Valerie Malmont - Death, Guns and Sticky Buns

“What if there was a child?” I asked.

“But he and Charlotte never had… Wait just a minute. Are you telling me there is a child?”

“There might be. It hasn't been born yet.”

“But Charlotte… uh… isn't she a little old for…”

“Not Charlotte, Buchanan. Another woman.”

“That explains why he didn't let me scratch that line out of the will.”

“What line?”

“The one that's in most standard wills-leaving half the deceased's assets to be divided up among his children.”

“If what you're saying is true and there is a child, it could change things. Give me the woman's name.”

“I'll have her call you,” I said. For once, I decided, I would not be caught in the middle of another Lickin Creek scandal.

FRIDAY WAS MUCH BUSIER THAN USUAL AT THE Chronicle. We had to toss out the entire front page to make room for articles about Mack Macmillan's suicide and Darious DeShong's murder. Cassie also reminded me that the mayor wanted something in the paper about Woody and Moonbeam rescuing me from sure death. Now that he had been cleared by the D.A. and was not waiting to go to trial, the mayor had decided to honor him at a ceremony at The Accident Theatre next weekend.

President Godlove called to ask me if I'd suffered any ill effects from tumbling over the balcony. Was it my imagination, or did he sound very cool? Maybe he would have preferred to let Woody take the blame. It probably would have looked better for the college if the chairman of the board of trustees had been the victim of a stupid accident rather than a suicide.

We proofed, we pasted, we moved, we inserted, and we deleted. And finally, in the late afternoon, the Chronicle was ready to go to the printer. Due to Cas-sie's valiant efforts on the telephone, we were down only a handful of subscribers, and with any luck, in a week or two even they would forget what they'd been angry about and resubscribe.

When I arrived home, I was ready to collapse from exhaustion. After feeding the cats, changing their litter boxes, and eating half of a can of chili I found in the refrigerator, I checked the doors and windows to make sure all were locked and climbed the stairs to my bedroom on the second floor.

There, I ripped off my clothes, tossed them in the direction of the chair, and pulled on my Tin Woodman nightshirt that said IF I ONLY HAD A HEART. My jeans missed the chair and landed on my dresser, jiggling the little carousel-horse music box Darious had given me, which began to play “In the Good Old Summertime.” I practically flew across the room to turn it off. I'd never be able to listen to it again. In fact, it was going to the Salvation Army thrift shop next week. I covered it with my sweater so I wouldn't have to look at it, and went to bed with my cats.

I slept sporadically. The events of the past few days danced through my head as if I were viewing them through a kaleidoscope. A vision of Darious sitting in his golden chariot with a horrendous gash in his neck that nearly separated his head from his body kept floating through the dreams. Sometimes the pieces almost formed a picture that made sense, then they would break apart into a meaningless jumble. As I dozed off at sunrise, I was thinking there was something about Dari-ous I needed to remember. Something he'd done? Something I'd seen at his barn? What was it? Fred's paw stroking my cheek woke me, and I jerked to a sitting position, groped for the clock, and nearly had a panic attack as my foggy brain tried to deal with how late it was and what I should wear to this afternoon's wedding.

Much to my chagrin, yesterday I'd learned that Woody had not called me Monday evening to ask me out on a date. The real reason for that call, which I never gave him time to get to, was to invite me to his and Moonbeam's wedding, to take place this very afternoon on the Gettysburg battlefield. When Moonbeam had called yesterday afternoon to make sure I was coming, she'd been very surprised that I knew nothing about it. As if she needed to convince me to come, she read off the names of about two dozen guests she thought I knew who had already accepted. I assured her I wouldn't miss it for the world.

The occasion deserved my good black silk suit with the sequined collar and cuffs. I'd bought it in a nearly-new shop two years ago, and despite the designer label's having been cut out of it, I knew what it was. I thought it made me look a little thinner than I really was, and in New York it often went to the theater with me. It hadn't yet had an outing in Lickin Creek.

I found my black heels in a box in the storeroom, and when I put them on I was surprised at how uncomfortable they were after many months of wearing nothing but sandals and sneakers. Oh well, I'd soon grow accustomed to wearing them again. I tottered down the stairs, hanging on to the railing for dear life and hoped that would happen soon.

There were cats to feed and water and mail to gather from the hall rug where it lay after having been dropped through the slot in the front door by our stubborn mailman, who refused to come to the back door. “I've always delivered it here, and I'm not going to change now” was his answer when I pointed out the perils of the front porch roof. Lickin Creek natives had two phrases I heard over and over. The first was “It's the way we've always done it,” and its evil twin was “We've never done it that way.”

In the kitchen, I heated a cup of yesterday's coffee in the microwave and tried to make some sense of the thoughts and dreams that had come to me during the night. By the time I'd finished drinking the coffee, I came to the conclusion that I knew who killed Darious DeShong. But I didn't know why. I called Luscious to ask him a couple of questions about the crime scene that would prove me right. The nitwit on the end of the line told me she thought Luscious was out.

“You think he's out? You're only five feet away from his desk. Can't you look?”

In a minute she was back. “I was right. He's out. You want I should take a message?”

I told her what I wanted to know and waited while she looked for a pencil to write it down. “Tell him to call me later this afternoon, after four at…” I had to think for a minute. “At General Pickett's Restaurant in Gettysburg.”

“Okeydokey. What did you say your name was?”

“Tori Miracle!” I slammed the phone down.

If I was right, I would confront a killer this afternoon. If I was wrong… well, I'd been wrong before. It's embarrassing but not the end of the world.

I tossed the advertising circulars into the trash, put the bills on the kitchen table, and thought about quickly fixing something to eat. Not enough time. Instead I grabbed a Snickers bar from the refrigerator to eat on the go.

“Come on baby, turn over,” I muttered furiously at my car, and after a few grunts of protest, it started.

While Halloween might seem like a strange choice for a wedding day, Moonbeam and Woody had truly beautiful weather for their special occasion. The weather was crisp, the sky clear, and if sunshine was a good portent, then the bridal couple was destined for happiness.

I got around the traffic circle with no trouble, and then consulted the little map Cassie had drawn for me. At the Lutheran Theological Seminary, I turned down Confederate Avenue and drove along Seminary Ridge, which became a one-way street on the battlefield. I drove past several beautiful monuments and nearly missed seeing the tiny brown-and-white sign on my right that said AMPHITHEATER. I left my car next to a statue of General Longstreet, which looked strange standing on the bare ground instead of being raised on a pedestal as the other statues were. Someone, I noticed, had tucked a miniature Confederate flag into a space under the general's arm. The area smelled of mold and decay, and the ground beneath my feet was oddly spongy. I walked past a row of green SaniPots and down the hill to where benches built of landscaping timbers faced an odd-looking A-frame building with a small stage in front.