The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery (5 page)

Eight

I started to walk
away. I needed to process what the chief had just said. Murder? How could it be murder?

Detective Brandon's hand shot out, and she grabbed me by the upper arm, pulling me back. Her fingers bit into my skin.

I wrenched my arm away. “What do you think you're doing?”

The chief scowled at the detective. “No need to get rough there, Candy,” he said.

The detective's first name was Candy? I had never heard a more inappropriate name for a person in my entire life. She was nothing close to sweet like candy.

I rubbed my arm. “We can talk in my office.”

Judy watched us. “Are you okay?” she mouthed at me before I turned to lead the officers into my private office. I didn't bother to answer.

Inside my office, I sat in the chair behind my desk, which was a nineteenth-century partners desk far too large for the space. When I typed I had to hold my keyboard on my lap and it was completely impractical for the digital age. I adored it.

The chief sucked on his teeth. “You're not under arrest or anything like that. You are welcome to have a lawyer present. Course that might make us think you have something to hide.”

I move a huge stack a papers from the middle of my desk onto the floor. “I don't have anything to hide.”

“Good to hear.” He pointed at the wooden armchair across the desk from me. There was a pile of museum catalogs on it. “Mind if I sit?”

I jumped out of my seat and grabbed the catalogs off of the chair. “Please do.” I set the glossy magazine on another pile of catalogs behind my desk. The entire pile immediately toppled over like a waterfall tumbling over a cliff. I sighed and turned away from it. One of these days I would have to make the time to organize my office, but the day my benefactress's heir died on Farm grounds was not going to be that day.

“Thank you,” he said as he eased himself into the chair. “Can you tell me where you were last night between eleven at night and three in the morning?”

I crossed my legs and shook my right foot under my desk. “Was that when Maxwell was killed?”

He nodded. “Yes. The coroner will be able to make a more precise time window after the autopsy, but that's the window he gave me to work with.”

Detective Brandon stood in the corner of the office. When she leaned against the bookcase, the door to the metal key box attached to the bookcase swung open, and I saw all the keys to every door or gate on the Farm. She scowled at me as she closed the small door. If I were nicer, I would tell her the key box wasn't her only concern and that the bookcase was unstable and might topple onto her, but after she nearly yanked my arm out of its socket, I wasn't feeling helpful. I returned my attention to the chief.

“Maxwell died late at night,” I said, “but he died of bee stings, right?”

The chief nodded encouragingly. “Yes, he did.”

“That doesn't make any sense to me. How? Bees are less active after dark. When we have a problem with a wasp nest on the grounds, we always wait until nighttime to deal with it.”

The chief smiled at me as if I were his star pupil. “I had wondered the same thing. Whoever knocked Maxwell out with the insulin was smart enough to agitate the bees so that they attacked.”

I splayed my hands on my desktop. “Insulin?”

“Your father is diabetic,” Detective Brandon said, not asking a question but stating it as a fact.

I looked from one to the other, from the chief's placid face and Burnside sideburns to Brandon's sleek hair and deep frown lines. I had made a mistake. When the chief asked me if I wanted my lawyer present, I should have said yes because as far as they were concerned, they had the murderer in their sights, and it was me.

“Kelsey?” The chief asked, “Is your father diabetic?”

“Yes, type one.” This was bad. This was very bad.

“And he lives with you?”

“Uh, only during the summer. During the school year, he's a college drama professor and lives in housing near campus.”

“But he's living with you right now?” This came from Brandon. The tiniest of smiles curled the corners of her mouth. I wished I could smack the expression off her face.

I uncrossed my legs and sat up straighter. “Yes, he's living with me at the moment.”

Detective Brandon all but rubbed her hands together. “So you have access to his needles and insulin.”

“Yes, but I would never kill anyone. That's what you want me to confess, isn't it? That I shot Maxwell with insulin and let the bees finish the job?” I stood up.

Detective Brandon pursed her lips. “We will have to search your cottage and interview your father to see if any of his insulin is missing.” She paused. “You aren't the only suspect from your house.”

I put a hand on my desk to steady myself. “My father? That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. My father had never even
seen
Maxwell until yesterday, and as far as I know, the two men weren't even introduced. He would have no reason to hurt him or anyone else.”

Detective Brandon pushed off of the bookcase. It wobbled for a few seconds but held. “Not even to protect his daughter from losing her job when the museum closed?”

“He doesn't know about the conversation I had with Maxwell. I didn't tell him or anyone else. If you don't believe me, ask him. He won't have a clue what you are talking about.”

“We will,” the detective promised.

“I think that's been enough questions for the moment. The reenactment opens in few hours, and I have a lot of work to do to make sure we're ready for the crowds.”

Detective Brandon frowned. “You still didn't answer the chief's original question, Ms. Cambridge. Where were you between eleven p.m. and three a.m. last night?”

I glared at her but knew that it would only look worse for me if I refused to answer. And the truth really was that I had nothing to hide. “I returned to my cottage for the night close to eleven fifteen. Usually I get home long before that, but this is an unusual weekend with nearly a hundred and fifty reenactors, including their families, camping out on the grounds. I waited to go home until most of them had retired for the night. Although when I walked to my cottage, there were several who stayed awake late into the night talking around their respective camp fires. I hope you question the reenactors to find out if anyone saw anything suspicious in the middle of the night.”

“I already have officers talking to them.” Chief Duffy pushed himself out of his chair as if he was ready to leave.

Detective Brandon wasn't as eager to go. “Did anyone see you at home?”

“You mean an alibi?”

“Yes.”

I frowned but answered her question. “By the time I got to the cottage, Hayden was asleep, but my father was up practicing his lines for his next performance. He has a part in the local community theater.”

The chief gave a sideways smile. “What's the play?”

“
Hamlet
. Dad's playing the ghost of Hamlet's father.”

The chief chuckled. “If I know your father, that's a role he can really get behind.”

I found myself smiling back. “My father hopes to come back as a ghost himself someday and haunt the valley. He thinks it will be great fun.”

“Then what happened?” Detective Brandon asked. Clearly, she wasn't a patron of the arts.

I stooped to pick up some of the fallen catalogs. I dropped them on my desk. “I went to bed and fell right to sleep. I was exhausted. The first day of the reenactment drew a much larger crowd than we expected. The bugler woke me up in the morning close to five. I decided to get up and take a walk around the property. Not long after I crossed Maple Grove Lane, I found Maxwell in the brick pit with that EMT leaning over him.”

I couldn't help but notice that Detective Brandon sneered when I mentioned Chase. My eyes slid to the chief.

“Candy doesn't care much for my nephew,” the chief said under his breath.

The detective snapped her notebook closed. “We'll need to talk to your father as soon as possible, Ms. Cambridge.”

“He's with my son. I'd rather you not talk to him about murder in Hayden's presence.”

“We would never,” the chief said.

Maybe the chief wouldn't, but I wasn't so sure about the detective. Would it work in my favor that she didn't like Chase?

The chief's cell phone rang. He removed it from his belt. “Duffy. Right. We'll be right there.” He slid the phone back into his general's jacket. It wouldn't do for any of the reenactors to see him with a cell phone, but I supposed his job required him to be reachable at all times. “The medical examiner wants us back at the scene while he loads up the deceased.”

I winced.
Loads up
sounded like the chief was ready for a cattle drive, not to move a dead body.

The chief stepped through my office door. Detective Brandon hesitated before she went through. “I will get to the bottom of this murder, Ms. Cambridge. It would serve you well to either help me or get out of my way.”

Nine

I knew several lawyers.
The problem was most of them worked with Cynthia and the Cherry Foundation. It probably wouldn't do to have one of them represent me since the heir apparent Maxwell was the murder victim. They weren't my only option … unfortunately.

Still standing behind my desk, I slipped my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and scrolled through my contacts until I came to a name I didn't want to call.

“Hu-llo?” a groggy voice answered.

“Good morning, Justin,” I said cheerily.

“Who's this?”

“Kelsey, your former sister-in-law. Are you awake?”

“No.” The response was muffled, like it was spoken into a pillow.

“Well, wake up! I have a situation, and I need you at Barton Farm pronto.”

There was some indecipherable mumbling on the other end of the line.

“Justin!”

“What?” he yelped. “I think you busted my eardrum.”

“Too bad. I need your lawyer self to come here. I have a bad
situation. Someone has died on the Farm. I need legal counsel.”

Sounding more awake, he said, “Legal counsel? Doesn't the Cherry Foundation have an army of lawyers? Call one of them.”

“I can't. The situation is—” I searched for the right word.
“Sensitive.”

“I'd think the Cherry Foundation lawyers would be all ready for sensitive situations. Call one of them for help. I'm tired.”

“Justin, wait! Don't hang up. I can't call the Foundation lawyers because Maxwell Cherry is dead.”

“What?” he cried sounding wide awake. “Maxwell Cherry? You've got to be kidding me.”

“I wish.” I leaned against the edge of my desk.

“What happened?”

“He was murdered,” I said.

He swore. “Why are you calling me? This is a little out of my realm. I'm in environmental law.” There was rustling sound over the phone like Justin was trying to untangle himself from his bed sheets.

“I realize that,” I said, “but you're all I have right now. And I need a lawyer ASAP. The detective on the case thinks I did it.”

The battle with the bed sheets stopped. “What? Why?”

I went on to give him the short version of the circumstances surrounding Maxwell's death.

He swallowed. “What's your alibi?”

I told him the same thing that I had told the chief and the detective just a few minutes ago.

Justin nodded. “That sounds like a decent alibi.”

“Gee thanks.” I drummed my fingers on the desk.

“You should be all right if your father can vouch for you being there.”

“I could have left the cabin in the middle of the night without him knowing. His room isn't by the front door.”

“I suggest that you not share that with the police.”

“Right.” I began to pace.

“Kel, I can't. I have a tennis match today and—”

“Justin Cambridge, you
will
get your behind out to Barton Farm right now, unless you want me to tell your mother what
really
happened to her precious Tiffany lamp.”

He groaned. “All right, all right, Kel. You don't have to be so harsh. I don't know what I'll be able to do for you. I just barely passed the bar last month. I hope you don't expect much.”

I didn't, and I was doomed.

I slid my phone back into my pocket as I walked down the short hallway from my office to the visitor center's main lobby. I checked my watch; it was a few minutes after eight. The good news was that the Farm didn't open until ten. That gave me two hours to do damage control.

Judy came out of the gift shop with Tiffin close at her heels. “We have everything in order for the discounted tickets for today's reenactment. Don't you worry about that.”

I made a note in my ever-present notebook. “Thanks, Judy. I knew that I could count on you.”

She gripped her hands in front of her. “Yes, well, one problem solved, another shows up.”

“What happened?” My pen was poised to take notes.

She grimaced. “Shepley.”

Her one word answer was enough. My irate gardener was always a problem. “What is it this time?”

She pursed her lips. “He's throwing a fit because he can't get to his gardens.”

I could imagine. “Why wasn't I radioed?”

She shrugged. “Whoever reported it telephoned the gift shop, and I didn't want to interrupt you while you were in your office with the police. I told Ashland, who just got here, to take care of it.”

“I'd better get over there. Shepley will eat Ashland for breakfast.” I tucked the notebook into my back pocket and straightened my polo shirt.

Judy reached over to squeeze my hand. “Everything will get straightened out, Kelsey. You'll see. This will all be a bad memory soon.”

If only I could believe her. I gave her a weak smile as I snapped on Tiffin's leash. We left the visitor center through the employee entrance beside the gift shop.

Outside, the sun was fully up now. Most of the reenactors sat outside their tents, tucking into breakfast and polishing the barrels of their rifles or bayonets for the upcoming battle. Others shaved in cloudy mirrors tacked on the trees or propped on makeshift tables. The men shaving used straight razors. I had to respect their commitment to stay in character, as that shaving looked dangerous.

“Mom!” Hayden cried as he ran out of the Union camp. “I met Santa Claus!”

Santa Claus? I didn't remember Santa registering. Then my father walked out of the camp followed by the Walt Whitman reenactor. I chuckled. With his full white beard and round tummy, the reenactor did indeed have a remarkable resemblance to Santa.

“Hayden, that's Walt Whitman, not Santa. He's a poet.”

My son furrowed his brow. “He said that he was Santa too.”

The reenactor smiled. “At Christmastime, I have been known to pitch in at Santa's workshop at the mall.”

“Ahh,” I said.

“I had a very nice time talking to you, Roy,” he said to my father. “I'm happy to practice lines with you whenever you like. I don't have much stomach for the battles. Being a nurse during this terrible war can be so disheartening. The boys coming into the hospital are in a bad shape. It would be nice to worry over Shakespeare's timeless poetry as an escape.”

Dad grinned. “I'll stop by your tent later today.”

“Very good.” Walt tipped his hat and went on his way.

I handed Dad Tiffin's leash. “Can you take Tiff for me?”

My corgi gave me a pouty face, but I couldn't be worrying about my dog while I spoke with Shepley. Dad took the leash from my hand, and Hayden dropped to his knees hug the dog. The pair rolled in the dirt.

“Are you going to tell me why the police are here?” my father asked quietly.

“There's been an accident.”

“I've heard that from everyone in the encampment, but no one really knows what is going on other than that they aren't supposed to cross the road into the village.”

“Maxwell Cherry is dead. He died in the brick pit.”

Dad gasped.

“Shh, you'll attract attention,” I said, pointing to Hayden and Tiffin still locked in a boy/dog bear hug.

“Mr. Renard?” a voice said behind me on the path.

I turned to find young Officer Sonders, who was first to arrive on the scene.

My father wiggled his bushy eyebrows. “Yes?”

“May I speak with you for a moment?”

My father straightened to his full height. That wasn't too impressive at five-five, but his booming voice more than made up for his lack a stature. “What does this concern?”

Officer Sonders appeared a little taken aback by my father's reaction. “Well, I … the chief asked me to ask you a few questions about Mr. Cherry.”

Dad placed a finger to his chest. “What would I know about Mr. Cherry?”

“Dad,” I pleaded. “Just answer his questions.”

My father's theatrics had grabbed Hayden's attention, and he was no longer rolling in the dirt with Tiffin. “Why do the police want to talk to Pop-Pop?”

I screwed up my face.

“Pop-Pop, did you steal a car? Dad told me you stole a car once.”

My face turned bright red, but my father was unfazed by his grandson's question. “Your father shouldn't have told you that. However, I'll tell you the entire story when you're old enough to drive yourself. At that time, you'll see that my little indiscretion was completely justified.”

A headache began to form on the right side of my temple.

Officer Sonders swallowed. “Is there somewhere we can do talk, Mr. Renard?”

“I suppose so. We can go to the cott—”

“No,” I said a little too quickly, but I didn't want any police inside my cottage until Justin arrived. “Use my office. It's just inside of the visitor center there. It's unlocked, just walk in.”

Officer Sonders frowned. I knew that he would report back to the police chief that I didn't want him in my cottage. I'd just made myself more suspicious, but I planned to protect my home and privacy from this investigation as long as I could, even if it was an act of futility.

“Hayden, why don't you and Tiffin go into the visitor center and hang out with Judy?” I said.

“Okay,” my son said. Judy carried Jolly Ranchers in her skirt pockets, and Hayden knew that.

After I released Hayden and Tiffin into Judy's capable hands, I continued on my way to Shepley's gardens. I hoped that the scene hadn't become much worse since I had been delayed so long. I tried not to think about the conversation Dad and Officer Sonders were having in my office. Was it a good thing or a bad thing that I didn't get a chance to tell Dad about the insulin? At least now he would act genuinely surprised when he heard the news—but he was an actor, and the police knew that. Would they believe his reaction even if it was real?