Death, Guns, and Sticky Buns

by Valerie S. Malmont

  An officer stepped forward, turned to face the men, and unrolled an official-looking document. The soldiers snapped to attention as he began to read.

  “Men, today, at the hour of three p.m., you will witness the execution of a Deserter, who will be shot to death by Musketry by order of a Court Martial, approved by General Hooker.”

  The soldiers remained impassive, but a wail from the woman in the black bombazine dress attracted the officer's attention.

  “Madam,” he said to her, “whilst you may think the killing of your husband is unjust and heartless, it behooves you to remember the many good men who died bravely here. Perhaps some of those lives would have been saved if we had executed more deserters in the past.”

  The woman slumped into the arms of one of the civilian men and sobbed quietly into her handkerchief.

  From behind the college library came a horse-drawn wagon, and as it drew closer the spectators could see it carried a coffin. It was followed by another wagon carrying the condemned man himself, his hands tied behind him. And finally came the shooting party, fifteen soldiers in blue wool uniforms.

  The coffin was lifted from the wagon and placed before the freshly dug grave. With his eyes upon his wife's face, the prisoner was helped out of his wagon. With his deeply lined face and silver hair that sparkled in the bright sunshine, he looked much older than the other uniformed soldiers.

  The officer who had read the execution order a few minutes earlier asked the prisoner if he had any final words. The prisoner, still intently focused on his wife, ignored him.

  As the officer placed a gentle hand on the man's shoulder, the prisoner turned to face him with a stunned look on his face. “Do you have any final words?”

  The condemned man took a step forward, in the direction of the woman in black. “I beg of you, my dear wife, to forgive me. Please tell my beloved children that my last thoughts were of them.” His voice boomed in the silent, sultry air.

  The woman in black buried her face in her handkerchief.

  Next, the prisoner addressed the soldiers. “It is only since I was sentenced that I have realized the error of my ways. Please remember the oath of allegiance you have taken. Look upon my execution as a warning. In all ways be true to your country and to your God.”

  He turned to the firing squad and spoke in a loud, firm voice. “Gentlemen, I bear you no ill will. Please pray for God to have mercy on my soul.”

  A guard stepped forward, tied a handkerchief around the prisoner's eyes, and led him to the waiting coffin. Almost deferentially, he urged the prisoner to sit on the edge of the coffin's base.

  The officer in charge read the sentence. “By Order of the Court Martial approved by General Hooker, you will be shot to death by Musketry. The number of bullets detailed is fourteen. As is our company's custom, one rifle is loaded with a blank cartridge, so that each member of the firing squad may console himself with the thought that he may not have fired a fatal bullet.”

  The prisoner hung his head.

  “Pastor Kleinholtz, will you lead us in a prayer?”

  A civilian gentleman in a somber black suit and stovepipe hat stepped forward and opened a large leather-bound Bible. “Psalm 23,” he announced. “The Lord is my shepherd…” When he read, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” the soon-to-be-widow fell to the ground in a faint. The preacher paused for a few moments until she was revived, finished reading the passage, and closed his Bible with a snap. “May God have mercy upon his soul.”

  The shooting party came to the ready, and in a moment a volley of shots rang out and the law was appeased. In a cloud of black smoke, the prisoner toppled backward into his coffin.

  The woman in black broke away from the sidelines and ran toward the wooden box where her husband's body lay. She dropped to the ground beside the coffin, raised her arms to the sky, and cried out dramatically, “My life—my love. What shall I do without you? What shall I do?”

  A young soldier tried to raise her to her feet, but she clung to his knees and moaned, “Let me say my last good-bye. One last kiss before we part.”

  She leaned over the side of the coffin and reached in to embrace her husband. A bloodcurdling scream pierced the summer air. “Oh my God, he's dead!” she cried.

  The spectators burst into applause and began to sing along with the band, “Oh we'll rally ’round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again…” I was thoroughly pleased with the way the reenactment had gone, especially after the annoying delay. I couldn't resist nudging Cassie and saying, “Didn't I tell you it was going to be great? Lickin Creek's going to be talking about this for a long time.”

  The woman in black rose to her feet and faced us angrily. “Shut up, you idiots,” she yelled. She reached her arms out toward the crowd, and something dark dripped from her outstretched hands. “Didn't you hear me? The man is dead. He's really dead!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Sunday Morning

  The sun was just appearing over the tops of the trees lining the banks of the creek, and although it was not quite eight, it was obvious that today was going to be another scorcher. I met no one as I hiked up the hill toward the imposing building housing the administrative offices of the Lickin Creek College for Women. But this wasn't surprising since I knew the enrollment was fewer than two hundred students, most of whom I assumed were still in bed— where I wished I were.

  On the footbridge over the Lickin Creek, I paused for a moment to catch my breath. Wishing I'd worn sneakers instead of my unsubstantial Italian sandals and something cooler than my dark blue dress, I rested my elbows on the rail and watched a pair of ducks floating on the sparkling water a few feet below me. I was to meet with the police, the president of the college, the president of the borough council, and who knew who else, to discuss yesterday's tragedy. The prospect made me more than a little nervous.

  Although I had the urge to linger, I knew I was only delaying the inevitable. I had to make my appearance and face the music. My attempt to get some good PR for the Chronicle had turned into the worst disaster in Lickin Creek history. As the lone outsider involved, I was pretty sure I knew where the blame would be laid. After taking a deep breath, I continued my march up the hill.

  The yellow police tape enclosing the grassy lawn didn't stop me for a minute. I ducked under it and kept going. A man in the gray uniform of the campus security force yelled at me, but I acted as if I didn't hear him. After the hike I'd just taken, I wasn't about to risk any more blisters by detouring around to the back of the building. I shuddered as I skirted the shallow grave, six feet long and three feet wide, for it brought back in vivid detail the ghastly events of yesterday afternoon. I paused once more to let my pulse rate subside, and while I waited for the pounding in my chest to stop, I feigned interest in the tall white building, complete with turrets, gingerbread trim, and a mansard roof and vowed, once again, to start a diet and maybe even an exercise program on Monday.

  To get into the building, I had to push my way through a mob of television reporters. On the porch, a woman I recognized from one of the Harrisburg TV stations was speaking to a video camera. She looked hopefully at me as I climbed the steps, but I shook my head and pulled open the massive oak door.

  Since no one was expected to enter through the front door today, I wasn't surprised to find no one at the reception desk.

  “Yoo-hoo,” I called. My voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hall. “Anybody home?”

  An enormous black door on my right opened, and a woman's head popped out. “Shhh!” she warned with a frown that caused her half-moon reading glasses to slip off her nose and dangle from a chain around her neck. I recognized her immediately as Helga Van Brackle, the Dean of Student Affairs.

  She slipped through the door, letting it close quietly behind her, and said, “Please hold your voice down. We're having a meeting. I assume you know about Saturday's unfortunate incident.”

  She obviously didn't remember meeting me. I stuck out my hand and s
aid, “I'm Tori Miracle, the editor of the Chronicle.” I loved the way the title rolled off my lips. “If by ‘unfortunate incident’ you mean Representative Macmillan's being shot to death by a firing squad in front of this building yesterday, I certainly am aware of it. But I think I'd use a stronger phrase than ‘unfortunate incident.’ ”

  “Did you say you were from the Chronicle? We have no comment.”

  “I'm not here for statements. I'm here to attend the meeting.”

  Her eyes widened as it finally dawned on her who I was. She tried to cover up. “Why, Toni, of course. We've been expecting you.”

  “It's Tori,” I said.

  “Come right in. We're just getting organized. Still waiting for that new police chief to show up.”

  Helga patted her short steel-gray hair, plucked an invisible piece of lint from her navy blue suit jacket, replaced her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and opened the door to the meeting room. “Come in,” she said, holding the door open. I stepped inside to a room where some grim-faced individuals sat around an oval table.

  “About time,” someone muttered. I glared at him. The meeting was supposed to start at eight, and according to the antique grandfather clock in the corner I was seven minutes early.

  “Anybody seen Janet this morning?” a woman asked.

  “I did,” a man said. “She was on her way to the basement for coffee.”

  “Someone go get her,” Helga Van Brackle snapped.

  “I'll go,” I volunteered. I'd already noticed there was no coffeepot in the room, and I figured I could get a cup from wherever Janet was getting hers.

  “Better take the elevator,” the man said. “It's faster than the stairs.”

  “No it isn't,” the woman contradicted. “Damn thing sticks half the time.”

  I left while they argued.

  Rising up from the left side of the hallway, near the back, was a circular staircase with a bronze goddess serving as the newel post. Looking up through the hollow center of it, I saw metal rods at each landing, extending across the empty space. When I realized they were braces placed there to keep the staircase from collapsing inward, I decided to use the elevator.

  The elevator was a marvel of turn-of-the-century engineering, with a brass grille I had to pull shut by hand. It creaked slowly to the basement, and I stepped into a dim area, nearly conking my head on the overhead tangle of pipes. I spotted a row of snack machines at the end of the long, dark hallway. In front of them was a small round table, and seated at the table was Janet Margolies, along with two other young women. All three looked startled when I appeared out of the shadows.

  “Oh my, that dress! I thought you were a ghost!” Janet gasped. They all laughed nervously.

  What an odd thing to say, I thought. Did ghosts wear navy blue dresses? Janet introduced me to one of the younger women, a pretty ponytailed brunette who was in her early twenties. “My assistant, Lizzie Bor-den,” Janet said, and looked at me as if eagerly awaiting my reaction to the name.

  “Okay,” I said. “I'll play along. What were your parents thinking of?”

  Lizzie giggled. “Not that their precious baby daughter Elizabeth would grow up to marry Timothy Borden.”

  I shook Lizzie Borden's hand and asked, “What was your maiden name?”

  “Swineheart. I think Borden's an improvement, don't you? This is Jennifer, today's receptionist.” She smiled at her younger companion, who grinned back. “You don't need to remember her name—she won't be here tomorrow—too competent—actually knows what she's doing—probably be fired by lunchtime.”

  I shook Jennifer's hand, which felt a little peculiar.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “Just finished a sticky bun.”

  I knew about sticky buns, a favorite Pennsylvania Dutch treat: yeast dough, slathered with real butter, sprinkled with brown sugar, cinnamon, and nuts, then rolled, sliced, and baked in a mixture of melted butter, brown sugar, and pecans. A sticky bun served warm with the sugar-butter mixture dripping onto your fingers was food fit for the gods. Also, it was guaranteed to go straight from the lips to the hips in a matter of minutes. Yes, I knew all too well about sticky buns.

  Janet glanced at her watch. “Guess it's time.” She waited while I got a cup of coffee from the machine, and then we rode the creaky elevator to the ground floor.

  “You're late,” Helga said as we entered the room.

  “I was in the middle of something important.” Janet winked at me and sat down.

  “Hmmph!”

  While I'd been gone, some more people had arrived. I took the only empty chair, across from Luscious Miller, who looked nervous. It was odd to see Luscious wearing the chief's uniform. I knew the young man had absolutely no confidence in his own abilities, and smiled reassuringly at him.

  Marvin Bumbaugh, the borough council president, sat at the head of the table next to the college president. He didn't look quite as important in these surroundings as he did when presiding over council meetings.

  It was a small and very serious-looking group who sat around the grand table. Besides President Godlove, Helga, Marvin, Luscious, Janet, and myself, there were only three other people present: the vice-president of the college, the head of campus security, and Professor Ken Nakamura, who was sitting to my immediate right. He smiled at me and said, “Be wary of the dragons, although they generally produce more smoke than fire.”

  I guessed from the way he spoke that nobody else in the room understood Japanese, and I bowed my head to acknowledge the wise advice of my elder.

  “If you're quite finished, Dr. Nakamura…” Helga said briskly, “I'm sure President Godlove would like to get on with our meeting.”

  The twinkle in Ken's eyes was more than light reflecting from his glasses as he bowed toward her. “I am, as always, your humble servant, madam.”

  “Hmmmph!”

  I'd been wrong about one thing—they weren't laying all the blame on me. And oddly, I thought, campus security wasn't picked on at all. Poor Janet was the target of most of their fury.

  The questions rained down upon her. Though she tried valiantly to answer them, nobody gave her time to finish a sentence.

  “Why was Macmillan playing the condemned man?”

  “He asked to—”

  “Who loaded the guns?”

  “Two of the reenactors—”

  “What were their names?”

  “Woody Woodruff. And his helper, Darious De-Shong.”

  “When were the guns loaded?”

  “Friday night. Woody said he wanted to do it himself. For safety's sake.”

  “Why weren't they locked up?”

  “They were. In the basement storeroom. I locked the door myself.”

  “How many keys were there? Who had them?”

  “There are only two keys. I had them both with me all night.”

  “Could someone have picked the lock?”

  “It was still locked on Saturday morning. It's an old-fashioned kind of lock—takes a key to both open and lock it.” She opened her purse and produced a ring with a pair of keys dangling from it. “They're still here. See.”

  “Did you watch the man load the guns?”

  “Of course I did. Lizzie was there, too.”

  “And you're positive the guns were loaded with blank bullets?”

  “They didn't use bullets at all. Woody explained that they use black powder and Wonder Wads to keep it from falling out for reenactments.”

  “What the hell are Wonder Wads?”

  “That's what the men called them. They looked like big foam-rubber ear plugs.”

  “Where were the reenactors when you arrived?”

  “In the hallway waiting for me. We all then waited together until Mack Macmillan arrived.”

  “Who…? Why… Where…? How…?”

  The questions flew furiously over the tabletop, but instead of answering any more, Janet gasped, grasped her abdomen, and moaned.

  The Lickin Creek Volunteer Fire Depa
rtment ambulance arrived in record time and left for the hospital in Gettysburg with Janet in the back.

  After that flurry of activity, when everyone was settled, President Godlove looked directly at me and said, “So, young lady, since you insisted on cosponsoring this event, it looks like this is now all your responsibility. Let's hear what you're going to do about this disaster.”

  And the questions started again, only I had no answers. Luscious looked sympathetic, but offered no help. I knew there really was nothing he could do; I was in this one on my own.

  I had no idea of what time it was when I staggered out of the meeting. President Godlove had entrusted me with the job of quietly looking into the disaster, probably because he figured if I was involved in the investigation, I wouldn't be writing nasty articles about the sorry event. I stopped at the desk and asked Jennifer, the receptionist, to direct me to Janet's office. I'd been given carte blanche to go through her files and get the names of everybody who had been involved in the reenact-ment.

  The elevator carried me to the top floor of the building.

  “Nice garret—for a starving artist,” I remarked, looking around the public relations office. All the meetings I'd attended for planning the reenactment had been downstairs in a Victorian parlor. Now that I saw Janet's office, I understood why we hadn't met here. The ceiling came down nearly to the floor on the outside wall, and the only window was in a dormer that looked like an afterthought. The wall below it was water-stained and blistered.

  Lizzie laughed. “Our department is regarded as a necessary evil, not an important part of the college hierarchy. We just does our job and keeps our mouths shut. How about a cup of coffee?”

  She ducked through a low doorway into another room and reappeared a moment later with two mugs of coffee. “It's better than that stuff in the basement machines but kinda strong.”

  I sipped the coffee and nearly gagged. Didn't anybody in Lickin Creek know how to make decent coffee? Maybe I should give up journalism and open a Starbucks. “Do you have any milk?”