To Live and Die In Dixie (6 page)

“That's over fifty-six thousand dollars' worth of stuff, right there. You mentioned a document was taken also, but I don't see it on the list.”

“Look at the next sheet of paper,” he said, sipping from the water glass.

It was a letter, from the curator of the special collec
tions at the University of Georgia library. It appeared to be a written bid, offering Littlefield $150,000 for the following:

“A diary? A woman's Civil War diary is worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Who was this woman, Robert E. Lee's love slave?”

“Not quite,” he said. “And one fifty is just one bid. I'm still waiting for bids to come in from two other universities as well as some private collectors. This diary is the talk of every collector in the country. You see, Lula Belle Boynton Bird was an educated young woman, a member of an aristocratic South Carolina cotton planting family. She married early and was widowed before the war started. She was not your typical Southern belle. Sometime in the late 1850s, she moved to Richmond and bought a house on Marshall Street, in quite a respectable neighborhood. The first time we find her name on the tax rolls is 1859. To make the story short, by the time the war was under way, she was running what was, by some accounts, one of the more prosperous bawdy houses in Richmond.”

“A prostitute,” I said wonderingly. “Is that why the diary is so valuable; because she was a prostitute? The diary is sort of a Civil War—era
Happy Hooker
?”

“Not just a prostitute,” Littlefield said sharply. “As you may know, Richmond and other large Southern cities near Confederate encampments were hotbeds of prostitution. In some places, they were a real wartime menace.
Some units were decimated by the number of men out on sick call from venereal disease. Nashville was so plagued by prostitutes during the three years it was occupied by Union troops that two hospitals treated nothing but patients with venereal disease. But Lula Belle Bird was a madam; not some illiterate country street strut. Researchers today are dying to get their hands on a diary like this. Historians know plenty about Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis. A diary like this sheds a whole new light on the social history of the Confederate capital, and it's written from the point of view of an educated, liberated woman. It's a Holy Grail-quality find.”

“Speaking of find,” I said, trying to make my voice sound casual. “How'd you come across such a treasure?”

“Proprietary information,” he said. “The buyer will be given the diary's full provenance. I can assure you, it was acquired through perfectly legal channels.”

“Hey,” I said, changing what was obviously a sensitive subject. “Do the diaries mention any of Lula Belle's clients? Like any famous generals or anything?”

Littlefield smiled wanly. “You thought of that, did you? Actually, the few pages I was able to read gave only initials for her regular clients. But the diary is written in such a cramped, spidery script, it's nearly unreadable. As the war went on, paper became scarcer and scarcer, so she wrote in between lines and up the margins. Before the burglary, I was in the process of finding a researcher to prepare a typescript so that prospective buyers could read the thing.”

I smoothed the folds of the two pieces of paper. “Can I keep these for my file?”

“Of course,” he said, his voice sounding a bit woozy.

I pulled out my notepad and started scribbling notes to myself. “Were all the stolen items taken from the same place?”

He furrowed his brow in an effort to concentrate. “No. As you saw, the whole house had been ransacked. It was a bit of a mess before yesterday, but nothing like what you saw. Let me see. The weapons were all kept in a glass-fronted display case in the third floor library. I kept the silver presentation cup and the saber on the mantel in my bedroom. The cartridge box plate, let me think now, I believe it might have been in a display case in the guest room where Bridget was…found.”

“And the diary?”

“The diary should have been in a safe in the shop,” Littlefield said. “But I'd brought it in the house. Since I bought it I haven't been able to keep my hands off it. It's the most fascinating thing I've ever read. What with the preparations for the tour and battle reenactment coming up, I never put it back in the safe. It was in a wooden document box, on top of my desk in the library.”

“So everything that was taken was out in plain view?” I asked.

He nodded yes.

“But the burglars turned the place upside down. Interesting. Was there something more valuable that they might have been looking for?”

“I thought of that,” Littlefield admitted. “There are other more valuable things in the house, but they were out in plain sight too. It doesn't make any sense. Take the silver for instance. It's in the sideboard in the dining room, made in Savannah in the early nineteenth century. It's worth tens of thousands. And in the library, there were several other weapons they didn't touch, not to mention my collection of Confederate imprints.”

“What are those?”

“Remember I told you, paper was scarce in the South during the later war years? The Yankees had burned the
paper mills and rags were needed for bandages. Books, pamphlets, even sheet music published in the Confederacy were extremely scarce and today they're quite collectible and valuable. None of mine were touched. And, of course, nothing in the carriage house, where the shop is, was touched. The police checked, the alarm system was on and nothing was tampered with. The most valuable pieces I have are kept there.”

I glanced back over the list. “Can you make out any rhyme or reason for what was taken? Any idea who might have done it?”

“As I told your friend Captain Hunsecker, I have no idea who could have done this. There's quite a black market for Civil War antiques, but I find it hard to believe anyone would murder an innocent young girl to get their hands on the things that were taken; particularly since they left behind so much else that was of value.”

I studied Littlefield's profile. He was disturbed, obviously, about what had happened at Eagle's Keep. I found it hard to believe he was responsible for the murder or the burglary.

“You realize that you're the cops' primary suspect, don't you?”

His eyelids fluttered as he tried to fight off the effect of the pain pills. “I know. As I told you last night, I didn't do it. And I won't allow myself to be arrested and tried a second time.”

“You won't allow it,” I repeated.

“No,” he said simply. “I won't.”

“Before I forget,” I said. “I was supposed to tell you that Billy Dobbs and his men were the ones who brought you back here from Kennesaw Mountain. Dobbs seemed highly pleased with himself, but they were slinging you around in that truck like a fifty-pound
sack of yams. They actually had you lying in the truck bed the whole way back from Kennesaw. I'm not surprised your back is hurting.”

“Dobbs,” he said drowsily, “I should have known.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“The dishonorable and disreputable Major Billy Dobbs, spiritual and de facto leader of the Ninety-sixth Georgia Infantry, better known as the Lost Mountain Volunteers.”

“That's another reenactment unit?”

“You could say that,” he said. “My unit is the Gate City Old Guard. A group of MOSB members started our outfit a few years ago. We like to think of ourselves as a fairly elite outfit. Not like the Lost Mountain boys.”

“MOSB,” I repeated. “What's that?”

“Military Order of the Stars and Bars,” he said, tripping the words from his tongue with obvious pleasure. “To be a member you have to have a relative who was a Confederate commissioned officer.”

“That's like the UDC?” I asked innocently. I'd won a medal for patriotism in junior high school from the local chapter of the United Daughters of the Confederacy and had spent my high school years trying to live down the fact that I'd won the biggest dweeb award of all.

Littlefield rolled his eyes in disdain. He must have met the UDC ladies who'd given me my medal. “No. The MOSB likes to think of its membership as a little more upscale. The UDC is more the female equivalent of the SCV. Sons of Confederate Veterans,” he added quickly.

“And the Lost Mountain Boys are sort of riffraff?”

“They're a joke,” he said quickly. “A ragtag bunch of yahoos. They put on blue jeans, work boots, and butter-nut jackets and consider themselves historically attired.
They camp in those tuna-can campers, play loud country music all night, and shoot off their weapons at the slightest provocation. They are, to be exact, a bunch of ill-kempt, bad-mannered ignorant lowlifes, who only come out here to wave the Rebel flag, smoke dope, get drunk, and raise hell.”

I suppressed the urge to ask if that wasn't the general idea for Civil War reenactors, who I'd always thought of as pathetic champions of a brutal, but thankfully lost, cause.

“If they're such pigs, why let 'em in?” I asked. “Why not tell them to take their toys and go home?”

“Because,” he said grimly, “Billy Dobbs's granddaddy owns the farmland where we reenact. The National Park Service won't allow us on the actual battlefield. It is, to borrow your metaphor, Dobbs's ball and Dobbs's yard.”

Littlefield's eyes closed and I thought he'd gone to sleep. I got up quietly to leave the room.

“You don't approve of reenacting,” he said.

I turned around. He'd propped himself up on one elbow. “No offense, but I think it's a pretty damn childish way for grown men to spend their days, but like the man said, different strokes for different folks.”

“Reenactment groups do tend to attract some odd types,” he admitted. “But we're not all like Billy Dobbs. Most of us are in it because we have a lifelong fascination with history. In fact, the majority of my men have ancestors who fought for the Confederacy, even died for it. I'd say most of us just want to preserve the memory of southerners who died for a cause they believed in. Is that so wrong?”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Wasn't that noble cause our ancestors fought for a shameful little institution called slavery?”

Littlefield yawned loudly. “The war was about much more than slavery. Anyone with even a cursory knowledge of Civil War history knows that. But for people like you it always comes down to slavery, doesn't it? I suppose you're one of those types who want to ban the display of the Stars and Bars, or the playing of ‘Dixie.' Don't you have any pride at all in your Southern heritage?”

“It's not the flag I mind, and actually, I have a sentimental spot in my heart for Dixie,” I said evenly. “It's just the race-baiting unreconstructed Rebels that I object to,” I said. “Seems to me they've wrapped themselves in the Rebel flag as a substitute for Klan robes. Symbolism's the same, but the flag's just a little more socially acceptable. And no, I don't particularly like the glorification of a war fought largely by poor, ignorant dirt farmers who died a long way from home for a cause they never understood.”

I'd expected my speechifying to throw Littlefield into a tantrum, but apparently, I'd underestimated him. I tend to do that with men.

He put his head back down on the pillow. “I disagree,” he said tiredly. “These pills must be kicking in. Want you to bill me for all this time, too,” he said.

“I intend to,” I said quickly. “Can you answer a few questions about Bridget Dougherty before you go to sleep?”

“I'm really exhausted,” he said sharply.

“What was she like?” I asked, ignoring his pout.

“She was a little girl,” he said sadly. “Seventeen. But so, so bright and so eager to learn. I was teaching her about history. Real history, not that fairy tale stuff they teach in schools these days. And antiques. I'll say this about the Doughertys, they surrounded themselves with the best. And Bridget was developing a great eye.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

There was a sharpness to my tone that I couldn't understand, but instantly regretted.

A smile flitted across Littlefield's face, annoying me further.

“I see you're familiar with my bad press. That was twenty years ago, you know. A different time and a different sensibility. I doubt you'd understand, even if I was inclined to go into the matter. I can assure you I don't have to sleep with children. I've told the police that too.”

“They don't believe you.”

“That's their privilege,” Littlefield said. Raising one eyebrow, his eyes met mine in the mirror. “What about you?”

“Doesn't matter to me,” I lied. “As long as you didn't kill her. And no, for what it's worth, I don't think you did. She wasn't any little innocent though,” I offered. “I understand she thought she was pregnant when she ran away from home.”

He looked surprised. “You know about that?”

I nodded.

“She wouldn't say who he was,” Littlefield said. “We didn't have that kind of relationship. I was her employer. I'm sure she thought I was too ancient to be able to perform sexually. When she told me she thought she was pregnant, she was clearly embarrassed. I offered to loan her the money for an abortion. She was shocked. She'd been raised Catholic, and I don't think abortion had ever even occurred to her.”

“Don't be too sure,” I said dryly.

“Whatever,” he said, with a hint of a shrug. “The day after we talked, she came into the shop, singing and dancing around. She'd told her boyfriend and he was going to take care of her, she said. He'd get a job, and
they'd get an apartment together, and everything would be cool.”