War and Peas (4 page)

“Someone associated with the museum," Jane finished for her. "Not one of the original reenactors. When we had that lecture about our roles, nobody was supposed to have a gun. We were wives and farmers and wagon-makers and such.”

A woman with two children who each seemed to have sixteen grabby, grubby little hands had approached the booth. Shelley hopped up to wait on her and try to keep the children from destroying the neatly arranged merchandise. "Oh, you sell pea seeds," the woman said. "How would you like to plant some of our own peas?" she said in a singsong voice to the kids.

“Peas stink!" the boy said.

“I hate peas!" the girl responded, making an ugly face and snatching a jump rope off the counter.

“Oh, you'll love peas if you grow them yourselves," the mother cooed. "I promise they'll taste yummy."

“Plant them indoors in paper cups," Shelley advised. "They're cute when they come up. Then plant them out by a fence when the weather cools. You might get a crop in the fall." As she spoke, Shelley took the jump rope away from the little girl, who was trying to see howmany knots she could tie in it. Shelley held it as if she were considering garroting the child.

They left with several packets of peas. "That little boy stole a peashooter," Jane said.

“I know. I charged her for it and she didn't notice," Shelley said smugly.

“How do you know about growing peas?"

“I had to help the teacher with a fourth-grade science project once. I'm a woman of many parts, Jane. Haven't you noticed?"

“And what do your many parts think about Regina Palmer's death?"

“I think she was murdered."

“Me, too.”

Mel called that night as Jane was getting ready for bed. "Sorry I abandoned you," he said.

“It was okay. Shelley brought me home.”

“I figured she would."

“I guess you'll be attending the festival again tomorrow?" Jane asked.

“Is that an attempt to ask me subtly about Palmer's death?" Mel said with a laugh.

“Not too subtle, huh? Was it the gun from the museum?"

“Sure it was. The gun and lead shot for it had been in a display case."

“Wasn't it locked?"

“It was supposed to be. It was in a remote room on the third floor, in an exhibit of old clothes and hairbrushes and a bunch of dusty, unidentifiable household objects. No telling how long the gun's been missing. And before you ask, everybody in Greater Chicago had access to the keys to the display case. At least everybody who wandered through the staff area. The keys all hang on a pegboard right inside the door."

“And was it the gun she was shot with?" Jane asked.

“No confirmation yet. But I'm guessing so until I'm told otherwise."

“I thought you weren't in charge of the investigation.”

He cleared his throat. "I wasn't. But the guy who
was
in charge took a little break during the afternoon and ate something he shouldn't have. Damned near had to have another ambulance for him."

“It wasn't a hot dog with sauerkraut and awfully yellow cheese, was it?" Jane asked warily.

“Nope. A dessert with a cream filling that had ripened nicely in the heat. Somebody else had to bust the dessert booth, thank God!"

“The weather report said it's supposed to be a lot cooler by tomorrow. That's meant as a comforting comment," Jane said.

“Is it? Will you be there again tomorrow?"

“Shelley and I were supposed to participate in the morning reenactment again. But now—? I guess I'll turn up and work at whatever somebody wants me to do.”

Surprisingly, the weatherman had been right. A cold front had moved in during the night, causing just enough rain to freshen the skies and grass and leave behind an achingly blue sky. When Jane and Shelley arrived at the festival grounds, they learned that the reenactment scheduled for the morning was to proceed.

“The police are letting you do it again?" Jane asked Jumper Cable, whom they'd met at the museum's trailer.

Jumper was back in his farm-boy outfit already. "Not only letting us, but insisting on it."

“Oh, a reenactment of a reenactment," Shelley said.

Jumper nodded. "Sunday morning is traditionally the lowest attendance, and they want everybody to do exactly what they did yesterday afternoon."

“Somebody won't. I hope!" Jane said.

“It's going to be a critical audience," Jumper said wryly. "Lisa wants us to be ready in fifteen minutes, so grab your costumes.”

Jane and Shelley threw on their farmwife clothing and reported in with the group at the far end of the field. Yesterday one of the real reenactors, a beefy, cheerful man with a mop of curly hair, had given a cheerful talk about their group — why they did this, how they researched their roles and battles, where they got their clothes and accouterments. This morning he was present, but silent and subdued. It was as if a real death in the midst of carefully staged fake carnage had seriously offended his sense of the proprieties.

Lisa Quigley, the museum's publicity director, who had told them their "stories" the day before and urged them to believe in their characters and do their own thing, also seemed like a different person today. She was a slim but sturdy, auburn-haired woman in her mid-thirties. Jane had sensed, at their previous meeting, that Lisa was a self-contained sort of person, unused to being in the limelight. It seemed odd that such an individual would have chosen publicity as a career, but she had clearly done her homework. She'd had a sheaf of notes, which she hadn't needed to consult, and had spoken quietly but with real enthusiasm about her subject. Today she was pale and defeated-looking, and her eyes were puffy, as if she'd been crying.

“I won't pretend this is the same kind of activity we engaged in yesterday," she began when everyone had assembled. "And, to be honest, I find this a distasteful and gruesome thing to do. But the police have insisted, and naturally we're extremely eager to help them discover the cause of Ms. Palmer's death. Anyway — our instructions from them are to reproduce our movements in yesterday's reenactment as closely as we can.”

Shelley nudged Jane and tilted her head back toward the festival grounds. There were three police officers, badly disguised as ordinary festival goers, waiting with video cameras — one at each side of the field, one at the far end where the other spectators would be.

Lisa Quigley continued. "This is Officer Ridley," she said pointing to a woman wearing the same hat, but not the dress, Regina Palmer had worn the day before. "She's been told everyone's impressions of Ms. Palmer's movements and will try to do as Regina did. If any of you have anything additional to tell her, we have afew minutes still. Otherwise, we'll wait until ten o'clock and begin. It would be best, I think, if you would all try to put yourselves in the same frame of mind you were in before. Keep in mind that we have an audience most of which knows nothing about the tragedy and has just come for a good show.”

On this slightly upbeat note, they were dismissed. Everybody pointedly ignored Officer Ridley in her cabbage-rose-adorned bonnet. Sharlene Lloyd approached Jane and Shelley with an older woman in tow, whom she introduced as Babs McDonald.

“On behalf of the board of directors, I want to especially thank you ladies for all your help," Babs said in a voice that sounded much younger than she looked. Jane guessed her to be in her seventies — a trim, tiny woman with thick, startlingly white hair braided into earmuff like rolls on either side of her head. "I understand you filled in my duty time at the museum booth yesterday."

“We were glad to," Jane said. "I'm sure you had more important things on your mind.”

Babs nodded. There was a touch of the regal in the movement. "Less cheerful things, certainly. And I understand you're helping us next week with our cataloging."

“If you still want us to," Shelley said.

“Of course we do. In fact, we're going to need more help than ever. The loss of Regina isn't going to deter our aims, only make them more of a challenge.”

Jane, a State Department brat who had grown up all over the world, suddenly found herself remembering a boarding school she'd attended in Scotland in her early teens when her father was posted to Edinburgh for six months. It had been the hardest school to leave because of a teacher she adored — a teacher Babs McDonald reminded her of. Like that teacher, Babs had a straight-spined elegance and a precision of speech that was a pleasure to hear. The laugh lines around her eyes kept them from being daunting. Babs was one of those older women who looked and acted as if this were the prime of her life.

“Then you're still having the groundbreaking ceremony early this evening?" Shelley asked.

“Certainly!" Babs said. "It was to be the high point of the festival — at least for the employees and supporters of the Snellen- Museum. Lisa, as Regina's oldest and dearest friend, will deliver the speech Regina was to give. And Jumper and I, as president and vice president of the board, will wield the shovel for the ceremony."

“Line up now," Lisa alerted them.

Jane and Shelley tried their best to duplicate what they'd done and thought and said during the previous reenactment, but like everyone else, their eyes were darting about, watching the others, and their hearts and minds weren't on their characters. The gunshots sounded louder and deadlier today. Everyone's actions were stiff and wary, but every bit as chaotic as on the day before. As Jane and Shelley, playing farmwives trying to flee the battlefield, approached the spot where Regina had been lying, there was nothing but a small yellow flag-type marker. And when they reached the festival end of the field and turned and looked back, Officer Ridley was still standing, alone and ignored, her cabbage-rose hat still firmly atop her head.

Jane felt relief — something superstitious deep in her soul had been half afraid something terrible would happen again. And yet she felt an odd sense of disappointment as well. Not that she'd wanted another tragedy, but she'd hoped that something revealing would occur. In some part of her mind she'd hoped against reason for a Perry Mason-type scene, where someone became so rattled and distraught that he or she confessed dramatically.

Mel was standing a few feet away, shaking his head in irritation. Shelley and Jane approached him, and Jane asked, "You don't think it helped?"

“This was
not
my idea. And no, I don't think it helped at all. We'll study all the tapes, of course, but—"

“If you show them to the others, might somebody see something that's not right?" Jane said, trying to assuage his frustration.

“Jane, I imagine everybody did exactly what they did yesterday. The only difference is, nobody took aim with a stolen antique gun and shot somebody.”

The groundbreaking ceremony was scheduled Y for five o'clock. At four-thirty, Shelley started packing up the sale items at their booth and Jane carted them to the mobile home. She found much of the museum staff assembled. Sharlene was tidying and packing up the costumes, and Jumper Cable was attempting, with stunning incompetence, to help her. Babs McDonald was at the miniature dining table, going over some paperwork with Lisa Quigley.

As Jane entered with her boxes, a tremendously good-looking man stood up from the sofa, first to study her, then to offer to help her. His quick up-and-down gaze and approving smile might have been flattering, had they not been so blatantly lecherous.

“Hi, there. I don't think we've met," he said, taking the boxes from her and managing to "accidentally" brush his hand against her breast in the process. "I'm Derek Delano." This was said with a flash of handsomely capped teeth.

“I'm glad to meet you," Jane lied. "I'm Jane Jeffry."

“Another of our wonderful volunteers, no doubt." His tone was clearly patronizing.

Jane wished she could do that haughty-eyebrow thing that Shelley was so good at. "Another volunteer," she said. "But I don't know about wonderful. This box is marked 'Pins, jump ropes, and peashooters,' but we sold out on the peashooters."

“Don't worry. Sharlene will sort it all out," he said.

Jane had taken such an instant dislike to him that she found this insulting to Sharlene, though for all she knew, it was part of Sharlene's job. "And are you a volunteer, too, Derek?" she asked cattily.

His frown lasted only an instant before he laughed condescendingly. "No, I'm the assistant director of the Snellen. For now.”

He said the last words in a low voice, but across the way, Babs McDonald's head snapped up and she glared at him. Not awfully diplomatic of him, Jane thought, offering to step into Regina Palmer's shoes so soon.

“For now?" Jane repeated innocently. "What do you mean?”

He replied, a little too loudly, "Only that I'll be happy to do anything the Snellen Museum needs at this time of trouble.”

Jane went back to the booth and said, "Shelley, I think you should take the next carton over and meet Derek."

“Who's that?" Shelley said, slapping transparent tape along the lid of a box.

“Oh, just the Snellen Museum's very own sleaze. And a perfect murder suspect."

“What on earth are you blathering about?" Shelley snapped. The tape hadn't gone on perfectly straight, the way she felt tape was supposed to do. She considered such incidents with inanimate objects as personal insults.

“Take that box over and you'll see.”

Shelley returned ten minutes later — walking hard on her heels. "What a creep!" she said with an elaborate shudder. "He called me 'babe.'
Babe!"

“
He won't do it again," Shelley said, smiling a little.

Jane repeated his remark about being the assistant director — so far. "Babs heard him, but I wanted to make certain he knew she'd heard it. Do you think we should tell Mel?"