Angels Undercover

by Diane Noble

  Kate laughed and stood to check on the brisket. She had just lifted the lid when the phone rang. Paul reached for the receiver and handed it across the counter to Kate.

  It was Clementine. The woman’s voice held a note of awe. “How did you know?” she asked for the second time.

  “She found something!” Kate whispered to Paul.

  “What is it?”

  “Two huge bags,” Clementine said. “They were on the service porch in the utility sink. Probably so the floor wouldn’t get dirty.”

  The woman was talking so fast, with so much wonder in her voice, that Kate giggled a little as she tried to follow.

  “Bags of what?”

  “Bulbs,” Clementine said. “Daffodils and tulips. They were my husband’s favorites. It’s as if he brought them in himself. They’re even in the same place he put them before he took them outside to plant them.” She stopped. “Oh dear. What will I do with them?”

  “Plant them,” Kate said gently, wondering at the tears that stung her eyes. “Plant them one bulb at a time.”

  “There was something else,” Clementine said. “A gardening hat with a wide brim was left on the hook behind the service-porch door. Can you imagine?”

  Kate remembered the mulch. “There’s even more,” she said. “Those bags of mulch near the potting shed. They weren’t your husband’s, were they?”

  “Mulch?”

  “You can see for yourself from the back door. There’s quite a large stack of them.”

  Kate heard Clementine put down the phone. A minute later she returned. “It’s the same brand he always used.” Her voice choked. “I wonder who...and why.”

  “Maybe whoever it is sensed you would want to honor your husband’s memory by planting his favorite flowers,” Kate said, almost as if to herself. “And gently help you get through this period of grieving and take steps to get over your fear of being outdoors.”

  Clementine was sniffling quietly on the other end of the connection. “Who would take the time to do this?”

  “Someone who cares,” Kate said.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning Kate was still puzzling over a possible connection between the library theft and the break-ins at the parsonage and Clementine’s. There was no question the latter two were done by the same person, but what about the library? It seemed totally unrelated. Try as she might to connect the dots, there were still too many unanswered questions about the missing items from the J. P. Beauregard collection.

  At the top of her list of unanswered questions was the value of the stolen items. What made Beauregard’s collection more valuable than the rest? True, his uniform was original, which was something of a rarity. She made a mental note to find out its exact worth on the open market. Maybe it was much more than she had imagined.

  Could the missing items contain secret information about the war? She almost chuckled at her vivid imagination. In this day and age, with Internet access readily available to anyone with a mouse and a modem, there weren’t too many such secrets left uncovered.

  It seemed she did most of her puzzling in the kitchen, and this morning was no different. She pulled out the ingredients for a new recipe for double-chocolate-chip cookies she’d found on the Internet. The young musicians would be stopping by after school, and she wanted to be ready. With that in mind, she decided to double the recipe.

  She cracked an egg over the mixing bowl, then hesitated. She had a hunch. This was the South. Here, where multiple generations had lived in the same houses, secrets might very well lurk in musty, dusty attic trunks.

  She cracked another egg, temporarily storing away the thought, and returned to her musing about the missing items.

  What about the desk? Could it have some value beyond that of a Civil War antique?

  Then another thought hit her. What if it contained some rare or secret document in a hidden drawer?

  As she creamed the butter and eggs, she considered the direction she needed to go to find out all she could about the library break-in. If she could discover why the stolen items were more valuable than the others in the exhibit, it might lead her to the next step. She pulled a bag of pecans from the refrigerator, measured out two cups, and spilled them onto the cutting board. Out came her chef’s knife, and she chopped as she pondered how best to connect the dots.

  Internet search. That would be a starting point. She would find out anything and everything she could about the local hero.

  The Battle of Lookout Mountain. That’s where Beauregard was known to have saved the lives of several of his men, against all odds, and at great risk to himself.

  Paul had several books on the Civil War on a shelf in the living room. She put down the knife, wiped her hands on a dishtowel, then headed into the living room to see if one of them covered that particular battle.

  She found the volume she was looking for and sat down in her rocker to thumb through the index. It listed the battle, but there was no mention of J. P. Beauregard. She closed the book, disappointed, and returned to her cookie dough.

  As she stirred the flour into the butter, egg, and sugar mixture, it occurred to her that some of the locals who planned to participate in Copper Mill’s upcoming Civil War reenactment might know more about the battle and Beauregard than history books could tell her. She’d heard that many of the actors in the reenactment traveled all over the country, taking their roles very seriously, studying the historic figures down to a gnat’s knees. Battles, victories, as well as losses. Characters, whether heroes or not. These actors were said to know nearly everything about the authentic rifles, ammunition, uniforms...She gasped.

  “Surely not!” she said aloud, startling herself. What if one of the actors stole the authentic clothing and firearms of Beauregard? Stunned at the thought, she put down her spoon.

  What if someone was so taken up with reliving history that he wanted a piece of it for himself? And who better to emulate than the greatest local hero?

  She stared into the batter. Maybe where she really needed to start was with the man she knew was first and foremost among the reenactment actors in town: Willy Bergen, owner of the bait and tackle shop, and Civil War buff par excellence.

  She stirred the chocolate chips and melted bittersweet dark chocolate into the batter, then added the chopped pecans.

  After a quick cover with plastic wrap, then a trot to the refrigerator and back to the master bedroom to grab her handbag and keys, Kate was on her way to the bait and tackle shop.

  She drove into the parking lot just as Willy turned around the Open sign.

  “Hey, Willy,” she called as she slid from under the steering wheel.

  He turned around and grinned. “Hey, yourself, Mrs. Hanlon. What’re you doing here so early?” He laughed. “Actually, what’re you doing here at all? Not that I’m not happy to see you. It’s just that Pastor Hanlon is the one who drops by for bait. You goin’ fishin’?”

  She stepped inside the small shop as he held the door open for her.

  “No, I’m here on other business.” She smiled.

  Willy stepped behind the counter and hit a few keys on the computerized cash register to get it up and running. “Sounds serious.”

  Kate let out a sigh. “Yes, it is.”

  He hit the button on the coffeemaker behind the register. Above the machine was a sign that read like a dictionary entry:

  COFFEE

  /kaw’fee, kof’ee/

  1. n. break fluid.

  “You know what the definition of forever is?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “The time it takes to brew the first pot of coffee in the morning,” he said with a grin. “That’s why I always get it ready the night before. You want some?”

  “I’d love some. Thanks.”

  “Good. It’ll be ready in three minutes and twenty-seven seconds.” He glanced at his watch. “You can count on it. Now then, what is this serious business?” He nodded toward a tall stool next to the counter
, then he hoisted his rotund frame onto an identical stool near the cash register.

  “I wanted to ask you some questions about the Civil War.”

  “Whoa now, that’s a pretty big subject.”

  Kate laughed. “Not the entire war. Just one battle. The Battle of Lookout Mountain. The one the reenactment is based on, right?”

  He nodded. “Yup. It sure was. It was a pivotal battle in the war. Split families apart, even more than they’d been before. Brothers were fighting against brothers, fathers against sons, grandfathers against...Well, you get the picture.”

  Kate pulled out her notebook as Willy stood to pour the coffee. When he set the cups on the counter, he tilted his head toward a small under-the-counter refrigerator and waggled his bushy brows. “How about a doughnut to go with?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve had breakfast.”

  “So’ve I. But man does not live by coffee alone.” He laughed at his own joke, then grunted as he bent over to retrieve a box of doughnuts. He took out a large powdered-sugar-coated specimen, and popped it into a small microwave on a shelf next to the coffeemaker.

  Kate was impressed. Willie’s bait and tackle shop was equipped with more than lures and salmon eggs.

  “Now, back to the battle,” Willy said, again plopping down atop his stool.

  Kate took a sip of coffee. Her eyes opened wide. It was strong enough to wake the neighbors. “Whoa,” she said. “This is some cup of coffee.”

  Willy grinned. “Feel free to espresso yourself.” He laughed again, this time rocking backward and almost falling from his perch. His humor was contagious, but maybe it was the sight of his rotund belly shaking with every snort or chortle that made Kate want to laugh with him. He wiped his eyes, then bit into a sugary doughnut.

  “You were about to give me some background on the Battle of Lookout Mountain,” Kate reminded him.

  Willy wiped his mouth. “Yes, yes. The main battle was called the Third Battle of Chattanooga, but that included the Battle of Missionary Ridge and, of course, the Battle of Lookout Mountain. This turned out to be one of the most important battles of the War. It’s what made Lincoln call Grant back to Washington to put him in charge of the entire Union army.

  “It gets complicated, but basically, the Union army of the Cumberland had just suffered a terrible defeat and retreated to Chattanooga. The Confederate army of Tennessee under Gen. Braxton Bragg, besieged the city, threatening to starve the Union forces into surrender. But Bragg made a terrible error. He advanced leisurely, giving the Union soldiers time to prepare defenses. Bragg’s troops established themselves on Missionary Ridge and Lookout Mountain, both of which had excellent views of the city, the Tennessee River, and the Union’s supply lines.

  “Confederate artillery atop Lookout Mountain controlled access by the river, and the Confederate cavalry launched raids on all supply wagons heading toward Chattanooga, which made it necessary for the Union to find another way to feed their men.

  “The Union government sent reinforcements, led by Ulysses S. Grant.” He paused. “I won’t go into the details, but long story short, when the dust cleared, the Union held Chattanooga, which became the supply and logistics base for Sherman’s 1864 Atlanta Campaign, and Grant went on to lead the entire Union force.

  “There were 753 Union soldiers killed, 4,722 wounded, and 349 missing. The Rebs lost 361 men, 2,160 were wounded, and 4,146 were taken prisoner.”

  Kate sat back and raised her eyebrows. “You know your stuff.”

  “I’m a real Civil War buff. I’ve gotta be because of the reenactments.”

  “What do you know about J. P. Beauregard?”

  “Ah yes, Caroline Johnston’s grandfather and our illustrious local hero?” The faintest shadow crossed his face, and he quickly turned back to the coffeemaker as if to block her from noticing something strange in his expression. When he turned around again, the shadow was gone, and she wondered if it had been her imagination.

  “J. P. Beauregard,” he said, nodding slowly. “A big name around here.”

  Kate sat forward. “You look as if you’re about to say something more.”

  He held up a hand, palm out. “If I say any more, I’ll be tarred and feathered and run out of town. One simply doesn’t criticize someone held in such high esteem.”

  “You’re saying he wasn’t the hero folks think he was?”

  Again, the fleeting shadow. Willy shrugged. “There’ve been rumors, that’s all. Have been for years.”

  “How can I find out if there’s any truth behind them?”

  Willy laughed. “Oh, those of us in the know—from farbs to mainstreamers to hard-cores—figure there’s no truth to the rumors. They’re probably just stories that have been passed down through the generations. But there’s no way to prove anything one way or the other. We’re a tight fraternity. I doubt you can get anyone to spill something based on hearsay.”

  “Farbs and main—?” Kate began.

  “It’s how we divide up the participants in the reenactments. Farbs are little more than observers who wanna get in on the action; hard-cores possess a wealth of knowledge, take the hobby to the extreme; and mainstreamers are all those in the middle.”

  “So these folks all talk about the characters they play—the real life officers and such?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who’s reenacting the role of J. P. Beauregard?”

  He studied her for a moment, and again she noticed the shadow. “Undecided at this point.”

  Kate made some notes, then looked up.

  The jovial side of Willy had returned. “Don’t take it personal,” he said, holding up his hands. “I just don’t like bad-mouthing somebody when I have no way of finding out the facts, that’s all.”

  “So mum’s the word?”

  He nodded. “About that particular historical figure, yes.”

  “I’m sure you know about the library break-in. Do you think one of these hard-core reenactors might have taken Beauregard’s things?”

  “Anything’s possible, I suppose.”

  Kate wasn’t getting anywhere. She let out an exasperated sigh. “Tell me about the reenactment. How many are involved, what do you do, that sort of thing?” Maybe she would visit one of the camps and see if she could find out more about Beauregard.

  Willy rocked back on his stool. “Reenactments began during the 1961–1965 Civil War centennial commemorations. People loved them so much, they just kept doing them.” He took another bite of his doughnut. “Silly as it sounds, they sometimes take on an almost sense of sacrament, or memory, especially to folks who had ancestors who fought in the war.

  “People of all ages participate, eight to eighty-eight. It’s costly, and folks have to be willing to brave the elements. Case in point, ours begins toward the end of this month and into the first of next—the actual time of the real battle. We’re getting into cold weather; we may even have to deal with storms that come through while we’re camped out. You gotta be willing to put up with a little discomfort.”

  “How do the reenactors know what to do and when to do it?”

  Willy grinned. “Classes, that’s how. I’m teachin’ one. Mine’s on how to die.” He chuckled. “Don’t that beat all? Seriously, when you die on the battlefield, it’s gotta look real. There are other classes where folks learn how to dress, cook, and eat.”

  “This sounds pretty elaborate.”

  He waggled a brow. “It is. This is the first one we’ve had so close to Copper Mill, and we’re expecting at least five hundred participants.”

  An appreciative whistle escaped Kate’s lips.

  He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup. “If you think that’s a high number, get a load of this: In 1998, the largest Civil War reenactment was held at Gettysburg. There were over forty-one thousand reenactors and forty-five thousand spectators.” He sat back, his arms crossed, looking pleased to impart such astounding numbers.

  “Surely we’re not expecting that
many here,” Kate said.

  “As near as I can tell, besides the five hundred reenactors, we’ll have at least that many more spectators.” He grabbed another doughnut. “But remember, they won’t all be coming into Copper Mill. Some will be coming in early to take the classes. But those are usually the newbies. Most will be camped outside town once the practicing starts.”

  “Newbies?”

  “Every time you put on one of these, you get wannabes who don’t have a clue what to do. They’re the ones in need of classes.”

  He started to pour them each more coffee, but Kate held a hand over her cup.

  He grinned. “Now that’s probably more than you ever wanted to know about our little battle and its reenactment.”

  Actually she had more questions now than when she came in the door. But she thanked him anyway.

  He walked her to the door. “Be careful! There are some nutcases out there,” he said, his eyes glittering with warning. “Someone might be taking his role too seriously. I wouldn’t get in the way if I were you.”

  TEN MINUTES AFTER she left Willy’s shop, Kate arrived at the library. It was getting close to lunchtime, and she hoped Livvy would be free to join her at the diner. First, though, she wanted to use the library’s high-speed Internet connection to do a little sleuthing.

  She trotted up the outside steps and headed first to Livvy’s office. Livvy looked up from her desk and acknowledged Kate with a smile.

  “Any word from the sheriff?” Kate asked.

  “Nothing.” Livvy shook her head slowly. “I was hoping he’d have some sort of lead by now.”

  “I’ve got a theory I want to run by you. How about lunch?”

  Livvy glanced at the clock. “In a half hour?”

  “That’s perfect. I need to check on something upstairs.” When Livvy shot her a quizzical look, she added, “I’ll fill you in later.”

  Livvy returned to her paperwork, and Kate headed to the computer bank on the second floor. She sat down at the last terminal in the row, turned it on, then sat back and waited as the programs loaded.