7 Never Haunt a Historian (7 page)

What had Archie really told Scotty? Could the happy-go-lucky teacher/insurance salesman himself have been searching for something the old man left behind?

Leigh stopped at the bottom of the steps and set down the pails. She refilled the food bowl that was empty again already, smiled at the now-placid mother dog, and hardened her resolve. If there were any truth behind Scotty’s story, Archie’s best pal Lester Brown would know. And if it had anything to do with Archie’s mysterious disappearance, she was going to make darned sure the police knew it, too.

Chapter 6

“Lester ain’t here,” the gravelly voice said curtly. “Adith’s knocked out on her meds and Emma’s down in the kitchen feeding the baby. What do you want?”

The face of Pauline, Adith Rhodis’s roommate at the personal care home, was fixed into a disapproving frown, as it had been every time Leigh had ever seen her. According to Adith, the woman had started scowling the day prohibition was repealed, and hadn’t stopped since. While that seemed a stretch, even given Pauline’s impressive age of 97 years, Leigh could well imagine that Pauline’s sour disposition had begun well before her first social security check arrived. She was, quite simply, a “glass half empty” kind of gal.

“I just wanted to ask Lester a question about the man who built Archie Pratt’s house,” Leigh responded. “It can wait. Unless you think Emma might know?”

Pauline snorted. “Emma don’t care about that stuff. Harvey would, though. Lord knows he’s got nothing better to do.” She turned her back on Leigh and walked away with her cane, leaving the door open. Pauline was never without the bamboo cane, although its purpose was a mystery. It barely touched the ground as she walked, and she seemed to have no trouble getting up or sitting down. Nor did she have trouble standing, as was made clear when she stopped in the hallway, raised her cane high in the air, and banged it violently against a door. “Har-
vey!”
she yelled. “Get your nose out of those books and come bore this woman to death with your fool stories!” Then she turned on a heel, walked through the door of the room across the hall that she shared with Adith, and closed it behind her.

No sound came from behind Harvey’s door, and Leigh looked around with indecision. Adith must have taken whatever despised medication it was that made her sleepy, or she would have appeared by now. And the infant in question must belong to their mutual neighbors; Leigh knew that the baby-adoring Emma was only too happy to play grandma whenever Nora needed to get out for a while.

“Mr. Perkins?” she called out tentatively through the still-closed door. “Don’t bother getting up if you don’t want to. I can always come—”

The door swung open. Leigh was met by the pleasant smile of a thin, frail-looking man in his early eighties. Harvey was bald except for a wispy fringe of white hair that wrapped around the back of his head from ear to ear; his forehead was dominated by an impressively large liver spot. “Good day, Mrs. Harmon,” he said politely, with all the decorum that would be due if her arrival had been heralded by a British butler instead of a thwacking cane. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Leigh smiled back. She had always liked Harvey, though she saw very little of him, as he spent the vast majority of his time alone in his room with his cat and his books. According to Adith, he had spent his life running the family hardware store and was never able to go to college. But he was a born intellectual, and both Lester and Archie frequently praised his acumen as a local historian.

“I hope so,” she responded. “I’m curious about the man named Carr, who settled Frog Hill Farm. Scotty O’Malley was telling me stories about him that supposedly came from Archie Pratt, but I’m not sure how much of them to believe.”

Harvey studied her for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “Please,” he said finally, extending a hand in the direction of the sitting room. “Come and sit down.”

Leigh complied. The room was empty except for Pauline’s canary, which hopped from one perch to another with an occasional chirp. The cheerful bird seemed an odd choice of pet for someone like Pauline; Leigh had always thought a hawk would be more appropriate. Or perhaps an iguana.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking,” Harvey began as he eased into a chair opposite Leigh. “What brought about your interest in Theodore Carr?”

Leigh considered. “Several things, actually. I’m worried about Archie, as we all are. And with nothing much else to go on, I can’t help wondering if something odd has been going on over at that farm. Not that I believe in ghosts, of course!” She amended quickly.

Harvey’s thin lips drew into a smile. “Nor do I. But you are correct in supposing that Frog Hill has a somewhat…
colorful
past associated with it. A past about which Archie has always delighted in telling stories. Whether the history of his farm has anything to do with his disappearance…” Harvey’s voice trailed off a moment, lost in thought. Then he shook his head. “That, I couldn’t say.”

Leigh leaned forward. “Could you tell me about Mr. Carr? Is it true that he might have been” —she nearly choked on the word— “murdered?”

Harvey tented his bony fingers and took a slow, theatrical breath. Leigh couldn’t help but wonder how much he watched PBS television. For a man who never went to college, he bore a suspiciously strong resemblance to a host of
Masterpiece Theater.
“Theodore Carr fought in the Union Army during the Civil War. He was one of the 71st Pennsylvania Volunteers, a regiment recruited from the Philadelphia area. Archie has always been fascinated with the man’s history, and I admit to developing more than a passing interest myself. You see, Mr. Carr’s regiment played a pivotal role in the Battle of Gettysburg.”

Leigh knew from the tenor of that statement that she was supposed to be impressed, and she endeavored, by facial expression, to oblige. In reality, she had retained from her school days only the most rudimentary knowledge of the Civil War, which fell well short of specifics on any particular battle. That Gettysburg had gone badly for the South, she knew from
Gone With the Wind.
Beyond that, she didn’t plan to stick her neck out.

“I’ve helped Archie with his research, as I rather enjoy genealogy,” Harvey continued. “Not that the two men are related, but the same methods apply. We learned that after Theodore was mustered out of the army, he married and moved to the Harrisburg area, where he purchased a modest parcel of farmland. The couple had two children that survived infancy, a boy and girl. The girl married young; the boy never married. In 1905, shortly after Theodore’s wife died, he sold that farm and bought Frog Hill. He moved here with his son, who was by then an adult, and the two men worked the farm together until Theodore died, twenty years later.”

Leigh nodded. She suspected she had heard much of this before, from Archie himself, but at the time she’d had no reason to pay attention. “And how did he die?”

Harvey’s clear blue eyes studied hers. “A much-asked question. His death certificate says ‘cause unknown.’ That’s a little unusual, even if he was eighty-two years old and no autopsy was performed. But there was an interesting footnote on the same line of the certificate that said, ‘dementia.’ None of which proves anything in particular; but as I told Archie, it does support the prevailing oral legend, passed down amongst various neighbors over the years.”

“Which was?” Leigh prompted.

Harvey cocked his head thoughtfully to the side. “All we know for certain, from the local newspaper reports at the time, is that Theodore had a habit of ‘wandering’ and had been missing for two days before his son located his body in the creek. The police speculated that Theodore either fell in and drowned or had a heart attack and fell in afterwards; there was no mention of an investigation for foul play. But according to the local scuttlebutt, Theodore had suffered a slow mental decline for years, such that by the time of his death he had become excessively paranoid, refusing to allow anyone onto the property. Even neighbors he knew well were threatened if they attempted to ‘trespass.’ His behavior cut both men off from the community; and his son, who apparently was never well liked in the first place, was criticized for allowing the menace to continue. Theodore’s death offered the critics additional fodder—speculations of neglect, or perhaps even patricide.”

Leigh suppressed a shiver. “Missing for two days? It doesn’t sound like the son was looking very hard, if his father was right there in the creek. I’m surprised the police didn’t investigate, at least for neglect.”

Harvey shrugged. “You have to remember, Frog Hill Farm was considerably larger then; the Carr’s parcel extended some distance upstream. It extended downstream too, past your own house. And we don’t know exactly where Theodore was found or at what point during those two days he fell in.”

“I suppose,” Leigh said uncertainly, trying hard
not
to imagine Theodor Carr’s body floating in the creek behind her house.

“Regardless of whether the police suspected foul play,” Harvey continued, “the local rumor mill remained abuzz about the incident for years. Theodore’s son eventually suffered dementia himself, and was admitted to a nursing home. Thereafter, the farm was occupied by a long string of short-term occupants whose hasty and inauspicious departures brought about the ‘ghost stories’ Archie himself so delights in propagating. When Theodore’s son died, in the 1950s, the estate was subdivided and the parcels sold for residential development. The idea of a vengeful ‘soldier ghost’ who chases away intruders has always seemed to amuse Archie, although I can’t pretend to understand why.”

Leigh had a feeling she might. “Scotty said something about Mr. Carr hiding his money before he died,” she explained. “I don’t know if Archie actually told him that or not, but…” she paused a moment, not sure how much of her suspicions she should share. Maura had promised to pass along the information about the map and the holes to the police who were investigating Archie’s disappearance, but Leigh was skeptical that anything would come of it. The relevance of a neighborhood treasure hunt was questionable at best, even if Maura had presented the idea with enthusiasm. But on the phone this morning Maura had once again seemed distracted and anxious, worrying Leigh on a whole new front, even as the detective reminded her that Archie’s case would not be a high priority for the General Investigations squad.

The issue did, however, rate top priority with Leigh, whose children roamed the same neighborhood as a mysterious treasure hunter at best and a potential abductor at worst. She needed answers. Why shouldn’t she confide in an amiable, knowledgeable elderly man with a mind like a steel trap?

“Mr. Perkins,” she asked directly, “do you know of any reason why anyone would think that something of value was buried on or around Frog Hill Farm?”

Harvey’s clear blue eyes blinked. Then his gaze left her, fixing on some distant point above her shoulder. After a long moment, he looked back at her, his expression intent. “Why do you ask?”

Leigh took a breath. It was a fair question, and she answered it. She told him about the map the children had found and the years of unexplained filled-in holes, and she watched as he leaned forward in his seat with rapt attention.

“I had no idea about the digging,” he said finally, his tone disturbingly breathless. “Do you have this map with you?”

Leigh shook her head, happy that she could honestly say no. Harvey’s obvious interest in her question made her wary. “Do you believe Theodore Carr buried his money before he died?” she asked.

“No,” he answered shortly. “I don’t believe either of the Carr men had two dimes to rub together. They were small farmers; there’s nothing in their history to suggest they did more than scratch out a living. However…”

His gaze returned to the spot above Leigh’s shoulder. This time she turned, wondering if Mrs. Rhodis had awakened and was creeping up to breathe down her neck again. But there was nothing behind Leigh other than the painting on the wall.

“It
is
possible Theodore Carr could have had something else of value,” Harvey continued, his voice wistful. “Something of very great value. At least… to some of us.”

The house had gone oddly quiet. No baby gurgles echoed up the staircase. The canary had tucked its head under a wing. Leigh’s spine prickled. “Like what?”

Harvey’s eyes met hers with a twinkle. “Are you familiar with Pickett’s Charge, Mrs. Harmon?”

“Regrettably, no,” she responded. “And please call me Leigh.”

Harvey nodded at her politely. Then, with measured slowness, he moved to stand before the large framed painting. Leigh had looked at the print many times, but her eyes now studied it more closely. Like much art depicting battle scenes, it was simultaneously romanticized and gory. Soldiers were everywhere: some dead, some alive, many somewhere in between. Arms, legs, and weapons mingled in gruesome disorder. Clouds of smoke hung thick in the air, though the immediate subjects of the painting could be seen clearly. There were cannons on spindly wooden wheels, and Confederate and Union flags raised high above the melee. None of the men were on horseback, but one prominent figure stood out from the rest. He forged ahead of the Confederate line, lofting a sword high into the air with a hat perched on its tip.

Harvey pointed at the figure in question. “Brigadier General Lewis Addison Armistead,” he announced with reverence. “Battle of Gettysburg, July 3rd, 1863. The weather was hot. The task, impossible. General Lee ordered all fifteen thousand troops in Pickett’s division to charge across an open field and break the Union lines. A mile and a quarter they marched, straight into enemy fire. Two thirds of them fell upon the field. But General Armistead would not turn back. He pushed ever forward, holding his hat high before friend and enemy alike. And he did reach the stone wall at the other side, charging bravely over it and penetrating the Union lines just as he was commanded. But tragically, only a handful of men had survived to follow him. And no sooner did he reach that wall than he himself was shot down—with a wound that later proved fatal.”