by Ellen Crosby
“I don’t think so,” I said.
B.J. spoke again. This time his voice sounded anguished and urgent.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s been an incident on the battlefield. We will not be continuing with our planned activities.”
“What happened?” Frankie asked. “What is he talking about?”
“I’m not sure, but I have a feeling someone just shot Ray Vitale,” I said. “With real ammunition.”
Chapter 24
B.J.’s announcement sent the crowd, especially families with children, into a panicked exodus toward the parking lot as word spread that someone had been shot.
“This is crazy,” I said. “There were safety checks. How did someone get on the field with real bullets?”
“No one should leave,” Kit said, as people pushed past us. “It’s a crime scene. We’ve got to try to secure the place until the sheriff’s department arrives. That’s the first thing Bobby would do.”
“Forget it. You are not going to be able to keep a crowd this size here against their will,” I said. “Especially since no one knows who the shooter was and whether someone’s still out there with more live ammunition. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. Let’s get out of the way before we get stampeded. Frankie, Gina, come on!”
“I’m calling Bobby.” Kit reached for her cell phone as we pushed closer to the yellow “Do Not Cross” tape that had been strung up to keep spectators off the battlefield. With the crowd surging in the other direction, we now had a front-row view as hundreds of soldiers in blue and gray streamed away from the fighting toward the campgrounds.
“Call 911 and have them get word to that cruiser by the gate,” I said to Kit. “He may just think people are leaving because it’s over. Plus tell the dispatcher to send an ambulance. Maybe even the medevac helicopter. There’s enough room for it to land on the field. I’m going to get to B.J.’s sound system and see if we’ve got any doctors here. Or anyone with medical training.”
“What about Gina and me?” Frankie asked.
“Try to get to the south gate and ask that deputy what you can do to help.”
“Someone’s probably called 911 already from out on the battlefield,” Kit said.
“I wouldn’t bet on it. They didn’t have cell phones in the 1860s. They only way these men could send a message is by smoke signal,” I said.
By now we’d abandoned Kit’s umbrella since it was slowing us down. I could hear her shouting into her cell phone.
“The dispatcher told me they’re sending backup,” Kit said as we made our way to the open-air tent where B.J. had been broadcasting only a few moments ago. “They can’t send the helicopter. Too much rain and wind. They’ve got an ambulance coming.”
B.J.’s microphone was still live, but the tent was empty. He’d probably gone to be with Ray Vitale.
I picked up the mike. “If there are any doctors or anyone with EMT experience here this afternoon, could you please come immediately to the tent with the sound system?”
Kit climbed up on a folding chair and scanned the crowd. “No one’s heading this way,” she said. “Ask ’em again.”
I made two more announcements and then my phone rang. Frankie’s number flashed on the display.
“The parking lot’s insane,” she said. “Once people found out they can’t leave by the gate because the cruiser’s blocking the exit, anyone with four-wheel drive is getting out any way they can. Someone dismantled part of the split-rail fence on the property line.”
“You can’t stop them,” I said. “We’ll deal with the damage later. If you run into a doctor, can you please beg him or her to consider returning? I don’t know how long it’s going to take the ambulance to get here.”
“I’ll try. The officer here told us to take names and license numbers,” she said. “And ask if anyone saw anything. People have been taking pictures. Maybe someone caught something with their camera.”
“Good luck,” I said, and disconnected.
“Thank God,” Kit said. “Here comes Marty.”
Dr. Martin Gamble, dressed in running clothes and a hooded rain jacket, sprinted toward us.
“Hey, ladies.” Marty stepped into the shelter of the tent and took off his hood. “Tina was here with the kids when it happened. She called my cell. Lucky I was nearby. Sorry it took so long to get here, but I came on foot. I’m training for the Marine Corps Marathon.”
Marty worked at the Catoctin Free Clinic in Leesburg. We hadn’t seen each other much in the past year since I’d inadvertently discovered he’d been carrying on an affair while I was trying to help one of his colleagues who was also a friend of mine. The revelation, which had stayed a private matter between us, had nevertheless made things awkward when we ran into each other.
“You really are hard-core to be running in a downpour,” Kit said.
His smile was thin as he stared at me. “Takes my mind off things I’d rather forget. Let’s get going. Where’s the victim?”
“On the other side of the creek. We can either hike to the bridge and come all the way back to the battlefield. Or”—I pointed to Goose Creek—“it’d be faster to cross the creek right here.”
“You want to swim across?” Kit sounded incredulous.
“She’s talking about taking one of the canoes,” Marty said. “Aren’t you?”
“If someone will get one of them over to our side first.”
“Are you serious?” Kit asked.
“It’s not the Potomac. They did it at Ball’s Bluff.”
“Piece of cake,” Marty said. “Let’s do it.”
The three canoes, turned over to keep from filling with rain, had been pulled well up onto land on the opposite bank of Goose Creek. Marty, Kit, and I yelled and waved until a teenager in a Union uniform saw us.
“We’ve got a doctor here,” I shouted. “Can you get us over there?”
He cupped his hands around his mouth. “I don’t know. The current’s pretty strong.”
“Please,” I said, “the ambulance won’t be here for a while. Please try.”
The wind had picked up, bending tree limbs and sending leaves sailing through the air like tiny parachutes. All three of us were now soaked through our rain gear, our clothes sticking to us like they’d been glued on. The soldier gestured for someone to help him launch the canoe and a boy in a Confederate uniform joined him.
“Come on, come on,” Marty muttered next to me. “You guys can do it.”
The boys flipped one of the canoes and pushed it into the creek. The Union soldier climbed in and picked up a paddle.
“Damn,” Marty said. “The rain and the current are pushing him downstream.”
“At least he’s making his way across,” Kit said. “We can catch him when he gets in range. Let’s go.”
The canoe bobbed closer.
“Throw us your line,” Marty called. “We’ll pull you in.”
As the boy fumbled for the bowline, the canoe caught a current that buffeted him, shooting the craft farther downstream. Marty waded into the water as the boy tossed the rope and missed. The second time it struck Marty’s shoulder. He grabbed it and began pulling.
“Ladies first,” he said. “I’ll steady it for you.”
Kit climbed in and the canoe rocked crazily.
“Sit down,” he told her, “or you’ll capsize us.”
I went next, using my cane to steady me and moved crablike until I could sit on the seat in front of Kit’s. Marty knelt in the stern, taking a paddle the Union soldier handed him. Rain and creek water that had sloshed over the gunwale filled the hull with about an inch of water. It seeped through the seams of my work boots until my feet felt like two blocks of ice. Kit’s white-blond hair was plastered to her head. I glanced back at her as I brushed my own dripping hair off my face. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be praying.
The battlefield was still shrouded in mist and smoke as rain ricocheted off the water like more gunfire. The Confederate teenager, w
ho had waited for us on the opposite bank, now waded into the water and pulled us to shore. Marty jumped out as we reached the creek bank and sprinted over to the knot of men tending Ray Vitale.
“Lucie!”
I looked up as B.J. strode toward Kit and me. By now the battlefield was nearly empty.
“I watched you two with Marty and that canoe,” he said. “Good thinking. We really needed a doctor. An EMT from the Eighteenth Mississippi did what he could, but Ray’s in bad shape.”
“They can’t send a helicopter,” I said. “An ambulance is coming. Where was he shot?”
“Looks like somewhere in the abdomen,” he said. “He’s unconscious and he’s lost a lot of blood. The EMT’s got his hand inside his gut.”
I swallowed. “You think he’ll make it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Whoever shot him knew where to aim.”
After the ambulance had come and gone, Kit and I walked back to the Confederate camp, where the Black Widow’s tent had been turned into a field office for the sheriff’s department. For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening deputies took names and questioned all the reenactors, who were told to produce their rifles and ammunition boxes. Kit and I sat at a table under a nearby dining tent, wrapped in blankets the Widow had lent us.
At dusk the rain let up. Someone found dry firewood and started a campfire. We moved our chairs next to it, trying to dry out and warm up. As it grew dark, a few modern amenities appeared, including battery-powered lanterns and thermoses of coffee. Several whiskey flasks, which I’d thought were strictly forbidden, also showed up. Kit borrowed paper and a pencil from the Widow and began making notes by lantern light. Around us, people struck tents and packed up supplies. Gradually the campground emptied out.
I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my jeans. The battery was nearly empty. I called Quinn, who answered on the first ring.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said. “I drove over there but some deputy told me it’s restricted access.”
“My phone’s about to die,” I said. “And they’re still questioning reenactors.”
“Frankie and Gina are back here. The winery was a madhouse. Everybody wanted a drink. Eli’s there, too.”
“Tell them they can go home.”
“Sure. Call me when they cut you loose,” he said. “I’ll be in the barrel room.”
“Everything all right there?”
“You don’t want to know,” he said as my phone went dead.
Kit looked up from her paper. “Hey, that’s Grace and Jordy Jordan next to the Widow’s tent. They must be looking for Tyler.”
She waved as they caught site of us. Grace’s snow-white hair, usually pulled into a neat chignon, hung wild and disordered around her shoulders. She looked like she’d been crying. Jordy’s face was ashen.
“Do you know where they’re holding Tyler?” Grace asked. “I hope they haven’t taken him away yet.”
“Where who’s holding him? Taken him where?” I asked.
“Is he in trouble?” Kit asked.
“B.J. called us. They found live ammunition in Tyler’s cartridge box.” Jordy put his arm around Grace as she slumped against him. He sounded incredulous. “B.J. says Tyler claims someone else must have put it there by accident. There’s no way he would deliberately—”
Grace interrupted. “He couldn’t see well with those Civil War glasses he had on. I don’t know why he didn’t wear his own.”
“They think Tyler shot Ray Vitale?” I asked. “That’s crazy. He wouldn’t—”
Jordy nodded, his face bleak. Tyler was their eldest child. Their only son.
“The safety check doesn’t include the cartridge boxes,” he said. “He’s just a kid, even if he is over eighteen. He probably got all excited and reached for the wrong bullet in the heat of the battle.”
“Then it’s an accident,” I said. “They can’t hold him responsible—”
“He’s responsible for bringing live ammunition to an event like this.” Jordy’s shoulders sagged. “We already called Sam Constantine. Tyler’s going to need a lawyer.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
Grace nodded and started to cry again.
“Pray,” she said.
It was midnight when Kit and I finally left the campgrounds and returned to our cars in the deserted parking area. Our shoes sank into the tire-rutted mud.
“You going home?” I asked.
“Only to change clothes. Then back to work. I need to write this up. It’s too late for tomorrow’s paper, but it’ll be on the website. Sorry, kiddo. It’s big news.”
I kept my voice light. “Well, I wouldn’t want the Washington Tribune to run out of things to write about and go out of business. I do what I can to keep your circulation up.”
“We appreciate it.” Her smile was rueful. “Be my maid of honor?”
“If I make it through this, sure I will.”
She blew me a kiss and got into her Jeep. I followed her down Atoka Road. As I signaled to turn into the main gate to the winery, she pulled alongside me and tooted her horn.
“I’ll phone you,” she called through her open window. “Drink. Goose Creek Bridge. Soon.”
Then she waved and sped into the darkness.
The lights still blazed in the villa as I drove by. Frankie’s car was parked next to Eli’s Jaguar, the only two cars in the lot. What were they doing here together so late? I drove home, got a drink, and called the winery.
Frankie answered.
“I saw your car,” I said. “And Eli’s. Everything all right?”
“The news at eleven said Ray Vitale is in critical but stable condition,” she said.
“The sheriff’s department thinks they’ve got a suspect,” I replied.
“Who?”
“I hope you’re sitting down. It’s Tyler. They found live ammunition in his cartridge box.”
I expected her stunned silence. Finally she stammered, “Tyler? Oh, my God, Lucie. Tyler would never shoot anyone. There must be a mistake.”
“Grace and Jordy hired Sam Constantine.”
More silence on her end. Then she said, “I guess it’s serious.”
“Seems so. I’d better call Quinn and tell him. Have you talked to him lately?”
“He packed it in an hour ago. He’s getting a few hours’ sleep in the barrel room. More problems with the Riesling.”
“Maybe I should go over there.”
“You get some sleep, too,” she said. “He’s got Benny and Javier with him. They’ll get a handle on it. You can deal with it in the morning. Don’t give Quinn any more bad news tonight.”
I hung up and slowly climbed the spiral staircase to my bedroom. Had Tyler really shot Ray Vitale by accident? I knew enough about guns to know there was a difference between shooting blanks and live ammunition. In the confusion and roar of noise on the battlefield, though, maybe no one had been able to hear the live shot that felled Vitale. But wouldn’t the shooter have known what he did?
I undressed and took a long, hot shower that left my skin bright pink.
Was Tyler lying because he was scared and didn’t want to get blamed for this, or was he just too inexperienced and caught up in the moment to realize what he’d done?
The third possibility was that he was telling the truth.
Which meant there was another shooter out there—someone who’d gotten away with it—and Tyler had been set up to take the fall for something he didn’t do.
Chapter 25
Sunday’s rainstorm cleared the air so that when I woke on Monday all traces of Edouard had vanished and we were back to crystalline sunshine and sharp shadows. The sky was a limitless hard-lacquered shade of blue. Plants, trees, and my lawn—after the deluge of rain—had turned the vivid artificial green of Astroturf. The mountains, finally visible after being masked by days of low-hanging clouds, were the dusky color of Scottish heather.
Kit called while I was
in the kitchen drinking coffee.
“The story’s on the Trib’s website,” she said. “I wanted to tell you myself.”
“Thanks. You all right? You sound beat.”
“I am beat,” she said. “I got about two hours’ sleep.”
“Go home and go to bed.”
“I wish I could, but I’ve got a problem. Someone’s been using my credit card. I just found out. I’m driving over to Blue Ridge Federal to talk to Seth.”
I set my mug on the table and rested my forehead on my hand. First Frankie, now Kit.
“Since when?”
“The past two days. They bought stuff online, dammit. That card never left my purse, I swear. Maybe someone swiped it at some restaurant. I eat out every damn meal these days. You never know, do you?”
My thoughts raced.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Bobby wants me to talk to the detective in charge of financial crimes. Plus I canceled the card, of course. What a pain.”
I closed my eyes. Eli? Brandi? Would either one of them be so stupid as to copy down credit card numbers and rack up charges on accounts of people we knew?
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
“About what?”
“Can we do it in person?”
“How about the end of the day? I’ll come by for a drink.”
“Sure. Fine.”
“What’s wrong, Luce?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But maybe I’ll have an answer when I see you. Say, six?”
“Six o’clock. I’ll be there.”
My next phone call was from Frankie.
“You need to get over here,” she said. “Annabel Chastain’s here and she’s loaded for bear. She’s looking for you. I’m going to do my best to keep her calmed down so she doesn’t drive over to your house, but you need to come here now. She’s either on drugs or she’s been drinking or both. But she’s hysterical.”
It took me ten minutes to finish getting dressed and drive to the villa.
“She’s on the terrace,” Frankie said when I walked in. “Good luck.”
Annabel stood at the railing with her back to me. She swung around as soon as I stepped outside. Today she wore no makeup and it looked like she hadn’t slept. She’d aged years since yesterday.