There are a whole lot more people at the reenactment than at the original battle.”

“I can believe it. Although weren’t there Civil War battles where the local people packed picnics and sat on convenient hillsides to watch?”

“You may be right. Disturbing, isn’t it?”

“It is. I know we watch that kind of thing on television and in movies all the time, but to go and watch real men die? That’s just perverse.”

Even though it was still early, the crowds were thick near the bridge. There was a circus-like atmosphere to the event, especially since there were a lot of children—who of course were too short to see anything. Abby was surprised not to see vendors selling genuine inflatable muskets and felt tricorn hats. And what would authentic 1775 snacks be?

As Ned had predicted, it was hard to see anything, although the sounds of musket fire were startling, and Abby could see the smoke from the discharges floating away above the crowd. She scanned the area halfheartedly, because she really didn’t expect anyone who was not breathing in the here and now to appear. Still, she tried to picture Henry Perry marching with his company of minutemen, knowing only that a troop of well-trained, well-armed British soldiers lay ahead.

From what she’d read, Abby knew that the confrontation at the bridge itself hadn’t taken very long. The British had arrived and were surprised when the pesky patriots actually shot at them, so they went back to search and sack the town before heading back to Boston. Their mistake: by the time they were ready to leave, the local minutemen had arrived in force and numbered nearly a couple of thousand, with more arriving all the time. While there had been no face-to-face confrontation, the Americans had harried the British troops all the way back to Boston.

Once the brief encounter at the bridge had been performed, the parade from the center of town had arrived, and the party atmosphere increased. Abby could even hear strains of music coming from somewhere.

Ned leaned over and spoke into her ear. “Had enough?”

Abby nodded. “I think so. Back to town?”

“If we can swim against the tide,” Ned replied.

They turned and started to make their way back toward the museum. They had turned the corner onto Lexington Road when Abby said suddenly, “Mind if we take a short detour? I’m not expected back at any particular time, and this won’t take long.”

“Sure. Where?”

“The old cemetery—not Sleepy Hollow, but the other one.”

“Okay. It’s a nice one, isn’t it? You’ve been there?”

“Yes, once, recently. I want to see if there’s anyone there.”

“You mean, one of
our
people?”

“Yes.” Abby led the way up the hill. There were some tourists around, although most people, even those interested in history, didn’t choose to spend a lovely spring day poking around an old cemetery. The ones who were there were respectful and kept their distance. Abby continued straight on until she reached the top of the hill, then stopped and reached out a hand to Ned. He took it.