by Eva Gates
The last lecture of the day was to be on the Lost Colony and the Roanoke Island Freedmen’s Colony. My bit of reading yesterday had simply whetted my appetite to learn more, so I found myself a seat in a center row. Janelle Washington took the chair beside me, tucking her skirts around her.
“The twins okay?” I asked.
“My mother-in-law’s watching them,” she said, “so I can pay attention to this talk. I was so hoping Neil would be able to come with us today, but his back was acting up something terrible this morning, and he had to bow out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It must be tough for you—for both of you.”
She turned to me with a radiant smile. “It’s hard sometimes, but a lot of folks have it a lot harder. His parents are a great help with the twins. Neil texted me just now to say he’s feeling better and will have supper ready when we get home. Not that we’ll need anything for supper with the hot dogs and baked goods and ice cream the girls have been devouring all day, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.”
I chuckled and glanced around me, interested to see how many people wanted to hear the lecture. Most of the seats were taken. Professors McArthur and Hoskins stood at the back, behind the last row of chairs. Neither of them had happy smiles on their faces. I suspected they were attending the talk in order to find fault with it.
A rustle of anticipation ran through the crowd, and I twisted in my seat. The speaker, a short, round man in a tweed suit with a red bow tie, was standing at the edge of the stage, flipping through his notes.
“I’m surprised she’s come to this,” Janelle said.
I followed her gaze to see Cheryl Monaghan settling herself into a seat in the front row. Two seats, in fact, needed to accommodate all her skirts. The woman in the row behind her shifted over because the hat was blocking her view. “Why does that surprise you?” I asked. “It should be interesting.”
“All Cheryl and her husband care about is ripping up the precious environment to make a couple of bucks. Nothing about the people or the history. Particularly not our history.”
The speaker took his place in front of the microphone and cleared his throat, and Janelle and I settled back to listen.
The topic was fascinating, but the speaker was so dry they could rent him out to put fractious infants to sleep. He droned on and on and on, in a low steady monotone, never once looking up from his notes. I noticed more than a few people shifting uncomfortably in their seats and heard the rustle of fabric as the lucky people in the back rows got up and slipped quietly away.
Janelle leaned over and whispered to me, “I’m going to suggest they vet their speakers better next year. First that woman from Blacklock, and now this guy. I don’t know where they get them.”
“Not that there aren’t interesting and knowledgeable people living around here,” I whispered back.
“They should have used Louise Jane,” Janelle replied.
“Shush!” a man chastised us.
Janelle and I exchanged glances and struggled not to laugh.
As the lecture continued, my thoughts began to wander. Mabel Eastland’s opening words had been short and to the point. She simply thanked everyone for coming and acknowledged the board of the historical society, the volunteers, and Connor as the mayor. She thanked Bertie for providing the library grounds and then mentioned Jeremy Hughes’s contribution to the day. Whereupon Maya climbed onto the stage and began a recitation of Jeremy’s numerous virtues, managing at the same time to make sure we all knew what a solid support she’d always been to him and how much she’d shared his interests. She looked to be settling in for the duration when Mabel stepped forward, yanked the mic away, thanked her, and introduced the next speaker.
I realized that all the people I considered to be the prime suspects in the murder of Jeremy Hughes were here: Phil from the historical society board, who had no love lost for Jeremy; Maya, the not-grieving widow; Lynne, the soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend; Curtis and Diane, who’d been at the initial inspection of the found documents; Professors McArthur and Hoskins, desperate for the career boost they’d get if the diary turned out to be important—as long as they had possession of it.
The printouts of the code page and the map were still on my kitchen table, and I still glanced at them every time I passed, but I’d largely given up hope of being able to decipher the code. So many people had tried, but all to no avail. Maybe it was nothing but a pile of nonsense scribblings or in a language so obscure none of us recognized it.
At long, long last the speaker droned to a halt. A scattering of polite applause broke out, and I joined in.
What a shame,” Janelle said.
“You mean the talk?”
“The history of the Freedmen’s Colony is so important, not to mention fascinating, and he managed to make it about as interesting as the verbal equivalent of watching paint dry.”
“I’ve an idea,” I said. “At the Lighthouse Library we take our history seriously. Why don’t you talk to Charlene about putting together an exhibit about the Colony? Maybe you could give a talk on it yourself.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I don’t know enough.”
“You know more than most of us. Give it some thought. Something aimed at the children maybe.”
A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “I just might do that. Give it some thought, I mean. Neil is the storyteller in our family, not me.”
I got to my feet. It was quarter to six, and the day was supposed to be wrapping up, but not many people seemed inclined to leave, and many of the booths were still doing a brisk business. The scent of roasting meat from the hot dog cart and the food truck drifted on the air, and the shouts of excited children came from the marsh and the construction play area.
Connor and my Uncle Amos were standing apart from the crowd, talking. I could tell by the set to their faces that they were discussing something serious. Ronald was pretending to make his parrot talk to a group of children while Nan smiled at him fondly. Charlene and her mother had stayed to the end after all and were watching the clown twist balloons into fantastic animals. Josie and her staff were in the process of breaking down her booth. Every item on the blackboard had been scratched out. Mrs. Eastland and Lynne Feingold chatted to Bertie and Mrs. Fitzgerald, and Maya Hughes and Cheryl Monaghan had taken seats together. I hadn’t realized they knew each other. Phil Cahill was still at his table, showing a family his books. McArthur and Hoskins stood in line at the food truck.
I didn’t see Sam Watson anywhere.
I’d spoken to Detective Watson an hour ago, but he hadn’t arrived. Maybe something had come up. He had other cases on his desk, although I’d have assumed a murder investigation took priority.
Diane and Curtis were standing by themselves, and I realized I hadn’t spoken to them yet today. I didn’t like either of them much, and I didn’t trust their intentions for my beloved library, but it never hurt to be polite. I said goodbye to Janelle and went to join Curtis and Diane, still clutching the book that was to be my mother’s present.
“You look great, Curtis,” I said. “Totally authentic. Congratulations on your award.”
He smiled at me. Another first. “Thanks, Lucy. Civil War history is an important part of my life. My great-great-grandfather served in the army of the Confederacy. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t. Of course, I’m a Yankee myself.” My father’s family could trace their lineage back to Revolutionary Boston.
“We’ll forgive you,” Diane said. I didn’t think she was joking.
“Heritage is important to us Southerners,” Curtis said.
“So it should be,” I said.
“My grandfather was a highly decorated officer, who went undercover behind Yankee lines. Very dangerous job. I—”
“All of our history is important,” I interrupted. “Janelle Washington and I have an idea for a library presentation on the Freedmen’s Colony. Her husband’s ancestors were part of it.”
Diane
stifled a yawn.
“Are you getting anywhere with the code page, Lucy?” Curtis shifted his belt, and his sword jangled.
“Afraid not. We’ve all pretty much given up trying. Sam Watson was going to ask some people who work in cryptography to have a look at it, but he warned me that they have more immediate problems to handle first, and it might be a long time before they get around to it. Probably a waste of time. It means nothing.”
“It means something, Lucy. It has to. I know it.”
I was surprised by the vehemence in his voice.
“Can we leave now, Curtis?” Diane said. “I’m sick and tired of hearing about that silly map.” She turned to me. “It’s all he talks about anymore. The map, the map, the map. Trying to figure out what those nonsense scribbles mean. As if Civil War treasure and military reports are sitting around waiting to be found. Any decent treasure would have been dug up long ago. Oh look—the jewelry booth lady is starting to pack up. I’ve decided to get that necklace after all.” She tottered away, her sharp heels digging into the grass.
I wanted to get going also. I should start saying my goodbyes and help with the chairs and anything else that needed doing. But that little something that had been niggling at the back of my mind for days was tapping on my consciousness, begging to be allowed in. Something about the map …
“That was a great day, Lucy. Be sure and thank everyone for us, will you?” Mrs. Fitzgerald called as she and a group of her library volunteer friends headed for their cars, giving me a wave as they passed.
“You should make this an annual event,” one of them said.
The booths were being torn down now, and parents were rounding up tired children. Ronald and Connor helped stack chairs, and Charlene wheeled her mother, a huge smile on her face and clutching a balloon in the shape of an elephant to her chest, down the path. A flock of Canada geese flew overhead.
“Sam’s getting help with the code, is he?” Curtis said. “That’s good. Is he here today? I didn’t see him.”
“He didn’t come. Probably still working on the murder.”
“Oh yeah. That. I’ll ask him to let me know if he learns anything. Just ’cause I’m interested, you know. Civil War history’s a hobby of mine.”
“Diane said you’ve been trying to decipher the code page. You’re not getting anywhere either?”
“No. It’s tough.” Curtis shrugged, appearing to lose interest, but the intense expression in his eyes meant he couldn’t quite pull off the casual look.
“You’re obviously interested in the war itself, but I get the feeling this is something more personal for you, isn’t it, Curtis?” That was just a guess on my part. I remembered how at book club he’d talked proudly of his ancestors’ participation in the Civil War, how Mrs. Fitzgerald had laughed in his face, and his furious expression.
“Folks around here say my great-great-grandfather was a deserter. That’s not true!” Curtis’s voice rose. “He had letters, commissions from the army, ordering him to go behind enemy lines. It was dangerous work. The most dangerous. The most valuable. If he’d been found with those orders, they’d have killed him. So he had to bury them. He intended to go back for them later, when the war was won and it was safe.”
“But that didn’t happen.”
“No. He suffered an injury, a blow to the head. He couldn’t remember. He died in disgrace not long after the war ended.”
Whether that was true or not, and I thought it highly unlikely, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Curtis believed it was true.
He turned quickly away from me. “What’s Diane found to spend her money on now? Time to round her up and get going.”
“The map’s not helping?” I hoped I was better at pretending causal disinterest than Curtis was.
“Nope. Nothing there I can find.” He took one step away from me and then froze momentarily before spinning on his heels and facing me once again. “’Course I only got a quick glimpse of it when we all did.”
And the nagging feeling burst out of that quiet spot in the back of my head into my brain.
“No, Curtis. You didn’t.” I drew up a mental picture. People gathered in Bertie’s office, eager to see the diary and its contents. Jeremy, wanting to begin examining it right then and there; Bertie telling him he’d have to wait for Charlene to supervise. Everyone clustered around the desk. Everyone but me, because I let the others get close, thinking I could see it later. And Curtis, who stood against the wall. “I remember now. On Monday at five, when everyone else was jostling at Bertie’s desk for the best view of the diary and its contents, you didn’t join them, Curtis. You kept yourself too far away to read anything. But at book club the other night, you knew the number seven was drawn in the ocean.”
His eyes narrowed, and he gave me a look I didn’t care for. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Lucy. Diane told me what was on the map.”
“Diane did no such thing. I don’t like to be rude, not too rude anyway, but Diane has no interest in the diary, the map, or the code page. She wouldn’t have remembered anything about it, not unless the code had been written on the inside of a diamond ring.”
Curtis shifted his sword belt. “You’d be right about that, Lucy, except that someone mentioned the word treasure. That got Diane’s attention fast enough.”
“Perhaps it did. But not enough to memorize the numbers on the map. At that time we were interested in the possible historical significance of the diary. The only reason you can possibly know what’s written on the map, Curtis, is because you’ve looked closely at it. You didn’t do that on Monday. No one has a copy.” Except me, but I saw no reason to mention that. “Which has to mean you have the original. But it’s proving to be of no use to you, as you can’t figure out what it means. At first I thought Diane meant you’d been trying to work out the code from the few notes you took when we were looking at it at book club, but that’s not it either, is it? You have the original copy of the code page as well as the map, but you can’t decipher it. That’s why you came to book club, hoping we’d provide the key you need. I should have realized at the time that Diane wouldn’t be the least bit interested in talking about Journey to the Center of the Earth. Diane doesn’t care about books at all. I went to her house after Jonathan died, and she was planning to throw out his entire library to make a bigger room.”
Curtis’s eyes narrowed. He gripped the hilt of his fake sword and took a step toward me. I took a step back, realizing— too late—that I’d said too much. I should have kept my mouth shut and called the police. I could see Connor and Bertie on the far side of the lawn, chatting to Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos. Too far away to hear me shout.
I shifted Mom’s book to my left hand and fumbled in my pocket for my phone with my right. My fingers closed around it, and I pulled it out.
“Put that away,” Curtis said, his voice low and menacing.
I kept my eyes on him as I stepped backward. “Okay. No harm done. We’re just talking, right?”
The phone in my hand rang. I was so startled I almost dropped it. Instinctively, without conscious thought, I answered it. “Hello?”
“I’ve been held up,” Sam Watson said. “Are McArthur and Hoskins still—”
“It was Curtis! Curtis has the map. Curtis killed Jeremy!”
In one smooth movement Curtis pulled his sword out of his belt. I hadn’t paid much attention to the weapon at his side, assuming it was a wooden or plastic thing like kids waved around at Halloween. But it was a real sword all right, the steel bright and shiny, recently polished, the blade sharp.
I yelped and dropped the book and the phone.
The metal slashed through the air. I screamed and ducked and felt the air move beside my head. I turned and ran. Heavy footsteps pounded the ground behind me.
“Help!” I yelled.
“That Curtis,” a woman said as I ran past. “He’s always playing soldier.”
“Wasn’t his great-grandpappy a deserter in the War Be
tween the States?” her companion said.
“That’s what they say,” a man said.
“Help!” I yelled again.
People stopped what they were doing to watch. Some clapped. They were all smiling.
“I’m not pretending!” I shouted as I rounded a small boy.
“Just a game, son,” Curtis said from behind me.
“Go, General, go!” the boy shouted.
As Curtis and I talked, the crowd had largely thinned out, but a few people remained scattered across the lawn, packing up their booths, finishing the last of the snacks from the food truck, chatting to friends.
A group of old men applauded as Curtis and I ran past. “You go, General Gardner. Teach that Yankee not to mess with us Tar Heels.”
“It’s not a very good historical reenactment,” someone said, “if Lucy isn’t wearing a costume.”
I’d run blindly, without thinking, fleeing the look on Curtis’s face and the way he held the sword in his hand. He wasn’t going to kill me in front of a couple of dozen people, was he? If he hit me with the sword, and blood began to flow, surely people would realize we weren’t playing Yankee versus Rebel?
Of course, by then I might be dead.
I kept running. I was heading away from Butch and Connor and anyone else who might realize I was in trouble, in the direction of the construction zone. The children’s toys were plastic, not much use to defend oneself against a real sword. The wire surrounding the earthmoving equipment and the big hole at the base of the lighthouse tower loomed up in front of me. I reached the fence and whirled around, putting my back to the wire. I had nowhere else to go.
Curtis stopped a few feet in front of me. He stared at me, breathing deeply, gripping the hilt of the sword tightly.
“People are watching,” I said. “You can’t kill me in front of an audience.”
“Can’t I?” he said. “A little historic rivalry getting out of control. I’ll tell them I’m sorry.” He lifted the weapon. I shut my eyes.
Chapter Twenty
I opened them at the sound of running footsteps and a high-pitched screech.
