Death, Guns, and Sticky Buns Page 2
Within five minutes, Garnet had driven his truck through the rusty iron gates that marked the entrance to the old resort community of Moon Lake. The lake itself marks the southern border of the borough. Great mansions, built before the turn of the century to be the summer cottages for the very rich from Baltimore and D.C., had crumbled there for years beneath ancient trees.
When the so-called cottages were first built, in the days before jet travel made the rest of the world easily accessible, women and children from those cities used to come to Moon Lake to escape the summer heat, bringing with them their servants and huge steamer trunks full of clothes for every occasion. Husbands and fathers visited on weekends. But all good things come to an end, and the “cottages” eventually fell into disrepair as World War I and, later, the stock market crash, put an end to those leisurely, elegant times.
Fortunately, the development had sprung to life again in the past few years, rescued by young professionals, mostly from the D.C. area, who were entranced by the charm of the spacious old homes and wanted to restore them to their former glory. When I'd come for my interview with Ethelind Gallant, it had been nighttime and I hadn't been able to see much. But this morning, with the trees changing from green to autumn gold, and the sun sparkling on the blue water of Moon Lake, I gasped with pleasure. I could hardly believe I was really going to live in a place like this!
While many of the grand old places had been subjected to costly renovation, not so the largest and once grandest of them all, the house owned by college professor Ethelind Gallant, who was soon leaving for mer-rie olde England to collect information about the use of contractions in medieval writings. I had gratefully agreed to house-sit while she was gone. After all, I'd be living there rent-free and I'd only be responsible for paying the utilities and making sure the house didn't collapse while she was gone. Did I think for a minute that heating a house with thirty or more rooms might strain my budget? Of course not. And now, looking at the gloomy structure in broad daylight, I realized there was a real possibility that indeed it might collapse—the front-porch roof had already been propped up with some two-by-fours. A fluttering piece of paper, tacked onto one of the two-by-fours, warned visitors to use the back door.
Garnet stopped in the circular driveway, and I jumped down. Clutching a cat carrier in each hand, I walked around to the back while Garnet followed me pulling my suitcases.
Ethelind greeted us on the enclosed back porch, which was obviously used as a laundry room and a dumping-off place for last winter's coats and boots. She was about Garnet's height, five ten, and shaped like a barrel. I guessed her measurements would be fifty-fifty-fifty. Her hair was dyed Lucille Ball red, and she'd applied her makeup with such a heavy hand that it would have looked artificial even on a stage. In one hand was a skinny brown cigarette. In the other, a half-empty sherry glass.
Her smile of greeting, which showed big yellow teeth smeared with lipstick, faded as she looked down at the cat carriers. “You didn't mention you had cats!”
“Didn't I?” I tried to look surprised, as if I couldn't believe I hadn't told her about Fred and Noel. “I'm sure I did.”
She kept staring at the carriers. “Filthy creatures,” she muttered.
I held my breath and waited. Finally, she shrugged. “Well, nothing we can do about it now. I'll be off for England in a few days, anyway. Come on in. We'll have a drink to celebrate your being here.” She turned her back on us and marched into the house.
Garnet put his hand on my shoulder and held me back. “It's not too late, Tori. You can still come to Costa Rica with me.”
The weekend went by so quickly I knew my memories of it would always be blurred. I picked one of a dozen or more bedrooms to be mine, unpacked the boxes sent to me by my next-door neighbor and best friend in New York, Murray Rosenbaum, and tried to adjust to Ethelind Gallant's constant cigarette smoke. While I had thought she was leaving for England right away, it now turned out there was a slight change of plans and she was waiting for a vacancy on the QE II. Then there was the farewell dinner for Garnet at the home of his Aunt Gladys and Uncle Zeke, where I dozed off during dinner and distantly heard someone say, “Probably into drugs. She's a New Yorker you know.”
On Sunday morning, I stood in the Gochenauer driveway with Greta and waved good-bye to Garnet until his rental car turned the corner. To hide my tears, I bent down and hugged Bear, Garnet's German shepherd, whose dark eyes looked as sad as I imagined mine must look.
“Stay for dinner?” Greta asked kindly. “I thought I'd fix a little beef heart.”
I shook my head. The thought of Greta's cooking made me cry even harder.
On the following Monday morning, I drove to Ha-gerstown, Maryland, where a young doctor replaced my plaster arm cast with a soft cast that weighed about a thousand pounds less. I'd broken my arm nearly a month ago when my car was forced off the road during the Apple Butter Festival. Feeling free and mobile without the restricting cast, I checked in at the Chronicle and was assured by Cassie that there was nothing I needed to do there. “Except for calling Doctor Washabaugh,” she added.
“I will,” I said as I left to drive to the Lickin Creek College for Women, where Janet Margolies had scheduled a meeting to introduce me to some of the people who were to be involved in Parents’ Weekend. I was glad to be kept busy. It was a lot better than sitting at home feeling lonely and sorry for myself.
From a distance, the white Victorian buildings of the campus were graceful reminders of days gone by. But as I trudged up the hill from the visitors’ parking lot, I began to notice the flaking paint, the woodwork in need of repair, and the cracked flagstones of the walkways. The Lickin Creek College for Women was in the process of redesigning itself for modern women, but it still suffered from a severely declining enrollment. Was there really a place in today's high-tech, fast-paced world, I wondered, for a small, nineteenth-century, women's liberal arts college? I hoped there was.
I was ushered into a large lounge in the administration building, filled with priceless antique furniture and a half dozen oil paintings of past college presidents. After pouring a cup of tea for me out of a silver teapot on a mahogany breakfront, Janet led me to where a handsome gray-haired gentleman was seated. He stood, smiled, and shook my hand firmly, and I knew he must be someone important even before Janet told me he was President Godlove. “Glad to have you aboard,” he said.
“Former Navy man,” Janet whispered as she guided me toward a large group of people engaged in a lively conversation. They were almost all professors, except for the campus security chief and two members of the senior class. The names whizzed over my head and out the window, but I shook hands with everybody and said “Glad to meet you,” several times.
Janet took my arm and pointed discreetly to two people seated on a red velvet sofa. “You can sit with them,” she said, and I noticed she was wheezing pretty badly.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Nothing that a few weeks won't cure,” she said with a wry smile as she clutched her back. “I feel like the Hindenburg blimp right before it exploded. Maybe I'd better sit down.”
“I can introduce myself to the others,” I told her. “You go take care of that baby.”
The man and the woman on the sofa acknowledged my presence and shifted ever so slightly to make room for me to sit beside them. “I'm Helga Van Brackle, Dean of Students,” the woman said in a voice that sounded as if she were used to scolding people.
“And this is Professor Ken Nakamura, the Academic Dean.”
His shock of thick white hair fell into his eyes as Professor Nakamura took my hand and bowed. “I understand you speak Japanese.”
It took me a second to realize he was speaking that language to me. “Only a little,” I automatically responded in Japanese, using the proper and self-deprecating answer that I knew was expected of me. “Are you from Japan?”
He shook his head. “Nisei. From southern California. Welcome to the college.”
The three of us chatted for a minute or two until we were interrupted by a student passing a tray of pastries. I took one, then wished I hadn't, since President Godlove tapped his cup with his spoon to get everyone's attention. With a glance at his watch, he announced he had no intention of waiting any longer. The grandfather clock in the corner told me the meeting was twenty minutes late in getting started.
“He's never on time,” Helga mumbled.
“Who?” I asked.
“Shh,” someone cautioned. Helga's infuriated look would have scared anyone, but not the student who had done the deed.
President Godlove introduced me to the stragglers who had just come in, then asked Janet Margolies to go over her plans for Parents’ Weekend. I nibbled at my pastry and admired the furniture while she described at long length the Friday night activities, including a banquet, a tour of the dormitory, a poetry reading in the library, and a short production of The Tempest as adapted by a local playwright and alumna, Oretta Clopper.
From the groans that greeted this announcement, I guessed Mrs. Clopper was not everybody's favorite writer.
Janet shushed the crowd. “I know, I know, but it won't kill any of us to sit through it. This brings us to Saturday. After coffee and pastry in the dining hall, we will all move outside for the reenactment.” She smiled at me and said, “Generously cosponsored by our friends at the Chronicle.” A smattering of applause greeted this announcement.
“As some of you know,” she continued, “The chairman of our board of trustees, Mack Macmillan, has agreed to play the part of the condemned man.”
I jerked around to stare at her. What was she talking about?
She ignored me. “As you all know, Mack Macmillan is a well-known Civil War historian and will provide his own costume. Because of his years in the public sector as a United States congressman, he is highly visible and his participation will be a great asset….”
“Excuse me,” I said rather timidly. “What do you mean by ‘condemned man’? I thought this was to be a Civil War battle reenactment.”
“It is,” Janet said, not looking at me. “Sort of.” She looked relieved as the door opened and a tall, stately man with a vaguely familiar face entered the room. Although he was dressed in the Lickin Creek uniform of jeans, plaid shirt, and boots, he gave off an aura of aristocracy that set him apart from the citizens of the borough.
“Congressman Macmillan,” Ken Nakamura said softly. “The great man himself.”
Mack Macmillan worked his way around the room, shaking hands, slapping the men on the back, and kissing the women, until he reached me. “This is Tori Miracle,” Helga said.
“I had an Aunt Dorie,” he said, gazing into my eyes. “Lovely woman. Lovely name. So nice to meet you, Dorie.”
He moved on before I had a chance to correct him.
“Anybody seen my wife? I thought she was going to meet me here?”
“Problem at the stable,” the security chief said. “She's probably down there.”
“Then I'll just pop into the dining room and see if I can't catch her.” He paused in the doorway with one hand raised. “Carry on. I know Janet's got everything under control.”
I must have looked confused, because Ken said softly. “Stable—table. Tori—Dorie. He had a viral infection five or six years ago that left him deaf. He can only read lips if someone talks slowly and directly at him. Most of the college people can deal with it. The rest of the time he depends on his wife to interpret for him. It's what ended his career in Congress.”
Helga Van Brackle frowned at us, and Ken stopped talking to me and smiled innocently at her.
“Let's get back on task,” she said in a rasping voice. “Where were we?”
I raised my hand as if I were back in school because that's the way she made me feel. “Janet was starting to talk about the plans for the Civil War reenactment.” I turned to Janet, whose face was flushed. “Something you said about a victim confused me. Can you explain to me in detail what's going to happen?”
Janet took the floor as Helga sat down and told us of her plans for the reenactment, while I listened in shock.
I could already hear Cassie saying, “This is not the kind of event P. J. would want the Chronicle involved in.”
When the meeting ended, I left fuming. The least Janet could have done was be up-front with me when she asked me to cosponsor the event. However, the wheels were in motion, the publicity was out, and there was nothing I could do about it now.
CHAPTER 2
A Saturday Afternoon
IT WAS NOT QUITE NOON WHEN CASSIE AND I arrived at the college and found a vacant spot on the lawn close to the college administration building. Cassie had apparently been to events like this before, because if there was something she hadn't brought, we wouldn't need it. She spread her pink blanket on the grass, urged me to sit next to her, then extracted two ice-cold Diet Cokes from her cooler. As usual, she was perfectly groomed and expensively dressed, today in a gray knit pantsuit that emphasized the silver in her hair. Casual, yet professional. She made me wish I'd worn something other than jeans and my NYU sweatshirt.
Cassie turned around to survey the crowd and waved to several people, who smiled back and nodded their greetings. She believed it was her duty to inform me who everyone was and what they did for a living. “That's J. B. Morgan—president of the Old Lickin Creek National Bank.”
“With a name like that he'd have to be,” I commented.
“Why?”
“Never mind. It was just a silly notion.”
“There's Oretta Clopper—she thinks she's a playwright. Oh good—Marvin Bumbaugh is here with the rest of the borough council.” She continued naming names, which I promptly forgot.
“Lots of unfamiliar faces here,” she mused.
“It is Parents’ Weekend,” I reminded her.
“Out-of-towners! Right here at our own Lickin Creek College for Women. This is so exciting. Tori, I'm finally beginning to think you did the right thing.”
I didn't gloat. Instead, I noted what a beautiful fall day it was, with not a cloud in the sky, and still practically summer-warm. The mountains surrounding the valley looked so close in the clear air that I could nearly count the trees. A perfect day and, I hoped, a perfect way to make my mark as acting editor and publisher of the Lickin Creek Chronicle.
Several weeks ago, when I'd agreed to cosponsor the event, Cassie's first thought had been that P. J. Mullins would never have gotten involved with something like this. I admit I'd had a few doubts, especially after I'd attended my first planning meeting at the college, where I learned Janet Margolies had not been completely candid with me. But now, seeing the eagerly waiting crowd, I was sure I'd done the right thing. I hoped Cas-sie would still think so, when she learned what kind of a reenactment we were about to witness.
We finished off Cassie's ham sandwiches, the potato chips, the chocolate cake, and the homemade pickles. “What time is it?” I asked.
“Nearly half past one.”
“This thing was supposed to start at twelve-thirty. I wonder what's happening.”
The sun beat mercilessly down upon the crowd of men, women, and children who were showing their discontent. The picnic hampers were empty, the drinks were gone, and not even the small brass band playing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” for the fourth time could drown out the complaints about the delay and the wails of bored children.
Janet Margolies appeared at my side and lowered herself to the blanket. Her face was bright red, whether from the heat or from her pregnancy, I couldn't tell. She fanned herself with a program and gratefully accepted Cassie's offer of a soda.
Although Janet and I had officially collaborated on the final plans for the reenactment, she'd done the lion's share of the work. Basically, all I'd done was show up at a few meetings, keep my mouth shut, and write articl
es for the paper.
“Has something gone wrong?” I asked her. “This thing was supposed to get going an hour ago. The crowd is turning ugly.”
“Mack Macmillan showed up late. Guess when you're a VIP you don't have to think about other people.”
“Are they nearly ready to begin? What time is it anyway?” Every now and then it crossed my mind that I should replace my broken Timex.
Janet glanced at her watch. “It's one thirty-five. I have to admit this isn't all Macmillan's fault. After he finally made his appearance, I couldn't get the door to the storeroom open.” She touched me on the arm. “Hey, it looks like something's starting to happen.”
A soloist stepped forward and, after a brief musical introduction, began to sing “Old Abe Lincoln came out of the wilderness,” to the tune of “The Old Gray Mare.” After some urging on his part, a few people in the waiting audience perked up and began to sing along. Their voices faded away as Federal troops marched out of the administration building and down the white marble steps onto the field, trailed by a small group of civilians. Murmurs of “Finally” and “It's about time” fluttered through the air until the crowd fell silent.
The men's dark suits were dusty, as if they'd survived a long tramp over miles of Pennsylvania's dirt roads, and most of them wore stovepipe hats in the style of President Lincoln. The women wore stiff, brightly colored silk gowns, except for one who was wearing a black bombazine mourning dress and was dabbing at her eyes with a tiny lace-edged handkerchief.
With faces growing red and sweaty from the relentless afternoon sun, the soldiers formed several haphazard lines, facing a shallow hole about six feet long and three feet wide, with fresh earth heaped beside it in a neat pile on the well-tended grass. It wasn't really deep enough to be a grave, but it was as deep as the campus groundskeepers would let us dig.