“He’s got a job as a camera operator on a movie here, God and Glory,” I said. “It’s about the Civil War.”
Aileen grinned at me. “You’re gonna get your fill of the Civil War.” She scraped her chair against the floor and stood up as if she owned the place. “Alright, Moron, you can stay. For now.”
“You can call me Pete. I don’t answer to ‘Moron,’” Pete said mildly.
Aileen clomped out of the room, waving her long black fingernails behind her. “Whatever.”
Chapter Two
After spending the entire afternoon on Colonel Windstrom’s uniform, I decided to go to the special Civil War exhibit at the Tremington Museum. It would be a good opportunity to scope out some real Civil War clothing. I changed into a short-sleeve sweater and a kicky yellow cotton skirt I’d made, and paired them with my new sandals. I shook out my hair and made do with just two barrettes. I didn’t want to look like a spinster seamstress when I was out on the town, even if it was only a trip to the museum. I headed upstairs to talk Pete into driving me there.
Technically I could drive—I mean, I had my license and all. But I hated driving, so I never did it. I blamed my father, whose furious driving scared the dickens out of me when I was a little girl. This fear increased over time until I ended up with a bona fide driving phobia. But I didn’t need a car as long as I could take the bus or ride with friends. Otherwise, I stayed home. It saved me a lot of money on car payments, but sometimes I wished for the freedom a car would give.
Pete had had a productive afternoon. He’d moved a spare mattress and a small wooden desk into the roomy bedroom under the eaves on the third floor. When I knocked on the open door, he was bent over a pile of boxes. He jumped like I’d startled him, and quickly closed the flaps of the box he was rummaging through. “What’s up?”
“Looking good up here. Do you need anything else?”
He shoved the box behind him. What was in it that he needed to hide? “I’m good, thanks,” he said. “I like being at the top of the stairs. Feels nice and private, like I’ve got my own place.”
I shook my head. “You poor, deluded soul. You may feel secluded up here, but let me tell you, sound rises just as much as heat. You’ll still hear every bass note and every tortured wail from the basement. Which is why I’m here, in fact. The band’s practicing tonight. New sound effects, Aileen told me. But I can save you from a terrible fate.”
He laughed. I couldn’t fool him.
“Need a ride somewhere?”
* * *
Housed in an eighteenth-century mansion bequeathed to the borough by Judge Walter Tremington, the Tremington Museum flanked the sprawling campus of Oliphant University and overlooked the historic downtown district. A huge blue banner draped the front door, its gold letters proclaiming, “Remembrances of the Civil War: Heirlooms from the Private Collection of Emmeline McDowell.” A trickle of visitors climbed the stone steps to the entrance.
I loved the Tremington. Folks from Philadelphia, some fifty miles to the east, scoffed at our dinky little museum, but I couldn’t get enough of it. One stately gallery held a permanent exhibit on local history, which featured Judge Tremington’s personal effects. The Grand Hall hosted traveling exhibits that changed every few months, so there was always a reason to return. But the best part was the basement, which was open to the public and held row after row of miscellaneous historical artifacts in no discernable order, from the first pocket watch made in the New World to Gene Kelly’s practice dance shoes from the movie Brigadoon. A visitor could spend hours in the Tremington basement and still find something new the next time.
But tonight I skipped the basement to focus on the history of our country’s most bitter conflict. The Grand Hall provided an elegant setting for Emmeline McDowell’s Civil War treasures. The gallery was filled with glass-topped displays showcasing diaries and letters, small arms and ammunition, and other artifacts from the 1860s. The exhibit had drawn a small crowd. A couple of elderly women, hovering over a map display, talked in hushed voices. A pretty young woman in a purple paisley dress studied the war currency exhibit. Her blond curls looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. A mother held onto the wrist of a small child who whined and kicked at her legs. “Hush, Colin, we’ll get ice cream in just a minute,” she hissed. “Look at the pretty guns.”
“Let’s look at the photographs first,” Pete said, steering me to a maze of black-draped partitions. I was soon mesmerized. The women all wore black in their unsmiling portraits, but their strength and sweetness, and even their humor, radiated from the photos. I gazed at Elizabeth McDowell, great-grandmother-in-law to the recently deceased Emmeline. She looked about thirty in the photo. Her dress featured rows of pintucking on the bodice that must have taken hours to sew by hand, and her long beautiful hands folded in her silken lap. There was also a family portrait of Elizabeth with her husband, Colonel Virgil McDowell—dashing in his Union uniform—and their young daughter Virginia and baby son Elliot. Elliot wore a white, lace-covered gown that draped over Elizabeth’s arm and flowed almost to the floor. Virginia’s hair fell in ringlets to her waist, and she cradled a large doll. I couldn’t tell if the doll was china or fabric, but the dress was exquisite: a ball gown with bows and ruffles fit for any Southern belle.
“Just look at the clarity of those daguerreotypes,” Pete said. “I heard you’d need a two hundred fifty megapixel camera to equal the sharpness of one of those. And by the time of the war, they were on their way out, victims of new technology.”
He saw sharpness and clarity; I saw a beautiful doll. To each his own.
Pete looked up from the photographs and glanced at a table in the far corner of the gallery. A man with curly dark hair and an impeccable gray suit sat at the table beside a pile of glossy hardbound books. A small sign read, “A Nation, a Family at War.” Pete grimaced. “There’s Emmett McDowell, signing copies of his new book. Thinks he’s a big shot, doesn’t he?”
I poked him in the ribs. “Not jealous, are we?”
“Of him? Please!” Pete looked down at me and smiled just a tad too widely. I could tell he was green with envy.
I looked over. Emmett McDowell was the grandson of Emmeline and heir to the McDowell estate, no doubt. I supposed we had him to thank for the exhibit tonight. But Pete would never thank Emmett for anything. High school rivalries aren’t easily forgotten or forgiven. I could still see Pete’s face, burning red as he was rendered speechless by Emmett’s barbed rhetoric in the Rotary debate, while the whole school laughed. You weren’t supposed to sabotage your own teammates in a debate, but Emmett didn’t play by the rules. He cared more about scoring off of Pete than winning the competition. His shenanigans had escalated over time, as they both pursued careers in Hollywood. Every time Pete got a lead, it disappeared after Emmett badmouthed him to the financiers controlling the project. Enemy is a strong word, but it described their relationship better than any other.
Emmett stood up and headed toward Pete. I’d forgotten how short he was; barely taller than I was. Pete had the advantage on that score.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the great Pete Dembrowski, home from his Hollywood tour, no doubt. Funny, I haven’t seen your name on the silver screen lately—or at all, really. Maybe I’m missing something?” He cocked his head and smiled up at Pete, his eyes wide with feigned interest. The cloying scent of his cologne almost overpowered me.
Pete gritted his teeth and spat out, “Probably.”
Emmett’s smile widened. “I, on the other hand, am enjoying tremendous success.” His fingers caressed a heavy gold watch hanging from a chain of braided red and gold cord. He stroked the surface, patterned in a Celtic knot, as if he were a Dickens hero protecting his last sixpence. He caught me watching and held up the piece for my inspection. “It’s a family heirloom—I wear it everywhere I go. General Sherman awarded this very watch to my great, great . . . however many greats . . . Uncle Clive, for . . .” He opened the watch to re
ad the inscription inside. “Meritorious service in defense of comrade and country, Savannah, Georgia, 1864.” He snapped the case shut. “General William Tecumseh Sherman; maybe you’ve heard of him? Chapter twenty-three of my book details the relationship between Uncle Clive and the general.” He turned his unctuous gaze to Pete. “Have you seen my new book?” He waved his hand regally toward the book-signing table. “I can get you a discount on the hardback edition—I know how much you like getting something for nothing.”
Pete’s lips tightened. “No thanks, Emmett. I don’t need anything to help me fall asleep at night.”
Emmett’s face darkened as his smile morphed into a threatening grimace. “You better watch out, Dembrowski. I know all about what you’ve been up to. It’s not a tale for the kiddos, is it?”
Pete turned on his heel and strode away without another word.
I caught up to him at the armaments exhibit. He gazed at a hand pistol as if he’d like to snatch it up and put it to good use.
I laid a hand on his arm. “C’mon Pete, don’t let Emmett the ferret get to you.”
He huffed a deep breath through his nose. “I’ll tell you what he’s missing. He’s missing all sense of decency and humanity. He’s missing the whole point—we came to this exhibit to see historical artifacts, not to gawk at his stupid book.”
I squeezed his arm. “I heard he’s been missing the compassion chromosome ever since he was born—that’s why he’s such a jerk.” Pete turned to stare at me. “It’s a scientific fact. I got it from the director of the Jerk Project at Oliphant University. It’s cutting-edge research.”
Pete laughed. “I’ve been missing you for the last six years.”
“Just don’t let him see that he got to you.”
I left him comparing muskets and carbines and headed over to a display of diaries. The spidery handwriting evoked the dreary horrors of the war.
A deep, resonant voice spoke at my shoulder. “The average soldier wrote at least three letters a day, in addition to daily diary entries.”
I looked up from the faded diary page into the deep brown eyes of Jim Merrick. I found myself staring as I experienced a moment of disconnect. In his casual pants and blue polo shirt, he comfortably inhabited the twenty-first century. Only the beard seemed slightly out of place.
“Oh, hi. I almost didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”
Jim bowed slightly from the waist—just a hint of a military greeting. “I leave my impression at the campground,” he said. “My real name’s Jim Laker. I’m just an ordinary accountant in real life.”
My mouth fell open. “Your name’s not Merrick?” My mind struggled to assign him a new name, a different identity.
“Jim Merrick is my impression. He’s the historical figure I portray as a reenactor. I like to stay completely in character when I’m at camp.” He tapped his rolled-up exhibit program against the heel of his hand. “I picked someone with the same first name as mine to make things easier.”
“So this is real life, now?” I teased. “I won’t see any of your diaries here? You’re not in any of those photographs?”
“No, but James Merrick could be around here somewhere.” He scanned the wall of photographs over his shoulder. “Although . . . maybe I shouldn’t show you his photo. He’s got a handlebar mustache that hangs down to his double chin—not a good-looking guy, by any means.”
I laughed at the chagrin on his face. “What about Mrs. James Merrick, then? Was that a photo of the real Mrs. Merrick from the Civil War?”
Jim’s eyes sparked, as if to say, “What’s it to you?” But all he said out loud was, “I couldn’t find any pictures of Mrs. Merrick, so I figured I could choose whomever I wanted to portray his wife. It is a period photograph, but I don’t know who the woman in the photo is. He really was married, though.”
And you? I hesitated to ask the question. What was it to me, anyway?
“You should see my formal portrait,” Jim went on. “I’ll show it to you next time you come to camp for a fitting.”
“Sounds like a plan. So as a reenactor, what do you think of the exhibit?”
Jim surveyed the room with deep satisfaction. “I love these kinds of exhibits. It’s always great to see the real articles from the Civil War. My favorites are the armaments, of course.” His eyes gleamed like a small boy playing with guns. “I wish I could handle the old pieces, even get a chance to take them out and fire them. Then I’d know for sure if my guns were authentic or not.”
“Don’t want to be branded a Farb, huh?” I said, proud of my new vocabulary word.
He rewarded me with a smile that lit up his dark brown eyes. The effect was so intense that I had to look away, heart pounding. I fumbled with the catch on my purse and blurted out the first thing I could think to say. “I came tonight to take a close-up peek at the uniforms, to see how my sewing compares. Who made your uniform?”
My heart rate slowly returned to normal as Jim talked about his uniform. I seized the opportunity to take a good look at him without the distraction of the Civil War attire. I liked what I saw. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with thick brown hair neatly cut close on his temples. The blue shirt accentuated his tan, trim physique. He could pass for a movie star—I wondered if he hung out with the actors on the set of God and Glory. I mentally chided myself. No point letting my imagination run away with me.
I focused back in on Jim’s story about ordering his uniform online. “Definitely not a period purchasing arrangement, but the tailor took great pains to make sure all the materials and stitching were authentic.”
A heavy hand fell on Jim’s shoulder. “A true reenactor takes pride in every detail of his clothing and gear. As I attempted to impress upon you before, Ms. Dembrowski, we do not tolerate Farbs in our outfit.” Colonel Windstrom loomed behind Jim, as imposing as ever despite being dressed for the twenty-first century in a conservative sport coat and dark gray trousers. I wondered what his real name and identity was, but didn’t dare inquire. I could picture him as a university security guard, or maybe a big league umpire for the Phillies. Whoever he was, he was obviously uninterested in chatting with a lowly seamstress. Having put me in my place, he turned to speak with Jim. “There’s a matter that requires your attention, Laker. Come with me!”
Jim gave me the apologetic smile that I was coming to associate with his dealings with Colonel Windstrom. “If you will excuse me?” He pointed to the diaries nestled under glass. “I would recommend taking a few minutes to read some of these entries. I found the small black diary in the corner to be the most interesting.” He bowed to me and followed Colonel Windstrom across the room.
I leaned in to examine the diaries, wondering what made the small black one so special. The old-fashioned handwriting detailed the same story of weary marches that I had already read in the other diaries. My eyes wandered to the identifying card, which read, “Diary, circa 2011, Emmett McDowell.”
I snickered. That pretentious Emmett wrote a fictional diary and put it in an exhibit of his family’s Civil War artifacts. He must be losing touch with reality. I thought about dragging Pete over to take a look, but decided against it. No need to fan the fires of Pete’s hatred.
I glanced over at Emmett’s table. Colonel Windstrom loomed nearby in full intimidation mode. He held one of Emmett’s books, which he stabbed repeatedly with his forefinger. Jim stood off to one side, gazing at a display of kitchen items as if he were trying to escape the conversation. Emmett stood his ground, his face flushed as he argued with Colonel Windstrom in a furious whisper. He lunged for his book, but Colonel Windstrom held on, and then the two men engaged in a tug-of-war worthy of the finest kindergarten playground. I rolled my eyes and turned away, not the slightest bit interested in seeing who would win.
I drifted away from the diaries, spying a mannequin wearing a Union soldier’s uniform. Even though it wasn’t a Confederate uniform, it could probably teach me something. I examined the wor
n blue coat. It looked small enough to fit me. Colonel Windstrom’s coat hanging in my workroom was easily three times as big. It was true—Americans really were getting bigger and bigger. I wondered if reenactors committed to authenticity had to go on crash diets.
I bent over the buttons and peered closely at the stitches. Some were tiny, sewn with care so they barely showed on the outside of the garment. Larger, clumsy stitches in black thread overlaid the others—attempts at mending in the field, perhaps? I longed to lift the coat flap and see the inside construction.
“I’m not gonna hurt anything!”
The loud voice startled me out of my inspection. I looked up to see a man with a dark blond ponytail arguing with a security guard. He wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and faded jeans. A large camera hung around his neck.
“I’m not using a flash. There’s no chemical transfer. I’m just taking a picture. That’s all.”
The guard stood squarely in front of a low display table in the corner, half hidden by a column. “No photographs. That’s the rule.”
Emmett McDowell looked up from tidying up his book sales table. Colonel Windstrom must have moved on. Emmett frowned, then put up a hand to cover his mouth. I could have sworn he hid a smirk behind that disapproving glare.
The troublemaker flashed a charming smile, his eyes crinkling naturally at the corners as if this were his habitual facial expression. He looked to be in his thirties, not too tall, with the powerful shoulders and slim waist of a swimmer. His long fingers cradled the camera as if it were an extension of his body. He fixed his gaze on the security guard. “It’s for the newspaper. How sinister is that? I have a right as a member of the press to take pictures.” He thrust his camera around the guard’s body and pressed the button.
The guard shook his head. “No photographs. That’s the rule.” He looked to Emmett for confirmation. Emmett stood up and placed both hands on his pile of books—leaning forward in an effort to look imposing, no doubt. But the books slipped, and he lost his balance. He grabbed the edge of the table to keep from sprawling as three books hit the floor with a bang.
Uniformly Dead Page 3