The Final Tap (20 page)

thirty-four

“Since the sugarhouse appears
to be occupied, Ms. Cambridge, why don't you just take us over to see the trailer now,” Henry said.

“But you've hardly seen the festival,” I protested.

“I saw enough, and despite your dog's
run-in
with a gallon of maple syrup, everything seems to be running brilliantly.”

Was this praise from Henry? I wasn't sure if I could believe it.

Denise patted my arm and leaned close. “The sooner Henry sees the trailer, the sooner we will be out of your hair.”

“The trailer is on the village side of the property,” I said so that they both could hear.

The two board members followed me out of the maple grove and down the pebbled path past the oxen's pasture and a line of reenactors chatting with visitors. We reached Maple Grove Lane, where the noise was considerably less, and when we crossed the street, the noise from the festival was a only a soft murmur. The village was quiet, since it was still closed until the summer.

Puddles of melting snow and ice of every size lined the path to the green.

“I don't see the trailer,” Henry said when we reached the green.

I smiled at him for the first time. “That's the idea.” I pointed to the barn. “It's in the woods behind the barn, out of sight of any visitors. We wouldn't want a modern building marring the ambiance of the village.”

“I see,” Henry said, but not with his usual disapproval.

Denise gave me a
thumbs-up
sign behind Henry's back as if I'd passed some type of test.

I walked them to the trailer
well-hidden
in the trees. I knocked on the door and called for Jason.

“Can we see inside?” Henry asked.

I hesitated. The trailer was Jason's home, and I hated to invade my employee's personal space. On the other hand, Henry seeing the trailer and what good condition Jason kept it in might be the only way to keep Jason living on Barton Farm.

I knocked on the door again and called Jason's name. No answer. I opened the door. It was unlocked. I wasn't surprised.

I stepped in. The trailer was neat and tidy, as I expected. The
pull-out
couch that served as his bed was made. There were a few clean dishes on the minuscule kitchen counter sitting in a dry rack.

Henry stepped in after me. Denise didn't come in. I was grateful for that. The trailer was tiny, and three people in there at one time would be tight.

Henry glanced around. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“Jason is a good kid,” I said. “And a hard worker. His living here helps the Farm and me. It doesn't harm it in any way.”

Henry nodded and walked to the door. I stepped out of the trailer to see Jason coming up the dirt path from the barn. He froze when he saw me in his doorway. He started to turn.

“Jason, wait!”

Denise gave him a big smile. “Hello, Jason. Kelsey was just showing us your lovely home.”

Jason looked like he wanted to bolt.

I jumped down the last step from the trailer. “Jason, this is Henry and Denise from the Cherry Foundation. They wanted to see the trailer and how we keep it out of view from the visitors.”

Jason nodded.

Henry watched him. “You care for the animals on the Farm?”

Jason nodded again.

“Why don't you show us the barn?”

Jason gave me a panicked look.

“That's a wonderful idea.” I walked to Jason's side. “I think it would be helpful for the Foundation to know how much you do for the Farm.”

Jason started walking toward the barn without a word.

When we reached the barn, Jason relaxed some. He was always calmer when he was around his animals. The dairy cow and the sheep were outside of the barn, in the small yard along Maple Grove Lane. From that vantage point, we had a clear view of the large pasture across the street where the oxen grazed on the dead grass revealed by the melting snow.

Jason showed Denise and Henry everything in the barn and introduced them to all the animals with as few words as possible. Miss Muffins oversaw the proceedings from her hay bale with a small smile curved on her lips. I believed I had the same expression.

Outside the barn, when Jason listed off the names of all the sheep, Henry said, “I believe we've seen everything we need. You've taken good care of these animals, my boy.”

I gave a huge sigh of relief.

“We should be going, Kelsey, so you can get back to your regular duties,” Denise said.

Denise and Henry headed toward the path. I was about to follow them when Jason stopped me. “Kelsey?”

I turned to face him.

“Thank you.”

I shook my head. “There's nothing to thank me for,” I said and joined the board members heading toward the pebbled path.

After we crossed Maple Grove Lane and reached the door of the visitor center, I said, “As you can see, Jason is a good addition to the Farm.”

Henry turned to face me. “I can see that, but there's still a question of whether he should be living here.”

“But everything with the trailer is in order. I thought you approved.”

Henry frowned. “I admit it's not as bad as we were led to believe, but the board will have to discuss it. We have a meeting on Monday. You'll have our decision in the afternoon.” He walked into the visitor center.

“But—”

Denise shook her head. “It's no use arguing with Henry when he gets this way. Don't worry. The board will consider everything, and I came along. I can speak on your behalf at the meeting.”

“Denise, Jason has nowhere to go,” I said.

She patted my arm. “I'll do my best, dear. You know that I will.”

I watched as Henry and then Denise disappeared through the automatic doors. My shoulders drooped. It had been an impossibly long day. Other than Chief Duffy stomping around the grounds with his regiment, I hadn't seen any police at the Farm since Buckley's arrest. A small part of me still didn't believe that Buckley killed Beeson, but I couldn't even explain to myself why.

The Farm would close at three, and we had only an hour of the festival left. Many of the visitors were already leaving. I was about to start my rounds to make sure everyone had what they needed for the remainder of the day when Corrie Beeson stumbled out of the
visitor center's doors. Tears streamed down her face, and
festival-
goers
gave her a lot of space.

I hurried over to the girl. “Corrie?”

She looked at me with
red-rimmed
eyes.

“I'm Kelsey. I met you at the sugarhouse yesterday with Gavin.”

“I remember,” she murmured.

“What are you doing here?”

She played with the end of her scarf. “Is Gavin here?”

“He is.”

“I want to see him to tell him the police made an arrest in my father's murder.”

“I know,” I said.

She wiped at her cheek. “Does Gavin know?”

I shook my head. “I don't think so. At least, I haven't had a chance to tell him.” I placed a hand on her elbow and steered her toward the side of the visitor center. “Why don't you wait in my office while I go find him?”

“Are you sure? I know this festival is really important to Gavin. He's been talking about it for a while. He was so happy when you came up with the idea for the Maple Sugar Festival.” She paused. “I was happy for him until I learned that my father would be involved in it.” Her face clouded over.

“It's not a problem.” I placed a hand on her arm and guided her to the employee entrance. I took a detour through our bustling industrial kitchen, where farm staffers and volunteers still zoomed back and forth in an effort to keep up with the demand for pancakes. By the looks of it, they had the task well in hand, passing along plates of pancakes
assembly-line
style.

I took one of the plates from a staffer with a wink, along with a cup of milk and a small container of pure maple syrup before ushering Corrie from the kitchen.

Outside the kitchen, I turned down a short hallway. My tiny office was at the end of it. The office was actually in decent shape. There were only a few stacks of books and museum catalogs on the floor. I'd spent much of January trying to make sense of the mess.

“Have a seat at my desk,” I said, nodding to my office chair. I set the pancakes, syrup, and milk in front of her. Then I walked around the desk and sat in one of the two wooden chairs facing her. “Now eat.”

She looked down at the plate. “I'm not hungry.”

I folded my arms and used my best mom voice. “When was the last time you ate?”

She seemed to consider the question. “Thursday, I think.”

“Since it's Saturday, that's not going to work. You have to eat something or you're going to keel over. You need your strength to face everything in the next couple of days.”

“You mean for the funeral.”

“Among other things, I'm sure.”

She picked up a fork and pointed at the small container of maple syrup. “I don't like maple syrup.” Her eyes held a challenge.

“Plain pancakes will do, then. Now eat.”

She set her fork down and tore off a tiny piece of pancake and put it in her mouth. It was better than nothing, I supposed.

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.