Deirdre didn’t pick up on the man’s scornful tone. “What are the hats like? I hope they’re slouch hats, with a brim, not those dumb flat-topped caps.”

  “A kepi. They’re called kepis,” the man said.

  Deirdre shrugged. “Whatever. They’d mash down my hair. Yuck.”

  Turning to get away from Deirdre, I was glad to see someone else I knew coming up the street—Charlie Adams. Charlie drives a tow truck for a local garage, and I’ve gotten to know him well. Maybe too well. My hybrid car goes so long between fill-ups, I have to admit I don’t always remember to check the fuel gauge. Charlie’s such a sweetheart, he never charges me for a tow anymore. Bess says it’s because he has a crush on me. No comment!

  “Charlie, are you joining up?” I asked.

  Charlie shook his head. “No, I’m driving an earthmover,” he said, stopping to chat.

  I couldn’t figure that out. “An earthmover? They had those in the Civil War?”

  “Oh, I’m not driving one during the battle,” Charlie explained. “Before the battle. I’m on landscape detail. We’re taking Riverside Park and making it look like the land around Black Creek, where the battle was actually fought. We’re rerouting a stream, building up a couple of ridges where the cannons were placed, and scooping out a hollow where there was some fierce hand-to-hand combat.” He grinned. “We’re even making huge papier-mâché boulders for sharpshooters to hide behind.”

  “Oh, yeah, I read about that in the paper,” I said. “The committee hired a Civil War historian to research it and make it as authentic as possible.”

  By this time the line had moved up to the front door, so I waved good-bye to Charlie and stepped inside the office. Once my eyes got used to the light, I was surprised to see Nathan Emory, the gun dealer, with a stack of rifles at a card table next to the uniform desk. And who was talking to him but Pam Mattei, the red-haired fireworks exec who had been with Harold Safer yesterday. She was leaning over the table, talking behind her hand to Emory. Her eyes scanned the crowd as she talked. I felt a prickle along my skin—a sure sign that something was awry.

  “Good idea, letting folks buy weapons at the same time,” the man in front of me said to his neighbor. “Saves us a trip to the sutlers’ bazaar.”

  “Yeah, but I wonder why that dealer got the exclusive rights,” I said. Then an image flashed in my mind: Nathan Emory handing a rifle to Art Jeffries. Jeffries earned that discount all right. This was Nathan Emory’s payoff . . . and a pretty sweet payoff it was!

  As if reading my mind, Art Jeffries suddenly marched in the door, acting all official. “Just checking out things in the enemy camp,” he joked in his booming voice.

  Mrs. Mahoney, who’d been going over papers with one of the organizers, looked up. “Art,” she said sweetly, “how handy that you’re here. Before the picnic meeting this afternoon, I need someone to run an errand for me—”

  Art Jeffries snorted. “Do I look like a gofer?”

  Mrs. Mahoney studied him, puzzled. “What?”

  “I’ve got plenty of my own things to take care of,” Jeffries said. “You can’t order me to run your errands.”

  Mrs. Mahoney drew her slender, frail figure up to its full height. I had to hand it to her, she had a lot of dignity. “But as president of the historical society—”

  “Tell it to Josiah Mahoney. That is, if he hasn’t run away yet,” Jeffries sneered.

  What was getting into everybody in River Heights? Was it just the reenactment turning them against one another? If things went on like this, pretty soon we’d have another war on our hands!

  “You’ve gotten used to running everything in this town, lady,” Jeffries told Mrs. Mahoney, getting more belligerent by the second. “Well, here’s one thing you can’t run. My guys and I have put a lot of effort into this battle already, and we aren’t taking orders from the likes of you.”

  “But . . . the whole idea of the reenactment was mine in the first place!” Mrs. Mahoney spluttered.

  “Tough luck,” Jeffries shot back. “You can mess around with your little picnic all you want, but leave the battle plans to us menfolk.” He leaned over, breathing hotly in her face. “Or else.”

  I just plain didn’t like Art Jeffries. I didn’t like his manner. The thought of him kept running through my head that afternoon, as my mind drifted off during the meeting for Friday night’s picnic. It was one of those meetings that seem like they’ll never end.

  I wished George and Bess were there. What kinds of things did they have going on instead? They probably smelled how boring this would be from home!

  Pam Mattei was droning on. “So our rockets will be set up on a barge, tethered to the river bank. But what about power for the ignition devices?”

  Harold Safer looked confused. “The designer at your headquarters told me you’d have a small generator right there on the barge.”

  Pam looked down at the folder on the table in front of her. She shuffled through a few papers. “Oh, yeah, that’s right.”

  I stifled a groan. What was this woman doing working for a fireworks company if she didn’t even know how fireworks worked? I glanced at the doorway, hoping Mrs. Mahoney would walk in.

  But then the very thought of Mrs. Mahoney made me begin to feel uneasy. Where was she, anyway? It sure wasn’t like her to be late to a meeting, especially not when she was supposed to be in charge.

  As that idea ran through my mind I heard a phone ring in the hallway outside. The woman who had answered it opened the door a moment later. “Harold?” she said in a worried tone.

  Harold Safer looked at her, and his face went white. “Martha, what is it?”

  The woman paused, trembling. “It’s—it’s the hospital. Agnes Mahoney . . . There was a car crash!”

  5

  Open Season

  By the time I got to River Heights General, there were already several official-looking people huddled in the corridor outside Mrs. Mahoney’s hospital room. One of them was Chief McGinnis, head of the River Heights police.

  “Got any leads, Nancy?” he asked gruffly.

  “Leads? On what?” I asked, confused.

  The chief lowered his voice. “This car accident of Mrs. Mahoney’s? It was no accident. My men went to the scene of the crash and looked at her car.”

  I stifled a gasp—both because the stubborn chief had parted with information so easily and because of the magnitude of the crime. “Someone tampered with it?”

  He nodded. “The brake pads were loose.”

  “But who could want to hurt Mrs. Mahoney?” I asked.

  Even as I said it, ideas popped into my mind. Art Jeffries had complained about how he’d watched Mrs. Mahoney “run things” around River Heights for years. But Marcus Hammond had looked so satisfied at the meeting last night when the truth about Josiah Mahoney came out. There were definitely a few people who might wish her harm.

  The real question was, who felt strongly enough to actually do something?

  A few minutes later it was my turn to step into Mrs. Mahoney’s room. The elderly widow was sitting up in her hospital bed, looking wan but alert. She had combed her gray coiffure to cover most of the bandage around her head. “The doctors say all I’ve got is a mild concussion,” she said in a thin, cheery voice. “With luck, I should still make it to the picnic tomorrow night.”

  “Now, don’t rush things,” warned a hovering nurse in white. “We’ll keep you under observation for twenty-four hours and then make a decision.”

  Mrs. Mahoney waved a hand, grand as a queen. I could see she didn’t intend to let any mere doctors keep her from presiding over her gala event. She’s pretty used to getting her own way by now.

  “Mrs. Mahoney, when you started to drive, did you notice any mechanical problems with your car?” I asked cautiously. I didn’t want to scare her.

  She frowned. “Problems? No, not at all. In fact, I picked up the car from the service center this morning. It was in perfect running order.”

  Not so perfect, clearly. “What garage do you use?” I asked.

  “Autorama,” she said.

  Wow, there was a red flag. “You mean the car lot Art Jeffries owns?”

  “Yes. He’s got a very good mechanic there—a fellow named Mac. Besides, Art gives me a discount.”

  I bet he does! I thought. “And right afterward you had the accident?”

  Mrs. Mahoney turned to face me. “I’ve told all this to the police already, Nancy. I had several errands to run in town before the meeting. I went to the dry cleaners, the bazaar, and a bakery.” She sighed. “I had a dozen beautifully frosted cupcakes on my backseat. Ruined now, I suppose. And I don’t even want to think about the condition of that suit I picked up from the cleaners. . . .”

  Who cared about the cupcakes? It was that stop at the Jeffries car lot that bothered me!

  I knew the police were investigating this crash, but sometimes a private citizen can find out more than a uniformed officer—especially when that private citizen is an innocent-looking teenager who knows what questions to ask. As soon as I left the hospital, I headed right for Jeffries Autorama.

  In the central bay of the service center I found a beefy blond guy with MAC embroidered on his gray shirt. “So, Mac,” I asked him. “You worked on Mrs. Mahoney’s car this morning. What did she bring it in for?”

  Mac shrugged. “Oil change, tune-up, a general maintenance check. The works. Why?”

  For an instant I wished I’d brought Bess. She’s my mechanical expert. Then I remembered why I hadn’t—and I felt lousy. Quickly I shuffled it out of my mind. “Did the brake pads need replacing?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Mac wiped an oil stick on a grease-stained rag from his back pocket. “But I did a routine check on ’em. They were okay.”

  “And you were the last person to work on it?”

  He nodded. “I saw her off in it this morning, around eleven thirty. She likes the personal touch—always brings me a box of cookies. Not that I need it.” He grinned, showing big dimples like Ned’s.

  “I like that old lady,” Mac went on. “She drives her car careful. Never speeds, never guns the engine, never races through a light. Never tries to squeeze it into a tiny parking space. That Cadillac of hers is ten years old, but it’s in top condition.”

  That’s when I realized I had gotten to him ahead of the police. I felt bad, being the first to tell him about the accident. As I explained I could see tears in his eyes, but I quickly realized they were more for the car than for Mrs. Mahoney. “Any crumpled fenders?” he asked anxiously. “Will it need body work?”

  Just then I saw the Autorama tow truck pull in behind Mac with a big navy blue Cadillac on the crane. Mac caught sight of it and turned away. “I can’t look,” he moaned.

  Something told me that Mac could never have sabotaged Mrs. Mahoney’s car.

  Since I seemed to be ahead of the police already, I went on to Rosslyn’s Bakery and Martell’s Dry Cleaners. Both checked out okay. Clerks there confirmed that Mrs. Mahoney had stopped in, but only quickly—not long enough for anyone to mess up Mac’s perfect repairs. The girl at Rosslyn’s was so upset at the news of the accident, she even offered to send a dozen richly frosted cupcakes to Mrs. Mahoney at the hospital. I bought a chocolate cupcake myself—part of the investigation, of course.

  Still licking chocolate frosting from my fingers, I pulled into my last stop, the sutlers’ bazaar in the old Mahoney warehouse. I guided my car into a space in the gravel parking lot across the street. It was pretty full, I noted—the bazaar must have been doing good business.

  I got out, locked my car, and walked over to the attendant—a high school kid squatting on a cinder block with his jacket over his head, trying to escape the light rain that had begun to fall. I paid him a dollar for an hour’s parking. “Did you see an old lady in a big navy Cadillac here around twelve thirty today?” I asked.

  He squinted at me. “You mean Mrs. Mahoney? Sure, she was here. I always remember Mrs. Mahoney. She’s a sweet old lady, and a generous tipper.”

  I took the hint and slipped another couple of dollars out of my purse. “Did you happen to notice anybody hanging around her car while she was shopping inside?” I asked, handing it over.

  He wadded the bills into his jeans pocket. “Funny you should ask. There was a guy prowling around the lot. I was eating lunch—he must have slipped past me. I saw him ducking down around the cars.” He gestured toward the northeast corner of the lot. “Near Mrs. Mahoney’s Caddy.”

  I felt my pulse pick up. “What did he look like?”

  “Older guy. Gray hair, glasses.”

  Sounded like Marcus Hammond. “Curly hair?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Skinny guy. Anyway, I went over and asked him what he was doing. He said he was just admiring that classic Cadillac and then he left real quick.”

  As I headed into the bazaar I brushed the rain off my hair and gave some thought to what the attendant had just told me. I still didn’t know much about Marcus Hammond or why he would harm a lady like Mrs. Mahoney, but I figured there were people inside who could tell me.

  To my surprise, I ran into Hammond himself, in the first aisle I walked down. He was examining a display of embroidered Confederate insignia. “Hello, Miss Drew,” he said. “I was looking for some badges to customize my uniform for the Fourth Mississippi Regiment.”

  How could I interrogate him without letting on that he was under suspicion? I tried a casual lead-in. “Weren’t you here earlier today? Hannah said you and my dad went to rent uniforms.”

  “Sure. I’ve been hanging around since ten thirty or eleven,” he said. “Lots of clients who used YourHistory.com were coming in and out. It’s fun meeting them. I’m sorry now that I didn’t go ahead and rent a booth here. I could have done some good business.”

  “Did you go out for lunch?” I asked.

  “I picked up a sandwich,” he explained. “And then I was out in the parking lot a little while.”

  “You were?” I had to think fast. If he was guilty, why would he freely admit he’d been in the parking lot?

  “Sure. I was looking at some merchandise Nathan Emory was selling from the trunk of his car.”

  “You know Nathan Emory?” Now I really had to think on my feet. Too much information can be as tricky as too little.

  “Everyone knows Nathan,” Hammond said.

  “What was he selling?”

  “Old medals, Confederate money—nothing too valuable,” he said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a few oblongs of crumpled paper, printed with ornate designs in blues and mustard colors. “These aren’t real, but they’re pretty good copies. I thought, if I’m going to pretend I’m a Confederate soldier, let me be one with money in my pocket.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Did you notice a big dark blue Cadillac out there?”

  He nodded. “A real beaut. I admired it on my way back in. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said.

  “My friend Evaline tells me you’re quite an amateur detective.” Hammond had changed the subject suddenly. He narrowed his eyes.

  Okay, so he knew I was nosing around. I wasn’t going to get anything more from him right now. “Sometimes I do a little detective work . . . if a case pops up,” I said with a shrug. “Well, ’bye. Enjoy the bazaar.”

  “See you at the house,” he said as I left. “But not until late. I’m having dinner with Evaline.”

  I had to check his story, so I circled around to Emory’s Armory. Nathan Emory was sitting on a folding chair, eating chow mein from a white cardboard container. “How’s business?” I asked.

  “Can’t complain,” he grunted. Clearly he remembered me from yesterday, and he wasn’t happy to see me again.

  “Marcus Hammond told me you were selling things out of your trunk.” Sometimes the best way to get information is to jump right in.

  He shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

  “Well, then, how about Martin Halstead?”

  Emory’s jaw stopped working a second, and then he nodded. “He wanted to see some minnie balls I had. Why? Do you want to buy some?”

  I shook my head. “Not today, thanks. But why did you have them in your car?”

  He studied the inside of the chow mein carton. “Organizers said I couldn’t display them. Someone ratted on me—Todd Willetts, I think.” He looked up at me with a hard gaze. “You a friend of Willetts?”

  “Not really. I’ve just met him,” I said, sidling away. “Well, thanks for your time.”

  I wandered off, mind working. So now Marcus Hammond had an alibi for being in the parking lot—if an alibi from a shifty character like Emory was worth anything. But that still didn’t prove Hammond hadn’t tampered with Mrs. Mahoney’s car, did it?

  As I stepped back outside the rain was just ending. In the parking lot I saw a plaid sports coat I recalled from yesterday. It belonged to Art Jeffries. Who was he talking to? Curious, I went a few yards down the block to cross the street at a less obvious spot. From that angle I could see a short woman with Jeffries. I’d know that bushy red hair anywhere. Pam Mattei sure did get around.

  Just then the setting sun broke through the clouds. I saw a flash, like something metal passing between Jeffries and Mattei. What were they doing?

  I had just reached the far sidewalk when I saw Mattei’s head duck into a car. I walked faster, but Mattei seemed in quite a hurry herself. The second her car started, she backed it out at a crazy speed. With a clash of gears, she jerked it into drive and sped off. Bits of wet gravel spit at me as I jogged into the lot.

  I whipped around and jumped toward Jeffries, who was getting into his car. I grabbed the side of his door before he could swing it shut. “Mr. Jeffries!” I called out. “I’ve got some questions for you!”

  He scowled. “I’m in a hurry, kid. Got lots to do. With old lady Mahoney out of commission, I have to run everything.” He started the engine.

 

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