The Final Vow

  Copyright Information

  The Final Vow: A Living History Museum Mystery © 2017 by Amanda Flower.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2017

  E-book ISBN: 9780738751832

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration by Tom Jester/Jennifer Vaughn Artist Agent

  Map by Llewellyn Art Department

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Flower, Amanda, author.

  Title: The final vow / Amanda Flower.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2017] |

  Series: A living history museum mystery ; #3

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016056327 (print) | LCCN 2017002178 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738745923 | ISBN 9780738751832

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3606.L683 F567 2017 (print) | LCC PS3606.L683 (ebook) |

  DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016056327

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For Sherry Bixler and Charlotte Spitali

  The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  one

  Krissie Pumpernickle dreamed about being a June bride, and Krissie Pumpernickle got what she wanted. Or so I was learning in short order. As a rule, I was a quick study, but apparently to Krissie my learning curve was on the slow side.

  In the perfect movie starlet pout, she stuck her lower lip out at me. “Kelsey, you said the Civil War reenactors would be here for my wedding. I’m expecting a full-scale reenactment. You promised me. You promised me Lincoln!” She brushed her blond hair over her shoulder. When I’d first met her a year ago, her hair had been styled into a delicate pixie cut. Over the past twelve months, she’d been growing it out for the wedding. Everything that Krissie Pumpernickle had done since the day we met had been for the wedding.

  I gripped my ever-present notebook that detailed all the things I needed to do in every aspect of my life, from running Barton Farm, a living history museum tucked away in Ohio’s Cuyahoga Valley, to raising my six-year-old son, Hayden. I took a deep breath before speaking. I’d learned, in the last three months planning Krissie’s wedding, that it was always better to collect myself before I responded. I had to be careful. Krissie had me in a vulnerable position, and we both knew it.

  “Krissie,” I began. “I never promised you the reenactors would be here, and I told you from the start that there wouldn’t be a reenactment battle during your wedding. That just isn’t possible. Unfortunately, I don’t know if there will be any reenactors here at all. There’s a big Civil War event happening in southern Ohio this weekend. Most of the reenactors will be there.”

  “That’s not acceptable. My family has donated a lot of money to the Cherry Foundation so you can keep this Farm open. Should I tell my parents they wasted their money?” Her bottom lip popped out for a second time.

  Again, I took a second, but the urge to tell her where she and her parents could go with their donation was on the tip of my tongue. It was going to take me more than one breath to respond to this one.

  Thankfully, my assistant Benji jumped into the fray. Cocking her head, she sent her braided ponytail decorated with purple and green beads swinging over her shoulder. “Miss Pumpernickle, there will be at least a dozen Civil War reenactors here the day of the wedding. As friends of Kelsey and Barton Farm, they graciously agreed to skip the other reenactment to attend your wedding instead. We may not be able to provide you with a full-scale battle, but there will be enough men in uniform here to charm your guests. Be sure of that.”

  Krissie narrowed her eyes at Benji, and my assistant smiled brightly in return. I knew when Benji smiled like that it was time to take cover, but Krissie was clueless when it came to Benji’s facial expressions, which was for the best.

  “What about Lincoln?” she snapped. “I said that I want Lincoln there and I meant it.”

  I opened my mouth to tell her that my Abraham Lincoln reenactor, who was the best in the business, was among the group going to the reenactment near Marietta, which was over three hours away. It was his biggest gig of the season.

  “Honest Abe will be there,” Benji said without batting an eye. “You can count on that, and thank Kelsey for making it possible.”

  I stared at Benji. She knew as well as I did that Lincoln wasn’t coming to the wedding. I opened my mouth to correct her, but Benji stepped on my foot with her red Doc Marten boot.

  I swallowed a yelp of pain. She’d put a lot of force behind that stomp.

  Krissie adjusted the shoulders of her cardigan. “There had better be. I don’t want to have to be the one who tells the Cherry Foundation that my father has removed his funding. My wedding planner will be along shortly to talk over the last-minute details. I expect that between the two of you, Kelsey, you can do everything I need for my wedding.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my gardener Shepley’s flock of free-range chickens marching across the village green toward us. I groaned internally. In a moment of weakness, I’d let Shepley talk me into acquiring the chickens. His theory was that if the chickens were free to roam the Farm at night, then the Hooper boys—the Farm’s closest neighbors and utter teenage delinquents—would be less likely to bother us with their childish pranks. As it turned out, Shepley had been right; we’d heard very little from the Hooper boys or their just-as-unpleasant mother, Pansy, so far that summer. The chickens patrolled the village side of the Farm like an inner city gang, not a brood of hens. Benji called them our attack chickens.

  There were four of them in all. Each bird was a different color. There was a black chicken, a black-and-white chicken, a blond chicken, and a red chicken. The red one, Gertrude, was by far the biggest and the leader of the brood. Everyone knew who the top hen was.

  Krissie shook with indignation. “And those chickens have to go. I will not have chickens at my wedding!”

>   Gertrude ran toward the bride at full tilt. Krissie yelped and backed down the path at the edge of the green. I can’t say I blamed her. I’d fled from Gertrude’s advance more than once. The hen stopped and smoothed out her feathers.

  At that, Krissie spun away, sending her skirt swirling around her legs as she marched across Maple Grove Lane toward the other side of the Farm.

  “Remove the funding?” Benji said crossly. “You can’t ask a nonprofit for money back after giving a one-time monetary gift, no matter how large the gift is. She’s such a b—”

  “I know.” I interrupted Benji before she could get the full word out, despite how I may have agreed with the sentiment. We had children’s summer camps in session, and there were families visiting the Farm and milling around the historic village. The last thing I wanted was for word to reach Henry Ratcliffe and the other members of the Cherry Foundation board of trustees that visitors had overheard Farm staff swearing. “And what are you doing telling her that Lincoln will be at the wedding?” I added. “You know that Darren can’t make it.” Darren was Lincoln’s real name, or at least the one he went by sans top hat.

  Benji grinned. “I found another one.”

  My brow knit together. “How did you find someone? Usually those guys are booked all summer long.”

  “Umm … ” She paused. “It turns out he had an opening. He must have had a cancellation or something. Pretty fortunate, right?” She smiled cheerfully at me. “He’s going to come by today so you can meet him.”

  I squinted at her. There was something my assistant wasn’t telling me about Abe, and I had a sneaking suspicion I wouldn’t like it when I found out. I decided to let it slide for the moment. “I was impressed that you called her Miss Pumpernickle. It was a nice touch.”

  Benji shrugged. “I took one for the team. I still can’t believe that—”

  I gave her a look.

  She frowned. “I still can’t believe that person tricked us into hosting her wedding. It’s a slap in your face, Kelsey. I don’t know why you put up with it.”

  I scanned the village around me. It was a collection of mid-

  nineteenth-century buildings that Cynthia Cherry—the beloved and, sadly, deceased director of the Cherry Foundation—had moved from other parts of Ohio to save from demolition. Cynthia’s father had made a fortune in the tire industry when it was booming in nearby Akron, and he’d created the foundation that supported Barton Farm. His daughter had been the Farm’s benefactress for decades, reconstructing the imported buildings on the Farm land piece by piece. The village was arranged in a circle around a wide green, and it featured the original Barton home, another Civil War-era home, a one-room school house, a carpenter shop, and our crown jewel, a large white wooden church with a steeple built in the classic Western Reserve style. It was the church where Krissie was to be married that upcoming Friday evening.

  It was the church where Krissie was going to marry my ex-husband.

  Children and adult visitors smiled as they chatted with my historical interpreters, who were dressed in nineteenth-century garb. In the middle of the green, a young boy wearing cargo shorts and a Captain America T-shirt walked on stilts like it was an Olympic sport. This scene, and all it meant, was why I put up with the challenges of being the director of Barton Farm.

  Benji sighed, because she knew what I was thinking. My life’s mission, other than raising my son, was to save Barton Farm and all it taught to the public about the past. Benji knew this. There was no reason for anyone to say it aloud.

  I sighed too. “Let’s just survive until the weekend. After the wedding is over, we’ll be free of Krissie and her demands.”

  Benji shook her head. “That’s not true, Kelsey. After Friday, you’ll never be free of Krissie again.”

  I knew that to be the truth too.

  Gertrude and her gang had moved around the side of the church. “I actually do need to talk to Shepley about those chickens,” I said. “Gertrude is out of hand.”

  Benji nodded. “But don’t do it today.”

  “Why not today?”

  She dug the toe of her Doc Marten into the ground. Doc Martens were her footwear of choice; she had at least five pairs, all in varying colors and patterns. “It’s the anniversary.”

  “Oh,” I said, knowing immediately what she meant.

  When it came to Shepley, there was only one anniversary that mattered: the anniversary of the day that his family—his wife and daughter—had died in a fire. The accident had happened over twenty years ago, but for the gardener it was like yesterday.

  The radios hanging from both of our belt loops crackled at the same time. I removed mine and held it to my mouth. “What’s up?”

  Benji gave me a forlorn look. I rolled my eyes and said, “What’s up? Over.”

  She grinned. It was her personal goal to make Farm staff use “over” to end radio calls. I was the worst at it.

  “Kelsey, we need help over at the visitor center. A young boy lost his lunch in the cafeteria, and no one is free to clean it up.” Judy’s voice came over the line. She was in charge of the museum gift shop and ticket sales. “I can’t take care of it myself. A busload of day campers just came in.”

  Benji groaned. “I’ll go.”

  “Benji is on her way. Over,” I said.

  “Great. Over and out,” Judy replied with obvious relief.

  I arched one of my dark brows. “Taking another one for the team?”

  “You bet. I’m always on your team, Kelsey. And I’ll always have your back even when I think you’re making a huge mistake, like allowing Krissie Pumpernickle to get married on our Farm.” She spun around and jogged toward the other side of the Farm.

  I watched her go. A feeling of gratitude washed over me. I knew Benji was sincere in her promise. She’d been loyal to me and the Farm for many years, having worked at the Farm every summer through high school and college. She’d just graduated from college and would be starting masters work in history that coming fall. When I’d needed a new Farm assistant last year, she’d jumped into the role despite it being the middle of her senior year. Selfishly, I was happy Benji was headed straight to grad school at a local university because I knew I’d be able to keep her on as my assistant for a few years more. I didn’t have any illusions that she would stay my assistant at Barton Farm forever—she was too smart, too ambitious, and too talented. Someday she would be running the Smithsonian.

  Why Krissie wanted to have a Civil War-themed wedding was still a mystery to me. My best friend and Farm employee, Laura Fellow, insisted it was because history was my occupation. Since Krissie had already stolen my husband, she was now after my life’s work. That was Laura’s theory, at least. Laura could be a tad dramatic at times. Scratch that. Laura was always dramatic. I think she should have been a drama professor like my father instead of a high school history teacher.

  And I should add that it’s not completely fair to say that Krissie stole my husband. My marriage to Eddie was over long before Krissie Pumpernickle bounced into his life—just after our son Hayden’s second birthday, Eddie had started an affair with a married woman. With a toddler, it had taken me a little while to catch onto what he was up to, but when I did, I didn’t hesitate to file for divorce.

  That new relationship of Eddie’s ended soon after our divorce, but it wasn’t long before he hired Krissie as a physical therapist at his PT practice and the two of them started dating. Since Krissie was eight years younger than Eddie, I’d thought she was harmless, although maybe a little annoying. How wrong I’d been. Krissie had a mission, and that mission was to steal my son’s affection to win Eddie over, marry Eddie, and make my life as difficult as possible.

  I would be lying if I didn’t admit that she was succeeding, at least at the marrying Eddie part. As far as I was concerned, she could have him. However, I would have been a little more enthused abo
ut their wedding if it wasn’t going to happen on my Farm.

  I spotted Laura, in full period dress from her petticoats to her hoop skirt, speaking with a visiting family just outside the Barton house. I hoped that she wasn’t telling them anything inaccurate. Despite being a high school history teacher, my best friend was loose when it came to historical detail. If she knew the right answer to a question, she would readily share it, but if she didn’t, she wasn’t above giving a visitor the wrong information. Once I’d heard her tell a group of schoolchildren that Benjamin Franklin wore eyeglasses because he invented them.

  “Kelsey, yoohoo!” a high pitched voice called from the edge of Maple Grove Lane.

  I cringed. There was only one person I’d met in my entire life who said “yoohoo.” It was Vianna Pine, Krissie’s wedding planner.

  Vianna was someone I disliked even more than Krissie herself. And considering that Krissie was spearheading a custody battle between Eddie and I over Hayden, that was saying something.

  two

  “Kelsey, I’m so glad I caught you. I wanted to talk again about the lights in the bell tower.” She smiled as if we were the dearest of friends, which we were not.

  This conversation was exactly why Vianna Pine put my teeth on edge. For weeks, she’d hounded me about every last detail of the wedding, and she did it all with a cheery smile on her lips and a wide-eyed, almost stunned stare, as if she were in perpetual wonder about how she’d gotten here and what she should be doing. Her heavy-handed use of the eyelash curler and mascara only made her look of surprise that much more pronounced. Despite being petite, like me, and probably about my age, Vianna and I couldn’t be more different—and not only because I’d never wear such a confused expression plastered on my face.

  When I was in graduate school, one of my classmates said he felt like he was under a microscope whenever he met my penetrating gaze, like I was always trying to figure him out. This was probably a more accurate description than I was comfortable admitting. I was, in fact, continually trying to figure people out. Yet Vianna Pine remained a mystery to me. Every so often, her wide-eyed façade seemed to slip, and I would see her scanning her surroundings with calculated precision.