“Moonbeam and me want to thank you'uns for being here and sharing our happiness. Now we want all of you'uns to make up a car parade and follow our wagon to General Pickett's All-U-Can-Eat Buffet Restaurant.”

A roar of approval rose from the assemblage. Grace whispered in my ear, “ ‘All you can eat’ is the magic phrase here in south-central Pennsylvania.”

“So I've noticed,” I said. “I think I've gained five pounds since I've been here, just from breathing the air.”

Two lines of Union soldiers formed a tunnel of sword blades for the newlyweds to walk through, while the ecologically correct guests tossed breadcrumbs, instead of rice, at them. The last soldier in line swatted Moonbeam on the rear end with the flat side of his sword, and she giggled. Gloria followed closely behind the couple, and I pushed forward and tried to catch her attention. She noticed me and waved.

“Gloria, I need to talk to you,” I yelled.

“Later, Tori. I've got to get out of these seven layers of clothing before I melt,” and she was gone.

Maybell and Grace were swept away in the rush to the cars, while I walked in a dignified manner, very slowly, on blistered feet. Every guest but me had worn sensible flat shoes. But then they had probably known in advance it was going to be an outdoor wedding with limited seating. As soon as I got home, I vowed, the high heels were going in the garbage-not even the Salvation Army bag. I didn't want to be responsible for any other woman suffering similar agony.

By the time I'd managed to stagger to my car, the parking lot was nearly deserted. I dug vainly in my purse trying to find my car key, then spotted it where I'd left it-in the ignition switch, in the on position. I turned the key and said my usual little prayer, but this time the Automobile Goddess wasn't listening. P. J.’s car had come to the end of the road.

CHAPTER 21

“CAN I GIVE YOU A RIDE TO THE RESTAURANT?” Charlotte Macmillan leaned in the window on the passenger side and smiled at me. “Sounds like your battery is dead.”

“It's my own fault,” I said. “I left the key in the ignition, and it must have drained the battery.” I got out and kicked a front tire in frustration. The only thing that accomplished was to hurt my already sore toes.

“Ride with me, then,” Charlotte said.

“I'd better stay with the car. Will you please call Triple A from the restaurant?”

“I insist. You don't want to miss the bridal procession.”

“My car…”

“Hardly anyone comes here in the off-season,” she said. “It will be perfectly safe.”

Reluctantly, I followed her to her Mercedes SUV. She tossed me the keys. “I'm very tired. Will you drive, please?”

“I don't know how,” I said, staring helplessly at the Mercedes's complex dashboard.

“Nonsense. It's automatic transmission. Just turn the key. Take a right as you leave the parking lot.”

I pulled slowly onto the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tail end of the bridal procession. But it was nowhere to be seen. We drove for a long time on the deserted road.

“Turn right just up ahead.”

I did as she ordered, and drove past the park service visitor center and the Cyclorama building. “Turn right again, then make a left.” Charlotte 's voice was flat, as though she were very tired.

I turned into a long driveway lined with red, white, and blue banners. The sign said GETTYSBURG NATIONAL TOWER.

“The park service has been trying to get this torn down for years,” Charlotte said. “People say it ruins the skyline. Park over there.” She pointed to a weathered wood building.

“This doesn't look like General Pickett's Restaurant,” I said.

She pulled the keys from the ignition and dropped them into her purse before I had a chance to react in any way. “Let's go,” she said. I stared at her and saw her eyes, looking at me from behind her mask, were bloodshot. I felt distinctly uneasy.

Charlotte took my arm as if we were old friends, and we walked up to the brown building with a sign over the door that said SUTLER'S STORE in yellow letters. Inside, standing behind a central desk, was a young man who smiled at us as we walked in.

“Two tickets, please, Joey.”

“I'm real sorry, Mrs. Macmillan,” the man behind the window said, “but we're closed for repairs.”

“Oh, come on, Joey. We'll just be a few minutes. I want to show my friend the view of Gettysburg, and she won't be here tomorrow.”

He looked like he was about to change his mind.

“That's okay,” I said. “I really don't like heights anyway.”

The man laughed. “That's what they all say. Okay, Mrs. M., just because it's you, I'll let you go up-but don't tell my boss.” He handed her a couple of tokens.

Charlotte laughed girlishly. “Don't worry, Joey. No one will ever know. Come on, Tori.”

“I don't want-” Something jabbed me just above my waist.

Charlotte leaned close and whispered, “This isn't one of those toy guns they try to sell to women. This one can blow your head right off your shoulders.” For the benefit of the young man, she said loudly, “Let's take in the view, Tori.”

As the elevator rose three hundred feet through the metal struts of the tower, I closed my eyes, not sure whether I was more frightened of Charlotte 's gun or the dizzying ride. I've always thought if I were trapped in a high building by a fire, I'd be one of those people who'd die before climbing down a fireman's ladder.

A bump told me we had reached the top. “Out,” Charlotte ordered.

I opened one eye to a narrow slit, saw through a glass window how high we were, and clung to the grab bar inside the elevator. My knees were jelly, and I was close to collapsing. “Can't,” I whimpered.

“Big baby.” Charlotte pushed me in the back, propelling me onto the glassed-in observation platform. “Open your eyes, Tori. Both of them. If you're too chicken to look down, just look at me.”

When I opened my eyes, I saw the cannon-size gun she was pointed at me. I focused then on her masked face, and it seemed as though her eyes had grown larger and blacker.

Keep your eyes on her, Tori. Don't look over the edge. I fought back the panic that threatened to engulf me. I wanted to get her talking-to postpone the inevitable for as long as I could. Without looking away from her face, I asked, “Why are you doing this? I don't understand.”

Charlotte laughed. “Mack's cousin's daughter, Reba, answers the phone at Hoopengartner's Garage and police station. Nothing very exciting happens there, so when you called and asked her to relay some questions to Luscious having to do with Darious DeShong's death, she couldn't wait to tell someone. So she called me. Now what I want to know is, what gave me away?”

If I hadn't been sure before, I was now. “The sticky buns you brought him as an excuse for being there. Everyone around here bakes sticky buns but the ones in Darious's workshop were from the bakery in Gettysburg you always shop at. I saw the box and it was dated that day.” The date was one of the things I had wanted to ask Luscious about. “And the hank of hair Darious pulled from your head as he was dying. Tests have already proven it was yours.” The other question I had for Luscious-was the blond hair Darious clutched in his hand his own or someone else's?

Unconsciously, she raised one hand and touched the side of her mask. “There's no proof I even knew him.”

“But there is. I've seen two copies of a photograph of your husband in a Civil War general's uniform. And, having just seen a picture of General Meade's sword, I realized that the sword Mack wore in the picture was the missing sword from the Gettysburg collection. His ego couldn't resist the urge to be photographed with his stolen treasure, could it? Did he get a thrill out of having that picture on display in his office at the college and at home for everyone to see? Did he commission Darious to steal it, or did he simply pick and choose from whatever Darious brought him? How did a man like your husband get mixed up with a common thief like Darious in the first place?”