The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery (17 page)

Twenty-seven

My radio crackled. “Kelsey?
It's Ashland. Come in?”

I picked up my radio from where I left it on the kitchen table while foraging in the refrigerator for something to eat. “What's up, Ashland?”

“I found him,” she said.

I put my can of pop on the table. “Found who?”

“Jamie Houck. You wanted me to find him, didn't you?”

I had completely forgotten about Jamie with Wesley's death.

“Maybe it doesn't matter now that Wesley has confessed to the crime and is dead.”

“It matters,” I said. “Where is he?”

“Meet me outside of the visitor center and I'll take you to him.”

“Be there in five minutes.” I left the house with my uneaten sandwich on the counter.

I decided to take Tiffin with me to meet Jamie Houck. He had spent much of the day trapped in the house, and I knew he was itching to get outside and see the camps. I wrapped his leash around my right hand but let him walk untethered beside me. Ashland was already at the visitor center when I got there.

“Where is he?” I repeated my early question.

“Follow me.”

I frowned. I would have much rather Ashland just answer my questions, but if my assistant wanted to present me with some big reveal, I wouldn't rob her of that. She headed straight for the Confederate camp, and Tiffin and I followed.

She led me to a tent in the middle of the camp. Three men in Confederate dress drank coffee and laughed. Two of the men I didn't recognize, but the third one, in the middle, was familiar. As we got closer, I realized it was the same Confederate corporal who had accused Wesley of stealing his canteen on the first day of the reenactment.

Ashland marched up to the men with a new self-confidence. “Henry Adams, we would like a private word with you.”

Adams's two friends laughed at Ashland's formal an-
nouncement.

One of his comrades stood up. “Looks like you're in trouble, Adams.”

Adams frowned. “Give us a minute, boys.”

Still laughing, the other two men sauntered away. After they were gone, Adams sat on a camp stool at the entrance of his tent. “What can I do for you, ladies?”

Ashland folded her arms and glared down at him. “Your real name is Jamie Houck, and we want to talk to you about Maxwell.”

I stared at Ashland.
This
was Jamie Houck? The same guy I saw on the first day of the reenactment in a yelling match with Wesley over a missing canteen?

He scowled but didn't deny her accusation. “What does it matter what my name is outside of the reenactment?”

“It matters,” Ashland said, “because your business partner is dead.”

Adams—no, Jamie Houck—poured what was left of his coffee into the grass. The dark liquid disappeared among the thick green blades. “Do you think that I'm happy that Maxwell is dead? After this weekend, I have to go back into the office and clean up the mess he's left behind. I'd appreciate if you let me enjoy my last few hours of make-believe before reality sets in.”

“When you say mess,” I said, speaking for the first time, “you mean the construction site on Kale Road.”

His neck jerked up and he glared at me. “Not that it is any of your business, but yes. We were just about to sign a new deal with an anchor store for the mall with the backing of Cynthia Cherry's fortune. Now that Maxwell is gone and that money is out of my grasp, I don't know what will happen.” He shuddered. “I'm left with a multimillion-dollar pile of dirt.”

“You and Maxwell argued about this,” I said.

“It was no secret that we argued over the plans for the new mall, but we both wanted it to happen. It was going to be a lucrative deal for us both.”

“And that deal can't go forward without Maxwell?” Ashland asked.

“I just said that.” He looked from Ashland to me and back again. “You don't think I had anything to do with Maxwell's death, do you? That Union sergeant killed him and then killed himself. I can't say that I'm at all surprised. The kid was a punk and stole my canteen.”

I balled my hands into fists. “His name is Wesley.”

Jamie shrugged. “Doesn't matter. That kid cost me a canteen and millions of dollars, so excuse me if I don't feel bad that he's dead.”

“Wesley knew Maxwell. He even worked for Maxwell for a time,” I said.

“He did?” Jamie's eyebrows shot up. “I didn't know that. It is a small world.” He shook the last remnants of coffee grounds from his cup. “If he worked for Maxwell, then I'm even less surprised he killed him. Maxwell was a terror to work with. I wouldn't have gone into business with him at all if I didn't need a money man in my corner.”

I didn't like Maxwell, but it was hard to listen to someone else talk about him so disparagingly, especially since I knew Cynthia was at home grieving his loss.

“All Maxwell's death did was cause more headaches for me.” With that, Jamie Houck/Henry Adams turned and walked away from us.

As Tiffin, Ashland, and I walked back to the visitor center, my assistant said, “Maybe Wesley did kill Maxwell. He had the best motive to kill Maxwell, and the police believe his confession was real.”

“I just can't believe that.”

She frowned.

Laura walked up to us. She was now in her street clothes, ready for the theater. “Kelsey, take Tiffin home and get changed or we're going to miss the first act!”

“I'm on my way now.” I patted Ashland on the shoulder. “Thanks for your help.”

She gave me the smallest of smiles before she turned away.

Laura watched her go. “You should be careful and not praise that girl too much; she already idolizes you. Next thing you know, she's going to be gunning for your job.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm not,” Laura said.

During
Hamlet
, my father gave the performance of his life. I felt bad for the young man with the title role, as my father outshone him in every scene that they shared. When the play ended and the house lights went up, Laura stretched. “Your father plays a good ghost. Let's hope he comes back someday to haunt the Farm. We would make a fortune in ticket sales and maybe even get on one of those ghost hunter shows on cable TV.”

I laughed. “He's going to be wired tonight. I'm so proud of him.” I hadn't felt this relaxed in days. I didn't know what it said about me that watching a play about another person going insane over a murder relaxed me.

“Do you want to go backstage and see your dad?”

I shook my head. “I'll see him back home eventually, and I don't want to get in the way of his adoring fans.”

Laura laughed.

We followed the throng of playgoers back into the lobby. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling, and floral carpeting covered the floor. Even though the New Hartford Community Theater was small, it was well funded with an arts endowment. It was one nonprofit in the town that didn't have to ask the Cherry Foundation for money.

“I need a drink,” Laura said, making her way to the bar. “Watching people talk so much makes me thirsty.”

As we threaded our way across the crowded room, I blinked a couple of times to make sure I wasn't imagining what was before me. Cynthia stood with Portia near the bar. A glass of sherry was in her hand. She wore a rose silk pantsuit and had a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders. I hurried over to her. “Cynthia.”

“Kelsey, my dear,” she said and reached for my hand. “It's so good to see you here. I loved your father's performance. His talent is wasted here in our little playhouse.”

I smiled. “I'll tell him that you said that.”

“Please do.”

“I'm so happy that you came.” I paused. “But I'm a little surprised to see you here. I thought that you wouldn't be up to coming, considering …”

She clutched her shawl close to her shoulders. “Maxwell wouldn't want me to be cooped up in the house all day. The play has been a welcome distraction from my grief.” She squeezed Portia's hand. “It's been a welcome distraction for us both.”

Portia fidgeted beside her.

“I'm glad to hear it,” I said.

Cynthia placed a hand on my arm. “I'm glad that I saw you, Kelsey. I want you to know that I've taken care of everything. You won't have any worries over the Farm after I'm gone.”

I covered her hand with my own. “Cynthia, please don't talk about after you're gone.”

She released my arm. “At my age, I need to be prepared. I don't want to leave a mess behind me for others to clean up. The Farm will be fine, trust that.”

“What do you mean?” Laura, who now had a glass of wine in her hand, asked.

Cynthia shook her head. “We shouldn't spoil the evening by talking about business.”

“Did you hear what happened during the reenactment today?” Laura asked.

I stepped on my best friend's toe.

“Ouch,” she muttered.

Cynthia nodded. “We did. I'm happy that Maxwell's case has been laid to rest. It won't bring my nephew back.”

“I don't—ow!” This time, Laura stepped on my toes. Since she was wearing three-inch heels, it hurt a lot more than when I stepped on her with my flat.

“I'm sorry for the family of that young man,” Cynthia added.

I watched Portia as Cynthia spoke. The young woman held onto a lock of her black hair and kept her head bent down. She refused to look at me.

I wanted to ask her about Wesley, but clearly Cynthia didn't understand the connection between Wesley and Portia. She may not have even realized Wesley was the young man who yelled at Maxwell on the first day of the reenactment.

Cynthia slid her arm through Portia's. “I'm starting to feel a little tired. Portia, can you take me home?”

Portia set her own glass on the bar. “Of course.”

Laura stepped forward. “Portia, why don't you go pull the car around for Cynthia, so she doesn't have to walk through the dark parking lot?”

Portia hesitated.

“That would be very nice,” Cynthia agreed.

“I'll only be a minute,” Portia said, and she headed to the playhouse's entrance.

Laura widened her eyes at me and mouthed, “Follow her.”

“Excuse me, Cynthia,” I said. “I think I'll go to the powder room.”

Cynthia simply nodded. She leaned heavily on Laura, fatigue etched on her face.

I caught up with Portia in the parking lot. She was headed for a black Lexus. “Portia!” I called.

When she turned, I saw that her face was tear-streaked. “Leave me alone.”

I jogged to catch up with her. “I want to talk to you for a moment.”

She stopped and turned. A full moon hanging overhead and a large lamppost in the middle of the parking lot were the only light.

“I don't want to talk to you.”

“I just want to make sure that you're all right.”

“I'm fine.” Her tears belied that.

“I don't think so.”

“I don't care what you think. What right do you have to asking me how I am, after I lost two men I loved in a matter of days?”

I chewed on my lip. “I don't have a right.”

“At least we agree on something.”

“Just answer me one question, and I'll go away.”

She gripped her ponytail. “If it means you'll leave, fine.”

“Did you hear from Wesley since you saw him at the reenactment or after Maxwell was killed?”

“No.” Tears rolled down her pale cheeks. “And that is my biggest regret. Maybe if I'd reached out to him and explained, he wouldn't have done these horrible things.”

I blinked. “You think he killed Maxwell and committed suicide?”

She rubbed a tear from her cheek. “I don't know what to believe anymore about anyone, including myself.” With that, she turned and sprinted to Cynthia's car.

Twenty-eight

I asked Laura to
drop me off where Maple Grove Lane met the pebbled path that led to the visitor center. “Are you sure you want me to drop you here?” she asked. “I can at least drive you to the visitor center.”

I unbuckled my seatbelt. “No thanks. This way I'll have a chance to walk through the camps on the way to the cottage and make sure everything is all right.”

She nodded as I got out of the car. “See you tomorrow. It'll be the last day of the reenactment. After tomorrow, we can put all of this behind us.”

I waved at the taillights of her car until they disappeared. I didn't think I could put what had happened at the Farm the last few days behind me.

Reenactors waved and smiled at me while I walked past their camps. I steered clear of the Union camp and Chase. I wasn't ready to see him or the chief yet. I couldn't believe that I had been dumb enough to trust him. How many times would I get burned before I learned my lesson?

I walked to the visitor center and unlocked the employee entrance. The building was dark and quiet. My shoes clicked as I walked across the lobby. In my office, I tucked my purse in my desk drawer and grabbed my radio, which I hooked on the belt of my dress. I would collect my purse before I went to the cottage, but first, I wanted to check the camps one last time.

Outside the visitor center, a man walked up to me with a smile. “We haven't had the honor of seeing you in our camps as much as you have been visiting the Union.”

With surprise, I realized that it was the same Confederate private who fought with Wesley over his rifle in the middle of the battlefield.

I smiled. “I'm sorry to have been away. The weekend was more work than I expected.” I refrained from saying “the reenactment.” I sensed this reenactor was a stitch counter and would pretend he didn't know what I was talking about. He wasn't just in character; as far as he was concerned, he was back in 1863 fighting in the War Between the States.

“We appreciate everything that you are doing. It's been a trying weekend with so many causalities. It reminds me of the Battle of Shiloh in that way. The Yankees refuse to understand that we have a right as much as they do to build our own country, one that respects state's rights. The Union never will. Mark my words, if they are victorious, the power in Washington will grow that much stronger and the states will grow that much weaker.” He relaxed. “But enough politics for one day. Can I give you a tour around our encampment?” He held up his gas-lit lantern. “I'll lead the way.”

“Sure,” I said eagerly. I had run in and out the camps numerous times after the last few days but hadn't taken the time to really look at them. Hayden was with his father, and my father wouldn't be home until very late because there was a cast party after the opening performance. I was in no rush to go back to
the quiet cottage.

“My name is Matthew Richardson, by the way. The general is really the man in charge and should be the one showing you around. He's already retired to his tent for the night.” He pointed to the largest tent in the camp. A table covered with maps and surrounded by three camp chairs sat outside. A sleepy-looking private drinking from a tin cup stood guard. “Our general is a good man,” Matthew said. “But he's no General Lee.”

“Few men are.” I smiled.

He removed his forage cap and held it to his chest. “Truer words were never spoken.” He pointed at a tent with a wash tub and an old-fashioned washboard. “Here's where we do the wash and cleaning.”

Civil War reenactors were like a traveling circus. They carried everything that they needed with them. The Farm had just provided the land. It was an expensive hobby. The men and women who participated had to be truly dedicated to the pastime. I didn't know if I could show that kind of devotion to it, but I had to respect their abilities.

A Confederate private pulled a sizzling skillet of bacon out of the flames. He used a flimsy cotton towel to protect himself from getting burned as he forked out one of the pieces.

Matthew laughed. “Late-night snack.”

The private held up the piece of bacon. “Want some?”

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

Matthew and I walked through the rest of the Confederate camp. We stood on the edge of it about twenty yards from the Union camp.

“I appreciate the tour,” I said.

“Did you want to see the Union camps as well? I'm sure one of the Yankees would love to take a pretty lady like yourself on a tour.” He smiled. “I know I enjoyed it.”

“No. Like you said before, I have been to the Union camp many times.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow will be the last battle and the ball. We'll make due with one man down on both sides.”

“One man down?” I asked.

“You know about Wesley Mayes, of course.” He held the lantern higher. The yellow light bounced off his pronounced cheekbones.

“I do.”

“Very sad turn of events, and we lost a solider on our side too.”

“A Confederate soldier died too?” I felt my pulse quicken three dead people? Could it even be possible?

He shook his head. “No one died outside of the battlefield, but on Friday morning one of our privates deserted.”

“Deserted?”

He lowered his voice. “He was diabetic and all of his medicine
for the weekend had spoiled. He had to leave. I hated to lose him. He was a very good solider, one of my best really. We're hoping that he'll meet us at our next encampment. I'm
thinking that we should try to invade the North once again. If they are in the same agony as the South, they would want to end this war in a hurry.”

“Was he a type one diabetic?”

He rested his free hand on the hilt of his revolver on his hip. “I think so. He gave himself insulin shots every so often.”

“That doesn't guarantee that he was type one, but it does mean he would have insulin with him.”

Matthew lowered his voice. “The cooler with his insulin became too warm. The whole supply was ruined, and Private Darling even claimed one of syringes and a couple of vials of his insulin were missing. I can't say I believe it; Private Darling can be flighty. I wouldn't promote him to officer, if you know what I mean.”

My father was flighty too. He was an eccentric professor and actor, but one thing he knew was where his syringes were and how much insulin he had. At all times. He had to know it.

“Did you tell the police?” I asked.

He jerked his head back. “Why would I tell the police something like that? Private Darling left early morning on Friday of his own accord.”

Friday. The morning that I found Maxwell in the brick pit.

Who would know there was a type 1 diabetic in the encampment? A Union soldier? Wesley Mayes was dead, so I couldn't ask him. The only other soldier with a connection with Maxwell was the Union medic, Chase Wyatt.

What would I do with this information? The last time I thought I had made a breakthrough in the case, Chief Duffy had laughed at me. I wasn't ready to go through that again, but I couldn't keep it to myself either in case the police didn't know about it. Then I spotted Officer Parker walking toward the visitor center, waving a flashlight back and forth on the path in front of him.

“Wait right here,” I told Matthew.

He lowered his lantern. “Okay.”

“Officer Parker,” I called.

The police officer spun around with arms up, poised to block an attack.

I slowed. “What are you doing?”

“You s-scared me. This place gives me the creeps. Grown men walking around playing dress up and acting like it's a hundred years ago. It's too weird. Chief Duffy said I needed to patrol until most of the reenactors went to bed. Most of them are in their tents, so I'm out of here.”

“I thought Chief Duffy was convinced that Wesley was the killer. Why would he ask you to patrol the Farm?”

“I don't know, but I can't wait to go home. These people are crazy.”

“Before you go, you need hear something.”

“What?” His eyes flitted back and forth.

“It's not from me. One of the Confederate private has important information about the case.”

He didn't move.

“Come on, Officer Parker, the reenactors won't bite.”

He sighed and followed me into the Confederate camp. When I found Matthew again, I told him, “Tell Officer Parker what you just told me about Private Darling.”

“Why would the police what to know?” Matthew asked.

“Just tell him,” I urged.

He shrugged and repeated the story about Private Darling's ruined insulin.

Officer Parker folded his arms. “So what?”

I scowled. “Insulin was used to subdue Maxwell in order to put him in the brick pit with the bees.”

“So now we know where Wesley Mayes got his supply. It doesn't change the fact that he's the killer. The case is closed.”

I gritted my teeth. “Will you at least tell the chief?”

He grunted. “Fine. I will, but not until the morning. I have to get home and take a shower after being in this place all day long.” He shivered and stomped away.

I said good-bye to Matthew and left the Confederate camp. Across the street in the village, I saw a flashlight moving around the barn. Hadn't Officer Parker checked to make sure there wasn't anyone wandering around the village? With no electric lights, the village was strictly off limits after dark. I sighed. A reenactor probably wandered over there even though it was forbidden.

During the day the chief stationed Officer Parker as a guard over a brick pit so that the scene would be left undisturbed by visitors. At night, he relied on the crime scene tape as a deterrent. I looked back at the encampments. All of my staff had gone home, and the reenactors had either crawled into their tents or were sitting around campfires smoking and drinking more “cider” from brown jugs.

The light was probably Jason, and this was my chance to confront him about his fake home address. If I caught him in the act of sleeping on the Farm, then I would—I hope—finally be able to talk to him about his living situation and why he gave a false address on his job application.

Before crossing the street, I picked up one of the lanterns hanging from a pole at the end of the Confederate camp to light my way. I wished that I had Tiffin with me, but it would take too long to run to the cottage to fetch him and by then Jason might be too hard to find.

I held the lantern straight out in front of me. It was heavy, and I had to lower it a few inches to stop my arm from shaking. I crossed the road at a run. At night, teenagers joyriding through the park flew down Maple Grove Lane. I didn't want to chance meeting any of them head on.

The barn was dark. From the outside, I could hear animals moving about as they settled in for the night. I placed the lantern on the ground next to me, so that I could use both hands to push open the heavy sliding door. It took a couple of hard shoves, but finally it opened enough so I could fit through. I picked up my lantern and slipped inside.

Scarlet, the mare, hung her head over her stall and blinked at me. Miss Muffins buried her face under her paw as if to block the light from my lantern. The two oxen didn't stir, but several of sheep
baa
ed in protest of my disturbing their beauty sleep.

I held the lantern high. “Jason? Jason, it's Kelsey. I need to talk to you.”

No response.

I stepped under the ladder to the hay loft. He could be up there, but I wasn't going to chance breaking my neck to climb the ladder in the middle of the night.

“Okay,” I said, lowering the lantern. “You win for now, but we do need to talk. I know you're living here. I went to the home address you listed on your job application. There was nothing there. I'm not going to kick you out onto the street, if that's what you're afraid of, but you can't keep hiding here at the Farm. We have to talk about some kind of compromise or arrangement that works for both of us.”

I waited and there was still no response. A sheep
baa
ed, sharing her irritation with my speech.

I sighed. “I just want to talk to you, Jason. You know where to find me.” I took my lantern and slipped out the barn door.

I walked down the path between the barn and the brickyard. From my vantage point, I could see all the way across the green. Most of it was cloaked in darkness, but just in front of Barton House a light bobbed in the dark. It's up and down motion made it appear like someone was running across the green.

“Hey!” I called. “Jason!”

The light didn't stop and disappeared between Barton House and the next building.

I ran down the path toward the village, stopping at the edge. “Jason?” I called.

Still nothing.

I saw blur of light near the far corner of the Barton House.

“Hey!” I called again. I was shouting so loud, I was surprised a dozen reenactors didn't cross the street to find out what all the commotion was.

I took a step forward and stopped. Maybe I was wrong, and it wasn't Jason. It could have been a reenactor or maybe a camper from one of the campgrounds in the park. Then aga
in, the closest campground was over four miles away. That would be quite a long hike through dense forest in the dark. It was late, and clearly Jason or whoever it was didn't want to talk to me. I kept my eye on the corner of the house the light had disappeared behind. Nothing stirred. Occasionally, a lightning bug lit up the gloom. A half moon hung high in the sky and provided minimal light when it peeked through the clouds.

Whoever it was wasn't my problem. I wasn't going to chase them all over the village. The buildings were locked down. The artifacts were secure. It was time to go to bed and hope tomorrow was better.

I heard a rattle behind me like a large stone being kicked and bounced off another stone.