“Please don’t,” I said softly. It was too late to go after Torey now.
He straightened up, raising his deep brown eyes to my face. “I waited for your call,” he said, twisting his Confederate kepi in his hands. “You must be furious with me.”
“I’m sorry, Jim. I’ve been preoccupied.”
“You’ve had a rough couple of days.” Jim took my hand. His was warm and tender. He drew me close, but didn’t put his arm around me. His eyes held nothing but concern. How could it hurt to tell him now?
“Pete turned himself in to the cops.” I sighed heavily. “He really didn’t want to go to jail.”
Jim squeezed my hand. “Nobody does,” he said lightly.
My head jerked up to glare at him. He didn’t notice.
“How long will he be in for?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Did he confess to the murders?”
“What? No, of course not!” I pulled my hand away, conscious of more curious stares. “Listen, Jim, let’s get one thing straight. Pete did not murder anyone. Period.”
“We better not talk about Pete,” Jim said. He reached out to take my hand again. “I know you love him, Daria, and love can blind you to the truth.”
I snatched my hand away. “My eyes are wide open,” I snapped. I turned and stalked away.
I found myself at a photo display of Emmett in a series of period photos, dressed as a Confederate soldier, a Union general and even a nineteenth-century blacksmith. I couldn’t stand one more fake historical image. “I’ve got to get out of here,” I muttered.
“Need a ride?” McCarthy stood beside me, grinning. Was he stalking me again? I looked behind me—Jim had turned to talk with another gray-clad reenactor.
“I’m not supposed to accept a ride from you, remember?” I told him, tossing my hair.
“True. I’m glad to see that you’re heeding my advice.” His grin faded. “Daria, I’m sorry about Pete. I was just trying to do the right thing.”
“The right thing according to you,” I snapped. “You are not my babysitter!”
“Surely not,” McCarthy said. “I feel sort of responsible for you, since I tried to put your bodyguard behind bars.”
I scrutinized his face, searching his pale blue eyes for deception, for evil. Was he really just concerned for my safety, or was he trying to isolate me, leaving me at his mercy? Aileen’s words echoed in my mind: “What you see is what you get with him.” What did I see today? I looked closer.
I almost screamed.
Around his tie, McCarthy wore a braided chain—a chain I’d seen before. A heavy gold watch dangled from the chain, fashioned in the intricate pattern of a Celtic knot. I couldn’t believe my eyes. On his chest, Sean McCarthy wore Emmett McDowell’s heirloom watch.
Chapter Sixteen
My brain exploded. It was McCarthy. McCarthy was the one. McCarthy had killed Emmett and robbed his body of this one-of-a-kind keepsake. McCarthy was a murderer.
I felt the blood drain from my face. Dimly I heard someone say, “We took out an entire regiment . . .” Someone else laughed.
“Daria?” McCarthy gripped my arm. “Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
Not a ghost. A monster. His touch seared my arm until I almost cried out. I pulled away, shaking. “I . . . I think I’m going to throw up!” I ran for the ladies room.
I didn’t throw up—I cried. I locked myself in a stall, sat down on the toilet, and cried. Up until this minute I had known in my head that either Torey, Jim, or McCarthy was a murderer, but I really didn’t believe it in my heart. I couldn’t believe it. McCarthy.
Images flooded my brain. McCarthy, the obnoxious photographer, causing a ruckus at the museum to cover the theft of Angeline. McCarthy’s grin at the encampment the day Colonel Windstrom was killed. McCarthy stopping by my house to make sure I made it home safely—or to find out where I lived to plant Angeline in Pete’s bedroom. Pete’s frantic words—“I can’t go back to jail!”—just before McCarthy arrived on the crime scene. McCarthy pointing out Pete’s cap at the grisly site of Emmett’s murder. McCarthy strolling through the reenactors in his jeans and flip-flops, looking forward to the battle action. McCarthy chatting with me at the police station after trying to get Pete locked up. The pieces all fit together into an ugly, tight puzzle.
But there were other pieces that didn’t fit. McCarthy was so kind, in his impudent, lackadaisical way. He talked of magic while photographing a rose, for goodness sake. He had assured me that he wasn’t a murderer, and I relied on that. I shook my head, tears streaming down my face.
“Daria? Are you all right?” McCarthy called from outside the bathroom, his low voice sounding genuinely worried. “Can I get you something, or call someone?”
Call someone. I should call the cops. I should call the cops and turn McCarthy in for murder.
I fumbled in my bag for my cell phone. My fingers hesitated over the screen. What could I say? I know he’s a murderer because I saw him wearing a watch? Would anyone listen to me? They might just see it as a pathetic attempt to clear Chris’s name and get my brother out of jail. Maybe Officer Carson would believe me. I ransacked my bag for the card he’d given me and tapped in his number.
McCarthy’s impudent grin floated before my eyes.
I couldn’t go through with it. I hung up on the receptionist, cutting off her professional greeting.
“Daria?” McCarthy called again, sharper this time. “I’m coming in.”
“No, don’t!” I barely recognized my voice, all shaky and shrill. I dragged myself out of the stall and over to the sink. I splashed my face, but a quick bathing couldn’t wash away the red puffiness around my eyes. I blotted my face with a rough paper towel and steeled myself to confront a murderer.
What could I say to him? I know your dirty secret? I know you’re the one? How could you do this? I trusted you? Tears pricked my eyelids, but I took a deep breath and held my head high. I needed to pretend everything was okay.
I pulled open the bathroom door to find McCarthy gripping the handle on the other side. The sight of his hand on the door reinforced the danger I faced. I couldn’t let McCarthy get me alone.
“You’re still not my babysitter,” I said coldly.
He smiled sadly. “Are you okay? Feeling better?” He took my hand. “Memorial services can be a real drag.”
I pulled my hand away, risking a quick glance at his tie. The watch was still there—I hadn’t imagined it.
McCarthy shoved his hands into his pockets. “I wish you could forgive me.”
Hurt flashed in his eyes, but only for an instant. Then he grinned, back to his usual glib self. “So you’re not supposed to catch a ride from me, and you don’t drive. How are you getting home? Can I call you a cab?’
“Why don’t you call Pete and ask him to come pick me up?” I snapped. “Oh, wait. He can’t pick me up because he’s in jail, where you think he belongs.”
McCarthy sighed. “Would you settle for Aileen?”
Aileen. I had told Aileen I would call after the service, once I’d figured out the murderer. “Yeah. I’ll call Aileen.” I turned my back on McCarthy and rummaged for my phone, feeling like I was in a real-life game of Clue. Only it wasn’t Colonel Mustard I was about to accuse; it was my friend McCarthy. I bit my lip and hit Aileen’s number. The hall was clearing out, as people headed home to their everyday, murder-free lives.
“Hey, Daria, is the service over?”
I gasped at the relief of hearing Aileen’s voice. I glanced over my shoulder. McCarthy was still there, chatting with a couple of Civil War reenactors, keeping a constant eye on me.
“Yeah, can you come pick me up?” I pictured Aileen striding through the door in all her black leather glory, boot chains rattling with every step.
“I’m setting up for my gig tonight at the Rumble,” she said. “We go on in ten minutes. Catch a cab.”
I sighed, looking over the dwindling
crowd. Everyone would be gone before a cab got here. Everyone but McCarthy, waiting patiently behind me.
Then I spied Jim, still talking with a couple of Confederate soldiers. Jim could take me home. With McCarthy condemned, Jim was obviously innocent. I could trust him with my life.
“It’s okay. I’ll catch a ride with Jim,” I said softly.
Aileen clicked her tongue. “Daria, you’re not supposed to be alone with any of them until you know which one’s the murderer, remember?”
“That’s right.” I glanced back at McCarthy once more. Still there.
“You figured it out? Not Jim—is it Torey or McCarthy?”
“He’s the one,” I said.
“That photographer? He’s the murderer? Are you sure?” Aileen’s horrified voice echoed in my ear.
“Oh, yeah,” I replied.
“Is the scumbag there with you now?”
“Yeah, but it’s all right. Jim can give me a ride. I just wanted to let you know, since I said I’d call you. I’ll see you soon.”
“Be careful, Daria.” And she hung up.
I tucked the phone back into my bag, as both McCarthy and Jim ended their conversations and converged on me. McCarthy spoke first.
“Aileen coming to get you?” he asked.
“Um, no, she can’t get away.” I turned to Jim. “Actually, Jim, I was hoping you could give me a ride.”
A surprised smile lit up Jim’s face. McCarthy’s eyes flicked from Jim to me. He held my gaze for an instant, before I could tear my eyes away.
“No,” McCarthy whispered, turning pale. He knew that I knew what he was.
I reached out for Jim’s arm, bent at the elbow to escort me. He covered my hand with his and gazed at McCarthy, frowning. His eyes widened at the sight of McCarthy’s tie, and he turned hastily, drawing me along with him.
“Let’s get you off home,” he said.
“Daria, wait!” McCarthy grabbed my arm.
I wrenched my arm away. “We have to get away from him,” I hissed to Jim, pulling him along as I began to run.
Jim dropped my arm and whirled to face McCarthy. “Leave the lady alone!” He clenched a fist and swung out fiercely, catching McCarthy on the side of his face and sending him sprawling. People screamed and scattered as Jim grabbed my hand. We raced out of the church together.
* * *
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Jim panted, pulling me along beside him. “I’m parked down the street.”
I stumbled as my high heels caught on the uneven sidewalk. Why didn’t I listen to Aileen—my running shoes weren’t doing me any good in my shoulder bag. I looked behind me to see McCarthy burst out of the church, just as Jim flung open his passenger door. I tumbled in; he jumped in the driver’s seat and peeled out, tires squealing.
McCarthy stood on the sidewalk, cursing, and then ran off in the other direction.
“He’s gone for his car, to follow us,” Jim said, his face flushed. “What did he do that’s worse than suspecting your brother of murder?” His eyes flicked from the road to meet mine momentarily.
“McCarthy is the murderer. You saw Emmett’s watch on his necktie. That’s proof that he’s the killer.”
Jim whistled softly. “Proof,” he mused, wrenching the steering wheel and screeching around the corner. “Proof of murder.” He glanced at me. “Did you call the police?”
I hung my head. “Not yet. I . . . I don’t know if anyone will believe me . . . if it’s proof enough for the cops.”
“But it’s enough to convince you that he’s guilty?” Jim raced the car through the quiet neighborhood, far too fast for the narrow road. “I thought you kind of liked him?”
I closed my eyes and nodded. What could I say?
He leaned over and stroked my hand. “Poor Daria,” he murmured.
Tears rose in my throat, but I was tired of crying. I stared out the window through the gathering darkness. I blinked. We weren’t anywhere close to my neighborhood.
“Where are we going?”
Jim glanced at me. “We can’t go to your house. He knows you’re headed there, so that’s the first place he’ll go, since he was too slow to follow us.” He laid a hand on my knee. “Can we stop off at the camp? I need to pick up something.”
* * *
The reenactors’ camp looked like a ghost town in the car’s headlights. Clusters of canvas tents loomed in the shadows, rustling in the evening breeze. No campfires warmed the darkness. No Confederate soldiers drilled, or argued, or guarded the camp. It was deserted—we were the only two people in the entire encampment.
Jim hopped out of the car, leaving the headlights on. He opened my door with old-world gallantry. I looked out at the rough ground. “Let me just change my shoes,” I said.
Jim watched appreciatively as I slipped off my high heels and pulled on my socks and running shoes. It was hard to be discreet while sitting on a car seat wearing a long flowing skirt. I blushed under his intent gaze, hoping he couldn’t see it in the darkness.
I tied the last shoelace and stood up. Jim smiled and pulled me into his arms for a lingering kiss. His hands stroked my hair, my cheek, the hollow of my throat. “Oh, Daria, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
His touch sent shivers down my spine. I closed my eyes, wanting to melt into his kisses. But it wasn’t right. I pushed him gently away. “What about McCarthy?” I said breathlessly.
“Don’t worry about McCarthy!” Jim pulled me close again, his lips seeking mine. His homespun uniform scratched my cheek. What had happened to the Southern gentleman?
I pushed him away again, harder this time. “He could still be following us. We really should call the cops.”
Reluctantly, Jim took my hand and drew me away from the car. “Let’s go get my stuff.”
He led me through the maze of tents, deeper into the shadows. The tent flaps stirred as we passed, as if a sharpshooter lurked behind every one. I squeezed his hand, trying to keep my imagination under control. The car’s lights cast crazy shadows on the ground, making it hard to see the way.
“Did you bring a flashlight?” I asked.
Jim looked down at me and laughed. “You can’t be scared.” He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm.
“I don’t want to step in a hole or anything,” I said. Or stumble over another body.
Jim led me into his tent, which was equipped with a field desk and chair on one side and a cot and wooden trunk on the other. I could have bounced a quarter on the blanket. The orderly desk reflected the military precision I would expect of Sergeant Merrick. As I turned to glance at the Confederate soldier standing beside me, the tent flap closed, leaving us in full darkness. His arms went around me again. “Can’t you feel the romance?” he whispered, running his hands down my shoulders. “Just the two of us, here in the dark, back in eighteen sixty-two.” He leaned down and kissed me.
I could feel the romance. I ran my hand down Jim’s chest, my fingers counting the brass buttons on his uniform coat. I took a deep breath, drinking in the smells of warm canvas, well-worn wool and spicy aftershave lotion, and closed my eyes.
Somewhere outside a dog barked on a long, howling yelp. Instantly, unbidden, the image of Aileen filled my mind—Aileen in her stage leather howling at her gig at the Rumble. Her voice echoed in my head: “You better watch out for that one, Daria.” Watch out for McCarthy—he could be anywhere. He could be right outside the tent, coming for us.
I gasped and pulled away. “Please, Jim, not now. We can’t forget about McCarthy.”
He took my face in his hands. “There is no other time,” he said in a thick voice. “Now is the only time there is.” His arms started around me again.
I fumbled backward for the tent flap. I wrenched it aside, letting in the bright glare from the car’s headlights. The light blinded Jim, and he staggered back.
My heart pounded, thumping against my ribs. But I kept my voice steady
. “This should help you find what you need to pick up, and then we can go.”
Jim barked a laugh. He was breathing fast, and his eyes gleamed in the headlights. “Some other time, then,” he said, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small key, which he inserted into the lock on the wooden chest. The hinges screeched as he pushed up the lid. He unlocked two inner compartments and took out a small cloth bundle. Then he locked the chest back up and pulled a duffel bag out from under the cot. I could just make out its blue color and designer label. I caught my breath, staring. It was obviously part of a matched set. I’d seen its bigger twin before—in Pete’s closet, where someone had stashed Angeline to frame him.
I stopped breathing. Time stood still as I watched Jim slip that cloth bundle into the duffel bag and slide the zipper closed. I knew, if I unwrapped that cloth, I would find diamonds and jewels. And if I did that, I would die.
For Jim was in on it too. My hands started to shake, and I clenched my arms to my chest. The puzzle pieces shifted and formed into a new, even more hideous pattern. Jim and McCarthy, together. One had snatched the doll at the museum; the other turned out the lights. One had strangled Emmett, while the other stuffed his body into the trash. Jim supplied the duffel bag and McCarthy sneaked it into Pete’s closet. And in the end, McCarthy missed his chance, but Jim would finish me. Then together they would make sure that Chris and Pete would take the rap, locked away in jail, framed for murder.
How could I have been such a fool, to think either one could love me? I’d been so bewitched by an antebellum ball gown, fancying myself as Scarlett O’Hara, that I’d forgotten Scarlett’s tempestuous love led only to heartbreak and betrayal. I closed my eyes in despair, then opened them again to face my betrayer, alone.
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