by Edie Claire
Leigh knew from the tenor of that statement that she was supposed to be impressed, and she endeavored, by facial expression, to oblige. In reality, she had retained from her school days only the most rudimentary knowledge of the Civil War, which fell well short of specifics on any particular battle. That Gettysburg had gone badly for the South, she knew from Gone With the Wind. Beyond that, she didn’t plan to stick her neck out.
“I’ve helped Archie with his research, as I rather enjoy genealogy,” Harvey continued. “Not that the two men are related, but the same methods apply. We learned that after Theodore was mustered out of the army, he married and moved to the Harrisburg area, where he purchased a modest parcel of farmland. The couple had two children that survived infancy, a boy and girl. The girl married young; the boy never married. In 1905, shortly after Theodore’s wife died, he sold that farm and bought Frog Hill. He moved here with his son, who was by then an adult, and the two men worked the farm together until Theodore died, twenty years later.”
Leigh nodded. She suspected she had heard much of this before, from Archie himself, but at the time she’d had no reason to pay attention. “And how did he die?”
Harvey’s clear blue eyes studied hers. “A much-asked question. His death certificate says ‘cause unknown.’ That’s a little unusual, even if he was eighty-two years old and no autopsy was performed. But there was an interesting footnote on the same line of the certificate that said, ‘dementia.’ None of which proves anything in particular; but as I told Archie, it does support the prevailing oral legend, passed down amongst various neighbors over the years.”
“Which was?” Leigh prompted.
Harvey cocked his head thoughtfully to the side. “All we know for certain, from the local newspaper reports at the time, is that Theodore had a habit of ‘wandering’ and had been missing for two days before his son located his body in the creek. The police speculated that Theodore either fell in and drowned or had a heart attack and fell in afterwards; there was no mention of an investigation for foul play. But according to the local scuttlebutt, Theodore had suffered a slow mental decline for years, such that by the time of his death he had become excessively paranoid, refusing to allow anyone onto the property. Even neighbors he knew well were threatened if they attempted to ‘trespass.’ His behavior cut both men off from the community; and his son, who apparently was never well liked in the first place, was criticized for allowing the menace to continue. Theodore’s death offered the critics additional fodder—speculations of neglect, or perhaps even patricide.”
Leigh suppressed a shiver. “Missing for two days? It doesn’t sound like the son was looking very hard, if his father was right there in the creek. I’m surprised the police didn’t investigate, at least for neglect.”
Harvey shrugged. “You have to remember, Frog Hill Farm was considerably larger then; the Carr’s parcel extended some distance upstream. It extended downstream too, past your own house. And we don’t know exactly where Theodore was found or at what point during those two days he fell in.”
“I suppose,” Leigh said uncertainly, trying hard not to imagine Theodor Carr’s body floating in the creek behind her house.
“Regardless of whether the police suspected foul play,” Harvey continued, “the local rumor mill remained abuzz about the incident for years. Theodore’s son eventually suffered dementia himself, and was admitted to a nursing home. Thereafter, the farm was occupied by a long string of short-term occupants whose hasty and inauspicious departures brought about the ‘ghost stories’ Archie himself so delights in propagating. When Theodore’s son died, in the 1950s, the estate was subdivided and the parcels sold for residential development. The idea of a vengeful ‘soldier ghost’ who chases away intruders has always seemed to amuse Archie, although I can’t pretend to understand why.”
Leigh had a feeling she might. “Scotty said something about Mr. Carr hiding his money before he died,” she explained. “I don’t know if Archie actually told him that or not, but…” she paused a moment, not sure how much of her suspicions she should share. Maura had promised to pass along the information about the map and the holes to the police who were investigating Archie’s disappearance, but Leigh was skeptical that anything would come of it. The relevance of a neighborhood treasure hunt was questionable at best, even if Maura had presented the idea with enthusiasm. But on the phone this morning Maura had once again seemed distracted and anxious, worrying Leigh on a whole new front, even as the detective reminded her that Archie’s case would not be a high priority for the General Investigations squad.
The issue did, however, rate top priority with Leigh, whose children roamed the same neighborhood as a mysterious treasure hunter at best and a potential abductor at worst. She needed answers. Why shouldn’t she confide in an amiable, knowledgeable elderly man with a mind like a steel trap?
“Mr. Perkins,” she asked directly, “do you know of any reason why anyone would think that something of value was buried on or around Frog Hill Farm?”
Harvey’s clear blue eyes blinked. Then his gaze left her, fixing on some distant point above her shoulder. After a long moment, he looked back at her, his expression intent. “Why do you ask?”
Leigh took a breath. It was a fair question, and she answered it. She told him about the map the children had found and the years of unexplained filled-in holes, and she watched as he leaned forward in his seat with rapt attention.
“I had no idea about the digging,” he said finally, his tone disturbingly breathless. “Do you have this map with you?”
Leigh shook her head, happy that she could honestly say no. Harvey’s obvious interest in her question made her wary. “Do you believe Theodore Carr buried his money before he died?” she asked.
“No,” he answered shortly. “I don’t believe either of the Carr men had two dimes to rub together. They were small farmers; there’s nothing in their history to suggest they did more than scratch out a living. However…”
His gaze returned to the spot above Leigh’s shoulder. This time she turned, wondering if Mrs. Rhodis had awakened and was creeping up to breathe down her neck again. But there was nothing behind Leigh other than the painting on the wall.
“It is possible Theodore Carr could have had something else of value,” Harvey continued, his voice wistful. “Something of very great value. At least… to some of us.”
The house had gone oddly quiet. No baby gurgles echoed up the staircase. The canary had tucked its head under a wing. Leigh’s spine prickled. “Like what?”
Harvey’s eyes met hers with a twinkle. “Are you familiar with Pickett’s Charge, Mrs. Harmon?”
“Regrettably, no,” she responded. “And please call me Leigh.”
Harvey nodded at her politely. Then, with measured slowness, he moved to stand before the large framed painting. Leigh had looked at the print many times, but her eyes now studied it more closely. Like much art depicting battle scenes, it was simultaneously romanticized and gory. Soldiers were everywhere: some dead, some alive, many somewhere in between. Arms, legs, and weapons mingled in gruesome disorder. Clouds of smoke hung thick in the air, though the immediate subjects of the painting could be seen clearly. There were cannons on spindly wooden wheels, and Confederate and Union flags raised high above the melee. None of the men were on horseback, but one prominent figure stood out from the rest. He forged ahead of the Confederate line, lofting a sword high into the air with a hat perched on its tip.
Harvey pointed at the figure in question. “Brigadier General Lewis Addison Armistead,” he announced with reverence. “Battle of Gettysburg, July 3rd, 1863. The weather was hot. The task, impossible. General Lee ordered all fifteen thousand troops in Pickett’s division to charge across an open field and break the Union lines. A mile and a quarter they marched, straight into enemy fire. Two thirds of them fell upon the field. But General Armistead would not turn back. He pushed ever forward, holding his hat high before friend and enemy alike. And he did reach the stone
wall at the other side, charging bravely over it and penetrating the Union lines just as he was commanded. But tragically, only a handful of men had survived to follow him. And no sooner did he reach that wall than he himself was shot down—with a wound that later proved fatal.”
Harvey cleared his throat and returned to his chair. “Our friend Theodore Carr was a witness to this, one of the single most catastrophic events in the bloodiest war in American history. When Armistead stepped over that wall, the 71st volunteers were there to face him. One of their own bullets could have killed him. We don’t really know.” He leaned toward her again, his voice dropping in secretive fashion. “What we do know is that one of those Union soldiers left that blood-soaked battlefield with a little… shall we say… souvenir.”
Leigh leaned forward herself. “Like what?”
Harvey smiled. “The sword of Brigadier General Lewis Addison Armistead.”
Leigh’s eyes fixed again on the figure in the portrait.
“That particular soldier,” Harvey went on, “turned the sword over to a superior. Nearly half a century later, at a reunion of the survivors of the Philadelphia brigade and Pickett’s Division, the sword was ceremoniously returned to the South. It resides to this day in the Museum of the Confederacy in Richmond.”
Leigh’s brow furrowed. “Then what—”
Harvey raised a hand. “The sword was found and returned. Armistead gave his personal effects to a messenger before he died. But one significant item was never recovered.” His eyes lifted to the portrait again.
Leigh’s gaze followed. “You don’t mean… his hat?”
Harvey nodded gravely. “The stuff of legends, my dear. This painting is hardly the only one depicting this epic scene. Whole books have been written on the Battle of Gettysburg. Poems penned. Movies shot. Every year thousands of people gather in the very spot where it occurred to reenact the entire scenario. Civil War enthusiasts scour flea markets and estate sales, looking for precious relics: A frock coat. A haversack. A rifle. A belt buckle. The artifacts market is robust and still growing. The hat of General Armistead, were it ever to be recovered and authenticated, well…”
“The Holy Grail?” Leigh suggested.
Harvey tented his fingers again. “Quite.”
Leigh sat back and took a breath. “And Theodore Carr was there. But surely that’s not enough for anyone to think—” she broke off at Harvey’s crooked grin.
“Oh, I daresay there’s more,” he continued. “Although frankly, until you mentioned someone digging, I didn’t give it much credence, myself. There’s another legend—a much less well known one—unique to the Civil War buffs in this area. When I joined the county historical association in the sixties the ranks were still abuzz about how, some years before, a newcomer had started asking questions about how much the general’s hat might be worth, where it could be sold, that sort of thing. The members became suspicious that this person might actually know something of the hat’s whereabouts, that it might even—joy of joys!—have found its way to the Pittsburgh area. But the man disappeared; and when an attempt was made to trace him, it was clear he hadn’t given his real name. It was all quite mysterious, but nothing ever came of it, and personally I dismissed the whole notion of the hat’s existence as wishful thinking. Now… I have to wonder.”
Leigh bit her lip. She didn’t care for the way this discussion was headed. She didn’t care for it at all.
“When Archie asked for my help in researching the man who had settled Frog Hill Farm, I was happy to oblige,” Harvey explained. “Archie has a deep and genuine interest in the Civil War, and he was practically giddy at having purchased the house of a legitimate war hero. I thought that’s all there was to it. But now that you mention a map…” his voice trailed off.
After a moment’s thought, he gave his head a shake, then resumed. “It was all a very long time ago. I do recall now that amongst the various rumors about the hat, there was talk of this mystery man having a paper of some sort—some documentation proving that the general’s hat was indeed salvaged from the battlefield. But nobody I knew ever actually saw such a paper. And most of us figured that even if the man did have some sort of document, it was probably a hoax.”
Harvey’s blue eyes glimmered. “I don’t recall Archie ever mentioning General Armistead’s hat to me, at least not specifically. And I have no evidence to give you that would link the man with that particular quest. It’s just… a possibility.”
Leigh’s voice quavered. “Do you know if Archie was aware that a Civil War veteran had built this farm before he decided to buy it?”
Harvey considered. “I never thought about it before. I always assumed that Archie’s interest came about after he moved in and heard the stories about Theodore Carr. But now that you mention it, it is possible that Archie bought the farm because of him.”
The accidental idiom hung in the air between them.
Leigh attempted to dismiss the macabre thought.
She failed.
Chapter 7
The doorbell rang. Leigh jumped a foot.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase, and in a moment Emma Brown emerged from the hall door to the kitchen, sleeping infant in tow.
“Hello, Leigh,” Emma said pleasantly as she glanced into the sitting room. “I thought I heard you up here. I would have popped up earlier, but the little peanut had other ideas!”
Leigh smiled back. Emma was short and round, with soft light brown hair, merry brown eyes, and a deep voice that was as big as her heart. “No problem,” Leigh responded. “Looks like you’ve worked your usual magic.”
Emma chuckled. The baby, who had an unruly mop of flaxen hair and was wearing a Pittsburgh Penguins onesie, was so limp Emma had to adjust her position to keep his head from lolling over her arm as she walked. “He ought to be tired,” she answered good naturedly, heading towards the front door. “As little sleep as he gets when the sun’s down!”
Leigh heard the front door open.
“Oh my, God!” a young woman’s voice rang out in a stage whisper. “What a beautiful sight! Emma, you are a miracle worker.”
The door closed and the two women walked down the hall to join Leigh and Harvey in the sitting room.
“Hi, Nora,” Leigh greeted cheerfully, attempting—perhaps unsuccessfully—to keep her expression from revealing just how ghastly the young mother looked. The ordinarily bright and perky Nora had dark circles under her eyes the size of plums. “I’m so sorry about what you’re going through with Cory,” Leigh said, rising. “I sympathize, believe me. Allison did the same thing for months.”
“Did she?” Nora asked. “You’ll have to tell me all your tricks sometime. Derrick and I have lists we go through. Walking, not walking. Ride in the car. Time on the floor. Swaddling. Baby seat on the dryer. None of it works every time. It’s always just hit or miss.” She sighed deeply, then smiled down at her sleeping baby. “Of course, when he looks as adorable as this, it makes it all worth it, doesn’t it?”
Leigh noticed that Harvey was creeping quietly around the women and back toward his room.
“Oh, Harvey,” Nora called out, just as he was disappearing behind his door. “Derrick says thank you. For that information on the zoning.”
Harvey paused and smiled back at her. “Tell him you’re very welcome,” he replied. Then he hastened into his room and closed the door.
“Zoning?” Emma asked.
Nora rolled her eyes. “Chickens,” she said with exasperation. “Derrick wants chickens. I kept telling him we couldn’t have any out here, but apparently I was wrong. Next thing, he’ll want a cow!”
Leigh’s eyebrows rose. Nora’s husband Derrick was a small, wiry man with thick glasses who worked for a bank. Even though he spent much of his time telecommuting from home, his wardrobe seemed to consist entirely of business slacks, button-down shirts, and loafers. In the year or so since the Sullivans had moved in next door, she had never once seen him working outside. Nora mowed their l
awn herself, even while she was pregnant.
“You mean you can have chickens?” Emma inquired.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Nora responded, reaching out her arms to take the baby.
Leigh’s teeth gritted. Earth-mother Cara was always talking about wanting fresh eggs. If this tidbit got out, the Harmons would be sandwiched in between two roosters competing to crow the earliest.
“You know,” Emma said thoughtfully, pulling the baby back in closer. “He’s so snug now. Why wake him up to move him? You go on home and have a nap. I’ll bring him over in an hour or so.”
Nora’s brown eyes shone with elation. “Really? Are you sure? Oh, Emma… I am so tired.”
“You know, if you had chickens,” Leigh threw in quickly, “you’d be even more tired—”
“Oh, I almost forgot to ask!” Nora broke in, oblivious. “Is Archie home yet? Did he make the meeting?”
Emma’s face puckered with concern. “No, I’m afraid not. We’re really very worried about him.”
“Oh, no,” Nora said in a whisper. “Derrick was supposed to go today, but he had to work. He said Archie would never miss a meeting. I just don’t understand it.”
“None of us do,” Emma answered gravely.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
“By the meeting, you mean the reenactors, right?” Leigh asked tentatively.
Emma nodded. “Lester’s with them now. He’s asked for their help in finding Archie. Although what they can do, I’m not sure. I only wish there was something more I could do. I’ve called everyone I can think to call… Lester and I went through every page of Archie’s address book. Nobody seems to know anything.”
