The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery (13 page)

twenty

As the sun began
to dip in the west, the reenactors built a large bonfire in the middle of the two encampments. They skewered hot dogs and marshmallows with their ramrods and held them over the flame. A Southern private strummed a banjo. Brown jugs were passed back and forth. The reenactors told me there was no alcohol at the reenactment, but I suspected that some of those jugs held much more than water. And Wesley Mayes had gotten wasted last night on something a lot stronger than apple cider. After the day I had, I was tempted to ask for a swig.

The fire cast shadows on the planes and grooves in the reenactors' faces. I almost felt like I was stepping back in time to the Civil War. It was hard to believe the battles were only a hundred and fifty years ago. In the grand scheme of human history, that was like last week.

Abraham Lincoln stood silhouetted by the flames and was yet again repeating the Gettysburg Address.

In the firelight, it was hard to make out the soldiers' features and tell one from another. Their uniforms were similar and that made it difficult to find someone too. I stepped through the Union camp, looking for one particular soldier: Wesley Mayes, the person I thought had the most reason to want Maxwell dead. There was much that was left unsaid from the conversation we'd had that afternoon. I found him, but he was not alone. Chase Wyatt was with him.

Wesley sat on a log on the edge on the encampment. He held a pipe in his right hand. In his left was another brown jug. By his erratic movements, I knew it didn't hold root beer. No one liked root beer that much.

Chase scooted over on his log to make enough space for me to sit. It was either that or the ground. I couldn't stand over them like a dictator.

I perched on the log. The space was small and it was impossible to keep our legs from touching. I tried to ignore the fact that my left leg was pressed up against Chase's right one.

Chase held out a metal plate to me. “S'more?”

I took one. A string of marshmallow trailed from the plate. With as much dignity as I could, I pulled the cracker away.

Chase winked at me. “Wesley here was just telling me about Portia.”

Wesley took another swig of from his jug. “Portia. I was never good enough for Portia.”

Chase watched the fire about fifty yards away from us. “Wesley says he was the one who introduced Portia to Maxwell. Isn't that interesting?”

That was interesting.

Chase put his lips just inches from my ear. I would have moved away, but then I would have fallen off of the log. “The guy is smashed. If you have any questions for him, you'd better ask them fast before he passes out.”

“How did you know Maxwell?” I asked Wesley.

“He was my boss.” He almost dropped the jug but caught it at the last second. “I was a clerk in his office while I was in college. Portia was my girl.” He whimpered.

“What exactly was Maxwell's business?” I asked.

Wesley wiped spittle from his cheek. “He's a venture capitalist. He invested money in stuff to make more money. Making more money is always priority number one.”

“What did he invest in?”

“Mostly property.”

“What kind of property? Where?”

“All over. His big project was the new mall that's supposed to happen on Kale Road.”

I wrinkled my brow. “That's the one that's been under construction for almost four years.”

He nodded. “Two of the big chain stores that said they would anchor the new mall pulled out because of the economy. Without the big anchors, the little boutique and smaller shops dropped out too. The anchors claimed the new mall was too close to the Chapel Hill and Summit malls since it's sort of in between the two.”

“Did he lose money?” I swatted a mosquito that buzzed my ear.

Wesley laughed bitterly. “He lost hundreds of thousands, maybe a million. Maxwell was the top investor.”

Chase whistled. “How did he keep his business from going under?”

“He laid off about half the office two years ago. I left on my own because I saw the writing on the wall and I'd just finished college. Thankfully, I was able to get a job at a bank. And he always has his aunt to fall back on. I guess he could just ask her for money. She has buckets of it.”

“Do you know what Maxwell's financial situation is now?” I dug the toe of my sneaker into the grass.

“No, but I know that the ground where the new mall is supposed to go is still torn up and there's no building going on. I assume if he had the money or a buy-in by a new anchor store, construction would have started by now. It's midsummer. Starting construction too late in the year would be a mistake. Everything will screech to a halt when winter comes.”

It sounded like it already had.

“Does the name Jamie Houck mean anything to you?”

Beside me, I felt Chase watching me.

“Houck was his business partner. They bought real estate together.”

“Do you know what he looks like? Have you met him?”

Wesley shook his head. “I heard the name around Maxwell's office, but they always met somewhere else. I never saw him. He could be here for all I know.”

Interesting he would say that since according to Cynthia, Jamie was somewhere in the reenactment.

“How exactly did Maxwell meet Portia?” I asked, steering the conversation away from Jamie Houck.

“I brought her to my last work Christmas party. It never even occurred to me that she would leave me for Maxwell. The guy was like thirty years older than her. It's just more proof to me that money was more important to her than love.”

“Did Portia need money?”

“Everyone needs money.” He took another gulp from the brown jug.

“Sure they do,” Chase said. “But not everyone is willing to marry for it.”

Wesley raised his jug. “It was definitely for the money. Portia may look like she has money, but she has nothing. Many times I paid her portion of our rent or for all the groceries. I'll never see any of that money now,” he said bitterly.

“When did you leave Maxwell's office?”

“About a year and half ago.”

“And when did Portia dump you?” Chase asked.

“Six months ago. She claimed it was because she wanted to pursue her career and couldn't have any distractions, but now I know that was a lie. She was probably already with Maxwell when she dumped me.” He lifted the jug to his lips. “I'm so stupid. I will never trust a woman again.”

“Not all women are like Portia,” Chase said. “There are a lot of kind and honest women out there.”

“Let me know when you find one, because I don't know any.”

Chase bumped my shoulder. “I have one sitting right next to me.”

I shifted to the edge of log. How could he even say that about me? He didn't know me. He didn't know anything about me. How did he know I was kind and honest after two days?

“After you quit the investment firm, did you ever see Maxwell again?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. Not until I saw him yesterday with Portia on his arm. Why did she come here if she wanted to keep it a secret? She knew I was a reenactor. I've been doing this since I was a kid. She came here to hurt me.” He took another swig from the jug.

She did know
, I thought. That was why she didn't want to tour the encampments when she first arrived on Farm grounds. I tried to recall if Maxwell acted like he recognized Wesley. I couldn't remember, but at the time I was more worried about whether or not Wesley was about to deck Maxwell than with observing Maxwell's facial expression.

Chase leaned on his knee and put his cheek in his hand. “Is there any hope for you and Portia now that Maxwell's out of the picture?”

“No.” A tear fell from his cheek into the dirt. “She doesn't love me anymore.”

“Are you sure?” Chase asked. “Maybe she didn't want to marry Maxwell. You said it was for the money. How do you know she doesn't love you?”

Wesley raised his jug. “She'll find another sugar daddy,” he said bitterly.

“What did you do after Portia left the Farm yesterday?” Chase asked.

He laughed. “I got hammered. It was the only thing I could do. This morning, I woke up with the mother of all hangovers.”

At least that matched the story he gave me earlier that afternoon.

“Have you ever had a hangover at a Civil War camp?” Wesley asked Chase.

“Nope.”

“I don't advise it.”

“Maybe you should lay off the hard cider or you'll be in the same place tomorrow.”

“Ehh,” Wesley said and took another pull from the bottle.

My hand fell from my lap and knocked into Chase's. For half a second he hooked his fingers around mine. I jerked my hand away and jumped out of my seat.

Chase's face was neutral like nothing had happened, and he stood up. “I think you should hit the sack right now. If you wait much longer, you won't be able to lift your rifle tomorrow. We've got two battles, remember?”

Wesley shrugged as if what happened tomorrow didn't matter to him.

“Let's go, big guy.” Chase lifted Wesley up on his feet and slung Wesley's arm over his shoulder like he weighed no more than Hayden. Then I remembered that Chase was an EMT. He was an expert at picking up people. I nudged my foot against a tree root as an idea crept into the back of my brain. If he was an expert at moving people and strong enough to carry Wesley, who was much taller and heavier than Maxwell, he would have had no trouble dropping Maxwell into the brick pit with the bees.

The problem was I didn't want Chase to be the killer. I was beginning to like him. Still, I knew I shouldn't trust myself where men were concerned. I had loved Eddie and look how that had turned out.

I left off toying with the tree root, stood, and dusted off the back of my jeans, then swatted at two more mosquitoes that dive-bombed my face.

“Kelsey, if you would carry his lantern, we can make it back to his tent,” Chase said.

I picked up the gas-lit lantern and led the way back into the encampment. The sun had set while we talked. Above the trees, a blue and purple cloud bruised the western sky. There was still a large crowd of men, women, and children around the bonfire, cooking hotdogs and toasting more marshmallows. The acrid smell of campfire hung in the air, reminding me of summer camp as a child.

In the encampments, all of the white tents on the Confederate and Union side looked identical, and although I had been to Wesley's tent during the day, I lost my way after twilight.

“How do we know which tent is his?” I asked.

“I know,” Chase said. He made a sharp turn down a row of white tents and paused at the one at the end. It was the closest tent to the village part of the farm. In the middle of the night, Wesley had a clear path to the village. He could slip away and no one would have been the wiser.

He could slip away and commit murder.

Chase helped Wesley to the mat in the middle of the tent. Pieces of white cotton sheet made up the bed. It didn't look particularly comfortable, but it must have been better than sleeping on the bare ground.

Wesley snored as Chase swung his feet on the bed. He removed the other soldier's boots and set them neatly at the end of the bed. Again I was struck with how dedicated to detail the reenactors were. The inside of the tent was spare. It held the mat and a small folding table, and two more rifles. I wondered how many of those rifles he had brought to the reenactment.

Chase waved me out of the tent, carrying Wesley's cider jug. As most of the reenactors were still at the bonfire, it was quiet around the tents. A faint hoot from an owl came from somewhere in the trees. I couldn't make out exactly where the bird was.

Chase dumped the remainder of the jug in the grass. “That was an informative conversation.”

The smell of alcohol burned the inside of my nose. I held up the lantern, so I could better see his face. In the firelight, I noticed that his eyes weren't just chocolate brown, as I had believed. Golden flecks peppered his irises.

I lowered the lantern. “I hope you didn't get poor Wesley drunk just to get that information. He's going to be miserable tomorrow. He was miserable today.”

“He probably will be, but I'm sure someone has some aspirin hidden somewhere in his camp that they can give Wesley to take the edge off. And I didn't get him drunk.” He smiled. “He was already halfway there when I found him and more than willing to talk about Portia. For him it was like a therapy session. I didn't even charge him. It was a deal all around.”

I wasn't so sure. Would Wesley regret what he told us about Maxwell and Portia tomorrow? Then again, would he even remember?

“I visited Cynthia today,” I said and then mentally kicked myself for telling Chase that.

“How is she?”

“Distraught,” I said, realizing that it was the perfect word to describe my friend's grief.

“I'm sorry. You're close to her?”

I nodded. “She's the Farm's benefactress, but she's also like an aunt to me. She's done so much for Hayden and me to make our lives on the Farm better. She went way above the call to make sure we were happy here. I love how much she cares for the Farm and takes my opinions and suggestions into account. I hate for her to be going through this.”

Chase set Wesley's jug beside the entrance to the tent. “I knew I was right back there.”

“What do you mean?” I folded my arms.

“When I said that you were a kind person, you are. You're concerned about Cynthia when obviously Barton Farm has a better chance of survival now that Maxwell is dead.”

“Don't let your uncle hear you say that. He's already convinced I killed Maxwell. I'm surprised they haven't arrested me yet.”

“That's because Candy is set on proving I'm the killer.” He sighed. “She would love to arrest me. She fantasizes about it, I'm sure.”