The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery (23 page)

Thirty-six

It was a perfect
early summer night. I smiled. The weather was another thing that went right this weekend. Maybe it wasn't a complete disaster. Grandmother Renard would be proud of me for counting my blessings.

Ladies and gentlemen poured out of the visitor center in their best 1863 garb. Some of the women carried ruffled parasols and shaded their faces from the setting sun. Others dripped with jewels that I prayed weren't real. I wouldn't comment on the historic inaccuracy of the jewels. Women of the time didn't have so much finery. If they had it, they certainly would not have worn it in public and attracted attention. Instead many wealthy ladies buried their jewelry in their gardens and prayed it would still be there when the war was over.

Union and Confederate privates stood shoulder to shoulder outside of their respective camps. Those that had dress uniforms changed into them, but not all did. Just like during the Civil War, some men couldn't afford more than one uniform. I caught myself searching the Union side for Chase.

One of my seasonals, a teenager dressed as a New York newsie, directed traffic.

My father nodded and smiled at anyone who passed him. I hid a smile as he fully embraced his Civil War–era persona. The only thing I wished was that Hayden was there. It would be a great experience for my son to see history really come alive. Of course, living on the Farm he saw that more than any other child his age, but this was a special event. Maybe next year he would be able to attend.

We crossed the road into the village. As I had directed, the sides of the tent had been rolled up, and the period band was in the corner of the tent playing chamber music until the ball really began.

Ladies and gentlemen walked arm in arm around the green like they were on a promenade in Washington DC. Most of my staff was there in period dress, including Benji, who was stunning in a canary yellow gingham dress. It was the first time I had seen her out of her dusty brickmaking clothes. Jason, unsurprisingly, was MIA.

I let go of Dad's arm. “I'm going to check on the caterers.” I headed to the food tent. My stomach rumbled with the welcoming smells. The dishes stayed warm in chafing dishes along two long tables. I couldn't remember if I ate much during the day, but I was sure hungry now. A woman in a white chef's hat stood behind one table slicing an enormous roast. Beside the roast were an uncut turkey and a ham. In addition to traditional banquet food like the meats, salad, steamed vegetables, and potatoes, I also asked the caterers to make special dishes that were popular during the Civil War, like soda biscuits, sweet potato wafers, and Kentucky snap peas. Because food was so scarce during the war, especially in the South, I suspect that our period food tasted a lot better than what the men had eaten on the front.

Drinks consisted of lemonade, sweet tea, coffee, and hot tea, and there was a cash bar for anyone who wanted something stronger. Mason jars served as the cups.

I smiled at the caterer. “Everything looks perfect. I'll announce the opening of the ball in the big tent soon, so get ready. They'll flock your way right after that.”

She smiled. “We'll be ready.”

I returned to the big tent. In addition to the chandeliers overhead, electric lanterns hung from iron posts outside the tent and around the grounds. The waiters—also in costume—passed appetizers on trays among the guests.

The chief in his dress uniform walked into the tent holding the hand of a dowager-looking woman in a velvet evening gown. To my surprise Detective Brandon was behind them, and she wore an emerald green ball gown as well. She was breathtaking. I found myself gasping. Suddenly I wasn't feeling quite as confident in my own gown as I had just a few minutes ago.

The chief smiled broadly at me. “Quite an event you have here, Kelsey. Wonderful job.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He placed his hand on the hilt of his period revolver. “I'm glad that this business with the murder has been all cleared up before today. Nothing should ruin the ball. May I present my wife, Mrs. Edith Duffy.”

I got the feeling that the chief wanted me to curtsey. “Nice to meet you.”

The woman examined me. “Yes, my nephew Chase has mentioned you. I can see why. You're a lovely girl. It would be nice if he took an interest in a lady for once.”

I found myself blushing. Truth be told, I wasn't much of a lady. I spent most of my days in jeans. Behind Edith, Detective Brandon stiffened. It was very subtle, but I noticed it.

“You have a nice spread for the ball tonight,” Mrs. Duffy continued. “The roast looks delicious. And I'm surprised at the turnout. This is the first reenactment event the chief has been able to drag me to. I'm afraid I'm not much for history,” she said apologetically.

I smiled. “I hope you enjoy your evening.”

Behind her I saw Cynthia accepting a glass of punch from a server. “Oh, I see Cynthia. If you excuse me, I'd like to say hello
to her.”

“Of course,” Edith said. “We already gave her our condolences.”

I nodded and wove through the dance tent to the punch bowl. “Cynthia?”

She turned and smiled. It wasn't her typical bright smile; that would take some time to return.

I squeezed her hand. “Cynthia, I'm so happy to see you here, but you didn't have come.”

“I didn't want to miss your big moment, my dear. I'm finding going out and seeing people helps. I was refreshed after the play last night.”

I covered her hand with mine. “Then I'm glad you came. This event is as much your doing as my own. You know I can never thank you enough for everything you've done for the Farm and for Hayden and me.”

She smiled. “Please stop thanking me. You know the pleasure is all mine. You look so lovely tonight, Kelsey. I know you'll worry about all the little details of the ball, but I want you to let someone else worry about concerns for a change. This is your moment. Enjoy it.”

Ashland stood beside the band and waved to me frantically.

I laughed. “I think that's my cue to open the ball.”

Cynthia smiled. “Go on, dear.”

I crossed the tent and took the microphone from Ashland. “Ashland, you look beautiful.”

My assistant wore a floral ball gown that was off the shoulders, showing off her delicate clavicle bones. Even though the rest of her was covered, I had never seen her in something so revealing. I was surprised by the firm muscles in her shoulders.

Her face, neck, and chest turned bright red. “Thank you.”

“Good evening,” I said into the mic.

When the crowd continued to talk, I spoke a little more loudly. “Good evening!”

The ball goers quieted down.

“For those who don't know, I'm Kelsey Cambridge, the director of Barton Farm. I would like to thank you for coming to our first annual Blue and Gray Ball.”

The crowd applauded. I waited for the noise to die down before I continued. “I would like to thank everyone who made the ball and the reenactment this weekend possible. First, I thank Cynthia Cherry and the Cherry Foundation. We could not have done this without their continued support. In particular, Cynthia, I give you my personal thanks for everything that you've done for Barton Farm, my family, and for me. Your selfless giving is a true inspiration to everyone in New Hartford and at Barton Farm.” I fought back tears. Cynthia beamed at me from the crowd. I cleared my throat. “I would also like to thank all the reenactors who camped out on the grounds over the last four days. Thank you for sharing your hobby with our visitors. I think many of them have new appreciation for American history, especially the Civil War. I also have to thank the wonderful staff here at Barton Farm, especially my assistant Ashland George, who took on so much planning for this weekend.”

Beside me Ashland squirmed at the praise.

“On the table near the front here, there are dance cards for all the ladies. Ladies, find your dance cards. I'm sure they will fill up in no time with so many handsome privates and officers from both sides here with us tonight.”

I hesitated in my speech. “However, this weekend hasn't gone flawlessly. I would be remiss if I didn't mention the sad events of the weekend. Maxwell Cherry and Wesley Mayes are both gone. I hope you will join me in keeping their families and friends in your thoughts and prayers. Both men were taken before their time.

“It's my opinion the Wesley Mayes was wrongly accused of Maxwell's murder. He was a depressed young man, and someone, maybe even someone here, took advantage of that. I, for one, will keep looking for the person who is truly behind Maxwell's death until Wesley's name is clear. I think we should honor his and Maxwell's memories in our festivities tonight.”

An eerie quiet settled over the partygoers as I spoke.

“The buffet and dance floor are now open. Enjoy your evening. The first dance is a waltz.” I handed Ashland the mic.

The band began the first waltz and men and woman slowly inched to the dance floor.

“Kelsey, what were you thinking by saying that?” Ashland stared at me with wide eyes.

“I wanted to make sure that the person who hit me on the back of the head knows he or she doesn't scare me.”

“But—”

“I've witnessed a lot stupid stunts in my life,” a voice said behind me. “But that one takes the cake.”

I recognized the voice.

Slowly I turned around. It was Chase. He was so handsome in his dress uniform. Had he been with the Union soldiers marching on Atlanta with Sherman, the Southern ladies in his path would have fainted dead away. As the director of Barton Farm, swooning was not an option.

“Hi,” I squeaked.

“I agree with Ashland: that was a pretty dumb stunt you just pulled. Why don't you just wear a sign that says ‘Kill me next'?”

I frowned. “I was making a point.”

He grunted. “Your point was clearly made. My uncle's eyeballs just about popped out of his head during your little speech.” He nodded to Ashland. “You'll excuse us.”

She chewed on her lip.

I touched Ashland's arm. “Don't worry about me. I know what I'm doing.”

Her brow wrinkled. “I know you do.”

He led me to the middle of the tent. Couples spun on the dance floor with their partners, and there was already a long line leading to buffet table in the dining tent.

Chase removed a card from the inside pocket of his dress coat and handed it to me. “I took the liberty of finding your dance card for you.”

I took the card from his hands and opened it. “Why is your name on here twenty times?”
Chase Wyatt
was next to every dance except for the polkas.

“I also took the liberty of filling out your card.”

I peered up at him. “And the polka?”

He grinned. “I don't polka. We can eat then.”

“Do you expect me to stay with you all night?” I tried very hard not to smile.

His grin widened. “I thought that was a given.” He bowed. “May I have this dance, Ms. Cambridge?”

I slipped the dance card ribbon over my wrist. “I suppose, since your name is on my card.” I placed my hand into his. He gripped it firmly and confidently led me to the center of the tent.

The crystal chandelier sparkled above us. Men in their blue and gray dress uniforms bowed to their ladies, and the ladies curtseyed in return. The music started again, and the men spun their partners. Flowered, gingham, satin, and silk ball gown skirts in every shade imaginable fanned out over the dance floor and collided with each other in a swirl of color. I was so mesmerized by the scene that I forgot I was twirling around the dance floor with my very own soldier.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, and he turned me around the floor.

I looked up at him. “Are you trying to sweet talk me?”

“Is it working?”

“No,” I lied. “Where did you learn to waltz?”

He smiled. “My uncle required it. Any Union officer worth his salt can waltz. I can cha-cha too. Of course that would require a different outfit, but I think it's important that you know all I have to offer.”

I looked up at him. “And why is that?”

He smiled and didn't answer. We passed Laura and a Confederate lieutenant on the dance floor. She grinned and wiggled her eyebrows at me.

I looked away. “You seemed to have gone to great lengths to indulge your uncle's hobby.”

Chase's face clouded over. “It's the least I could do after everything he's done for me.” He changed the subject and we chatted through two more dances until polka music started. “That's our cue for dinner,” Chase said.

We walked off of the dance floor. Detective Brandon stood just outside the tent glaring at us. A Union soldier was talking to her, but she was ignoring him. Her eyes were fixed on Chase.

In the dining tent, one of the servers brought me a note on a silver tray as Chase and I sat at a table.

“Thank you,” I said, accepting the note.

“What is it?” Chase asked.

I unfolded it. “It's from Ashland. There's some kind of emergency at Barton House.” I refolded the paper. “I knew the evening was going too well—no party goes off without a hitch. I'd better take care of this.”

Chase started to get up. “I can come with you.”

“Don't be silly. Enjoy the ball. I'm on the clock. This is my job.”

He frowned.

“Dance with Laura,” I said “She'll be thrilled. The two of you can plot against me.”

He grinned. “That's tempting.”

I stood up. “I'll be back in no time.”

Chase's grin faded, but he let me go.

Thirty-seven

The note from Ashland
asked me to meet her inside Barton House, which was only a few yards from the tent. I wondered what had gone so terribly wrong that we couldn't speak about it in front of the guests. Surely nothing as awful as a murder.

A couple sat on the house's front porch eating their dinner. I smiled at them and was surprised to find the padlock on the house. I had figured Ashland would be waiting inside. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. With no electricity, the hom
e was cold and dark. The front door opened into the living room, and I was happy to see that the trunk was still over the root cellar's hatch. It was dusk now, and the only light in the room was ambient light from setting sun, which just made the shadows grow
long and monstrous. I decided to leave the door open. I could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and music from the dance.

“Ashland?” I called.

There was no answer. I frowned and walked through the home. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary or disturbed. I peered through the kitchen window over the sink and saw Ashland in the back yard. She had her arms wrapped around her body, and she was crying.

I went out of the house through the back door. “Ashland, what's wrong?”

She looked up. “You came.”

The trees in the woods cast dark shadows over the lawn. Even in the dimness, I could see tears glistening on her cheeks. “Of course, I came. What's this emergency you have? Does it have something to do with the reenactment or the ball?”

“No,” she cried harder. “Yes.”

That wasn't confusing or anything.

Something about her tragic expression, like a lost puppy, connected the scattered thoughts in my head. She'd had that same look on her face when Maxwell, Portia, and Cynthia were at the reenactment—like someone had just kicked her. I had thought at the time that it was just her moody nature, but I'd been wrong. All this time I had a gut feeling that the killer was connected to the Farm and not the reenactment. All this time I had been right. Click, click, click. The clues lined up in my head like grooves in a zipper. Who else would know everything about the Farm like I did? Ashland. Who else spent their time emulating me? Ashland. Who tried to set me up for murder? Ashland.

“Ashland, why did you kill Maxwell?” I whispered.

“He threw me aside for that dumb girl because she's better arm candy than I am at events like this one.” She glared at me. “She even told me while we worked on those dance cards that she didn't love him. She was in love with that worthless reenactor.”

“You loved Maxwell?” I wrinkled my nose. I couldn't help it. I couldn't understand how anyone could fall in love with such a jerk.

“He wasn't always so harsh,” she said.

“How did you even know each other?”

“When you would send me to Cynthia's estate to make reports and deliveries, we struck up a friendship. And then it became more. I know he loved me and not her.” She balled her fists on either side of her hoop skirt. “I tried to make him see, but he just wouldn't.”

I always asked Ashland to go to Cynthia's estate because I'd hated running into Maxwell every time I went. When she went, she'd be gone for several hours, but I had assumed that she spent her time drinking tea with the Farm's benefactress, not flirting with the foundation's heir.

My fingers turned ice cold as I realized I hadn't seen Portia at the ball with Cynthia. “Ashland, where's Portia?”

“It doesn't matter. She doesn't matter.”

“It matters a lot,” I corrected. “You didn't hurt her, did you?”

“She gave me no choice. She wouldn't shut up about how much she hated Maxwell and loved Wesley. She couldn't talk about the man I loved like that!”

“The man you killed,” I corrected.

She glared at me. “I didn't want to. It
broke my heart when I had to kill him, but when he met me here in the village that night, it was clear he wasn't coming back to me. It was my last resort. I had no choice.” She started to cry again. “He
was knocked out when I rolled him into the pit. He never felt the stings.”

“And Wesley?”

“I just showed him a way to escape his misery.”

“You gave him the lily of the valley.”

She glared at me. “
He
made the choice to eat it. I didn't shove it down his throat.”

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she whispered. “It's gotten so complicated. I thought I'd feel better if I knew Maxwell couldn't be with anyone else, but it's not working.”

“You can run,” I said. “Just tell me where Portia is and you can run away and start over.”

She stared at me as she considered this. “Will you help me get away?”

“Tell me where Portia is, and I'll help you,” I lied.

“That agreement doesn't work for me.” Detective Brandon appeared around the side of the Barton House with her gun drawn. I guess she had hidden it in her massive ball gown. “You're under arrest.”

Ashland stared at her.

“Ashland,” I said. “Tell me where Portia is. The police will go easier on you if you tell us where we can find Portia.”

“Don't make promises we can't keep,” Brandon barked.

I glared at her.

“It doesn't matter now,” Ashland said and turned and ran. She was crying and ran blindly, failing her arms and legs.

“Stop!” Detective Brandon ordered. “Or I will shoot!”

“You can't shoot her in the back!” I yelled.

Jason popped out of the woods and made a move to catch Ashland. She screamed and made a sharp turn, running directly into the first beehive and knocking it to the ground. She fell on top of it and the bees buzzed and swarmed. Jason melted back into the safety of the woods.

I didn't wait to see how Ashland fared with the bees. It seemed a fitting punishment given what she'd done to Maxwell. I ran into Barton House and headed straight for the living room. I yanked the steamer trunk off of the root cellar's door. “Portia,” I cried as I lifted the latch.

There was no answer. Could I be wrong? Did Ashland stash her someplace else? Was she already dead? Swallowing my fear about the giant rats, I bunched up my lovely skirt and climbed into the hole. It was a tight fight with the hoop skirt. “Portia?” I heard crying from the back corner of the root cellar. “Portia, it's Kelsey. I'm here to get you out.”

She came at me at a fast crawl, wailing. “She threw me in
here. I thought she was going to kill me. She killed Maxwell.”

I wrapped my arms around her. “I know. Shh. You're safe now.”
Her entire body shook as I scanned the dark for mutant rats. “Let's get out of here.”

Hands appeared in the root cellar's door, and then a face appeared. Chase's face appeared, a bit wild eyed and smirking. “How many times am I going to have to yank you of here?”

I handed a whimpering Portia to him. He pulled her out of the hole, and then I climbed out without his help. “Is there no limit to your chivalry?” I asked as I cleared the hole.

Chase set me on my feet. “When it comes to you?” He shook his head. “Nope.”