by Diane Noble
She knew what she needed to do next.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kate took Caroline’s votive candleholder to church. It would be her second attempt to deliver it. Just as she had done with the others, she’d wrapped it in tissue and placed it in a gift bag with a package of a half-dozen votive candles and a gift tag that simply said, “From your Secret Angel.” Also written on the tag was a brief description of the meaning of the colors and a note saying that they had been chosen especially for Caroline.
Kate arrived at church early, as usual, and slipped into the back row to listen to Flame practice their song for the offertory.
The teens saw her come in and waved, just before they launched into a lively song unfamiliar to Kate. The words were sometimes obscured by the background music, but she was able to make out some of them: The One who calls me...and won’t let me go. The One who walks beside me...
Ashley belted out the music with her deep, throaty voice, and the emotion Kate picked up in her tone brought tears to her eyes.
She sat back, amazed at the transformation in all three. Their music was somewhat softer, though she wondered if it would ever be soft enough for some members of the congregation. But it was their expressions, something in their eyes that was different.
She couldn’t explain it; it was just there.
Renee came in on a cloud of Youth-Dew and slid into the pew beside her. Kisses hopped onto Kate’s lap and fixed her with a doleful stare.
“They’re good,” Kate said. “Really good.”
“Hunh.” Renee sniffed.
Kate glanced at Renee. The older woman was tapping her foot and moving her shoulders to the beat slightly but enough to shake the pew the tiniest bit.
Kate swallowed a smile, then leaned over to whisper, “Where’s your mother this morning? Did she go back to St. Lucy’s?”
Renee stopped moving and frowned. “She was feeling under the weather this morning.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Well, she is in her nineties...” Her voice trailed off. “I just worry about her, that’s all.”
“Would you mind if I stopped by to see her?”
“This morning?”
“Yes. I have something for her that might cheer her up.” Kate checked her watch. “I’ll be back before the service starts.”
Renee’s expression softened. “Thank you.”
Ten minutes later, Kate parked the Honda across the street from Renee’s house.
She checked her watch: 9:47.
Ten o’clock came and went. No unusual activity.
Kate leaned back, resisting the urge to tap her foot. She didn’t think she was wrong. She couldn’t be. All the puzzle pieces were fitting together. But still she waited.
A car drove by, but it was filled with teenagers, not who she expected. A car turned the corner and pulled into one of the driveways, and the family inside got out and went into the house.
Then all was quiet again.
10:14. Nothing.
10:27. Still nothing.
Kate sighed and reached for the key to turn on the ignition, but just then another vehicle lurched around the corner.
It was a white Buick station wagon. Grinning, Kate scrunched down in her seat.
As if she’d been watching and waiting, Caroline immediately opened the door and hobbled down the front walk, jeweled cane tapping with each step. Earl Pennyweather exited on his side of the car, helped Caroline into the passenger seat, and closed the door. Three heads bobbed in the back seat—likely the Barker sisters—as Earl got back in the car, backed out of the driveway, and rocketed down the street.
Caroline looked as fit as a fiddle to Kate. Whatever ailed her before church had miraculously disappeared. Again. Kate started the car and took off after the seniors, hoping to be more discreet than the previous time.
Within ten minutes, the Buick station wagon lurched to a stop in the driveway of a small home Kate had come to know well: Caleb and Carmella King’s little mobile home across the street from the Easterwoods.
Caleb was performing with Flame at church, and his mother had said she would be there to watch. A perfect day for their break-in.
Kate cut the engine and rolled into position, where she had a good view of the King’s front door. Then she sat back to watch.
It was a sunny day, though the gang of golden-agers was partially obscured by the foliage around the entrance to the home. She rolled down her window and leaned forward so that she could hear them, but so far, the gang remained silent.
Then Daisy stepped away from the others and turned toward the street, holding up a handbag as if into a spot of sunlight and rummaging around inside. Seconds later she handed something to Earl. Something that was long, slender, and glinted softly in the light.
Apparently, the first knitting needle she gave to Earl wasn’t the right size. Like a nurse in an operating room, Daisy kept slapping one after another into Earl’s hand until someone whispered a loud “Ta-Da!” and a resounding click echoed through the morning air.
Just before the gang disappeared through the front door, Kate saw Hyacinth lift some loose papers into the sunlight, leafing through them as if to make sure they were in order.
Seconds later the porch was empty and a light flicked on inside the house.
Kate sat back in the seat again, her eyes trained on the house. Not five minutes later, every light glowed softly against the shadows of the foliage, and the quartet of burglars exited, closing the door behind them.
Two minutes after that, the Buick lurched out of the driveway and rocketed off again into the bright fall morning.
Kate watched until the Buick disappeared into the morning haze on its way back to town.
Now she knew the identity of the secret angel—rather, angels. And she knew what she needed to do next.
She had to get to the Civil War Museum in Chattanooga. And fast.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A heavy rain pelted the ground as Kate wound her way through the hills on her drive to Chattanooga the next morning. She arrived at her destination just before her appointment with the curator at one o’clock. As she entered the muddy parking lot, imposing Lookout Mountain loomed in the distance, its peak shrouded by rain clouds, just as it had been during the Civil War battle for which it was known.
She turned off the ignition, reached for her umbrella, then pushed open the car door. A blast of frigid, damp wind hit her face, lifting her hair and burning her ears. She quickly unfurled her umbrella, grabbed her handbag, and raced through the pouring rain to the museum entrance.
A semicircular desk was about a dozen yards from the entrance, and two docents looked up and smiled at Kate as she practically blew with the wind through the double-glass door.
She stomped the water from her feet on the doormat, then slipped out of her raincoat, grateful to see a coat tree.
“I have an appointment with Jason Smythe-Robison,” she said to the docent nearest her. “Could you tell me where his office is?”
Minutes later Kate followed the docent, a balding man wearing a shirt with crossed Civil War flags—Union and Confederate—above the pocket, up the stairs, through a door, and along a hallway. They passed a window where she could see what appeared to be a series of workshops with an array of cabinets, tables with magnifying lights, and tools. She supposed the room was used for examining artifacts, cataloging them, and testing them for authenticity.
A woman in a white lab coat worked at a station in the last of the workshops, examining what appeared to be a hand-written letter. An older man, also wearing a lab coat, walked past, nodded his greeting, and disappeared into another room farther down the hallway.
When they reached another door at the end of the hall, Kate saw a plaque announcing the occupant’s name and position: Jason Smythe-Robison, Museum Curator.
The docent knocked, and when a male voice called “Come in,” Kate opened the door and stepped inside. She heard the docent’s f
ootsteps disappear down the hallway.
The curator stood behind his desk and shook Kate’s hand when she offered it.
“Please, sit down.” He nodded to the chair on the opposite side of the desk.
Behind his desk, facing Kate, was a large window that perfectly framed Lookout Mountain, the summit still shrouded with rainy mists and clouds.
Smythe-Robison smiled, following her gaze. “Quite a view, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I sometimes think I would have taken this job without pay just to have the opportunity to sit here and watch the colors on the mountain change with the weather.”
“And to imagine the battle,” Kate mused, almost to herself. “It must have looked much like this on November 24, 1863.”
He nodded. “That’s why it’s often called the Battle of the Clouds.” Turning back to his desk, he smiled again and steepled his fingers. “Now what brings you all the way from Copper Mill on this blustery day?”
“It’s about the theft,” Kate said as she pulled out her notebook and pen.
“Ah yes. The library break-in. We’re about to launch our own investigation. The items are too valuable...” He seemed to fumble for the right words. “How can I say this delicately? They’re too valuable not to bring in some more experienced investigators, which, I might add, will happen by the end of the week.”
“Our librarian—” Kate began, but Smythe-Robison held up a hand.
“I know what you’re going to say. She’s trustworthy, dependable, and all that. But the bottom line is, the theft happened on her watch, and she’s responsible for any lack of security that might have occurred.” He leaned forward intently. “I don’t know if you folks in Copper Mill are aware of the value of the exhibit itself, and most especially, the belongings of J. P. Beauregard.”
Kate nodded. “We do. I’ve seen the list, stating the appraised value of each item.” She paused. “That’s what’s so puzzling about the theft. Why would someone leave behind a thirty-thousand-dollar pistol in the same display case, yet make away with Beauregard’s less valuable items?”
“I wouldn’t weigh the value of one above the other. His dress uniform was one of the few originals in our collection. Most, as you’re probably aware, are reproductions. We only allowed this particular uniform to leave the museum because of the connection with two of your citizens, Beauregard’s descendants.” He looked thoughtful. “I would say that the uniform is twice the value of the pistol, perhaps more, if it were to be offered at auction.”
Kate sat back. “So someone must have known its value.” It also didn’t seem likely that a reenactor would take it just for the thrill of wearing an original. Which led to what had brought her here.
“Is there anything else about Beauregard that hasn’t been disclosed?” she asked.
He looked at her quizzically, steepling his fingers again.
“Anything at all?” she prompted.
“Everything we had of his on exhibit was transported to Copper Mill with the rest.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Kate let out a long sigh. Another dead end.
She put her notebook back in her handbag and stood. “Thank you for your time,” she said. “I do appreciate it.”
He stood to walk with her to the door. “What’s your interest in this, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m friends with the librarian.” She told him about the accreditation and pending grant. He shook his head sympathetically. “And Beauregard’s descendants are also friends.” She frowned. “I just know there’s more to this theft than meets the eye.” She paused, then said, “What about his writing desk? Was there anything unusual about it?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “It was thoroughly examined when donated by the family, just as all our items are when they come in. As I recall, the desk itself was quite a handsome specimen.” He peered at Kate suspiciously. “If you’re hoping there was a hidden compartment or something like that—”
“No, no.” Kate held up a hand. “Just curious, that’s all.”
Smythe-Robison opened the door for her. Kate stepped into the hallway, then turned back to him as one more thought occurred to her.
“You said everything you had on exhibit was transported to Copper Mill.”
He nodded.
“Is it possible there are other items, artifacts, belonging to Beauregard that aren’t on exhibit? In your archives, perhaps? Something not deemed valuable enough to put on exhibit?”
“It’s possible, I suppose. I’ll find out.”
She followed him back into his office and sat down while he made a call. They had an answer within minutes.
It was disappointing.
There was nothing belonging to J. P. Beauregard in the archival files or cabinets.
Again, Kate stood to leave.
“I’m sorry,” the curator said. “But thank you for your interest.”
Kate was almost to the end of the hallway leading to the stairs, when she glanced through the glass into the workshop they’d passed earlier. From what she could see spread out on the tables, the room appeared to be used exclusively for the examination of documents. Old letters. Books. Journals. Newspapers. The same woman was still examining what looked like a handwritten letter. She was using a special magnifying light similar to the one Kate used for her more intricate stained-glass pieces.
Kate halted midstep and stared into the room.
A smile slowly spread across her face.
She whirled around and trotted back to the curator’s office. She didn’t bother to knock.
“When new documents or artifacts are discovered, where do they go first?”
“The examination room to be cataloged. Why?”
“Can you find out if anything new has come in that’s perhaps awaiting examination, anything having to do with Beauregard?”
“I can’t imagine what that would have to do with—” he began, then his eyes widened as if a light dawned somewhere in the back of his mind.
“I know it seems like an odd request,” Kate interrupted, “but I have an idea that may help us recover the stolen items.”
“Come with me,” he said reluctantly.
They walked back down the hallway. When they reached the examination room, he opened the door, stepped aside to let Kate enter, then followed.
The woman looked up, as did the others in the room.
“Might any of you remember something coming in recently on Major General Beauregard?” the curator asked.
Kate held her breath as the first two scientists shook their heads. Then the woman, looking more like a middle-aged grandmother than a scientist, nodded slowly, narrowing her eyes as if trying to remember.
“Beauregard. The hero of the Lookout Mountain battle...” She paused. “Yes,” she finally said, “a packet of letters was recently discovered by a family member. They were brought in a few weeks ago, but we haven’t had time to examine them yet, determine their authenticity, catalog them, or put them on display.”
Letters!
This was more than Kate could have hoped for. She thought her knees might give out, so she reached for the corner of a table to steady herself.
“Letters?” Kate wanted to be sure she heard right.
“Yes,” the woman said. “Written by Beauregard to his wife during the battle. They were found in an attic recently, and the donor was kind enough to donate them to the museum.”
“The donor doesn’t happen to be Caroline Johnston, does it?”
The woman shook her head.
“Renee Lambert?”
“No, these letters came from a source in Nashville. The cover letter says the donor is distantly related to the Beauregards; apparently a distant relative of the direct descendants.”
Kate swallowed hard and turned back to Smythe-Robison. “Would it be possible to see them, to read them?”
He studied her face for a moment, then said, “The documents can only be handled by e
xperts. But if you want to stay, Janice will get you a lab coat and gloves. If you tell us what you’re looking for, we’ll read through to see if they contain anything significant. Just make certain you don’t touch anything with your bare hands.”
Kate donned her lab coat and gloves, then went over to an empty table in the corner of the room to wait. Smythe-Robison slipped on his own lab coat, then followed and sat down beside her.
Janice returned five minutes later with a lightweight cartonlike box. Inside was a packet of perhaps two dozen letters. She carefully lifted out a packet of letters and set them on the table in front of the curator.
Using special tweezers, he gingerly pulled out the first letter and laid it on the smooth, clean surface of the table.
The script was ornate and too small for Kate to read from where she was sitting. She resisted the urge to scoot her chair closer and read over his shoulder.
The curator went on to the second page, then the third. Finally, he let out a soft whistle and looked up at Kate.
“This...,” he said, shaking his head, “this is astounding.”
“What’s in it?”
“That gut feeling that brought you here . . .”
She nodded, still waiting.
He let out another slow whistle. “Mrs. Hanlon, I think I know where you’re going with this. And these letters, I’m willing to bet, will confirm your suspicions.”
Kate sat back, almost afraid to breathe. “J. P. Beauregard wasn’t who everyone thought he was?”
“Not by a long shot,” Smythe-Robison said. “Listen to this.”
Kate reached for her notebook and pen as he began to read aloud Maj. Gen. J. P. Beauregard’s confession.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kate called Livvy on her cell phone as soon as she left the museum. “Liv, it’s me.”
“How did the meeting with the curator go?”
“Better than I could ever have expected.” She couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice.
