The Mournful Teddy (25 page)

212

John J. Lamb

However, as long as I’m on the topic, why is it that the entertainment industry sneeringly portrays reenactors as ignorant and crazed trailer-park-trash losers? The fact of the matter was that most of the guys out there drilling on the grassy field knew as much about the American Civil War as a university professor. Furthermore, I defy anyone to explain to me how reenacting is intrinsically any more stupid than a mainstream pastime such as golf, where you’re obligated to pay two hundred bucks or more to hit a little ball into a hole with an assortment of expensive crooked sticks. Oh yeah,
that’s
a much more sensible form of amusement than discovering something about the realities of American history.

I looked toward the drilling green and saw Josh Remmelkemp jogging across the field toward me, his bayonet-tipped rifle slung over his right shoulder. Meanwhile, the men continued to march back and forth to the tinny beat of a drum. As he got closer, I saw that Josh looked anxious.

“Hey, Brad. Is everything all right? Is Ash okay?”

“As of five minutes ago, everything was fine. I take it you’ve heard that we’re investigating the murder?”

“My folks told me at church this morning. They also told me about what that SOB Trent did last night. Nobody threatens my sister like that and gets away with it.” Josh shifted the rifle to port arms and ran his thumb over the large firing hammer. Although the musket was a replica, it was still a lethal firearm capable of shooting a Minie ball and I hoped he wasn’t considering an extreme makeover of Trent’s head to make him look like an oversize Life Saver.

“Nobody does that to my wife either, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait your turn until I’m done with him.”

“If you say so.” He didn’t sound convinced.

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“Josh, he isn’t worth it. Think about your wife and kids—you’ll break their hearts and your parents’ and Ash’s too. Besides, Trent is going to prison and for an ex-cop that’s a lot worse, for a lot longer than anything you’ve got planned.”

Josh nodded, slowly exhaled, and lowered the rifle.

“What brings you out here?”

“The murder investigation. While we were in town yesterday morning I overheard a couple of your men talking about hearing a violent argument on Friday night. You didn’t happen to notice anything like that, did you?”

“No, I was already asleep but some of the fellas mentioned it. Apparently it was a doozey.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“Around nine, I think. Is this argument important?”

“It might be very important and that’s why I need to talk to your men to find out what time it happened and from what direction they heard the voices.”

“Well, the fellas said it came from the Ewell place, but I’ll call them in and you can ask them yourself.” Josh turned toward the men and shouted, “Captain Pouncey!

With your permission, sir, would you please bring the company here?”

A lanky man waved his sword in acknowledgment and the soldiers turned and began to march toward the camp.

“Thanks, Josh.”

“No, thank you, Brad . . . for the advice. So, have you identified the dead man yet?”

“Yeah, his name is Robert Thayer, Liz Ewell’s nephew.

Did you know him?”

“Not really. I’ve heard his name and seen him around town a couple of times. As you probably heard from Ash, our family doesn’t associate with the Ewells.”

“And with good reason.”

“So, do you know who killed him?”

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John J. Lamb

“I’ve got a pretty good idea, but I know you’ll understand that I can’t talk about it right now.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

“Thanks and when this thing is wrapped up I’ll tell you the whole story.”

The column of Rebel troops entered the camp and halted. Captain Pouncey gave them a couple of brisk commands and the men stood at ease. The reenactors looked happy for the break. Most were sweating profusely, a couple of them began gulping water from button-shaped canteens, and one poor guy was breathing harder than an obscene phone caller. I scanned the ranks and was relieved to see the two soldiers I’d seen yesterday at the church.

Pouncey was strikingly handsome and looked as if he’d stepped right out of an antique daguerreotype. He had an aquiline nose, a strong jaw, shaggy drooping moustache, and an athletic physique. His weather-beaten uniform coat was butternut-colored, with a double row of brass buttons on the chest and gold embroidery on the sleeves in a pattern that vaguely reminded me of a Celtic cross. He wore a black leather belt with a scabbard hanging from it, and an old-fashioned revolver in a leather holster. His broad-brimmed, black felt hat was faded and battered.

Josh saluted. “Sir, I’d like you to meet my brother-inlaw, Brad Lyon.”

“William Pouncey. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. Your brother has told me all about you and your former career in San Francisco.” Pouncey extended a gloved hand.

“Thanks for allowing me to interrupt, but it’s very important that I ask your men a few questions. It won’t take long, I promise.”

“Is this about the man they found in the river yesterday? Sergeant Remmelkemp told me that you are conducting an investigation because the sheriff refused.”

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“That’s true, but I also need to stress that I’m not a cop, this isn’t an official investigation, and your men are under no legal obligation to talk to me.”

“I understand that, but I believe there is a moral obligation, and I’m certain we’ll do everything we can to help.”

Pouncey turned toward the troops and spoke in a stentorian voice. “Men, I want your attention. This is Mister Bradley Lyon and he wants to ask you some questions that may pertain to a murder. I wish you to understand that you’re under no compulsion to answer, but be warned . . .

if I learn that any man deliberately withheld information, his name will be immediately stricken from the company roll. I will not serve with a scoundrel. Am I clear?”

“Questions about what?” one of the soldiers asked.

Pouncey glanced at me and I said, “The questions pertain to an argument that some of you may have heard on Friday night.”

Several of the men began to chuckle and I knew I’d struck pay dirt. Now, back in San Francisco, I’d isolate the witnesses and question each one separately to ensure that they told me what they actually knew, rather than what they might have heard someone else say. But I didn’t have the time for that.

“With a tongue that sharp, I’m surprised that gal didn’t cut her mouth,” a reenactor called from the rear rank.

The man beside him added, “My daddy used to say that you can
always
tell a lady by how she uses the word mother-f—”

“Actually, I think that’s two words hyphenated. Okay, so how many of you actually heard the argument?” I saw six men raise their hands. Pulling out my notepad and pen, I pointed to a tall soldier in the front rank. “Let’s start with you, and guys, please don’t interrupt, even if you disagree with what’s being said. Name?”

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John J. Lamb

“Walter Welford.”

Josh said, “I can get you their phone numbers and addresses later on.”

“Thanks, I’ll need them. So, Walter, what direction was the sound coming from?”

Walter hooked a thumb toward the Ewell estate. “Over there.”

“What were you doing at the time?”

“Sitting around the campfire having some drinks with my pards.”

“Would you describe yourself as being intoxicated?”

“Who said we were drinking alcohol? Mister, I’ll have you know that I don’t drink anything stronger than pop.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.” As I apologized I noticed Captain Pouncey’s head shaking slightly and his eyes turning heavenward. I suddenly suspected I was interviewing the company comedian and was about to be the straight man for some of his really old material.

Bubbling with suppressed laughter, Walter couldn’t wait to deliver the punch line. “And my Pop drank two pints of rye whiskey a day!” There were a few groans from the men and Josh gave Walt a glare. The reenactor sighed heavily, as if profoundly perplexed and saddened that his brilliant comedic talent wasn’t appreciated and added, “Okay, okay, I’d had a few but I wasn’t drunk.”

“And what did you hear?” I asked.

“A man and a woman arguing. Well, it wasn’t so much arguing as her calling him all sorts of filthy names.”

“Disregarding the obscenities, can you recall anything specifically that was said?”

Walter pulled on his earlobe and thought for a moment.

“The only thing I can definitely remember is that she told him he wasn’t going to get away with it.”

“Did you recognize either of the voices?”

“No.”

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“How long did they argue?”

“Maybe a minute or two.”

“And how did it end?”

“It just quit. It suddenly got quiet. She was yelling and I think he said something and then it was over.”

If I’m right, it was over in more ways than one,
I thought.

I asked, “Any idea of when this happened?”

“Oh, it had to have been some time around eleven—

but that’d just be a guess.”

“Uh, sir?” A young bearded soldier in the rear rank raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Uh, I think I can tell you exactly what time it happened.” The man sounded a little worried.

“Really? What’s your name?”

“Randall Bell.”

“And what was the exact time?”

“I’d just called my wife on my cell phone when the argument started. If we check the call history, it’ll tell us the time I made the call.”

Josh leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Uh-oh.

Captain Pouncey doesn’t allow
anything
modern in our camp. Even the booze the boys drink has to be poured from the bottles into historically accurate ceramic jugs.”

Bell noticed Pouncey glaring at him and said to his commander, “I’m very sorry, sir. I realize that cell phones are forbidden out here, but you know I just got married last week and I wanted to call and tell Monica good night and . . . and that I loved her.”

I gaped at Bell in disbelief, the investigation momentarily forgotten. “Let me get this straight, you got married last weekend and you’ve been out here
this
weekend sleeping on the wet ground in tents with a bunch of guys in stinky woolen uniforms when you could have been in bed with your newlywed wife?”

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John J. Lamb

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“You look young. Is this your first marriage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you live with her before you got married?”

Bell got red-faced. “Of course not! We both vowed to wait until we got married before we, well, you know . . .”

“Yeah, I do know and, Mr. Bell, I truly don’t mean any offense but, no matter how much you like reenacting, you need your head examined.”

“That’s what Monica says,” Bell said quietly.

“Listen to her. She’s a smart woman. Now, getting back to the time, where is your phone?”

“In my knapsack in my tent.” Bell looked at Pouncey.

“Permission to fall out and get my phone, sir?”

“At the double-quick!” Pouncey barked.

Bell jogged to his tent and returned a moment later with a wireless phone. I signaled him to come to me instead of returning to the ranks. He turned the phone on and began pushing buttons while squinting at the tiny screen. At last, he handed me the phone and said, “Here. Look.”

The screen showed a column of phone numbers with corresponding columns of dates and times. There was only one listing for September 30 and that was for a telephone call made to a local number at 11:09 p.m. That was almost an hour-and-a-half after the time Thayer had purportedly left the Ewell estate, never to be seen again.

“Thank you, Mr. Bell, and I expect at some point the State Police are going to want to take a look at your wireless phone bill, so you might want to keep it handy.”

“This is important?” Bell swallowed nervously.

“Very important. You heard what Walt had to say about the argument. Is that basically what you heard?”

“I didn’t even notice that much. All I heard was shouting, mostly by a woman. I was on the phone, so I wasn’t really paying attention to anything that was said.”

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“Okay, thanks.”

“Fall in, Private Bell,” said Captain Pouncey.

As Bell returned to the troop formation, I resumed questioning the other four witnesses. All their statements were essentially the same. They’d heard an unidentified couple involved in a savage argument that had ended as quickly as it started. One of the soldiers thought the woman might have been crying, but he couldn’t swear to it, and another concurred with Walter. The woman had shouted out something to the man about not getting away with it.

And the fact that Robert Thayer was found strangled and floating in the Shenandoah River less than eight hours after that threat was delivered, clearly demonstrated that the woman—undoubtedly Meredith Audett—

had been absolutely correct. He hadn’t gotten away with it. But now I had to find out precisely what “it” was.

Chapter 19

Thanking the reenactors for their time and cooperation, I limped back toward the truck. Pouncey dismissed the troops and as they broke ranks, Josh caught up with me.

He said, “I’ll stop by your house later tonight and drop off a list of those six guys and their phone numbers.”

“Thanks. If we’re not home, just go in through the back door and put the sheet on the table.”

“Why wouldn’t you be home?”

“I’ve still got several people to interview today.”

“Including Holcombe and his son?” He gave me a sidelong and suspicious look. “Is Ash going with you?”

“You know your sister. If she wants to come, do you think I could actually prevent her?”

“Well, you could tell her ‘no.’ ”

We looked at each other for a moment and then both of us exploded into laughter. Catching my breath, I said, The Mournful Teddy