The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery (24 page)

Epilogue

Even though it had
been months since Chase had found me in Barton House's root cellar for a second time, I thought of the events of the Blue and Gray Ball often. Most of the time, I wonder what I could have done for Ashland to help her make other choices—choices that didn't lead to murder.

Hayden wiggled in my lap as we sat in the waiting room of the Cherry Foundation's main office in downtown New Hartford. It had only been a month since Cynthia's funeral, and since then all I had done was worry about the future of the Farm when I wasn't kicking myself over Ashland. What would our fate be? Cynthia's will would be the deciding factor for all of it.

Outside an early November snow covered the parking lot. Flakes continued to fall from the sky. It would be a long and cold winter. Not a good time to move if I was evicted from the cottage.

My thoughts spiraled out of control, bouncing between Ashland and the Farm. What would the Farm do if we couldn't keep funding from the Cherry Foundation? I would have to close it and lay off all of my employees. Who would care for all those historic buildings? What about Barton House? Despite the giant rats in its root cellar, I hated the thought of all the history going away. Maybe there was another living history museum that would take the buildings, or at least one or two. I hated the thought of breaking them up again, but it was better than letting them rot.

I shifted on the hard wooden chair. I'd have thought the Cherry Foundation would have more comfortable chairs in their waiting room.

“Mom, when can we go home? We've been here forever.”

We had only been there twenty minutes, but Hayden was right. It did kind of seem like forever.

The door to the inner office opened and an elderly man named Mr. Culpepper emerged. He was Cynthia's primary lawyer. He scowled. “You brought your son.”

Mr. Culpepper wasn't a fan of kids. I could tell. “I didn't have anyone to watch him. My father is teaching today.”

His scowl deepened. “He can't listen to what I am going to share with you.”

I frowned in return. “You should have told me that before you beckoned me to your office,” I said.

The receptionist peeked out her office door. “He can stay with me. Hayden, do you like to color? I have some crayons.”

“Coloring is okay,” Hayden agreed, and he walked into her office.

I smiled at her. “Thanks.”

“I have three kids. I always have emergency crayons and paper,” she whispered.

Mr. Culpepper held the door for me into his office and gestured that I should sit on a leather couch. He sat across from me in an armchair. “Ms. Cambridge, thank you for coming in today. I suppose you are wondering why I called you in here.”

“I imagine that it has something to do with Barton Farm and Cynthia.”

He nodded and removed his glasses. “As you know, the Cherry Foundation has been more than generous with Barton Farm over the years. It truly was Ms. Cherry's pet project.”

I folded my hands on my lap. I was wearing jeans. Maybe I should have chosen something more fitting for this occasion, but Mr. Culpepper had called late that morning asking to meet me in the office, so it hadn't given me much time to consider my wardrobe. “She cared a lot of about history, especially local history.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, now that she is gone, circumstances have changed too because of the untimely passing of Maxwell, her heir. You must know the Cherry Foundation cannot support Barton Farm in the same way it has been doing for these many years.”

This was it. This was the moment where I would find out the Farm had to close. I felt tears gather in the back of my eyes, but I would not cry. I didn't cry when I was thrown into the root cellar or when Ashland, who was now awaiting trial after somehow surviving hundreds of stings from Shepley's bees, betrayed me and the Farm. I wasn't going to start now.

“Barton Farm has been named benefactor of a sizable trust from Cynthia.”

I blinked. “What?”

He nodded. “You are the trustee with no strings attached. Ms. Cherry is putting the whole authority to make decisions about the Farm on you.”

This is what Cynthia meant when she said to me at Dad's play that the Farm would be fine. She had already made her decision then. My elation was quickly followed with the feeling of a great weight being lowered onto my shoulders. “How long will the trust sustain the Farm?”

“That is up to you and how you choose to spend the money.” He leaned back in his chair. “If the money doesn't last, that will be on you.”

His bluntness made me shiver, and the weight on my shoulders grew heavier, threatening to push me through the couch cushion and into the floorboards. “So I'm in charge free and clear. No strings attached?”

“You have all the power to distribute the funds, but there is one stipulation of the trust,” he said.

I knew it sounded too easy. Money was never this easy.

“What's that?” I asked, anticipation growing in my gut.

“You will be required to live on the property for fifteen years and hold the directorship for all of that time. After which, if you chose, you may leave and select a new director.”

“Fifteen
years
?” I had no intention of leaving Barton Farm now, but how did I know that wouldn't change for fifteen years?

“That's the stipulation of the trust. Will you comply?”

“What happens if I don't?” I asked.

“The trust is null and void. Ms. Cherry was very clear on that.”

I swallowed. If I didn't agree, the Farm would close. I gripped my hands so tightly my knuckles turned white. “I'll do it.”

He nodded. “I know Ms. Cherry would be pleased with your decision.”

I knew that too.

About the Author

Amanda Flower, a multiple Agatha Award–nominated mystery author, started her writing career in elementary school when she read a story she wrote to her sixth grade class and had the class in stitches with her description of being stuck on the top of a Ferris wheel. She knew at that moment she'd found her calling of making people laugh with her words. She also writes mysteries as national bestselling author Isabella Alan. In addition to being an author, Amanda is an academic librarian for a small college near Cleveland. www.amandaflower.com

Acknowledgments

Over a decade ago, I spent one summer working at a living history museum. I made bricks by hand, wove baskets, and spouted off mostly accurate American history to tourists. It was one of the most fun and unusual summers of my life. I promised myself someday I would write a mystery novel inspired by that experience. Without my wonderful readers, that promise would have never come true. Thank you. You are why I keep writing.

I wrote the proposal for this mystery over four years ago. Special thanks to my superhero agent Nicole Resciniti for not giving up on it and finding it a good home. Thanks to Terri Bischoff for providing that home. I'm certain that Midnight Ink is a perfect match for Barton Farm and everyone living in it.

Thanks to my fantastic beta reader Molly Carroll for reminding me to finish my sentences, and to editor Nicole Nugent for her edits and comments.

Hugs to Mariellyn Grace for saving the novel from a fiery end and to Suzy and Roland Green for accompanying me on a research trip to a Civil War reenactment and patiently waiting while I got my photo taken with Honest Abe.

Thank you to my mother, the Reverend Pamela Flower, who encouraged me from the start to write this book and every book. She would have loved the finished product.

Finally, I thank God for restoring my hope.