Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited (12 page)

“I can’t think of anything,” Cherry said. “The house has had a
thorough history done, which was easy because it went from the original family
directly into the hands of the Old Philly organization.”

“An oral history,” Tyler said politely.

Cherry sat up very straight. “Would you suggest my family were
liars, Agent Montague?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Addison,” Tyler assured her. “But oral
history can be like the whispering game. Tell a friend, who tells a friend, and
by the time they’ve told several friends, the story has changed. Don’t worry,
I’m not implying that’s the case.” He rose; he’d been hoping to learn something
he didn’t know or couldn’t access in his files. They were all looking to him for
answers when he’d just arrived and was still figuring it out.

“You don’t think our guide—Ms. Leigh—might have, er, helped Mr.
Mitchell die, do you?” Cherry asked.

Tyler was startled by the question. Maybe he shouldn’t have
been. Despite Allison’s obvious grief at the loss of a colleague, the police had
questioned her long enough.

He reminded himself that he barely knew Allison Leigh.

But he also had a good sense of people; he was seldom
fooled.

“No, I don’t. Julian Mitchell was a physically fit man. It’s
unlikely that even as a friend, joking around with him, she could have forced
his chin down on that bayonet,” Tyler said.

Nathan frowned. “Cherry, that was horrible! To say such a
thing.”

“However,” Ethan said, drumming his fingers on the table,
“whoever trashed the attic might have been looking for Allison’s research.”

“Ethan, don’t be ridiculous,” Cherry said, waving a beautifully
manicured hand in the air. “Her so-called research sheds no new light on
anything. She’s found a few quotes and notations we didn’t know about. She has
nothing new.” Cherry paused. “She did mention to me that she wanted to take a
research trip to Valley Forge. She’s been communicating with some professor
there who claims he owns letters written by Lucy Tarleton. I highly doubt this
and I warned Allison he’s probably a fraud or the letters were faked, but I
believe she still meant to investigate.”

Cherry didn’t exactly roll her eyes, but her opinion of the
unnamed professor’s research was evident.

Tyler stood and said, “Well, Mrs. Addison, here’s the thing
about history. It belongs to everyone and it’s not immutable. History changes
when new facts emerge or when attitudes change—views on slavery being an obvious
example. So I assume Ms. Leigh will follow where her research leads. Thank you
all for your time and your faith. We’ll keep you advised of every move we make
and, of course, anything we’re able to determine.”

Oxford and Pierson stood politely when Tyler did. He could tell
they were going to talk about him when he was gone. That was all right; he’d
learned from them what he could.

The rest of his Krewe would be arriving by nightfall. He
returned to the house and did an inventory of the employees’ work area, not
wanting to infringe on anyone’s private property, but figuring out the best way
to make the place habitable. There was a small refrigerator, a microwave and a
coffeepot. Not much, but it would do, especially since they were located in the
heart of the historic district, which placed them in the middle of restaurant
heaven.

Making a mental list of a few supplies to pick up, he left the
house and walked over to Allison’s, about half a mile away. Passing through the
historic district, he listened to the sounds of excitement from parents, couples
and children, all thrilled to see the famous Liberty Bell and walk through
Independence Hall.

He understood Allison’s deep passion for Philadelphia and its
history. He often felt that the greatest achievement of American democracy had
been freedom of speech and of the press, freedoms that could be abused at times
and yet were necessary for a true government of the people.

With that thought in mind, he found himself thinking again of
the two different paintings of Beast Bradley. It was remarkable what one man saw
that another didn’t. And each had the right to his own views.

He tried Allison’s door; she didn’t answer. He tried her cell
phone next but got her answering machine. He left a message, asking her to give
him a call.

After that, he stopped at the hospital. The children weren’t
there today but Haley Dixon was sitting by her husband’s side, holding his hand.
She didn’t see Tyler at first and he felt a hard tug at his heartstrings—no
relationship in the world was perfect, he knew that. But the love and tenderness
in Haley’s eyes as she watched her husband, her hand curled around his, was
beautiful.

He prayed that Dixon would recover even as he wondered whether
the man’s condition could possibly have anything to do with the
Tarleton-Dandridge House.

Haley Dixon must have heard him then because she turned toward
him. Her eyes were damp, but she smiled. She gently released her husband’s hand
and walked over to join him at the door.

“Any change?” he asked.

She shook her head. “They’re still waiting for the test
results.”

“How are the boys?”

Haley shrugged apologetically. “Todd’s convinced that a ghost
did this to his father. But he’s also convinced that Ms. Leigh can do something
about it, and he believes in you.”

“I wish I could promise you that all we had to do was talk to a
ghost and everything would be all right. But I
can
promise you that I have a team coming in tonight and we’ll do everything
possible to find out if there were any factors at the house that could have
caused this.”

She nodded. “All the other tourists and docents are okay—” She
broke off and grimaced. “Except for the young man who died, of course. Do you
think there could be some kind of toxin? Mold in the walls, lead, anything that
might be responsible for this? Something Artie’s allergic to, maybe, that
doesn’t affect most people?”

“Government regulations are pretty stringent, but you never
know what might’ve been missed. We’ll keep at it.”

She suddenly stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. She
flushed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that a lot of people would think we’re ridiculous
for believing the house could have caused any of this, and I want you to know
that I—we, all of us—are grateful for your concern and anything you can do.”

“A kiss on the cheek is never anything to apologize for,” he
told her. “I’ll check back with you tomorrow.”

Leaving the hospital, Tyler headed to the police station. So
far, the police had gained nothing from their forensic investigation of the
house or the attic. The prints they’d lifted all belonged to those who worked
there and, presumably, tourists. There’d been an abundance of prints with no
matches in the databases. The medical examiner had yet to make a ruling on
Julian Mitchell’s death, and it might be several days before he was able to do
so.

Detective Jenson looked sad as usual, a little world-weary, but
like the faithful old bloodhound he so resembled, ready to take on the world. “I
would’ve given you a call in the next hour or so. I’d asked the board of
directors to keep everyone out of the attic until we’d processed some of our
information, but now we need someone back in there. Someone associated with the
house. It might just have been mischief, but the only way we’ll discover who
created the mess up in the Tarleton-Dandridge attic is to discover if anything’s
missing. Everyone I’ve spoken with is totally mystified. Nathan Pierson said he
was pretty sure no one would find any illegal substances. Now, as I say, I’d
like to get one of the historical staff back in there. To be honest, it wouldn’t
be much of a priority for the department if it weren’t for the dead boy—and the
fact that the medical examiner hasn’t made any kind of statement.” Detective
Jenson paused for a moment. “I’m surprised they’ve got the feds on something
like this, although I have heard a little about your group. Got to admit I don’t
quite understand it.”

“Don’t worry. Those of us involved don’t always understand it,
either, but we get results,” Tyler said. He liked Jenson and liked dealing with
him. The man didn’t seem at all territorial and didn’t argue with someone else
taking care of a crime that
might
have been a prank
and a murder that
might
have been an accident.

“I’ll bring Ms. Leigh back in to start putting the attic in
order. She’s apparently more or less in charge of the other guides,” Tyler told
him. “She can decide whether to bring in her coworkers.”

Jenson nodded. He glanced down, his expression strange, and
then he looked up at Tyler again. “It was the damnedest thing. Finding that
young man—it almost looked as if he was resting his chin on the musket except
that the bayonet had gone through his chin and there was blood everywhere. His
eyes were still wide open and he was staring at the wall. I have to tell you,
I’ve seen a lot in my years on the force here, but that young man…” His voice
trailed off and then he focused on Tyler and shrugged. “Nothing wrong with the
feds taking over on this, not the way I see it.”

Tyler thanked him for his help and left the station. He called
Allison’s cell on his way but she didn’t answer.

She’d probably seen his name on her caller ID.

After going to the store, he’d stop by her place before
returning to the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

* * *

Allison went to Starbucks and ordered a latte with two
extra shots, since it might not be easy to stay awake today.

She hovered there, wishing she’d had the presence of mind to
bring her laptop or iPad, anything she might have played with so she could have
joined those casually enjoying their coffee.

There was only so long she could linger. She felt restless.

What she needed was a shot of courage, not just caffeine. She’d
seen Dr. “What do
you
think?” Blount and now she
really had to go home.

But despite her stern resolution, she parked her car in the
driveway at her house and then wandered the historic district, staying away from
the walk down Chestnut that would bring her back to the Tarleton-Dandridge.

Hovering near Independence Hall, staring up at the redbrick
building that still brought her a little thrill every time she saw it, she heard
a teenage boy talking to another.

“Me! I’d be Patrick Henry, if I was a founding father! He was
cool. He was so fierce. He stood right in that building and said, ‘Give me
liberty or give me death!’”

Allison winced, wondering if she should play the eternal
teacher and tell the boy that Patrick Henry had indeed said those words but not
at Independence Hall. He’d spoken his fiery rhetoric to the Virginia Convention
at St. John’s Church in Richmond.

She was startled when the teen shivered as though he’d felt a
sudden blast of cold air. Then he turned and stared at Allison, not as if he’d
known she was there, but as if he’d been searching for someone—anyone—to be near
him.

He seemed about sixteen, a handsome kid, the kind teenage girls
would definitely find appealing.

“Hi,” he said, frowning as he looked at her. The brother or
friend he was with seemed troubled, as well.

“Hi. Where are you from?” Allison asked him.

He made a face. “Indiana.”

She laughed. “What’s wrong with Indiana?”

“I live in a cornfield.”

“Well, we need corn. By the way, I was listening to you, and
I’m a huge Patrick Henry fan, too. But guess what? Although I love Philly and
I’d like to think most of our brilliant quotes come from speeches here, he said
those words in Richmond, Virginia.”

“Yeah?” The boy didn’t seem angry about being corrected. “Maybe
that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“The cold.”

“The cold?” she repeated.

“Yeah, I felt something cold touch me when I said it. Hey,
maybe Patrick Henry is running around here!” he said happily. “Maybe he’s a
ghost, and he didn’t like that I’d made a mistake.”

Allison shook her head. “He’s buried at Red Hill, in Virginia,
his family home, the last place he lived. It’s beautiful there. If I were
Patrick Henry and still running around, I think I’d be there. He really loved
Virginia and, back then, they were ‘statesmen.’ The events at Independence Hall
turned the Colonies into states and the states into a nation.”

“I heard about that,” the other boy said. “I heard the
politicians fought back. That Thomas Jefferson had a hard time writing the
Declaration of Independence and that he had to word it so all the
representatives from all the colonies would be happy.”

“Yup. Can you imagine trying to do that today? Back then, there
were only thirteen states. Now we have fifty,” Allison said. She was surprised
the boys were listening to her, and she was happy they were old enough to be
exploring on their own—and that they seemed to care about history. She also
liked their companionship at the moment. She found she could even smile and say,
“Hmm, maybe if anyone’s running around here, it’s Gouverneur Morris.”

“Governor who?” the younger one asked.

“Not governor.
Gouverneur.
That was
the man’s name,” Allison said. “He was born in New York City but he spent a lot
of time here, helping to form the nation. While Thomas Jefferson was drafting
the Declaration of Independence, Morris was busy working on the Constitution. He
was an interesting man, if you want to look up one of the founding fathers who
isn’t as well known as Jefferson or Patrick Henry. He lost out a few times for
trying to create a more centralized government. While many of the others were
thinking mostly about states’ rights, Morris already saw that we needed to band
together to really make things work. He was antislavery, as were most of the
founding fathers, but that was one issue they were afraid to touch just then. In
his later life, he was a peg-legged old curmudgeon, but he was pretty
remarkable.”