Grace Interrupted

by Julie Hyzy

  “I would never have anything to do with a lowlife like him.”

  Tamara decided to join the conversation. “He broke up with our friend Muffy.”

  “Muffy?” I repeated.

  Rani took a breath and rolled her eyes. “Blame her parents, okay? They should have had dogs, not children. The poor girl never learned life skills. You know, the kind of savvy you better have if you don’t want the jerks of this world twisting you into knots. We tried to warn her about Zachary . . .” She stopped herself before going further, then worked up an unconvincing smile. “Listen, all we want to do is teach him a lesson. No permanent damage.” She seemed to weigh her words, then amended, “Well, nothing life-threatening, at least.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, though not sorry at all, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Now.”

  Rani gave a “you-aren’t-the-boss-of-me” head waggle. “We’re hotel guests. We paid for two nights’ stay. You can’t kick us out.”

  Of course I could. This was private property and I had every right to kick her out on her well-dressed little butt. I almost blurted that aloud but just as the words were about to fly from my mouth, diplomacy wrestled me into submission. Again. Once, just once, I wished for the freedom to sacrifice tact and say exactly what was on my mind instead of bending over backward to keep guests happy. But that was my job and I was good at it. “Your entry fee grants you admittance to the house and the gardens.”

  She held a finger up to correct me. “House and grounds.”

  “Except this weekend,” I said evenly. “When you arrived at the front gate, you were informed that the south end of the property would be off-limits to guests until Monday.” Drawing on Pierpont’s analogy, I added, “Think of it like an amusement park—when a ride is broken down, they tell you that at the door. If you weren’t willing to accept the terms, you should have turned around and gone home.”

  “I was never told that the grounds were off-limits.”

  She was lying. We both knew it.

  “Perhaps I could interest you in a rain check for another time when the grounds are reopened for day visitors.”

  Tamara’s eyes grew wide as she sidled closer to her friend, elbowing her. Focused on me, Rani didn’t notice. “It has to be done today,” Tamara whispered.

  My stomach gave a hard little lurch, like it was attempting to drive my body into action. Not before I had all the facts. “What do you plan to do to Zachary Kincade?” I asked.

  “That’s none of your business,” Tamara said. Visibly uneasy until this moment, she lifted her chin, fixed me with a solemn stare, and shoved her hands even deeper into her pockets. I swore she grew two inches taller. But there was no way I was backing down when the safety of our guests was at stake. I straightened to my own full height. Barefoot I’m five-foot-eight, at least six inches taller than Tamara. With the heels I wore today, I towered over her like an Amazon woman.

  “I cannot allow you access to the re-enactors,” I said, “especially when you pose a threat to their well-being.”

  “Who said anything about a threat?” Rani shouted, contradicting herself. “Look at us. We’re just a couple of harmless women. We just want to talk to him.”

  Harmless? Not these two. I could see it in their eyes. When I continued to refuse their request, they launched into a verbal attack on me. Lifting my walkie-talkie, I spoke briefly into the handset, all the while wondering about their quarry, this Zachary Kincade. Who was he? The likelihood of my meeting the man was minuscule, but I couldn’t help but be curious.

  The response I waited for sang through my radio. Turning to Rani and Tamara, I gestured toward the nearest door. “One of our shuttles will be here in a moment to escort you off the grounds. I’ll see to it that your entry fees are refunded.”

  Rani stomped her foot. “You are not kicking us out.”

  “I’m afraid I have no choice.”

  Four more security guards swarmed the area and Tamara let out a panicked yelp. Eyes wide, she scanned the room as though looking for a friendly face. There were none. “He texted Muffy,” she yelled in desperation. “He broke up with her via text.”

  I’d heard worse. And although I felt sorry for Muffy, whoever she was, her love life and that of Zachary Kincade were not my concern. I was pleased to see Terrence Carr join the crowd. Tall, black, and with movie-star good looks, our head of security quickly took control.

  “Let’s go, ma’am,” he said to Rani. As he moved to take her arm, she jerked away.

  “You don’t know what we’re dealing with here,” she said in a low voice. “If you knew, you’d drag that wretched waste of humanity in here and let us take care of him.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “All this because he broke up with your friend?”

  “Via text,” Tamara said.

  “Listen,” I began.

  Rani’s voice was a growl, “You don’t understand.”

  “Then explain it,” Terrence said.

  Rani’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just like him. Attractive, strong. And you think you’re God’s gift to women, don’t you?”

  “Only to my wife, ma’am.” Whenever Terrence smiled, which wasn’t often, he dazzled. This time was no exception. Rani tried unsuccessfully to stifle a little gasp of surprise.

  Composing herself, she dragged the back of one hand across the side of her face as though smoothing an errant hair. The two women were no match for the team and they knew it. “I can see we’re getting nowhere here,” Rani said. “Come on, Tamara, let’s go.”

  “We intend to escort you off property, ma’am,” Terrence said, all business once again. “Make no mistake about that.”

  “As delightful a prospect as that may be,” Rani dripped sarcasm, “we are not criminals. We’ve done nothing wrong, and we are certainly capable of seeing ourselves out. Come on, Tamara. We’re finished here.”

  “No,” Tamara said with vehemence. “He can’t get away with what he did to Muffy. I’m not leaving until they bring Zachary in here and we finish what we came to do.”

  Terrence and I exchanged looks. A female officer near Tamara took a step forward, surreptitiously dragging a set of handcuffs from the back of her belt. Tamara caught the movement and jumped backward out of the officer’s reach. “Get away from me,” she screamed. Fists still jammed in her pockets, she searched the room, clearly looking for a means of escape.

  “Let me see your hands,” Terrence said in a low voice. “Pull them out slowly.”

  Tamara backed up another step.

  The room fell silent. The only sound was Tamara’s breathing coming in shallow, frightened gasps.

  I heard footsteps behind me. People running. It sounded like three at least, pounding the floor and coming to a sudden stop. A man’s amused voice: “I just knew it had to be you two.”

  I turned. Zachary Kincade—who else could it be?—stood behind me, mirth crinkling his eyes. I had about two seconds to assess the subject of this skirmish. About forty-five years old, Kincade was wearing contemporary army fatigues. Exceedingly well. Tall, with a full head of dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard frosted with gray, and a smile like George Clooney’s, he held his hands high as he laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Behind him, Rob Pierpont was dressed in full Civil War regalia. I’d met the short, portly fellow several times. Pale and doughy, he too wore a beard, but his was far less dashing. I suspected he’d grown it to hide a double chin. Or maybe all male re-enactors were required to sport facial hair. Who knew? The plethora of decoration on Pierpont’s uniform proclaimed his considerable rank. At the moment, however, you’d never guess it by his demeanor. Pouting like an angry four-year-old, Pierpont tugged at Kincade’s shirt. “Zachary, this is a mistake,” he said.

  Behind both men were two additional security guards. Wasn’t this a party?

  My mini-assessment time came to a shattering halt as Tamara’s face grew red. She practically vibrated with fury. It was like watching Mount Tamara, sec
onds before hot lava spewed from the top of her head. I took a preventive step toward Kincade just as she let out a shrill cry. She charged the man, pulling her hands from her pockets, gurgling a feral scream.

  “She’s got a gun!” I shouted.

  Terrence didn’t need the warning. Already in motion, he raced to intercept. She nimbly sidestepped his grab as Rani attacked Terrence, first using what looked like a karate maneuver, then jumping onto his back and smacking him repeatedly in the head. All the other security staffers raced forward but not before Tamara got close enough to raise her weapon.

  Not a gun. A Taser.

  I dashed into the fray. Just as Tamara pulled the trigger, I shoved her sideways. The weapon’s two electrodes shot forward into empty space. Like dud fireworks, they extended their tethers and dropped listlessly to the floor without so much as grazing their target.

  Security took Tamara down, elbows and knees hitting the marble floor in a muffled rat-a-tat-tat of bone-jarring thuds. Terrence wrestled himself away from Rani and handcuffed her, all the while shouting directions to his team. Zachary Kincade had leaned out of the way when the Taser fired and burst out laughing. His guffaws were coarse, unpleasant sounds that reminded me of angry ducks squawking. Except ducks know better than to let their mouths hang open. Whatever attraction he might have possessed was gone in a quack.

  Damp and wide-eyed, Rob Pierpont ran a handkerchief across his pasty forehead, looking ready to go into cardiac arrest. As security regained control, I sidled up to him. “You okay?”

  He nodded but the sweat dripping down the sides of his face contradicted him. Rob Pierpont barely topped fiveand-a-half feet and looked more like a conquered Napoleon than a general in the War Between the States. From our brief conversations leading up to this week, however, I knew that in the real world he was a partner in a Florida accounting firm and that he was looking forward to his impending retirement. “More time to devote to my Civil War hobby.”

  “I’m so sorry about this,” he said.

  “Not your fault.”

  Zachary moved in and crouched next to Tamara, who was restrained facedown on the floor. “You just couldn’t let it go, could you?”

  Tamara called Zachary a very bad name.

  Terrence signaled to his team. “Get him out of here. He’s just making things worse.”

  “Do you know what all this is about?” I asked Pierpont.

  He lifted his shoulders. “Zachary can be a troublemaker, I’ll give you that. But until these two women made it to our camp, I had no idea it was this bad.”

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  Zachary called to Pierpont as he was led away. “I’ll meet you out back,” he said, pointing, as though we wouldn’t understand what he meant.

  Pierpont suddenly looked much older than his years. “These ladies didn’t tell you?”

  “They said he broke up with their friend via text.”

  “That’s not exactly the whole story. Zachary didn’t directly text the woman he was engaged to . . .”

  “Engaged?” I was aghast. “He broke off the engagement via text?”

  Pierpont winced. “Last Saturday, fifteen minutes before the wedding was to begin, with everyone gathered at the church and his bride-to-be waiting in the wings, he masstexted the entire bridal party to let them know he changed his mind.”

  “That’s despicable.”

  Pierpont shrugged. “That’s Zachary.”

  Chapter 2

  I KNEW TERRENCE WOULD BRING ME UP TO speed later. Right now, I decided to escort Pierpont out. The poor man was visibly shaken and I wanted to ensure he had transportation back with someone to keep him company. Even if it was only Zachary. “You sure you’re okay?” I asked again as we left the West Salon and took the long corridor toward what had once been the servants’ back entrance.

  He squared his shoulders and gave a little huff, settling himself. “Much better now,” he said. “Thank you. Our re-enactments are generally very exciting but it’s a controlled environment. This was so . . . savage.”

  “You’ve been involved in re-enactments for a long time?”

  “My father got me started. Years ago.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Back then, we were so much more authentic. No plastic coolers or blow-up mattresses in our tents. When we roughed it, we roughed it. It was more real.”

  “I think I’d be a terrible re-enactor,” I said. “I’d want to bring my blow-dryer.”

  “Some women try to sneak them in. But I’m way ahead of them. That’s why your property here is so perfect for our run-through. No electricity unless someone brings a generator. No running water nearby. That would be farby.”

  “Farby?”

  He nodded, warming to his subject. “Conventional wisdom says it comes from the phrase: ‘Far be it for me to criticize you’ when re-enactors catch anachronisms in one anothers’ costumes. For instance, Velcro. There was no Velcro in Civil War times, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Hence, Velcro is farby. Zippers are farby. So are cigarettes that you don’t roll yourself with the proper components, and any type of synthetic fabric.”

  I tried the word out again. “Farby.”

  “That’s what you want to avoid at all costs. Nobody wants to be known as a Farb. I avoid it, always. In fact, participants like me are considered ‘progressive’ in that we believe in complete authenticity and try to fully immerse ourselves at every opportunity.”

  He continued as we walked, explaining the camp’s reporting structure and how long it took to set up a Living History. I knew that they’d set up this weeklong encampment to run drills and work out the bugs in preparation for the group’s big outing at Gettysburg in July. According to Pierpont, that was the year’s main event and a chance to re-create that historic battle.

  At the exit, I pushed open the back doors and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the warm afternoon air.

  “Beautiful,” he said, surveying the south grounds.

  That was an understatement. “It is.”

  I didn’t mind making small talk with Pierpont, nor accompanying him out back. When I’d been called to the West Salon to meet with our intruders, I’d been on my way outside anyway. Jack Embers, the manor’s landscape architect, had asked me to meet him near the entrance of the hedge maze to discuss a couple of gardening issues.

  Jack and I had been playing date-tag for the past several weeks. We had originally planned to go out together—without my roommates this time—back in April. But situations had conspired to prevent us from keeping our plans. I rubbed my right arm, remembering my terror the night Abe’s murderer had finally been apprehended.

  Since then, Jack and I had tried and failed to set up another date. Spring was a busy time for Jack anyway, but he’d recently taken on a new responsibility. His younger brother, Davey, had joined the firm. More important, he’d rejoined Jack’s life. From the little I’d learned, twenty-seven-year-old Davey had “issues” and hadn’t yet found his way in the world. After several brushes with the law, Davey had promised his family he would change but needed help to do so. He’d moved into Jack’s home about a month ago and all Jack’s free time had been taken up by his little brother.

  I’d met Davey a couple of times. Except for his beard and slighter build, he could have been Jack’s twin. Well, except for Jack’s scar, that is. An uneven white line sliced across the left side of his face. I wondered if I’d ever find out where that scar had come from.

  “There he is,” Pierpont said, interrupting my reverie and picking up his pace. “Kincade!”

  Zachary Kincade leaned against a stone wall, chatting up one of our female groundskeepers. A youngster, barely twenty-two, she looked relieved to see us. The moment Kincade’s attention was pulled by Pierpont’s call, she waved to me and scurried off to tend to a distant flower bed.

  Kincade ambled over. “I’m sorry about the trouble back there,” he said, indicating the mansion with a dispassionate glance.
/>   “I thought you’d be down at the police station, giving a statement,” I said.

  “Not pressing charges,” he said. “What’s the point? They had their fun and have been escorted off the grounds by your efficient security team. I’m not worried. Those girls don’t have the guts to try again.”

  I wasn’t so sure, and said so.

  Kincade smiled. “I appreciate you worrying about me. But I’m a big boy.” He held out his hand. “And you are? You have me at a distinct disadvantage here.”

  Pierpont gave an exasperated sigh. “This is Grace Wheaton. She’s in charge. She’s the one to contact if we need anything.”

  Kincade and I shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  Pure reflex and good manners combined to make me smile and say how nice it was to meet him, too. But when I got my hand back, I resisted the urge to wipe it down the side of my skirt.

  “In charge?” Kincade said, eyes brightening. “So much power in such a lovely package.”

  What era was this guy from? “Let me arrange for transportation back to your camp,” I said, calling into my radio for a shuttle to be brought around back. The estate provided free transportation between the hotel and the manor, and between the manor and a remote parking lot. We’d recently expanded that lot to accommodate visitors whose numbers we expected—and hoped—to grow over the next several years.

  Part of my job was to boost our image, increase tourism, and establish the Marshfield brand. No small feat—any of them. But before we could expect hundreds of thousands of new tourists to flock to our doors each year, we needed to make certain we had infrastructure issues settled first. Parking lots and shuttles weren’t sexy upgrades, but they were important pieces of the whole. Fortunately my boss, Bennett, owner of this palatial estate, agreed with me. Just wait until he heard about today’s excitement.

  Kincade had to be almost fifteen years older than I was, but as he moved in closer I caught the smolder of interest in his eyes. Ugh. He reached again for my hand. “I hope you’re planning to visit our camp,” he said in a low voice. “I’d love for you to see me in action during one of our battles.”