Valerie Malmont - Death, Guns and Sticky Buns

“Was there any other way in? A window, maybe?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. It was just a big closet. One door. No windows.”

It was like a John Dickson Carr locked-room mystery. Door locked. Two keys, both in Janet Margolies's possession. No evidence of the lock being picked. No other entrance to the storeroom. How on earth could the switch have occurred? “What about on Saturday when you went to get the weapons? Did anything look different?”

“Nah. Janet opened the door. Her secretary was with her. Darious and me went in, got the guns, and passed them out to the men. They was standing in the hallway.”

“Did you see any discarded blanks, I mean Wonder Wads, lying around?”

“Of course not. The storeroom looked exactly like it did when we locked it up on Friday night.”

That meant whoever had reloaded the guns had taken the original ammunition away with him, or her. I wondered if it would ever turn up.

“Please think back-did anything unusual happen?”

“We had a long wait before Mack showed up. About an hour late. Janet looked pretty damn mad, but there weren't much she could do about it.” He shrugged. “Guess when you're a big shot, you don't mind keeping people waiting.”

“What did you and your men do while you were waiting for him to arrive?” I asked.

“We just hung around the hallway. Drank a Coke. Ate some pretzels one of the guys brought with him.”

“You didn't go into the storeroom?”

“I already done told you, Janet didn't unlock it until Mack showed up. And I know it was locked because I tried to open it when we first got there.”

“I understand Macmillan was a Civil War expert. Was he a collector, also? Did he ever come here to buy things from you?”

Woody chuckled. “I don't sell the type of things Mack Macmillan collected. Couldn't afford to stock them.”

His eyebrows grew together. “Wait a second-I done near forgot-there was a little problem. After Mack finally showed up, Janet couldn't get the door open. Then she tried another key, and it worked okay.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You mean one of the keys couldn't unlock the storeroom door?”

“Uh-huh,” Woody replied with his usual eloquence.

Hmm, I thought I'll have to talk to Janet about this.

I snapped my notebook shut, stood up, and extended my hand. “Thanks a lot, Woody. If you think of anything else, please call the public relations office at the college. If I'm not in, leave a message with Lizzie.” I knew I wouldn't be there, but I was also sure Lizzie would let me know if he called.

He grasped my hand with both of his and stared intently into my eyes. “I don't think you understand how careful we'uns always is-so nobody gets hurt.”

“I'm sure you are,” I commented, trying to free my hand from his grip.

“Maybe you'uns should take part in a reenactment. See how we do it.”

“That would be really nice,” I said, surreptitiously wiping my hand on my dress. I looked for a way to get past him to the door. He stepped aside before I decided how to make a run for freedom.

At the door, I thought of one more question. “Can you tell me where Darious DeShong lives? The only address I have for him is a post office box in Lickin Creek.”

“Try the Hostettler farm out on Orphanage Road.”

“Do you have his telephone number?”

“Darious with a phone? Hah!” He pulled the door open and stood aside. “Do you have an Esso?” he asked.

“Esso?” I repeated, feeling confused. Wasn't that a gas station?

My face must have looked totally blank, because he chuckled and said, “S.O… Significant Other… person you got something going with… a boyfriend.”

If I didn't, I certainly wouldn't want him to know. “Yes,” I said. “I do have an… S.O.”

“Took you a little while to answer. You telling me the truth?”

“I have to go now.” As I pushed past him, I felt warmth radiating from his body.

“I'll call you,” he yelled at my back.

In my car, I rolled down the windows and exhaled loudly. What had he been thinking? The creep had been coming on to me through the whole interview. Who did he think he was-Brad Pitt? Did I really come across as a lonely single woman looking for a man? I turned the ignition key on the Cavalier more forcefully than I needed to, said my usual please-let-it-start prayer, and pulled out into the empty street.

Maybe, I thought, as the car rolled back into the twenty-first century, I should wonder why he thought I was available. Did I unconsciously project a man-hungry aura? Good God, I hoped not.

Deciding to put off my visit to Darious DeShong, the other reenactor, for another day, I headed back to Lincoln Square where I noticed a couple of restaurants. It was getting late, and I had missed lunch. The place I chose was called the Pub and Restaurant. Inside, the walls were painted dark blue, with a frieze around the top depicting babies and young children with wings. A pleasant young woman in a blue shirt and beige shorts led me to a booth, trimmed with red and gold, near the window, where, through a potted fern, I had an excellent view of an endless stream of cars and trucks racing around the traffic circle.

“What'll it be, hon?” the waitress asked. I'd almost become used to waitresses calling me hon, and so I barely cringed. I studied the menu for a minute. It featured a nice selection of salad plates, but phooey on that. I deserved something far more substantial after the difficult day I'd experienced.

Since I was really planning to start my diet Monday, I decided to go all out and ordered a Reuben with french fries and coleslaw. My plate was nearly clean when my waitress approached the table. “No dessert, just the check,” I told her, and felt positively virtuous.

“No, ma'am, I was asked to give you a message.”

Ma'am, she called me ma'am. That was even worse than hon. It really was the beginning of the end when a waitress, only slightly younger than myself, called me ma'am!

She didn't seem to notice my distress and pointed to the doorway, where a black figure was silhouetted against the sky. “Lady there says she wants to talk to you.” I took the check from her hand and headed toward the counter.

The figure, a woman, stepped forward. She wore an ankle-length black gauze dress and lots of clunky silver Celtic jewelry. Her blond hair hung straight to her waist and was crowned with a wreath of white flowers. Despite the New Age outfit, suitable for a teeny-bopper, I guessed her to be older than me by several years.

“Tori Miracle?” the apparition asked.

I acknowledged that was my name.

“My name's Moonbeam.”

“Yes?” I asked.

“I have a shop here in Gettysburg.”

“Dreamgate?”

She nodded. “I saw you go into Woody's sutlery.”

“I'm really in a hurry,” I said, and made an attempt to step around her.

She deftly blocked my escape. “Woody's my friend. A really good friend.”

Did she mean boyfriend? I wanted to offer her my deepest sympathy, but I kept still and waited to hear what was coming next.

“I didn't think you looked like one of his regulars, so I went over to his shop to see what you were doing there. We look out for each other.”

Oh man!

“He said you're looking into Mack Macmillan's murder.”

Murder. Moonbeam was the first person who had used that word. I wondered if she knew something. “That's absolutely correct,” I said. “Is there something you can tell me about it?”

She shook her head, sprinkling flower petals on the floor. “Not really.” She changed the subject abruptly by saying, “I'm psychic, you know.” She appeared to be both jealous and wacky, a dangerous combination.

“I sense that you are troubled.”