Wolf knew what he was saying. Crazy had logic but it was a logic only crazy understood. In cases like this, looking for patterns was the likeliest method of identifying a killer.
“Both of you would be considered strong-willed,” Les pushed forward.
“And you think someone would kill because of that? Because we’re strong women?” Kylah looked insulted and Wolf couldn’t blame her.
“Limitless reasons people kill. None of them good.” Les rubbed his jaw, thinking. “I’m told Ms. McGuire was called a stitch-counter by some and it wasn’t a compliment.”
“No, it isn’t,” Kylah agreed. “A stitch-counter or purist is someone considered over-the-top about the need to stay in character. And as far as your patterns go, yes, my uniform is one hundred percent authentic and I did stay in character this morning even to keeping my cap on and hair hidden. But if someone’s been watching me, they’d know this is the first time I’ve been in costume since I got here. From what Ella told me, she and Maisy were always in costume from the moment they stepped foot on the site.”
Jake put a saucer of milk in front of Trouble, then began handing out mugs of coffee, placing sugar, creamer, and spoons on the table, but he’d fixed Kylah’s for her with cream and sugar. Wolf had paid attention to how much because he planned to make use of the knowledge some morning. Given the chance.
The sheriff took an appreciative sip from his cup before answering Kylah’s last comment. “I’ll admit this person may have been just walking around today looking for the next target.”
“That seems improbable,” Wolf injected. “Doesn’t it?”
Les agreed, “Improbable but still possible.”
Wolf was watching Les’ eyes. There was something the sheriff didn’t want to say and Wolf had a pretty good idea what it was. “What’s your third possible pattern?”
Les glanced his way. “Maisy McGuire and Ella Necaise shared a lifestyle which sets some people off. And, from what Ms. West has said, she was coming back from Ms. Necaise’ campsite and she’d been there for some time. The two of them alone together.”
“Which I wouldn’t have needed to be if your team hadn’t left a grieving woman to clean up a damned crime scene,” Kylah returned. “What were you thinking?”
Les closed his eyes for a brief moment, looking chagrined at her words. “I hadn’t realized. I’m sorry for that. It will be addressed and Ms. Necaise will receive an apology.”
Apparently mollified by his sincerity, Kylah’s expression turned thoughtful. “We were out in the open in front of the tent in plain view the whole time. But it could be the shooter either watched us walking to her camp and me coming back alone sometime later. Or, he chanced on us alone in front of her camp and then followed me.”
“Either way,” Les agreed, looking relieved that she wasn’t going to get in a twist over his premise. They couldn’t rule out any possibility at the moment.
Wolf knew it could never be easy to tell a person they could be a potential victim on multiple fronts.
“You might as well go on and say the other theory you’re looking at,” Wolf said in resignation.
“Well, both dressed as men, both with caps on so their hair was hidden. The shooter may not have realized either was a woman.”
“So, the uniforms could be the reason? Someone anti-war to that extreme?”
“Could be,” Les said. “Or could be someone who doesn’t like the event itself.”
“Like someone from the Boundary.” Wolf met the sheriff’s glance with a steady eye.
“I have to consider it,” Les agreed.
Wolf held his temper. “I agree,” he admitted, “and I know there were problems in the past, some not wanting to accept changes that seemed forced on them but that’s been decades ago and those were kids who are grown up now. And the worst of it was graffiti and small vandalism, not murder. The Cherokee aren’t living in that past.”
The sheriff took another swallow of his coffee. “Insanity lives in whatever world it chooses.”
And that was a point Wolf couldn’t argue. “So, what now?
“Now, I’m hoping you can convince Rita to cancel or postpone this event.”
Wolf couldn’t help the disbelieving snort of laughter that escaped him. “You’re not serious.”
“Damn it, Wolf! I’ve got a nut job trying to take people out with antique weapons. He’s been successful once and damn near was again today. No agency could provide enough security at something this big. No way in hell! He could be any one of hundreds of reenactors who are strangers to the area, strangers to the area law enforcement. What do you expect me to do?”
“Try applying a little logic. First off, no one’s going to convince Rita to postpone this event, much less cancel it. Second, if someone could, it wouldn’t be me. Rita’s never listened to me about anything.”
“Then why the hell did you marry her?” Les glared at him.
Wolf lifted his coffee mug in a sarcastic toast. “Might have been the shot gun you had pointed at my back.”
“Well, air the dirty laundry, for Christ sakes!”
Wolf grinned. Damned if he could help it. “Old news the entire county knew and forgot years ago.” He drained his coffee cup and got to his feet.
His escape wasn’t quick enough and the sheriff got the last poke in when he asked, “What were you doing here today anyway?”
“Just stopped by to check things out and damned good thing I did.”
“Back to my point,” Les retorted. “I can post a deputy or two but they sure as hell can’t safeguard hundreds of actors and thousands of visitors over the next two weeks. I need you to talk to Rita.”
“I’ll go later today but you know as well as I do she won’t budge.” He saw the defeated look on Les’ face. Damn. “But I’ll try.”
Wolf put his hand on the doorknob and looked at Kylah. “I’ll be back in a bit. You okay?”
She smiled at him and he wished like hell they were alone for one moment. “I’m fine. Jake and I are going back to work.”
He noticed she didn’t respond to his first comment. He supposed he could take it as a positive sign that she didn’t say there was no need for him to be back … in a bit or otherwise.
Les followed him out and Trouble scooted out between them. “Damn it, Wolf, there are times you’re a thorn in my side.”
“I can remember when that was all of the time and not just some of the time.”
His ex-brother-in-law snorted a little at that. “Not that long ago, either.” He put his hat on his head. “I’m headed to talk with the man who could be the last person to see Maisy McGuire alive before her murder. And, if he doesn’t have a damned good accounting for his whereabouts this morning, he might even be our guy.” Les hesitated then added, “You’re welcome to come along. I guess Rita can wait a while longer.”
Wolf looked down at Trouble then nodded at Les. “Obliged. Hope you don’t mind if the cat comes, too.”
The sheriff sighed and shook his head. Wolf and Trouble followed him to his patrol car.
* * *
Kylah had wondered why Wolf was at the fairgrounds as well but she wasn’t sure she would’ve asked. Nor was she sure Wolf would have provided a better answer than the casual, “Just stopped by to check things out,” he’d offered the sheriff.
She met Jake’s steady gaze. “Ready to work?”
For a moment he didn’t say anything. “Always ready to work, but … are you sure you want to stay? That was a close call and maybe we should pack up and head home.”
“I won’t do that. My job is here. But I won’t hold it against you if you want to go home.”
Jake looked affronted but the words had to be said. He didn’t even bother to respond to her offer. “You going to ride in that get-up?”
She smiled, hoping to ease the insult he felt he’d been dealt, “They’ve got to get used to it sometime, sooner better than later. I don’t want to get dumped on the battlefield.”
No
t that she thought any of them would buck with her under any circumstances. They were too well trained. To her relief, Jake followed her lead. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile as he finished his coffee. “Might as well get started. If there’s gonna be a side show, I don’t want to miss it.”
* * *
What a prime opportunity! I don’t always get to sit in on the questioning of a person of interest, particularly not one who might prove to be the actual murderer. I’ve been in a sheriff’s car before and this one is pretty much run-of-the-mill. No fancy bells and whistles, nothing but the basics but I have the back seat to myself and it’s quite comfortable.
“So, tell me about this fellow we’re going to see,” Wolf suggests.
I sit up and move to the edge of the seat, the better to hear the exchange. The more information I have the more help I can be to Wolf in solving the case and protecting Kylah.
“Raymond Latimer is with a unit from somewhere up north. Pennsylvania, I think. I’ve got a file on him in my office. Nothing stood out. He’s never been in any trouble. Steady job in some kind of manufacturing plant. Married with two grown children, both in college. Wife’s into herb gardening, sells what she grows at a local market every weekend, and seldom leaves home otherwise. His hobby is this type of event, reenacting Civil War battles. He also visits and photographs Civil War cemeteries. Gone most weekends with some historical group or other.”
“Huh.”
Wolf’s grunt mirrors my thoughts. Do these people not have a real life?
“Yeah, well, the frequent separation may be what keeps them married.”
A commentary on the sheriff’s own marriage? Something to wonder about had I time for such inanities. Which I do not.
“So, how does this Latimer come into the picture with the deceased?” Wolf asks.
“Seems he was the go-between for the sale of the gun,” the sheriff explains. “We’re going to talk with the previous owner and then with Latimer.”
“Previous owner a friend of his?”
“Of sorts. He’s Latimer’s unit commander.”
“So, a person with authority and latitude in these surroundings.” I can almost hear the thoughts spinning in Wolf’s head. “Have you considered a gun ring of some sort? Or smuggling of antiques?”
I wish I could see more than the backs of their heads and a bit of profile now and again. Expressions can be so telling.
“Considered it and did a little digging. Nothing pops. The guy’s been a collector for years, goes to big gun shows but buys with caution, sometimes sells. No ties to anyone or anything out of the way so far.”
Wolf rubs his neck. “Nothing fits, does it?”
“Nothing at all.” The sheriff agrees, clearly no happier about the fact than Wolf.
“They both coming to the station?”
“Nope. I have Latimer headed there now. Going to let him cool his heels and sweat, hopefully get a little antsy so that he loses the thread of any story he might have made up.”
“You think he’s the one?” Wolf sounds dubious, as am I.
“I don’t but I’m too smart to treat him otherwise until I know otherwise.”
“So where are we headed now?”
“We’re going to drop in unannounced on Commander Fagan, Vance Fagan. My deputies tell me he’s inspecting uniforms all day today so he’ll be close to his field quarters.”
“Field quarters? I take it you mean his tent. These people take this stuff to heart, don’t they?”
“They damn sure do.” I don’t think the sheriff’s tone is expressing any admiration of the fact.
The sheriff parks and we exit the car and I stretch my legs. The drive was longer than I expected it to be, longer than if we’d trekked across the hills and through the creek but I daresay the sheriff isn’t inclined to walking if he can drive.
Now that the hordes have moved in, the vista is rather amazing. Reenactors are milling about outside of their tents, garbed in their historic raiment, carrying a wide array of weaponry, everything from handguns to rifles – with and without bayonet – and swords. Somehow, I had not equated sabers with the war between the states but they doubtless were there or they would not be here. These enthusiasts are authentic to the core. More than the Confederate flags and unit standards flapping in the breeze, more even than the period costumes, it is the military bearing of the reenactors themselves that tell the tale. They are not only in costume, they are in character.
True to the sheriff’s expectations, Commander Fagan is close at hand and easy to find. He leads the way to his headquarters through an astonishing number of bipeds in their realistically stitched military attire of another century. He gestures towards a tent that sits upon a rise, slightly elevated from the many smaller ones that surround it. Intentional? That is my suspicion.
Inside, it is a true commander’s space with a long, crudely built table and an equally rough bench on either side. I catch sight of a wireless printer tucked into the bottom of a bookshelf and surmise a laptop might be secreted in one of the knapsacks scattered about. The glimpse of technology serves as a reminder that this historical reenactment is a jaunt for some but business to others.
Not, however, a padded chair in sight. Sigh. I settle discreetly upon the top shelf, careful to send nothing tumbling to the rug which covers the earth floor beneath us.
“Gentlemen.” I note that he extends his hand first to the sheriff who is wearing a badge, then rather offhandedly to Wolf, who is not. Were he more observant, he’d note from Wolf’s demeanor that he is twice the leader of the sheriff, who is more of the good old boy mentality. But, he’s sharp, I’ll give him that. Sheriff Les Mitchell is nobody’s fool. “I gather you have questions about the rifle I sold Ms. McGuire before her death.”
“You mean before she was murdered.”
Blimey, that was crudely done. But I suspect it was as purposeful as it was crude.
The commander stiffens and glares at the sheriff. “As you say. Please sit, gentlemen.”
He takes one bench and Wolf and the sheriff take the other, facing him. The commander glances at me on my perch atop the bookshelf but he says not a word nor does his expression change. Good for him.
Sheriff Mitchell wastes no time getting started on his questions. “Did you know Maisy McGuire?”
“No. Never met her.” Well, he’s not a chatty one, that’s for sure.
“Then how did the sale of your weapon to her come about?”
Wolf appears interested in the exchange, relaxed but interested. On the other hand, the sheriff looks bored with his own questions, though I feel certain that isn’t the case.
“Via our communication board. There’s always something posted for sale as well as notices of meetings or outings in whatever town. It’s a common practice.”
“Outings?” The sheriff manages to make the word outings sound nefarious.
“Anything from gatherings at a pub to a wine tasting event or a ghost tour. Anything that’s of interest in or around the town of our current venue.”
“What about here. Anything of interest?” I wince as I’m certain the sheriff has set himself, or at least his town, up for an insult.
“No, nothing at all.”
As I said. Wolf and I exchange glances.
The sheriff scowls and says, “So you posted a for sale notice about the rifle and she called you.”
“To be a bit more precise, Ms. McGuire sent me a text and we made the arrangements for the sale in similar fashion.”
“How did you pick Raymond Latimer to take it to her?”
“He happened to be walking by when I was texting with Ms. McGuire. She wanted to see the item with the intent to buy if she liked what she saw.”
Sheriff Mitchell looks more than a little dubious at his words. “You picked him at random? To take a collectors item to a woman you’ve never met?”
“Hardly random. I’ve known Raymond for years and knew he could be trusted carrying a valuable rifle to h
er and bringing a significant amount of cash back to me.”
“Why not just arrange to meet with her yourself?” The sheriff is still wearing that frown of faint suspicion.
The commander hesitates, then gives a bit of a huff. “We couldn’t make our schedules work for me to take it to her. She insisted I traipse out to that isolated spot she’d chosen to pitch her tent. To be honest, I got the feeling she was being intentionally difficult, maybe to drive the price down. Told me she had her eye on another as well. I didn’t want to lose the sale. I knew if she laid eyes on my Burnside, she wouldn’t want to lose it.”
“Do you have a copy of what you posted?”
The commander leaves the table to rummage through some papers on a surface that appears to suffice as his makeshift desk. He returns with a sheet of paper he hands to the sheriff who glances at it and frowns.
“You were selling two rifles?”
“My intention was only to sell one or the other. The Enfield or the Burnside. Buyer’s choice.”
“That’s a pretty good sum for either.” Mitchell hands the paper off to Wolf who has yet to comment on anything, which I find interesting. “And I noticed you asked for cash, no checks or credit cards.”
“I’ve been burned a time or two,” the commander admits. “And I set a fair price. Each weapon was worth every penny of that, even more in a different market.”
The sheriff watches as Wolf studies the flyer the commander had posted. I could see the thoughts clicking through the sheriff’s mind in a rather pedestrian fashion before he returned to his questioning. “So … she looked, she liked, and she sent the cash back with Latimer.”
“Yes.” Fagan nods in accompaniment of his terse response.
“You still have it?”
“The money? I can’t say for sure. I already had other cash here as well and I’ve purchased a bayoneted rifle since then. Whether or not I used funds from the sale of the Burnside or those I had with me,” he shrugs, “I’ve no way to know for sure.”
Trouble in Action Page 11