Jill Churchill: War and Peas

“Or she was a cold fish," Jane said.

Shelley smiled. "Right. And keep in mind that Regina was Sharlene's mentor. Almost her idol. You don't call idols by their first names. About that gun Mel had—”

Jane knew what Shelley was thinking and nodded. "Uh-huh. I wouldn't place a bet on there being two of them."

“Which means someone took it from the museum before the reenactment."

“Someone associated with the museum," Jane finished for her. "Not one of the original reenactors. When we had that lecture about our roles, nobody was supposed to have a gun. We were wives and farmers and wagon-makers and such.”

A woman with two children who each seemed to have sixteen grabby, grubby little hands had approached the booth. Shelley hopped up to wait on her and try to keep the children from destroying the neatly arranged merchandise. "Oh, you sell pea seeds," the woman said. "How would you like to plant some of our own peas?" she said in a singsong voice to the kids.

“Peas stink!" the boy said.

“I hate peas!" the girl responded, making an ugly face and snatching a jump rope off the counter.

“Oh, you'll love peas if you grow them yourselves," the mother cooed. "I promise they'll taste yummy."

“Plant them indoors in paper cups," Shelley advised. "They're cute when they come up. Then plant them out by a fence when the weather cools. You might get a crop in the fall." As she spoke, Shelley took the jump rope away from the little girl, who was trying to see howmany knots she could tie in it. Shelley held it as if she were considering garroting the child.

They left with several packets of peas. "That little boy stole a peashooter," Jane said.

“I know. I charged her for it and she didn't notice," Shelley said smugly.

“How do you know about growing peas?"

“I had to help the teacher with a fourth-grade science project once. I'm a woman of many parts, Jane. Haven't you noticed?"

“And what do your many parts think about Regina Palmer's death?"

“I think she was murdered."

“Me, too.”

Mel called that night as Jane was getting ready for bed. "Sorry I abandoned you," he said.

“It was okay. Shelley brought me home.”

“I figured she would."

“I guess you'll be attending the festival again tomorrow?" Jane asked.

“Is that an attempt to ask me subtly about Palmer's death?" Mel said with a laugh.

“Not too subtle, huh? Was it the gun from the museum?"

“Sure it was. The gun and lead shot for it had been in a display case."

“Wasn't it locked?"

“It was supposed to be. It was in a remote room on the third floor, in an exhibit of old clothes and hairbrushes and a bunch of dusty, unidentifiable household objects. No telling how long the gun's been missing. And before you ask, everybody in Greater Chicago had access to the keys to the display case. At least everybody who wandered through the staff area. The keys all hang on a pegboard right inside the door."

“And was it the gun she was shot with?" Jane asked.

“No confirmation yet. But I'm guessing so until I'm told otherwise."

“I thought you weren't in charge of the investigation.”

He cleared his throat. "I wasn't. But the guy who was in charge took a little break during the afternoon and ate something he shouldn't have. Damned near had to have another ambulance for him."

“It wasn't a hot dog with sauerkraut and awfully yellow cheese, was it?" Jane asked warily.

“Nope. A dessert with a cream filling that had ripened nicely in the heat. Somebody else had to bust the dessert booth, thank God!"

“The weather report said it's supposed to be a lot cooler by tomorrow. That's meant as a comforting comment," Jane said.

“Is it? Will you be there again tomorrow?"

“Shelley and I were supposed to participate in the morning reenactment again. But now—? I guess I'll turn up and work at whatever somebody wants me to do.”

Surprisingly, the weatherman had been right. A cold front had moved in during the night, causing just enough rain to freshen the skies and grass and leave behind an achingly blue sky. When Jane and Shelley arrived at the festival grounds, they learned that the reenactment scheduled for the morning was to proceed.

“The police are letting you do it again?" Jane asked Jumper Cable, whom they'd met at the museum's trailer.

Jumper was back in his farm-boy outfit already. "Not only letting us, but insisting on it."

“Oh, a reenactment of a reenactment," Shelley said.

Jumper nodded. "Sunday morning is traditionally the lowest attendance, and they want everybody to do exactly what they did yesterday afternoon."

“Somebody won't. I hope!" Jane said.

“It's going to be a critical audience," Jumper said wryly. "Lisa wants us to be ready in fifteen minutes, so grab your costumes.”

Jane and Shelley threw on their farmwife clothing and reported in with the group at the far end of the field. Yesterday one of the real reenactors, a beefy, cheerful man with a mop of curly hair, had given a cheerful talk about their group — why they did this, how they researched their roles and battles, where they got their clothes and accouterments. This morning he was present, but silent and subdued. It was as if a real death in the midst of carefully staged fake carnage had seriously offended his sense of the proprieties.

Lisa Quigley, the museum's publicity director, who had told them their "stories" the day before and urged them to believe in their characters and do their own thing, also seemed like a different person today. She was a slim but sturdy, auburn-haired woman in her mid-thirties. Jane had sensed, at their previous meeting, that Lisa was a self-contained sort of person, unused to being in the limelight. It seemed odd that such an individual would have chosen publicity as a career, but she had clearly done her homework. She'd had a sheaf of notes, which she hadn't needed to consult, and had spoken quietly but with real enthusiasm about her subject. Today she was pale and defeated-looking, and her eyes were puffy, as if she'd been crying.

“I won't pretend this is the same kind of activity we engaged in yesterday," she began when everyone had assembled. "And, to be honest, I find this a distasteful and gruesome thing to do. But the police have insisted, and naturally we're extremely eager to help them discover the cause of Ms. Palmer's death. Anyway — our instructions from them are to reproduce our movements in yesterday's reenactment as closely as we can.”

Shelley nudged Jane and tilted her head back toward the festival grounds. There were three police officers, badly disguised as ordinary festival goers, waiting with video cameras — one at each side of the field, one at the far end where the other spectators would be.

Lisa Quigley continued. "This is Officer Ridley," she said pointing to a woman wearing the same hat, but not the dress, Regina Palmer had worn the day before. "She's been told everyone's impressions of Ms. Palmer's movements and will try to do as Regina did. If any of you have anything additional to tell her, we have afew minutes still. Otherwise, we'll wait until ten o'clock and begin. It would be best, I think, if you would all try to put yourselves in the same frame of mind you were in before. Keep in mind that we have an audience most of which knows nothing about the tragedy and has just come for a good show.”

On this slightly upbeat note, they were dismissed. Everybody pointedly ignored Officer Ridley in her cabbage-rose-adorned bonnet. Sharlene Lloyd approached Jane and Shelley with an older woman in tow, whom she introduced as Babs McDonald.

“On behalf of the board of directors, I want to especially thank you ladies for all your help," Babs said in a voice that sounded much younger than she looked. Jane guessed her to be in her seventies — a trim, tiny woman with thick, startlingly white hair braided into earmuff like rolls on either side of her head. "I understand you filled in my duty time at the museum booth yesterday."