The Riesling Retribution

Chapter 23

The dark, swollen clouds that guaranteed heavy rains later in the day lowered the sky as though a dome enclosed the camp and the battlefield. The setting took on the surreal atmosphere of a movie soundstage. With the battle only hours away, anticipation of what was to come rippled through the place with a feverish energy that seemed contagious.

Frankie and the waitresses from the Goose Creek Inn joined Gina and me by the sutlers’ tents just after eleven. With the camps closing to the public in an hour, we decided to walk over and watch the last-minute preparations. We split up after crossing the bridge since Cheryl and Sandy, the waitresses, had boyfriends in the Union camp.

“Poor guys. They both get bumped off as soon as the fighting starts,” Frankie said. “The girls wanted to cheer them up since they’re going to lose so badly. Plus they wanted to decide on a restaurant for dinner tonight.”

“I wonder how they figure out who’s going to die,” Gina said. “It’s kind of creepy.”

“Actually, it’s kind of random,” Frankie said. “Cheryl said they either hand out cards that tell you what to do or the men count off and everyone with a certain number is supposed to fall down like he’s been killed or wounded.”

“Unless you’re somebody important,” I said. “Then they follow what happened in the real battle. B.J. and Ray Vitale, the Union commander, have been working on their plans for weeks.”

“I know it’s only acting,” Gina said, “but right now it feels sort of real.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Frankie said. “Which is strange because you know it’s not.”

At the Confederate camp, a somber mood of preparation had replaced yesterday’s easy camaraderie. All around us soldiers tended to guns or lined up in formation to receive final orders from their commanding officers. We heard gunfire from beyond a stand of trees on the far side of the campground. Gina jumped.

“Have they started already?” Frankie asked. “How come they’re shooting?”

“Relax. Those are probably the safety checks,” I said, as a drum took up a steady martial cadence. “To make sure no one’s got live ammunition.”

“I don’t feel good,” Gina said. “I think this war stuff is getting to me.”

A gray-haired woman dressed like a Halloween witch came out of a large tent as Gina laid her hand on her forehead.

“Is she all right?” The woman pulled a vial out of the folds of black fabric and waved it under Gina’s nose. “Smelling salts, dearie. They should help.”

Gina jerked her head back as I caught a whiff of ammonia. “Who are you?”

“Phyllis Katz.” The woman smiled. “But around here everyone calls me the Black Widow. Come, there are chairs inside my tent and it’s starting to rain. You need to sit down until you get some color back.”

I saw the astonished look on Gina’s face as the Widow had slipped her arm around her waist.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t bite.”

She and Gina disappeared through the tent flap.

“Is she for real?” Frankie asked. “Come into my parlor?”

“B.J. told me about her yesterday,” I said. “Apparently she’s got an educational display of—”

“Coffins,” Frankie said, as we stepped inside. “She collects coffins.”

Rows of them flanked by dressmaker forms draped with mourning attire filled every corner of the tent. Shelves and display cabinets held letters, dishes, crystal vials, and more death mementos than I had ever seen in 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.

“You did it?” I stared at Sumner. “You killed him?”

“Don’t—” Annabel’s face was still tormented.

“Why?” I persisted. “To protect her?”

But the dam was broken, the damage done. He practically spat the words at me.

“I have nothing to say to you except that your letters don’t prove a goddamn thing. We’re leaving.”

“Don’t we have to—” Annabel started to cry.

“That’s enough! You’ve said enough.” Sumner took her by the arm—for once, not so lovingly—and they left. I held on to one of the tent stays as though the wind had been knocked out of me.

The letters were a bluff and Sumner was right: I still had no proof of anything. Not even the brand-new revelation that he’d killed Beau—hadn’t he?

It made sense, if that’s what happened. All this time Annabel had been protecting Sumner, not herself. She’d almost gotten away with it until Sumner found out about her betrayal, or what I’d tricked her into admitting. Sumner hadn’t known—until right now—that his wife was still in love with Leland. That she’d gone back to my father after he killed Beau for her. Sumner had been in love with Annabel, but she couldn’t get my father out of her mind, couldn’t let go of him.

What I didn’t know was what happened after that. Who buried Beau? Sumner? Sumner and Leland? Did my father even know about the grave? I probably would never know the answers to any of these questions. The Chastains would admit nothing; they would slam the door to the fortress of Chastain Construction, with its phalanx of lawyers and media spinners who would shield them behind an impenetrable wall.

The truth would be the truth they fabricated. End of story.

I was still holding on to the tent stay when Kit Eastman called my name. We had not spoken since that awful day in her office. She walked toward me carrying a green-and-yellow plaid umbrella.

“You all right?” she asked. “What are you doing standing out here in the rain? You look terrible.”

“I’m okay.”

“Sure you are.” She held her umbrella over my head. “Want to talk about it?”

“Some other time.”

We started walking.

“The reenactment’s that way,” she said. “This is the wrong direction.”

“I thought maybe I’d skip it,” I said. “You go on ahead.”

She gave me a curious look. “I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re not skipping anything.”

She hooked her arm through mine as the rain changed to the steady downpour we’d been expecting all day.

“Shake a leg, will you?” she said. “I don’t want to miss the battle.”

She was the only one who could crack jokes about my infirmity. It was our way of dealing with the accident—the “afterlife,” as I called it, where my world had been turned upside down, but hers remained the same. She’d carried around a weird kind of survivor’s guilt for a long time because she was supposed to be in the car that night, too, until her date fell through. But we’d finally worked through it and it hadn’t destroyed our friendship. The rift of the past few weeks wouldn’t break us apart, either.

“How’ve you been?” she asked.

“I’ve been better.”

“I know it’s been rough for you.” She draped an arm around my shoulder. “We could always share a bottle of wine down at the old Goose Creek Bridge one of these days. Talk about every little thing. Bury the hatchet. Stuff like that.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “I’d especially like to bury the hatchet.”

“About your father,” she said. “I’m sorry, Luce. You know I never meant to hurt you. Never would deliberately hurt you—”

“Leland didn’t kill Beau Kinkaid, Kit. I know that for a fact.”

She stopped walking and turned to face me. “What are you talking about?”

“I know he didn’t do it. But I can’t prove who did.”

“You want to tell me?”

I shook my head. “Not right now.”

I heard B.J.’s voice over the loudspeaker warming up the crowd and announcing that the battle was about to begin.

“Let’s go,” I said. “It’s starting.”

If there was any doubt that the spectators were rooting for the South, the cheering that erupted when the Confederate soldiers came into view made it clear who the good guys were. I saw Frankie and Gina making their way toward us and waved to them.

B.J.’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “As we all know, the Battle of Ball’s Bluff was the result of faulty intelligence and misguided decisions. It began with the Union falsely believing the Confederates had pulled out of Leesburg and an unfortunate decision by a rookie scouting party of Federals who thought a grove of trees in the moonlight was an abandoned Confederate camp.”

The first battlefield skirmish between a small group of Confederates and Union troops reminded me of rival groups of kids on a playground, daring each other to come closer. Then one of the commanders roared, “Fire,” and the shooting began in earnest. At first it seemed orderly as rows of soldiers fired their guns, then knelt to reload while the rank behind them took their turn.

“My God, look at them,” Frankie said. “They’re just walking toward each other with their guns pointed. They have to know the ones in the front row are going to be mowed down.”

“I thought they were arriving in boats.” Frankie waved her hand in front of her face like she was fanning herself. “Can you smell that gunpowder?”

“They came by boat in the real battle, but B.J. said they’re only going to use the canoes in the last event where Senator Baker arrives and gets killed,” I said.

By now the rows of soldiers had disintegrated and the gunfire became a barrage. Smoke clouded the field in a rainy haze like we were watching something out of a dream.

“How can they see anything through that smoke?” Kit said.

“Unfortunately for the Confederates,” B.J. hollered above the din, “the brave boys of the Eighteenth Mississippi charged into an open area where two wings of Federals waited for them in the woods.”

As he spoke, a group of Confederate soldiers wheeled toward a group of Union soldiers. Gunfire erupted from the woods, along with a cannon blast. More smoke filled the battlefield and above the uproar came the primitive, inhuman sound of the rebel yell.

I heard B.J.’s voice over the loudspeaker again, but this time it was impossible to make out what he was saying.

“What’s going on?” Gina asked.

I pointed to the creek. “I think he’s saying Baker just arrived. See the guy in the red sash?”

A group of Union soldiers pulled a canoe up the creek bank as Ray Vitale, playing the role of Edward Baker, climbed out and made his way to the battlefield.

In the distance, I saw the silver flash of his sword as Vitale raised his arm above his head, gesturing for his troops to advance. There was an explosion of shots, followed by another cannon blast. Vitale dropped his sword and clutched his chest as he fell to the ground. Men in gray and blue uniforms ran toward him as the gunfire continued.

“My God,” Frankie said, “it’s so authentic. My heart’s pounding”

Kit shaded her eyes against the rain and squinted at the battlefield. “Something’s going on.”

“Hold your fire!” B.J. shouted. “Hold your fire!”

We heard more shouting and the pop of sporadic gunfire as the dense smoke now enveloped the battlefield like a shroud.

“Is this how it really happened?” Frankie asked. “Everybody running like that?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

B.J. spoke again. This time his voice sounded anguished and urgent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s been an incident on the battlefield. We will not be continuing with our planned activities.”

“What happened?” Frankie asked. “What is he talking about?”

“I’m not sure, but I have a feeling someone just shot Ray Vitale,” I said. “With real ammunition.”