“Hello?” I said, looking around for the source of the voice.

What I'd first thought was a mannequin, sitting in a rocking chair, stood up. I gasped in surprise. “You really startled me,” I said. As the figure moved toward me, I was even more startled, for the man was at least six and a half feet tall and had to weigh close to three hundred pounds. He wore a blue Union Army uniform, and the lower half of his face and most of his chest were hidden by a bushy, sandy-colored beard. And most startling of all, an enormous rifle rested in the crook of his left arm.

“Sorry, miss. Didn't mean to scare you.” His stentorian voice was better suited for the Broadway stage than a dusty shop in Gettysburg.

“Are you the owner?” I groped in my memory for his name, “Wood… Uh… Woody…?” I couldn't recall his last name.

He unlocked the glass doors of a gun cabinet and placed the gun inside along with a dozen others, then locked the case, pocketed the key, and moved toward me with surprising grace for a man of his size. Nothing jiggled; his bulk was all muscle. “Woody Woodruff.” He smiled down at me, and his blue-green eyes sparkled as he extended a hand the size of a roasting chicken, which I shook. Woody Woodruff seemed to be trying to exude a sexy animal magnetism, and he was failing miserably.

“What an interesting shop,” I murmured to cover up my discomfort. Why I feel uncomfortable when a man, any man, pays attention to me, I just don't understand. In this case I was totally dumbfounded. Woody wasn't at all attractive. Especially in his silly blue costume.

“You don't look like most of the gals what come in here,” he said.

“And how do they look?”

“Long hair, rimless glasses, sandals, ethnic jewelry. Reenactors look kind of like hippies, only with a purpose in life. And they're usually younger.”

Younger! I was only a little past thirty, just enough to feel the first pangs of self-consciousness about my age. Soon I'd have to wear bathing suits with skirts and pad my bunions with moleskin, and people would call me ma'am, and life as I knew it would be over. I realized Woody was staring at me, as though waiting for me to comment on what he'd just said.

“Oh,” I said, demonstrating the agility with words that made me such a brilliant writer. I pulled my aging self back to the moment and, thinking it best not to tell him I was a reporter, said I was from the college and needed to ask a few questions about Mr. Macmillan's death. He led me to the back of the store where there were two rockers and gestured for me to sit in one.

“Want a soda?”

“Diet, please.” I opened my notebook while he disappeared through a pair of curtains. He was back in a minute with two ice-cold cans.

“I got a Coke machine in back,” he said, handing me a soda. “Didn't want to spoil the ambience by putting it in here.” He sat down and looked intently at me. “I been over this several times.” He raised the Coke can to his lips and drank. “I talked to that weird little police chief from Lickin Creek twice yesterday. He couldn't seem to think of what to ask me the first time, so he come back later with more questions.”

At first I thought he was referring to Garnet and was offended, but then I remembered Luscious Miller was now the acting police chief, and weird described him well. Luscious was a nice guy, but really out of his league in Garnet's job. I could picture him stumbling through an interview, going home and wishing he'd asked better questions, then coming back to stumble through another. Poor Luscious-I knew no one had wanted Garnet to stay in Lickin Creek more than he.

“But I'm not with the police, you see, so I have no access to their report.”

He still looked doubtful.

“We-I mean the college-want to keep this as quiet as possible and find out what happened.”

“What happened”-he grinned-“is that Mack Macmillan bit the bullet-fifteen of them to be exact.” He swigged down the last of his soda and belched.

I restrained from shuddering at his rude behavior and said, “I know that, Woody. But how? You loaded the guns the night before, didn't you…?”

“Yeah-but not with lead. Just black powder and foam Wonder Wads to hold it in place.” He glared at me as if daring me to contradict him.

“Were you alone at the time?” I knew he hadn't been but wanted to hear his version.

“There was four other people in that room with me. That PR gal from the college let us in and stayed with us like she was scared we'd steal some of her precious paper clips.”

“That was Janet Margolies,” I told him.

“Yeah-Janet-the pregnant one. And her helper-gal. Then there was Darious-he loaded half the guns- with the ammunition I brought with me.”

“His last name?”

“DeShong.” He spelled it, and I wrote it down. That was the man for whom I had only a post office box.

“Have you known him for long?”

“Met him last summer. We done maybe a half-dozen reenactments together. Fairly dependable. Usually shows up like he says he will. That's why I asked him to help out.”

“Why were you in charge, Woody?”

“I'm the commanding officer of the company what was invited to stage the execution. Executions is our specialty. As CO, loading the guns is my job. Looky here, miss, I take my responsibilities serious. My reputation can be ruined by this. I might never get asked to do another execution.”

“The college doesn't blame you at all, Woody,” I said, trying to soothe him.

“I wanna find out what went wrong-maybe more than anybody.”

I looked at my notebook and thought for a moment about what to ask next. Lizzie had told me Woody had taken the box of ammo out of his vest pocket. “Woody, when you took the guns to the college, did you take the exact number of cartridges you'd need? Or were there some left over?”

“There was lots left over. I only make them up about twice a year.”

“Could I see the box, please.”

“Sure.” He crossed the room with three giant steps, opened a drawer in a rolltop desk, and pulled out a box. “Here's what we didn't use.” He handed me one.

To me, it looked like a dirty twist of paper with an earplug glued on top.

“What does the foam thingy do?” I asked.

“It holds the powder in place. In the old days, soldiers would fill a piece of paper with black powder, then put a ball on top. The ball was what did the killing. See-here's a real one. It don't even look like the ones I made. Nobody could mistake mine for the real thing. I load them myself, and I ain't never had no accident.”

“How do I know this was the box you had in the storeroom?” I asked.

His mouth smiled, but not his eyes. “You're tough, Tori. Lucky for me I don't fool around when it comes to guns and ammo. Take a look-see at the box top. I had everybody there initial it.”

I took the box from his outstretched hand, ignoring the way he let his fingers linger on mine. “W. W.- that's you, I suppose?”

He nodded.

“J. M. is Janet Margolies, I assume. L. B.-that's Lizzie Borden.”

“Hell of a name. And D. D. is Darious DeShong.”

“Who was this E. M.?”

“That was Mack. His real name was Edward Mac-millan. He liked to be called Mack because it made him sound like one of the boys.”

“Who actually loaded the guns?”

Woody shook his head. “Darious and me. Want another Diet?”

“No thanks. Can you recall anything unusual happening?”

He shook his head again. “After we was done, we left the room. Janet locked the door behind us. Darious and me got in my truck, and I drove him home. That's all.”

“Are you sure it was locked?”

“I tried it myself. Them guns is my responsibility.”

“Was there any other way in? A window, maybe?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. It was just a big closet. One door. No windows.”

It was like a John Dickson Carr locked-room mystery. Door locked. Two keys, both in Janet Margolies's possession. No evidence of the lock being picked. No other entrance to the storeroom. How on earth could the switch have occurred? “What about on Saturday when you went to get the weapons? Did anything look different?”