“Listening?” I looked at Ellen, who’s expression had darkened.
“Perhaps. I saw a figure moving behind the hedge but couldn’t see who it was.”
I frowned. “We should go join the others. Maybe we can tell something from everyone’s location.”
“Doubtful,” Ellen said. “But let’s give it a try.”
She strode off toward the patio. I followed, gripping the broom like a weapon.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Of course, since all the guests were wandering about on the patio, we couldn’t determine who’d been lurking behind the hedge. As Ellen whispered to me before joining Scott and Julie in a discussion of the newest Louise Penny novel, the sad fact was that any one of them could’ve easily strolled from the hedge to join the rest of the crowd without arousing any suspicion.
I carried the broom and dustpan to Ellen’s back porch before rejoining the party. With Jennifer gone, conversations continued in a lighter vein, although no one seemed interested in lingering past seven thirty. That was fine by me. After helping Alicia and Damian clear away the food and drinks and clean the patio, I retreated to my bedroom.
Pulling out my folder on the Tey discussion scheduled for Saturday evening, I looked over my notes. I was actually surprised that all of the guests had agreed to attend Saturday’s event. Perhaps because it was the last hurrah before the Tey week ended?Or maybe, I thought,to put on a brave face and show they feel no guilt and therefore couldn’t be the actual murderer.
After making several changes to my notes, I returned the folder to my desk and got ready for bed. The snacks Alicia had made for the cocktail party would hold me until breakfast, and I certainly didn’t want to socialize with anyone. Not even Julie. Scott had offered to escort both Julie and me to dinner, but I’d begged off, allowing Scott and Julie to head out without me. Which was, I had to admit, only partially due to my lack of interest in talking to anyone for the rest of the evening. This was a perfect opportunity for Julie to spend some time with a man like Scott, who was kind, intelligent, and more importantly, single.
But also perhaps a killer, I thought, anxiety fluttering in my chest. If I’d allowed my friend to be put in danger … But no, even if Scott had killed Lincoln, he’d have no reason to harm Julie. Although, in that case, encouraging their relationship was probably a bad idea.
I sighed and crawled into bed. After a solid hour of lying flat on my back and staring at the ceiling, I admitted defeat and sat up. Grabbing my copy of Sujata Massey’s latest Perveen Mistry novel from my nightstand, I attempted to read a chapter, but even this fascinating depiction of a female lawyer in 1920s India couldn’t hold my attention.
It wasn’t the fault of the book but of the racing thoughts tumbling around in my brain. I hated to think Scott had been involved in Lincoln’s death. In fact, it was hard for me to believe he was capable of murder—but then, I’d never even had a glimmer of suspicion that anything was amiss about my great-aunt, and she’d been an honest-to-goodness spy. So maybe I wasn’t the best judge of such things.
Giving up my attempts at distraction, I turned off my nightstand lamp and rolled over in my bed. After counting about ten flocks of sheep, I finally fell into a fitful sleep.
I spent most of the day Friday working in Chapters’ garden, something I’d neglected during the past hectic week. After ensuring that the weeds wouldn’t continue to grow and swallow the other vegetation, like Audrey inLittle Shop of Horrors, I grabbed a shower before driving over to Atlantic Beach to meet Ellen.
Fort Macon’s park grounds stayed open until eight o’clock, so there were still people around, hiking the trails and using the public beach. But since the actual fort closed by five thirty, I found that area almost deserted by five o’clock.
I paused at the top of the paved path to appreciate a view of the restored early-nineteenth-century fort. The five-sided structure appeared to have been built in a deep depression in the earth, but this was an illusion created by the grass covering the top and sides of the outer walls, or covertway. Surveying the main entrance, called the sally port, I had the fanciful notion that the fort had sprung up from the earth like a lime-washed brick mushroom. But a full survey of the scene displayed the human ingenuity that had constructed this coastal defense station. Butted up against the inner walls, wide, open-air corridors formed a moat that was officially called the ditch. According to the history I’d read about the fort, this moat could be deliberately flooded to provide extra defense against invaders. It also functioned as a canal to absorb coastal flooding during hurricanes or tropical storms.
Today the ditch, bare of any vegetation except grass, was dry. It separated the inner section of the fort, with its vaulted rooms, or casements, that formed a pentagon around a central plaza, from the thick outer walls. Roofed by grass, the outer walls included dark chambers at each corner. Called counterfire galleries, they had been used by the fort’s defenders to fire on any enemy troops trapped in the ditch. I’d never walked into one of these rooms, finding the steps leading down into them almost as intimidating as the darkness of the enclosed chambers.
I had often walked the ramparts, which were covered in grass and featured numerous cannon emplacements. Originally, cannons could be fired to protect the fort from enemy approaches on all sides, including from Bogue Sound, the Beaufort Inlet, and the Atlantic Ocean. Now only some of the cannons, restored by efforts of the Friends of Fort Macon, among others, remained. But visitors could still walk the grassy ramparts and look out over the water that surrounded the area on three sides.
As I strolled down the sloping brick-and-timber wagon road and across the wooden bridge that led to the arched main entrance, the inner walls of the fort, devoid of any openings except narrow slits used for defensive gunfire, loomed above me. I popped off my sunglasses in the short tunnel formed by the casements, but I slipped them on again as I walked onto the open-air plaza, more accurately called the parade grounds.
The row of casements that encircled the parade grounds had been used by the park to depict life in the fort from its earliest days to its use by the army in World War II. The museum displays included reconstructions of soldiers’ quarters, the fort’s kitchen,gunpowder magazines, ordnance storerooms, and other scenes from the fort’s history. Not all the casements had been turned into displays—some were left empty. Although I enjoyed the informational displays, the vaulted brick walls and wood floors of the empty spaces affected me more deeply, as they showed the true beauty inherent in the construction of this 1834 complex.
I wandered around the grass-covered parade grounds, trying to imagine what it had been like, living and fighting there. Although I was sure it had been bustling back in the day, now the place felt barren, its grassy plaza home to only a cannon and the “hotshot” furnace that was once used to heat cannonballs to red-hot temperatures. With no one to man the ramparts, the wide brick-and-stone stairs that rose to the grassy inner ramparts above the ring of casements were empty. I glanced around, thinking how the entire space resembled a stage set for an outdoor production of a Shakespearean tragedy.
I walked into one of the empty casements, turning to look out over the parade grounds from inside the barrel-vaulted brick room. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed a flash in another empty casement.
Like sunlight glinting off a watch face, I thought, and realized I wasn’t as alone as I’d believed. The thud of footfalls on old wooden planks behind me confirmed this. Someone was walking between the casements, using the openings cut into the side walls at the back of each room.
These formed another sort of tunnel in the fort. I cast a glance at the opening in my casement as the steps drew closer. Something about the speed of the stranger’s steps, and the isolation of the area, made me dash out into the parade grounds.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spied a lone figure, clad in a charcoal-gray hoodie and sweat pants, their face hidden by dark glasses and a black cloth that wrapped their mouth and chin. They popped out of the back connector in the casement I’d just left. I veered to the right, jogging through an open arched tunnel that led to the ditch. If I could make it around the fort to the main entry …
I looked for other visitors, but saw no one. Lengthening my stride, I reached the corner that led to the main entry and, more importantly, the path to the welcome center. But as I rounded the corner, I saw the figure appear on the ditch side of the tunnel to the sally port. I turned and, desperate, took the steep steps down into one of the counterfire galleries.
Darkness enveloped me, forcing me to pocket my sunglasses and run my hand along the walls to orient myself. The bricks felt rough under my searching fingers. I couldn’t help but imagine encountering spiders and other scuttling creatures.
Like you., I swallowed a hysterical urge to laugh.Another scuttling creature in the dark.
I listened for footsteps but heard nothing. My pursuer was probably waiting for me to emerge, like the unfortunate rodent in a game of whack-a-mole. I cursed my stupidity in panicking and running into this trap.
