Death, Guns, and Sticky Buns

by Valerie S. Malmont

  As I crossed the room I reached down and gently touched Kayla on the shoulder. The child looked up and smiled at me. I gave her a thumbs-up sign that caused her to giggle. “Have you sought out any help for her?” I asked Lillie as she held the door open for me.

  “Like what? I don't have no money for fancy doctoring.”

  I sighed. This was what happened when children had children. “Try Easter Seal,” I suggested.

  “Mack's wife volunteers there, teaching sign language, and I sure don't want to bump into her.”

  When I was back on the street, the cold wind rushing down from the mountains felt good to me after the cloying atmosphere of the small apartment. I buttoned my sweater and wondered if this was the start of that “killing frost” Lillie had mentioned.

  At least now I understood why Lillie had told me Mack Macmillan was going to marry her. Quite possibly, she was right. As I got into my car, it occurred to me to wonder why a man would commit suicide when he was excitedly expecting his first child. Sure, he'd been told he only had about ten years left, but from my thirty-something viewpoint, ten years was a long time, especially for a man who was already in his seventies. He'd told Lillie he'd take care of her and the child—did that mean he'd changed his will in their favor? I decided the person to ask was Buchanan McCleary.

  I drove the couple of blocks to his office in the old Pizza Hut building the borough council had bought to use as a town hall annex. Buchanan had told me it was a real bargain because it shared a parking lot and snow removal costs with the Church of God. That church, located in what used to be a service station, had a new sign up: NO JESUS, NO PEACE. KNOW JESUS, KNOW PEACE. How easy life must be for the faithful, I thought. There certainly wasn't much peace in my life these days.

  Perhaps it was my overactive imagination, but I was positive I smelled garlic as I entered through the glass door that faced the parking lot. Buchanan, six foot eight if you counted his seventies Afro, came around the desk to give me a hug and a peck on the cheek.

  “Ugh!” he said, straightening up and rubbing his back. “Wish you'd grow about eight inches.”

  “I will if you'll agree to shrink by the same amount.”

  A grin crossed his dark, handsome face. “How about a cup of Darjeeling?” He'd once told me tea drinking was a habit he'd picked up when he was a Rhodes scholar in England.

  “I'd love some.”

  While he busied himself at the hot plate in the corner, I wondered how his relationship with Garnet's sister, Greta, was going. They were both aging hippie activists who espoused many causes, such as the rain forests, the whales, dolphins, the Bay, and recycling. If I'd ever met two people who were destined to be soul mates, they were Buchanan and Greta.

  Buchanan was reputed to be the best lawyer in the tri-state area, and his private practice was quite lucrative. I often wondered why he worked for the borough council as a part-time attorney, but then I realized, that Buchanan, with his penchant for good deeds, probably thought of the work he did for the borough as his charitable contribution to Lickin Creek. He came back carrying two blue-and-white Spode mugs full of fragrant hot tea. He'd remembered I like mine with milk and sugar.

  “What do you hear from Garnet?” he asked, taking his seat behind the giant library table that served as his desk.

  “He called Wednesday.”

  “Will he be coming home before he leaves for Costa Rica?”

  I had no idea. “Of course,” I said.

  “Damn shame about that young man getting himself killed. Luscious told me it looks like he was responsible for the recent rash of button-and-bullet robberies. Sounds like someone he double-crossed got revenge. No honor among thieves.”

  “What do you mean by ‘buttons and bullets’?”

  “That's what we call most of the Civil War collections around here. Most contain a lot of objects, but none are particularly valuable.”

  “But there were some really important artifacts stolen from the Gettysburg museum, weren't there? Did everything turn up in the barn?”

  Buchanan shook his head. “Not everything. The two rangers who were at the barn all morning stopped by the police station an hour ago to tell Luscious the rarest items are still missing.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “General Meade's sword, for one, and some battle flags. They left some photos to help Luscious identify them if they should turn up. Luscious came by to use my scanner to make some copies.” He pulled three pieces of paper out of his in-box and handed them to me. “This is the clearest. You can easily read the letters and numbers on the banners.”

  I studied the photos. Two showed the banners. The third was of the sword, and something about it bothered me, but I didn't know why.

  Putting the pictures to one side, Buchanan leaned back, cocked his head, and looked quizzically at me. “May I ask why you have honored me with this visit?”

  “I want to know about Mack Macmillan's will. Has it been filed for probate?”

  Buchanan nodded. “It has. Shouldn't take long at all to take care of the few bequests he made and wind it up.”

  “Were there any unusual or unexpected bequests?”

  “Not unless you count the ten grand he left to the animal shelter. I guess his conscience got the better of him.”

  “So you know about the puppy mills?”

  “Sure. Everybody does. And thanks to Mack, it's still not illegal to run one.”

  “Can you tell me how long ago the will was written?”

  “Of course. He came to see me at my office, the real one, not this place, about a month ago. Asked me to tear up the trust he'd written immediately after he and Charlotte were married. He replaced it with a simple will, the kind that costs about fifty bucks, leaving the bulk of his estate to Charlotte. When I pointed out to him that his estate was large and complicated and better served by the trust, he told me to mind my own business. That he knew what he was doing.”

  “I wonder why he did that,” I said, thinking of Lillie White and the baby she was expecting. Had Macmillan lied to her about taking care of her and the child? For all that it was worth, I didn't even know if she'd told me the truth about his being the father. Maybe she saw his death as an opportunity to grab some of his money for herself.

  “What if there was a child?” I asked.

  “But he and Charlotte never had… Wait just a minute. Are you telling me there is a child?”

  “There might be. It hasn't been born yet.”

  “But Charlotte… uh… isn't she a little old for…”

  “Not Charlotte, Buchanan. Another woman.”

  “That explains why he didn't let me scratch that line out of the will.”

  “What line?”

  “The one that's in most standard wills—leaving half the deceased's assets to be divided up among his children.”

  “If what you're saying is true and there is a child, it could change things. Give me the woman's name.”

  “I'll have her call you,” I said. For once, I decided, I would not be caught in the middle of another Lickin Creek scandal.

  CHAPTER 20

  Halloween Morning

  FRIDAY WAS MUCH BUSIER THAN USUAL AT THE Chronicle. We had to toss out the entire front page to make room for articles about Mack Macmillan's suicide and Darious DeShong's murder. Cassie also reminded me that the mayor wanted something in the paper about Woody and Moonbeam rescuing me from sure death. Now that he had been cleared by the D.A. and was not waiting to go to trial, the mayor had decided to honor him at a ceremony at The Accident Theatre next weekend.

  President Godlove called to ask me if I'd suffered any ill effects from tumbling over the balcony. Was it my imagination, or did he sound very cool? Maybe he would have preferred to let Woody take the blame. It probably would have looked better for the college if the chairman of the board of trustees had been the victim of a stupid accident rather than a suicide.

  We proofed, we pasted, we moved, we inserted, and we deleted.
And finally, in the late afternoon, the Chronicle was ready to go to the printer. Due to Cas-sie's valiant efforts on the telephone, we were down only a handful of subscribers, and with any luck, in a week or two even they would forget what they'd been angry about and resubscribe.

  When I arrived home, I was ready to collapse from exhaustion. After feeding the cats, changing their litter boxes, and eating half of a can of chili I found in the refrigerator, I checked the doors and windows to make sure all were locked and climbed the stairs to my bedroom on the second floor.

  There, I ripped off my clothes, tossed them in the direction of the chair, and pulled on my Tin Woodman nightshirt that said IF I ONLY HAD A HEART. My jeans missed the chair and landed on my dresser, jiggling the little carousel-horse music box Darious had given me, which began to play “In the Good Old Summertime.” I practically flew across the room to turn it off. I'd never be able to listen to it again. In fact, it was going to the Salvation Army thrift shop next week. I covered it with my sweater so I wouldn't have to look at it, and went to bed with my cats.

  I slept sporadically. The events of the past few days danced through my head as if I were viewing them through a kaleidoscope. A vision of Darious sitting in his golden chariot with a horrendous gash in his neck that nearly separated his head from his body kept floating through the dreams. Sometimes the pieces almost formed a picture that made sense, then they would break apart into a meaningless jumble. As I dozed off at sunrise, I was thinking there was something about Dari-ous I needed to remember. Something he'd done? Something I'd seen at his barn? What was it? Fred's paw stroking my cheek woke me, and I jerked to a sitting position, groped for the clock, and nearly had a panic attack as my foggy brain tried to deal with how late it was and what I should wear to this afternoon's wedding.

  Much to my chagrin, yesterday I'd learned that Woody had not called me Monday evening to ask me out on a date. The real reason for that call, which I never gave him time to get to, was to invite me to his and Moonbeam's wedding, to take place this very afternoon on the Gettysburg battlefield. When Moonbeam had called yesterday afternoon to make sure I was coming, she'd been very surprised that I knew nothing about it. As if she needed to convince me to come, she read off the names of about two dozen guests she thought I knew who had already accepted. I assured her I wouldn't miss it for the world.

  The occasion deserved my good black silk suit with the sequined collar and cuffs. I'd bought it in a nearly-new shop two years ago, and despite the designer label's having been cut out of it, I knew what it was. I thought it made me look a little thinner than I really was, and in New York it often went to the theater with me. It hadn't yet had an outing in Lickin Creek.

  I found my black heels in a box in the storeroom, and when I put them on I was surprised at how uncomfortable they were after many months of wearing nothing but sandals and sneakers. Oh well, I'd soon grow accustomed to wearing them again. I tottered down the stairs, hanging on to the railing for dear life and hoped that would happen soon.

  There were cats to feed and water and mail to gather from the hall rug where it lay after having been dropped through the slot in the front door by our stubborn mailman, who refused to come to the back door. “I've always delivered it here, and I'm not going to change now” was his answer when I pointed out the perils of the front porch roof. Lickin Creek natives had two phrases I heard over and over. The first was “It's the way we've always done it,” and its evil twin was “We've never done it that way.”

  In the kitchen, I heated a cup of yesterday's coffee in the microwave and tried to make some sense of the thoughts and dreams that had come to me during the night. By the time I'd finished drinking the coffee, I came to the conclusion that I knew who killed Darious DeShong. But I didn't know why. I called Luscious to ask him a couple of questions about the crime scene that would prove me right. The nitwit on the end of the line told me she thought Luscious was out.

  “You think he's out? You're only five feet away from his desk. Can't you look?”

  In a minute she was back. “I was right. He's out. You want I should take a message?”

  I told her what I wanted to know and waited while she looked for a pencil to write it down. “Tell him to call me later this afternoon, after four at…” I had to think for a minute. “At General Pickett's Restaurant in Gettysburg.”

  “Okeydokey. What did you say your name was?”

  “Tori Miracle!” I slammed the phone down.

  If I was right, I would confront a killer this afternoon. If I was wrong… well, I'd been wrong before. It's embarrassing but not the end of the world.

  I tossed the advertising circulars into the trash, put the bills on the kitchen table, and thought about quickly fixing something to eat. Not enough time. Instead I grabbed a Snickers bar from the refrigerator to eat on the go.

  “Come on baby, turn over,” I muttered furiously at my car, and after a few grunts of protest, it started.

  While Halloween might seem like a strange choice for a wedding day, Moonbeam and Woody had truly beautiful weather for their special occasion. The weather was crisp, the sky clear, and if sunshine was a good portent, then the bridal couple was destined for happiness.

  I got around the traffic circle with no trouble, and then consulted the little map Cassie had drawn for me. At the Lutheran Theological Seminary, I turned down Confederate Avenue and drove along Seminary Ridge, which became a one-way street on the battlefield. I drove past several beautiful monuments and nearly missed seeing the tiny brown-and-white sign on my right that said AMPHITHEATER. I left my car next to a statue of General Longstreet, which looked strange standing on the bare ground instead of being raised on a pedestal as the other statues were. Someone, I noticed, had tucked a miniature Confederate flag into a space under the general's arm. The area smelled of mold and decay, and the ground beneath my feet was oddly spongy. I walked past a row of green SaniPots and down the hill to where benches built of landscaping timbers faced an odd-looking A-frame building with a small stage in front.

  By the time I reached the wedding party, I was hobbling and wished I hadn't worn high heels. I also wished I hadn't worn the black suit. No matter how sophisticated and stylish an outfit is, there are right places and there are wrong places for everything. And this was definitely the wrong place for black silk and sequins. Nobody had told me I'd be sitting in the sun, or that most of the guests would be wearing Civil War costumes. Once again, Tori Miracle was dressed wrong for the occasion.

  Among the hundred or more guests seated on the benches, I recognized many. It pleased me that several nodded and waved when they saw me.

  Gloria Zimmerman, who was the maid of honor in a gray silk hoopskirted gown, stepped onto the stage. I guessed this meant something was going to happen soon. At least I hoped so. I was anxious to ask her about her relationship with Darious, but I figured I could do that at the reception. While the overhanging roof of the A-frame provided Gloria some shade, the rest of the guests were not so lucky; they were busy fanning themselves with little pieces of paper. Those of us who arrived late, and there were many, had to stand in the sun, which seemed to grow bigger and hotter with every passing minute.

  Charlotte Macmillan stood alone on the edge of the crowd, dressed in what my friend Murray Rosenbaum always called “mother-of-the-groom beige.” I was surprised, at first, to see her there but then I realized that Moonbeam must have invited everybody in town. I tried to edge closer to her. But I was sidetracked by a reenactor who saw by my suit I was an outsider and was determined to tell me everything there was to know about staging a Civil War–era wedding.

  Janet Margolies and Lizzie Borden had taken shelter under a tree, far off to the right. They waved at me. I tried to squeeze through the crowd to get to them, but it was an impossible task. The two women standing next to me took it upon themselves to tell me who the other wedding guests were. Their own names were Maybell and Grace. They looked identical except Maybell had purple hair while Grace's was snow-
white. Grace was grumpy; rather than assume she was always that way, I blamed it on the heat.

  “Can't imagine why anybody would want to get married in a place where so many men died,” she grumbled.

  “Whatever floats their boat,” Maybell said with a wicked grin.

  Grace sniffed and pointed out the tall, handsome middle-aged Asian gentleman pushing Ken Nakamura's wheelchair. “That's the bride's ex-husband. Probably here to celebrate the end of his alimony payments.” She snickered.

  President Godlove was also present, surrounded by a half-dozen professors from the college, including Helga Van Brackle. “They're not really friends of Moonbeam's,” Maybell, of the lavender hair, told me. “They're just here because of Professor Nakamura.”

  More people were arriving every minute, most of the men in uniforms while the women wore hoopskirts, feathered hats, and crocheted gloves. If the pace kept up, soon there would be more people in the amphitheater than had fought at the Battle of Gettysburg. Vesta Pennsinger, in a long gingham gown, glanced my way but pretended she hadn't seen me. At least she had the good sense to look embarrassed.

  “They're coming,” someone called, and the crowd surged forward. Maybell put a restraining hand on my forearm and held me back.

  “You'll be able to see from here,” she informed me.

  Sure enough, the crowd separated into two parts, and a covered wagon drawn by a team of beautiful horses rode into the center of the parking lot. Woody, wearing a blue dress uniform, sat tall on the bench beside a young man in a black suit and flat straw hat who reined in the horses. When they came to a halt, Woody jumped to the ground with unexpected agility for a man of his size. He straightened his sword, adjusted the tilt of his hat, tightened the gold sash around his waist, then walked around to the back of the wagon and lifted the canvas revealing…

  The guests gasped. And so did I, for Moonbeam Nakamura was not only the most beautiful bride I'd ever seen, she was also the most unusually dressed. For her grand occasion she'd chosen a cloth-of-gold sari and had twisted ropes of gold in the single blond braid that hung down her back. Instead of a veil, she wore a gold tiara with a red jewel in the center. A delicate nose ring and a small green stone glued between her eyebrows completed the bride's ensemble. Tiny bells on her anklets tinkled as Woody lifted her from the wagon and set her on the ground.