On the wall opposite the bookshelves hung a copy of the same sepia photograph I'd seen at the college, depicting Macmillan dressed as a Union Army general, with one hand resting on a table and the other on the hilt of his sword. Below the photo, a row of glass cases stretched from one wall to the other. The items on display were similar to what I'd seen at the visitor center at the Gettysburg National Park. Just about anything from the Civil War era was represented, from old canteens to lead bullets. One case was full of daguerreotypes. Another held musical instruments: drums, bugles, even harmonicas.

So involved was I with looking at the antiques that I jumped when Charlotte appeared by my side and said, “I'm glad to see you survived last night's ordeal.”

“Did you watch it on TV?”

She shook her head. “I've been out of town for a few days, visiting a friend's horse farm in North Carolina. Lela, my housekeeper, told me about it when I returned this morning. It must have been a terrifying experience.” She gestured graciously at the couch and urged me to have a seat. Almost immediately, Lela appeared with a tea tray. Charlotte filled two bone china teacups and asked me if I preferred milk or lemon.

“Milk, please. And two sugars.”

With tiny silver sugar tongs, she dropped two cubes of sugar into one cup and passed it to me. It was a gracious ritual I had often watched my mother perform for her guests at the embassy. Charlotte sat back and looked at me over the brim of her cup. I wished I could see through the mask, for just a minute, to read on her face what must be running through her mind.

The telephone rang and flashed before we had a chance to talk. Charlotte excused herself and crossed over to the partners desk. After a few words about the sudden change in weather and assurances that she was just fine, she said, “I'm sorry. The stable will be closed Saturday. I'm going to a wedding.”

When she returned to her seat, I asked, “That light on the phone. I presume that was for your husband?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I heard he was deaf-I mean hearing impaired. How could he take phone calls when he couldn't hear?”

“There's a special operator who types the message as it's relayed to her. After it came up on the screen, Mack would type his response.”

“Did you learn sign language to communicate with him?”

Charlotte laughed. “Tori, signing was my first language. My mother was hearing impaired, deaf as the proverbial post if you prefer. As an adult, when I wasn't working with horses, I taught signing. That's where I met my husband. He had lost his hearing suddenly from a viral infection, and he signed up for my class. We fell in love and were married shortly after. I interpreted for him in Congress until he retired. Still do, I mean I still did-”

“I can see how he depended on you, but how did he manage when you weren't around? I met him for the first time at the college and you weren't with him then.”

“Mack could read lips if people spoke slowly and looked directly at him. And he often did things alone. I couldn't follow him around twenty-four hours a day.”

“That explains why he thought my name was Dorie when we were introduced.”

She nodded. “Right.” Her eyes narrowed. “I'm delighted to see you, Tori, but I'm wondering why you're here.”

My shaking hand sloshed tea into the saucer. I put the cup on the table in front of me and swallowed hard. “I have something to tell you about your husband's death.”

“Yes?”

Damn that mask. I couldn't tell what her reaction was. “I have good reason to believe his death was not an accident.”

“Do you mean you think Woody Woodruff murdered him?” Her voice was flat and unemotional, but I could imagine the turmoil going through her mind.

I shook my head. “No. I think your husband died by his own hand.”

“I don't think I understand what you're getting at.”

This was going to be difficult. I took a sip of my now-lukewarmtea. “Your husband committed suicide, Mrs. Macmillan.”

“That's preposterous! How can you sit here in my living room and say such a dreadful thing?” I expected her to leap to her feet, call her housekeeper, and have me bodily thrown from the house, but instead she stayed in her chair and glared at me through her mask. “Tell me what gave you this crazy idea.”

“I heard he took it very hard when he was told he had cancer.”

“How do you know that?”

“I'm not free to say.”

“Dr. Washabaugh's nurse, Vesta Pennsinger, told you, didn't she? That woman ought to mind her own damn business.”

“I agree with you on that.”

“Let me get this straight, Tori. You are telling me that my husband planned his own death because he was dying of cancer?”

“I also learned that this farm was up for sale until shortly after his death, when you took it off the market.”

“That's true. Mack and I had decided to move to Florida for his arthritis. After he died, there was no need to move, so I-”

“It wasn't up for sale because you wanted to move. It was for sale because Mack made a lot of stupid investments using the equity he had in the farm for collateral. He had no choice but to sell it to pay off his creditors.” Charlotte burst into tears, stopping my discourse.

“I'm right, aren't I?”

“Is this general knowledge?” she asked between sniffles.

I nodded. “I'm afraid so. You know how the Grapevine works.”

“So what does anything you've said have to do with Mack's death?”

“I think what happened was your husband wanted to commit suicide instead of dying slowly and painfully from cancer. But he knew you'd be saddled with his debts if he did, so he looked for a way to make his death look accidental. The mock execution came up at just the right time.”

“But a firing squad? No one would want to die in front of a firing squad.”

“He would if he were a Civil War buff like your husband. When he learned of the execution plans, it must have seemed like the perfect opportunity to stage his own ‘accidental’ death. As I see it, he first browbeat Janet Margolies into letting him play the victim, even though he was much too old for the part. He made sure he was present when the guns were loaded. He switched keys with Janet while she was in the rest room. And later that night, he returned and replaced the foam blanks with lead bullets from his collection.”

“You have no way of really knowing he did this… this dreadful thing to himself.”

“But I do, Charlotte. In your husband's desk at the college, I found proof that he was the one who loaded the guns with live ammunition. In his top desk drawer, I found the ammunition he took from the guns and also the missing storeroom key. He'd probably planned to switch the keys back again but never found an opportunity to do so.”

Charlotte wiped her eyes, and I saw that the mask she wore was dark with tears. I hated myself for what I was going to say next.

“ Charlotte, I think you knew what he was planning to do. That's why you were out of town that weekend, wasn't it.”

“No… no… no,” she moaned.

“If you did know, then you'll be charged as an accessory.” I wasn't sure what the crime was, but I think there must be one to cover insurance frauds. “I'm turning the Wonder Wads and the key over to the police. They'll be sure to ask questions. I hope you can answer them.”

Charlotte stood, looming over me. I suddenly realized how muscular she looked, how strong she probably was from tending to her horses. She stood there a minute as if undecided about what to do, then sighed and said, “I have his suicide note, Tori. I'll get it for you.”

She pressed a hidden button on the bookcase wall and one section of shelves opened like a door to reveal a six-foot-high safe door. She spun the combination lock several times and pushed down on the lever, and the door swung outward with a groan. I got up with the intention of peeking into the safe, but she blocked the entrance. “Nobody goes in here but me,” she said, her voice as cold and brittle as ice cubes.