The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery Read online

  “Hurry back. You don’t want to miss the bonfire.”

  “I’ll be back long before the bonfire.” Before I left her, I said, “Please, I don’t want to hear anything more about Chase, okay?”

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  My car was in the back corner of the parking lot beside the carriage house. It was an old sedan, a hand-me-down from my father. It was all I could afford on my salary at the Farm. Thankfully, the job came with a roof over my head or I would never make ends meet. Eddie paid child support for Hayden, but I had opted out of alimony. I was determined to make my own way. At the time I made that decision, Laura told me that I was crazy for turning down the money. Sometimes I agreed with her, but I would never tell her that.

  Cynthia’s home was the largest estate in the valley and sat within the park’s limits. Since her property was there before the state park was established in the 1980s, she got to keep it. With the park surrounding her land on all four sides, she had the good fortune of not having to worry about any crazy neighbors bringing down her property values. Her only neighbors were the trees, birds, and animals of the forest.

  A curved road was the only way in or out of the estate. Either side was lined with trees that bent toward each other over the road, making a broad leaf canopy. The only break in the canopy was the beginning of Cynthia’s driveway.

  Maxwell had also lived with his aunt on the sprawling property, which was big enough for him to have his own wing. That must have made his death that much more difficult for Cynthia. Despite the size of the property, she was accustomed to seeing her nephew every single day.

  The mansion sat well back from the road. Oak trees lined either side of her driveway. I pulled around in front of the house, a Tudor replica that was four stories high. I had seen houses like this when Eddie and I spent our honeymoon in England. I pushed those memories of happier times with him aside. He was getting married now. It would be best if I filed those memories in a drawer and threw away the key.

  I rang the doorbell and waited. Nothing happened. Perhaps Cynthia went to stay with friends. I knew that Maxwell was the only family she had. I was just reaching for the lion-head knocker when the door opened. I dropped my suspended hand.

  Cynthia’s butler, Miles, opened the door. I was willing to bet Cynthia was the only person in New Hartford with a butler. Miles wore a gray suit and a sour expression. He was dressed down when compared to Carson from Downton Abbey but for rural Ohio, he looked like he was ready for Wall Street.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Cambridge. How can I help you?” he drawled.

  “I would like to see Cynthia, if she’s feeling up to it.”

  Miles eyed me. “Ms. Cherry is indisposed at the moment. Since you’re coming from Barton Farm, I presume that you know why. She is devastated by the murder of her beloved nephew. It’s been a terrible shock for the entire house.” He started to close the door.

  I stuck my foot over the threshold to stop him. “Can you at least ask her if she is up to seeing visitors?”

  Miles’s scowl deepened. “Please wait here.”

  I yanked at the end of my braid while I waited. It was a nervous habit left over from my childhood. When I realized what I was doing, I dropped my hair. It reminded me of Portia, who had constantly played with her hair when I met her. Where was she today?

  The door opened again. Miles stepped back into view. “Ms. Cherry would like to see you.”

  “Thank you,” I said meekly.

  I stepped into the home. The front door opened into an entryway that was twice the size of my living room. In fact, I knew that I could fit my entire cottage inside the front hall and have room to spare. The floor was some type of mosaic. Instead of staying in keeping with the Tudor exterior, the best way to describe Cynthia’s home was eccentric. I knew each room represented a different region of the world, and the entry was an homage to the Middle East.

  Miles led me to the solarium. Since the solarium faced west, the force of the late-afternoon rays spilled into the room. While the entry was Middle Eastern, the solarium was appropriately decorated like the tropics. Large potted palm trees and succulents dominated the space. The furniture was in keeping with the Caribbean colors of peach, cream, and turquoise.

  Cynthia sat in a sunny spot on a chaise longue. Despite the heat, she had an afghan wrapped around her shoulders and a second one tucked around her legs. I could have been wrong, but I thought that she was shivering. Was being cold a symptom of congestive heart failure, or grief?

  The wall of windows she faced overlooked the Cherry estate. A great blue heron swooped down and stole a koi from Cynthia’s lake. “How dreadful. Miles, please ask the gardener to find a way to scare the herons away from the pond. I hate the idea of losing any more fish.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Miles bowed.

  “And please have a tea tray brought up for Ms. Cambridge and me. Something sugary. I have no intention of eating healthy on this day.”

  He nodded and walked backward out of the room.

  I had almost expected him to say “my lady” and was disappointed when he did not.

  Cynthia untangled one of her arms from the afghan and held out her left hand to me. “Kelsey, it was good of you to come. It’s been a most terrible day, and I’m happy to see a friendly face.”

  I squeezed her hand. “How are you?”

  She patted a tissue to the side of her red nose. “I’m all right. But any time I think of poor Maxwell, I burst into tears. He was the only family I had, you see.”

  I sat on the edge of the ottoman at her feet and squeezed her hand. “I know that. It must be so hard.”

  “I’ve outlived all of them—my parents, my sisters and brother, my nieces, and now my nephew. It doesn’t seem fair that I would have the burden of being the last person standing. No one wants to be the one left behind. Everyone wants to be the first to go, so that you can avoid the sting of separation.”

  I didn’t know what I would do if I lost Hayden before I died. I shivered. I couldn’t even entertain the thought.

  “I keep expecting Maxwell to march into the solarium for our afternoon tea and complain about something or other. I know he could be difficult at times. But every day, he took the time to sit down with me, sip a cup of tea, and tell me about his vision for the Cherry Foundation. Some of his ideas I didn’t agree with, but I was happy that he was so impassioned for the responsibility that he was willing to spend time with his elderly aunt to talk about it.”

  I chewed on the inside of my lip. Maxwell had been a greedy and selfish person, but his aunt still loved him, reminding me that everyone leaves someone behind to mourn him when he dies. If he doesn’t, then the life—as well as the death—is a true tragedy.

  Miles returned with the tea tray. There was a Royal Doulton teapot in the middle of the tray with two teacups and saucers. It also had silverware that was surely made with real silver. I wouldn’t expect Cynthia to dine on anything less.

  Cynthia thanked Miles, and he walked backward out of the room again. It was a wonder that he was able to do that without running into a palm tree. I would have taken them all out by that point.

  “I’m so very sorry about Maxwell,” I said as I poured her a cup of tea. My words sounded empty. I was sorry. I was sorry for Cynthia. I was even sorry for Maxwell. He may have been a ruthless business man, but no one deserved to die that way.

  “I know that Maxwell wasn’t well liked. He was a shrewd person. Very few people got to see his softer side. I did. Portia did.” She covered her face with her hand. “Every time I think of the poor girl, it brings me to tears. She and Maxwell had their whole lives in front of them. I’m ashamed to say that I was already daydreaming about having children on the estate again.” A tear fell onto her lap.

  I focused on making my own tea in order to give her a moment to compose herself. I added cream and sugar to my cup.
Considering the surroundings, I thought it was appropriate to take my tea the British way. “Have you seen Portia today?”

  She nodded. “Of course I have. She was in the breakfast room this morning and then at luncheon. Although neither of us felt much like eating.”

  I nearly dropped my teacup. “She lives here.”

  “Why, yes.” She shook her finger at me. “It’s not what you think. I would not stand by any hanky-panky in my home.”

  I choked on my tea with the unwelcome mental image of Maxwell and hanky-panky.

  “But the house has several wings. It seemed silly for Portia to keep throwing away her money to rent an apartment when they were engaged. She lives in the east wing, where I am, and Maxwell lived in the west.”

  “Is Portia here now?”

  She nodded. “I imagine she’s in her suite. She only came down for the meals because I asked her to.”

  I sipped my tea. I wanted to ask about the future of the foundation and, by extension, the future of Barton Farm, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Cynthia relieved me of that worry.

  She set her tea still untouched on the small glass table beside her. “I know my mind should not be whirling with practicalities now, but it cannot be helped. I have so many affairs to put in order. I have called my lawyers and they will be here in droves tomorrow.”

  “Because of the foundation?” I asked.

  She nodded. “All of it was to go to Maxwell to be used as he saw fit. He understood my vision for how the foundation should operate. He would have done the right thing.”

  Maxwell may have understood her vision, but I doubted he planned to carry it out.

  Cynthia picked up her teacup from the side table between us but did not sip from it. “Now I don’t know who will take over the foundation. I don’t have any more family, not even a distant cousin.”

  “I’m sorry, Cynthia.” I wrapped my hands around my teacup.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “There are Maxwell’s businesses to worry over too, though I suppose most of those will go to Jamie.”

  “Who’s Jamie?” I set my own teacup on the table and selected a pink petite four from the tray.

  “Jamie Houck is—was—Maxwell’s partner at the investment firm. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him. He’s an avid reenactor. Maxwell said all he had spoken about for weeks was the reenactment at Barton Farm.”

  Maxwell’s business partner was a reenactor. That meant he would have been on the grounds at one in the morning last night when Jason heard the screams. That meant he was a viable suspect. The more suspects there were, the better it was for me to put doubt in the chief’s head about my own guilt.

  “Is he on the Union or Confederate side?”

  “The Confederate, I think. At least when I saw him on the battlefield yesterday his uniform was gray. I didn’t bring it to anyone’s attention because Maxwell and Jamie had a small disagreement earlier this week. I wanted us to have a nice visit without any disturbances.”

  Maxwell and Jamie had had a disagreement just that week! It was too good to be true. I was already trying Jamie for the murder in my head because, of course, Maxwell’s business partner would know about Maxwell’s allergy to bees. I frowned. But how would he have access to insulin? Unless he or someone else he was close to was diabetic. Had he purposely framed me because he knew my father was diabetic and I would be the number-one suspect?

  “You seem to be lost in thought.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

  “You must have so much on your mind about the reenactment and now Maxwell’s death. Has it had a big impact on the Farm?”

  “The chief closed the village for the morning, so we sold tickets at a lesser rate today. But he allowed us to have it reopened by midafternoon.”

  “I’m glad. Chief Duffy is a good man, and he will find out what happened to my nephew.”

  “So Jamie was unhappy with Maxwell. Was anyone else?”

  She ran her fingers over the edge of the afghan. “I don’t think so. His argument with Jamie wasn’t anything the two boys wouldn’t have patched up eventually. I’m sure it had to do with real estate. It was their latest venture.”

  I asked my next question carefully. “Did he tell you if he planned to change or remove the funding from any of the organizations that the Cherry Foundation supports?”

  The afghan fell from her shoulders. “Take funding from? Maxwell would never do that.”

  If Cynthia didn’t know about him removing funding from Barton Farm, I wasn’t going to tell her and tarnish her memory of her nephew, however misguided that memory may be. Maybe Portia knew more about her fiancé’s business dealings.

  “How many organizations does the Cherry Foundation support?”

  She was thoughtful. “Too many to count. I love to give away money. My father always said that you will never regret giving someone a gift. I believe that. All my contributions to nonprofits are gifts. My father made a fortune in the tire industry. It is my privilege to give it away.”

  “Did Maxwell feel the same way?” I asked. I knew that her heir did not. He constantly complained about the thousands of dollars she poured into the Farm with little, in his eyes, return on the investment.

  “Oh, yes. Maxwell was a giver too.”

  I bit my tongue and fought the urge to correct her. Maxwell hadn’t been a giver; far, far from it.

  “It’s hard to know what to do now. I relied on Maxwell for advice.”

  “You don’t have to think about the Foundation now. Take care of yourself.” I brushed crumbs from my lap.

  “But so many depend on the organization. Decisions cannot wait until I have recovered.” She pulled the afghan back over her shoulder. “I was considering donating to the New Hartford Beautification Committee’s wildflower project. It was a plan to reintroduce native wildflowers to portions of the state park and town. It was in conjunction with the park rangers of course, but all the seeds and planting equipment had to be donated.”

  “This was the project that Shepley is involved with?” I tucked the afghan in behind her, so that it wouldn’t slip off again.

  “Thank you.” She nodded. “And yes, Shepley is in charge of the project. It sounded like a wonderful program and Shepley has the expertise to support it.”

  “Have you changed your mind?”

  She shook her head. “No, but it’s difficult to make any plans for the future now. I have to rethink everything.” She frowned. “I’m not well, you see.”

  I squeezed her free hand.

  “I fear my time is close,” she whispered.

  “No, Cynthia, don’t say that. You have years ahead of you.”

  She shook her head. “I need to get my affairs in order. Tomorrow, my lawyers will help me do that. My father always said to keep your ducks in a row. I don’t want to leave a mess behind for whoever might come after me.”

  My chest tightened at the thought of losing Cynthia. She was like the eccentric favorite aunt I never had. It was difficult to think of Barton Farm without her. I didn’t even know if the Farm could survive without her.

  She squeezed my hand. “You’ve been a treasure to me, Kelsey. I know Barton Farm is in good hands with you at the helm. And don’t worry. I will make sure the Farm is taken care of. I won’t let anything happen to it, even after I’m gone.”

  I held back tears. “Thank you.” It just showed what kind of person Cynthia was that she thought of the Farm and of me in the midst of her grief. I had to find out who killed Maxwell not just to save myself and the Farm, but for Cynthia. This selfless woman deserved closure, and I was the one who would give it to her.

  Cynthia’s maid stepped into the room. “Ma’am, your bath is ready. A nice soak in the tub will do you a world of good.”

  Cynthia nodded, but her spirits were still down. “Thank you, Marguerite
. That sounds lovely.” She started to remove the blankets wrapped around her body. I stood and tried to help her.

  The maid hurried over and stepped between Cynthia and me. “I will help her.”

  I let my hands fall. Marguerite helped Cynthia to her feet. In her pink tracksuit, Cynthia looked even smaller and frailer. She said that she didn’t have much time, and seeing her sway back and forth in Marguerite’s arms, I had to agree—no matter how painful it was to admit.

  The woman led Cynthia to the door and looked back at me. “I will ring Miles for you.”

  “No need,” I said. “I’ll show myself out.”

  She nodded and led Cynthia from the solarium. I walked down the hall, heading for the front door until I could no longer hear their voices, and then I went in search of Portia Bitner.

  nineteen

  Cynthia had said that Portia’s room was in the east wing. How would I find the right door in a house so large? And I knew if Miles found me wandering the mansion, he would have me thrown out.

  Footsteps clicked on the tile in the front hallway. Portia herself appeared, then pulled up short when she saw me. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose red, and she didn’t have any makeup on. In grief, she was somehow more beautiful. Maybe I misjudged her. As hard as it was for me to believe, maybe this beautiful young woman really had loved Maxwell.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” she asked.

  I raised my eyebrows at her reaction. “I was checking in on Cynthia.”

  Her face cleared. “Yes, of course you would. That was kind of you.”

  “I’m so sorry about Maxwell.”

  She gasped and covered her mouth. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Cynthia said that you live here.”

  She blushed. “Maxwell and I live in separate wings. When the lease was up on my apartment earlier this year, Maxwell thought it was prudent for me to move into the mansion before the wedding. There is plenty of space. I could go a whole day without seeing him. He was a very busy man.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “But now I don’t know how much longer I’ll be staying here. Poor Maxwell. How can I think of myself at a time like this? Who could have done such a horrid act?”