by Tina Whittle
She pressed a button, and a previously dark alcove flooded with light like morning sunshine. The stained-glass windows flared to life. Unlike the ones in the chapel, these weren’t blandly perfect. They thrummed with vitality, broken and authentic, as if the hundreds of eyes that had gazed through them over the centuries had burnished them brighter, as if the figures were poised to step out of the leaded panes, lungs pumping, blood surging.
I spun around to face her. “I knew the ones in the chapel weren’t real!”
“I used the renovation as an excuse to switch them out with replicas. As the whole world will know on Saturday, including my mother. And then there will be hell to pay. But I decided it would be easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”
“You fooled Richard.”
She shot me a pointed look. “I did not. Richard knows, but he doesn’t want to admit it because then he’d have to tell my mother, and he doesn’t want to do that. And neither do I.”
I remembered Rose’s eyes above the twelve-gauge. I wasn’t about to mention it either.
Evie gazed at the triptych, her skin burnished by the reflected glow. “The Amberdeckers commissioned the windows the day they received word that Braxton was missing in action at the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain. They are extremely valuable, even without the historical provenance, an exquisite example of Henry Sharp’s pre-1870 work. Today, it would cost approximately $143,000 to reproduce them. The images should look familiar to you—that’s Braxton as the wayward prodigal, his brother Nate as the older son, and their dearly departed father as the patriarch.”
“Nate?”
“Braxton’s older brother. Look around the corner.”
I did. And there he stood, a strapping, black-haired specimen of Confederate manhood in full officer’s dress, his cadet gray jacket sleeves accented with the gold Austrian braid indicating his rank. Nate had the same angled jawline as his brother, but there was no tenderness in his lean cheeks and narrow eyes.
“Nate was the oldest of the Amberdecker siblings,” Evie explained, “and a proud son of the South. He’d barely graduated from the Citadel when the call to arms went out, and he voluntarily joined the Army of Northern Virginia as an officer. He was home on leave when the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain began and his brother went missing, effectively leaving him as head of the household during the Siege.”
The windows were mesmerizing, as tantalizingly mysterious as the story behind them. “But if this is the prodigal story, why is the inscription panel from the Psalms?”
Evie smiled. “Therein hangs the tale. The inscription panel was a memorial gift from the Davenports, Braxton’s Northern in-laws. It was supposed to be Luke 15:32—‘For this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found’—but instead the Davenports sent the last line of the Twenty-third Psalm. ‘And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’”
“They decided Braxton was dead.”
“They decided it was in their best interest to sever their ties with the Southern aristocracy, especially the Amberdeckers, who were left in, shall we say, reduced circumstances as the war progressed. Evangeline’s status as a Confederate wife-in-waiting kept her from moving into respectable widowhood.”
“And further marriageability.”
Evie inclined her head. “Yes. Which is why they brought Evangeline back to Chesapeake Bay and got her engaged as soon as possible, this time happily, to a Unionist. Augusta Rose resisted, of course—it was in her best interest to have a wealthy daughter-in-law and an heir in her pocket—but in the end, the Davenports won that skirmish.”
I was dazzled by the brilliant rubies and golds, the textured opalescence of the skin tones. The yearning in the father’s face, the despair in the son’s, the stern flat judgment in the brother’s.
I pointed. “Why isn’t Nate in the second panel?”
“He used to be. Look closer.”
I saw it then, barely perceptible, a person-shaped collage of sky the tiniest bit lighter than the surrounding glass, thicker and duller too, without the same quality and workmanship.
I traced the outline in the air with my finger. “There.”
“Yes. The day after it was installed, Violet smashed a rock through the window, cutting herself so badly that she had to be hospitalized. It was this incident that forced her family to commit her to the asylum. Augusta had it repaired, but funds were too limited for a full restoration.” Evie shook her head. “Poor Augusta Rose. It helps me understand why she denied Braxton’s death for so long, why she tried to keep Evangeline in Georgia. Her daughter-in-law carried the only grandchild Rose would ever have.”
“Nate never had a family?”
“He never married. After the war, he did his duty to his mother and father and what was left of the plantation, but his heart remained on the battlefield and the Glorious Cause. He died bitter and alone in the house I grew up in. So yes, I would say ‘haunted’ is a fine word to use for our land. And our history.”
I stared at the window, a story woven in leaded lines and shimmery glass. Betrayal, insanity, misplaced blind faith. The template for every Southern tragedy ever written. I suddenly didn’t blame Rose one bit for wanting to keep this tale buried.
Evie checked her watch and winced. “I’m sorry, but I have to get ready for the reporters now.” She handed me a program for the exhibit, scribbled her number on the back. “That’s my cell. If you hear anything about the other bones, please let me know.” She paused, as if preparing to tread delicately. “Richard said the man who came with you yesterday works at Phoenix?”
Suddenly I figured out why I’d rated a personal one-on-one tour. Score one for Marisa.
“His name is Trey Seaver,” I said, pulling out one of my own cards and scribbling his contact information on the back. “And he’s a premises security genius. You’ll see.”
Evie smiled at me. Transaction completed.
“Thank you,” she said, gesturing firmly toward the exit. “This door will take you out.”
Chapter Seventeen
I returned to Kennesaw to find my shop engulfed in a noisy stew of grinding engines and shouting construction workers. A bulldozer worked the square, scraping dirt and brush into a pile, the whole block bordered with yellow tape. I saw Brenda in front of her office putting out a sign—CAUTION! REVITALIZATION IN PROGRESS! She threw me a smug wave. I slammed the door and pulled the blinds, making sure the CLOSED sign was showing.
Then I dumped my tote bag on the counter and got down to business.
After talking with Evie, I’d gone straight to the gift shop and bought everything that had the word “Amberdecker” on it, including the book with Violet’s sketches. Her drawings of Braxton captured the softness of his youth, while the ones of the older Nate caught the practical, relentless gaze of a man trying to keep a crumbling world intact. Evangeline’s wan beauty was rendered in blurry lines and smudged shadowing. Violet’s self-portraits were equally expert, but they felt unfinished, as if she’d cut the process short. Unwilling to look at herself whole.
I paged through the program. I’d seen most of it during my tour with Evie, but the most fascinating part was the photography spread from the Amberdecker dig site, including shots of the bones still tangled in the tree roots. They were mud-smeared and covered with debris, but clearly mottled red, just like Richard had warned me. From the earth to the tomb to the earth again.
Three knocks at the door jolted me back to reality. I frowned as I stood. Trey didn’t knock anymore. Neither did my customers. I came around the counter and peeked through the window. Detective Perez stood on my doorstep.
I opened the door. “Good morning.”
Perez trooped inside. “Morning yourself.”
She had file folders under her arm and a harried expression on her face. No daisy-adorned galoshes this time, only sensible heels and slacks. She’d tamed th
e hair with a headband, but still wore no makeup.
I closed the door on the surging noise of the square. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“No thanks. I have to make this quick.” She reached into a folder and sent a photograph along the counter. “Do you recognize this person?”
The photo showed a twenty-ish man, straw-colored hair in spikes above a lean tanned face. A goatee flourished along high cheekbones and down to a pointed chin, and pale lashes rimmed quartz-chip eyes. He wasn’t smiling—the image had the odd posed look and washed-out lighting of a mug shot or a driver’s license photo.
I sent the photo back. “I don’t know him.”
“Are you sure? Because he used to work here, in this shop.”
“I’ve only been here eleven months. Maybe if you could tell me more about him, I could help.”
She pulled another piece of paper from the folder. “His name is Lucius Dufrene. He worked for your uncle until he skipped town a year and a half ago, right around the time of Braxton Amberdecker’s reburial. Lucius was a thief. Two hits for pickpocketing in Albany, plea-bargained to time served. This is a copy of the police report filed by your uncle after Lucius disappeared.”
I followed her pointing finger. It was a terse write-up, Dexter’s statement that he was missing two swords, a shotgun, three revolvers, and a whole bunch of ammunition, all of which was recovered at Dufrene’s apartment during the subsequent investigation. The report concluded with an active warrant for his arrest.
“Great. So what’s this Lucius person done now?”
“He got himself killed.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised. He strikes me as a wrong-place-wrong-time kind of guy.”
“Funny you should mention that.” Her eyes were suddenly sharp, with a whetted, polished gleam like the arrowheads I used to find. “Because it’s likely that the skull you stumbled across yesterday belongs to him.”
I closed my eyes. Lord have mercy, I did not need this again. It was bad enough that I’d found yet another corpse—even though that shouldn’t have counted against me seeing as how I’d been asked to actively look for said corpse. Or some other said corpse. Suddenly there were too many corpses to keep track of.
“What happened to him?”
“Somebody caved in his skull with that pry bar you found in the woods. And then somebody also—maybe the same somebody—went to his apartment afterward, stirred the place up but good. Looking for something. Which is why I’m here talking to you, since as best we can tell…” Perez consulted her notes. “Your Uncle Dexter was one of the last people to see Lucius alive.”
“No, whoever killed Lucius was the last person to see Lucius alive. The person who went looking through his apartment later. That person. Not my uncle.”
Perez gave me that look, the one that was designed to make me feel like she was on my side. But I’d learned that cops didn’t have a side. Their job was to suture the societal fabric that ripped open whenever one human being violated another. All of us—criminals, witnesses, even victims—were dangling loose threads in their efficient hands.
“Ms. Randolph—”
“It’s Tai. Short for Teresa Ann. Long story.”
She flashed a smile. “Tai. We found a key ring matching yours on the body. We have reason to believe it belonged to your uncle since we found his initials on it.” She pulled a set of keys with plastic ID tags zip-tied to them. “These are copies the lab made for me. I’d like to try them out in your shop, if you don’t mind.”
“Be my guest.” I gestured toward the ash-blond door now protecting my storage room. “That’s the only new lock. The rest were here when I inherited the place, so the keys should fit.”
But they didn’t fit. Perez slipped the keys one by one into every lock in the place, but none of them worked. As she double-checked, I noticed one looked very different from the others—shorter, more jagged.
“That’s not a door key.”
Perez shook her head. “Nope. Not a display-case key either.”
“Padlock maybe?”
“You have one?”
“No. Everything around here is combination lock.”
She returned the keys to their plastic bag. “Your uncle change the locks regularly?”
“My uncle was cheap. If he changed the locks, he had a reason. Which I’m guessing might be because his keys got stolen.” I tapped Lucius’ photo. “By this guy.”
She put her hands on her hips. “That guy you conveniently remember very little about.”
“Like I told you, I wasn’t here then.” I put my hands on my hips too. “How do you know he worked here? I haven’t seen Lucius’ name on any of Uncle Dexter’s payroll statements.”
“Your uncle’s report said that he helped out around the store, and I’m guessing it wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart.” She cocked her head. “Did your uncle wear his costume when he was at work?”
“It’s not a costume, it’s a uniform. And no, he didn’t.”
“Any idea why Lucius would have been wearing a Confederate uniform when he died? Was he a reenactor like your uncle?”
“A replica uniform, I’m sure, and I don’t know. But he was also—correct me if I’m wrong—wearing a NASCAR belt buckle, and Dexter wouldn’t have tolerated that on the field. He wasn’t a farby by any means—”
“A what?”
“A farby. A seriously hard-core reenactor.”
Perez frowned. “Spell that.”
I did. “Farbys constantly nitpick. They’re called that because they’re always saying ‘Far be it from me to criticize” before they tell you everything you’re doing wrong.” I held up both hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I love farbys. They’re the guys who buy my hand-stitched 1865-style long underwear. But they can be a pain in the ass.”
“Your uncle wasn’t a farby?”
I snorted. “Dexter wore Fruit of the Loom under his uniform. But he did believe in presenting as authentic an impression as possible. He would never have allowed Lucius on the field or in this shop dressed sloppy and half-assed.”
Detective Perez didn’t lose the pleasant curiosity in her face. “So there were conflicts between them?”
Damn it. There I went again.
I took a deep breath. “Except for Lucius apparently stealing him blind? None that I know of.”
“Did your uncle have any other employees who might remember more?”
“I can check the records for you, tell you if I find anything.”
“That would be very helpful. Thank you.” She headed for the door. “And if you do find something, call me. I’ll be happy to return and pick it up.”
She said “happy” with an odd inflection. Of course she’d be happy. She’d be utterly thrilled to come poking around my shop, downright delighted to knit what she found into a story that would hold water, with a solution she could sell to her supervisors and file under “case solved.”
She opened the door to leave, the door bells a cheery jingle in her wake. “Oh, one more thing—I found this on your front door.”
She handed me a piece of paper. The message was folded so that the watermarked KRC showed. The Kennesaw Revitalization Commission. I opened it, skimmed it, felt my ears grow hot.
Without even waiting for Perez to get in her car, I stomped next door. Brenda looked up as I entered, but remained seated behind a two-acre conference table. The walls glistened a saccharine moss green, and spa music flitted from corner to corner, zither and pan flute and harp.
I slapped the paper down in front of her. “What the hell?”
“I see you found your revitalization plan.”
“Paved parking. New sidewalks. I can’t afford any of that right now!”
She folded her hands demurely. “You’re taking this personally.”
“Damn straight.”
&
nbsp; “I don’t think we can have a productive discussion until—”
“Admit it. You’re trying to run me out of business. That’s why you won’t let me put a camera on your property, because you want me to be robbed and pillaged and burgled!”
Her eyes sparkled, and her pink mouth curved. “Why, yes. I do. You attract the wrong element—you are the wrong element—and whatever happens to you serves you right.” She pushed herself to standing, elbows braced on the table. “I am trying as hard as I can to get rid of you. So why won’t you just go?”
I waited for a few seconds. “Are you done?”
“No. I’m just getting started. You have no idea the kind of enemy I can be. Leave. Find somewhere else to peddle your retro wares. The rest of us are marching forward without you and your kind. It’s the New South. Wake up and smell the progress.”
I realized I’d clenched my hands into fists, so I took a moment to open them, shake them out. Take a deep breath or two. So we were moving into open warfare. Good. It suited my skill set better than skulking and backstabbing.
I smiled at her. “You’d better watch it, Brenda Lovejoy-Burlington. My kind doesn’t like being told what to do, so I suggest you cut this shit out—”
“Or what?”
She said it sweetly, with sugar on top. I smiled wider, without a bit of sweetness in it.
“Or things will get ugly.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Yep. Clear threat. Directed at you. From me. Stay out of my business. Or else.”
I headed for the door, leaving behind the pretentious slab of a table, the pastel-scented air, the unscuffed floor. Brenda scurried after me, her voice pitched high against the bulldozer’s drone.
“The next time you park out back, I’ll have you towed! You, your friends, even that damn Ferrari!”
I threw a middle finger over my shoulder and didn’t look back.
Chapter Eighteen
“And then that bitch Brenda had the nerve to…hang on.” I thumped the computer screen. “Rico? Are you there?”