Grace Interrupted Page 10

  The man sounded near tears, but I had little patience for his complaints. I wondered how he could be so focused on his war games and miss the big picture.

  “Ms. Wheaton, it’s unbearable. Can you come out here, please?”

  “Mr. Pierpont, there’s really not much I can do . . .”

  “Yes, yes, there is. If you talk to the police in person and you tell them to leave us alone, they have to listen. Just like those two women. You were marvelous handling them. So marvelous.” His flattery made my teeth hurt, but Pierpont obviously couldn’t see my grimace over the phone. “Can’t you do that again for us. Please?”

  “Speaking of the women—they didn’t ever come back, did they?”

  Pierpont’s voice went very low. “I didn’t see them, no, but a handful of other soldiers mentioned seeing a couple of out-of-costume individuals skulking around that night. It was late, they were wearing dark clothing, and my colleagues couldn’t ascertain whether they were male or female.”

  “You reported that to the police, didn’t you?”

  “Of course,” he huffed. “And I reported something else, as well.”

  I perked up. “What was that?”

  “Can’t you just come down here? Please,” he repeated, “I’m not comfortable being on the phone like this. Really . . . something needs to be done about—” Raising his voice, he shouted to someone else, “You! Get out of there. That’s not yours!” To me again, he said, “I’m at my wits’ end. There are just too many issues to handle and I can’t do it on my own.”

  One thing I wished I could change about myself is the fact that I wear down far too easily. That insufferable politeness, yet again. A determined individual relentlessly hammering at me always eroded my resolve. Unfortunately, far too many people in my life seemed to be in on this knowledge. I needed to work on that.

  I sighed. “Okay, fine.” Glancing at the clock, I added, “Give me a half hour.”

  “Thank you, oh, thank you.”

  “Great,” I said when he hung up. Bootsie joined me in the kitchen as I slapped my phone shut. “So much for relaxing on my day off.”

  Chapter 11

  PIERPONT MET ME AT THE NORTHERN BOUNDARY of the re-enactors’ camp atop a small hill that overlooked the meadow below. When he and Abe had established guidelines for this event, they had chosen this spot with care. The enormous flatland populated by tents and re-enactors was surrounded on all sides by slightly higher ground—an effective buffer against high winds. Had this been the middle of summer, the location would have been far too hot, but right now—though warm—it was ideal. The participants in the low-lying ground couldn’t see outside their encampment, nor could idle passersby see in. I supposed that’s why Pierpont felt overrun by nosy tourists. Guests’ cars parked at the top of the embankment would be impossible to miss.

  Pierpont waved a greeting as I parked and made my way up the rise. He was again in uniform but had unbuttoned the collar of his navy wool coat. The morning chill had dissipated and from the pink in his cheeks to the sweat dripping along the side of his face, I could tell the uphill walk had taxed him. “Thanks for coming,” he said between breaths. “I thought this would be the easiest place to meet.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said. Below us, the tents stretched out in neat rows, forming the transient community where costumed participants socialized, worked, and played. For the first time I grasped the scale of this exercise. “How many participants do you have here?”

  “Over three thousand came out for this,” he said with pride.

  I nodded. With so many people walking, running, talking, and cooking, there was no corner without movement. In the meadow’s far reaches, past the last line of tents, men marched in formation, carrying what looked like tree branches instead of rifles.

  I would have felt transported into the 1800s except for the presence of the touristy folks gathered along the outskirts pointing in, and the police who were easy to pick out, even from here. Emberstowne had brought in a task force to help investigate and officers from several other departments were interacting with the participants. “There’s tremendous police presence here,” I said. I almost added, “this time,” but caught myself before the words tumbled out. “How long do they anticipate staying?”

  Three vertical lines formed between Pierpont’s bushy brows. “I can’t believe they haven’t moved off-site yet. We’re so far behind on our setup.” He flung a hand toward the parked squads behind and below us. “At least they’ve managed to keep their cars out of sight, but they insist on conducting their questioning in our midst. I can’t tell you how much this has thrown our schedule off.” He led me down the hill into the camp itself. “It’s spoiling all our plans.”

  I stopped short. “You do realize a man has been killed here,” I said, disdain slipping into my voice. “What do you expect?”

  “I know, I know.” He waved his hands in the air and indicated that we should resume walking. “I apologize for sounding flippant, but I can’t stand to see plans ruined.”

  Our footsteps made soft noises in the wild grass as we descended the hill and continued our trek. “I’m not trying to diminish your concerns,” I said, “but murder is a pretty big deal.”

  He nodded. “I’m doing everything in my power to help, but I’m sure you understand what it’s like to be responsible for a large group.” Gesturing out over the crowd, he said, “Most of these folks use their vacation time to be here. They’ve been looking forward to this for months. Although some are pushing harder than others, they’re all waiting for me to make it right. They’re depending on me.”

  I understood where he was coming from, but countered, “Didn’t you tell me this was just a practice week before the big Gettysburg get-together?”

  He stopped. “Get-together?” he repeated, fixing me with a glare. “This is much more than a get-together. Do you have any idea how much work it is to achieve authenticity? I’ve been doing this for over forty years and I still feel the need to improve each and every time I participate.”

  “Bad choice of words, sorry.” Changing the subject, I asked, “What exactly did you need from me? It looks as though everything is being handled as well as it can be.” I noticed him about to interrupt so I quickly added, “That is, of course, except for the gawkers. I’ll talk with security about that. As far as having the police in your camp, however, I don’t think there’s much that can be done.”

  “Can’t you talk with them? Ask them to set up their interrogation away from the heart of the action?”

  “Don’t you believe a murder investigation warrants a little inconvenience?”

  “With over three thousand people this is one of the largest gatherings of the year. If any of our participants saw or heard anything suspicious, don’t you think they would rush to report it?” His voice rose as he emphasized his point. “Of course they would. Zachary was our friend. And yet this task force is determined to question each and every person on-site. Do you have any idea how long that will take? The cops claim they’re starting with a ‘quick canvass’ of everyone, but that’s only their first round. They intend a second and third round. More if necessary. There’s no end in sight. People here are angry with me because of it. They’re yelling at me almost constantly.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  We’d made it all the way down and started wending our way through the tents. I didn’t know if he had a destination in mind or if we were just wandering as we talked. I caught the aroma of corn bread and sizzling meat. Heavenly. My stomach growled.

  He turned and raised an eyebrow. “Somebody’s hungry.”

  “No, not at all,” I lied.

  The grass in the lowlands had been trampled flat by the comings and goings of the many re-enactors. We stayed along the northern perimeter, but I found myself gaping. Just about every tent boasted its own personal campfire with a black cauldron bubbling above dancing flames. It was close to dinnertime. The women tending to meals wore dark muslin d
resses. Others, in patterned gowns with wide hoop skirts, wandered about the camp, hems skimming the dirt as they walked. Hundreds of kids were left to run like wild things. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell which parents any of them belonged to.

  It frightened me to think that these children were unattended.

  “I hate to point out the obvious, Mr. Pierpont,” I said, keeping my voice low, “but has it occurred to you that there’s a murderer in your midst? That you could wake up in the morning with a musket pointed at your head—all in the name of fun? With a killer on the loose, why wouldn’t everyone want to hightail it out of here as quickly as they could?”

  “Like I said before, you just don’t understand Civil War re-enactments.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “Keep walking. Keep watching. You’ll begin to understand.”

  “To be perfectly frank, I’m surprised you invited me in.”

  “Might as well. We’ve gone completely farby anyway.” He waved a hand toward a nearby police officer and frowned. “These encampments are best when everyone takes things seriously. That’s when we forget all about the twenty-first century and pretend we’re out there, fighting for what we believe in. We work and live together here, whether we wear the blue or the gray.”

  “And you’re here for fun.”

  “More than fun, Ms. Wheaton. It’s a way of life we choose to embrace. A simpler time. We have the opportunity to share what we’ve learned with others through our Living History. We’re happy to do so, even though it occasionally makes us feel like animals in a zoo. But the truth is, I really do need your help. Have you ever been in the military?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, let me tell you, it’s like nothing else. There’s a camaraderie, a closeness, and a commonality of purpose that’s sacred. Even though at least half of our colleagues have never actually served in the real military, they feel the same way I do. We trust each other. We rely on each other. No one leaves until the last tent is broken down. And even then most of us would rather stay than return to our dreary, dismal twenty-first-century lives.”

  He allowed his gaze to rove the tents, the people, and the trees in the distance, then drew a deep breath of air as he slapped at his chest. “This is the life, Ms. Wheaton. Here. Right now. I know that people view us as a bunch of playacting fanatics but these weeks we spend together are what make the rest of the year tolerable.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say to that.

  He continued. “Mr. Kincade has been killed. That’s a fact no one disputes. But my point holds: If one of our members saw something, don’t you believe they would share that with the authorities? That would be the honorable thing to do.”

  I acknowledged his argument. “What about that man you mentioned yesterday? Florian or something.”

  “Jim?” Pierpont laughed. “Jim’s the nicest guy in the world. He would never . . .” Abruptly, he stopped himself, turning to stare out over the top of the tents. I watched a thought work across his features. Shaking his head, he said very quietly, “No, no matter what, Jim’s not a killer.”

  “I’m not saying he is. I was just using him as an example. You said he found the body . . .” I let the thought hang and hoped he would run with it. Pierpont’s reaction had given me pause. He’d started out with a knee-jerk, “no way” when I’d mentioned Florian, but then stopped. Why? What was behind the change? I wanted to know but Pierpont switched the subject back to his impassioned request.

  “Please talk with the police on our behalf. I’m not asking them to stop their investigation, just to take the activity a little bit off-site. Let us have our privacy. We’re not going anywhere. And you promised us a quiet week on your grounds. That’s what we paid for.”

  “I have no control over the police . . .”

  “All I ask is that you try.”

  I could do that much. “Fine.”

  “Thank you! I knew you’d understand.”

  “There’s no guarantee they’ll listen to me even if I do talk with them.” I cringed, thinking of Rodriguez’s comment about my interfering again. “But before I do, I want to know what you were referring to on the phone. You said that you’d reported something else. What was it?”

  “I think I found a clue.” Pierpont’s eyes twinkled conspiratorially. “The police told me not to share this with any of the other re-enactors, but I’m sure they’d approve of my letting you know.”

  Near the center of the gathering we passed several very large tents with flaps open on all sides. Two little boys ambled out from behind one of these open tents, laughing and clearly enjoying rock candy sticks. Pierpont noticed me watching them. “We even keep our treats authentic,” he said.

  “Do their mothers make these?”

  “Maybe, but those are from the candy store at the sutlers’ area.”

  “The what?”

  He pointed to where the kids had emerged. “Think of it like a Civil War mall,” he said. “You need something, it’s there. Uniforms, food, supplies. Blacksmiths, gunsmiths, you name it. One time my rifle wouldn’t fire—on the first day of camp. I took it to the gunsmith and had it back in an hour. Good as new.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Part of what makes it real.”

  Taking deep breaths of the savory air and hearing the horses’ distant whinnies, I began to appreciate Pierpont’s point. Escaping civilization for a little while—to forget about e-mail and gas prices, to create one’s own entertainment instead of just plopping in front of the TV—was an enticing prospect. I would miss my blow-dryer and curling iron, but the fresh-faced, bun-wearing women here seemed to be doing just fine without such gadgets.

  A half step farther, however, I sucked in a breath of surprise. Two women strutted by decked out in shades of fuchsia, red, and pink. They both had curled hair and wore plenty of makeup. Strolling and laughing, they winked at every man they passed as they made their way toward the sutlers’ area. “Who are they?” I asked in a hushed voice.

  Pierpont shrugged. “Soiled doves,” he said. “Wives of re-enactors who like to pretend they’re working girls, if you know what I mean. It’s just another role. Accurate, though unnecessary if you ask me.”

  “Back to the clue you mentioned,” I prompted. “What exactly did you find?”

  “Friday night, I went out for a walk by myself. Away from the camp.”

  “At the time of the murder?”

  He gave me a weary glance. “No, Ms. Interrogator. They said Zachary was killed between eleven and one. This was much earlier. In fact, it was just after the storm cleared. I’d say closer to eight.”

  “Go on.”

  “As much as I enjoy the storytelling and socializing around the fire, it had been a hectic day and I needed some time to settle my nerves. I rejoined the group later that evening when the camp had quieted down.” He winked. “It gets so much nicer when the young mothers put their small children to bed for the night.”

  He must have seen the look on my face because he hastened to add, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I hate kids. At these gatherings, however, I simply prefer the company of the old-timers. We can be rude and crude and not chastised for our behavior. The real veterans of the group stay up late to drink and sing and talk about the old days.”

  This was getting me nowhere. “You were saying you found something?”

  “Do you realize how close the estate fence is to our campsite?”

  I thought about it. “A half mile south? Maybe a little more? That isn’t a problem, is it? There isn’t much traffic on those access roads and you should be protected by the higher ground.”

  “It’s fine, fine. No, that’s not it. We don’t hear a thing. But Friday night I decided to take a long walk and I intended to avoid the paved roads and any fences because they serve as reminders that I’m not in the nineteenth century.”

  “Farby,” I said.

  “Exactly!” Pleased that I’d picked up some of the lingo, he c
ontinued. “But I’d misjudged the distance and walked too far. Before I knew it, I was at the south fence. Worse, I’d lost my bearings because of the cloud cover. I had to follow the fence until I found the road. At that point I was able to make my way back.”

  “What does this have to do with Mr. Kincade’s murder?”

  “Did you know that there’s a gate back there?”

  “We have a lot of gates.”

  “This one is at the junction of the road and the south fence. It doesn’t look like it’s used very often. The gate is rusted, as is the heavy chain. But the padlock is rather new.”

  I still wasn’t getting it. “So?”

  “The padlock was open,” he said. “The chains were still in place and anyone driving past—like a guard or something—would assume it was secure. But when I was up close, I could tell that the lock was open.”

  “Why do you think that makes a difference?”

  “Because after all this happened, I decided the police ought to know what I’d found. I took them out there to show them the open lock, and guess what?”

  I couldn’t guess.

  “All secure again. Like someone with a key had opened it ahead of time for the killer, and then come back and locked it once the deed was done. With no one the wiser.” He went up on the balls of his feet—supremely proud of himself. “Interesting, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re suggesting this murder was premeditated? That it wasn’t one of your members who got carried away in a drunken fury?”

  Pierpont looked genuinely surprised by my question. “Come now, Ms. Wheaton. I think we both recognize that this was a targeted attack. I can assure you Zachary Kincade had no trouble accumulating enemies. You saw the truth of that yourself. Within fifteen minutes Friday you witnessed two altercations. I’ve seen many more.”

  “Any with Jim Florian?”

  Pierpont gave me a shrewd look. “Believe me when I tell you that Jim is one of the most tolerant guys I’ve ever met.”