LITMIR.BIZ

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don’t think there was a killer,” she said. “Julian could be a clown. He was full of himself, an entertainer. He had a tendency to piss the rest of us off with his unwillingness to accept responsibility, but he also made us laugh and…he was a friend.” She took a deep breath. “It looked as if he sat down, started fooling around with the musket and set his head right on the blade. Yes, we use real muskets and bayonets, and never, ever, have we had a problem. The costumed interpreters don’t carry bullets or gunpowder and no one’s ever gone crazy and tried to bayonet a tourist. Who’d imagine that anyone could die on one?”

      “He wasn’t in any way suicidal?” Tyler asked.

      “Julian? He was convinced the world was waiting for him,” she said. “No, I don’t believe he committed suicide.” She hesitated for a moment. “We were all angry with him, figuring he’d had some kind of great offer and decided just to disappear.”

      “He was supposed to be working—and he wasn’t?”

      “Yes. Well, he showed up for the morning tours. He took off after lunch, probably for an audition.”

      “But you found him in his period costume?”

      She nodded. “He was with a bar band that had higher aspirations. They did a lot of auditioning and sometimes they had permits to play in the historic areas, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to stay in his work clothing.”

      “But none of you saw him after lunch?”

      She shook her head.

      “Are there places in the house where he could’ve been and you wouldn’t see him?” Tyler asked.

      She glanced at him. “A closet?” There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Or,” she said, her tone serious, “the attic. We don’t go up to the attic with any of the tour groups.”

      “May I see it now?”

      “If you want.”

      “Shall we?” Adam suggested.

      Allison seemed to go back into tour-guide mode as she led the way. She pointed out the ladies’ parlor, the music room and, across the entry, the dining room and parlor. As they walked up the first flight of stairs she talked about the owners of the house and the bedrooms used by the family—and by the British invaders.

      Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s bedroom; from the doorway he’d noticed another painting of Beast Bradley.

      It was different from the one in the study. The light of cruelty wasn’t apparent in the eyes. He’d been depicted in a more thoughtful mood, his eyes conveying wisdom and strength rather than cruelty.

      “One more floor to the attic,” Allison said. “If you’ll—”

      “I’m curious about this painting,” he interrupted.

      “It’s Beast Bradley. I don’t really know why the painting’s in here. Bradley took over the master bedroom while he was in residence at the house.”

      “This is a nice painting of him.”

      “I’m sure he had friends.”

      “It’s interesting that the foundation chose to keep the painting here, since he moved into the master bedroom,” Tyler commented.

      “The house was owned by the family until it was turned into a nonprofit institution,” Allison said. “That’s where the painting was. The board determined to keep everything as it was, getting rid of modern additions and buying a few authentic pieces to bring it back to the Revolutionary period. But in the 1930s, when the work was being done, the painting was in Lucy’s bedroom and the board at the time decided to keep it there.”

      “Adding insult to injury for poor Lucy. The original family must be rolling in their graves,” Tyler said. He tried to keep any irony from his voice.

      A derisive sound escaped her. The expression might be a common one, but in her world, people did not roll in their graves.

      Some old houses had stairs that were pulled down for access to the attic. Not the Tarleton-Dandridge House. At the end of the upper hallway he saw a staircase leading to the door; a sign on it read Staff Only! He assumed the door was usually locked, and he was right.

      “The front door key opens the attic, as well,” Allison explained.

      He used the key and pushed the door open. It led to a few more stairs. He climbed them and found himself standing on the attic level of the house. It was dark up here, but the moonlight and streetlamps offered some relief from the black shadows as his eyes grew accustomed to the change.

      Someone had been there. Someone had tossed the place, rummaging through the old boxes and trunks and the modern equipment that had sat on a desk. A computer lay on the floor, along with a printer. Letters and correspondence were everywhere and, scattered among them, posters for special events and other paraphernalia.

      “My God!” Allison breathed.

      Tyler turned to Adam. “We need to get the crime scene techs back here. I doubt we’ll find fingerprints other than those that belong here, but you never know.”

      Adam nodded and pulled out his cell phone.

      Allison continued to stare at the mess. She seemed almost punch-drunk, as if the day itself had just been way too long. He empathized with her, even if she considered him an oversize caricature of a slime-seeking ghost buster.

      “They’ll be here shortly,” Adam said.

      “Ohhhh.” Moaning, Allison sank down to the floor, her period dress drifting in a bell around her.

      * * *

      It was natural that the death of Julian Mitchell drew headlines across the country.

      He had died in a historic home—a “haunted” house, according to just about everyone—and whether or not people believed in ghosts, it was undeniably a house riddled with tragic history.

      Allison saw the headline minutes after she woke the next morning. She still had a newspaper delivered each day. She loved flipping leisurely through real pages while she drank her coffee.

      As she picked up the paper, she felt tears stinging her eyes again. Julian had often been a jerk, but he’d still been a coworker and a friend. She blinked hard and realized how exhausted she was. She’d spent most of the night with the police. She was still horrified that they saw Julian’s death as “suspicious” and knew that any suspicions of murder certainly included her. After all, she’d found him. She couldn’t believe the number of hours she’d spent at the station and then at the house when the crime scene techs had arrived again.

      She glanced over at the clock—it was already eleven, and she still felt exhausted. It was a good thing the house was closed down until it had been “investigated.” She couldn’t begin to offer a tour today, and she was glad she didn’t have a crowded schedule in the coming semester, just a few lectures. She felt numb about history, even though it was the love of her life. Rich and giving and…

      Taking. It had somehow taken Julian’s life. She didn’t understand how or why, but she sensed that the past had something to do with it. She’d claimed that his death had to be an accident. And yet…

      Allison set the paper on the counter of her small house on Chestnut Street and walked over to the coffee machine, popping a pod in place and waiting the few seconds for it to brew.

      The coffee tasted delicious. She figured she needed about a gallon of it. She’d been at the Tarleton-Dandridge until nearly 3:00 a.m., when one of the officers had driven her home.

      She wished she could’ve slept the entire day, and then thought she should just be grateful she hadn’t had horrible dreams, considering how Julian had looked....

      A shower seemed in order, although she’d taken one the night before. A psychiatrist would probably tell her she was trying to wash away what she’d seen but she didn’t

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