The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery

by Amanda Flower

  Beside me Ashland squirmed at the praise.

  “On the table near the front here, there are dance cards for all the ladies. Ladies, find your dance cards. I’m sure they will fill up in no time with so many handsome privates and officers from both sides here with us tonight.”

  I hesitated in my speech. “However, this weekend hasn’t gone flawlessly. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the sad events of the weekend. Maxwell Cherry and Wesley Mayes are both gone. I hope you will join me in keeping their families and friends in your thoughts and prayers. Both men were taken before their time.

  “It’s my opinion the Wesley Mayes was wrongly accused of Maxwell’s murder. He was a depressed young man, and someone, maybe even someone here, took advantage of that. I, for one, will keep looking for the person who is truly behind Maxwell’s death until Wesley’s name is clear. I think we should honor his and Maxwell’s memories in our festivities tonight.”

  An eerie quiet settled over the partygoers as I spoke.

  “The buffet and dance floor are now open. Enjoy your evening. The first dance is a waltz.” I handed Ashland the mic.

  The band began the first waltz and men and woman slowly inched to the dance floor.

  “Kelsey, what were you thinking by saying that?” Ashland stared at me with wide eyes.

  “I wanted to make sure that the person who hit me on the back of the head knows he or she doesn’t scare me.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve witnessed a lot stupid stunts in my life,” a voice said behind me. “But that one takes the cake.”

  I recognized the voice.

  Slowly I turned around. It was Chase. He was so handsome in his dress uniform. Had he been with the Union soldiers marching on Atlanta with Sherman, the Southern ladies in his path would have fainted dead away. As the director of Barton Farm, swooning was not an option.

  “Hi,” I squeaked.

  “I agree with Ashland: that was a pretty dumb stunt you just pulled. Why don’t you just wear a sign that says ‘Kill me next’?”

  I frowned. “I was making a point.”

  He grunted. “Your point was clearly made. My uncle’s eyeballs just about popped out of his head during your little speech.” He nodded to Ashland. “You’ll excuse us.”

  She chewed on her lip.

  I touched Ashland’s arm. “Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “I know you do.”

  He led me to the middle of the tent. Couples spun on the dance floor with their partners, and there was already a long line leading to buffet table in the dining tent.

  Chase removed a card from the inside pocket of his dress coat and handed it to me. “I took the liberty of finding your dance card for you.”

  I took the card from his hands and opened it. “Why is your name on here twenty times?” Chase Wyatt was next to every dance except for the polkas.

  “I also took the liberty of filling out your card.”

  I peered up at him. “And the polka?”

  He grinned. “I don’t polka. We can eat then.”

  “Do you expect me to stay with you all night?” I tried very hard not to smile.

  His grin widened. “I thought that was a given.” He bowed. “May I have this dance, Ms. Cambridge?”

  I slipped the dance card ribbon over my wrist. “I suppose, since your name is on my card.” I placed my hand into his. He gripped it firmly and confidently led me to the center of the tent.

  The crystal chandelier sparkled above us. Men in their blue and gray dress uniforms bowed to their ladies, and the ladies curtseyed in return. The music started again, and the men spun their partners. Flowered, gingham, satin, and silk ball gown skirts in every shade imaginable fanned out over the dance floor and collided with each other in a swirl of color. I was so mesmerized by the scene that I forgot I was twirling around the dance floor with my very own soldier.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispered, and he turned me around the floor.

  I looked up at him. “Are you trying to sweet talk me?”

  “Is it working?”

  “No,” I lied. “Where did you learn to waltz?”

  He smiled. “My uncle required it. Any Union officer worth his salt can waltz. I can cha-cha too. Of course that would require a different outfit, but I think it’s important that you know all I have to offer.”

  I looked up at him. “And why is that?”

  He smiled and didn’t answer. We passed Laura and a Confederate lieutenant on the dance floor. She grinned and wiggled her eyebrows at me.

  I looked away. “You seemed to have gone to great lengths to indulge your uncle’s hobby.”

  Chase’s face clouded over. “It’s the least I could do after everything he’s done for me.” He changed the subject and we chatted through two more dances until polka music started. “That’s our cue for dinner,” Chase said.

  We walked off of the dance floor. Detective Brandon stood just outside the tent glaring at us. A Union soldier was talking to her, but she was ignoring him. Her eyes were fixed on Chase.

  In the dining tent, one of the servers brought me a note on a silver tray as Chase and I sat at a table.

  “Thank you,” I said, accepting the note.

  “What is it?” Chase asked.

  I unfolded it. “It’s from Ashland. There’s some kind of emergency at Barton House.” I refolded the paper. “I knew the evening was going too well—no party goes off without a hitch. I’d better take care of this.”

  Chase started to get up. “I can come with you.”

  “Don’t be silly. Enjoy the ball. I’m on the clock. This is my job.”

  He frowned.

  “Dance with Laura,” I said “She’ll be thrilled. The two of you can plot against me.”

  He grinned. “That’s tempting.”

  I stood up. “I’ll be back in no time.”

  Chase’s grin faded, but he let me go.

  Thirty-seven

  The note from Ashland asked me to meet her inside Barton House, which was only a few yards from the tent. I wondered what had gone so terribly wrong that we couldn’t speak about it in front of the guests. Surely nothing as awful as a murder.

  A couple sat on the house’s front porch eating their dinner. I smiled at them and was surprised to find the padlock on the house. I had figured Ashland would be waiting inside. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. With no electricity, the home was cold and dark. The front door opened into the living room, and I was happy to see that the trunk was still over the root cellar’s hatch. It was dusk now, and the only light in the room was ambient light from setting sun, which just made the shadows grow long and monstrous. I decided to leave the door open. I could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and music from the dance.

  “Ashland?” I called.

  There was no answer. I frowned and walked through the home. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary or disturbed. I peered through the kitchen window over the sink and saw Ashland in the back yard. She had her arms wrapped around her body, and she was crying.

  I went out of the house through the back door. “Ashland, what’s wrong?”

  She looked up. “You came.”

  The trees in the woods cast dark shadows over the lawn. Even in the dimness, I could see tears glistening on her cheeks. “Of course, I came. What’s this emergency you have? Does it have something to do with the reenactment or the ball?”

  “No,” she cried harder. “Yes.”

  That wasn’t confusing or anything.

  Something about her tragic expression, like a lost puppy, connected the scattered thoughts in my head. She’d had that same look on her face when Maxwell, Portia, and Cynthia were at the reenactment—like someone had just kicked her. I had thought at the time that it was just her moody nature, but
I’d been wrong. All this time I had a gut feeling that the killer was connected to the Farm and not the reenactment. All this time I had been right. Click, click, click. The clues lined up in my head like grooves in a zipper. Who else would know everything about the Farm like I did? Ashland. Who else spent their time emulating me? Ashland. Who tried to set me up for murder? Ashland.

  “Ashland, why did you kill Maxwell?” I whispered.

  “He threw me aside for that dumb girl because she’s better arm candy than I am at events like this one.” She glared at me. “She even told me while we worked on those dance cards that she didn’t love him. She was in love with that worthless reenactor.”

  “You loved Maxwell?” I wrinkled my nose. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t understand how anyone could fall in love with such a jerk.

  “He wasn’t always so harsh,” she said.

  “How did you even know each other?”

  “When you would send me to Cynthia’s estate to make reports and deliveries, we struck up a friendship. And then it became more. I know he loved me and not her.” She balled her fists on either side of her hoop skirt. “I tried to make him see, but he just wouldn’t.”

  I always asked Ashland to go to Cynthia’s estate because I’d hated running into Maxwell every time I went. When she went, she’d be gone for several hours, but I had assumed that she spent her time drinking tea with the Farm’s benefactress, not flirting with the foundation’s heir.

  My fingers turned ice cold as I realized I hadn’t seen Portia at the ball with Cynthia. “Ashland, where’s Portia?”

  “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters a lot,” I corrected. “You didn’t hurt her, did you?”

  “She gave me no choice. She wouldn’t shut up about how much she hated Maxwell and loved Wesley. She couldn’t talk about the man I loved like that!”

  “The man you killed,” I corrected.

  She glared at me. “I didn’t want to. It broke my heart when I had to kill him, but when he met me here in the village that night, it was clear he wasn’t coming back to me. It was my last resort. I had no choice.” She started to cry again. “He was knocked out when I rolled him into the pit. He never felt the stings.”

  “And Wesley?”

  “I just showed him a way to escape his misery.”

  “You gave him the lily of the valley.”

  She glared at me. “He made the choice to eat it. I didn’t shove it down his throat.”

  “What are you going to do now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “It’s gotten so complicated. I thought I’d feel better if I knew Maxwell couldn’t be with anyone else, but it’s not working.”

  “You can run,” I said. “Just tell me where Portia is and you can run away and start over.”

  She stared at me as she considered this. “Will you help me get away?”

  “Tell me where Portia is, and I’ll help you,” I lied.

  “That agreement doesn’t work for me.” Detective Brandon appeared around the side of the Barton House with her gun drawn. I guess she had hidden it in her massive ball gown. “You’re under arrest.”

  Ashland stared at her.

  “Ashland,” I said. “Tell me where Portia is. The police will go easier on you if you tell us where we can find Portia.”

  “Don’t make promises we can’t keep,” Brandon barked.

  I glared at her.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Ashland said and turned and ran. She was crying and ran blindly, failing her arms and legs.

  “Stop!” Detective Brandon ordered. “Or I will shoot!”

  “You can’t shoot her in the back!” I yelled.

  Jason popped out of the woods and made a move to catch Ashland. She screamed and made a sharp turn, running directly into the first beehive and knocking it to the ground. She fell on top of it and the bees buzzed and swarmed. Jason melted back into the safety of the woods.

  I didn’t wait to see how Ashland fared with the bees. It seemed a fitting punishment given what she’d done to Maxwell. I ran into Barton House and headed straight for the living room. I yanked the steamer trunk off of the root cellar’s door. “Portia,” I cried as I lifted the latch.

  There was no answer. Could I be wrong? Did Ashland stash her someplace else? Was she already dead? Swallowing my fear about the giant rats, I bunched up my lovely skirt and climbed into the hole. It was a tight fight with the hoop skirt. “Portia?” I heard crying from the back corner of the root cellar. “Portia, it’s Kelsey. I’m here to get you out.”

  She came at me at a fast crawl, wailing. “She threw me in here. I thought she was going to kill me. She killed Maxwell.”

  I wrapped my arms around her. “I know. Shh. You’re safe now.” Her entire body shook as I scanned the dark for mutant rats. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Hands appeared in the root cellar’s door, and then a face appeared. Chase’s face appeared, a bit wild eyed and smirking. “How many times am I going to have to yank you of here?”

  I handed a whimpering Portia to him. He pulled her out of the hole, and then I climbed out without his help. “Is there no limit to your chivalry?” I asked as I cleared the hole.

  Chase set me on my feet. “When it comes to you?” He shook his head. “Nope.”

  Epilogue

  Even though it had been months since Chase had found me in Barton House’s root cellar for a second time, I thought of the events of the Blue and Gray Ball often. Most of the time, I wonder what I could have done for Ashland to help her make other choices—choices that didn’t lead to murder.

  Hayden wiggled in my lap as we sat in the waiting room of the Cherry Foundation’s main office in downtown New Hartford. It had only been a month since Cynthia’s funeral, and since then all I had done was worry about the future of the Farm when I wasn’t kicking myself over Ashland. What would our fate be? Cynthia’s will would be the deciding factor for all of it.

  Outside an early November snow covered the parking lot. Flakes continued to fall from the sky. It would be a long and cold winter. Not a good time to move if I was evicted from the cottage.

  My thoughts spiraled out of control, bouncing between Ashland and the Farm. What would the Farm do if we couldn’t keep funding from the Cherry Foundation? I would have to close it and lay off all of my employees. Who would care for all those historic buildings? What about Barton House? Despite the giant rats in its root cellar, I hated the thought of all the history going away. Maybe there was another living history museum that would take the buildings, or at least one or two. I hated the thought of breaking them up again, but it was better than letting them rot.

  I shifted on the hard wooden chair. I’d have thought the Cherry Foundation would have more comfortable chairs in their waiting room.

  “Mom, when can we go home? We’ve been here forever.”

  We had only been there twenty minutes, but Hayden was right. It did kind of seem like forever.

  The door to the inner office opened and an elderly man named Mr. Culpepper emerged. He was Cynthia’s primary lawyer. He scowled. “You brought your son.”

  Mr. Culpepper wasn’t a fan of kids. I could tell. “I didn’t have anyone to watch him. My father is teaching today.”

  His scowl deepened. “He can’t listen to what I am going to share with you.”

  I frowned in return. “You should have told me that before you beckoned me to your office,” I said.

  The receptionist peeked out her office door. “He can stay with me. Hayden, do you like to color? I have some crayons.”

  “Coloring is okay,” Hayden agreed, and he walked into her office.

  I smiled at her. “Thanks.”

  “I have three kids. I always have emergency crayons and paper,” she whispered.

  Mr. Culpepper held t
he door for me into his office and gestured that I should sit on a leather couch. He sat across from me in an armchair. “Ms. Cambridge, thank you for coming in today. I suppose you are wondering why I called you in here.”

  “I imagine that it has something to do with Barton Farm and Cynthia.”

  He nodded and removed his glasses. “As you know, the Cherry Foundation has been more than generous with Barton Farm over the years. It truly was Ms. Cherry’s pet project.”

  I folded my hands on my lap. I was wearing jeans. Maybe I should have chosen something more fitting for this occasion, but Mr. Culpepper had called late that morning asking to meet me in the office, so it hadn’t given me much time to consider my wardrobe. “She cared a lot of about history, especially local history.”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, now that she is gone, circumstances have changed too because of the untimely passing of Maxwell, her heir. You must know the Cherry Foundation cannot support Barton Farm in the same way it has been doing for these many years.”

  This was it. This was the moment where I would find out the Farm had to close. I felt tears gather in the back of my eyes, but I would not cry. I didn’t cry when I was thrown into the root cellar or when Ashland, who was now awaiting trial after somehow surviving hundreds of stings from Shepley’s bees, betrayed me and the Farm. I wasn’t going to start now.

  “Barton Farm has been named benefactor of a sizable trust from Cynthia.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  He nodded. “You are the trustee with no strings attached. Ms. Cherry is putting the whole authority to make decisions about the Farm on you.”

  This is what Cynthia meant when she said to me at Dad’s play that the Farm would be fine. She had already made her decision then. My elation was quickly followed with the feeling of a great weight being lowered onto my shoulders. “How long will the trust sustain the Farm?”

  “That is up to you and how you choose to spend the money.” He leaned back in his chair. “If the money doesn’t last, that will be on you.”

  His bluntness made me shiver, and the weight on my shoulders grew heavier, threatening to push me through the couch cushion and into the floorboards. “So I’m in charge free and clear. No strings attached?”