Death, Guns, and Sticky Buns Page 4

  Lizzie brought me a jar of powdered whitener. I stirred a liberal amount into my coffee mug and tasted the brew again. It didn't help at all. “It's fine,” I fibbed as Lizzie anxiously watched me. “Any word from the hospital about Janet?” I asked.

  “Yes, mother and child are doing just fine, thanks to God and no thanks to Godlove.” The way the phrase fell from her lips made me think it was used often in the college's PR department, and quite possibly in the whole college.

  “She only had one baby?”

  Lizzie giggled and nodded. “Poor Janet's got a lot of weight to lose.”

  “Why is the college blaming Macmillan's death on Janet?” I asked. “Surely, the reenactment wasn't all her idea.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “You'd think none of them have ever heard the word accident. I guess they're putting the blame on her because she was ordered to come up with something different for Parents’ Weekend. And she did.”

  “I'll say it was different!”

  “The college desperately needs some good publicity. Our enrollment is under two hundred and still shrinking. Janet thought staging a mock Civil War execution would get us a lot of press.”

  “It certainly did, but I don't think this kind of publicity is going to bring any students in,” I said.

  “I'm afraid you're right. Half a dozen girls left with their parents this morning. Including the senior who played the prisoner's wife. Her parents said she was so traumatized, she'll probably need years of therapy. Which, I'm sure, the college will have to pay for.”

  “I wonder what made Janet think of staging an execution? It's something that would never cross my mind.”

  “We saw one last summer over in Gettysburg. She hired the same people to do it here. Except for Mack Macmillan, of course. He has, I mean had, an office across the hall, and when he learned of our plans he burst in here saying he thought it would be great fun to play the victim. He reminded Janet he was very well known, which was true, and that we'd get a lot of notice with him participating. Janet didn't have any choice; she had to agree.”

  “Why?” I asked. “He was way too old for the role.”

  “Because Macmillan is, I mean was, the chairman of the college's board of trustees, a position he assumed at the beginning of this semester. And like the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla—the chairman of the board of trustees can do exactly what he wants to do.

  And what he wanted to do was participate in the reen-actment since he's a big-time Civil War buff. You do know that he was also a retired U.S. congressman? That's what got him on the board of trustees in the first place.”

  “I can understand why he might want to participate. What I don't understand is how real bullets got into the guns. Lizzie, were you there Friday night when the guns were loaded?”

  She nodded.

  “Could you please tell me exactly what happened?”

  Lizzie sat down on the ugliest sofa I've ever seen and patted the seat beside her, raising a little cloud of dust. “Sorry about that,” she said. “I picked it up at the Goodwill. Cheap. Now I know why. Have a seat. I'll try to tell you everything.”

  I sat on the sofa and found it smelled nearly as bad as it looked. “Go on,” I said.

  “Like I told Chief Miller yesterday afternoon, Janet and I went out for hamburgers at about five. When we came back, the building was deserted or seemed to be. Nobody in their right mind sticks around here after dark. We wouldn't have been here either, except we were waiting for the reenactors to bring the guns.

  “There were two of them. One guy was big and fat, with a bushy beard. The other was younger and pretty much of a hunk. They each carried a big box, full of guns, we found out later.”

  “Did Janet know who the men were?”

  “Sure. At least she knew the big one. I forget his name, but it's in my file cabinet. We stood around the lobby for a while chatting, then the five of us took the elevator down to the basement.”

  “Five of you? You only mentioned four: you, Janet, and the two reenactors.”

  “Mack Macmillan came with us, saying he wanted to ‘savor the entire reenactment experience.’ As usual, he was late, but not as bad as yesterday, only a couple of minutes. He didn't have any reason to think so highly of himself—it's not like he was a senator, you know. Just a congressman. That's not nearly as important, is it? And he's been retired for more than a year. Anyway, Janet unlocked the door to the storeroom where we had already decided to keep the equipment and let us in.”

  “Why was the door locked before the guns were put in the storeroom?”

  “Things used to disappear. You know how it is, a box of thumbtacks, a ream of paper, a case of ballpoint pens. After Janet put a lock on the door, the pilferage stopped.”

  “I noticed keys hanging on hooks next to the door as I came in. Is that where you keep the storeroom key?”

  “No. Those are for the other doors on this floor. Offices, mostly empty, and the rest rooms. People kept misplacing their keys, so Janet said she'd keep a spare set here. But she always kept our keys in her purse.”

  “You didn't have a key to the storeroom?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “I'm not saying she didn't trust me, but she made a point of keeping both keys. I had to ask her for them every time I needed to replace a pencil.”

  “I see. So what happened after the door was opened?”

  “The reenactors opened the gun boxes, then the ugly one took a box out of his sheepskin vest pocket and opened it. It was full of bullets—not real bullets—but twists of paper full of black powder with these odd-looking foam tops he called Wonder Wads. He said he'd made them himself. They didn't even look like real bullets, so I don't think he brought the wrong ones by mistake. He and the cute one loaded all fifteen guns. When they were through, the hairy guy had each of us initial the box top as proof that we witnessed him load the guns. That was it.”

  “Did anything else happen?”

  Lizzie crinkled her brow in thought, then shook her head. “We all stepped into the hall. Janet pulled the door shut, locked it, and put the key ring in her pocket. She said she needed to go up to the office for a few minutes. I don't like hanging around the building after dark—because of the ghosts—so when she said she didn't need me to stay, I left with the ree-nactors.”

  The “ghost” reference stopped my thought process in midstream. “What ghosts?”

  “It's silly, I know, but stories have been going round for years that the campus is haunted. Some of the buildings were used during the Civil War as a hospital, and so many men died here that they had to be buried on campus.”

  “Is that why you thought I was a ghost when you saw me in the basement?”

  She nodded and looked a little embarrassed. “The Sisters of Charity set up an operating room in the basement. Students say the ghost of a nun in a blue habit appears there sometimes. She's supposed to have died here.”

  Skepticism must have showed on my face. “I know,” she said. “It's probably just stories the guys make up to give the girls a good scare.”

  “Guys? I thought this was a women's college.”

  “At this point in time, they'd accept anybody who was breathing.” She laughed. “Actually, Tori, men have been on campus since World War II.”

  I tried to bring the conversation back around to the former congressman's death. “Who else had access to the room? Custodians? Students? Faculty?”

  “There were only two keys, and Janet always kept them with her. I didn't even have one.”

  “And she opened the door on Saturday so the soldiers could get their guns out?”

  “Right.”

  “What about after she unlocked it on Saturday morning? Could someone have gotten in then and reloaded the guns?”

  “She didn't unlock the door until Mack got there. Then Woody passed the guns out to the men while we watched. There was no possible way for anyone to have tampered with them.”

  “And she had both the storeroom keys with he
r all night? This doesn't look good for Janet, does it? Suppose I start by going through your file? See if I can't pull out the names of some people to talk to.”

  She led me into her office in the other half of the garret. It was slightly larger than Janet's domain, with a lot more actual work equipment, including a cluttered desk, a large drafting table, a light box, and lots of things with flashing lights I didn't even recognize. In contrast to the cyber-age electronic equipment were the old-fashioned slate blackboards covering the walls from the waist-high chair rail to the ceiling. On each was a chart outlining the progress of the different projects the PR department was working on.

  “Impressive,” I remarked, pointing to the boards.

  “The only way I can keep up with what we're doing and make the deadlines is to put up a time line for each project. I tried to do it on the computer, but this seems to work better for me.” She walked over to one of the boards and proudly explained, “This is the time line for the view book.”

  “What's a ‘view book’?” I asked.

  “Propaganda we send out to prospective students, telling them how wonderful our campus is and what a charming place Lickin Creek is to live in. Hopefully, it will encourage them to visit, and when they come we will try to persuade them to choose our small, very expensive, nearly-out-of-business women's college over one of the Seven Sisters.”

  “Sounds like quite a challenge.”

  “To say the least.”

  I noticed a date had been checked off, indicating the faculty had been reminded to send information. The dated column where receipt of the information was noted was nearly empty, even though the date had passed.

  Lizzie shrugged. “It's hard to get them moving on anything. They don't realize the amount of lead time it takes to put something like this together. They seem to think spring is too far away to worry about. Let me get you the reenactment folder.”

  This should be pretty much like following leads for a news story, I thought. Lizzie placed a thick file folder on the desk. I thumbed through it. “You're very thorough,” I said.

  “I keep everything,” she said. “Janet and I call it the COA approach to public relations and marketing— that's short for Cover Our Ass, in case you couldn't guess—we even save the doodles we make while talking on the telephone.” She handed me a notebook and a pen. “You know what you're looking for, I guess. You can use Janet's desk if you like. I'll get to work on the ads for the night classes. Holler if you have any questions.”

  I carried the file into the outer office and went through the papers, one by one, making a notation in my notebook whenever I came across the name of someone I might want to interview. Naturally, the men who'd loaded the guns were first on my list.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sunday Afternoon

  “UNLESS YOU NEED ME FOR SOMETHING, I ’D LIKE TO leave,” Lizzie announced. “My husband probably thinks I've been kidnapped.”

  “I only need a few more minutes,” I said. “Is it all right if I stay here alone?”

  “Suit yourself. I imagine everybody's gone home by now, but you can get out through the front door by just pushing on it.”

  With her departure, I was left alone in the attic. The building was so still, I realized I was probably the only person there. After a short while, I gave up and tossed the folder into the top desk drawer. Perhaps it was Lizzie's silly story about ghosts on campus, perhaps it was knowing I was alone, but I found myself jumping with each creak and moan of the old building.

  As I was pulling the brass grille of the elevator closed, I thought I heard a sound coming from the direction of the PR office. I stopped and listened but heard nothing. “Anybody there?” I called. There was no answer. Then I heard it again, a creaking noise that sounded as if someone was stealthily opening or closing a door. Thoughts of ghosts ran through my mind. But even more frightening was the thought that a real person might be sneaking up on me in the dark hallway. I jammed my finger against the down button and breathed a sigh of relief as the ancient elevator jerked and began to move. As it slowly bounced downward, I prayed it wouldn't get stuck. All I needed was to be locked in the building all weekend with a ghost or something worse.

  Outside, I stood on the porch for a few moments, thinking about what I should do next. The yellow police tape was still up, but the mock grave had been filled in and was covered with grassy sod. The investigation, if any, had moved to another level. If Garnet were still the chief of police, I'd be able to ask him what was being done, and after he grumbled a little he'd tell me. But he was gone, and I was on my own.

  Now what? I wondered. I certainly didn't want to go home and continue last night's mind-numbing discussion with Ethelind about figures of speech in King Lear. What I could do was get started on my interviews, I thought. I opened the notebook and studied the list of names. There were two reenactors who'd loaded the guns, and I needed to talk to both of them. For one, I had only the number of a post office box in a nearby village, for the other, the address of a shop in Gettysburg. Unlike Lickin Creek's, most Gettysburg shops were open on Sundays. I could zip across the mountain and be in Gettysburg in fifteen or twenty minutes. At least I'd be doing something constructive with my time.

  The “company car,” a white Chevy Cavalier from the vintage year of 1985, stood alone on the far edge of the deserted parking lot. It was great having wheels of my own, but every time I got in it to go somewhere, I said a little prayer that this would not be its last trip. Today, it took its own sweet time about starting.

  “Please, please, please…” I muttered under my breath. The engine coughed, then turned over.

  I left Lickin Creek behind me and headed over the mountains on the narrow, winding road that would take me to Gettysburg. I drove through several small villages, hardly more than a few buildings at a crossroads, and past neat little farms where the brick houses were dwarfed by the nearby barns. Twice, I crossed rivers on old stone bridges. Or more likely it was one meandering river that I crossed twice. There were few cars on the road, and I made good time.

  Soon, I was in the center of town, waiting at Lincoln Square for a break in the traffic. All the stores I could see were open, and the sidewalks were full of people, some of whom wore clothes of the Civil War era. I glanced down at my page of names on the front seat beside me and read the address of the shop I was looking for. Lizzie had told me it was only a few blocks off the main street, not far at all from the square.

  Taking my life in my hands, I cut into the circle. Four streets branched off from it like the spokes of a wheel, and from each street came a steady stream of cars which swept me all the way around the square back to where I had started. As I went round again, I wondered if there was any way to escape, or was I doomed to ride forever around the center of Gettysburg? Finally, I ignored angry honking from the car behind me, squeezed between a pickup truck pulling a camper and an SUV, and managed to exit the circle. I drove for a few blocks and then turned left.

  Tall, narrow brick town houses lined both sides of the one-lane, one-way street. Several had been converted to shops, and in front of one of them was a hanging sign with raised gold letters that said THE OLD CAMP GROUND. That was what I was looking for.

  I found a parking spot about two blocks up the street and got out of the car, feeling almost as though I'd stepped back into the last century. Walking ahead of me were two women in hoopskirts carrying string bags. A bearded soldier in a gray Confederate uniform stepped out of a bookshop and nodded pleasantly to me. The mood was broken when two teenage girls with spiky purple hair whizzed past me on roller blades. I paused for a minute to look into the windows of the bookshop and wished I had time to stop. Reluctantly, I decided I couldn't. Not today. Time has no meaning for me once I get into a bookstore. As I turned away, I had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was watching me. I looked around, but the street was now empty.

  Across the street was another shop with a hanging sign that spelled out DREAMGATE in gold letters. To the le
ft of the door was a dusty window, full of Celtic jewelry and crystal suncatchers, and through the window, I thought I saw a furtive movement, as if a person had been there, then stepped back. For a moment I was unnerved, then I decided my imagination was carrying me away. There was no reason for somebody to be spying on me; it was only a customer who had just entered the shop—or maybe the owner was straightening up the window display.

  THE OLD CAMP GROUND had a single window, and all that was in it was a small sign that read SUTLERY, ANTIQUITIES, GUNS, AUTHENTIC COSTUMES, AND CIVIL WAR SOUVENIRS. Another sign, on the door, said OPEN, PUSH HARD.

  I pressed down on the latch, put my shoulder to the door, and pushed with all my might. The door swung open easily and I tumbled inside, landing on my knees. I quickly got on my feet and brushed the dust off my skirt. I wasn't hurt, just embarrassed and hopeful that nobody had seen my ridiculous entrance. The contrast between the bright day outside and the dim interior caused me to stop and blink. As I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, I heard a deep chuckle, then a man's voice saying, “Afternoon, miss. Nice of you to drop in.” So much for my hope that nobody had witnessed my fall. The room slowly began to materialize, first a waist-high glass case to my right, full of small objects for reenactors like tin cups and enamel cook-ware, then shelves stacked with boxes, and finally, in the back of the room, a number of lifelike mannequins dressed in clothes of the Civil War period.

  “Hello?” I said, looking around for the source of the voice.

  What I'd first thought was a mannequin, sitting in a rocking chair, stood up. I gasped in surprise. “You really startled me,” I said. As the figure moved toward me, I was even more startled, for the man was at least six and a half feet tall and had to weigh close to three hundred pounds. He wore a blue Union Army uniform, and the lower half of his face and most of his chest were hidden by a bushy, sandy-colored beard. And most startling of all, an enormous rifle rested in the crook of his left arm.