“I keep everything,” she said. “Janet and I call it the COA approach to public relations and marketing- that's short for Cover Our Ass, in case you couldn't guess-we even save the doodles we make while talking on the telephone.” She handed me a notebook and a pen. “You know what you're looking for, I guess. You can use Janet's desk if you like. I'll get to work on the ads for the night classes. Holler if you have any questions.”

I carried the file into the outer office and went through the papers, one by one, making a notation in my notebook whenever I came across the name of someone I might want to interview. Naturally, the men who'd loaded the guns were first on my list.

CHAPTER 4

“UNLESS YOU NEED ME FOR SOMETHING, I ’D LIKE TO leave,” Lizzie announced. “My husband probably thinks I've been kidnapped.”

“I only need a few more minutes,” I said. “Is it all right if I stay here alone?”

“Suit yourself. I imagine everybody's gone home by now, but you can get out through the front door by just pushing on it.”

With her departure, I was left alone in the attic. The building was so still, I realized I was probably the only person there. After a short while, I gave up and tossed the folder into the top desk drawer. Perhaps it was Lizzie's silly story about ghosts on campus, perhaps it was knowing I was alone, but I found myself jumping with each creak and moan of the old building.

As I was pulling the brass grille of the elevator closed, I thought I heard a sound coming from the direction of the PR office. I stopped and listened but heard nothing. “Anybody there?” I called. There was no answer. Then I heard it again, a creaking noise that sounded as if someone was stealthily opening or closing a door. Thoughts of ghosts ran through my mind. But even more frightening was the thought that a real person might be sneaking up on me in the dark hallway. I jammed my finger against the down button and breathed a sigh of relief as the ancient elevator jerked and began to move. As it slowly bounced downward, I prayed it wouldn't get stuck. All I needed was to be locked in the building all weekend with a ghost or something worse.

Outside, I stood on the porch for a few moments, thinking about what I should do next. The yellow police tape was still up, but the mock grave had been filled in and was covered with grassy sod. The investigation, if any, had moved to another level. If Garnet were still the chief of police, I'd be able to ask him what was being done, and after he grumbled a little he'd tell me. But he was gone, and I was on my own.

Now what? I wondered. I certainly didn't want to go home and continue last night's mind-numbing discussion with Ethelind about figures of speech in King Lear. What I could do was get started on my interviews, I thought. I opened the notebook and studied the list of names. There were two reenactors who'd loaded the guns, and I needed to talk to both of them. For one, I had only the number of a post office box in a nearby village, for the other, the address of a shop in Gettysburg. Unlike Lickin Creek's, most Gettysburg shops were open on Sundays. I could zip across the mountain and be in Gettysburg in fifteen or twenty minutes. At least I'd be doing something constructive with my time.

The “company car,” a white Chevy Cavalier from the vintage year of 1985, stood alone on the far edge of the deserted parking lot. It was great having wheels of my own, but every time I got in it to go somewhere, I said a little prayer that this would not be its last trip. Today, it took its own sweet time about starting.

“Please, please, please…” I muttered under my breath. The engine coughed, then turned over.

I left Lickin Creek behind me and headed over the mountains on the narrow, winding road that would take me to Gettysburg. I drove through several small villages, hardly more than a few buildings at a crossroads, and past neat little farms where the brick houses were dwarfed by the nearby barns. Twice, I crossed rivers on old stone bridges. Or more likely it was one meandering river that I crossed twice. There were few cars on the road, and I made good time.

Soon, I was in the center of town, waiting at Lincoln Square for a break in the traffic. All the stores I could see were open, and the sidewalks were full of people, some of whom wore clothes of the Civil War era. I glanced down at my page of names on the front seat beside me and read the address of the shop I was looking for. Lizzie had told me it was only a few blocks off the main street, not far at all from the square.

Taking my life in my hands, I cut into the circle. Four streets branched off from it like the spokes of a wheel, and from each street came a steady stream of cars which swept me all the way around the square back to where I had started. As I went round again, I wondered if there was any way to escape, or was I doomed to ride forever around the center of Gettysburg? Finally, I ignored angry honking from the car behind me, squeezed between a pickup truck pulling a camper and an SUV, and managed to exit the circle. I drove for a few blocks and then turned left.

Tall, narrow brick town houses lined both sides of the one-lane, one-way street. Several had been converted to shops, and in front of one of them was a hanging sign with raised gold letters that said THE OLD CAMP GROUND. That was what I was looking for.

I found a parking spot about two blocks up the street and got out of the car, feeling almost as though I'd stepped back into the last century. Walking ahead of me were two women in hoopskirts carrying string bags. A bearded soldier in a gray Confederate uniform stepped out of a bookshop and nodded pleasantly to me. The mood was broken when two teenage girls with spiky purple hair whizzed past me on roller blades. I paused for a minute to look into the windows of the bookshop and wished I had time to stop. Reluctantly, I decided I couldn't. Not today. Time has no meaning for me once I get into a bookstore. As I turned away, I had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was watching me. I looked around, but the street was now empty.

Across the street was another shop with a hanging sign that spelled out DREAMGATE in gold letters. To the left of the door was a dusty window, full of Celtic jewelry and crystal suncatchers, and through the window, I thought I saw a furtive movement, as if a person had been there, then stepped back. For a moment I was unnerved, then I decided my imagination was carrying me away. There was no reason for somebody to be spying on me; it was only a customer who had just entered the shop-or maybe the owner was straightening up the window display.

THE OLD CAMP GROUND had a single window, and all that was in it was a small sign that read SUTLERY, ANTIQUITIES, GUNS, AUTHENTIC COSTUMES, AND CIVIL WAR SOUVENIRS. Another sign, on the door, said OPEN, PUSH HARD.

I pressed down on the latch, put my shoulder to the door, and pushed with all my might. The door swung open easily and I tumbled inside, landing on my knees. I quickly got on my feet and brushed the dust off my skirt. I wasn't hurt, just embarrassed and hopeful that nobody had seen my ridiculous entrance. The contrast between the bright day outside and the dim interior caused me to stop and blink. As I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, I heard a deep chuckle, then a man's voice saying, “Afternoon, miss. Nice of you to drop in.” So much for my hope that nobody had witnessed my fall. The room slowly began to materialize, first a waist-high glass case to my right, full of small objects for reenactors like tin cups and enamel cook-ware, then shelves stacked with boxes, and finally, in the back of the room, a number of lifelike mannequins dressed in clothes of the Civil War period.