The Final Reveille: A Living History Museum Mystery Page 13

  “Wesley?” I asked

  She dropped her hand. “He would never.”

  “He seemed pretty upset yesterday about Maxwell.” I folded my arms.

  “He wouldn’t.” She shook her head back and forth like a toddler. “Did you tell the police about that?”

  “I had to.”

  “Wesley wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “He was there as part of the reenactment.”

  “I—I have to go.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Did you see Jamie Houck at the reenactment yesterday?”

  She turned. “Jamie?” Her eyes grew wide. “Yes. He’s the one you should be talking to the police about.” She combed her long black ponytail with her fingers. “If anyone wanted to hurt Maxwell, it was him.”

  I could tell Portia liked the idea of Jamie being the killer instead of Wesley. “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “He and Maxwell had a terrible fight last week.” She tugged on her hair. “I was at Maxwell’s office waiting to go to lunch with him when Jamie stomped inside. He slammed Maxwell’s door, and I heard them screaming at each other. It was awful.”

  “What where they screaming about?”

  She dropped her ponytail. “It sounded like a real estate deal that went bad. Maxwell and Jamie were buying land for development.”

  “What kind of development?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maxwell always told me not to worry about it when I asked. He told me that he would make sure I wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again.” Tears fell from her eyes. “What am I going to do now without him?”

  Again, I wondered how this young woman attached herself to Maxwell Cherry and became so dependent on him. I tucked a flyaway hair behind my ear. “I know I didn’t memorize the entire of roster of reenactors who are at Barton Farm this weekend, but I can’t recall ever seeing the name Jamie Houck.”

  “Maxwell told me that he uses another name when he’s reenacting because he doesn’t want any of the reenactors to ask him for money.”

  “What’s the name he uses?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Behind me, someone cleared his throat. I turned to find Miles glowering down at me. “Ms. Cambridge, did you lose your way when leaving the house?”

  I smiled brightly. “Nope. I was sharing my condolences with Portia.”

  “Very good,” he said. “But as this has been a difficult day for the entire household, I must ask you to leave.”

  “Sure thing.” I looked back to say good-bye to Portia, but she was already gone.

  As I drove back to the Farm, I drummed my fingers on my steering wheel. How was I going to find out which reenactor was Jamie Houck in disguise? At least I knew to start with the Confederates since Cynthia saw him the day before in a gray uniform. I wished that I had gotten the chance to speak to her again after talking to Portia. Cynthia might have known his nom de plume when reenacting. But I couldn’t disturb her again. I would assign the task of discovery Jamie’s identity to Ashland. She would enjoy it.

  By the time I turned into the Farm’s parking lot, there was a long line of cars leaving through the main exit. The Farm closed at five o’clock, and it was only a few minutes till. I parked my car beside the supply shed and sighed. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about the visitors on the grounds again until ten o’clock the next morning. As long as the reenactors didn’t start brawling again, I could concentrate all my efforts on trying to find out who killed Maxwell.

  The first order of business was to find Ashland to see what she had learned about the other nonprofits and Jason, and to give her the new research assignment.

  I entered the visitor center from the side entrance and found Judy at the ticket counter, counting the money from the cash drawer. When I approached, she held up a finger and kept counting. After she finished the stack of fives, she looked up. “We did very well today, Kelsey, even with selling the tickets at a discount. I’ve never seen ticket sales like this before. It’s hard to believe that Saturday and Sunday promise to be even bigger days.”

  I smiled. “At least that’s something that has gone right this weekend. Is Laura here?”

  “She just radioed from the village. She is doing the rounds to make sure all the buildings are locked up tight.”

  “That’s great. It gives me one less thing to do.”

  Judy sniffed. “I’m happy that Laura is pitching in like that, but it is my opinion that Ashland should be the one checking the buildings. She is the assistant director. She’s been cooped up in your office all afternoon playing on the computer. It’s no wonder the girl is as pale as a sheet.”

  “Don’t worry about Ashland,” I said. “She’s doing some research for me.”

  Judy frowned but said nothing more.

  I went to my office to find Ashland, but despite Judy’s complaint that Ashland had spent the entire afternoon in my office, my assistant wasn’t there. I picked up the radio that I had left on my desk before going to Cynthia’s and radioed her.

  “Kelsey, I’m glad you’re back,” her voice crackled through the radio.

  “Meet me near the Union camp,” I said.

  I passed a few straggling visitors heading to the exit as I went out the sliding glass doors into the Farm. Ashland was already waiting for me at the Union camp.

  As the reenactment was officially over for the day, some of the reenactors had removed their flak jackets and cartridge boxes. They leaned their rifles against the trees and hung their coats from them. They sat on camp stools in their white undershirts and suspenders. Dirt marred their shirts and faces, but they were smiling. It had been a good day for history.

  Ashland smiled. “This really is amazing, Kelsey. Having the reenactment on the Farm was a stroke of genius.”

  I tried not to beam at her praise and failed. “Thanks.”

  “How was your errand?”

  “Informative,” I said “I went to see Cynthia.”

  Ashland shivered. “Cynthia? Why?”

  I frowned. “I wanted to tell her I was sorry about Maxwell.” I told Ashland what I had learned.

  Her brow wrinkled. “Jamie Houck. There is no one by that name on the reenactor roster. I memorized it.”

  Of course she did.

  In front of us, reenactors removed their powder bags and rifles from their shoulders and dropped them in front of their tents.

  I shielded my eyes and scanned the men for Chase. “He’s reenacting under a fake name.”

  “How very strange,” she murmured.

  “I want you to find out which reenactor he is.” I dropped my hand.

  “I can do that. I’ll take a copy of the reenactor roster home and work on it from there.”

  “Are you coming back for the bonfire? Everyone on the Farm’s staff is invited. It should start around eight.”

  A strange look crossed over her face. “I don’t think so. It’s been a long day. I think I just want to go home.”

  I was about to ask her if she was all right when my father walked up to us in his costume for Hamlet’s father’s ghost, which consisted of tights, a black robe, and metal breastplate. The drawn on eye circles and smattering of fake cobwebs in his hair and across the front of the breastplate gave him the perfect “I’m dead” look. Dad held out his left arm and recited, “Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.”

  “I have to go. I’ll grab that roster.” Ashland fled.

  Dad put a hand to his chest. “Does she not appreciate Shakespeare?”

  I gave him a look. “Considering this morning’s discovery, you walking around spouting off about foul murders is a tad insensitive.”

  “Bah,” my father said and adjusted a piece of cobweb on his breastplate. “It shows that Shakespeare is timeless and that fou
l murder is a universal problem still today, even in our happy little museum bubble.”

  I couldn’t argue with him on that point. “I’m guessing tonight is dress rehearsal.”

  “Yes, and you still plan to be there tomorrow night for the opening performance?”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there. Laura is coming with me.”

  “Very good.” He sighed. “I do wish you would relent and let Hayden to come along too. I want our boy to see my big performance.”

  “He’s a little young for Shakespeare. Let’s wait until he’s at least through kindergarten.”

  “I suppose that’s all right.” He whipped his cloak over his shoulder. “I’m off to the theater!” With that, he strutted away, chest and chin out.

  Walt Whitman walked by me carrying a dish of rice and beans. “Perhaps that reenactor is off by a few centuries?”

  I didn’t bother to respond.

  twenty

  As the sun began to dip in the west, the reenactors built a large bonfire in the middle of the two encampments. They skewered hot dogs and marshmallows with their ramrods and held them over the flame. A Southern private strummed a banjo. Brown jugs were passed back and forth. The reenactors told me there was no alcohol at the reenactment, but I suspected that some of those jugs held much more than water. And Wesley Mayes had gotten wasted last night on something a lot stronger than apple cider. After the day I had, I was tempted to ask for a swig.

  The fire cast shadows on the planes and grooves in the reenactors’ faces. I almost felt like I was stepping back in time to the Civil War. It was hard to believe the battles were only a hundred and fifty years ago. In the grand scheme of human history, that was like last week.

  Abraham Lincoln stood silhouetted by the flames and was yet again repeating the Gettysburg Address.

  In the firelight, it was hard to make out the soldiers’ features and tell one from another. Their uniforms were similar and that made it difficult to find someone too. I stepped through the Union camp, looking for one particular soldier: Wesley Mayes, the person I thought had the most reason to want Maxwell dead. There was much that was left unsaid from the conversation we’d had that afternoon. I found him, but he was not alone. Chase Wyatt was with him.

  Wesley sat on a log on the edge on the encampment. He held a pipe in his right hand. In his left was another brown jug. By his erratic movements, I knew it didn’t hold root beer. No one liked root beer that much.

  Chase scooted over on his log to make enough space for me to sit. It was either that or the ground. I couldn’t stand over them like a dictator.

  I perched on the log. The space was small and it was impossible to keep our legs from touching. I tried to ignore the fact that my left leg was pressed up against Chase’s right one.

  Chase held out a metal plate to me. “S’more?”

  I took one. A string of marshmallow trailed from the plate. With as much dignity as I could, I pulled the cracker away.

  Chase winked at me. “Wesley here was just telling me about Portia.”

  Wesley took another swig of from his jug. “Portia. I was never good enough for Portia.”

  Chase watched the fire about fifty yards away from us. “Wesley says he was the one who introduced Portia to Maxwell. Isn’t that interesting?”

  That was interesting.

  Chase put his lips just inches from my ear. I would have moved away, but then I would have fallen off of the log. “The guy is smashed. If you have any questions for him, you’d better ask them fast before he passes out.”

  “How did you know Maxwell?” I asked Wesley.

  “He was my boss.” He almost dropped the jug but caught it at the last second. “I was a clerk in his office while I was in college. Portia was my girl.” He whimpered.

  “What exactly was Maxwell’s business?” I asked.

  Wesley wiped spittle from his cheek. “He’s a venture capitalist. He invested money in stuff to make more money. Making more money is always priority number one.”

  “What did he invest in?”

  “Mostly property.”

  “What kind of property? Where?”

  “All over. His big project was the new mall that’s supposed to happen on Kale Road.”

  I wrinkled my brow. “That’s the one that’s been under construction for almost four years.”

  He nodded. “Two of the big chain stores that said they would anchor the new mall pulled out because of the economy. Without the big anchors, the little boutique and smaller shops dropped out too. The anchors claimed the new mall was too close to the Chapel Hill and Summit malls since it’s sort of in between the two.”

  “Did he lose money?” I swatted a mosquito that buzzed my ear.

  Wesley laughed bitterly. “He lost hundreds of thousands, maybe a million. Maxwell was the top investor.”

  Chase whistled. “How did he keep his business from going under?”

  “He laid off about half the office two years ago. I left on my own because I saw the writing on the wall and I’d just finished college. Thankfully, I was able to get a job at a bank. And he always has his aunt to fall back on. I guess he could just ask her for money. She has buckets of it.”

  “Do you know what Maxwell’s financial situation is now?” I dug the toe of my sneaker into the grass.

  “No, but I know that the ground where the new mall is supposed to go is still torn up and there’s no building going on. I assume if he had the money or a buy-in by a new anchor store, construction would have started by now. It’s midsummer. Starting construction too late in the year would be a mistake. Everything will screech to a halt when winter comes.”

  It sounded like it already had.

  “Does the name Jamie Houck mean anything to you?”

  Beside me, I felt Chase watching me.

  “Houck was his business partner. They bought real estate together.”

  “Do you know what he looks like? Have you met him?”

  Wesley shook his head. “I heard the name around Maxwell’s office, but they always met somewhere else. I never saw him. He could be here for all I know.”

  Interesting he would say that since according to Cynthia, Jamie was somewhere in the reenactment.

  “How exactly did Maxwell meet Portia?” I asked, steering the conversation away from Jamie Houck.

  “I brought her to my last work Christmas party. It never even occurred to me that she would leave me for Maxwell. The guy was like thirty years older than her. It’s just more proof to me that money was more important to her than love.”

  “Did Portia need money?”

  “Everyone needs money.” He took another gulp from the brown jug.

  “Sure they do,” Chase said. “But not everyone is willing to marry for it.”

  Wesley raised his jug. “It was definitely for the money. Portia may look like she has money, but she has nothing. Many times I paid her portion of our rent or for all the groceries. I’ll never see any of that money now,” he said bitterly.

  “When did you leave Maxwell’s office?”

  “About a year and half ago.”

  “And when did Portia dump you?” Chase asked.

  “Six months ago. She claimed it was because she wanted to pursue her career and couldn’t have any distractions, but now I know that was a lie. She was probably already with Maxwell when she dumped me.” He lifted the jug to his lips. “I’m so stupid. I will never trust a woman again.”

  “Not all women are like Portia,” Chase said. “There are a lot of kind and honest women out there.”

  “Let me know when you find one, because I don’t know any.”

  Chase bumped my shoulder. “I have one sitting right next to me.”

  I shifted to the edge of log. How could he even say that about me? He didn’t know me. He didn’t know anything abou
t me. How did he know I was kind and honest after two days?

  “After you quit the investment firm, did you ever see Maxwell again?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. Not until I saw him yesterday with Portia on his arm. Why did she come here if she wanted to keep it a secret? She knew I was a reenactor. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid. She came here to hurt me.” He took another swig from the jug.

  She did know, I thought. That was why she didn’t want to tour the encampments when she first arrived on Farm grounds. I tried to recall if Maxwell acted like he recognized Wesley. I couldn’t remember, but at the time I was more worried about whether or not Wesley was about to deck Maxwell than with observing Maxwell’s facial expression.

  Chase leaned on his knee and put his cheek in his hand. “Is there any hope for you and Portia now that Maxwell’s out of the picture?”

  “No.” A tear fell from his cheek into the dirt. “She doesn’t love me anymore.”

  “Are you sure?” Chase asked. “Maybe she didn’t want to marry Maxwell. You said it was for the money. How do you know she doesn’t love you?”

  Wesley raised his jug. “She’ll find another sugar daddy,” he said bitterly.

  “What did you do after Portia left the Farm yesterday?” Chase asked.

  He laughed. “I got hammered. It was the only thing I could do. This morning, I woke up with the mother of all hangovers.”

  At least that matched the story he gave me earlier that afternoon.

  “Have you ever had a hangover at a Civil War camp?” Wesley asked Chase.

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t advise it.”

  “Maybe you should lay off the hard cider or you’ll be in the same place tomorrow.”

  “Ehh,” Wesley said and took another pull from the bottle.

  My hand fell from my lap and knocked into Chase’s. For half a second he hooked his fingers around mine. I jerked my hand away and jumped out of my seat.