Uniformly Dead

by Greta McKennan

  Chris had just enough time to grasp Carson’s hand before Marsha flung herself upon him with tears and kisses.

  Carson then held his hand out to Pete. “It seems your sister was right—we played right into Laker’s hands when we arrested you and thought we had solved the case. All charges against you are dropped—you are free to go. I’ll make sure the newspaper runs a story clearing both your names.”

  Pete stood up as if in a daze. He reached for Officer Carson’s hand, but again Aileen got there first. “Way to go, Moron,” she cried, grabbing Pete’s hand and slapping him on the back at the same time.

  I took Carson’s outstretched hand. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for everything.”

  Carson squeezed my hand. “Just doing my job—a job that can be very satisfying when I get to see justice done.” He waggled his finger at me. “I don’t like being taken in by crooks and murderers—and I particularly dislike having that fact pointed out to me by some fool seamstress covering for her brother at every turn, especially when she happens to be right.”

  I dropped his hand and gave him a grateful hug. He grunted, peeled me off and pointed me toward Pete. “Get out of here, the lot of you.”

  On the way out, Chris turned to me. “Marsha says you figured out who the real murderer was. I’m guessing I wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for you. Guys kept telling me I wouldn’t make it to my own wedding.” He leaned close and whispered in my ear, “I was starting to get worried.”

  I gave him a big hug. “It’s going to be a great wedding.”

  * * *

  Aileen took Pete and me out for donuts to celebrate. The café was crowded, so we squeezed into a booth in the corner. Pete leaned back in his seat with a sigh. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure I owe you my freedom, though I’m not quite sure what happened between yesterday and today.”

  “Attempted murder and violent death,” Aileen said. “Better get a big pot of coffee, and we’ll tell you the whole story.” She ordered two dozen donuts with coffee and a side of peanut butter and bananas, and launched into a dramatic rendering of last night’s events. Pete listened intently, his eyes fixed on Aileen, who mashed peanut butter, bananas and donuts together in a paper cup and calmly ate the resulting mess with a spoon, washed down with coffee lightened with creamer to the color of a Confederate kepi.

  I sat in silence, sipping my coffee, letting Aileen tell the tale. When it was over Pete said, “Thank God you’re alive. But what was Carson talking about, you covering for me at every turn?”

  I tried to shrug it off, but it came out more like a twitch. “You’re a suspicious kind of guy, you know. Hiding things in boxes and running off to take care of things that are ‘nothing for me to worry about.’ So maybe I felt like I needed to cover for you.” I looked at him beseechingly, not wanting to learn any new secrets. “That was all Kinney, I suppose?”

  Pete started to laugh, and then choked on his coffee and sputtered. Aileen pounded him on the back a shade harder than absolutely necessary.

  “I’m sorry, Daria, I really didn’t mean for you to worry. I didn’t want to say anything in case nothing came of it. I’ve got a screenplay in that box and I’m trying to get it picked up by an agent. I’ve been working on it for ages, but it’s bad luck to talk about it until I’ve got good news to share.”

  “So all those addresses in your room—they weren’t drug contacts?”

  “You made a pretty thorough job of it, didn’t you? Those are literary agents who handle screenplays. I’ve only contacted about a hundred of them. And who said you could go in my room, anyway?”

  I shook my head. “A screenplay. You could have told me.”

  “Sorry. But it’s all over now.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Aileen grabbed a fresh donut and dunked it into her coffee.

  Pete leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not over.” Aileen shrugged, her intent gaze contrasting with the offhand gesture. “McDowell and Laker are dead, and Kinney’s paid off so he’s off your back. But you said you borrowed the money to pay him off. So now you owe someone else. When is he gonna come after you?”

  Pete sighed. “Yeah, I owe someone else now. He’s not gonna come after me, though. He’ll give me time to pay him back.”

  “Who is he?” Aileen looked at him expectantly.

  Pete kept his eyes fixed on the tabletop. “You don’t want to know.” His words were directed at Aileen, but he was really talking to me.

  I looked at his downcast eyes, heard the defeat in his voice, and I knew. I caught my breath as anger shot through me. How could he have done this? I remembered Pete’s declaration the night he graduated from high school: “I’m leaving, Daria, and I’ll never have to take anything from him for the rest of my life. I’m free!” How I’d rejoiced for him! I couldn’t face the fact that he’d voluntarily put himself back under that twisted control.

  “You went to Dad, didn’t you?” It came out like an accusation. “You took money from Dad, and now he owns you!”

  Aileen stared, silent for once.

  Pete raised his head to face me. A lifetime of despair filled his eyes. “I had to, Daria, I had no choice. Kinney was out for blood. Maybe I could have dodged him, but he knows where you live, and he knows I care what happens to you. If he couldn’t find me, he’d get to me through you. Do you think I’d let those thugs have a second crack at you? I had to pay him, and Dad was the only person I knew with any money.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry, Daria. I really am a moron. I didn’t want to tell you. I know, I sold my soul to the devil. But I didn’t have any other choice.”

  I sighed. “He’ll never let you go,” I whispered. “He’s got you in his clutches and he’ll never let you forget it.”

  Pete nodded. He knew I was right. “But it could be worse, Daria. I’m alive, and they just gave me a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s time for a fresh start, and all that.” He smiled at me, his crazy crooked smile that I could never resist.

  * * *

  McCarthy took me out to dinner that night. The Indian food was exquisite, and the company even better. I felt relaxed and carefree for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

  “I have a surprise for you,” McCarthy said, as we came out of the restaurant into the muggy summer evening. We got into the cab he’d called, and he gave the driver a downtown address. “Are you ready to be astonished and amazed?”

  “By you? Pretty full of yourself, aren’t you, for an obnoxious photographer?”

  McCarthy laughed as we drove through the downtown district. “Obnoxious is my middle name.” He leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Right here.”

  The cab pulled up in front of the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle offices. McCarthy unlocked the door and led me slowly through a maze of office partitions. At one point, he had to stop to maneuver his crutches around a pile of boxes and papers, but he never let go of his camera. We ended up at his cubicle, a tiny space with a cluttered desk and photographs pinned up on every bit of wall space.

  He sat down at the desk and rested his crutches in the corner. Reaching into a lower drawer, he pulled out a large portfolio. He handed it to me with a shy smile tugging at his lips. I opened the portfolio. There were pages of photographs, both black and white and in color. I turned the pages to look at each one.

  There I was in a turquoise ball gown, dancing with a Civil War soldier. Jim’s face was blurred—the camera focused on me alone. Another shot found me laughing, a firefly glowing between my cupped hands. A series of six photos showed me pounding the drum at Aileen’s gig. He’d caught me howling—I could almost hear wolves in the background.

  I looked at McCarthy. “The Daria Photos.” It was my turn to feel shy. “They’re lovely.”

  “Only as lovely as their subject.” He snapped a quick shot of my face. “It’s a work in progress. Not quite ready for the Tremington yet, but who knows? This one’s my favorite.”


  I expected to see myself on the floor of the museum, but he pointed to a small photo from the dance. I was alone in the frame, a dazzling smile lighting up my face.

  “Most of those shots were of you dancing with Laker,” he said, “but that smile was for me. I think I had just told you I wasn’t a murderer.”

  “Sean.” I reached for his hand. “You don’t know how desperately I wanted that to be true.”

  He took my other hand in his, holding me at arm’s length. “You figured out the truth, in the end. Nosy seamstress!”

  * * *

  Chris and Marsha’s wedding was a triumph. First Presbyterian Church was filled to bursting with family, friends, and curious onlookers eager to gawk at the exonerated murder suspect and his pregnant bride. I was grateful to note the total absence of Confederate uniforms. At least Chris’s reenactor friends had the decency to put aside their impressions to celebrate the wedding in the real world of here and now.

  No one could mistake Torey for a boy today. She sat next to me on the inner aisle of the vast sanctuary, dressed in a tea-length chiffon dress covered with pale pink daisies. She scrolled through her phone messages while waiting for the service to begin. Suddenly she leaned over and poked me in the ribs. “Good news! Professor Gilmore approved the research Chris and I did on the reenactors. She wants us to make a presentation at the next meeting of the Eastern Pennsylvania Sociology Society.”

  “Research?” I tried not to sound completely clueless. “You and Chris were working on research?”

  She nodded with a mischievous grin. “It was an undercover operation, for my sociology class. I infiltrated the encampment, posing as a reenactor, to study the reactions of twenty-first century citizens to nineteenth-century surroundings and situations. Chris worked with me on data collection. He helped me compile pages and pages of data and observations. It took hours to get it all together in a scholarly format.” She shot me a knowing glance. “Why, you didn’t think we were having a fling, did you?”

  I chuckled. “All the parts fall short of the whole, indeed! I just have one more question for you—what on earth were you doing with Karl and Ivan at the Foundry that night?”

  “Those two guys? They were trying without success to pick me up. As if I wanted to hook up with the likes of them!”

  I wasn’t satisfied. “But what about that package you gave them?”

  She stared at me. “Nosy, aren’t you? If you must know, I did a caricature of Ivan that afternoon when I was drawing in the park. He didn’t have any money on him, so we arranged to meet at the Foundry in the evening. I told him if he didn’t pay up, I’d publish the picture with the caption, ‘Ivan the Welcher.’ It did the trick.”

  McCarthy sat on my other side. He wore a conservative gray suit at odds with his ponytail, but that wasn’t the strangest thing about his appearance. No camera dangled around his neck or lurked close at hand. “They’re paying someone else to photograph the wedding,” he’d told me, with the resigned tones of a martyr making the ultimate sacrifice. “I’ll just watch and enjoy the moment.” I stole a glance beside me, to see his long fingers absently stroking the tail of his necktie, seeking the missing camera, no doubt. I recognized the gesture, as the fingers of my right hand sought the base of my ring finger, still surprised to find no diamond there. I dropped my hand to my side, where it brushed McCarthy’s thigh ever so gently. His hand came down to entwine his fingers in mine, and he leaned in close to whisper, “Ten dollars says Chris has a bucket of water rigged to shower his new bride.”

  I laughed, causing heads to swivel around to stare at me with disapproval. I covered the laugh with a cough, struggling to regain my composure. McCarthy folded his hands and focused his gaze on the groomsmen waiting at the altar, the very picture of a polite, attentive wedding guest. I couldn’t resist kicking his ankle. His eyes crinkled up in a smile.

  We all stood to watch Marsha enter the church. She floated down the aisle to the strains of Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” The lustrous satin of her heirloom gown shone under the sanctuary lights. The bodice fit like a glove, with no strain or wrinkle to reveal the seams I had let out. The dress was absolutely perfect—except . . . I sucked in my breath. I couldn’t believe my eyes. That one bit of Alençon lace, there along the sweetheart neckline, was noticeably darker than the rest. After all those samples I’d dyed, I still hadn’t gotten it right! Maybe no one else would notice. I dragged my gaze away from the lace, to land on Chris standing at the altar waiting for his bride. A goofy grin of pure adoration spread over his face. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the shade of Marsha’s Alençon lace was the furthest thing from his mind.

  Greta McKennan is a wife, mother, and first-time author, living her dream in the boreal rainforest of Juneau, Alaska. She enjoys a long walk in the woods on that rare sunny day, reading cozy mysteries when it rains, and sewing Christmas jammies on her antique Singer sewing machine. She is hard at work on the next novel in her Stitch in Time Mystery series featuring seamstress Daria Dembrowski. Visit her on the web at gretamckennan.com.

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