Grace Interrupted

by Julie Hyzy

  Although the facilities in this part of the mansion had been upgraded when converted into an administrative wing, the last time this section had seen any renovation had been in the early 1960s. Pink tile floors and walls, high ceilings, and black-seated toilets between pink stalls kept the room bright, though severely dated. With everyone in this area off for the day except me and Frances, I opted to avoid a cramped stall, and instead started changing clothes in the middle of the room.

  I’d just pulled the dress over my head when I heard the bathroom door open. “Eep!” I screamed, scrambling to pull the fabric down past my face, to see who had come in.

  Frances held my cell phone out to me. “Sorry,” she said, “it’s for you. I thought it might be important.” She gave me a funny look. “Your dress is on backward.”

  I hated that she was right and that I looked stupid. Forgoing the bodice, I jerked the garment down to my waist, and stood there in my contemporary cami with a poofy blue skirt cocked unevenly at my hips. “Thank you,” I said, reaching for the phone. “Hello?” I said into the little receiver.

  “Grace?”

  “Tooney?” I said, recognizing his voice. “What did you find out?”

  “I need more information first,” he said. “Couple of dead ends so far. This guy you want me to investigate, where’s he from?”

  For a half-second I couldn’t come up with it, then remembered what Frances had told me about Florian being a big shot at NASA. “He lives in Florida,” I said.

  “Great. I’ll be in touch.”

  When he hung up, Frances asked, “What did he want?”

  “Just wanted to know where Florian lived. That must be a more popular name than I expected.”

  WHEN WE ARRIVED, MOST OF THE REENACTORS were gone. An elderly woman was seated outside her tent under an improvised awning. Perched on a small stool, she shucked corn on top of a wooden box that had been turned on its side and wobbled on the uneven ground. Her skirt was pulled up, exposing bony knees she kept spread wide around her makeshift table. “Where is everyone?” Frances asked her.

  “Hot one today, isn’t it?” the woman asked with a toothy smile.

  “Very hot,” Frances agreed, fanning herself.

  They weren’t kidding. Although it was still only mid-morning, the sun beating down on us was making me doubly glad I’d eventually found my sunscreen. Perspiration gathered at my hairline and I felt bright beads hover before tracing their hot path down my back. The tight bodice wasn’t helping matters. I glanced down and noticed a small damp patch of sweat forming just below my neckline.

  “Gonna get hotter before it gets cooler,” the woman added.

  I’d been busy looking around. “Over there. Way down past the last Confederate tents,” I said. “Looks like that’s where everyone is gathered.”

  “Sure enough,” the woman said, tossing the cleaned ear of corn into the pot next to her and grabbing a fresh one to shuck. “That there is the practice for this afternoon’s battle. Gotta get it all right, you know. Don’t want the wrong side to win this time.” She chuckled at her own joke.

  “Thank you,” I said as Frances and I set off.

  “You’d be smart to stay up here, where it’s nice and cool,” the woman said. She winked at me and beckoned me to come closer.

  Frances gave me the eagle eye as I obliged the old lady.

  “Lookie what I got,” she said triumphantly, leaning back so I could peer into the upturned wooden box. An electric fan, its cord covered by debris to keep it hidden, whirred quietly inside. “They ain’t getting me to come down to that sweltering meadow. No way.”

  I grinned at her. “I don’t blame you a bit.”

  We started off again and she raised a hand to wave good-bye. “Hope you find what you all are looking for.”

  I waved back. “Me, too.”

  “Are you like that with everyone?” Frances asked.

  “Like what?”

  “So . . . insufferably cheerful.”

  I turned to catch a look at her face, to see if she might be kidding. She wasn’t. I shrugged. Not with you, I thought.

  BY THE TIME WE MADE IT TO THE BATTLE-GROUND, the final scripted attack was under way. “We missed him,” Frances said, clearly miffed. “He wanted to meet me before the last battle began.”

  “I’m sorry, Frances.”

  She waved off my apology. “It is what it is,” she said. “Let’s go watch.”

  Ropes laid out on the grass separated the participants from the onlookers. Frances and I fell in behind the families gathered there, watching husbands, brothers, and friends wage war.

  A cry went up and hundreds of soldiers leapt into action, both on horse and on foot. Reverberations from the galloping hooves trembled the ground beneath my feet. Men shouted and screamed. Some fell, clutching their sides, writhing to the ground in mock pain.

  Sweat popped out from every pore in my body. The heat and brutality combined to make me light-headed, and a quick glance at Frances told me she was feeling the same. “This is more real than I expected,” I said in a hushed voice.

  Frances nodded but stayed silent.

  Standing next to me, a mother leaned over one of her kids and whispered, “This your first time?”

  I told her it was.

  “It still hasn’t gotten old for me. I’ve been doing this for years, but I remember the first time I came to one of these with my husband. Never expected to be as . . . moved . . . as I was.”

  She was exactly right. I’d never experienced war firsthand and I certainly hoped I never would, but this event, though pretend, was having an effect on me I hadn’t anticipated. Men charged and fought and died on the field in front of me. I swallowed. “This is intense,” I said.

  The woman smiled and tousled the hair of the young boy next to her. “It is,” she said.

  Frances hadn’t said anything for a long time. Her face was unreadable.

  Someone called a halt, and all the “dead” soldiers got to their feet, coming to join their families and grab a drink of water. Frances tapped me on the arm. “Let’s find Hennessey.”

  It didn’t take long. We walked along the outer perimeter of the battleground and found him grabbing a long drink of water from an upturned canteen. The liquid dribbled down his beard as he gulped and when he finally opened his eyes, his face lit up when he saw us standing there. “Well, there you are,” he said, pleased. “Did you see me in action?”

  I smiled. “Pretty impressive.” But Hennessey was more interested in what Frances had to say.

  She backed away from him, waving her hand in front of her nose. “Don’t you ever bathe?”

  Not at all insulted, Hennessey guffawed.

  “I’m sorry we were late,” I said. “We hoped to talk with you before the battle.”

  He was shaking his head before I got the apology out. “Change of plans. Last night we got the final schedule. Everything got shifted.”

  “Oh,” I said, “what about the events for tonight?”

  “You mean like the ball?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows at Frances. “You going to save me a dance, honey?”

  “Not unless you fumigate yourself first.”

  “Hoo-wee,” he said, “that’s a date.”

  My eyebrows shot up, but Frances refused to look at me.

  “What about voting the new general in? When will that take place?” I asked.

  “Just past sundown and right before the ball. We get all dressed up in our best finery”—another lurid glance at Frances—“and just after sundown we take a vote. But with Florian running unopposed, that shouldn’t take more than a minute or two. Then it’s party time.” He examined the sky. “We don’t have that much longer to go. I’d best go wash up, right, Frannie?”

  Frances had been fanning herself ever more quickly as he’d talked. A thin sheen of perspiration gathered on her upper lip and her face had lost all color.

  “Frances,” I said, grabbing her arm, “are you okay?”

&nb
sp; She started to answer, but her eyes fluttered then rolled back in her head. She pitched forward, dead to the world. Fortunately Hennessey grabbed her from the other side. “Medic!” he shouted to the crowd. “We need a medic.”

  I turned Frances onto her back and loosened the collar of her dress. Hennessey splashed water onto his hands and patted Frances’s face. Less than a minute later a medic ran up, but Frances’s color had begun to return. She opened her eyes. At first confused, she looked around, saw me and Hennessey crouched on either side of her, and her expression flashed to fury. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she said, trying to boost herself up.

  “Stay down, Frances.”

  “I will not allow myself to be a spectacle . . .”

  “Just relax,” I said sharply. “It’s brutally hot out here, you’re wearing layers and layers of clothing, and you passed out. It’s completely normal.”

  “Not for me it isn’t,” she said, but when she tried to sit up again I could tell it took too much effort. “If I can get to a chair, maybe . . .”

  The medic’s tent was all the way back in the center of camp, near the sutlers’ area. “We’ll get you there,” I said, “just take your time. Have some water.”

  She did, and after drinking a little she was able to sit up in the grass. “Everyone is staring at me,” she said. “Get me out of here.”

  “I don’t think you’re ready . . .”

  Through clenched teeth she repeated, “Get me out of here.”

  “Give the lady what she wants,” Hennessey said as he and I helped Frances to her feet. “I gotcha, honey.”

  She didn’t fight him. Even more surprising, she didn’t fight me.

  The three of us, with the medic trailing, made our way slowly back toward the camp. The few times I thought Frances might go down again, she surprised me by continuing to put one foot in front of the other by sheer force of will, until we made it all the way to the medic’s tent.

  “Go back to your group,” I said to Hennessey when we’d gotten Frances stretched out on a cot. Rules against farby didn’t apply here. The white tent was clean and smelled of disinfectant. There was an oscillating fan blowing from the far corner, and the medic pulled out a bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade from a nearby cooler.

  He handed it to Frances. “This should help.”

  “Don’t you have purple?”

  “The patient is feeling better, I see,” he said with a smile. “Purple, coming right up.”

  As the medic exchanged flavors, Hennessey dragged over a stool and positioned it next to the cot. “I don’t need to go back,” he said. “I think I’ll just stay here awhile.”

  Frances took a deep swig of her purple Gatorade. “Much better,” she said. Before taking another drink she turned to glare at me. “What are you waiting for?”

  My mouth opened, but I didn’t know what to say.

  “Go,” she said, making a little scooting gesture with her free hand. “You have work to do. It will be sundown before you know it. Get going.”

  MOST OF THE RE-ENACTORS WERE RETURNING to camp from the far battleground. From their conversations, it was obvious all were preparing to change into their evening wear. I hadn’t seen Davey, nor Florian, and I didn’t want to waste time hoofing it all the way back to the car in this heat just to don my ball gown. Being properly dressed for the ball was nowhere near as important as talking to Davey alone. Where could he be?

  For a moment I wondered if Gordon had succeeded in dissuading his son from participating. I hoped not. For some reason I couldn’t quite understand, this activity had struck a chord with Davey. It was obvious the young man needed focus. If this was where he found it, then Gordon shouldn’t stand in his way.

  Of course, Gordon might not be as concerned about Davey finding a creative outlet as he was worried that his youngest son might find a confidante. That, I believed, was what terrified Gordon most of all. And was what kept him hovering over his son, watching every move like a daddy hawk.

  Davey had obviously never confided in Jack. I wondered why I believed he might confide in me. I didn’t know, but I knew I had to try. Too many lives were hanging in the balance.

  Making a second circuit of the camp at the southern edge of the Union side, I was starting to feel a bit self-conscious. All the other women had put on their ball gowns, and the entire feel of the encampment had changed. This was more Gone With the Wind barbecue at Twelve Oaks than a collection of wannabe soldiers in grubby duds. The men, changed into dress uniforms, offered their arms to hoop-skirted companions as they strolled about the grounds. The mood was cheerful and festive as participants meandered, laughing and sharing drinks.

  I wandered about in my cotton work dress, which clung to my skin like hot butter on popcorn. As desperately as I wanted to peel it off and change clothing, I knew this was no time for vanity or even comfort. Sliding hair away out of my eyes, I continued to scan the crowd, desperate to find Davey. I would never be welcome at the Embers home again and I didn’t know when else I’d ever have the chance to speak with him. Much hinged on him finally coming clean with the truth. Would he?

  Deep within my cavernous dress pocket, my cell phone vibrated against my left leg. I’d had the presence of mind to turn the ringer off when I came down here, but I stopped short of leaving the device behind. I’d refused to give up my sole connection to the real world. Not today.

  There was no way to answer it without causing a farby commotion, so I hurried up the nearby incline, hoping to scurry down the other side before whoever was calling hung up. I made it to the top of the rise on the phone’s third ring and nearly froze in my tracks at the crest. Directly below me was the spot where Zachary had been killed.

  My heart thrummed in my throat, but I bit my lip and continued down toward the ravine, plucking the phone from my pocket and answering it the moment I was out of sight.

  It was Tooney.

  “Grace?” he said.

  “Talk fast.”

  “Okay.” He took a breath, then began, “Your guy is squeaky clean in the real world. Well, sort of.”

  “Is he, or isn’t he?”

  “Let me start again. He’s held the same job for thirty years.”

  Thirty years? I didn’t think Florian was old enough to have been working that long.

  Tooney kept talking. “Same apartment, too. Has a routine he follows. No deviation. Spends every lunch hour at a library near his office researching the Civil War, and stops at his local bookstore twice a week on the way home to see if any new Civil War books have come in. Lives alone, spends all his downtime on research.”

  This did not sound at all like Florian. He had a family. I’d met one of his kids. None of this fit.

  “Tooney, are you sure? How could you find this out? How would you know his routine? It’s not like you could have shadowed him. He’s been here the whole time.”

  “That’s where it really gets interesting,” he said. “Hang on.”

  “Don’t play games with me. Just spill it.”

  “No, wait, listen. There’s more. He logs onto Civil War sites all the time: chat rooms, LISTSERVs, you name it.”

  “Hurry up, Tooney.”

  “The guy has at least three dozen different screen names and he comments from each of them as though they’re different individuals.”

  “So?”

  “So there’s a lot of chatter on these sites. Civil War re-enactors discussing plans, ideas, the future. Your guy is a dyed-in-the-wool purist. A vanishing breed, it seems. He’s one of the few left fighting against . . .” Tooney hesitated.

  “Farby?”

  “Yeah, exactly. So he puts his views out there under his real screen name then assumes these other online personas to voice support for his own agenda. Pretty clever.”

  “Are you making all this up?”

  “No.” Tooney sounded hurt. “How could you even think that?”

  So far there wasn’t much to indicate that Florian was hiding something. “I don’t under
stand how you suddenly came across all this great intelligence,” I said. “It’s not as though people’s daily schedules are available on the Internet.”

  “I told you, that’s where it gets interesting.”

  “Quit dancing around. Just tell me.”

  “I got most of this information from a private investigator. Great guy. I could learn a lot from him.” Just as I was about to ask what any of this had to do with Florian, Tooney continued. “This PI was hired by a family named Sutherland to look into their father’s sudden death.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “The death was ruled suicide, but the family didn’t believe it. Sutherland was in great shape, healthy, happy. In fact, he was running for election as top man of his Civil War group.” Tooney paused. “Starting to sound familiar?”

  “Go on.”

  “Sutherland was the man to beat, but just before the election, he killed himself. Supposedly.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “The family asked this PI to conduct a private investigation—and it’s ongoing. They keep this PI on retainer and he shadows your guy a couple times a month. We did a little professional reciprocity. He shared some of his findings with me and I gave him a heads-up about what’s been going on here.”

  My head spun. Sutherland. That name was familiar. Pierpont and Florian had mentioned him when we were eavesdropping the other day. But what had been said? I couldn’t remember exactly.

  “Pretty good work, if I do say so myself,” Tooney said.

  “Couple of things aren’t making sense.”

  “Like what?”

  “Why would Sutherland’s family think Florian had anything to do with their father’s death? As far as I know, this is the first time Florian is running for election.”

  Silence.

  “Tooney?”

  “Uh . . .” I thought I heard Tooney swallow. “Florian? I thought you wanted me to check out Pierpont. Remember, P-i-e-r like the dock?”

  “Are you telling me you wasted all this time investigating the wrong man?” Frustrated, I fought for control. Closing my eyes for a count of five, I took a deep breath and opened them again.