Rebel Spirits (11 page)

He’s there, leaning against the wrought-iron bench facing the creek. A full moon lights his face. His dark eyes gleam. I am completely in his power. He tucks my arm across his, and I melt like chocolate as we stroll through the wet grass. The bottom of my dress is soaked now, but the wrappings around his leg are not. Is he here, solid flesh, or isn’t he? If it rained, would he be dry? If an apple falling from a tree hit his head, would he feel it? Or can he only feel the old wounds? Nathaniel does seem to feel my arm locked in his. He pats my hand and again a chill feathers up my arm. What’s totally weird is that I’ve never before felt so alive as I do right now with this person who’s dead.

“You are right comely,” he says, looking over the whole costume. “Just like a girl from my day. Prettier than any.”

“Thank you, Nathaniel.” I can’t but smile at his words. “So, I wonder, why did you come to the ball?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says. “You looked happy … with
him
,” he adds resentfully.

I realize that it was really Nathaniel who made me see all those ghosts around me. But why? As punishment? I’m flattered that he’s jealous, but I feel a pang of annoyance. Does Nathaniel not expect me to have any friends who are, oh, I don’t know, alive? I think of how hurt Evan looked in the car dropping me off.

“Nathaniel,” I say sharply, “you can’t control everything I do. I’m not a Muppet.” I feel silly saying it.

“Another thing in your world I do not know.”

“A — a hand puppet.” I chew my bottom lip. “Never mind.”

“Like a Punch and Judy show.”

“Who are they?” I ask.

“Punch and Judy were puppets popular in my time. My father made us a puppet stage, and Edison and I used to put on shows for our neighbors in Punxsutawney.”

I try to picture that, Nathaniel as a boy, wagging puppets around on a stage. It doesn’t work. In my world, he’s eternally nineteen.

“Forgive me, Lorelei. I’m desperate, and time is running out.”

“I know, Nathaniel,” I say, softening. “But I don’t know if we can solve your mystery in the next two days. It’s what we call today a cold case. No clues left.”

Nathaniel’s eyelids flutter; as he said earlier today, I’ve
maimed his heart
. “It is not a cold case to me, Lorelei. The trail’s warmed since you came to Gettysburg. The clues are there. You just need to see them and follow them. Believe me, I’ve tried to do it myself through these centuries. Time has played tricks on me. The time is now. You are the key.”

I feel frustrated, and the twenty-seven buttons digging into my back don’t help. “I can’t unlock a thing!” I cry. “Everything I stumble across just confuses me more. Edison, Wince, the doctor, Henry Baldwin. It’s all a muddle.”

“Let us sit, Lorelei.” He brushes off a few leaves and pats the bench.

I gather the big skirt, which is much more manageable without the bothersome infrastructure of petticoats, and fold the gold fabric between my knees.

“Okay,” I say, trying to think like a detective. “Let’s talk about motive. If the doctor was killed right after he left you, it doesn’t matter that he thought you had his ring. But Henry Baldwin thought you were a traitor. And I can’t” — I cast a cautious look at Nathaniel — “I can’t stop thinking about Edison. He felt betrayed. You know that. He sent you that letter.
Maybe he’d been looking for you all this time. He came into the tent and saw his opportunity.”

Nathaniel frowns. “But we don’t know for certain if he was at the Battle. I just thought I’d glimpsed him.”

I nod. “Maybe I can do a little research, see if I can find that Edison was here.”

Nathaniel is silent for a moment, watching me. Then he murmurs, “I don’t have much time to solve my, as you say, cold case, but there is one thing I’d like to do now.”

“What?” I ask. He whispers, “I’m determined to dispel all memories of your evening at Herr Ridge.”

I jerk back. “Can you do that? Can spirits actually erase someone else’s memories? That would be awful and —”

“No, that’s not within my limited powers, but maybe this will be a start.” He pulls me toward him, locks me in his arms, and his lips on mine are warm and firm. They taste of ginger, and I can’t get enough.

THE NEXT MORNING,
Evan’s down on the lawn, clipping at some low branches, though not very energetically. I know he’s supposed to be at the Battle site soon, but it could be he’s hanging around Coolspring awaiting an apology for my revolting behavior last night. I owe that to him, for sure, and as I watch him down there, I get an idea. I stayed up very late last night, sitting with Nathaniel by the creek, kissing and whispering about the night of his murder. But we didn’t get any closer to an answer. Maybe it’s time for a second opinion.

I knock on my window, signaling to Evan to wait for me.

Downstairs, I drop four of Hannah’s oatmeal raisin cookies into a plastic bag.

Not a word from Evan as I get close.

“Sorry about last night. I brought you cookies. Peace offering.”

He takes my little baggie, pops a whole cookie in his mouth. “Not bad. You baked them?” His words are all muffled by smushed cookie.

“Hannah. I’m the world’s worst baker, and besides, who’s had time? I’ve been busy ruining a fancy-dress ball.” A sideways glance lets him know that I’m teasing, and I watch him make a split-second decision to quit being mad at me. He really is a very forgiving guy. He even offers me half of the last cookie.

Mouth full of crumbs, I mumble, “You’re practically a Stanford guy, which means you’re way smart, so I need to pick your brain.”

Evan drills an imaginary doorway into his head. “Does this have something to do with the packet of dull knives?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet.” I take a deep breath. “So. A few days ago I went on one of those ghost tours, you know?”

“Woooooooo!”
He trills his fingers and does a great job of rolling his eyes around in his head.

“Yeah, a little cheesy, but people around here seem to see ghosts all over the place.”

“The tourists do, not the regulars. Me, for instance. I’ve lived in Gettysburg all my life and have never seen, heard, or felt a ghostly presence. We don’t sit around the dinner table talking about evil spirits like it’s all Halloween, all the time.”

“But some people …”

“Are you one of them?” he asks, frowning.

Can I trust him? “No judgments, okay? This may sound crazy.”

“Keep talking. I’ll just drop these clippers in the shed so we can jog down to the road.”

The shed. Just hearing him mention it makes me itchy. What
is
it about that place? “Can you leave the clippers here and stash them away later?”

He reads something in my eyes. His face tightens into concern as he lays the clippers under a bench. “Sure, let’s go.”

The road below Coolspring is unpaved and quiet, with overgrown fields on both sides. “You could pay for college mowing those fields,” I tease, trying to keep it light and airy before I delve into the darker depths of what’s going on.

“But they’re just the way Mother Nature wants them, with those bee balm wildflowers and the blueweed.” I hadn’t even noticed the flowers; just the wild grass. What kind of a person am I to see ghosts and totally miss a field of wildflowers?

“So, you were saying — ghosts?” he asks.

I nod, choosing my words carefully. “Last night at the dance, you probably didn’t notice. There were dozens of them on the dance floor.”

“Dozens of …?” He looks dubious.

“Ghosts,” I finish for him.

He nods, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe me.

“And I’ve made friends with one,” I blurt. “With an actual ghost.”
A lot more than friends.
“He’s a soldier.”

Evan pulls himself taut beside me, clearly uncomfortable with this idea, but he doesn’t say anything.

“He was murdered here in 1863.”

“Nobody gets ‘murdered’ in the middle of a battle with bullets and cannonballs flying.”

“Wrong. He was murdered. And he wants me to figure out who did it.”

Evan strokes his chin as if there’s actually a little beard there. He’s trying to figure out what to say without telling me that I need to be committed to a psych ward.

“You promised no judgments,” I remind him.

“I did, yes. So, keep going.”

“A lot of odd things have been going on since I got here. Old Dryden sneaking into our cellar. The Drydens lying about being old-timers here. And then there’s the person who was snooping around in the shed, and don’t tell me it was a raccoon.
I
saw
someone running out the back door. To be honest, the shed sends creepy vibes down my spine. That’s why I didn’t want you to put the clippers away.”

“You think the shed is haunted?” Evan asks, trying hard not to mock me.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think an evil living person can be a lot scarier than a ghost. Call me a sensitive, an intuitive, a nut, whatever, but I’m picking up signals most people miss. You miss.” I glance over to see if he’s insulted. He seems thoughtful, mulling over all this bizarre stuff I’ve said, so I continue.

“It’s a giant jigsaw puzzle in my mind, and I’m trying to fit all the pieces together, including the RVA box with the knives. What if it has something to do with Nathaniel?”

“Nathaniel?” he asks quietly.

“The soldier I told you about.”

“The one who was murdered.”

“Yes.” It sounds preposterous out here on this dirt road with beautiful wildflowers all around us.

“That surgical kit, I’m sure it’s left over from the Battle,” I say, trying to reason out what I’ve been thinking.

“Don’t forget, though,” Evan cuts in, “the house wasn’t even built until about fifteen years afterward.”

“I know, but the foundation’s original and the ground under the house
was
a field hospital,” I say. “I’m thinking someone
dug this surgical kit up and hid it in the house much later. I think it’s what Old Dryden was looking for. Maybe it’s why he and Bertha came to this house in the first place.”

“Wow, an antique amputation kit must be worth an arm and a leg,” Evan says, and we both laugh. “A little dark humor for comic relief,” he adds, grinning. “So, why’s the Hunchback looking for it?”

“No idea. We need to find out who RVA was. Also, Nathaniel told me something about a ring that mysteriously disappeared, that belonged to some doctor. Too many loose pieces to pull together into one picture.”

A car crawls by. I can’t see who’s inside, but I get a hair-raising feeling that whoever it is is looking us over. The license plate is from Massachusetts. Must be a tourist, but why would a casual tourist care about two kids walking up a dusty road?

“Does that car creep you out?” I ask anxiously.

“Nah. They’re just admiring the scenery.”

“What if
we’re
the scenery?” I frown as Evan shakes his head. “Don’t say it; you think I’m paranoid.”

“I didn’t say it.”

The car slowly backs up. It’s the Crandalls, and now Mrs. Crandall’s waving a blue handkerchief out the window.

“Halloo! Look here, Earl, it’s Lori and the lawn boy!”

Mr. Crandall toots the horn and speeds ahead.

There’s a house up the road with a sign that says
HOLLOWAY’S HIDEAWAY
. “Let’s duck up this way,” Evan suggests. “I know the family here.” I’m relieved that Evan’s familiar with all the out-of-the-way places in Gettysburg. So we head toward the clapboard house. Bikes and riding toys clutter the grass, and two little girls are splashing in a plastic pool.

“Hey, Judy and Fiona,” Evan says. “How’s it going?”

“EvanBevanSpevanDevan!” one of the girls yells, scooping out handfuls of water to splash in his face.

“Watch it, ladies, you’re drowning me. Retaliation!” He reaches in and splashes them back, sending them into giggles. Meanwhile, I look down the driveway and see that the Crandalls’ car is stalled at the end. Waiting for us?

“Okay with you ladies if we sit here on your porch?” Evan asks.

One of the girls squeals and shouts, “Mommy, Evan’s here with some girl.” The
some girl
part sounds a little snide.

The porch steps are wide and out of earshot of the pool.

Quickly, I fill Evan in on my thoughts about Nathaniel’s murder and the possible motive.

Evan tilts his head to one side, thinking. “Could it be that the murderer was jealous? That he and this Nathaniel person loved the same girl?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I reply quickly, and he gives me a searching look that makes me blush.

“Or how about revenge for something Nathaniel did to him or to somebody he loved. Your guy seem like a baddie?”

“No, squeaky clean to the core.” Nathaniel would never do anything to hurt a soul.

“Like you can tell in two or three days,” Evan mutters.

“I’m an excellent judge of character,” I shoot back.

“Okay, don’t bite my head off.”

“I mean, Nathaniel was battle-weary and exhausted after the first day, and he still brought a wounded kid into the hospital, a Confederate soldier. He could have left him to die, but he didn’t.”

“Got it. He was a saint. Next theory: Could it be a personal vendetta? Someone who had something against him?”

“Exactly,” I say. “That’s why I keep coming back to Edison.”

“The lightbulb guy?”

“No, Edison Larch. Nathaniel’s friend growing up. I just have to prove that he was here at the Battle.”

Evan shakes his head. “I don’t follow, but if you say so, okay. And by the way, apology accepted about last night.”

After Evan and I part ways, I go back to the inn to track down Charlotte. I need to find out what she knows about Nathaniel. She recognized him on the ghost tour, but she hasn’t opened up to me about it since. Why? Maybe they have some sort of history. I hope he didn’t turn to her first before I showed up in Gettysburg. But he would have mentioned her to me then, right?

I dial her number and find out from her mother that Charlotte’s got the one-to-nine shift tonight at the Blue Parrot Restaurant. I’m pacing, chewing my knuckles, picking at an old scab on my knee — squirmy restlessness. It feels like the hour before last season’s championship game when my Liberty Bells uniform felt too tight, and my arm felt too loose, and my catcher’s glove suddenly didn’t fit my hand anymore.

Two hours pass, and I try Charlotte’s number again. Her little brother answers and bellows, “CHARLEY!!! PHONE!!!” She’d warned me about her rambling house with all those kids and dogs and hamsters and a warren of rabbits in the yard, not to mention a ferret Charlotte’s sister got for her tenth birthday.

Charlotte picks up an extension. “Hello?”

“Hi, Charlotte. It’s me. Lori.”

“Oh, hi!” Charlotte sounds pleased to hear from me, which is a relief. I was wondering if she’d really been distancing herself from me. She asks me if I had a good time at the dance, and
I say I did, without mentioning what happened afterward. Then I launch right into my mission.

“Nathaniel Pierce. Can you tell me more about him?”

“Not much to tell.” Charlotte sounds evasive, and I wonder if she’s a little in love with him, too. She says, “He shows up every year at this time, but he only stays until the Battle Days are over. Honestly? It surprised me to see him. He’s usually just spirit, not flesh. You must be special for him to appear in bodily form and give you his name. Once a spirit offers his name, he’s vulnerable. He’s yours.”

Mine? My heart thuds. He certainly feels like mine, in a way. “Well, we’ve been talking every day,” I confess. I don’t tell her about the kissing. “But honestly, I’m out of my league here. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.” Well, except for the boy who fell from the tree, and Great-Grandpa Tunis, but I couldn’t touch them or talk to them. It wasn’t like with Nathaniel. “He wants me to solve his murder,” I go on. “But I was wondering if you could … help.”

Charlotte pauses. “I can’t, really,” she says. “That would be like major interference where I don’t belong. Like, if you had a fight with your mother, and I stuck my nose into it. Not good.”

A shocking thought strikes me like a hammer: “Do you know who killed him?” I demand. “If you knew who murdered
Nathaniel, would you tell me?” Suddenly I suck in my breath, and a cold sweat beads across my brow. “You’re in touch with him, with the murderer’s spirit, aren’t you?”

There’s silence on her end, or rather a sound like she’s clicking a ballpoint pen open, closed, nervously. Finally, Charlotte says, “Trust me, I’m on your side, Lori, but there’s a natural order to the universe, and it’s not my destiny to shake it up.
You
absolutely must find the answer for Nathaniel Pierce. You, not me.”