one place.
Gina looked even paler than she had outside as the Widow led her to a small rocking chair and waved the vial under her nose again. She opened a black lace fan, fluttering it in front of Gina.
“Please,” the Widow said to Frankie and me, “have a look around. It’s taken me years to put together this collection. You won’t see another like it. The Victorians placed great significance on memorializing the dead, you know.”
Savannah had said the same thing about the Egyptians. What was it about certain cultures that they had this macabre fascination with death? But Frankie was already making a slow tour around the tent, hands clasped behind her back as she examined everything.
“What are the little bottles for?” Frankie asked. “More smelling salts?”
“To catch the tears of sorrow a woman shed for her dead husband,” the Widow said. “She placed a cork to seal them for one year and on the first anniversary of the death of her loved one, she sprinkled them on his grave.”
Gina caught my eye behind the Widow’s back and pointed to the exit, drawing a slash across her throat.
“I’m feeling better now.” She stood up. “We ought to be going.”
“Your exhibit is very interesting.” Frankie was polite. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Something danced in the Widow’s eyes as she smiled at us. “You girls run along now.”
When we were back outside, Gina said, “That was weird.”
“I thought it was fascinating,” Frankie said. “I wonder how you get your tears in that bottle. I can’t quite work that out. Can you, Lucie? Hey…Lucie?”
“Pardon? Look, isn’t that B.J.’s regiment?”
A column of men marched toward us, two by two, rifles on shoulders and eyes straight ahead. A drummer bringing up the rear beat time as a young boy with a fife played “Glory, Glory Hallelu-jah.”
“It is,” Gina said. “There’s Tyler.”
He glanced at the three of us, serious and sober eyed, a flicker of acknowledgment on his face. His jacket looked too short and his pants were patched at the knees. His red curls stuck out from his kepi and he’d exchanged his wire-rimmed glasses for an old-fashioned pair that gave him an owl-like look.
“My God, he looks like he’s really leaving for war.” Frankie fished in her pocket for a tissue and wiped her eyes. “Sorry. I cry at movies all the time.”
“Do you think they were scared when they marched off to the real thing?” Gina asked.
It had begun to rain lightly, softening the hard edges of the scene.
“I’d be terrified.” Frankie wadded her tissue and shoved it in her pocket.
“We ought to be going,” I said.
“I left my umbrella in my car,” Frankie said. “I need to go back to the parking lot and get it.”
“Mine’s with yours,” Gina said. “I’ll come, too. What about you, Lucie?”
“Mine’s at home. I wasn’t thinking when I left this morning.” Or maybe I was thinking about other things. My thoughts drifted to Quinn.
“We’ll share,” Frankie said. “Why don’t you go over to the spectator field and stake out a spot? We’ll meet you there.”
They drifted off to the parking lot after we crossed the bridge. I joined the steady stream of spectators carrying umbrellas, camping chairs, cameras, and binoculars as they moved toward the roped-off viewing area. Despite the crowd, I spotted Annabel and Sumner Chastain right away; Sumner carried an oversized red umbrella with his company’s logo on it and their bright yellow rain jackets shone through the dull drizzle like a pair of beacons. Sumner had binoculars slung over one shoulder.
The jaunty-sounding refrain of “Southern Soldier” sung by the Virginia Fiddlers floated through the portable sound system B.J. had set up. I listened to the grim lyrics and threaded my way through the crowd until I caught up with the Chastains. Annabel turned when I called her name.
“Have you recovered from yesterday?” I asked.
“Pardon?” Her eyes flickered. Today they looked dull and I wondered if she was on medication. Tranquilizers, maybe? “Oh, yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy yourselves. Will you be staying for the whole thing?”
The chitchat was going to last only so long with Sumner. I needed to get them someplace private where we could talk.
Sumner gave me an irritated dumb-question look and answered me with exaggerated patience. “Yes, that’s what we plan to do.”
Unlike Annabel, he seemed tense and edgy.
“I’d like to talk to both of you,” I said. “In private. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“If this is about your father and Kinkaid,” Sumner said, keeping his voice low, “I think we’ve exhausted the subject.”
He put his arm around his wife.
“Leland kept letters, too,” I said. “I found them last night.”
Sumner froze and Annabel’s hand moved to her throat.
“You’re lying.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “I found them by accident. My brother happened to mention the other day that he had a collection of Civil War artifacts he’d found on the farm. I went looking for them yesterday because I thought it’d be nice to display them in the winery.” I shrugged. “Imagine my surprise when I opened an old cigar box expecting to find bullets and a Confederate belt buckle and instead it was full of love letters.”
I kept my expression bland, hoping they’d believe me as Sumner grabbed my arm. “Do we have to have this conversation right here?”
“How about behind the Virginia Sutler?” I shrugged out of his grasp.
We walked over to the tent in silence. Quinn liked to joke that every time I tell a lie my nose grows. Could I plant enough doubt in Annabel’s mind—persuade her I really did have her letters to Leland—that maybe she’d finally admit she lied about her relationship with my father?
Annabel’s voice was cold as she faced me, but she looked panicked. “You don’t have any letters. You’re bluffing.”
“After Beau died,” I said, “you claimed you were the one who tried to put a stop to the affair. But that’s not true, is it? Leland ended it and you couldn’t stand it. So you kept writing him, begging him to take you back.”
“No. That’s not true.”
“You were in love with him, Annabel. My father spurned you, not the other way around,” I said. “What I don’t understand is how he was involved in Beau’s murder. Because Leland didn’t kill Beau. I think you did. Then you got him to help you bury Beau. I don’t think you came with him because you really were surprised to see his grave site. But you somehow persuaded Leland to bury Beau here on Highland Farm.”
“That’s not true—”
“What are you saying?” Sumner’s voice cracked. It took a couple of beats before I realized he wasn’t talking to me. “Annie, that’s not true, is it? You didn’t go back to him after—”
“After what?” I asked. “After she killed Beau?”
“Sumner,” Annabel was pleading. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
“These letters,” Sumner said. “Where are they?”
“Oh, they’re someplace safe,” I said. In my head. “You two knew each other when Beau was alive? Did you know my father, Sumner?”
“You don’t have to tell her anything,” Annabel rasped at him. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
She turned on me. “I’ll pay you for the goddamn letters. Is that what this is about? Blackmail?”
I felt like I’d been slapped. “No. My God, of course not. I don’t want your money. I just want to know what happened. Leland didn’t kill Beau. You did. Maybe it was self-defense, but you killed him. Please, Annabel. I just want to know the truth. Don’t make this my father’s legacy. It’s not right.”
It will be a long time before I forget the agonizing look that passed between Annabel and Sumner just then.
