thirty-five

“I don’t have to worry about the funeral,” Corrie said between bites of pancakes. “My stepmother is in her glory planning it. She’s so mad at dad since he was fighting the divorce. She’s probably happy he’s dead.”

“I saw your stepmother yesterday.”

She tore off another piece of the pancake. This time I was happy to see the piece was bigger. “How? Why?”

“I was at the Cherry Foundation for a meeting. The Cherry Foundation sponsors the Farm, so I go there often.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said as if it made perfect sense. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do now. Sybil’s going to throw me out on the street now that Dad is gone.”

“She said that you didn’t come home the night before.”

“Home? Why would I go there? The house is all hers now. I crashed with friends.”

“Maybe you should go to the house and talk to her. You’re Conrad’s daughter. You must be entitled to something.”

The girl shook her head. “I’ll go over and get my stuff when she’s at work one day, but that’s it. I don’t want any of his things. Sybil should have them, not me.”

I opened my mouth to argue but closed it. Conrad’s attorney would have to contact her if she inherited anything, and I hoped that she did. I hated to think of the girl bereft in the world.

Corrie stared at Beeson’s book on the corner of my desk. “I hate that book. It was my father’s obsession. It ruined two marriages and my childhood. I don’t even know why my dad got married or had children. All he seemed to love was maple sugar.”

“Was he writing the book when he was married to your mother?”

“I don’t know, but he was crazy about maple sugar. I can’t remember a time that he wasn’t. I think my father would rather have sugar maples than a daughter.”

“You can’t mean that.” I picked up the book and flipped it over to read the back.

“Believe me. I do.” She ripped off another piece of pancake and popped it into her mouth. “At least they arrested Buckley. Soon this will all be a bad dream.”

It seemed to me that it would be more than a bad dream for Corrie for a long time to come. “They did arrest Buckley,” I said. “But … ”

Her head snapped up from her plate. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure this is over. I don’t think they got the right person.”

“But the police arrested him,” she protested.

“Sometimes the police make mistakes.”

She frowned and forked another piece of pancake.

I stood. “You keep eating, and I’ll see if I can find Gavin.”

She nodded and concentrated on her food. I made a mental note to refill her pancake plate when I got back.

I left the building through the employee entrance again and headed for the sugarhouse. Visitors strolled away from the sugarhouse and lined up against the split-rail fence to watch the reenactors.

In the pasture, the police chief stood with the few members of the regiment that had come to the Farm that day. He walked up and down the line checking over their uniforms and making sure they stood up straight. There wouldn’t be a battle during the Maple Sugar Festival, but Chief Duffy still wanted to run some drills to entertain the crowds.

“About face,” yelled Chief Duffy in his Confederate General uniform. “March!”

The line of men in both blue and gray advanced forward in perfect synchronization.

There were a few people milling around the sugarhouse still, but they were watching the pasture too. This was the perfect time to pull Gavin away—if he wasn’t at my cottage giving Tiffin a bath—to talk with Corrie.

Inside the dimly lit sugarhouse, I found Gavin in his nineteenth-century trousers and blue work shirt stirring the boiling maple sugar. John, one of my seasonal employees, poured maple syrup into the hydrometer to see how many brix the syrup had.

“Gavin?” I said.

“You just missed the big crowd I had in here. They cleared out when the regiment’s drills began.” He smiled. “By the way, Tiffin is fine. He’s taking a nap back at your place. Your bathroom, on the other hand, is a little …” He searched for the right word. “Damp.”

I grimaced.

“How’s the syrup coming?” I asked as I peered into the basin at the finished product.

“Good. I plan to go to the sugarhouse in the park after I leave here to finish boiling off that batch. I volunteered to do it at the Sap and Spile meeting last night.”

“That was nice of you.” I stepped back from the hot basin. “I wondered if I could pull you away for a moment.”

Gavin frowned. “Why? The drill won’t last that long, and the visitors will come back to see my presentation.”

“I know that, but it’s important.”

Gavin stirred the maple sugar.

“Sixty-six brix,” John declared.

Gavin gave him a thumbs-up. “Great.”

“Corrie is here,” I said, trying to regain his attention.

He dropped his paddle into the boiling maple sugar. “Oh.”

“Dude,” John said. “That paddle’s a goner.”

“There’s an extra one leaning against the wall there.” I pointed.

John picked it up and handed it to Gavin.

Gavin shook his head. “Can you watch the sugarhouse until I get back?”

John’s eyes widened. “What if a visitor comes in? I don’t know what to say. What if I have to talk to someone?”

I shook my head. “Ask one of the reenactors to come step in. You can watch the sugar while he does the talking.”

John still looked uncertain as Gavin and I left him in the sugarhouse alone.

“He’ll be all right,” I told Gavin as we walked back to the visitor center.

“I know.” He increased his pace, and I had to half-jog, half-walk to keep up. “What did Corrie want? Why is she here?”

“She wanted to talk to you.”

That was all Gavin needed to hear, and he took off toward the visitor center at a run.

I continued to the visitor center at a much slower pace. Once inside, I stuck my head in the kitchen and grabbed another plate of pancakes before I walked the rest of the way to my office.

When I reached it, Gavin stood in the hallway. With as fast as he’d taken off, I thought he’d have been inside of my office by now talking to Corrie.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked.

He glanced at me. “I can’t make myself go in.”

“Here, take this. Food is always a good peace offering, and she really likes the pancakes.” I handed him the plates.

“With no syrup,” Gavin said.

I smiled. “That’s right.”

He took a deep breath and stepped into the office. There was a yelp and a bang. Afraid that Corrie had knocked him to the floor, I peered in.

Gavin stood with his arms outstretched, holding the plates of pancakes. Corrie’s arms were wrapped around his torso, and her face was buried in his chest.

He inched forward, Corrie still clinging to him, and set the plates on my desk, then wrapped his arms around the crying girl. Through blubbering tears I heard her tell him about Buckley’s arrest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. A little part of me thought you’d killed him. It was just a small part, but I’m so sorry.”

Gavin shushed her and rested his cheek on the top of her head.

I backed away. Maybe the murder investigation was really over. Detective Brandon believed it. Corrie believed it. Why didn’t I believe it?

I headed back outside to watch the regiment’s drills with the visitors.

“This is quite an event that you have here. I’m happy I was able to be a part of it.” Robert Stroud stood at my side in a Confederate soldier’s uniform.

“Thank you. Everyone at the class yesterday seemed to enjoy it.”

“I would be happy to teach it next year,” he said, a little too eagerly.

“I—I don’t know what our plans will be for next year, or if we will even host another tree tapping class like that one.”

“I think you should. I’m glad that sugaring during the Civil War is getting some attention. It’s an important piece of history.”

The sun popped out from behind a cloud, and I shielded my eyes. “Have you read Dr. Beeson’s book, then? I’ve only read snippets of it myself, but it appears to be very well-researched.”

“Of course it’s well researched,” he snapped.

I took a step back.

“I apologize. I only say that because Beeson got the best research that he could find.” His smile was strained and he cleared his throat. “I haven’t read it. But I know what it says better than anyone.” He marched away, his back rigid like a man facing his fate on the front line.

A few feet away, a Confederate and a Union soldier argued with each other in front of a couple with forced smiles. Obviously, they felt caught by the two men.

“You see,” the Union soldier told them, “maple sugaring is a way to preserve the Union, and one doesn’t need sugar cane for sugar. We have no need of anything that the South has. We’re far superior in our farms and our industrial production.”

“Who wants cookies or cakes with no real sugar?” the Confederate asked. “It’s a travesty, I tell you, an absolute travesty that you fine Northern ladies”—he directed his comment to the woman—“don’t have access to real sugar because the Yankees will not recognize that we’re our own free country. We would happily trade with the North all the bounty of the South if they would give us that.”

“Those Rebs are delusional if they think they can walk away from the great United States of America without ramifications. We beat the British Empire. A few traitorous states will not stop us.”

The confederate soldier glowered at him. “You beat the empire with our help.”

“And you should remember that you were part of something great once upon a time.”

I was about to go over and break the argument up when the radio on my hip crackled. “Kelsey, come in, over!” Benji’s voice came over the radio.

“Yes, Benji.” After a beat, I said, “Over.”

“Kel, you need to come over to the village, we have a situation. Over.”

“What kind of situation?” I asked. “Over.”

There was no response.

“Benji, answer me. I said ‘over,’ for Pete’s sake.”

Still no answer.