Veiled in Death

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  I returned Rachel’s smile. “Don’t you worry. Even when I’ve technically moved out, I’ll be over here and bustling around in the kitchen each day at the crack of dawn, Rach. You won’t be getting rid of me.” We shared a sisterly hug.

  “Hi, you two!”

  I jumped back as Pia emerged from the fog.

  “I parked my car at the edge of the drive,” she explained. “I didn’t want to run into you guys, this fog is so thick.”

  The three of us set off for the event in my trusty 1970s station wagon, a useful artifact in itself, also left to me by Keith’s grandmother Sylvia. I’d long ago christened the behemoth car the Butterscotch Monster, and thanked my stars that I’d kitted out the old vehicle with more modern shoulder belts and more responsive brakes.

  We cautiously wended our way down the hill from Thistle Park’s high perch, surrounded by Victorian and Georgian homes. I turned left toward the Monongahela, the yellow brick roads of Port Quincy making their usual pleasing thrum under the station wagon’s tires.

  “Whoa.” Rachel let out an appreciative sigh as we crested a slalom-like hill to the pretty park where Cordials and Cannonballs would be held. Despite the thick cover of fog, we could see that the event was packed, even this early in the morning. I drove the Butterscotch Monster under a jaunty marquee sign. The custom-made banner proclaimed this as the Cordials and Cannonballs celebration and fundraiser to jointly benefit the Port Quincy Historical Society and Quincy Park. The festivities would be highlighted by the Revolutionary War reenactment battle; the original battle had taken place at noon sharp, according to the few firsthand accounts from the 1700s. We’d mused that it would be too hot to have reenactors on the field in the afternoon summer sunshine, but it looked like we were wrong about that, too.

  Pia, Rachel, and I set up our command booth and got to work putting out small fires. Pia proved herself once again to be a patient, calm, and efficient planner. She soothed a few event-goers after respectfully listening to their complaints, and jumped on her cell phone to call in bottled water reinforcements. After two hours of triaging run-of-the-mill event issues, we were ready to take in some of the event as attendees.

  Despite the unusual mist, I was proud to say this inaugural Cordials and Cannonballs had drawn an impressive crowd. There were more than forty booths for citizens to sample colonial-era food, drink, and artifacts. Despite the early hour, guests already sipped homemade whiskey and mead. People tried their hands at replica crafts such as weaving on looms and grinding up grains. Little kids had a blast chasing each other around in their tricorn hats. Their incongruous looks—with their sandals, light-up shoes, and cartoon-character T-shirts—made me giggle. And over everything loomed a thick, woolen fog. One that I hoped would soon dissipate with the breakthrough of the sun. But it was nowhere to be seen. Still, the large gathering and staged battlefield looked magnificent. The day so far was a roaring success.

  “Ooh, there’s Summer!” I hustled over to the teen’s booth with Rachel and Pia not far behind, and I gave my soon-to-be stepdaughter a hug. She was wearing normal twenty-first-century clothing, a tank top and jeans, but had topped off her look with a pretty, historically appropriate bonnet. The front of her booth read “Vegan Versions: a vegetarian take on colonial food favorites.”

  “Hi, Preston.” I waited until Bev’s handsome son was finished with his transaction and had tucked away several dollars in the till. “You guys look busy.”

  Preston nodded, sending a shock of dark hair tumbling into his eyes. He dug a Port Quincy High School ball cap from his jeans pocket and donned the accessory backward, seeming to use it more as a way to contain his locks than as a way to shield his eyes from the nonexistent sun. “We’re doing gangbusters. We’ve run out of tempeh sandwiches and chickpea hash.” He paused with a nearly incandescent smile for Garrett’s daughter. “Summer’s idea for this booth was amazing.”

  Summer gulped a swig from her glass water bottle and appeared to nearly faint with glee. She didn’t even answer Preston, just stared at him with moony adolescent ardor.

  The two teens were adorable. But I found Garrett’s alarm creeping into my observations. Summer’s obsession with Preston, an undeniably good kid, was cute. But my almost-official stepmom hackles were raised.

  Rachel leaned down for a whisper. “That girl is a goner.”

  We observed Summer, already a tall teen, look up at Preston and bestow him with a radiant, magenta-braces grin. He looked smitten, too. The new customers they were serving seemed amused at their apparent puppy love.

  She’s growing up so fast.

  I split a lentil hoagie with Pia and my sister and we made our way toward the field. I was on the clock and couldn’t imbibe, but I admired the cask-aged whiskey and eponymous cordials that many of the booths served. Not all were historically accurate, but instead were sweet and fun, jazzed up with lemonade, honey, and maraschino cherries. There were mimosas for this pre-noon hour, as well as home brews and ciders, too. I was grateful again that the weapons on the field were mere replicas, as I’d never want to mix alcohol and firearms.

  “Mallory! Rachel! Hello, Pia.” My stepfather waved us over to his station under a tree. He was putting the finishing touches on his colonial costume. “Mind giving me a hand with this getup?” He struggled to keep his pants rolled up, and I giggled as I procured an emergency safety pin from my dress pocket. Hidden in my bag and dress were all kinds of little tools to help me MacGyver through any event malfunction.

  “Nice turnout, ladies.” Doug gestured appreciatively toward the crowd.

  “Thanks to your idea to have a reenactment,” I reminded him. “I just hope the people watching will be able to see everything.” We were fast approaching noon. The June sun that I’d hoped would burn off the haze hadn’t been able to permeate the thick atmosphere. It was as humid as ever, and still some residual fog remained. The reenactment was to take place in a field somewhat resembling a bowl of earth. Regrettably, the low-altitude spot had the greatest concentration of impenetrable fog in all of Quincy Park.

  “Maybe we should have moved the reenactment to higher ground in light of this weather,” Rachel mused.

  “No!” The force of Doug’s answer caused us all to blanch. “I mean, the original skirmish took place right in that little gully. It’s so neat to recreate it down to the last detail. And get this—” Doug stopped to rub his hands together with glee. “Our few primary documents giving firsthand accounts of the battle indicate that there was an unusual cover of fog on that very day!”

  “It’s remarkable.” My friend Tabitha, Pia’s older sister, arrived to geek out on history with my stepfather. “Can you believe it? All the stars are aligning to create a picture-perfect reenactment.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t say picture-perfect,” my sister grumbled. “It’ll be like fighting in pea soup.”

  “Historically accurate pea soup,” Pia reminded us, earning a laugh from my sister. I wondered how my sister would navigate her residual and somewhat silly ire toward Tabitha, when she was becoming fast friends with her younger sister, Pia.

  Tabitha, wearing her own late-1700s garb that she usually dressed in for historical events, carried on her impromptu history lesson with Doug. As noon drew near, the air was heady with their excitement, nearly as palpable as the fog. I felt my own trill of excitement wondering if Bev and I owned a real piece of Americana, a veil crafted by Betsy Ross. In light of the town’s celebrations today, I could see why Helene was so covetous of it. All around us history was brought to life.

  Doug gave us a salute and a tip of his tricorn hat before he made his way to the reenactment field. I drifted toward the sidelines to observe, along with several hundred denizens of Port Quincy. There were so many reenactors taking their places in the fog I could squint and believe we really were back in Revolutionary War times for the minor Battle of Port Quincy. The reenactors were taking their places in line, with others pretending to man giant cannons and antique howitzers. Then
I caught a glimpse of a cell phone and people in their shorts and flip-flops taking selfies with their friends. My belief was no longer suspended, and the time-travel spell was broken.

  “There’s Grandma Claudia.” Pia pointed out one of the few women on the field. She smiled contentedly. “Helene wasn’t able to stop her.”

  “I’m not so sure anyone on this planet could stop Claudia. Your grandmother is a force of nature.” The older woman looked particularly fierce as she gripped her rifle. “And I guess I can see where your sister gets her love of history from.” I cocked my head and considered the Battles family business. “Your mom, too, with her antiques.”

  Pia nodded her assent, and we settled down on a swath of gingham picnic blanket to watch in earnest. I was pleased to see Truman and Faith checking each replica weapon on the field. Some of the bayonets and axes were clearly made from plastic. But others, like Doug’s musket, were so carefully crafted that the weapons could be filled with ammunition and used. I squinted and took in Faith running a wand over participants’ clothing, no doubt to ferret out concealed weapons.

  Rachel followed my gaze and wrinkled her nose. “Is that necessary?”

  I blinked and stifled a guffaw. “We don’t have the best track record with our events, Rach.” I stopped and knew she was thinking of the replica Gone with the Wind pistol that had been used to dangerous effect. Rachel’s smirk fell, and she turned her attention back to Faith’s examination of weapons.

  You can never be too careful.

  I turned to happier thoughts as my fiancé made his way to the picnic blanket. Ever the cool cucumber, he looked chill and calm in the blazing humidity in a pair of khaki shorts and a short sleeve button-down. “Your event is a roaring success. Congratulations.” He graced me with a lovely kiss. Our concerns about more weighty subjects seemed far away. I felt myself relaxing, despite the ludicrous humidity.

  My stepfather ambled over to our blanket in full regalia. “Take lots of pictures!” He gestured to the field.

  “Will do, but I don’t know if they’ll come out.” Rachel gestured to the other participants, half of them partially occluded by the rare fog.

  “Hello, Mallory.” Bev stooped down to give me a hug, and Elvis helped himself to a fourth of a ham sandwich from our cooler before his mistress could stop him. “Elvis! Where are your manners!”

  “It’s okay. There’s plenty more where that came from.” I scuffed the basset behind his floppy ears and took in his usual pungent scent of Cheez Doodles and Stilton cheese.

  “It’s your mother who could stand to take a few lessons about manners,” Bev muttered under her breath.

  Uh-oh.

  I winced at the same time Bev did. My friend the seamstress clapped a hand laden with costume rings over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Mallory. I just don’t know how Carole convinced Jesse to take on a project designing you a whole home from scratch a mere few weeks from our wedding.” She shook her head, the glass butterflies in her beehive threatening to take flight. “And don’t worry.” She held up her hand. “I know you didn’t put her up to this.”

  But before I could address her concerns and mollify Bev any further, a bigger kerfuffle kindled a few feet away.

  “This is an abomination, and I will stop it as promised! Our Founding Fathers would be rolling in their graves if they saw women on the battlefield.” Helene delivered her message with a little stamp of her toeless peach pump and succeeded in getting the heel stuck in the grass. She shrugged off help and struggled to extricate her foot, nearly toppling backwards. A small segment of the crowd turned their attention from the reenactment field to witness her tantrum.

  “Do you want to, or should I?” Rachel waved a sandwich and gestured toward my enemy. Pia looked ready, eager to spring into action.

  “I’ll do it. You two have tended to enough fires today.” I stood to go when Garrett gently rested his hand on my arm.

  “Just let Truman and Faith handle her, Mallory. You don’t know what she’s capable of.” The look of tender concern in my fiancé’s eyes was much appreciated. But I felt a teeny tiny spring of annoyance, too. This may have been what Claudia experienced when Doug gallantly offered to handle Helene for her.

  “I’ve got this, sweetie. Be right back.” I dropped a kiss on Garrett’s cheek and rose to handle Helene.

  “You’re single-handedly ruining this event, Claudia Battles!” Helene was a sight to see as a protester. Her skinny hands were clad in white gloves, and her usual shoulder pads were present, raising the profile of her toile Lilly Pulitzer dress. I could see she’d paired her summer pumps with pantyhose, and she’d insisted on protecting her head with a wide-brimmed hat more appropriate for a little girl’s Easter Sunday garb, or perhaps the Kentucky Derby. I couldn’t suppress my giggle as I advanced. She looked like she was channeling Princess Diana during her courting Prince Charles phase, but with none of the charms or graces. Then, at the last second, a peculiar rush of pathos overtook me. I stood to watch my archnemesis directing her screeches at Claudia and the two other women on the field. Now I knew about Richard, and the extra sadness she’d suffered at knowing her husband was murdered in cold blood.

  But I couldn’t let her ruin the day. Not even the preternatural fog had managed to do just that, and I wasn’t going to let Helene get away with it.

  But she was skilled at intimidation, and upon my approach, took the first volley. Literally.

  “This is all your fault, Mallory.” Helene gave my collarbone a healthy shove.

  “Time to go, Mrs. Pierce.” Truman saved me the trouble and stood with all imposing six feet, four inches in front of Helene. “You have ten seconds to leave before we cuff you and book you for disorderly conduct. You also just committed assault on Mallory, but I’m sure she’ll be willing to overlook it if you go now.”

  I rubbed my collarbone and placed a steadying arm on Garrett, who had materialized at my side.

  Helene sized up the chief and the murmuring of the crowd around her. “Fine! I wouldn’t want to witness this abomination of a reenactment anyway. This is completely beneath me!” She minced off as fast as she could, doing a strange walk on her tiptoes to avoid her heels sinking into the earth again. The crowd parted for her, tittering in her wake.

  “I told you I should have handled her.” Garrett ran a tender finger over my collarbone.

  “I appreciate it.” I smiled and gave his hand a squeeze. “But I can handle her.”

  The boom of a cannon made us both jump. I glanced at my watch. It was high noon, and the reenactment had begun. Garrett and I returned to our picnic blanket. I waved to June, who had spread her own quilt next to ours and was chatting animatedly with Pia over the loud noise of the occasional cannon shot. Baby Miri was enjoying some tummy time, her adorable little ears covered with noise-canceling headphones. June gave the baby a fond pat as she stood to make her way to the portable restrooms, her foster daughter tended by Pia in her brief absence.

  I took in a deep breath when my mother joined us, her pug, Ramona, making a beeline for Bev’s basset. The two women thankfully exchanged frosty smiles and ignored each other from their respective picnic blankets. All around me the denizens of Port Quincy slaked their thirst in the humid day with water, lemonade, mead, and whiskey cocktails. The reenactment had been going for a good fifteen minutes, but was truthfully hard to see through the fog. People made toasts and chatted, getting a little tipsy, no doubt accelerated by the heat dehydration.

  An unmistakable shout of pain emanated through the mist.

  “Man, they’re really hamming this up.” Rachel finished her sports drink and retrieved another from the cooler. “I think this is pretty neat, but the reenactors are taking it to a whole other level.”

  Another yelp of pain pierced the air. The chatter around us grew restless. War was painful, and the reenactors were making that aspect come to life.

  A final scream echoed up the field, making the hair along my arms stand at attention. A few children in th
e crowd burst into tears when the loud pops of replica gunfire, somewhat akin to fireworks, hadn’t phased them before.

  “Yeah, they’re taking it a bit too far,” I murmured.

  “Is that stage blood?” Pia got up on her knees and peered toward the field, careful to maneuver around baby Miri.

  I stood to get a better look, accompanied by a dozen viewers.

  Jesse, Bev’s fiancé, a lumberjack of a man, staggered up the hill. The fake munition rounds were still going, but some reenactors were screaming for the show to halt. I witnessed a frightening tangle of legs and arms akimbo, as soldiers on the field struggled to run away, and only succeeded in running into each other in the fog.

  “I don’t think that’s paint or ketchup.” Rachel had joined me and pointed to Jesse with a trembling finger.

  “Dear God.” Garrett left my side to help Jesse. The big contractor was carrying a limp body, his homespun pants deluged with blood. I couldn’t tell if it was his, or the unfortunate soul he held in his arms.

  I made to join Garrett on the field when June stopped me. “Hold her, Mallory.” Once more, she thrust a confused baby Miri into my arms.

  “Stand back!” Truman’s voice thundered over a megaphone, barely cutting through the cacophony of screams and chatter. But he succeeded in stopping Garrett, Pia, and countless others from rushing the field. “This is an active crime scene. Men are down. It isn’t safe!”

  Doug appeared out of the mist, grasping his bleeding right arm. My mother ignored Truman to rush to support her husband. Jesse finally reached the top of the hill, the agony of his journey written all over his exhausted face. One arm barely gripped the person he’d been carrying, now slung over his shoulder. His other attempted to stanch the flow of blood coursing from his own abdomen. The sequoia of a man gave up his fight and crumpled to the ground.

  Bev gave a primal scream and fainted dead away, Elvis keening and pacing around her.

  And I finally recognized the limp person Jesse had carried up the hill. She lay beside him, not moving an inch.