“What’s up, buttercup?” I asked as she backed out onto the street without looking behind her, inviting an annoyed driver to honk. She ignored it.
“It’s not my rifle.”
Oh boy. “What did Jackson Lee say?”
“Technically, it was in Brandon’s possession, so the ownership of the rifle doesn’t matter as much as who pulled the trigger.”
“That doesn’t sound good, but I suppose it makes sense. You can always shoot someone with someone else’s gun, I guess. Can they recharge him?”
“They can. That doesn’t mean they will. It’s up to the prosecutor once he has all the information he needs. There’s been enough doubt raised that it can be regarded as circumstantial evidence, but there may be extenuating circumstances.”
Bitty sounded calm. That made me nervous. I peered at her. She concentrated on aiming the car down Memphis Street. When she turned onto Van Dorn, I had a sneaking suspicion I knew our destination.
“Are we returning to the scene of the crime?”
“Yes. I want to look around and see if something comes to me. It wasn’t Brandon. Not even by accident. I know that. Don’t ask me how. I’m a mother.”
I was quiet for a moment, then said, “I bet Faith Simon thinks that about Brett, too.”
“Oh, he’s been cleared. I didn’t tell you?”
“I haven’t talked to you today, Bitty. So no, you didn’t tell me.”
“Police questioned him, and he ended up confessing he’d made it up because he thought his mother might have done it. That was after a polygraph.”
Alarmed, I said, “I hope that doesn’t mean the police are going to arrest Faith.”
“No. Actually, they both have alibis for the time of Walter’s death that are pretty solid, so I think they’ll be fine. Brett was just telling his mother he’d aimed at him so she wouldn’t confess, and neither of them realized they’d been overheard.”
“Well, that’s good, but it takes us back to square one.”
Bitty stopped at the light on S. Market. “I hate square one. I want square end. I don’t think I can stand it if police start looking at Brandon again.”
“I know.” I thought about telling her what I knew but wondered if that would only make it worse. I wasn’t sure of anything yet. A frantic Bitty can be a dangerous Bitty. I’d decide after we looked at the railroad station again. Maybe an idea would come to me, or maybe I’d see that there was no possible way it could have happened as I suspected. I kinda hoped for the first.
Bitty parked in front of Phillips, and we walked over to the depot. I stayed out front while she went in the side door to ask for Gwen.
Gwen wasn’t home, but her niece was, and she gave us permission to prowl around all we wanted. She’d been away at school, and I don’t think she realized our reputation for getting into trouble did not come close to the reality.
Workmen had been redoing the baggage claim area, the former waiting rooms, and had finished the dining area. Only a few remained, painting newly repaired walls and making sure no nails or broken floorboards remained to injure tourists. There’s usually a craft fair in May where people come to sell paintings, crafts, jellies and jams and jewelry, reenactors roam around in blue and gray uniforms, tours are given, and the depot is open for the curious and those who appreciate history. It can be entertaining as well as enlightening. It had been postponed this year.
Sunlight flirted with clouds, and the wind bent smaller trees and tulips. The lunch crowd had long left Phillips, but the teasing scent of fried food wafted through the open door as a patron exited. My stomach growled.
“Can we eat before we prowl?” I asked Bitty.
She gave me an exasperated look. “Can’t you wait?”
“I haven’t had lunch, and it’s nearly four in the afternoon. Phillips closes soon.”
“I take it that’s a no,” Bitty said and shook her head. “Fine. That gives the workmen time to finish up anyway.”
We went into Phillips, and I ordered a fried bologna sandwich, fried peach pie, and onion rings. I got an Orange Crush out of the cooler and added it. Bitty got the cheeseburger. We’d both end up regretting all the grease, but at the moment, it smelled too delicious to care.
Once we sat at a table in the window, the cloth-covered tables and iron chairs comfortable and familiar, I reacquainted myself with huge metal tubs holding bottles of Coke, memorabilia hanging on the walls and lining old shelves; the history of the building was recalled in old photographs. Phillips Grocery had been established in 1948, but in the nineteenth century, the building had housed a saloon, and local legend claimed it had been a house of ill-repute as well. I hoped it was true. I rather liked the whispers of a scandalous past.
I sipped my orange soda while waiting for my food, gazing out at the tracks and trying to see the depot reenactment with fresh eyes. It had been earlier in the day, but it had been crowded, the sun shining, with caution tape strung up to keep spectators from getting caught up in the fray. From the perspective of Phillips across the street, they’d only be able to see some of it. The main action had been directly in front of the depot. Down by the freight office, the supplies to be “burned” had been stacked, and just past the baggage claim room of the depot was where Walter had been killed. No one at Phillips could have seen it. But what about someone at the freight office? Could they have witnessed something?
“Did the police question any workers at the freight office?” I asked Bitty after we picked up our food at the counter and returned to the table.
“Jackson Lee said they questioned everybody but the horses.” Bitty took a bite of her burger, closed her eyes in brief ecstasy, and we both paid attention to our meal for a few minutes.
“Well,” I said when I’d polished off my sandwich and onion rings and unwrapped my peach pie, “no one would have seen it from here, even if the crowd hadn’t been there. Wrong angle.”
“And Phillips is usually busy on Saturday,” Bitty said. “They stay open until six.”
I tried to reimagine the scene. It was odd, as I’d been there, yet trying to see it from a different perspective required imagination. I squinted and concentrated.
“Gas?” Bitty said, and I opened my eyes wide and looked at her.
“What?”
“You look gassy. Are you all right?”
I rolled my eyes. “I was thinking, Bitty.”
“Oh. It looked painful.”
“It wasn’t. What are you hoping to find at the depot?”
Bitty shrugged. “I don’t know. A clue as to how someone else could have shot Walter Simpson, I suppose. I just don’t believe Brandon could have done it, even if the rifle he had is capable of firing. Can you imagine this following him the rest of his life? He’s so young, and all he did was take part in a silly reenactment. I tell you, Trinket, I’m really rethinking all this reenactment business. I mean, yes, I want to remember our history because we sure don’t want to repeat it, and it was part of our heritage, but what lesson should we take from it? That war is evil? We’ve known that. Are we supposed to avoid conflict with other Americans? I mean, we do disagree, and politics is a mess, but why should we ever get to the point of hate enough to fight each other over our differences?”
“I’ve never heard you so contemplative before, Bitty. You’re scaring me.”
She sighed. “I know. I’m just so worried that somehow this will all end up with my child being charged with a murder he never planned, never wanted, and didn’t know happened.”
I thought about the video we’d seen, the eye witnesses, most seeing the same thing but interpreting it differently, and wondered if we were looking at it from the right perspective.
After a moment I said, “Did you say the depot is open so we can go inside?”
“Gwen’s niece gave us permission, so
yes.”
“I was standing under the overhang, and if I remember correctly—and I may not—one of the baggage room windows was open. What if someone inside fired the fatal shot?”
Bitty stared at me. “Who? Why?”
“I don’t know that for certain. Let’s go look.”
I ate the last of my peach pie as we walked across the street. Pots of flowers lined the front walk, mulch had been replaced, and bushes that had been trimmed were bursting with new shoots. Most of the action had taken place at the north end of the depot due to space, and the freight or express office resided in a small square building across a graveled open space. That was where the “supplies” had been stacked. I stopped by the baggage room. One of the long windows had been left open by workers and the door was open. I stepped inside. The old floor creaked slightly, but was quite sturdy, and I went to the open window to see if there was anything to my theory.
I calculated for the crowd of tourists, the angle, and realized that it would not have been possible for a shooter to make the shot. He’d have had to lean out the window with his rifle; surely someone would have noticed. All the reenactors were outside the depot, not inside. Disappointed, I walked back outside.
Bitty stood under the freshly painted gray corbels holding up the overhang at the far end of the depot. I walked down to stand by her.
“Searching for a new theory here,” I said, and she looked up at me and smiled.
“So am I. But look, Trinket, someone could have stood right here around the corner and fired the shot, and none of the tourists or anyone not acting would have seen them. The main side window of the freight office has an AC unit in, so it’s unlikely anyone in there would have seen them.”
I stepped around the corner. She was right. It was a wide-open area, but on the day of the reenactment, it had been filled with blue and gray soldiers and a lot of action. Gravel and grass led to the back of the depot and personal living quarters of the family; no doubt cars had parked out of the way. But right here, unless someone was looking, it would have been easy enough for someone to fire a rifle and not be noticed, or be thought to be part of the show. All it took was a uniform and Enfield rifle.
“Tell me about the rifle you saw today, Bitty. How do you know it’s not yours?”
“It has the mark on it like the wagon wheel that ran over it a hundred years ago, but it’s on the wrong side. It’s that simple. And it didn’t feel right. Jackson Lee is having the experts look at it again and compare it to the insurance photographs just to be sure.”
“So, why and when would that happen? I mean, the rifle has been in your safe since the last time the boys used it, so it’d have to have been switched with another recently.”
“I don’t know. I called the boys earlier, but they’re in class and haven’t called back yet. They’re usually so careful, but they must have let someone borrow it.”
That made sense. It also shot my theory out of the water. Pardon the pun. Several different scenarios ran through my head. I mused aloud, “Did someone plan to kill Walter and switch them, or were they intending to kill someone else and blame Brandon?”
“Who else would they want to kill, though?” Bitty asked.
I leaned back against the red brick wall. “The only person I can think of is Royal Stewart. Walter was wearing his uniform. He wore a hat. Someone had to think he was Royal.”
“But that’s preposterous. They look nothing alike.”
“Think about it, Bitty. Smoke haze, men running around shouting and waving guns, the guy you want to shoot is right there, wearing a hat and uniform you recognize. So you hide around the corner here, probably in a uniform as well, holding an old gun, and you wait for the right moment to take your shot. You’re focused on the uniform and hat, not the face, and then your victim is right in front of you. You shoot, then blend into the other reenactors. After it ends and Walter doesn’t get up, you join the others who run to him, and take the first chance you can to switch rifles with whoever lays his down.”
“Brandon must have laid his rifle down when he tried to help Walter,” Bitty said after a moment. “That’s when it happened.”
“Who would notice something like that? I mean, his rifle is right there, and he picks it up and doesn’t think any more about it.”
“But the dent in it—how do you explain a dent almost identical to mine?”
“I can’t imagine all the rifles got through the war without some kind of damage. It could be a coincidence.”
“I’m not sure I believe in coincidences.”
I smiled. “Let me tell you a short story about Carl Jung and his theory of synchronicity, and you might change your mind.”
Bitty stared at me. I nodded my head encouragingly.
It all seemed to fit.
JACKSON LEE HEARD us out patiently and nodded appropriately but reserved comment until we were through telling him of our theory.
Then he said, “Impressive. It does stretch the bounds of credulity as both rifles had such similar damage, but it’s always possible.”
“That’s it?” Bitty made a rude sound. “It’s more than possible. Trinket has told me some very interesting things. You need to look at Skip Whalen.”
Jackson Lee glanced at me. I shrugged. Yes, I had told her. He’d have to deal with it.
“Someone should see if Skip Whalen has my rifle,” Bitty added indignantly.
Jackson Lee began to explain about things like probable cause, evidence, and so on, but somewhere in there he completely lost Bitty and even me. He ended with a plea.
“I beg of you, don’t go snooping. You may get shot, and if you’re on their property, there’s nothing I could do about it. Please tell me you won’t do that.”
Bitty crossed her arms over her chest, a rather amazing feat in light of her small arms and big chest. “Do what?”
After briefly closing his eyes in what was probably a prayer, he opened them again and sighed. “If you trespass on private property, you will go to jail at the least, as I doubt the Whalen family will hesitate to call police, or you’ll be shot at worst. There are laws. My job is not to skirt the laws, but to uphold them while I defend my clients. Interpretation of law only goes so far.”
“Jackson Lee, honey, I do not intend to be arrested or shot. Neither sound especially fun. So don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
Uh oh. That was the killer phrase. “Pretty little head” had been a chauvinistic motto far too often in women’s lives, but I’d never thought Jackson Lee the kind of man to use it. He blinked in confusion.
“Bitty, I have never said—”
“You don’t have to say it to think it or mean it,” she said, and I saw her point, but still didn’t think it belonged to Jackson Lee. Besides, he was right. Bitty unfettered could be a danger to herself and others.
I held my tongue. It’s usually unwise to interfere in other people’s arguments unless directly involved, and while Bitty would certainly directly involve me in any manic scheme, it was best to wait for proof.
That came rather quickly.
After Jackson Lee left—on uncertain terms—Bitty shut the door behind him and bit her lower lip. That sign of distress moved me to ask, “Honey, are you all right?”
“No, but there was no other way to manage it. I had an idea. Do you want wine or tea while I tell you about it?”
“Straight whiskey couldn’t ease my angst if you plan on prowling around the Whalen house looking for your rifle.”
“Well, I have that, too. Maybe a valium somewhere. It’s probably expired, though. I never take them.”
“It’s for me, not you,” I said unkindly, and she just smiled and waved me to follow.
I followed her into the kitchen while she poured wine. I knew it was futile, but I had to try. “Bitty, whatever you have plann
ed—don’t do it. Please.”
“I’ll need your help. And maybe someone like Gaynelle or Cady Lee. Who do we know that the Whalens might not know we know?”
“Three hundred and fifty million Americans, for a start.”
She gave me a disapproving look. “I said that we know, Trinket. Do try to keep up, or this may take a while.”
“Whatever you have planned, I’m not helping. Neither will Gaynelle or Rayna or even Miranda Watson.”
Bitty perked up. “Yes, I could ask Miranda to do it. She might. She owes me after leaving me in a dumpster.”
“I’ll call her and suggest she go on vacation.”
“I’ll offer her a diamond tiara for her pig to wear.”
I took the glass of wine she held out, sucked it down, and gave it back to her. “More. And I can’t fight bribery.”
“I know. Let’s just take the bottles into the parlor with us.”
We carried the wine into the parlor, where I sat across from her on my cushioned chair with matching ottoman and put my feet up. I briefly considered leaving, but that wouldn’t stop Bitty. If nothing else, I could find out her plan and work to prevent it.
It rarely turns out that way.
“Once I realized Jackson Lee wasn’t going to arrest Skip Whalen,” Bitty said as I thought about just sticking a straw into my bottle of wine, “I realized I’d have to manage it all myself. So I had to make him leave, you see. And now that he’s probably irritated with me, he won’t be hanging around so won’t find out our plans.”
“Your plans. I wonder if there are bags of wine I could just fit with an IV and mainline.”
Bitty stared at me. “You say the oddest things, Trinket.”
“I’ve been told that. Do go on. How are you going to arrest Skip? And you do know Jackson Lee is an attorney, not a police officer, right?”
“Really, Trinket, you talk to me sometimes as if I’m stupid.”
I sucked down two inches of wine and tried not to choke.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I wondered if I could lure Skip away from his house with an offer to buy his rifle. Then I realized he wouldn’t sell it to me, even if he admits he has it. But he can’t keep it, you see, for that is evidence, and he has to know if he’s caught with it, it can get him in trouble. Right now he has no idea that the rifle in custody has been proven not to be mine. When he finds out, he’ll have to dispose of my rifle. Right?”
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