The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery (9 page)

Fourteen

The Farm opened at
ten o'clock sharp, and visitors began pouring into the encampments. The battle wouldn't be until two in the afternoon, but the visitors would have plenty to look at in the camps until then. Many of the reenactors allowed the Farm guests inside their tents and answered their questions about life during the Civil War. Over the noise, I heard Abraham Lincoln begin the Gettysburg Address. Despite its repetition, I never tired of hearing it.

I climbed over the fence, and Eddie handed Hayden to me over the top rail before climbing over himself. I tickled Hayden before setting him on the grass next to his grandfather.

Eddie dusted off the back of his pants. “We had better head home. I have several appointments with clients today at my office. Are you ready to go, H?”

Hayden's eyes grew to the size of duck eggs. “I don't want to leave. I want to see the battle. I promised the general that I would stay.”

Eddie pursed his lips together. “Buddy, your mom and I think it would better if you spent some time with Krissie and me since she'll be so busy with the reenactment.”

Hayden turned to me with tears in his eyes. “Mom, you promised that I would get to see the camps and battle.”

I squatted in front of my son. “I know I did, Hayden, but Dad and I both think it would be better if you spend the night at his house.”

“Do we have to go now?” His blue eyes filled with tears.

I looked up at Eddie.

My ex-husband sighed. “I have to go. I have to work and can't stay here all day. I suppose you can stay until I get home from work.”

My father grinned. “I'll stick with him. You'll enjoy seeing the encampments with your gramps, won't you, Hayden?”

The five-year-old grinned. “Yes! I'll stay with Pop-Pop.”

Eddie didn't look like he was keen on the idea but didn't know how to get out of it without earning a tantrum from our son.

“I can stay too,” Krissie said. “I can keep an eye on Hayden. We will have a great time, won't we, Hayden?”

Hayden stepped closer to Dad.

“Krissie, I would hate to leave you here all day,” Eddie said.

“I don't mind,” she said quickly. “It will give me a chance to get to know Kelsey better.”

A muscle in my jaw twitched. “Now that that's settled, I need to get to work. Stay with Pop-Pop, okay, buddy?” I hugged my son before returning to the visitor center.

I was just walking toward the employee entrance when Laura called my name. I turned around and met her under a maple tree that overlooked the Union camp. Since the village was closed, she wore a Farm shirt instead of her period costume.

“Did I just see Eddie leaving the encampments?”

“Probably.” I let the door close after us and ran a hand over my tired eyes.

“And did I see your father and son walk into the camps with a stunning young woman just now?”

“Yes,” the word came out like a whimper.

“And she is?” Laura dug her fist into her hips.

“Eddie's fiancée.”

Laura's mouth fell open. “What?”

“You seem more upset that Eddie is engaged than that I'm a murder suspect.”

She waved away my comment. “The murder thing will go away. This stepmother-for-Hayden thing could go on for a while.”

“A while?” I forced a laugh. “You don't think Eddie's second marriage will last forever?”

“Considering his track record, no.”

I scowled because that track record was also a reflection of me.

She backpedaled. “Not that
your
next marriage won't last. Speaking of marriage, did you see the Union camp's medic?” She fanned herself. “He can take my temperature any time.”

I glanced across the battlefield. “I've met him.”

Just then Chase turned and caught me looking and smiled. Crud.

“That's the guy I found standing over Maxwell's dead body. I don't think he's a good candidate for whatever you are about to suggest.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Who said that I was pointing him out for your sake? I might want to get to know him first.”

“Fine.” I shrugged. “Go ahead. He's just a murder suspect to me.”

“Uh-huh.” Her mouth quirked into a half smile.

I glanced at my watch. The visitors kept coming out of the center. I was surprised by the number. There seemed to be twice as many as had been there at this time yesterday. Tomorrow being Saturday, the crowd would be even larger. I couldn't let this incident of Maxwell's death dampen all that I had achieved with the reenactment.

“I don't think I stand a chance,” Laura said. “Blondie over there won't take his eyes off of you. I think you have an admirer.”

“Not likely. He wants to help me find out what happened to Maxwell.”

“Even better. That would require a lot of alone time.”

“Laura, I have work to do, and I'm a murder suspect. Can we leave the matchmaking for another day?”

“I'll just say one more thing. Then I'll drop it for now.”

I sighed. “What?”

“The divorce has been final for three years. It's okay to let yourself date again. Have some fun. I'm not asking you to get married.” Her face softened. “Not every guy is like Eddie.”

I squeezed her hand. “I know you're only saying this because you love me, but I'm not going to throw myself at the first handsome man who smiles at me.”

She sighed. “I wish you would.” She smoothed her hair, which was pinned back for her interpreter outfit even though she was in modern clothing. It would allow her to make a quick change in case the village opened sooner than expected. “If you aren't interested, I may take a crack at him.”

“Crack away,” I said. “Just be on the lookout for a syringe.”

“A syringe?”

“That's how Maxwell was killed.” I went on to tell her about the brickyard and the bees.

“That's so cold, even for Maxwell.” She placed a hand on her chest. “Do you think he felt the bee stings?”

I shook my head.

“That's something to be thankful for.” She headed toward the Union camp.

I was about to enter the visitor center for a second time when Ashland, gasping for breath, came running at me. I grabbed both of her arms to steady her. I should have my studious assistant take some strength-training classes. One of these days, she was bound to snap an ankle on those spindly legs of hers.

“Thank you.” She took a breath. “Everything seems to be going smoothly. I went out front and told the crowd waiting in line that the village end of the Farm was closed, but they could purchase tickets for the reenactment at a reduced rate. They seemed to be satisfied with that.”

I made a checkmark in my notebook next to
adjust ticket prices
. “Great. I have a research project for you.”

“Oh?” She perked up. Ashland loved research. Someday I could see her with her PhD, poring over archives in the basement of some obscure library somewhere, searching restlessly for one fact. As much as I relied on her, I knew living history work was not her forte because it involved the living. Ashland did better with people long dead.

“I need you to research all the nonprofits in the county that the Cherry Foundation funds. The foundation might support others in different parts of the state or even country, but we'll start closer to home.”

“But why?” she asked.

“The police think I killed Maxwell because once he got control of Cynthia's money, he planned to remove funding from Barton Farm.”

She turned gray. “He can't do that.”

“He could and he was going to. Barton Farm can't be the only nonprofit that Maxwell planned to leave hanging. Maybe someone from one of the other operations that the foundation sponsored killed him.”

She started writing furiously in her little blue memo notebook, which was identical to my own. I hid a smile, flattered that Ashland wanted to mimic me. She was the perfect person for this research job.

Another idea struck me. “Oh, and cross-reference that list with the reenactor roster. Look for last names that match or anything that shows someone from one of the organizations the Cherry Foundation funded would be here on the grounds with the reenactment. It's
a long shot, but it's the best I've got.”

She made another note. “What if there is no possible way someone from one of those organizations was on the Farm?”

“That means it was either a reenactor”—I thought of Chase—“or a Farm staffer. But the motive will be much less clear.”

She gasped. “No one on our staff would do such a thing.”

“That's what I would like to believe.”

“It must be a reenactor then,” she said with more conviction than typical.

“That would be my preference.”
As long as it wasn't Chase
, I mentally added. For some reason, I wanted the EMT to be innocent. I didn't dare search my feelings to guess why, and I wouldn't dare mention that to Laura. She would never let me hear the end of it.

fifteen

Between Judy at the
ticket counter and Ashland in the field, I didn't have anything to worry about where the reenactment and Farm staff were concerned. The reduced ticket rate appeared to appease visitors that the village was closed, and Ashland reassigned the village staff who'd elected to come into work throughout the Farm.

I considered joining Hayden, Dad, and Krissie in their tour through the encampments, but something nagged me. Wesley Mayes, the spurned ex-boyfriend of Maxwell's fiancée, was accused of stealing something from another reenactor two times in as many days.

I went in search of the Union reenactor.

The Uni
on camp was on a half-acre of land and had only been on the Farm for two days, but as I walked through it, it seemed like the reenactors had been there for weeks, just like they would be in the middle of a siege. The high-ranking
officers had tables and chairs set outside their tents with maps spread out that described the terrain. The privates sat on the ground on fallen logs they dragged to the camp from the maple grove, or on their folded jackets. They swatted at flies that buzzed through their camps as they chewed on raw coffee beans. Others sipped coffee from tin cups. The liquid was so black, it was a wonder it didn't burn holes in their stomachs.

I went up to one of privates. “Good morning.”

He picked a piece of coffee ground out of his teeth. “How do you do, ma'am? How can I help you?”

“Fine. I'm looking for Wesley Mayes's tent.”

“Ol' Wesley.” He pointed behind him. “Over there yonder.”

I glanced at the dirty white tent he pointed out. Many of the reenactors purposely dirtied the exterior of their tents in order to make it more realistic to the time. In 1863, a private could go a very long time between baths. The smell must have been suffocating. Some of the reenactors followed suit and didn't bathe during the reenactments. I hoped I didn't have any reenactors like that on the Farm property. I didn't want to scare any visitors away with the smell.

Thanking the private, I headed to Wesley's tent. A lady reenactor and two children, also in nineteenth-century dress, stood outside the tent beside Wesley's. The children were making cornhusk dolls. I smiled at them.

“Wesley?” I called. There was no answer, so I peeked inside. Wesley lay on the mat on the ground he used for his bed, and Krissie Pumpernickle sat cross-legged on the grassy floor beside him. They weren't touching, but it was clear the two were deep in a private moment.

I gasped and walked backward. When I reemerged from the tent, I found the woman and children from the neighboring tent staring at me.

Krissie popped out of the tent. “Kelsey, this is not what it looks like.”

I folded my arms. “What does it look like?”

She smoothed back her bangs as Wesley walked out of the tent. She didn't answer.

“What are you doing in his tent?” I asked my voice was sharper than I'd intended.

“Oh!” Krissie blushed. “I was just saying hi to Wesley. We used to go to school together.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Where's Hayden?”

Krissie's blush deepened. “He's with your dad. I wouldn't leave him alone.” My face must have shown my disbelief because she said, “Really, I wouldn't. And I hope, Kelsey, that you aren't getting the wrong idea.”

“Why would I get a wrong idea?”

“Eddie doesn't need—”

I held up my hand. “I have no desire to say anything to Eddie. Whatever relationship the two of you have is none of my business.” I paused. “Unless it affects Hayden, then you had better believe I will make it my business.”

Her red face began to fade. “Thank you, Kelsey. You don't know how much that means to me. We would never do anything that would hurt Hayden.”

“I hope that's true.” Before she could protest, I pointed to each of them. “You two went to school together.”

Krissie nodded. “That's right. College. I haven't seen Wesley in years. He and Portia are a couple of years older than me and already graduated. It certainly was a shock to see him dressed up like a Civil War hero.”

Great, she wasn't even out of college yet.

“I ran into her and invited her into my tent to talk,” Wesley said. “That was all. We couldn't reminisce about school in front of the other visitors; I can't drop character in front of them. The tent was the only place we could speak freely.”

I wasn't sure I was buying their story, but it would have to do for now. I had other pressing business to talk to Wesley about. “I'd like a moment with Wesley,” I said.

“All right,” Krissie murmured, but she didn't move.

“I want to talk to Wesley alone, Krissie.”

“Oh! Right, I'm sorry.” Her face flushed again. She gave Wesley a side hug. “It was nice to see you again, Wes. We'll have to pick a time to catch up a bit more.”

He smiled. “We will. And thank you.” He turned to me. “We can talk in my tent.”

I ducked back into the tent. “You seem to entertain a lot of ladies in here.”

He sat on a camp stool. “Not really. You and Krissie are the only ones who have been inside here. What do you need to talk to me about? Is something wrong?”

Was something wrong? What a ridiculous question when a dead body was discovered on the other side of Maple Grove Lane. I held back any sarcasm.

“The police said that they told you about Maxwell's death.”

“I heard about it. I don't know what it has to do with me.”

“He was about to marry your ex-girlfriend.”

He shrugged. “So what. I'm over that.”

“You didn't seem over it yesterday in the village.”

He stiffened. “I had been blindsided. I knew nothing about the engagement then.”

This was sounding a little too similar to my own situation for comfort. “What did you do after you saw Maxwell and Portia t
ogether?”

“I came back to my tent and got drunk. It made me feel better.”

I frowned. “There isn't supposed to be any alcohol on Farm grounds. I could kick you off of the property for drinking.”

He laughed as if I were joking. I wasn't but didn't see it worth the time to go over the Farm rules. Besides, if I kicked Wesley out of the reenactment I would never learn if he killed Maxwell or what his real connection to Krissie was.

“What happened after you got drunk?”

“I went to sleep. I sort of remember some of the guys helping me into my tent, but it's fuzzy. I was wasted. I didn't wake up until the bugler set off around five. I could have killed that guy. I had an awful hangover and a splitting headache. Have you ever heard a bugler go off when you had a headache?”

Actually, I had, that very morning.

He shook his head. “It was terrible.”

“So you slept all night? You didn't get up at all?”

“You mean, ‘You didn't get up in the middle of the night and kill Max'?”

“Well, yeah.”

He scowled. “No. I think you can go now.”

“In a minute.” I folded my arms. “You've only been here two days, but there are already two instances of Confederate reenactors accusing you of stealing their possessions. Why's that?”

“Because they're Rebs.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Really? That's the best answer you have?”

He scowled. “For some reason, the last couple of days, I've found Confederate gear in my tent. Before I can find out who it belongs to and return it to the owner, the Rebel comes stomping into my tent because he
heard
I took a canteen, rifle, whatever it was.” He blew on his bangs, which drooped into his eyes. “The Rebs always want to challenge me to a duel. We're in the middle of the Civil War here, not the American Revolution.”

“You don't know how those items get into your tent?”

He glared at me. “I just told you that.”

“You didn't take them by accident?”

“How would I take something from the Confederate camp by accident? I'm telling you, I'm not taking this stuff. Someone is putting it in my tent.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“I don't know. To play a practical joke, to get back at me.”

“Get back at you for what?”

He removed his forage hat and threw it on his mat. “If I knew, I'd put a stop to it.”

“Could this be related to Maxwell's death?”

“I don't see how.” He frowned as if genuinely frustrated. “I can't say that I'm not happy that Maxwell's dead, but I had nothing to do with his death. Do you believe me?” he aske
d.

“I don't know what to believe, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt. For now.”

“I guess that's all I can hope for.”

“It's more than you can hope for,” I corrected.