by John J. Lamb
I followed the driveway to the front of the castle and saw a sheriff ’s patrol car come to a stop behind the Xterra. Sheriff Holcombe was behind the wheel. It looked as if he’d aged perceptibly over the past thirty-six or so hours and he definitely wasn’t happy to see me. He got out of the cruiser, slammed the door, and approached me with his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Up close, I could see that Holcombe looked fatigued beyond measure and his eyes were feverish.
“What are you doing here?” He did his best to sound menacing, but the demand came across as merely querulous.
“What you should have been doing—investigating a robbery and a murder.”
“It was an accidental drowning.”
“Right. And you’re late making the death notification because you didn’t recognize the victim as the man you’d been ordered to treat with kid gloves by Czarina Ewell. Great story.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Funny, Miss E seems to think I do. And a word to the wise, if you’ve come to tell her that Thayer accidentally drowned, I wouldn’t waste my breath. She already knows the truth, and I think at this very moment she’s talking to her lawyer about suing you personally and the Sheriff ’s Department for fifteen million bucks.”
“There is no murder.”
“Tell me something, Hokie. The local folks say there was a time when you were an honest cop. Naturally, I don’t believe that, but if it’s true, how does it feel to have so thoroughly pimped yourself for a freaking teddy bear?”
“Shut your filthy mouth. I told you yesterday what would happen if you began interfering in official sheriff ’s business.” His hand tightened on the pistol.
“What are you going to do? Shoot me? Put me in jail? Take me over to the Island Ford Bridge and have Trent shoot up my truck and rob me? I guess I should warn you that I’ve only got a couple of dollars in my wallet.” Holcombe winced at the mention of the bridge and I continued, “Oh yeah, I know all about the Island Ford Bridge. In fact, I even have the evidence you were looking for earlier today—not on me of course.”
“You don’t know anything. You’re bluffing.”
“Dude, get this through your head. This is over and killing me or putting me in jail isn’t going to solve your problems.” Knowing that now it was time to bluff, I continued, “And the reason for that is because my old partner back in San Francisco is sitting by the phone and if I don’t call at the prearranged time and say the proper code phrase, he’s going to call his old friend at FBI headquarters. After that, how much time do you think it’ll take before the State Police and all the Washington TV reporters are here? Do you really want to add another murder to the charges you’re going to be facing?”
As I spoke, Holcombe seemed to sag and his hand fell away from his gun. “What do you want?”
“Stay out of my way while I finish this investigation and I’ll let you leave with some dignity. Go back to your office and keep that lunatic son of yours there until I arrive.” I paused and assumed a more gentle tone. “And I know you’re crazy with worry because you think Trent killed Thayer, right?”
“Yes.” The sheriff ’s voice was a sick whisper.
“Well, he may not have, but believe me, he will take the fall for a capital murder unless I get to the bottom of this mess. Oh, and one other thing: If you’ve got any brains you won’t call Poole and tell him what’s happened.”
“Why?”
“Because if he learns that this thing is going south he’s going to shovel every bit of the blame onto you and Trent. There’s no honor among thieves . . . or corrupt pillars of the community for that matter.”
Chapter 18
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Why was I suddenly on a crusade to clear Trent’s name? Well, I wasn’t. My goal was still to identify Thayer’s killer. That required viewing the fresh facts dispassionately and not trying to twist them to fit my old—and as I now suspected—obsolete theory of how and why the killing occurred. As much as I despised the Holcombes, I wasn’t going to try to pin a murder on Trent if he hadn’t committed it . . . even if Massanutten County would be a better place if he were locked up for life.
Besides, I had nearly enough proof to send Trent and his dad to prison for robbery and attempted malicious wounding, which is what they call assault with a deadly weapon here in Virginia. The evidence seemed pretty clear that Trent had robbed Thayer of the Mourning Bear on the Island Ford Bridge and taken a couple of shots at the truck. Then, afterwards, the elder Holcombe attempted to conceal the crimes, making him an accessory after the fact.
However, I was now almost sure that neither of the rogue cops had killed Thayer. I’d know for certain in a few minutes when I interviewed the faux rebel soldiers camped on Pouncey’s farm. Everything depended on whether they could remember what time and from what direction they’d heard the violent argument on Friday night.
I followed the patrol car down the driveway and stopped while Holcombe continued on through the gate and turned north onto Kilday Road. Getting out of my truck, I limped over to the two-foot-tall metal box housing the gate motor. As I expected, there was an external power toggle switch on the box and I flicked it to the “off ” setting, locking the gate in the open position. The Ewell house was invisible behind a wall of trees, so with any luck, no one would notice the gate was open and I could come back into the estate without announcing myself.
Getting back in the truck, I drove down the driveway and out the gate, but stopped again before turning back onto Kilday Road. I pulled the phone from the knapsack and pressed the auto dial for our home number. Ash answered on the first ring.
“I was beginning to get worried. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Is Cleland still there.”
“Her highness has come and gone.” Ash was clearly fuming.
“What happened?”
“She got here, looked at Susannah, and said that she’d changed her mind. I asked her why and she said,” and now Ash’s voice slipped into a wickedly accurate caricature of Cleland’s Boston Brahmin accent, “that, upon further reflection, Susannah just wasn’t right for her company.”
“That’s all she said?”
“That was it and then she bailed out of here so fast, I’m surprised you didn’t hear the sonic boom.
“That doesn’t make any sense, especially when she seemed so enthusiastic yesterday. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless the reason I saw her Saturday morning at the church was because she was going to cut a private deal with Poole to buy the Mourning Bear. Maybe she knows that we’re investigating the murder.”
“But how would Pastor Marc have known to contact Cleland and how would he have gotten the bear?”
“Because he’s on the charity committee that organized the auction and he and Thayer were supposed to deliver the bear to the auctioneers on Friday night.”
“Oh my God.”
“Look, sweetheart, this thing has gotten even more bewildering and I don’t have a lot of time to talk. Please call Tina and tell her that she’s no longer being hunted and she should come to our house immediately.”
“Sorry, but I have to ask—how do you know that?”
“I ran into Holcombe and he’s run up the white flag—at least for now. He’s a complete basket case because he thinks Trent murdered Thayer.”
“Well, didn’t he?”
“Probably not, and please don’t ask me to explain because it would take way too long. I’ll be home in a little bit. Oh, and tell Tina to be prepared to take over as interim sheriff sometime tonight, okay?”
“I’ll call her the moment I hang up from you. Good job, honey.”
“Thanks, but let’s hold off on the congratulations for now, sweetheart. This case has had more twists in it than Lombard Street and we aren’t finished yet. I love you and I’ll see you in a little bit.”
I disconnected from the call and turned left onto Kilday Road. A minute lat
er, I turned left again onto the asphalt lane leading to the Pouncey home and farm buildings, which were about a quarter mile from the road. Arriving at the two-storied white clapboard house, I came to an intersection of four gravel lanes and I selected the one that led in the general direction of the Ewell estate. The rutted track took me over a grassy hill and down into a meadow where I saw an encampment of about twenty tents in two perfect rows facing each other. Beyond the tents, twenty or so Massanutten Rangers were engaged in close-order drill on a grassy field. The stone wall separating the Ewell and Pouncey farms was less than thirty-five yards from the tents and, in fact, the tops of two of the castle towers were visible just above the trees.
There was a makeshift parking lot about a hundred yards from the camp but I drove past it because my leg was hurting like hell and I didn’t have the time to plod across the field and back again. Instead, I guided the Xterra off-road, slipped the transmission into four-wheel drive, and slowly proceeded toward the encampment, hoping the pastureland wasn’t too soggy from the recent heavy rains. I didn’t get stuck and parked the truck near the tents.
Climbing from the Xterra, I wandered into the camp, astonished at how authentic everything looked. The tents were small and low to the ground and made from sun-bleached canvas. There weren’t any sleeping bags or other modern conveniences inside the tents—just replica Civil War-era knapsacks constructed out of tar-coated canvas with uncomfortable-looking leather shoulder straps. I also noted that the soldiers had slept on the wet ground, protected only by rubber ground cloths and bundled up in threadbare woolen blankets. It was a commitment to recreating history that I admired, but not so much that I wanted to enlist.
However, as long as I’m on the topic, why is it that the entertainment industry sneeringly portrays reenactors as ignorant and crazed trailer-park-trash losers? The fact of the matter was that most of the guys out there drilling on the grassy field knew as much about the American Civil War as a university professor. Furthermore, I defy anyone to explain to me how reenacting is intrinsically any more stupid than a mainstream pastime such as golf, where you’re obligated to pay two hundred bucks or more to hit a little ball into a hole with an assortment of expensive crooked sticks. Oh yeah, that’s a much more sensible form of amusement than discovering something about the realities of American history.
I looked toward the drilling green and saw Josh Remmelkemp jogging across the field toward me, his bayonet-tipped rifle slung over his right shoulder. Meanwhile, the men continued to march back and forth to the tinny beat of a drum. As he got closer, I saw that Josh looked anxious.
“Hey, Brad. Is everything all right? Is Ash okay?”
“As of five minutes ago, everything was fine. I take it you’ve heard that we’re investigating the murder?”
“My folks told me at church this morning. They also told me about what that SOB Trent did last night. Nobody threatens my sister like that and gets away with it.” Josh shifted the rifle to port arms and ran his thumb over the large firing hammer. Although the musket was a replica, it was still a lethal firearm capable of shooting a Minie ball and I hoped he wasn’t considering an extreme make-over of Trent’s head to make him look like an oversize Life Saver.
“Nobody does that to my wife either, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait your turn until I’m done with him.”
“If you say so.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Josh, he isn’t worth it. Think about your wife and kids—you’ll break their hearts and your parents’ and Ash’s too. Besides, Trent is going to prison and for an ex-cop that’s a lot worse, for a lot longer than anything you’ve got planned.”
Josh nodded, slowly exhaled, and lowered the rifle. “What brings you out here?”
“The murder investigation. While we were in town yesterday morning I overheard a couple of your men talking about hearing a violent argument on Friday night. You didn’t happen to notice anything like that, did you?”
“No, I was already asleep but some of the fellas mentioned it. Apparently it was a doozey.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Around nine, I think. Is this argument important?”
“It might be very important and that’s why I need to talk to your men to find out what time it happened and from what direction they heard the voices.”
“Well, the fellas said it came from the Ewell place, but I’ll call them in and you can ask them yourself.” Josh turned toward the men and shouted, “Captain Pouncey! With your permission, sir, would you please bring the company here?”
A lanky man waved his sword in acknowledgment and the soldiers turned and began to march toward the camp.
“Thanks, Josh.”
“No, thank you, Brad . . . for the advice. So, have you identified the dead man yet?”
“Yeah, his name is Robert Thayer, Liz Ewell’s nephew. Did you know him?”
“Not really. I’ve heard his name and seen him around town a couple of times. As you probably heard from Ash, our family doesn’t associate with the Ewells.”
“And with good reason.”
“So, do you know who killed him?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, but I know you’ll understand that I can’t talk about it right now.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
“Thanks and when this thing is wrapped up I’ll tell you the whole story.”
The column of Rebel troops entered the camp and halted. Captain Pouncey gave them a couple of brisk commands and the men stood at ease. The reenactors looked happy for the break. Most were sweating profusely, a couple of them began gulping water from button-shaped canteens, and one poor guy was breathing harder than an obscene phone caller. I scanned the ranks and was relieved to see the two soldiers I’d seen yesterday at the church.
Pouncey was strikingly handsome and looked as if he’d stepped right out of an antique daguerreotype. He had an aquiline nose, a strong jaw, shaggy drooping moustache, and an athletic physique. His weather-beaten uniform coat was butternut-colored, with a double row of brass buttons on the chest and gold embroidery on the sleeves in a pattern that vaguely reminded me of a Celtic cross. He wore a black leather belt with a scabbard hanging from it, and an old-fashioned revolver in a leather holster. His broad-brimmed, black felt hat was faded and battered.
Josh saluted. “Sir, I’d like you to meet my brother-in-law, Brad Lyon.”
“William Pouncey. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. Your brother has told me all about you and your former career in San Francisco.” Pouncey extended a gloved hand.
“Thanks for allowing me to interrupt, but it’s very important that I ask your men a few questions. It won’t take long, I promise.”
“Is this about the man they found in the river yesterday? Sergeant Remmelkemp told me that you are conducting an investigation because the sheriff refused.”
“That’s true, but I also need to stress that I’m not a cop, this isn’t an official investigation, and your men are under no legal obligation to talk to me.”
“I understand that, but I believe there is a moral obligation, and I’m certain we’ll do everything we can to help.” Pouncey turned toward the troops and spoke in a stentorian voice. “Men, I want your attention. This is Mister Bradley Lyon and he wants to ask you some questions that may pertain to a murder. I wish you to understand that you’re under no compulsion to answer, but be warned . . . if I learn that any man deliberately withheld information, his name will be immediately stricken from the company roll. I will not serve with a scoundrel. Am I clear?”
“Questions about what?” one of the soldiers asked.
Pouncey glanced at me and I said, “The questions pertain to an argument that some of you may have heard on Friday night.”
Several of the men began to chuckle and I knew I’d struck pay dirt. Now, back in San Francisco, I’d isolate the witnesses and question each one separately to ensure that they told me what they actuall
y knew, rather than what they might have heard someone else say. But I didn’t have the time for that.
“With a tongue that sharp, I’m surprised that gal didn’t cut her mouth,” a reenactor called from the rear rank.
The man beside him added, “My daddy used to say that you can always tell a lady by how she uses the word mother-f—”
“Actually, I think that’s two words hyphenated. Okay, so how many of you actually heard the argument?” I saw six men raise their hands. Pulling out my notepad and pen, I pointed to a tall soldier in the front rank. “Let’s start with you, and guys, please don’t interrupt, even if you disagree with what’s being said. Name?”
“Walter Welford.”
Josh said, “I can get you their phone numbers and addresses later on.”
“Thanks, I’ll need them. So, Walter, what direction was the sound coming from?”
Walter hooked a thumb toward the Ewell estate. “Over there.”
“What were you doing at the time?”
“Sitting around the campfire having some drinks with my pards.”
“Would you describe yourself as being intoxicated?”
“Who said we were drinking alcohol? Mister, I’ll have you know that I don’t drink anything stronger than pop.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.” As I apologized I noticed Captain Pouncey’s head shaking slightly and his eyes turning heavenward. I suddenly suspected I was interviewing the company comedian and was about to be the straight man for some of his really old material.
Bubbling with suppressed laughter, Walter couldn’t wait to deliver the punch line. “And my Pop drank two pints of rye whiskey a day!” There were a few groans from the men and Josh gave Walt a glare. The reenactor sighed heavily, as if profoundly perplexed and saddened that his brilliant comedic talent wasn’t appreciated and added, “Okay, okay, I’d had a few but I wasn’t drunk.”
“And what did you hear?” I asked.
“A man and a woman arguing. Well, it wasn’t so much arguing as her calling him all sorts of filthy names.”
“Disregarding the obscenities, can you recall anything specifically that was said?”
