I laid my head on the cold table, exhausted. Was Carson giving me a touch of solitary, or was the bad cop about to come in? That’s assuming Carson was the good cop.
But it was McCarthy who finally came through the door.
“Still here,” he said cheerfully, pulling Carson’s chair around and sitting down next to me. “You should know that I passed up on a bar fight and the opening of the Found Objects Art Show just to be here with you.”
I gave a shaky laugh. “What, the front page was already full?”
“Jam-packed.” He took my hand. “Did you tell Carson who the murderer is? Is he on the phone to the media right now, bypassing yours truly?”
I slid my hand out of his grasp, since I needed it to hold my head up. I felt like an immense weight was beating me into the ground. “I don’t really know who the murderer is. I just said that to see what you would do. It was a test.”
“What?” McCarthy jumped up and gaped at me. “What was I supposed to do?”
“If you were the murderer, you were supposed to come and try to knock me off.” I couldn’t believe how stupid that sounded when I said it out loud. What was Aileen thinking?
McCarthy held onto the back of his chair, staring down at me as if he’d never seen me before. “Did you call anyone else with this test?”
I nodded. “You’re in good company.”
He threw up his hands. “The Murder Suspects Club. I’ve always wanted to be part of that distinguished group.” He paced across the room and back to me. “So no one’s tried to knock you off, I gather.”
“Not a soul. It was a dumb plan.”
“You have no idea.” He took my hand and drew me to my feet, then stroked my cheek. “Daria, do you realize what you just did? Assuming you included him in your Murder Suspects Club, you just alerted a murderer that you’re onto him. When the cops don’t break down his door in the next half hour, he’ll know you were bluffing. But he won’t know for sure whether or not you have the power to turn him in. To be on the safe side, he’ll take you up on your invitation to come and knock you off. You’ve put yourself in his crosshairs.”
I pulled away from him. “Okay, so I’m an idiot! You don’t have to rub it in.”
He caught my hands. “I just want you to appreciate the danger here.” There was none of the usual joking tone in his voice. “Someone from the reenactors’ camp is a murderer. You don’t know who to trust. It could be anyone.” He paused for effect. “It could be me. Maybe I’m a really good actor, and I want to lull you into trusting me. Or maybe somebody else is. All I’m saying is, when someone offers you a ride home, take the bus, or call Aileen. Don’t trust anyone. There’s too much at stake.”
His pale blue eyes held mine. I flushed to the roots of my hair.
McCarthy’s grim face softened. “So now, whenever I offer you a ride, you’ve got to say no. Nuts!” He gave me a twisted smile that just about broke my heart. “Take care of yourself, Daria. Can I call you a cab?”
I slid my hands out of his grasp. “No, thanks.” I crossed my arms, trying to hold in an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness.
McCarthy nodded and stepped back away from me. “I’ll be going, then. Maybe I can fit in the Found Objects Art Show before the reenactors’ memorial service this evening.” His parting wave lacked its usual jauntiness.
I called Aileen to come pick me up, then got permission to use the restroom. I walked down the hall deep in thought. Could I cross McCarthy off my list? He seemed sincerely concerned for my safety, unless he was a really good actor, like he said. I didn’t know what to think.
I splashed water on my face and smoothed my hair with my fingers. “Oh, what’s the use,” I muttered, and pushed the door open.
Two young women strolled down the hall outside the bathroom, nursing Styrofoam coffee cups in their hands. They both wore high heels with tight jeans and loose tunic blouses. The ID cards on their matching chunky necklaces were the only clue that they worked at the police station.
“Did you see his face?” the skinny brunette said. “His girlfriend couldn’t have done that?”
“That’s his sister,” the cute blonde giggled. They didn’t notice me slip out of the bathroom and follow them down the hall. “She’s Sean’s girlfriend.” She paused for a slurp of coffee. “You didn’t think he was hanging around here to flirt with you, did you?”
I frowned. Where did she get off, calling me Sean’s girlfriend?
“Sean McCarthy? So what, Sean beat the dude up?”
The cute blonde giggled some more. “Are you kidding? Sean doesn’t play that way. Dude won’t say who beat him up. Sean just came by with a tip to help us locate the fugitive. Boy, was he surprised when the dude turned himself in.”
The brunette frowned. “I wouldn’t go out with him if he tried to turn my brother in to the police.”
The cute blonde elbowed her in the ribs. “Yes you would! Sean McCarthy—you’d turn in your own mother for a chance to hook up with him!”
Both women giggled their way down the hall. I backed up to the wall, my palms sweating on its swirled surface. McCarthy tried to tip off the cops to pick up Pete! That’s why he was here at the station—to make sure Pete got arrested. “Sean doesn’t play that way.” But what was he playing at? Why warn me to be careful, when all the time he was trying to get Pete out of the way? Was he trying to isolate me, to make me trust him and depend on him, only to . . .
I screwed my eyes shut, pushing away images of Colonel Windstrom’s body sprawled on the ground, of Emmett’s hand in the garbage. Was McCarthy responsible for such evil? Was he the one?
I dragged down the hall and out the door of the station, grateful I could at least walk out on my own volition. I looked around for McCarthy, but he was gone. I didn’t want to see him anyway.
Chapter Fifteen
Aileen idled at the curb in the fire lane, waiting for me. “Get in and talk.”
I slid into the passenger seat. “Pete turned himself in, and they’re holding him on suspicion of murder.” I buckled up my seatbelt and braced myself for the sudden acceleration as Aileen peeled out from the curb.
“That moron! What was the point of running away from the cops, then?”
“It’s your fault. Thanks to your stupid plan, he thought I could tell the cops who the murderer was, and they wouldn’t care about him.”
Aileen stared at me, speechless for once. I felt bad about berating her. “He’s okay.” I closed my eyes to blot out the image of Pete’s battered face. “He’s probably better off in jail than on the run from the law.” I tried to believe it. “Can you take me to the hotel to pick up my stuff?”
“What do you think I am, your private chauffeur?”
I smiled at her. “You are living in my house.”
“Whatever.”
The sun was shining, sparkling off the water as we drove along the river. It should have been a gray, drizzling day with a heavy mist dripping off the tree branches.
“Listen, Aileen. We still don’t know who the killer is. We can’t trust any of them. McCarthy was trying to get the police to pick up Pete.”
“That backstabber!” Aileen growled. “We should call the cops on all three of them—let them figure out which one’s the murderer.”
“Aileen, don’t you dare!” My palms started to sweat. “We can’t let the police ask too many questions, or they’ll find out about Kinney. Then Kinney’s thugs will hunt down Pete and kill him. We’ll just have to figure it out ourselves.” I picked at a flap of loose vinyl on the seat beside me and put every ounce of conviction I had into my voice. “I’m going to go to the reenactors’ memorial service this evening. I’ll watch Torey and Jim and McCarthy, and try to figure out who killed Colonel Windstrom.”
“Watch yourself, too, Daria. Nothing like a memorial service to bring out those murderous instincts. Too bad I can’t come with you. I’ve got a gig at the Rumble.”
“Bummer
.” I pictured Aileen towering over me, arms folded on her leather-clad chest, challenging all murderers to mess with her. “But I’ll be okay. Remember, only one of them is guilty.” A chill crept down my spine at the ghastly possibility that they could all be working together. No, it couldn’t be. “The other ones can protect me.”
Aileen laughed. “You’re pushing it there. You fancy living on the edge, just like your brother? What is it with you Dembrowskis?”
“Hey, don’t rag on the name.”
Aileen pulled up to the hotel entrance. “You’ve got five minutes.”
I ran inside to gather my stuff and check out. I tossed my things into my bag, then stopped to gaze at the dreary picture of the abandoned Ferris wheel on the wall. It was the last time I’d ever look at that hopeless image! I hustled back outside again within the allotted five minutes.
Aileen was checking her phone when I got back to the car. “I gotta get off to my gig. I’ve got just enough time to drop you off at the house.” She zoomed out of the hotel driveway. “So you’re off to unmask a murderer. Listen, I’ve got a can of pepper spray in my guitar case—the black one with the spikes on the sides. Cover your nose when you spray him in the face, or you’ll get it too. And wear your running shoes to the service—high heels have ‘victim’ written all over them.”
“Okay. Good idea. They’ll look great with my black shantung skirt. Anything else, Mom?”
Aileen snorted. “Just be careful. Don’t let your feelings make a fool of you. You may think you’re in love with both Laker and McCarthy, but let me tell you, one of them might be a murderer.”
I stared at her. “Aileen! I’m not in love with anyone! You’re starting to freak me out.” I took a deep breath. “I’ll be okay. I promise I’ll be really careful. I’ll call you when the service is over, okay?”
“Whatever.” She turned on the radio, filling the car with deafening music.
I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes. Don’t trust my feelings? I didn’t know any other way to judge people. Did Jim love me? I could feel his hands soft on my cheek, his lips warm and tender on mine. What about McCarthy? I remembered the twinkle in his eye as he snapped another Daria photo. Could either one be pretending—leading me on like a lamb to the slaughter? No way! I just couldn’t believe it could be true. I couldn’t imagine that much evil in either one of those men.
I turned to gaze outside as we passed the black wrought-iron fence that surrounded the Catholic school. A young couple lounged on the carefully tended lawn inside the fence, relaxing in the summer sunshine. The girl turned adoring eyes to her boyfriend. I looked away, abashed. If only it could be that easy!
I slumped in my seat, forcing myself to consider the question I was avoiding: Was Aileen right? Did I love them both? Jim’s dreamy eyes filled my mind, bringing a smile to my lips even now. But I remembered how my heart leapt when McCarthy swore he wasn’t the murderer. I still longed desperately for that to be true. How had I gotten myself into such a mess? Shame on me for putting on that ball gown and playing Scarlett O’Hara. I should have known better, after the fiasco of my failed engagement. I should have given up on this investigating nonsense and left town.
But it was too late to run away now. I promised Marsha I’d clear Chris’s name, and now Pete was in jail as well. I had to figure this out, to get the two of them out of jail. I crossed my arms and focused on Pete. There was no question that I loved him and he loved me. If I kept my mind on Pete, I’d be okay.
* * *
Aileen pulled up to the curb and I hopped out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Have fun with the murderers!” She waved out the window and was gone.
After twenty-four hours away, I couldn’t believe how glad I was to see my house standing solidly on the corner, like it had for the last hundred and fifty years. The porch steps tilted; the fresh paint around the windows couldn’t compensate for the cracks in the foundation, but it was home. I smiled as I walked up the sagging steps. I hardly ever got the house to myself, to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet.
As I pushed my key into the lock, I saw him. Sean McCarthy, in his silver BMW, cruising slowly past my house. My face flushed. I should call the police and have him picked up for stalking me. He saw me watching him, honked his horn, and waved. I ducked inside and slammed the door. So much for reveling in quiet solitude. I ran straight to the back door, with Mohair meowing plaintively at my feet. The door was reassuringly locked. Not for the first time, I wished for a deadbolt. I wedged a chair under the knob and turned my attention to Mohair. I refilled her food and water, and stroked her head while she ate. She normally didn’t like that, but she must have been lonely, because she didn’t snap at my intrusive fingers.
I peeked out all the windows, looking for McCarthy’s car. Maybe he just wanted to make sure I got home safely. Or maybe he was waiting his chance to slip in and attack me, alone and defenseless in the house. I tested the doorknob again and double-checked that I’d locked the front door. Then I ducked down to the basement to find Aileen’s can of pepper spray. I slipped it into my pocket, feeling a bit less defenseless. I pictured Aileen relying on that tiny can to save her life. She wouldn’t need it until after she’d clobbered her assailant with her guitar or baseball bat. Maybe I should wear Aileen’s studded dog collar to the memorial service.
I grabbed a bite to eat before changing for the service. I put on my black silk shantung skirt and a simple black silk blouse I’d made. It looked terrible with my running shoes. I took a picture and sent it to Aileen as proof I’d taken her advice. Then I changed into dress shoes and slipped the running shoes into my shoulder bag. I threw in the dog collar too—I didn’t have the nerve to wear it, but having it with me made me feel a little braver. The can of pepper spray went in, too, although I doubted I’d have the nerve to use that, either.
I checked the street carefully on my way to the bus stop. I didn’t see a silver BMW. I knew I’d see him at the service, though.
* * *
Springhill Baptist Church was a massive formal edifice built of weathered bricks, partially obscured by the trails of ivy clinging to its walls. Its white steeple was said to be the tallest in all of Chester County. Nothing but the best for the Civil War reenactors. As I followed the small crowd into the sanctuary, I wondered what the real veterans of the Civil War would think about these reenactors. I wasn’t sure if the reenactments honored those veterans or disrespected their desperate sacrifices. What was clear, beyond any doubt, was the senseless nature of the deaths we were remembering this evening. Dead in battle in support of your cause was one thing; murdered in the midst of a historical reenactment was something else altogether. I pressed my lips together, determined not to cry before I even sat down.
The spacious sanctuary featured an intricately carved ceiling inlaid with lights to set the scene. Two shorter rows of pews flanked the main rows in the center of the sanctuary. A quartet dressed in period costumes played soft music on the stage. The front seats were filled with gray-clad soldiers and women whose hoop skirts spilled out into the aisles. Intimidated by the expanse of empty seats stretching to the far reaches of the sanctuary, I searched for a friend to sit with.
Jim entered the hall with a group of soldiers. He stood with quiet military dignity, his deep brown eyes scanning the sanctuary. I slipped into a back row next to an elderly woman I didn’t recognize. I’d talk to Jim after the service. I lowered my head and concentrated on the program in my lap. The front featured two historic photographs of Confederate soldiers. In the first, a youngish man with curly black hair stared at the camera with Emmett McDowell’s dark, beady eyes. The second photo, a dignified shot of Colonel Windstrom holding his rifle at attention, was labeled “Steven Gregory.” I almost wished I had never known his real name. I was sad that no family members sat amongst the attendees to mourn him.
“Daria.” McCarthy squatted in the aisle, somberly dressed in a black suit. I’d never seen him
wearing leather shoes before—another crazy detail in this insane situation.
McCarthy smiled. “Long time no see. Did you come alone?”
I stared coldly at him. “Well, obviously Pete didn’t come with me,” I snapped. “Isn’t that what you wanted all along?” I turned away. I heard a soft sigh and a rustle as McCarthy stood up, but I kept my eyes averted.
After a few minutes I risked a peek. McCarthy was gone. People continued to file in, filling the empty seats to make a respectable congregation. I picked out Skip and Finn, Chris’s friends, sitting with the group of young soldiers I’d met at the encampment. They sat quietly, all joking left behind. Torey sat with them, dressed as a boy in her Confederate uniform. I watched her, wondering if she was mourning or gloating.
A grizzled soldier belted out a bugle fanfare, and the service was upon us.
It wasn’t really a funeral so much as a ceremonial remembrance of the events of the past week. A slide show with scenes of the encampment and the individual reenactors brought tears and laughter to the crowd. The bugler played Taps as the images of Colonel Windstrom and Emmett McDowell lingered on the screen. A solemn minister in nineteenth-century formal dress read a passage from the Bible and prayed an interminable prayer for the souls of the “blessed departed.”
I tried not to squirm.
When the prayer finally ended, General Eberhart got up and took the microphone. Rather than the eulogies I expected, he proceeded to hand out awards for the week’s encampment. Jolted by the transition from mourning to celebrating the “most authentic armaments” and “best portrayal of a historical figure,” I let my attention wander.
I was counting how many candles were scattered all throughout the sanctuary when the string quartet struck up again. The service was over. Finally.
At the reception in the fellowship hall, I snagged a plate of cold cuts and crunchy veggies, and stood in the corner watching the crowd of people chatting about business and baseball. The group of young soldiers crowded around the dessert table, loading their plates with cookies and fudge. Torey wasn’t with them. I scanned the hall in time to see her slip out a side door alone. I started to follow her, when Jim came up, bearing a tiny cup of sparkling punch. He silently handed it to me, and bowed low. My cheeks flamed as people stared, giggling behind their cocktail napkins.
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