by Julie Hyzy
The smile still plastered on her face, she narrowed her eyes and cocked one eyebrow. Quite a feat. I doubted I could duplicate it. “But I’m having such a nice conversation with Captain Florian here,” she said.
“Colonel,” he corrected.
“Colonel Florian,” Frances amended smoothly, “will probably be promoted at the end of the week. He’ll take over for General Pierpont, who is stepping down. I guess the job gets to be too much after so many years. Is that it?” she asked him.
“Pierpont has been the top man for more than ten years. It takes a lot of effort, even off the field, to organize this many people, to notify everyone when we’re meeting. To set up the location . . . you get the picture.”
“But I’m sure there’s prestige in holding that position,” I said.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh yeah. Big time. When you’re in charge here, you’re the man.”
Frances jumped in. “And you’re the next in line, right?”
Jim Florian’s expression fell. “I wish I could feel better about it. I’ve been gunning to take the job for a while, and I thought I had it, but Zachary Kincade—the guy who got killed—started to talk about taking over. To be honest, he wasn’t cut out for the job, but that didn’t stop him from trying to muscle me out.”
Was Florian actually giving us his motive for killing Kincade?
Frances fixed me with a look that said, “See why we needed to stay?” She asked Florian, “And it looked like he was going to win, didn’t it?”
Florian nodded.
“Were you disappointed?” I asked.
“Oh sure. I’ve been re-enacting since I was a kid. My dad died before he could rise to the rank of general, so I’ve always wanted to do it, you know, in his honor. It would have meant a lot to him to see his son as the top man.”
Before I could come up with a way to keep him talking, Florian offered up another tidbit. “But then”—he jerked a thumb toward the hill behind which Kincade was murdered—“that happened. I felt real bad about that.” He pointed to himself. “I found the body, you know.”
“Did you?” I asked innocently.
Frances continued to smile encouragingly. “That had to be devastating,” she said.
“Tell me about it. I mean, I’ve seen death before, but not like this.” He looked away, shaking his head. “And I’ve never benefited from somebody dying. This is just terrible. I feel guilty, you know? The troops really wanted Zachary to be the new general. He’s not as hard-core as Pierpont, and I think in this day and age people still want to immerse themselves but they crave their creature comforts as well. Zachary understood that and I guess that’s why everyone supported him.” He worked his tongue in his cheek. “I’ve always been more of a progressive myself. I like to keep the event as authentic as possible. I can get obsessive about it, actually. Almost as much as Pierpont. And it bugged me that Zachary planned to change everything. To loosen our standards. That’s why I didn’t think he was a good choice for the job. But things change, I guess.”
I wanted to ask him to write all that down and sign it. I’d be happy to deliver a copy to Tank on my way home.
“The mood has shifted in the ranks,” he said. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s been slowly changing every year. Gives me food for thought. Maybe when I take over I’ll consider implementing some of Zachary’s updated ideas. I won’t like it, but it’s better to be commanding happy re-enactors than to command no one at all.”
We talked a little more and although I needed to get back to the manor to pick up my car and race home for my date tonight, I stayed rooted to the spot. The only thing that prevented me from accepting Florian’s guilt, however, was his soft-spoken, earnest admission that he’d benefited from Kincade’s death. Guilt propelled him to spill his guts, but to me it felt more like survivor guilt than killer guilt.
A kid ran up to him. “Dad, Mom needs you back at the tent.”
Florian nodded to both of us, tipped his hat and said, “Duty calls.”
Frances and I thanked him and started the climb up the small hill toward the van. We walked at a slower pace than I would have liked, but I appreciated how hard it was for her to move in that giant gown. “Well, wasn’t that something?” she said the moment we were out of everyone’s earshot.
“I’d say so. I didn’t realize how big of a deal this re-enacting is.”
“A lot of the folks I talked with were ready to put Zachary Kincade in charge.” She huffed as we crested the hill. “Some reluctantly—and I found that odd, but they were the old-timers and less willing to talk than the younger participants. These young people—and by that I mean those under forty—want authenticity, but within limits. Some of the rules in place here now are pretty strict. Even though their tents are off-limits to visitors, everything in them has to be approved despite the fact that no one will see any of it. These people are even required to keep their coolers in their cars.”
“That’s a problem?”
“You bet it is. Say your kid wants a cold drink, or it’s time to prepare dinner, you have to trek all the way here”—she pointed—“to get your supplies, only to have to trek back again like a pack mule. A lot of them try to hide their twenty-first-century equipment where the progressives won’t see.”
“What happens if they get caught?”
“They’re fined. It’s not a lot, and the money all goes toward regiment expenses, but I can see how that would take the fun out of things, can’t you?”
We were walking down the other side of the hill now. “The van’s just ahead,” I said. “You doing okay?”
Her breath was coming in short gasps. “Just fine.”
“So I take it you think Florian is our man.”
“You don’t?”
I kept my strides short so as not to outpace my assistant. “He handed us his motive on a silver platter. The murderer would never have done that, not unless he was incredibly wily and trying to throw us off the scent by coming across like a nice guy who could never do such a horrendous thing. He doesn’t strike me as smart enough for that.”
Frances was silent. When I turned to look at her, she was staring right at me. “Know what Florian does for a living?” she asked.
“No idea.”
“He’s a rocket scientist.”
I stopped walking. She did, too.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, “a bona fide rocket scientist. Top man of his division at NASA. And a private inventor on the side. Has about thirty patents to his name.”
I stayed silent.
“Beside this Civil War hobby, he has one other,” she added. “Chess player. Championship level.” She waited a beat before continuing, “Still think he’s not all that sharp?”
I stared back the way we’d come even though I could no longer see the encampment. “Well, what do you know about that.”
Chapter 17
“I DON’T KNOW,” BRUCE SAID THAT EVENING, “after all the times your plans with this guy have fizzled and with his connections to these murders, are you sure you still want to go out with him?”
I’d left the door to my bathroom open and Bruce stood in the doorway holding Bootsie as he watched me twist my blonde hair around the hot curling iron. I didn’t need to defend my decision. “What are you doing home so early?” I asked.
“Business is slow tonight and I’m completely wiped. Scott told me he’d handle things and sent me home. Don’t change the subject.” He gave me a critical look. “What are you planning to wear?”
“Black cotton skirt, pink top, silver flats.”
He made a so-so gesture with his head. Bruce was the more fashion-conscious of the two men. Scott’s interests gravitated more toward paperwork and sales figures. More than once, Bruce and I had to talk him out of wearing the same shirt-and-pants combination three times the same week. “But it’s so much easier that way,” he’d said. “Besides, no one even notices what I’ve got on.”
Bruce had said, “I noti
ce,” and had taken it upon himself to try to help his partner develop a personal style. So far Scott had made a little progress, accumulating a handful of new shirts and several pairs of pants. I wouldn’t term Bruce’s efforts a rousing success. Not yet at least. But he did have an eye for style and color. I valued his input.
“I thought you liked Jack,” I said.
“The pink and silver are fine. But a skirt? Could give him the wrong impression.”
I started to balk, but he interrupted.
“Sweetie, you’ve been waiting to go out with this guy for months, right? He’s constantly disappointing you.”
“It hasn’t been his fault.”
“Don’t defend him. He’s a big boy and responsible for his own actions. I admit, I liked the guy, too, when we first met him. But now . . . the jury’s out. I think you need to dress it down a little. Don’t come across so eager.”
“I’m not eager,” I said. “And besides, I wear skirts to work all the time.”
He narrowed his eyes as though picturing me in the outfit I’d described. “This is different. He’s going to be looking for clues. Show him this is no big deal for you. Wear jeans.”
“You’re overanalyzing.”
Scratching Bootsie behind the ears, he wore a rueful smile. “Kitty and I are going to take a nap on the couch. Wake me up when you get in. I want to hear all about it.”
“Don’t get attached to her,” I said as he walked away. “That Tooney guy promised to find her owners.”
“Too late,” he called as he walked down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he shouted, “And don’t you get attached to your gardener, either.”
I stared at my reflection in the mirror and whispered, “Too late.”
TO ENSURE THAT JACK’S ARRIVAL WOULDN’T wake snoozing Bruce, I decided to wait on the front porch. I stepped outside just a little before seven. My skirt fluttered in the breeze, twisting around my bare legs. I took a deep breath of the warm evening air thinking that Jack had been right. This was perfect weather for walking together. I wondered if he would walk all the way here from his house or if he planned to drive and leave his car. Jack lived about a mile or so on the other side of Hugo’s. I probably should have asked.
I strolled over to the far side of my porch and looked up at the hole in the ceiling. At one point this spot had boasted a two-person swing but shortly after Bruce and Scott had come to live here, it had crashed when they had tried it out. The porch roof’s beams—rotted from years of neglect—had given way, dropping them both to the floor. Lots of bumps and bruises but no serious injuries. Thank goodness.
I thought back to when I was just getting to know my roommates. Back when my mom was dying and when my sister avoided dealing with our mother’s terminal illness yet managed to find time to flirt with my fiancé. Liza and Eric were out of my life now. At least until the next time Liza called in dire need of cash because she’d gotten into trouble again. Sorry, sis, I thought. You’re a married woman now. Let your husband bail you out.
I shook myself to dispel the negativity. This was no way to start a first date. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse pocket and glanced at the time. I’d been outside for about ten minutes. Seven-oh-five.
The floorboards creaked as I made my way back across, passing the front door again. This house needed more work than I could keep up with. I thought about Bennett’s offer to help me repair, clean, and spruce up the place. I knew that this was his attempt to bring me into the family fold. But I wasn’t ready to turn this house into a tourist stop, nor move into the curator’s cottage on my own. That seemed like a step away from the independence I’d been trying so hard to cultivate. I’d lived alone and with roommates in apartments before, but being a homeowner was new and different. I needed to prove I could do it.
Although I often found myself overwhelmed and more than a little terrified, I had to admit to another emotion as well: exhilaration. I felt stronger than I ever had before. Surviving the tough times through the death of my mom and subsequent disappearance of my sister, I’d grown in ways I’d never imagined I could. I was still a people-pleaser by nature—and probably always would be—but down deep in my soul something had shifted. And I liked it.
This job as curator and director of Marshfield—though I wished I’d come into it another way—was the instrument for much of this change. I’d always felt uncomfortable with conflict and avoided sticking up for myself. But I’d discovered I had no trouble standing up for members of my staff. I viewed these situations less as confrontations and more as my responsibility to be an advocate for my people. Even better, I was learning to be an advocate for myself.
The wind brought a delicious gust of green-scented air. Caught up in my reverie, I’d almost forgotten I was leaning on a shabby porch rail staring out over a cracked driveway and a lawn overrun with weeds. Back to reality. I checked my cell phone clock again. Jack was late. More than just fashionably.
The urge to walk down to the street to see if he was coming was overwhelming, but I held myself back. That would undoubtedly make me look too eager. He had said seven, hadn’t he? I was sure of it.
Jack was not one of those chronically late people, so this was surprising. He’d always arrived for meetings at the manor right on time if not a little bit early. Had he forgotten? Did I get the day wrong? Had something happened to him? I glanced at my cell phone again. I hadn’t missed any calls or messages.
Why did Jack and I seem to be cursed every time we tried to go out together? That had to be it. Not his fault.
Bruce’s voice singsonged in my head. Defending him again?
I decided to give Jack another few minutes and if he still didn’t show, I’d call.
Sitting on the top step in a skirt wasn’t exactly ladylike, but I figured that if I forced my body to relax, my mind might follow suit. I had my backside down on the uneven floorboards for about two minutes before I realized that this plan wasn’t going to work. My body was quiet but my mind kept jumping around. I waited, adjusting myself to find a comfortable spot on the bumpy floor. Yet another repair, I thought.
Financially, it made sense for me to take Bennett up on his offer. But in my heart it just didn’t feel right. I was finally making it on my own, finally making friends here. To live and work within the fancy gates of Marshfield Manor would be to isolate myself again. I’d had enough of that, thank you very much.
I wondered if that was what had caused me to fall so hard and so quickly for Eric. I’d been wrapped up in school, work, not to mention my career in New York. Always trying to keep ahead of my bills, barely making time for fun.
Eric had been the first guy to show interest in me after I’d decided that all work and no play was making Grace a dull girl. Hindsight allowed me to see just how emotionally vulnerable I’d been back then. Thank goodness he’d left me when he had, otherwise it might be me rather than Liza married to him right now.
I forced myself to smile at the thought. It didn’t work. Their double deceit still hurt.
Why was I dwelling on this tonight? For the second time since I came outside, I pushed negativity away.
When the wind lifted the edge of my skirt again, I didn’t even bother checking the time. I got to my feet dreading the idea of having to face Bruce and admit I’d been stood up.
So much for plans. So much for the gorgeous night.
A pickup truck whooshed up and screeched to a stop in front of me.
Jack reached over and opened his passenger window. “Grace,” he said, “I’m so sorry.” Before I could answer, he threw the vehicle into park and ran out around the front of it. Fighting back my irritation, I waited.
“I am so sorry,” he said again.
I waved away his apology even as I took a step back. “It’s okay. Maybe we just aren’t supposed to go out together.”
“No, no. Look at you. You dressed up. And I let you down.”
I desperately wished I’d taken Bruce’s advice and worn jeans. My reply came
out snappish and defensive. “I always wear skirts.”
“Let me make it up to you. I can’t even begin to tell you everything that’s gone wrong.”
“I’m not really in the mood to go out anymore.”
We were directly outside my front door, Jack edging closer as he spoke. I had peripheral view of one of the closest windows. The drapes moved, then moved again. Was Bruce spying on us? I hoped to heaven it was Bootsie instead.
“Grace, I don’t blame you for being angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re hurt, and that’s worse.”
“You want to know the truth? My ego is a little bruised, that’s all. I’ll get over it. I’ve gotten over bigger disappointments.”
“They hauled Davey in for questioning,” he said. “Interrogation. I had to go down there.”
Like sugar in hot tea, my anger instantly dissolved. “He’s in jail?” I knew Tank suspected him, but she’d given no indication that he was about to be arrested. What was all that blather she gave me about transparency?
“Not anymore,” Jack said. “My dad went down there with him and I got there as fast as I could. We called our lawyer and he came down, too. The cops said they just needed to clear up a few open issues, but you know how they are. They’ll tell you anything to get what they want.”
“But what could Davey tell them? Wasn’t he under sedation when the murder occurred? Did they forget he had a broken nose?”
“The cops consulted some quack doctor who said it was ‘theoretically possible’ for him to have killed Kincade. Yeah, well, just like it’s theoretically possible for Bennett Marshfield to come in first in a marathon.”
In his age group, Bennett had a fair shot. But I let that go. I was stunned by the news. “They think Davey killed Zachary Kincade?”
“That’s how they see it.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I swear, Grace, if it had been anything else, anything at all, I would have blown it off. But Davey needed me.” He grimaced. “I heard he quit Marshfield, too.”