Uniformly Dead

by Greta McKennan

  Jim appeared by my side. “I’ll take you home, Daria.”

  I gave him a grateful look. He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and escorted me through the crowd of shocked reenactors. When we passed the cook tent, I saw Emmett McDowell on a log next to the dying campfire, head in his hands, heedless of the smoke billowing in his face. His forlorn figure stirred an unexpected spark of compassion in me. I thought about stopping Jim to speak to Emmett, but the feeling wasn’t quite that strong.

  We drove in silence until we got downtown. Then I had to give Jim directions to my house. My voice sounded shrill, like I hadn’t used it for a long time. When we pulled up in front of the house, I heard loud music emanating from the basement. The band was in full swing. Great . . . My shoulders sagged as Jim walked me up the steps to the porch.

  “Thanks for bringing me home,” I said. “Thanks for everything.” I avoided his eyes, for fear of getting lost in them. “Do you want to come in for some tea or something?” The bass pounded through the floorboards. Or maybe it was my heart.

  Jim took my hand and pressed it lightly to his lips. “I should get back to camp,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

  I nodded and escaped into the driving beat of the Twisted Armpits.

  I dragged myself into the kitchen and picked up a box of cereal. I poured a bowl, added milk and ate, all in a daze. Howling erupted from below—I think it was part of the song. I listlessly punched the button on the answering machine.

  Marsha’s voice filled the room. “Mama looked at the pictures, but she says the camera doesn’t do colors right, so she wants to see the lace you dyed. I told her it was great, but she wouldn’t believe me—she has to see for herself. Can we come over later today?”

  Oh, God—Marsha! She was focusing on her dream wedding next week, unaware that her fiancé was on his way to jail. Poor Marsha! The thought of her distress completely overwhelmed me. I sat down at the table and cried.

  That’s where Pete found me when he got home from work.

  He stopped in the doorway. “Daria! What’s wrong?”

  I wiped my face with both hands, trying to regain some semblance of control. I blew out a shaky breath. “Colonel Windstrom was murdered today, at the camp. Chris had a bayonet.” I choked, and Pete came over to hand me a tissue. “I saw his body. It was horrible.” I lifted my eyes to his face. “They think Chris was the one who killed him.”

  He sat down next to me. “Who is Chris?”

  I told him everything.

  Then I had to tell it all over again an hour later after Aileen slammed the door behind the last of her band mates. She plunked down at the table with a plate of buffalo wings, which she augmented with jalapeños dipped in hot taco sauce. I looked for flames coming out of her ears, but somehow she maintained her cool. “Murdered, huh? Figures. That’s what you get with guys who’re armed to the teeth with prehistoric weapons.”

  The image of a blood-soaked bayonet swam in front of my eyes. I jumped up. “I’m going outside.”

  Pete and Aileen followed me out onto the porch. She sat down on a lawn chair next to me, while Pete perched on the railing. Cicadas chirped loudly in the humid summer twilight, and lightning bugs flashed in the bushes.

  “A week’s good luck if you catch a lightning bug,” Pete said, glancing at me. He jumped up and started stalking them in the bushes.

  I laughed in spite of myself. “There—behind you,” I called out.

  Aileen watched, strangely quiet for her. She leaned over and whispered, “Your brother is definitely weird.”

  Pete shouted in triumph. He trotted over with a glowing insect trapped between his hands. “Double good luck if you give it to someone else,” he cried, holding it out to me. I leaned over the porch rail to cup my hands around his and laughed as the lightning bug fluttered against my fingers. The laugh died on my lips as a car pulled up to the curb. It was Sean McCarthy with his camera in play, pointing straight at me.

  “Stop doing that!” I shouted. The lightning bug flew from my grasp.

  McCarthy swept his camera from his neck, holding it aloft like a peace offering as he strode up the steps to the porch. He walked on the balls of his feet, springing up with each step, as if the ground could scarcely keep him down. “Just thought I’d stop by to check on you. Last I knew, you were reeling in the arms of some random bystander.”

  I folded my arms and stood my ground on the porch. Pete walked slowly up the steps, brushing gently past McCarthy, to stand by my side.

  “Bystander? You were moving so fast you should have gotten a speeding ticket.” I frowned as a sudden thought struck me. “How do you know where I live?”

  McCarthy leaned back against the porch railing and crossed his arms casually, not even slightly disconcerted by my inhospitable greeting. His face had resumed its habitual expression of impudent delight, unaffected by the tragedy he had photographed so recently at the encampment. “Internet. It’s amazing what a lowly photographer can find out if he tries.”

  I continued to glare at him as I wondered what else he could have found out about me online. “So what, you’re stalking me?”

  “Just following up. When I looked around earlier, you were gone. They told me that Laker had taken you home. I just wanted to make sure he got you here safely.”

  I drew myself up haughtily. “I don’t need a babysitter, Mr. McCarthy. I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  He ignored that last comment. “No, I can see you’ve got your bodyguard right here.” He held out a hand to Pete. “Sean McCarthy.”

  Pete looked McCarthy over calmly, unfazed by the photographer’s seemingly boundless energy. “I’m Daria’s brother, Pete.” He squeezed my shoulders. “I take my role as bodyguard seriously.”

  “Way to go, Moron!” Aileen applauded from her seat on the porch, bare legs propped up on the railing. Tonight she was casually dressed in black leather shorts and a metallic mesh tunic that revealed her hot pink bra underneath.

  McCarthy’s eyes gleamed at the sight, like he’d just won the lottery. He slung his camera around his neck again, pointing it at Aileen. “May I?”

  She shrugged. “Up to you. If you want to print it, see my agent.”

  McCarthy bowed with an exaggerated flourish and fired off several shots of Aileen.

  I fidgeted. “Okay, so you’ve got your precious pictures. Off you go, then.”

  McCarthy grinned, accepting defeat. He waved cheerily as he bounded down the steps to his car. He peeled out in a screech of tires, gravel popping.

  Pete watched him until he disappeared down the street. “I have to take off, Daria. Will you be okay here? Do you think he’ll be back?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows what he’ll do next?”

  “We can deal with him. He doesn’t strike me as a murderer,” Aileen said casually.

  Aileen was one step ahead of me. I was sure that Chris was not a killer. But somebody was. Colonel Windstrom didn’t fall on his bayonet; somebody stabbed him. If not Chris, then who? Panic rose in my throat. McCarthy had been at the camp this morning. He’d fought with Colonel Windstrom the night before. Could he be the killer? I couldn’t rule it out. My brain reeled. It could be anyone—Emmett, Finn, Torey, Jim? How could anyone recognize a murderer, if he wore the face of an acquaintance, or a friend?

  I caught Pete’s arm. “Don’t go anywhere, Pete. There’s a murderer out there! We don’t know who it is!”

  He peeled off my hand. “Get a grip, Daria. That murderer is no match for you and Aileen.” He looked at Aileen and grinned. “All my money’s on Aileen.”

  She waved her long black fingernails at him. “You haven’t got any money, Moron.”

  His grin widened. He almost looked like the old Pete again—except for his misshapen nose, of course.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour. You won’t even know I’ve been gone.” He shook me gently. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” I took a deep br
eath. “Okay.”

  * * *

  He took forever.

  At first I thought I’d sew, but I couldn’t find anything I wanted to work on. I couldn’t bear the sight of Marsha’s wedding dress, hanging in the corner like a ghost.

  Then I thought I’d clean the house, but Pete had been true to his word about keeping things neat. The bathroom was spotless, the corners were vacuumed, and the dirty dishes only kept me occupied for a few minutes.

  So I scooped up Mohair and carried her around the house, stroking her soft fur and letting her purrs sink into my body. But she couldn’t calm me down. Sure, I knew that Pete was fully capable of taking care of himself, but I couldn’t banish the thought of a murderer on the loose, lying in wait for his next victim.

  I drove Aileen crazy by popping into her room every five minutes to ask, “Shouldn’t he be back by now?” She finally lost it. She dragged me down to the basement and shoved a pair of drumsticks into my hands. She plugged in her guitar and instructed me to “just follow the beat.” She launched into a driving, pulsing rhythm on the guitar. I gasped at the wall of noise that assaulted my ears and pounded my sticks on the drum. The beat filled my whole body, shooting out my fingertips and down the drumsticks to the taut surface of the drum. I banged away with all my strength.

  Aileen grinned wickedly and started howling. Only it didn’t sound like random howling—it really was part of the song. I threw back my head and howled along with her. I could hear my fear and horror and sadness in those howls flinging themselves against the damp stone walls of the basement. I’d heard people talk of catharsis, but I never really knew what the word meant until that clashing, glorious moment. The throbbing beat lifted me out of my anxiety and gave me a sense of invincibility I had never known. Nothing could touch me!

  I looked at Aileen and laughed out loud, pounding the drum until my arms ached. She gave me two thumbs up and howled.

  Finally Aileen brought the tune to a crashing end. I jumped up, ears ringing, and hugged her. “That was amazing!”

  She tossed her head, flinging her spiky hair out of her eyes, and took out her earplugs. “We’ve already got a drummer, Daria. I don’t know if we have room for you in the band.”

  I laughed and pointed at her earplugs. “Hey, you forgot to hook me up with a pair of those.”

  “I thought you needed the full effect.”

  Pete called down from the basement door. “All that noise was just the two of you?”

  “What took you so long?” I headed up the stairs, Aileen behind me.

  Pete rummaged in the fridge and grabbed a soda. He popped off the top and plopped down at the table, sighing. He drew designs on the table with his forefinger. “I thought I was in Laurel Springs, not back in Hollywood. It took me forty-five minutes in traffic just to get to the Highlands. There was an accident on State Street and traffic was backed up all the way to the park.”

  “What were you doing in the Highlands?” I didn’t mean to sound like a meddling little sister, but it kind of came out that way.

  Pete’s eyes followed his finger along an intricate curve on the tabletop. “Just taking care of business. Nothing for you to worry about.” He looked up with a mischievous grin. “Any murderers stop by while I was out?”

  I snatched up a hand towel and whacked him on the head. “No thanks to you!” I whacked him again, and then I was whaling on him with the towel, as if this entire horrible day had been all his fault.

  Aileen saved him. She grabbed the towel as it swung by her, yanking it out of my hand. “Stick to the drumsticks, Daria—you get more bang for your buck with them.” She walked across the kitchen, opened the basement door, and tossed the towel down the back stairs.

  “What are you saying, Aileen? Stick to the towel—the towel’s good.” Pete brushed back his mussed hair with both hands. “Keep away from me with your old drumsticks.”

  I started to laugh, feeling the tears pressing hard behind the laughter. “I’m sorry, Pete. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “I do.” He held my eyes for an instant, acknowledging all the strain and fear I’d gone through that day. Then he smiled. “Your brain is fried from close contact with that deafening noise, and you can’t be held responsible for your actions.”

  Aileen snorted. “You should try it sometime, Moron.”

  * * *

  I managed to keep it together for the rest of the evening, but that night was another story. I lay in bed, wishing for a cool breeze, my mind racing. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Colonel Windstrom in a pool of blood, with Chris standing over him. Once I dozed off, Colonel Windstrom’s face transformed into Chris’s, with a bloody bayonet dripping onto him. My scream woke me up, shaking and trembling in bed, sweating in the humid heat. I gathered up my blanket and padded up the stairs to the third floor.

  A square of yellow light poured out Pete’s open door. I stood in the doorway and knocked. “I can’t sleep.” I felt like I was six years old.

  Pete lay on his mattress on the floor, reading. He sat up and beckoned me over. “Me either,” he said. He looked completely exhausted, the dark shadows staining the skin below his eyes.

  I sat down on the end of his bed and tucked up my legs. “You didn’t even see him. Every time I close my eyes, he’s there in a pool of blood.”

  He shuddered. “I have a good imagination.” He pulled out a deck of cards from a box in the corner and dealt us each a hand. “Gin or five hundred?”

  “Five hundred. But let’s not keep score, okay?”

  We played in silence. The familiar motions of picking up and laying down cards helped to soothe my nerves somewhat. I looked up at Pete, exhaustion still written all over his face.

  He looked up and met my eyes. “What?”

  “What happened to you in jail?” I said. As soon as the words came out, I wished I could snatch them back again. I wasn’t sure I could handle his answer.

  Pete looked down at his cards. He carefully discarded the jack of spades. “I couldn’t sleep there, either,” he said. “There were some evil people there, Daria, and then lots of stupid people like me. The worst part was, I couldn’t walk out of there when I wanted to. And every single day, I wanted to.”

  A tear slid down my cheek, and Pete reached out to squeeze my hand. “It wasn’t as bad as you’re thinking.” His eyes clouded. “It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. But I don’t think I slept for seven whole months.”

  I played a trio of queens with a glance at the clock—3:37 a.m. “And I’m keeping you up all night now,” I said.

  He laid down a run of threes and slapped his last card face down on the discard pile. “I’m out.” He gathered up the cards. “Do you want to sleep up here with me?”

  Pete’s room was easily ten degrees hotter than mine. “Do you still snore?” I said.

  He smiled suddenly. “Only if I’m sleeping.”

  I snuggled into my blanket next to his bed, trying not to mind the heat. Pete switched off the light.

  I fell asleep almost immediately, and mercifully Colonel Windstrom did not haunt my dreams. I woke in the early hour before dawn, wrenched out of my sleep by Pete’s loud snores. I lay in my blanket listening for a while. I breathed a prayer of thanks that he’d fallen asleep at last, and tiptoed downstairs to my own bed.

  Chapter Six

  My phone startled me awake. I fumbled with the screen and mumbled, “Hello?” My bedside clock said it was two minutes after six a.m. It felt like the middle of the night.

  “Oh my God, Daria, what am I going to do?” Marsha sounded like she’d been up for hours. “Chris is in jail! How can you have a wedding when the groom is in jail?”

  My fuzzy brain pictured Marsha in her grandmother’s stately wedding gown, gliding down the aisle to meet the orange-jumpsuit-clad groom flanked by police-officer groomsmen, and holding out his handcuffed hands so Marsha could slip on his wedding ring. I thought it best not to share that particular
image with the distressed bride-to-be.

  “I’m so sorry, Marsha. Surely the cops will sort things out and release Chris before next Saturday.”

  “What if they don’t?” Marsha’s voice verged on hysteria. “What if they find him guilty and he goes to jail for years and years and he meets some sweet social worker in jail and forgets all about me? What if they put him on death row—does Pennsylvania have the death penalty anymore?”

  By now I was wide awake. “Marsha, get a grip. Quit with the what-ifs. I’m sure Chris didn’t kill Colonel Windstrom. You know that, right? The cops will figure it out.”

  “But what if they don’t figure things out right away? What if I have to reschedule the wedding? It would cost Mama a lot of money on all the cancellations. Then who knows when we could get the church again? First Presbyterian has a very busy schedule—we had to wait for months just to get on the calendar for next Saturday. But that’s not the worst thing. You can delay a wedding, but you can’t put off a due date until a more convenient time.” She bit off a sob. “If I don’t get married next week, then I won’t be able to hide my pregnancy any longer. I’ll have to tell Mama. It’ll be the end of the world, Daria.”

  I could see her point. Her mother would disown her. It really would be the end of the world for Marsha.

  “Can you help me, Daria?” she begged in a teary voice. “You’re the only one I can trust. None of my friends know—they would never accept an unwed mother. Please help me.”

  “Of course I’ll help you, Marsha. What can I do?”

  “Can you look into what happened at the camp? You were there when Chris got arrested. You know people there. If you could find out something—anything—that could prove his innocence, or even find out who the murderer really is, you could save our wedding. Please say you will!”

  “I’ll do what I can, Marsha. I want Chris out of jail too.”

  Marsha sobbed her thanks and hung up. I flopped down on my pillow. What had I gotten myself into? I was no detective, but I had to figure out who killed Colonel Windstrom, since I refused to believe it was Chris. A young woman’s happiness depended on me.