Twenty-three

Behind us, I heard the wail of an ambulance. “Listen,” I told the reenactors. “I don’t want the visitors, especially the children, to see this. If you guys could stand in a line and block the public’s view of Wesley, I would greatly appreciate it.”

They fell into a line that would have made Generals Grant and Lee proud. All stood erect, shoulder to shoulder. Occasionally, I saw a tear fall from an eye. Wesley had been a member of their community, their friend. He had told Chase and me that he had been a reenactor since he was a child, a legacy that apparently followed his parents’ love of the Civil War.

Portia came to mind. How would she feel to have another man that she loved—if it could be believed that she loved Maxwell—dead? Then again, did this make Portia the most likely killer? Did she terminate men who were no longer of use to her, or did she believe Wesley murdered her fiancé out of jealousy and revenge?

Another line I had heard my father recite many times from Hamlet came to mind. “So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.”

I shook my head. Portia wasn’t even on the battlefield or on the Farm grounds. How could she be responsible for this?

“How did he die?” I whispered.

A Confederate soldier to my right answered me. “He just seemed to have stopped breathing. When he fell, he hit his head on this rock.” He pointed at the large rock sticking half out of the ground. It was a boulder, which had been too heavy to move when the field had been turned into a pasture land for the cows and oxen or a battlefield for the reenactors.

“So it was an accident?”

On the ground, pumping Wesley’s chest, Chase shook his head. “Seems a little too coincidental for my taste.”

“Mine too.”

Chief Duffy hurried over. “I was in the commode when I got the news and got here just as quick as I could. What’s happened?”

The Confederate soldier saluted. “It’s Wesley Mayes, sir. He fell and hit his head on the rock there.”

“Terrible accident. It doesn’t happen often, but I have heard about other reenactors dying in freak accidents like this. It’s the first time for it to happen in one of my battles.”

“I don’t know if it was an accident, Chief,” Chase said and kept pumping the fallen man’s chest. “Hitting his head on the rock could certainly knock him out cold, but that wouldn’t be the reason he would stop breathing.”

“You think he died before he hit the rock?” the chief asked.

“He stopped breathing before he hit the rock. I don’t know how long it would take him to die.” He glanced behind him at the infantrymen blocking the public’s view.

Chief Duffy scanned the men. “Did anyone see Mayes fall?”

“I did,” said the young Confederate private who had spoken to me. He had terrible acne and his hair was plastered to his face with sweat. “He fell with the first assault.”

“That means that he was lying on the field for at least half an hour,” I said.

“He could have been struggling most of that time,” Chase said. “Since we thought he was pretending to be dead, we didn’t take any notice.”

“Excuse me,” a breathy female voice said.

Infantrymen stepped aside, and my assistant appeared. She gasped when she saw Wesley lying dead on the grass. Behind her, EMTs and police in uniform pushed through the line. Chase stood up and let another EMT take over pumping Wesley’s chest.

“Wyatt,” one of the EMTs said. “You look sharp in the getup. I’m sure the ladies are fainting dead away when they see you.” His eyes slid to me.

Chase’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t reply.

A second EMT kicked the first in the shin. “Shut up. Wyatt, can you tell us what’s going on here?”

While Chase repeated the details of Wesley’s condition, I pulled Ashland aside.

Ashland paled. “It’s just so horrible, too horrible for words.”

I snapped my fingers in her face. “Pay attention. We have a serious situation.”

She shook her head. “Right. What do you want me to do?”

“First, make an announcement that there has been an accident and we request that visitors stay out of the EMTs’ and police officers’ way.”

She made a note in her tiny notepad.

“Then, I want you to gather together twenty or thirty reenactors. Have them go to the village and play their parts out there. Ask them to talk about the war. Hopefully most of the crowd will follow them. Have Abraham Lincoln give his speech, and send Walt Whitman over too. He can recite Leaves of Grass beginning to end if need be. I won’t even be a stickler about the version.”

“Where will we hold the speeches?”

I thought for a moment. “The steps of the church will be perfect. Call Benji up to help you. She should be in candle making by now, but she’s been looking for something more exciting to do since her brickyard is closed.”

Ashland looked at me with awe. “Kelsey, how are you able to make plans like this so fast?”

The hero worship on her face made me uncomfortable. “Out of necessity. Now go.”

I returned to the chief’s side. He and Chase were arguing.

“The reenactment will stay open,” the chief said. “There is only one day left.”

Chase ran his hand through his hair. “Do you want someone else to get hurt?”

“Of course not,” his uncle said.

The EMT lifted the stretcher to take Wesley off of the field. I knew it was a lost effort. From the EMTs’ faces, they knew it too. But they weren’t going to give up. It was their job not to give up.

The police chief poked one of his officers holding a camera. “Parker, go with them and take photos of the wound on the back from every angle in case if this turns out to be foul play.”

Chase threw up his hands. “If this turns out to be foul play?”

“Relax, my boy,” Chief Duffy said to his nephew.

As relieved as I was for the finances of the Farm to hear the chief say the Farm would remain open, I wasn’t positive it was a good idea either. Maybe we should count our losses and get out while there were only two dead bodies to account for.

“Sir,” Chase said, “I don’t think it’s wise to keep the reenactment open.”

“What does Kelsey think?” Chief Duffy squished his bushy eyebrows together. “This is her show. I will follow her lead.”

Both men turned to me.

I watched the EMTs lift Wesley over the fence and through the crowd. He was so young, just a couple years out of college. It seemed like such as terrible waste, but if we canceled the reenactment, I would never be able to reimburse all the Blue and Gray Ball ticket sales. It was too late to get my deposits back from the caterer, or for the tent, table, and chair rentals. More importantly, a killer would get away. Wesley and Maxwell deserved justice. So did Cynthia.

“I think we need to finish out the weekend. If we ask the reenactors to cross the street, most of the tourists will follow, which will give you time to search the field or whatever else you need to do. Lincoln and Whitman can recite speeches and poetry on the church steps.”

The chief smiled. “Excellent plan.”

Chase shook his head and walked away. I’d disappointed him and, surprisingly, I felt worse about that than anything else.

Twenty minutes later we learned that Wesley was pronounced dead at the hospital.