Death, Guns, and Sticky Buns Page 12

  I did my best to calm her down, but could offer no other suggestions. After a few more sobs, Moonbeam hung up.

  “Poor thing,” I muttered. “She's one of those women who's born to be victimized by men.”

  Ethelind refreshed the teapot and poured another round. “Nothing like a cuppa to settle the nerves,” she said, turning up the volume on the television.

  “… and in late-breaking news, a local physician has been found murdered in her office today.” As I watched with growing horror a camera zeroed in on a familiar doorway. “The body was discovered at noon today by her assistant, Vesta Pennsinger, who said she came late because the doctor had surgery scheduled.”

  The camera swung to where a shocked and bewildered Vesta Pennsinger, Dr. Washabaugh's chatty receptionist, leaned against the wall. “I came late today because the doctor had surgery scheduled,” she said.

  “Why do they always tell you what you're going to hear…?” The doorbell rang, and Ethelind rose to her feet. “Tori, are you all right? Oh my God, Dr. Washabaugh is your doctor, isn't she?” The bell rang again. “Who could that be? I'll be right back.”

  On TV, Vesta was still speaking. “I smelled smoke soon as I opened the door. That's when I saw the flames and called the fire department.” Vesta started to cry and the camera zoomed in for a close-up.

  “The body of Dr. Washabaugh, who apparently had been shot several times, was found by firemen after the fire was extinguished. The fire chief speculates that she had interrupted a burglary in process. The fire then was most likely set to cover up the crime.”

  A man in a fire chief's uniform appeared on screen and said, “The fire was most likely set to cover up the crime.”

  Ethelind came back in, carrying a small box. “Funny, there was nobody there. Just this pretty box with your name on it, Tori.”

  In a daze and still shocked from what I'd just heard, I took it from her, untied the ribbon, pulled off the wrapping paper, and lifted the lid. There was an unsigned card on top that said Get well soon. The item inside was covered with bubble wrap. I took it out, removed the wrap, and gasped. A beautiful, delicate china carousel horse sat on top of a walnut box. When I placed it on the coffee table, the tiny horse danced and twirled as the music box played “In the Good Old Summertime.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Saturday Morning

  “IT LOOKS VERY EXPENSIVE.” WITH BOTH HANDS, Ethelind carefully held the music box. “Funny whoever sent it didn't sign the card. You sure you don't know who it's from?”

  “I'll probably get a call today,” I said, thinking I'd avoided blatantly lying about who might have sent it.

  She looked at me with concern in her eyes. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “About waiting for the biopsy results? I'm okay. Dr. Washabaugh told me that more than eight hundred thousand women have breast biopsies each year, and only about a hundred and eighty thousand of them are actually diagnosed with cancer. The rest are benign lumps, so the odds are definitely in my favor.”

  I sat down at the kitchen table and picked up the Chronicle, glad to see our paperboy had actually delivered it on time.

  I glanced over the front page. My article about Mack Macmillan looked good. There were no glaring errors. Of course there was no mention of Woody's arrest. That's the problem with a weekly! The news is never current. Neither was there any mention of Halloween, which was coming up soon. When I questioned Cassie about that, she said that it was a long-standing policy not to mention the holiday in the paper. Too many locals thought it smacked of Satanism.

  Surprise! There was a brief mention of Dr. Washabaugh's murder on the bottom of the front page. Cassie must have heard the news on TV and called the printer with a last-minute change. Good for her! When Cassie heard the news, she thought of the paper. When I heard the news, I'm ashamed to say my first thought had been, “Now how am I going to get my test results?” I decided to call the office receptionist on Monday and ask if they had come in. Surely she would be there. Or I would call her at home.

  Ethelind, her feet enormous in fuzzy gray slippers, shuffled over to the counter where she poured Tasty Tabby Treats in the cat bowls before starting to make coffee. They ate as if they hadn't been fed in weeks.

  “I've been thinking,” Ethelind said, peering at me over the rim of her coffee mug, “that I might postpone my departure for little while longer. I don't like to think of you being sick and alone.”

  Oh no. “Please don't,” I exclaimed, so abruptly that she stared at me in astonishment. “I mean, please don't do that on my account. I am just fine.” I swung my right arm in a circle to show her how fine I was. It hurt, not because of the biopsy but because it was still healing from having been broken last month.

  “I'd be glad to stay…”

  “I won't hear of it.”

  “At least let me take care of you today, Tori. You pop upstairs and get back in bed. I'll bring you some breakfast.”

  “Thanks very much, but I have somewhere I have to go today.”

  Ethelind waited, head cocked, while I struggled to think of someplace I could go. Then I remembered Charlotte Macmillan had invited me to go riding today. I hadn't thought about it since Luscious had confirmed her alibi, but now it seemed like a perfect excuse.

  “Riding!” Ethelind looked incredulous. I didn't blame her. “You?”

  “I love to ride,” I said. “I even took lessons in college.” I really didn't love to ride. In fact, I didn't even like to ride. But it was true I'd taken lessons. Everybody who goes to school in the southwestern United States does.

  Murray Rosenbaum, my next-door neighbor and best friend in New York, had sent most of my belongings to me when I sublet my apartment. The boxes had been placed in one of Ethelind's thirty or forty spare bedrooms, and I dug through a few until I found my riding clothes. Saying a little prayer to the Goddess of Yo-Yo Dieting that they'd still fit, I carried them back to my room.

  At the edge of Gettysburg, I stopped at a Sheetz convenience store for directions to Shoestring Hill Farm. The middle-aged woman behind the counter appeared impressed. “Biggest spread around. You can't miss it. Take a right, hang a left, go about six-tenths of a mile, backs up on the battlefield. You lookin’ to buy the place?” She took in my riding clothes. “You'uns ain't going riding there, are ya?”

  “Why, yes, I am,” I said, wondering why her lips were twitching. I paid for a Diet Coke and left. Probably she was just jealous of my opportunity to hobnob with the rich and famous.

  I found the farm, just as the Sheetz clerk had described. I stopped at the top of the hill and looked down a long, tree-lined private drive to a grove of trees, where I saw a beautiful two-story gray stone home built in the traditional Pennsylvania style, door in the center, two windows on either side, and a row of five windows on the second floor. I counted at least four chimneys. To the right of the main building was a glassed-in sun-room, overlooking the pond. Nearby, partly concealed by more trees, were a large horse barn, a riding ring, several smaller houses, and some long block buildings. The property, divided in many places by rail fences, extended forever, covering at least one hundred acres, I'd heard, but since it shared a border with the battlefield, there seemed to be no end to it. Even I, an outsider, knew Mack Macmillan's campaign slogan had been “Mack—a man like you,” meant to convince his constituents he was really just a good old boy. He may have called his home Shoestring Hill Farm, but it reeked of money. Lots of it.

  I pulled into a gravel area, where at least ten trucks and horse trailers were already parked, and followed the sound of voices to the barn. As I walked in, conversation stopped and about twenty pairs of eyes turned to stare at me. Everyone there wore riding breeches, high leather boots, hunting coats, and black helmets. I suddenly realized that while my high-heeled cowboy boots, fringed leather jacket, and jeans were the proper riding costume for New Mexico, they were all wrong for south-central Pennsylvania. Most definitely wrong! No wonder the woman at Sheetz had laughed
at me. I was glad I'd at least left my cowboy hat in the car.

  Eyes were politely averted and conversations resumed as I brazened my way through the crowd to find Charlotte Macmillan.

  “She's outside, by the pool,” a woman told me.

  Charlotte was standing by a long table, on which were several coffee urns and boxes of baked goods. She, too, wore the establishment riding garb. She looked just like everybody else there, except for the tan elastic mask hiding her face. Her lips smiled when she saw me, and she greeted me with as much warmth as if I'd been a member of the royal family come to play polo.

  “I was positive you'd take me up on my offer to interview my friends,” she said.

  I shook my head. “There's no need for me to do that, Mrs. Macmillan. The police have already verified your—”

  “Alibi. You can say it.” Again, I admired her forth-rightness. “And please call me Charlotte. It makes me feel ancient when you call me Mrs. Macmillan.”

  That was something I could understand.

  “Won't you have some breakfast, Tori?” She pointed to the spread on the table. “The sticky buns are from the new bakery here in town and are just wonderful. I swear a day doesn't go by that I don't buy some.”

  Since I'd had to lie down to zip my jeans up that morning, I regretfully turned down the sticky buns but did accept a cup of coffee. It was surprisingly good, putting an end to my theory that nobody in south-central Pennsylvania could make decent coffee.

  “Let's pick a horse for you to ride,” she said, linking her arm in mine. “You look like an experienced rider.”

  “Don't judge me by my Roy Rogers cowboy suit, please. I've ridden, but I'm no expert.” As we walked toward the horse barn, I heard dogs barking in the distance. “Pets?” I asked.

  “No, I breed dogs.”

  Moonbeam's roommate, Gloria, had told me that Mack Macmillan lobbied for the puppy-mill people. Had he run one also? “I love dogs. May I see them?”

  “I'm afraid not.” She led me into the barn, where there were rows of box stalls on either side. “The bitches get nervous when strangers come around the puppies, Tori.” Three or four horses whinnied a greeting. “How about Maizie here? She's very good-natured.”

  I looked up, way up, at the most enormous creature I'd ever seen. Maizie bared her teeth at me. The better to eat you with, my dear. “I think I'll need a steplad-der,” I said.

  Charlotte chuckled. “I'll have her saddled up. You two will get along just fine.” She waved to a young man, who put down his pitchfork and came over. With her fingers moving at lightning speed, she signed to him, and he opened the gate to the stall and led Maizie out into the center of the barn.

  Charlotte noticed me watching. “I hire hearing-impaired students from the Learning Center,” she said. “It's a good opportunity for them and saves me a little money.”

  “Where did you learn to sign?”

  “My dear mother taught me. It was my first language. You certainly are full of questions”

  “It's my nature as a journalist, I guess.”

  “Did your asking questions have anything to do with the arrest of that terrible man yesterday?”

  “Woody? No, that came as a surprise to me.”

  “You do believe he caused my husband's death, don't you?”

  And she thought I asked questions! “Actually, Charlotte, I don't understand how an accident of this nature could have occurred. He's staged dozens of executions and should know how to do it right by now.”

  “Maybe it wasn't an accident. That man was known to hold a grudge against Mack.”

  “What about?”

  She shrugged. “I've always tried to keep my nose out of my husband's business affairs, but there was a time about a year ago when he was trying to buy some farmland east of the battlefield to put up a one-stop shopping mall. The downtown merchants felt it would take business away from them and formed a committee to put a stop to it. Woody was their spokesman. He and my husband had a number of public battles.”

  “What happened? Is the mall going to be built?”

  “No, while half the people in town were fighting my husband, another developer came in and quietly put up a mall south of the battlefield. Mack blamed Woody and his damn committee for making him miss the opportunity to get rich.”

  The horse was ready then. After an embarrassing moment when I couldn't get on Maizie's back and had to be boosted up by two young grooms, Charlotte and I joined the rest of the party, already mounted and eager to ride.

  “Perhaps you'll want to take Maizie around the ring a few times to get used to her,” Charlotte said. She appeared to be doubtful of my riding abilities. That made two of us. I'd only used a western-style saddle before. On this, there wasn't even a pommel to grasp. I probably should have been grateful she didn't have me riding sidesaddle.

  “Giddyup,” I ordered. Nothing happened. I clicked my tongue against my teeth and nudged old Maizie with my heels. She shot forward, nearly toppling me from my perch.

  She galloped right past the entrance to the ring, and I began to fear we'd be in Hanover before she slowed down, but after a minute or two she began to walk more sedately. I managed to pick up the reins and get the horse turned around. The stone farmhouse looked like a dollhouse from where we were.

  “Nice and slow, girl. Nice and slow.” Maizie cooperated. I sat high in my saddle wishing Garnet could see me now. The horse seemed to know the way back to the barn without any assistance from me. Shortly, she brought me up to the back of one of the long block buildings I'd noticed earlier. There was a row of metal cages, and inside the cages were dozens of barking dogs. The breeding kennel! As Maizie carried me past, I saw these dogs were living in doggie paradise. Well-groomed dogs in clean cages. So different from what I'd seen at the Amish farm. There were Labs, some adorable beagles and golden retrievers, all the different kinds of outdoorsy dogs one would expect to find at an elegant farm like this.

  Maizie took me back to the barn, where the other guests were already mounted and ready to go.

  “Where did Maizie take you?” Charlotte asked.

  “Just around that building,” I said, pointing to the kennel and not mentioning Maize had taken me on a fifty-mile detour. “Your dogs look very well cared for.”

  “I told you not to go back there.”

  “I didn't have any choice.” I patted Maizie between her ears.

  “Let's go, we're holding up the others.”

  I followed her quietly. I think I'd expected the hunting scene from the Albert Finney version of Tom Jones, with dogs chasing foxes and horns blaring, but this was not that kind of day. The horses set off across the fields, some galloping, some trotting, and some, like mine, walking sedately. Charlotte stayed next to me, as if she feared I'd fall off, which was a distinct possibility.

  “Now we're crossing into the national park,” she pointed out as we came to a low wall built of heaped gray stones. “We're supposed to stay on the marked trails.” She pointed to a small brown-and-white picture of a horseback rider. “Don't go off alone. People frequently get lost here.”

  She led the way, talking to me over her shoulder, pointing out things I never would have noticed if I'd been alone. “The stone walls were here before the battle, built with rocks the farmers cleared from their fields. Just imagine what it must have looked like here, with thousands of young men crouched behind these walls, firing at other young men just a few hundred yards away. We're in Pitzer's Wood, where General Longstreet had his troops on July second. There's an observation tower up ahead if you'd like to climb up and take a look at the area.”

  “I'll skip it. I don't like heights,” I told her. “You are certainly knowledgeable about the battle.”

  “It's hard not to be when you live here. And my husband was such a historian that he made it all quite real for me.”

  “You must hate the idea of moving,” I said.

  “I'm not going anywhere. Why did you think I'm about to move?”

&nb
sp; “It was something someone said. The checkout clerk at Sheetz asked if I were going to buy the place. I assumed it was for sale.”

  “Mack and I had talked about moving to Arizona for his health. Obviously there's no need for me to move now. Let's hurry. The others are already out of sight.”

  “Don't you want to be up front with your friends?” I asked as we rode up a steep hill.

  “Not really. They all know their way around the battlefield. You don't.”

  We were now on a narrow trail, which wound through dense woods. “You can see how easy it would be to get lost,” she pointed out.

  Despite the closely set trees, I saw a man walking slowly, holding something in front of him. He noticed us at about the same time, and ducked out of sight behind a tree.

  “What do you suppose he's doing?” I asked.

  “Poaching. That's a metal detector. He's looking for shallow graves to dig up and rob.”

  “Isn't that illegal?”

  “Of course it is, but people do it all the time. There's a lot of money to be made in selling things from the battlefield. In the old days, you didn't even have to dig. The stuff was lying all over the ground.” We were on a ridge, now, overlooking woods, fields, and rocky plains.

  “That's Little Round Top,” she said, pointing to a hill. That rocky area beneath it is Devil's Den. And just to the side of it is the Wheatfield. There were more than four thousand dead and dying down there on the second day of the battle.”

  I wanted to show I knew something about the Battle of Gettysburg, so I asked, “Where did Pickett's Charge take place?”

  “Near the visitor center. That's where the High Water Mark is, the place where the South lost the war. After that, on July Fourth, Lee's army began to retreat.”

  We rode downhill, through another heavily wooded area. This time, when we came out of the trees, we were not alone. There were two groups of about a dozen people each, gathered around picnic tables, but they didn't look like ordinary picnickers. Many in the first group carried American flags, others signs that said SPARE THE DEER AND NO MORE KILLING AT GETTYSBURG. The picketers in the second group carried signs that said HUNTERS DO IT WITH CLASS AND HUNTERS HAVE RIGHTS TOO. A man with silver hair in the first group looked up at us in surprise. He was no more surprised than I when I recognized Ken Nakamura.