7 Never Haunt a Historian Page 12

  Leigh suffered a sinking feeling. “You think maybe the mapmaker wasn’t as familiar with this farm? Both the father and the son were supposedly anti-social types.”

  “Antisocial? Hmm.” Lydie continued studying the map. “Well, there’s no question that it’s a map of this neighborhood—with the two creeks merging along the Harmony tracks, and the road and the old woods on the hill all right there. I just don’t think it’s a very good map.”

  Leigh frowned. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning not everyone who wants to draw a map can do a decent job of it,” Lydie said practically. “Either he wasn’t entirely clear on how the buildings were laid out at this farm, he wasn’t good with spatial relationships, or he plain just couldn’t draw.” She turned the map on its side. “Seems like the creek is pretty crooked, too, in relation to the road.”

  “Well, if it’s drawn so poorly,” Leigh asked, “how could anyone possibly find anything it was trying to point to?”

  Lydie’s eyebrows tented. “Perhaps that’s been the problem.”

  Leigh groaned. “You must be right. The thing has certainly been around long enough, presumably without anyone’s finding anything. I just wish it could help us get Archie back home.” She rose and went to stand at the window again. Allison remained safely out of earshot. Check.

  She briefly summarized for her aunt her conversations with Harvey and Dora, and her suspicions that Archie and Lester were working together. “But maybe I’m making too much of the map,” she finished. “After all, we really don’t know how old it is. Particularly if it’s drawn so badly—for all we know it could be something Scotty O’Malley did last week as a joke!”

  Lydie harrumphed. “You mean that dreadful little boy who brought his BB gun over here that time? I think not!” She pored over the map with renewed interest. “I’m telling you, this map is old. I’d bet my degree on it. How old is your house?”

  “1958. I believe all four houses between the two farms were built within a year or two of each other.”

  “Well, there you go,” Lydie continued. “None of those houses are on this map, so we’re talking early fifties at the latest. I might be wrong about it being drawn while the Harmony Line was still running… after all, if the Carr men had lived here a long time, they might draw the tracks in even if the actual ones had already been removed. But just looking at what they’re calling woods and what they’re not, I’d still guess twenties or thirties.”

  Leigh considered. “I guess I’ve been thinking that Theodore Carr made the map, when it just as easily could have been his son, Tom. But there’s something else that still bothers me. Why wouldn’t either of them put their own barn on it?”

  Lydie looked again at the area of the map where one solitary square was labeled “The Guide.” As Leigh had remembered, there were no other squares around it. In fact, the area to the left of it was essentially blank. All the “spokes” shot out to the right, down the creek and toward Cara’s place.

  “The tool shed and the garage you mention might have been added after the map was drawn,” Lydie suggested. “But you’re right, a farm has to have a barn. Why the owner wouldn’t draw it on his own map, I can’t imagine. Unless it was behind the house in this unfinished section,” she pointed to the area upstream from Archie’s house.

  Leigh shook her head. “The barn isn’t to the left of the house, it’s right behind it, which means it would definitely be on the map. But look… he drew trees there!”

  Lydie’s lips pursed. “There’s something else I think you have to consider then,” she said solemnly.

  Leigh’s eyebrows rose. “What’s that?”

  “That this man and his son, both of whom were reportedly ‘antisocial’ and ‘paranoid,’ could have drawn this map while not completely in their right minds.”

  Leigh grimaced. “I do not want to hear that.”

  Lydie smiled sympathetically. “I know.”

  “But the problem is really still the same, isn’t it?” Leigh continued. “Even if the map is worthless, if there are people out there who think they can figure it out, it still poses a danger! I just can’t figure out the real motivation… what it is that everyone is trying so hard to find.”

  Lydie shrugged. “Harvey’s theory sounds plausible enough to me.”

  Leigh’s eyes widened. “The hat thing? Really? You can’t be serious.”

  “And why not?” Lydie challenged.

  Leigh hesitated. From someone like Harvey or Archie or even Adith (who, thank the mighty stars, Leigh didn’t think had tumbled onto the treasure-hunting angle yet) she could understand the romantic appeal of searching for a lost piece of history. Her practical-to-the-bone aunt, on the other hand, she would have thought impervious to such drama, history buff or no. “Really?” she said uncertainly. “Treasure-hunting for Civil War relics as a motive for…” She almost said “abduction,” but stopped herself. She didn’t want to think that way. She didn’t want to say “assault” either. “Well,” she evaded, “it just seems a little farfetched.”

  Lydie studied her niece quietly for a moment. Then she rose. “Come here with me,” she ordered.

  Leigh followed her into Cara’s study, where Lydie sat down at the computer and clicked onto a search engine. Within seconds, Leigh was viewing the site of a business specializing in the sale of Civil War artifacts. Handmade flags. Gold corps badges. An inscribed bowie knife. Silver spurs. Drums. Each was priced at thousands of dollars. A few were listed for five figures.

  Leigh whistled. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Obviously not,” Lydie responded, clicking around again. Within seconds she had found another site with more of the same. “You underestimate the ardor of the enthusiasts, my dear. I’m more a student of domestic history, myself, but your friend Harvey is right. Finding a hat that could be authenticated as belonging to General Armistead and recovered at the Battle of Gettysburg would be a major, major event for a whole lot of very interested people.”

  Leigh bit her lip. It was getting sore again. “How much?” she asked weakly.

  Lydie cocked her head to one side. “I’m hardly an expert on the matter. But from what I’ve seen on sites like this, and from what I know of how passionately many people feel about the Civil War, I would guess it might auction for six figures. Maybe seven.”

  Leigh’s thudding heart dropped into her shoes. “Seven figures?” she breathed.

  “Uh huh,” Lydie confirmed.

  When it came to motives for violence, seven figures was anything but farfetched.

  Leigh swore beneath her breath.

  “Uh huh,” Lydie agreed.

  Chapter 12

  Several hours later, Leigh tromped dutifully to where her mother had parked her latest Taurus, on the street beside Greenstone Methodist in Avalon.

  “I think it’s foolish myself, mind you,” Frances lectured, as she had been doing continuously ever since the service ended. “But you know your aunt Bess. She made me swear I’d get the equipment to you, and I suppose it can’t make things any worse.”

  Leigh had been listening to her mother’s opinion about the dangers of Leigh’s wild and lawless neighborhood in the suburbs for a good twenty minutes already, and Frances didn’t know the half of it… at least not yet. Leigh had begged her aunt not to spew all the details of the treasure hunt to her twin, but Lydie would make no promises. Frances had already heard enough about Lester’s hospitalization to be sure that armed marauders were stalking her beloved grandchildren—and if it weren’t for Warren’s stepping in and swearing that the children wouldn’t set foot off their own property without supervision, Frances might have insisted on moving into the guest room to watch them herself. But Warren could be believed. As opposed to Leigh, who—to hear Frances tell it—regularly shoved her children outside in weather-inappropriate clothing and ordered them to catch viruses.

  Frances popped open the trunk of her car. Inside lay an unusual looking camera and tripod. “Bess would have given yo
u both cameras,” Frances explained, “but she went on and on about Ferdinand and some other tomcat she’s seen gearing up for a showdown… total nonsense, of course.”

  Leigh smiled. Her Aunt Bess lived on the edge of a woods that hosted a determinedly feral clan of cats, and Bess loved to spy on them with her favorite toys: a set of motion-activated night-vision cameras. Originally, Bess had planned to send a live feed to a website to raise money for the animal shelter, but since the cats only showed up once in a blue moon, she’d settled for entertaining herself and boring various relatives. “That was very selfless of her,” Leigh praised. “Where did she go, again?”

  Frances’s orange-painted lips turned into a disapproving scowl. “To Myrtle Beach. With a man she barely knows.”

  “You mean Craig? The widower she met at the benefit? He seemed like a real sweetheart.”

  Frances’s scowl deepened. “He’s ten years younger than she is,” she huffed. “And Bess has never even met his family!”

  Leigh tried hard not to grin. “Well, she is in her sixties. And she has been married three times already.”

  “All the more proof,” Frances proclaimed, “that her judgment concerning the opposite sex is sadly lacking. Now, do you know how to work this thing?”

  Leigh lifted the equipment out of the trunk and settled it on her hip. “Sort of. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

  “Do that,” Frances ordered, slamming her trunk lid closed. “You should hide the camera itself, then put up signs all around your property, informing potential intruders that it will be under constant surveillance. You need any help with that?”

  “Um, no,” Leigh said quickly. “But thanks for offering.”

  “One other thing,” Frances said gravely. “Bess insisted on my giving you this.” She dug a small white envelope out of her handbag and handed it over.

  Leigh looked at it with raised eyebrows. The flap of the envelope was sealed with actual wax, in which Bess had scratched all her initials, including her middle, maiden, and three married surnames: BMMGRC.

  Frances’ eyes rolled. “Such nonsense over secrecy! Really, my sister can be the most irritating person sometimes.”

  Leigh tucked the envelope into a back pocket.

  Frances’s jaws clenched. “Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

  “I will later,” Leigh replied. “Thanks for the camera. If Bess calls, tell her I promise to use it.”

  “If Bess calls while shacking up with yet another unsuitable man,” Frances muttered, moving to get into the driver’s seat of her car, “I’ll have a few other things to say to her. Of all the…”

  Leigh waved and set off down the sidewalk. As soon as her mother was out of sight, she put down the equipment, pulled out the card, and opened the envelope.

  Sorry, kiddo, her aunt had written in beautiful, flowery cursive. I’ve got nothing to say. Just wanted to mess with Francie. Ha! Take care.

  Leigh laughed out loud and picked the camera equipment back up off the pavement.

  Whatever stress her family gave her, thank goodness it could also take away.

  ***

  The sun was still high in the sky, presiding over an inappropriately gorgeous and carefree-seeming autumn day, when Leigh returned to the scene of… whatever it was that had happened to Lester. But this time, she was not alone. She was not even close to alone.

  “Where do you want this?” Warren asked as he walked by her side, toting Bess’s camera and tripod.

  Leigh considered. “At the edge of the Brown’s property, I think. Hidden in their woods and aiming toward Archie’s tool shed. I’ll ask Emma about it later—I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  “I can help you set it up, Dad,” Ethan offered. “Aunt Bess showed me how to do it—I’ve helped her move it around a bunch of times already.”

  “Maybe we’ll catch somebody digging!” said Lenna with enthusiasm, even as her blue eyes radiated apprehension.

  Leigh squelched a sigh. She doubted that Cara’s shrinking violet of a daughter wanted to be anywhere near a known site of criminal mayhem—past, present, or future. But Leigh had wanted to show Lydie the layout of Frog Hill Farm, Warren had insisted on accompanying the women, and Allison and Mathias had vociferously demanded the right to help look for the missing mother dog and pups. Good-natured Ethan had offered to stay at the house with Lenna if she didn’t want to go, but the girl’s ego had ultimately chided her into denying her fear, resulting in a parade of three adults, four children, a camera, and a metal detector that was certain to provide prime fodder for Adith Rhodis’ afternoon binocular viewing.

  The metal detector had been an unexpected add-on. “What exactly do you plan to do with that thing, Mathias?” Leigh inquired. The device had been a Christmas present from his parents, and she had seen him toying around with it pretty regularly back in the spring, during which he had found a handful of coins, one old pocket watch, and a whole lot of trash. His suddenly renewed interest in the device disconcerted her.

  The boy shrugged. “Oh, you never know.”

  His blue-green eyes, so like his mother’s, slid over surreptitiously to meet Allison’s brown ones. The two children exchanged an unmistakable look of conspiracy.

  Leigh’s blood pressure kicked up a notch. “Warren,” she said quietly. “Keep an eye on them, would you?”

  Her husband’s eyes caught hers with equal understanding. “Will do.”

  “No one is going down in the cellar besides Aunt Lydie and me,” Leigh reiterated to the Pack. “You guys stay close to your dad-slash-uncle and don’t get out of sight, even for a second. Got it?”

  The children nodded impatiently, then moved a few feet away into a private huddle. Leigh noted that Allison carried a pen and note pad.

  “I said I’ll watch them,” Warren repeated, placing a soothing hand on her taut shoulder. “You and Lydie go see what you need to see so we can all get the heck out of here.”

  Leigh nodded in agreement. She turned to Lydie, only to discover that her aunt had already taken off without her in the direction of the farmhouse. Leigh caught up to find her aunt circling the house’s foundation, consumed with obvious interest.

  “It’s constructed very much like Cara’s,” Lydie proclaimed as she moved. “Stone foundation, wood frame structure. Cara’s was built in 1907, and I’d guess the same for this one, give or take a few years. The Carrs would have built it themselves, then?”

  Leigh searched her memory banks for the details of her conversation with Harvey. “I think so. In nineteen-O-something.”

  Lydie nodded. “The barn would have been built around the same time.” She moved to the far side of the house and threw a dismissive look at the garage. “Recent,” she proclaimed. “As for the barn—”

  “Something going on here?” Boomed a voice from behind them.

  Leigh whirled to see Joe O’Malley hastening down Archie’s driveway toward them, his son Scotty trotting at his side. Scotty was grinning from ear to ear. His father was not. Dressed in his usual wardrobe of faded workpants and a wifebeater, Joe was unshaven and scowling.

  He was also carrying his trusty shotgun.

  If Leigh didn’t know the man better, she might have run screaming into the hills. But since sighting Joe O’Malley without a gun was only slightly more common than sighting him with one, she did not take his armed state as signifying any mood out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, she cast a glance over her shoulder toward the children, and was gratified to see that they were both close to Warren and well out of the way.

  “No,” Leigh answered pleasantly. “We’ve just come to see if the mother dog has returned. All of the commotion this morning seems to have frightened her away.”

  “Just as well,” Joe grunted. “Don’t need no rabid dogs around here. Got enough problems in this accursed neighborhood.”

  “Accursed?” Leigh inquired. Joe didn’t ask to be introduced to her aunt, and she didn’t offer.

  Joe’s scowl deepened. “Hell, yeah.
Lived here ten years now, been putting up with this damned nonsense the whole time. Archie’s taking off is just one more thing. Guy I bought my place from told me this here farm was haunted, and I thought he was a loon. But there’s something messed up going on out here, that’s for damned sure. Noises, lights—”

  “They’re orbs, Daddy!” Scotty piped up excitedly.

  Joe’s eyes flickered over his son with a mixture of skepticism and pride. “My boy says he sees things. And my boy ain’t a liar.”

  Scotty looked toward the area downstream where the Pack were, and his eyes took on a sudden sparkle. “Hey! Allison’s here!”

  He took off at a run.

  Leigh squelched a strong urge to snatch the child by the collar and hogtie him to the porch railing.

  “My wife saw cops crawling all over this place this morning,” Joe continued, his voice turning more sober as his son moved out of earshot. “She called over to the Brown’s, and Nora told her Lester had passed out while he was over at Archie’s, and that you found him. That true?”

  Leigh nodded. She cast a glance over Joe’s shoulder toward the O’Malley’s, and noted that although trees blocked a direct view from house to house, his wife no doubt would have seen police cars coming and going on the drive and the officers walking about on the grounds.

  “Then why all the cops?” he questioned.

  “It wasn’t clear at first what happened to Lester,” Leigh explained carefully. “So when I called for an ambulance, they sent the police out. It’s routine.”

  Joe’s gray eyes searched hers for a moment. He grunted. “That’s what they always say. ‘Routine.’ Nothing routine about a man taking off and leaving his dog and everything he owns, that’s what I say. Something’s going on out here. And I don’t like it.”

  Leigh spied some rare common ground. “Neither do I,” she agreed.

  “I believe the boy sees lights out here,” Joe said slowly. “But I don’t believe in no ghosts. That’s what they want you to think. They want you to tell people you see floating lights and spooky Civil War figures creeping around, just so no one will believe you—so they’ll think you’re the crazy one. They’re clever that way. But I got their number.”