CHAPTER 9

AS I WROTE THE ARTICLE ABOUT MACK MACmillan's death, I thought how anticlimactic it was to write a news article like this for a weekly newspaper. By the time the paper came out on Saturday, the Lickin Creek Grapevine would have spread every detail. I was still surprised at how little interest there had been in his death. A gaggle of TV reporters and wire service people had showed up for a day and a half, then moved on. As far as most of the world was concerned, it was as if he'd never existed. I finished the story with a line saying the coroner had ruled it an “accidental death.”

“Why do you suppose there hasn't been more fuss made about Macmillan?” I asked Cassie as I handed her the finished product. “I know he retired from Congress a while ago, but still…”

She shrugged. “It's probably because he wasn't really considered local. Mack lived in Gettysburg, and as far as Lickin Creekers are concerned, Gettysburg might just as well be on the other side of the world, not the other side of the mountain.”

“I didn't know he lived in Gettysburg. Guess I assumed he lived here, since he and his wife were so involved with the college.”

“They have a horse farm on the edge of the battlefield, called Shoestring Hill Farm. A name in keeping with the good-old-boy image Macmillan liked to project.” She added, “You look tired, Tori, Can you go home and take a nap? You should rest up for your surgery tomorrow.”

“It's not surgery, Cassie. It's just a minor procedure. And no, I can't take a nap. I have to run over to the college and ask some more questions.”

Jennifer was at her usual post in the hall of the administration building, but her face told me something was wrong. “I'm leaving,” she said. “They expect me to do the work of three people for half pay.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Don't be. I'm now a free woman!”

Jennifer's last official duty was to direct me to Professor Nakamura's office, which was on the second floor of the building. I chose to climb the circular staircase rather than use the elevator. That was an error, I soon decided. The staircase swayed, and although I only had to climb one flight, it was a long way up. Halfway, at the landing, I made the mistake of looking down through the center of the staircase, past the iron bars that braced it, and as I realized how far down it was to the marble floor of the lobby, my acrophobia was triggered. I grabbed hold of the railing, which shook, adding to my panic. I leaned my shoulder against the solid outside wall and practically flew the rest of the way up the stairs. On the firm safety of the second floor, I vowed to use only the elevator from now on.

Although a light fixture hung from the ceiling, it was not turned on, and the hallway was very dark. Professor Nakamura's office was at the end of it. I rapped on the door, and a female voice told me to enter.

I was in a small interior reception room, which was crowded by a desk and two visitors’ chairs. The woman sitting at the desk introduced herself as Professor Nakamura's secretary.

“I need to speak to him,” I told her. “President Godlove has asked me to look into Mr. Macmillan's death.”

A small smile crossed her face. “I imagine he's also told you to lay the blame anywhere but on the college.”

“Not in so many words. Is the professor in?”

She shook her head. “He doesn't have classes on Thursdays, so he takes the whole day off.”

“Can you give me his phone number? I can talk to him at home.”

“Not today. He's out of town.”

“Conference?”

“No, he's either hugging trees or saving deer. I'm not sure which cause it is today.” She shook her head. “The old fool thinks he should be right out there with the kids. Keeps telling me ‘you're only as old as you feel.’ ” Although her words were edged with sarcasm, the tone of her voice and the concern on her face showed me she was genuinely fond of him.

“I've heard Professor Nakamura turned in his resignation when Macmillan became chairman of the board. Do you have any idea why?”

“If I did, I wouldn't tell you.”

I respected her loyalty. “I'll try again tomorrow,” I said. “By the way, do you know a woman named Moonbeam Nakamura in Gettysburg?”

Her smile faded. “The kook? Of course I know her.

She's Ken's daughter-in-law. Or I guess I should say ex-daughter-in-law.”

“Bad feelings there?”

“Heavens no. He thinks she's fabulous.”

This time I took the elevator down to the hall, where the receptionist's desk was deserted.

If I couldn't question the professor himself, perhaps I could learn something from his ex-daughter-in-law, Moonbeam Nakamura, the holistic healer of Gettysburg. I needed to drive over there anyway and look into the story Luscious had told me about antiques being stolen from the battlefield. Since he'd suggested there might be a tie-in with the robbery at the fire department, I thought it important to follow through. I could take care of two tasks in one trip.

In Gettysburg, I headed south on Baltimore Street, passing the Memorial Church of the Prince of Peace-a dark gray stone edifice with a red door and a round bell tower-many small two-story houses, some with shops on the ground floor levels, and the historic Dobbin House Tavern. The skyline was dominated by a huge gray tower topped by an alien spacecraft, which seemed to grow taller as I got closer. When I came to a confusing intersection where tourist Gettysburg collided head-on with history, I had no idea which road to take, but I've always heard when in doubt, go right. So that's what I did, and drove past several art galleries, a lot of T-shirt and souvenir shops, the National Civil War Wax Museum, and the Lincoln Train Museum.

At last, I saw a sign directing me to the National Park Service Visitor Center. I turned in, just missed being rear-ended by a house on wheels, and parked behind the building next to a huge overflowing trash container. The tower I'd seen driving in, loomed over the battlefield, dwarfing both the visitor center and the

Cyclorama building. I could see an elevator going up inside it, and figured it had to be a tourist attraction, albeit a strange-looking one.

Because the tourist season was over, the visitor center wasn't crowded at all. I glanced into the gift shop and was tempted by the large display of books, but my nonexistent bank account wouldn't allow me to go in. Standing behind a long counter were several park rangers in khaki uniforms, but they all looked busy, so I decided to look at the exhibits. On the main floor were lots of guns, which I didn't find particularly interesting. Downstairs, I found some more interesting displays. In light of what Luscious had told me about General Meade's sword having been stolen from the building, I carefully examined the display cases. They didn't look particularly secure. Most had glass fronts, held in place by exposed screws. Even the doors to the cases appeared to have locks that could easily be picked. There seemed to be quite a few exit doors for a burglar to escape through, but I did notice they all were wired to sound an alarm if opened.

Back upstairs, I approached a ranger, who looked up from the map spread on the counter before her and smiled a greeting. I whipped out my notebook, told her I was a reporter from the Lickin Creek Chronicle, and said I was working on a story about the theft of General Meade's sword.

The professional smile was still there, but a shadow came down over the rest of her face. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said.

Suddenly, my arms were seized from behind. I screamed, and several tourists turned to stare at me, then ran from the building. Obviously, they'd taken me for a terrorist.