Uniformly Dead

by Greta McKennan

  I stood for a moment, chuckling. If nothing else, my conversation with McCarthy had given me renewed energy for investigating. I picked my way through the maze of tents until I spied a group of soldiers lounging around a dormant campfire. I recognized Chris’s friends Skip and Finn and decided to join them.

  “Hey, guys. Hear anything from Chris yet?”

  Skip scooched over to make room for me on the log he was sitting on. “No, nothing. The cops were here all morning, but they wouldn’t tell us anything.”

  Finn pulled a phone out of his pocket with an elaborate show of caution. “We’re not allowed to have cell phones—not authentic.” He called up the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle’s story on Colonel Windstrom’s murder. “It says they’re holding Chris for a few days pending any charges. They’ve got him with the murder weapon in his hand, with no other suspect in sight.” He scowled at the group of us. “At least it says, ‘Porter maintains his innocence,’ for whatever good that does him.” He stabbed at the ground with a long stick, and then proceeded to scroll through the comments.

  I picked up my own stick and poked holes in the soft dirt. If all else failed, maybe Marsha could bail out Chris in time for the wedding. Her mother could probably afford it—whether she would agree was another story.

  Finn muttered his way through the comments, then slipped his phone back into his nineteenth-century pocket with another furtive glance. “Everyone’s posting about how stupid we are to stage mock battles, and this is what comes of quote military fantasies unquote, and the town isn’t safe with delusional maniacs like us on the loose. Jackasses!”

  “Delusional maniacs?” a young soldier cried, brushing his blond hair back from his forehead with a dirty hand. “I’ll show them maniac—just gimme back my rifle!” He grabbed a long stick and pointed it at various soldiers, pretending to blow them away. “Boom, boom!” The group ignored him.

  I smoothed away the holes I’d dug in the dirt. “Do you guys know anything about the message that Chris got yesterday, telling him to report to Colonel Windstrom’s tent?”

  “I heard the call,” Skip said. “They were passing the word for Chris.”

  “Passing the word? What does that mean?”

  “I think it’s a nautical term,” Skip said.

  “A naughty term?” the blond solider smirked. Everyone ignored him.

  Skip went on, “The Colonel tells the sentry he wants Chris, so the sentry calls out, ‘Pass the word for Chris to go to the Colonel’s tent,’ and whoever hears it repeats it until the message gets to Chris. I heard Blake passing the word, but that doesn’t mean the message came from Blake. Get it?”

  I nodded. It sounded like the message should have originated with the sentry, but the sentry was hit over the head and couldn’t remember any message. Whoever passed the word could have done it to lure Chris into Colonel Windstrom’s tent to frame him for murder. I wished I could follow that chain back to its source.

  “It’s too bad the sentry got hit on the head,” I mused aloud.

  “Lucky it wasn’t Private Rawlings on duty at the time,” the blond soldier said. “It’s bad luck to hit a woman.” His buddies snickered with him.

  It took me a minute to realize that Private Rawlings was Torey Brand. “What do you guys know about Private Rawlings?” I asked.

  The blond jokester snickered again. “I don’t know her, if you know what I mean. I’d sure like to, though.” His buddies dissolved in laughter. “You should ask Chris what he knows!” The laughter intensified.

  I was starting to feel out of my league. “What does Chris have to do with Rawlings?”

  There were more snickers and nudges, quelled by Finn’s stony gaze. “Show some respect—dude’s getting married next week!”

  “But he ain’t married yet.” A skinny soldier with nervous hands piped up. “Him and Torey—her real name’s Torey—were always together. She’d stop by his tent and stay for hours.” He picked at some cat hairs on his uniform coat. “You figure out what they were doing.”

  Obviously the guys thought they were having a fling, just days before Chris’s wedding to Marsha. The thought of such a base betrayal made me sick to my stomach.

  “You know she made a bet that she could keep Colonel Windstrom thinking she was a boy the entire encampment?” the nervous soldier went on. “She stood to get five hundred dollars if he never knew.” He gazed darkly around the group. “He never knew, did he?”

  “What, she killed him for five hundred dollars?” Skip snorted. “Nobody’s that desperate!”

  Torey’s words about being a penniless student echoed in my ears. Could she have been that desperate?

  “Well, maybe she and Chris were in it together,” the nervous soldier persisted. “And then she ditched him to face the music alone.”

  “Oh, come on!” Finn exploded. “Chris never murdered anyone. He couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “No, but he could dump a bucket of water all over me,” an overweight soldier with extra-large ears asserted. “He rigged a huge bucket of ice water to tip over my head when I went into my tent,” he told me as the group laughed. “And what about all those strings?” The laughter intensified.

  “What were the strings?” I finally had to ask, as the men continued to snicker.

  “Chris strung miles of string through the trees where we were supposed to practice evasive maneuvers,” Skip said. He grinned nostalgically for an event that must have taken place only a few days earlier. “He spent the whole night setting it up. Instead of evading the enemy, we had to evade the string. Guys got all tangled up—it was a huge mess.” He chuckled. “Chris was always pulling some prank or other. He said he liked to keep us all on our toes.”

  I wondered if the bayonet could have been a prank gone wrong. No. I refused to believe that! Chris had been lying down, recovering from too much heat. Pulling a prank on Colonel Windstrom would have been the last thing on his mind.

  I sat with the guys until they had to go to artillery practice, and then I turned to go. As I swung my bag over my shoulder, I spied a furtive movement off by the isolation tent. What was it about that forlorn tent that drew so much attention? I glanced behind me—no one gave me a second thought. I ducked behind an adjoining tent and watched.

  This time I recognized Torey right away, looking trim and boyish in her newly altered uniform coat. A ray of sun glinted on the curls peeping out from beneath her kepi, as she slipped into the tent. I crept closer. The tent walls flapped as she moved about inside. I heard rustling, then a grunt, followed by a sharp curse that was quickly bitten off. It sounded like she was ransacking the place, but not finding what she was looking for. Another stifled curse, and she peered out the tent flap, scanning the area before stealing out. I crouched behind my cover, straining to see her face. I caught a glimpse of hazel eyes burning in that pale face beneath the gray kepi. She slunk off, merging into the surrounding trees like a seasoned hunter stalking his prey.

  I had to see for myself. I stood up and surveyed the area just like Torey had done. No one was paying any attention. I took a deep breath and slid under the tent flap.

  I didn’t know what I expected to see, but the iron shackles clipped to the foot of the cot took me by surprise. I touched them with my forefinger, not quite believing them to be real. They gave a little clink—a small and horrifying sound in the silence of the isolation tent. I glanced over my shoulder and pulled back the blankets on the cot. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I kept searching. I looked under the cot, in all the corners, and even checked the peak of the roof. But there was nothing. Why was I even in here? I peeked out the tent flap, saw no one, and snuck out. I turned around to let the canvas flap fall back into place, heaving a sigh of relief and shaking off the strange horror that gripped me. I backed slowly away . . . only to run smack into Jim Laker.

  Chapter Seven

  Jim wore an ordinary T-shirt and jeans. He looked as out of place as I did in this ninet
eenth-century camp.

  “Daria! I didn’t expect to see you here. How are you?” He took my hand and kissed it, his lips barely grazing my skin. Strangely, he didn’t ask why I was lurking in the isolation tent.

  I hoped he didn’t notice my blush and quickened breathing. “I’m good. I just delivered Torey Brand’s coat that I altered.”

  Jim led me away from the tent. “Are you leaving? Can I give you a lift?”

  “Are you sure? You look like you’re going someplace.”

  He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. “I’m on my way to Cramer’s Pond. I was hoping to find someone to walk with me around the duck pond. It’s a lovely day.” He beamed.

  “That sounds nice.” I smiled in return. My breathing steadied as we walked through the maze of tents to his car.

  Jim parked at my house so I could drop off my bulky shoulder bag. He stood at ease in the front hall while I ran upstairs. I dashed into the bathroom to try to do something with my flyaway hair. That was a lost cause! I grimaced at my reflection and headed downstairs.

  Poor Jim! In the few minutes I wasted in the bathroom, I’d left him at the mercy of Aileen.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. She took her job as guard dog very seriously. She loomed over Jim from her strategic position on the stairs, dressed in a silver halter-top, tiny black leather miniskirt, and black fishnet stockings. She’d added some green to her pink-tinged hair—for variety, she’d told me that morning.

  Jim stepped back as if Aileen had struck him. His southern charm deserted him; he was speechless. I tried to imagine a Civil War-era woman looking like Aileen—I almost laughed out loud. Instead I slipped past her and led Jim out the door and down the porch steps. It wasn’t until we reached the sidewalk that I realized I’d neglected to introduce him to Aileen. Oh, well, she’d get over it. It wasn’t like she excelled in the manners department anyway.

  Jim offered me his arm, and we walked in step down the street. I was starting to get used to walking this way, close and cozy with someone. Specifically, someone like Jim. My hand lay on his bare skin—I could feel his pulse beating lightly under my fingertips. Could he feel the beating of my heart? I took a deep breath, willing my heartbeats to slow down.

  Jim smiled down at me. He placed his right hand over mine, pressing it ever so slightly against his arm. “All right, Daria?”

  I nodded and relaxed a little. It was only a walk, after all—a walk with a very attractive man who showered me with gallant attention, but still . . . I had no intention of losing myself in another relationship. I conjured up a mental image of Randall as a reminder to be wary.

  Cramer’s Pond was a popular park for downtown residents. It had playgrounds, the duck pond, and wooded acres filled with the mountain laurel that gave the town its name. We walked past the toddler playground and joined a few joggers and power walkers doing their laps around the pond. On the playground, children ran around yelling. A boy and his dad flew a kite on the hillside next to the water. I pointed out the feral cats to Jim. They prowled in the bushes, hoping to snack on a stray duckling. “Don’t even try to pet them,” I said. “They’ll be gone before you can get anywhere close to them.”

  Jim pressed my hand again. “How are you holding up, Daria? It was quite a shock yesterday.”

  I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to think about it. Colonel Windstrom’s body flashed before my eyes, so I briefly scrunched them shut. “I’ve never seen a dead person before,” I said. Not exactly true—but I’d only seen them in coffins, tidy and dignified. Colonel Windstrom’s body was definitely not dignified.

  “You’re friends with Chris, aren’t you?” Jim said. His hand stroked my fingertips ever so lightly. Tingles shot down my spine.

  “He’s a really nice guy, the kind of guy you can count on to cheer you up on a bad day.” I looked at Jim—he stared at the pavement a foot in front of us. “I’m sure he didn’t kill Colonel Windstrom. All he did was pull out the bayonet. I can’t believe the cops are holding him for murder.”

  Jim shrugged. “If it wasn’t Chris, then who could have done it? I hate to think that we might all be suspects in a murder case. I guess we have to trust the police to figure this thing out.”

  But I had no intention of sitting back and trusting the police to do their job. I’d promised Marsha I would help her clear Chris’s name. “Who else could it have been, Jim? Who in the camp hated Colonel Windstrom?”

  Jim barked a laugh. “Who didn’t hate him, you should ask. Everyone hated him. He was a first-class jerk of the highest order. He was critical of everyone—no one could live up to his impossibly high standards. I hate to tell you this, Daria, but there wasn’t much mourning going on at the encampment last night. Fear and anxiety, maybe, and a sense of violation, but no real sorrow at the passing of Colonel Windbag, as we called him.”

  Jim’s callous tone shocked me. What could be more pitiful than a man who died unmourned?

  “Even Chris hated him,” Jim went on. “Hard to believe, I know, but it’s true.”

  I didn’t want to hear this, but I needed to find out the truth. “Because of the Farb thing?”

  “There was that,” Jim agreed. “They had a big argument one day over Chris’s polyester uniform. Colonel Windstrom was offended; Chris didn’t care, and it took off from there. You could hear them yelling at each other all across camp.” He stopped to watch a kid on roller blades wobbling along the sidewalk. The kid wore a helmet, knee pads, and elbow pads. He looked like he needed every one of them.

  “There was another issue between Chris and Colonel Windstrom,” Jim said quietly.

  I waited, but Jim didn’t say any more. He squatted down to peer at a line of ants swarming along a seam in the sidewalk. “Check it out, Daria. It’s an ant battle.”

  I knelt next to him and looked at the mess of ants. I didn’t see it at first, but when I looked closer, I saw piles of tiny corpses and groups of ants struggling with one another, oblivious to our presence.

  “Here’s the forward flank.” Jim pointed to a dense knot of skirmishing ants. “Looks like the northeast is winning.”

  I had no head for directions, nor could I predict the outcome of an ant battle. I’d take his word for it.

  Jim leaned over and blew gently onto the thickest pile of combatants. Ants scattered in all directions. I jumped to get out of the way, startled by the suddenness of his action.

  He looked up at me and laughed. “The tide of battle has changed—northeast’s good fortunes are gone with the wind.”

  Amazing how one small action could have such an impact on the outcome in war. “Do I sense a metaphor here?” I asked. “Or a literary reference, or maybe just the chance to exercise your power over some ants?”

  He laughed. “All of the above.” He scrambled to his feet, abandoning the ants to their fate. He held out his arm again, and we resumed our stroll.

  “What was the other issue between Chris and Colonel Windstrom?”

  Jim’s smile faded. “Chris owed the colonel a lot of money. There are no secrets in camp. Chris was running a poker game in his tent in the evenings. A lot of guys played, including me. No one ever thought Colonel Windstrom would go for it, but he did. Not only did he let the game go on, but he joined in too. And he won, big time. Chris couldn’t cover his losses. Colonel Windstrom wouldn’t stop lording that debt over Chris. Was it enough to kill for? Who knows?”

  We walked in silence. Jim seemed deep in thought for a few minutes, then he squeezed my hand. “Listen to me! Here I am, walking with a lovely lady around a beautiful pond, talking about murder. I should be ashamed.” He gazed down at me with his deep brown eyes. My heart started pounding again, and all my virtuous resolutions faded in the afternoon sunshine.

  “I wanted to ask you something, Daria. A favor, really.” He drew me closer as we began our second lap around the pond. “You know they’re filming a Civil War movie in town? God and Glory?”


  I nodded. “Pete’s working as a camera operator for them.”

  “Really? Well, they’re doing a big antebellum ball scene, and they’ve asked some of us to be in it, as extras. We have the authentic look they want. The thing is, I need a partner. They’re not looking for professional dancers, just ordinary people to round out the dance floor.” He gazed deeply into my eyes. “Would you like to go to the ball with me, Daria?”

  The effect was overwhelming. I found my voice with difficulty. “You sound like you’re asking me to the prom. I suppose my proper response is, ‘I haven’t a thing to wear.’” There was that southern accent again.

  He opened his mouth to protest, but I forestalled him. “Seriously, Jim, I don’t have a Civil War ball gown up my sleeve. I’m a pretty good seamstress, but I can’t just whip up a ball gown at a moment’s notice.”

  “That’s the great thing about the movies, Daria. They don’t want you to wear your own gown. They’ve got all the dresses coordinated—they’ll just find one that fits you. What do you say?” He grasped my hands. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Okay.” What harm could it do? “It’ll be fun.”

  He raised each hand to his lips for a fleeting kiss. “It’s a date.”

  A date.

  I lay in bed that night, smiling in the moonlit darkness. I hadn’t been on a date since Randall had swept in and monopolized all my time and affection over four years ago. He had resented any minute I spent with anyone but himself. I had slowly lost touch with friends from college and the early days of my sewing business, as Randall isolated me in the fierce circle of his possessive love. And I had loved him, God help me. What had I known about love?

  What did I know now?

  * * *

  When I woke up the next morning, I felt fabulous. I rolled out of bed humming cheerily—I felt like I could handle anything today.

  A light rain pattered against the window as I headed downstairs for breakfast. The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted up the stairs. Pop music—the kind that Aileen scorned—played softly in the kitchen. I stopped in the doorway to see what was going on.