The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery (12 page)

Maxwell's business partner was a reenactor. That meant he would have been on the grounds at one in the morning last night when Jason heard the screams. That meant he was a viable suspect. The more suspects there were, the better it was for me to put doubt in the chief's head about my own guilt.

“Is he on the Union or Confederate side?”

“The Confederate, I think. At least when I saw him on the battlefield yesterday his uniform was gray. I didn't bring it to anyone's attention because Maxwell and Jamie had a small disagreement earlier this week. I wanted us to have a nice visit without any disturbances.”

Maxwell and Jamie had had a disagreement just that week! It was too good to be true. I was already trying Jamie for the murder in my head because, of course, Maxwell's business partner would know about Maxwell's allergy to bees. I frowned. But how would he have access to insulin? Unless he or someone else he was close to was diabetic. Had he purposely framed me because he knew my father was diabetic and I would be the number-one suspect?

“You seem to be lost in thought.”

I shook my head. “I'm sorry.”

“You must have so much on your mind about the reenactment and now Maxwell's death. Has it had a big impact on the Farm?”

“The chief closed the village for the morning, so we sold tickets at a lesser rate today. But he allowed us to have it reopened by midafternoon.”

“I'm glad. Chief Duffy is a good man, and he will find out what happened to my nephew.”

“So Jamie was unhappy with Maxwell. Was anyone else?”

She ran her fingers over the edge of the afghan. “I don't think so. His argument with Jamie wasn't anything the two boys wouldn't have patched up eventually. I'm sure it had to do with real estate. It was their latest venture.”

I asked my next question carefully. “Did he tell you if he planned to change or remove the funding from any of the organizations that the Cherry Foundation supports?”

The afghan fell from her shoulders. “Take funding from? Maxwell would never do that.”

If Cynthia didn't know about him removing funding from Barton Farm, I wasn't going to tell her and tarnish her memory of her nephew, however misguided that memory may be. Maybe Portia knew more about her fiancé's business dealings.

“How many organizations does the Cherry Foundation support?”

She was thoughtful. “Too many to count. I love to give away money. My father always said that you will never regret giving someone a gift. I believe that. All my contributions to nonprofits are gifts. My father made a fortune in the tire industry. It is my privilege to give it away.”

“Did Maxwell feel the same way?” I asked. I knew that her heir did not. He constantly complained about the thousands of dollars she poured into the Farm with little, in his eyes, return on the investment.

“Oh, yes. Maxwell was a giver too.”

I bit my tongue and fought the urge to correct her. Maxwell hadn't been a giver; far, far from it.

“It's hard to know what to do now. I relied on Maxwell for advice.”

“You don't have to think about the Foundation now. Take care of yourself.” I brushed crumbs from my lap.

“But so many depend on the organization. Decisions cannot wait until I have recovered.” She pulled the afghan back over her shoulder. “I was considering donating to the New Hartford Beautification Committee's wildflower project. It was a plan to reintroduce native wildflowers to portions of the state park and town. It was in conjunction with the park rangers of course, but all the seeds and planting equipment had to be donated.”

“This was the project that Shepley is involved with?” I tucked the afghan in behind her, so that it wouldn't slip off again.

“Thank you.” She nodded. “And yes, Shepley is in charge of the project. It sounded like a wonderful program and Shepley has the expertise to support it.”

“Have you changed your mind?”

She shook her head. “No, but it's difficult to make any plans for the future now. I have to rethink everything.” She frowned. “I'm not well, you see.”

I squeezed her free hand.

“I fear my time is close,” she whispered.

“No, Cynthia, don't say that. You have years ahead of you.”

She shook her head. “I need to get my affairs in order. Tomorrow, my lawyers will help me do that. My father always said to keep your ducks in a row. I don't want to leave a mess behind for whoever might come after me.”

My chest tightened at the thought of losing Cynthia. She was like the eccentric favorite aunt I never had. It was difficult to think of Barton Farm without her. I didn't even know if the Farm could survive without her.

She squeezed my hand. “You've been a treasure to me, Kelsey. I know Barton Farm is in good hands with you at the helm. And don't worry. I will make sure the Farm is taken care of. I won't let anything happen to it, even after I'm gone.”

I held back tears. “Thank you.” It just showed what kind of person Cynthia was that she thought of the Farm and of me in the midst of her grief. I had to find out who killed Maxwell not just to save myself and the Farm, but for Cynthia. This selfless woman deserved closure, and I was the one who would give it to her.

Cynthia's maid stepped into the room. “Ma'am, your bath is ready. A nice soak in the tub will do you a world of good.”

Cynthia nodded, but her spirits were still down. “Thank you, Marguerite. That sounds lovely.” She started to remove the blankets wrapped around her body. I stood and tried to help her.

The maid hurried over and stepped between Cynthia and me. “I will help her.”

I let my hands fall. Marguerite helped Cynthia to her feet. In her pink tracksuit, Cynthia looked even smaller and frailer. She said that she didn't have much time, and seeing her sway back and forth in Marguerite's arms, I had to agree—no matter how painful it was to admit.

The woman led Cynthia to the door and looked back at me. “I will ring Miles for you.”

“No need,” I said. “I'll show myself out.”

She nodded and led Cynthia from the solarium. I walked down the hall, heading for the front door until I could no longer hear their voices, and then I went in search of Portia Bitner.

nineteen

Cynthia had said that
Portia's room was in the east wing. How would I find the right door in a house so large? And I knew if Miles found me wandering the mansion, he would have me thrown out.

Footsteps clicked on the tile in the front hallway. Portia herself appeared, then pulled up short when she saw me. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose red, and she didn't have any makeup on. In grief, she was somehow more beautiful. Maybe I misjudged her. As hard as it was for me to believe, maybe this beautiful young woman really had loved Maxwell.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she asked.

I raised my eyebrows at her reaction. “I was checking in on Cynthia.”

Her face cleared. “Yes, of course you would. That was kind of you.”

“I'm so sorry about Maxwell.”

She gasped and covered her mouth. “Thank you. That's very kind of you.”

“Cynthia said that you live here.”

She blushed. “Maxwell and I live in separate wings. When the lease was up on my apartment earlier this year, Maxwell thought it was prudent for me to move into the mansion before the wedding. There is plenty of space. I could go a whole day without seeing him. He was a very busy man.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “But now I don't know how much longer I'll be staying here. Poor Maxwell. How can I think of myself at a time like this? Who could have done such a horrid act?”

“Wesley?” I asked

She dropped her hand. “He would never.”

“He seemed pretty upset yesterday about Maxwell.” I folded my arms.

“He wouldn't.” She shook her head back and forth like a toddler. “Did you tell the police about that?”

“I had to.”

“Wesley wouldn't hurt anyone.”

“He was there as part of the reenactment.”

“I—I have to go.”

“Wait,” I said. “Did you see Jamie Houck at the reenactment yesterday?”

She turned. “Jamie?” Her eyes grew wide. “Yes. He's the one you should be talking to the police about.” She combed her long black ponytail with her fingers. “If anyone wanted to hurt Maxwell, it was him.”

I could tell Portia liked the idea of Jamie being the killer instead of Wesley. “Why's that?” I asked.

“He and Maxwell had a terrible fight last week.” She tugged on her hair. “I was at Maxwell's office waiting to go to lunch with him when Jamie stomped inside. He slammed Maxwell's door, and I heard them screaming at each other. It was awful.”

“What where they screaming about?”

She dropped her ponytail. “It sounded like a real estate deal that went bad. Maxwell and Jamie were buying land for development.”

“What kind of development?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. Maxwell always told me not to worry about it when I asked. He told me that he would make sure I wouldn't have to worry about anything ever again.” Tears fell from her eyes. “What am I going to do now without him?”

Again, I wondered how this young woman attached herself to Maxwell Cherry and became so dependent on him. I tucked a flyaway hair behind my ear. “I know I didn't memorize the entire of roster of reenactors who are at Barton Farm this weekend, but I can't recall ever seeing the name Jamie Houck.”

“Maxwell told me that he uses another name when he's reenacting because he doesn't want any of the reenactors to ask him for money.”

“What's the name he uses?”

She shook her head. “I don't know.”

Behind me, someone cleared his throat. I turned to find Miles glowering down at me. “Ms. Cambridge, did you lose your way when leaving the house?”

I smiled brightly. “Nope. I was sharing my condolences with Portia.”

“Very good,” he said. “But as this has been a difficult day for the entire household, I must ask you to leave.”

“Sure thing.” I looked back to say good-bye to Portia, but she was already gone.

As I drove back to the Farm, I drummed my fingers on my steering wheel. How was I going to find out which reenactor was Jamie Houck in disguise? At least I knew to start with the Confederates since Cynthia saw him the day before in a gray uniform. I wished that I had gotten the chance to speak to her again after talking to Portia. Cynthia might have known his nom de plume when reenacting. But I couldn't disturb her again. I would assign the task of discovery Jamie's identity to Ashland. She would enjoy it.

By the time I turned into the Farm's parking lot, there was a long line of cars leaving through the main exit. The Farm closed at five o'clock, and it was only a few minutes till. I parked my car beside the supply shed and sighed. At least I wouldn't have to worry about the visitors on the grounds again until ten o'clock the next morning. As long as the reenactors didn't start brawling again, I could concentrate all my efforts on trying to find out who killed Maxwell.

The first order of business was to find Ashland to see what she had learned about the other nonprofits and Jason, and to give her the new research assignment.

I entered the visitor center from the side entrance and found Judy at the ticket counter, counting the money from the cash drawer. When I approached, she held up a finger and kept counting. After she finished the stack of fives, she looked up. “We did very well today, Kelsey, even with selling the tickets at a discount. I've never seen ticket sales like this before. It's hard to believe that Saturday and Sunday promise to be even bigger days.”

I smiled. “At least that's something that has gone right this weekend. Is Laura here?”

“She just radioed from the village. She is doing the rounds to make sure all the buildings are locked up tight.”

“That's great. It gives me one less thing to do.”

Judy sniffed. “I'm happy that Laura is pitching in like that, but it is my opinion that Ashland should be the one checking the buildings. She is the assistant director. She's been cooped up in your office all afternoon playing on the computer. It's no wonder the girl is as pale as a sheet.”

“Don't worry about Ashland,” I said. “She's doing some research for me.”

Judy frowned but said nothing more.

I went to my office to find Ashland, but despite Judy's complaint that Ashland had spent the entire afternoon in my office, my assistant wasn't there. I picked up the radio that I had left on my desk before going to Cynthia's and radioed her.

“Kelsey, I'm glad you're back,” her voice crackled through the radio.

“Meet me near the Union camp,” I said.

I passed a few straggling visitors heading to the exit as I went out the sliding glass doors into the Farm. Ashland was already waiting for me at the Union camp.

As the reenactment was officially over for the day, some of the reenactors had removed their flak jackets and cartridge boxes. They leaned their rifles against the trees and hung their coats from them. They sat on camp stools in their white undershirts and suspenders. Dirt marred their shirts and faces, but they were smiling. It had been a good day for history.

Ashland smiled. “This really is amazing, Kelsey. Having the reenactment on the Farm was a stroke of genius.”

I tried not to beam at her praise and failed. “Thanks.”

“How was your errand?”

“Informative,” I said “I went to see Cynthia.”

Ashland shivered. “Cynthia? Why?”

I frowned. “I wanted to tell her I was sorry about Maxwell.” I told Ashland what I had learned.

Her brow wrinkled. “Jamie Houck. There is no one by that name on the reenactor roster. I memorized it.”

Of course she did.

In front of us, reenactors removed their powder bags and rifles from their shoulders and dropped them in front of their tents.

I shielded my eyes and scanned the men for Chase. “He's reenacting under a fake name.”

“How very strange,” she murmured.

“I want you to find out which reenactor he is.” I dropped my hand.

“I can do that. I'll take a copy of the reenactor roster home and work on it from there.”

“Are you coming back for the bonfire? Everyone on the Farm's staff is invited. It should start around eight.”

A strange look crossed over her face. “I don't think so. It's been a long day. I think I just want to go home.”

I was about to ask her if she was all right when my father walked up to us in his costume for Hamlet's father's ghost, which consisted of tights, a black robe, and metal breastplate. The drawn on eye circles and smattering of fake cobwebs in his hair and across the front of the breastplate gave him the perfect “I'm dead” look. Dad held out his left arm and recited, “
Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural
.”

“I have to go. I'll grab that roster.” Ashland fled.

Dad put a hand to his chest. “Does she not appreciate Shakespeare?”

I gave him a look. “Considering this morning's discovery, you walking around spouting off about foul murders is a tad insensitive.”

“Bah,” my father said and adjusted a piece of cobweb on his breastplate. “It shows that Shakespeare is timeless and that foul murder is a universal problem still today, even in our happy little museum bubble.”

I couldn't argue with him on that point. “I'm guessing tonight is dress rehearsal.”

“Yes, and you still plan to be there tomorrow night for the opening performance?”

I smiled. “Don't worry, I'll be there. Laura is coming with me.”

“Very good.” He sighed. “I do wish you would relent and let Hayden to come along too. I want our boy to see my big performance.”

“He's a little young for Shakespeare. Let's wait until he's at least through kindergarten.”

“I suppose that's all right.” He whipped his cloak over his shoulder. “I'm off to the theater!” With that, he strutted away, chest and chin out.

Walt Whitman walked by me carrying a dish of rice and beans. “Perhaps that reenactor is off by a few centuries?”

I didn't bother to respond.