War and Peas

proceed.
    “The police are letting you do it again?“ Jane asked Jumper Cable, whom they’d met at the museum’s trailer.
    Jumper was back in his farm-boy outfit already. “Not only letting us, but insisting on it.“
    “Oh, a reenactment of a reenactment,“ Shelley said.
    Jumper nodded. “Sunday morning is traditionally the lowest attendance, and they want everybody to do exactly what they did yesterday afternoon.“
    “Somebody won’t. I hope!“ Jane said.
    “It’s going to be a critical audience,“ Jumper said wryly. “Lisa wants us to be ready in fifteen minutes, so grab your costumes.”
    Jane and Shelley threw on their farmwife clothing and reported in with the group at the far end of the field. Yesterday one of the real reenactors, a beefy, cheerful man with a mop of curly hair, had given a cheerful talk about their group—why they did this, how they researched their roles and battles, where they got their clothes and accouterments. This morning he was present, but silent and subdued. It was as if a real death in the midst of carefully staged fake carnage had seriously offended his sense of the proprieties.
    Lisa Quigley, the museum’s publicity director, who had told them their “stories“ the day before and urged them to believe in their characters and do their own thing, also seemed like a different person today. She was a slim but sturdy, auburn-haired woman in her mid-thirties. Jane had sensed, at their previous meeting, that Lisa was a self-contained sort of person, unused to being in the limelight. It seemed odd that such an individual would have chosen publicity as a career, but she had clearly done her homework. She’d had a sheaf of notes, which she hadn’t needed to consult, and had spoken quietly but with real enthusiasm about her subject. Today she was pale and defeated-looking, and her eyes were puffy, as if she’d been crying.
    “I won’t pretend this is the same kind of activity we engaged in yesterday,“ she began when everyone had assembled. “And, to be honest, I find this a distasteful and gruesome thing to do. But the police have insisted, and naturally we’re extremely eager to help them discover the cause of Ms. Palmer’s death. Anyway—our instructions from them are to reproduce our movements in yesterday’s reenactment as closely as we can.”
    Shelley nudged Jane and tilted her head back toward the festival grounds. There were three police officers, badly disguised as ordinary festival goers, waiting with video cameras—one at each side of the field, one at the far end where the other spectators would be.
    Lisa Quigley continued. “This is Officer Ridley,“ she said pointing to a woman wearing the same hat, but not the dress, Regina Palmer had worn the day before. “She’s been told everyone’s impressions of Ms. Palmer’s movements and will try to do as Regina did. If any of you have anything additional to tell her, we have a few minutes still. Otherwise, we’ll wait until ten o’clock and begin. It would be best, I think, if you would all try to put yourselves in the same frame of mind you were in before. Keep in mind that we have an audience most of which knows nothing about the tragedy and has just come for a good show.”
    On this slightly upbeat note, they were dismissed. Everybody pointedly ignored Officer Ridley in her cabbage-rose-adorned bonnet. Sharlene Lloyd approached Jane and Shelley with an older woman in tow, whom she introduced as Babs McDonald.
    “On behalf of the board of directors, I want to especially thank you ladies for all your help,“ Babs said in a voice that sounded much younger than she looked. Jane guessed her to be in her seventies—a trim, tiny woman with thick, startlingly white hair braided into earmuff like rolls on either side of her head. “I understand you filled in my duty time at the museum booth yesterday.“
    “We were glad to,“ Jane said. “I’m sure you had more important things on your mind.”
    Babs nodded. There was a touch of the regal in the movement. “Less cheerful things, certainly. And I understand you’re helping us next week with our cataloging.“
    “If you still want us to,“ Shelley said.
    “Of course we do. In fact, we’re going to need more help than ever. The loss of Regina isn’t going to deter our aims, only make them more of a challenge.”
    Jane, a State Department brat who had grown up all over the world, suddenly found herself remembering a boarding school she’d