"How can you tell?"
"Look at this," I said.
"Looks like a normal CD to me," he said, giving it a cursory glance. Michael, looking over my shoulder, gave it a closer inspection, then looked up to me with one eyebrow raised.
"It's a perfectly normal CD-ROM, but it's upside down. See?" I said, picking up the CD-ROM by the edges and holding it up. "The label side was down. I was playing this game a couple of nights ago, and that's the last time I touched the CD-ROM drive. I know I didn't put it in upside down; I don't even think it would play in that position."
Deputy Monty didn't seem to find this very interesting, but he had Cousin Horace bag the laptop as evidence, too. I hoped they took me seriously and dusted the CD for prints or something; otherwise, all I'd accomplished was severely inconveniencing myself by the loss – temporary, I hoped – of my computer as well as my cash.
"Don't worry, we know how to take care of these things," Monty said, waving away my anxious questions about what fingerprint powder would do to my CD-ROM drive. "Why don't you folks go along home? We've got a lot of work to do here. And I'd like to finish as much as possible before the press show up."
So about one A.M. Michael and I finally headed back toward the encampment, hoping to avoid the Town Watch, who would probably jump at the chance to book me for running around in jeans and a sweatshirt. If the Town Watch were still awake. More likely they'd gone home like everybody else when they figured out that Monty wasn't letting anyone gawk at the crime scene. Fat lot of good they'd been at guarding things.
"Well, at least we don't have to worry about how to keep Benson from stealing Rob's software," Michael said.
"True. All we have to worry about is how to keep Rob from getting arrested for murder," I said. "Or me, for that matter."
"Surely they'll figure out from the dress that you couldn't have stabbed him," Michael said. "And Rob probably has an alibi, although I can't believe any sane person would think Rob capable of stabbing someone."
"Oh, that's interesting," I said. "I'll be cleared by forensic evidence and Rob by the strength of his character, is that it? Very complimentary."
"I wouldn't say strength of character, no," Michael said. "More the opposite, really. I think you'd have the gumption to stab someone if you had to – in self-defense, or to protect someone. But Rob? Not likely."
"True, but will a homicide detective believe that? Or a jury?"
"I'm sure it won't come to that," Michael said. "Hey, at least your dad has an alibi. He was with me the whole time you were gone."
"Well, that's a relief," I said. "And that means you have an alibi, too."
"And I'm sure your brother will."
"Which means I'll only have to worry about Faulk, and Tad, and Mrs. Fenniman, and I don't even know who else yet. I'm not sure I'm all that impressed with Deputy Monty's big-city homicide experience."
We stopped talking when we got to the edge of the encampment. Here and there we saw campfires, and when we passed one, we'd nod to the half dozen reenactors gathered around it. But most of the camp had turned in. No wonder. Everyone would have a busy day tomorrow. The men, and the few women who had enlisted in units, would be marching and drilling, firing and cleaning their muskets, and in the late afternoon, participating in a skirmish as a dress rehearsal for Sunday's pitched battle.
Meanwhile, if yesterday was anything to go by, the women would air the bedding, cook three square meals, and clean up afterwards, using water that had to be hauled an authentically inconvenient distance. Not to mention minding any children or livestock who happened to have come along, arguing with the Anachronism Police, and hunting down anything the men misplaced – which, thanks to some innate male talent, they seemed to do as easily in a six-by-eight-foot tent as in a full-sized house. And quite a few of the women would be giving the tourists demonstrations of buttermaking, soapmaking, candlemaking, quilting, and authentic colonial laundry techniques.
I noticed that none of the stragglers loafing around the campfires were women.
Eventually we left the reenactors' area and reached the crafters' section. I'd done my best to see that everyone followed Mrs. Waterston's detailed instructions on what was and wasn't allowed in camp. But whoever laid out the plan for the tent city had apparently foreseen that the crafters' efforts at authenticity would be just a little more haphazard, half-hearted, and implausible than those of the more experienced reenactors. They'd put us at the back, as far as possible from the road – which wasn't really a hardship; we were closer to the water tanks and the privies.
Michael and I ducked into our tent. An authentic period tent, made of off-white canvas. The rope ties that held the flaps closed on either end didn't do much to keep out the bugs; I had my doubts about whether it was waterproof; and it cost several times what a cheap, modern, nylon tent would have. But it was undoubtedly authentic.
And tiny. About six feet wide at the base, eight feet long, and too short for either of us to stand upright. Michael and I had a hard enough time sharing it, and I felt sorry for the rank-and-file colonial soldiers, who supposedly slept six to a tent of this size.
While I tried to straighten out our bedroll, Michael managed to find and light a small battery-powered lantern.
"Alone at last," he said. "Too bad Deputy Monty insisted on keeping the stays as well as the gown."
I glanced up in surprise. Somehow Michael's voice didn't sound as if he were suffering keen disappointment at missing the chance to extract me from my stays. Then again, we'd had a long day.
"They'll give the stays back, eventually," I said. "I can wear them to the next regimental event."
No reaction.
"Test your theory about my needing help getting out of them."
A faint smile. It was too late for this, and I was too tired.
"Michael," I said. "Is something wrong?"
"We need to talk."
I sensed this was going to be one of those "serious discussions" that occur at key stages of a relationship. Usually, in my relationships, at moments when I have neither the energy nor the patience to cope with them. I was opening my mouth to reply, still trying to figure out exactly what I was supposed to say, when I heard a voice through the canvas behind me.
"Do you have to talk right now?" the voice asked. "We've all got an early day tomorrow."
"Oh, hush up," came another voice, from behind Michael. "It was just getting interesting."
I poked my head out of the tent flap. No one was crouched with ears glued to the canvas wall of the tent. All the surrounding tents were dark.
"Maybe it's interesting to you," came the first voice, from the tent to my left. "Some of us need our sleep."
"So buy yourself some earplugs," came the second voice, from the tent to my right.
"Hey!" came a voice from across the way. "Ya'U having a party over there? I've got some beer on ice."
"We need to talk someplace else," I said.
"Definitely," Michael agreed.
We put our shoes back on and began walking through the camp.
I had to admit, the canvas tents did have their charm. From the outside. Looking out over a sea of them, with scattered ones here and there glowing golden from a lamp or a flickering lantern within, you could almost imagine yourself really walking through Washington's camp.
And on a more practical note, the white color made it a lot harder to bump into them in the dark. I wished the same could be said for the astonishing variety of shin-bruising junk people left lying around in front of their tents.
A few yards down from ours, we passed Tad's and Faulk's tent. It looked just like all the other tents, of course, especially in the dark. But I could hear their voices. I couldn't make out more than one word in ten, but I could tell from the tone that they were quarrelling.
"I'd suggest sticking my head in to interrupt that and find out if Tad and Faulk have heard about the murder," I said, in a low voice. "But since you still seem to resent Faulk for some obscure and i
rrational reason – "
"I don't resent Faulk," Michael said. "Not him particularly, anyway."
"Then why do you frown every time you see him or hear his name."
"He's a symbol right now. Of the whole other side of your life."
"You mean my career?"
"Your career, and everything else that keeps us from spending time together," he said. "Take this weekend. We come down here together, but you spend so much time taking care of your family and your friends that we hardly see each other."
"Michael we've already – "
"I know. We've already talked about this weekend," he said. "And you're right, it isn't a good example. But what about that week we were going to spend together at the Outer Banks?"
"Also not a good example," I said. "You were the one who canceled that, when you had to go to Vancouver to film that part on your friend's TV series."
"I didn't cancel, I rescheduled," he said.
"From a week I'd kept open on my calendar for months, specifically for the Outer Banks trip, to a week when I had a show scheduled," I said. "A very prestigious show that I've been trying to crack for ten years, not to mention the fact that I'd paid a stiff, nonrefundable registration fee."
"I can't believe you're still mad about the TV part," Michael said.
"I'm not mad," I said. "I'm looking forward to seeing the show. I only brought it up because you brought up canceling the Outer Banks – "
"Could you keep it down out there?" someone asked, from a nearby tent.
"Sorry," we both murmured.
We strolled in silence, until we reached the highway that divided the battlefield in two – and apparently marked the northern boundary of the encampment.
"Weren't there tents above the road?" I said, frowning. "I could have sworn there were people setting up over there this morning, and now – damn!"
I jumped, as the cannon went off, sounding much louder than it did at the craft fair. Though, curiously, it didn't seem to shake the ground any more. Perhaps I was getting used to it.
"The cannon's right over there somewhere," Michael said, pointing off to our left.
"That's right. I suppose they're aiming at the redoubts."
"The what?"
"The redoubts – that's the technical term for those forts on the battlefield. You know, the earth embankments with the wooden stakes sticking out the sides and ditches all around them?"
"Oh, so that's what a redoubt is," Michael said. "My regiment's been talking for weeks about how we're going to storm one this weekend, and I've been too embarrassed to admit I didn't know what a redoubt was. I should have asked you ages ago."
"Redoubt Nine, probably; the French forces actually did storm that a few days before the end of the siege."
I jumped as the cannon boomed again.
"I can guess what happened to the people who used to have their tents over here," I said.
"Yeah, looks like they all moved farther from the artillery. That's why the rest of the camp is so crowded."
"I can't believe they're really going to keep doing that all night," I fumed. "Come on, let's go talk to them."
"Meg, I thought we – "
"Michael, I know you want to have a serious conversation," I called over my shoulder, as I strode over the battlefield toward where the artillery squad had camped. "But I'm half-asleep and cranky and preoccupied with everything that's happened tonight. Having a serious talk right now would stack the deck in favor of an argument I don't want to have. But if you help me talk those beastly gunners into shutting the hell up for the rest of the night, not only is that a subject that I mink we can both agree on, but I will probably be grateful enough to – awk!"
I found myself lying facedown on the ground.
"Halt! Who goes there!"
"Oh, for the love of – " I muttered.
"Meg!" Michael called. "What happened?"
"I tripped over something," I said, levering myself up.
"I said, Halt! Who goes there!"
"Gatinois chasseurs," Michael called out to the invisible sentry. "Are you all right?" he said to me.
"Did I ever tell you that there are cactus on the battlefields?"
"Cactus?"
"Approach and be recognized, Gatinois chasseurs," the sentry called.
"Hang on a moment, will you?" Michael called.
"Yes, cactus," I repeated. "Tiny little cactus, only a few inches tall."
"Meg, did you hit your head when you fell?"
"As kids, we all learned not to go barefoot on the battlefield, because of the cactus," I said. "The barbs are so fine you can't even pick them out with tweezers. Have to wait till they work their way out."
"But you're not barefoot now, are you?"
"No," I said, getting to my feet. "But I landed with my face in a clump of cactus. I do hope I didn't trip over something those miserable cannoneers strung up around their camp. We've already had one homicide tonight."
"Maybe we should talk to them later," Michael suggested.
I strode on toward the artillery crew's camp – we were close enough now to see a fire, flickering faintly in the middle of a block of tents.
I heard Michael, behind me, talking to someone. The sentry, I supposed. I'd managed to bypass him, and found myself standing in front of something.
I peered closer and realized I was staring down the mouth of the cannon.
Okay, I knew they probably weren't going to fire the cannon again right away, but just to be safe, I ducked well to the side. Then I realized that there was no one standing by the cannon.
Strange. They'd just fired. Before going down to my booth that morning, I'd watched the artillery crew fire the cannon, while the officer in charge gave a running commentary for the audience. It took eight people – and that was pared down from how many they'd have had in a real battle – and they went through more than thirty steps. I seemed to recall that at least a third of the steps involved cleaning the cannon up after firing. So why wasn't someone still scouring the barrel or whatever?
I moved closer again and reached out to touch the cannon's mouth. The metal was the same temperature as the surrounding air. Didn't cannons heat up, even a little, when they were fired?
I was still pondering when a man appeared from behind a nearby tent and came over to stand by the cannon.
"Quite a sight, isn't she?" he drawled, patting the barrel like a favorite horse. "Can you imagine what it must have been like, with over fifty of these babies pounding on the town?"
"Quite a sound, too; and no, I don't even want to imagine what it must have been like," I said. "Are you really planning to keep this up all night?"
He sighed.
"They're from the encampment, Jess – I mean, Captain," the sentry said, as he and Michael came up behind me. "Couldn't sleep."
"No kidding," Captain Jess said. "We're sort of obliged to keep it up all night, ma'am," he added. "Come on; if we're going to keep you awake, we can at least entertain you."
We followed Jess through the tents to the fire at the middle of the encampment. A dozen men and several women sat around the fire. One strummed a guitar. Several held steaming mugs, and some munched toasted cheese sandwiches. My stomach growled, reminding me that I had stormed away from the party, several hours ago, without eating much.
"Would you like something to drink?" Jess asked. "We have beer, hot cider, water, and a fresh pot of our national beverage. No tea, of course."
"National beverage?" Michael asked.
"Coffee," I explained. "After the Boston Tea Party, the Continental Congress made it the official national beverage. I'd love a cup."
"Me, too," Michael said.
"I still say it's an anachronism," one of the men around the fire said. "The coffee may be authentic, but not if you insist on fixing it with filters and a drip machine."
"Well, then, pour me out two mugs of hot anachronism for our guests, Mel," the captain said. " 'Cause I'm not about to spoil good coffee boiling it in th
e same pot you've been using for the salt pork. Do you folks take your anachronism plain, or with cream and sugar?"
I felt a little more mellow toward the artillery crew once I was sitting by their fire, sipping a cup of excellent coffee, and I didn't say no when they offered me a toasted cheese sandwich. But I couldn't help thinking that every minute brought us closer to the time when they'd feel obliged to fire off the cannon again, and I was bound and determined to stop them.
"Look," I said, when I'd polished off my snack. "I don't want to abuse your hospitality or anything, but what is it with firing the gun, anyway?"
I heard mumbles from several of the people around the fire.
"We were hired to fire it throughout the festival," Jess explained.
"Yes, I know," I said. "To simulate the shelling that began on October 9, 1781, and lasted until Cornwallis finally threw in the towel. I got that much. But why do you have to keep it up in the middle of the night, when there's no one awake to hear you? Or at least there wouldn't be anyone awake if you weren't keeping them awake."
"I'd be happy to knock off at sunset, or midnight, or any old time you like," he said. "But it isn't up to me. You'll have to take that up with Madame Von Steuben."
"Von Steuben?" Michael said.
"The Prussian general Washington brought over to whip the American troops into shape," I explained. "Noted for his harsh discipline, skill as a drillmaster, and ability to curse fluently in three languages."
"You do know your history," the captain said, with a bow.
"I grew up here," I told him, with a shrug.
"And one of this Von Steuben's descendents is helping out with the festival?" Michael asked.
"Oh, for heavens' sake, Michael," I said. "They mean your mother, of course."
The captain's jaw dropped. Several people around the fire appeared to be choking on their coffee. Michael looked startled, then burst out laughing.
"That's perfect," he said. "Madame Vori Steuben!"
"Course we don't call her that to her face," Jess said.
"Of course not," I said. "You're still alive."
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