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  MUSKET BALL MURDER

  a Merry Wrath Mystery

  by

  LESLIE LANGTRY

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2020 by Leslie Langtry

  Cover design by Janet Holmes

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Dedicated to my dear friend, Sheila Eaton, who passed away last year. She was funny and smart and all kinds of wonderful, and she is missed.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  "Stop that!" Kelly shouted in her usual commanding ER nurse voice as I dodged a punch heading for my face before landing an uppercut on my attacker's chin. "Make them stop fighting!"

  Who was she talking to? Me? These guys had come out of nowhere and jumped me, so I was fairly certain that, other than pulling a cannon from my skirt, there was nothing I could do or say to stop them. The cannon thing would be cool though.

  Since when did these self-proclaimed "Southern gentlemen" attack women? It seemed very unchivalrous. And if I wasn't holding my own, I'd tell them so. But presently, I needed my breath for something else. I drove my foot into the second guy's gut. He flew backwards with a loud and somewhat satisfying ooomph.

  Betty rolled her eyes as she droned in a dull, bored tone, "Hey, guys, stop getting your butts kicked by my super old Girl Scout leader."

  You try fighting off two thugs while wearing a hoop skirt and corset. I was starting to regret turning down Soo Jin's idea of playing a man in this reenactment. It's just that when an insanely beautiful woman suggests you might do better as a man, you get a little defensive and, in my case, go completely the other direction with lace overkill, silk petticoats, and big, bouncy curls (which were unhelpfully smacking me in the face).

  The Kaitlyns shouted some slurs at the men. The four identical girls had wholeheartedly embraced the reenactment, always striving for true authenticity, from the cast iron curling irons we put in the fire every day to peeing in fields, in spite of the porta potties across from our tents. I knew they were trying for historical accuracy as they yelled, "Die Rebel scum," but I was pretty sure that came from the Star Wars movies.

  My earlier punch had barely registered on the large man in the gray wool uniform, so he grabbed my wrists. I twisted up and out of his grip and kicked the first guy sideways in the knee.

  He went down hard, clasping his leg with a euphoric glee usually reserved for winning the lottery or being told by your doctor that you have to eat a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's Half Baked ice cream every day for the rest of your life.

  I've seen a lot of weird things in my past career as a spy, from a Yakuza boss's dolphin who could play "Der Fledermaus" on an accordion, to a huge UFO lighting up the sky in remote Mongolia (yep, they're real).

  But these Civil War reenactors and their love of pain and suffering was beyond all that. Just this morning, a reenactor asked the organizers if there was any way possible he could die of dysentery…for real. And they actually considered his request.

  Damn. The second attacker had regained his balance and, seeing his pal on the ground with a shattered knee, charged right at me. His large frame seemed to make the ground shake beneath my feet, and as I got into a defensive position, I wondered what the hell I'd been thinking when I'd agreed to take part in this reenactment.

  One Week Earlier…

  "A civil war reenactment?" I asked my co-leader. "You're kidding."

  Kelly nodded eagerly. "Soo Jin is helping organize it. It'll be the first one ever based on the Battle of Idiot Creek!"

  Idiot Creek was considered to be the largest creek in the county. No one knows where the name came from (although one can guess), but in 1922, the Who's There Upstanding and Righteous Ladies Society tried to have the name changed. When the County Board of Supervisors denied the request on the grounds that no one could come up with anything better (the record of that meeting was exactly five minutes and thirty seconds long, where they decided not to decide and then approved a long, liquid lunch break), the Ladies created a backstory.

  According to these fine, stalwart, and obviously control freak women, it was named for the I-Dee-Oh-Ta Indian tribe that had lived in the area three hundred years ago. That lie lasted six months before The Des Moines Register, during a particularly slow news week, interviewed five college professors who specialized in Native American history. Each and every one of them said there was no such tribe, and one professor suggested that these women go back to their knitting.

  Two days later, that same professor received a cherry pie from an anonymous source. After eating the whole thing, he had "dysentery" for three days. No one ever found out who sent the pie or why on earth he'd eat it in the first place, and the Who's There Upstanding and Righteous Ladies Society gave up on their fake, Indian name story.

  Kelly had dragged me out of my house and driven us here before giving me the news. We stood looking down at the tiny trickle of water that measured about four inches in width and two inches deep. I'd tossed a stick into it. One end hit the water, and it bounced to the side and landed on the grass, remaining 98% dry.

  "Well." Kelly shrugged. "It was a bit bigger then."

  "No." I sighed. "It wasn't."

  "Come on! You know the story of that battle." Kelly clapped her hands with glee, and I wondered if I should be planning an intervention of some sort.

  Growing up around these parts, everyone knew about the Battle of Idiot Creek. On May 31, 1865, a handful of Confederates, not realizing the war was over, got a bit confused. Thinking they were in Illinois, the Land of that Yankee scum (in their words) Lincoln, they made a last stand just outside of where that seething cesspool called Bladdersly (Who's There's biggest rival) is now. By the way, it should be noted that there weren't any Union soldiers in Western Iowa at the time because, like I said, the war was over.

  So a group of civilians, armed with pitchforks, a couple of muskets, and in one case, an elderly woman on crutches brandishing knitting needles, chased the Southerners back over Idiot Creek. In the end, it wasn't the citizens who saved the day but a pet skunk named Orville.

  According to the story, Reuben Murphy, the
owner of the closest farm, had had a pet skunk named Orville, who had never been descented. He also had an unusual condition where, when he was excited, not only did he spray, but bubbling saliva erupted from his lips.

  The skunk had encountered the Rebels, and when they didn't give him a cookie, as Reuben did whenever he saw his pet, Orville got excited and began spraying the men while foaming at the mouth.

  The Rebs believed they were being attacked by a rabid skunk and, thinking this was worse than a few townspeople with pitchforks and one pair of knitting needles, fled for their lives. They were eventually captured in Quincy, Illinois, where they learned that the war was over and vowed never to step foot in Iowa again.

  When the festering hellscape called Bladdersly was founded ten years later, they erected a bronze statue to the hero of the Battle of Idiot Creek—Orville. It depicted the skunk, tail raised, with a spray of bronze droplets (attached to rusty wires) coming out of his butt, with lips bearded with foam. It's the only thing I liked about the town.

  "The reenactment is going to take place right here, and we've been invited to participate!" Kelly squealed.

  She never squealed. Something was up.

  "As I recall from class," I pointed out, "the battle lasted a whole ten minutes before Orville arrived on the scene and saved the day."

  Kelly nodded. "I know, but they're expanding it a bit to make it an event that will bring in tourists."

  I laughed. "How long can you make that stretch out? An hour?"

  She shook her head, "Three days."

  "Three days?" My eyes widened, and I pointed to the largest creek in the county, which was currently in danger of completely evaporating under the hot, Iowa sun. "Over this?"

  "Anyway," Kelly continued, ignoring me, "they've invited the whole troop to participate!"

  No way was this going to work out. "How are we going to do that? We don't have costumes, let alone authentic equipment."

  "There's a woman in Iowa City who has the costumes we can borrow." Kelly held her hands up. "They've got kid clothes, tents, cooking supplies, everything."

  "It's summer," I insisted. "In Iowa. The weather will be miserable."

  Iowa was a state of two seasons—long, ungodly winters and an equally long, hot, and humid summer with a few days of spring and fall thrown in for good measure, just to give the impression of balance.

  "That's true," Kelly agreed. "And we'll have to live in authentic tents and cook over a fire."

  I shook my head. "I don't care about the camping part. In fact, that's the part I like."

  Little did I know, I'd soon come to regret those words.

  I sighed. "So how long do we have? A month?"

  Kelly frowned for the first time. "Try one week. The event was organized months ago, but we've just been invited to join in."

  "That's weird," I wondered. "Why did she invite us so late?"

  Kelly shifted her feet, "Well, it's more like I just found out about it and begged for an invite."

  "You did what?"

  She checked her watch. "We'd better get going. I've called the girls. They'll be at your house in five minutes."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Do we get rifles?" Betty asked eagerly. "Can we shoot guys?"

  Lauren shook her head. "No. I've heard of these things. All that stuff's fake."

  "Except," Kelly interjected, "for everything else in the event. Which will be 100% authentic to the era! Clothes, how we cook, the songs we sing, where we live—it will all be true to the 1865 aesthetic!"

  "What's aesthetic?" Hannah asked.

  Ava gave her a look. "It's when you do sports stuff."

  Inez, never missing a chance to correct Ava, spoke up. "That's athletic! Duh. She means something you use to clean out an open wound."

  "That's antiseptic," one of the Kaitlyns corrected.

  "Aesthetic," Kelly explained, "is the appreciation of something. We are going to be completely authentic in this endeavor. Our costumes should be here tomorrow."

  Caterina held her hand up. "Mrs. Wrath? Can we use your laptop to research this?"

  For years the girls had called me Mrs. Wrath, even when I was single, because women older than twenty were obviously married. This year I actually had gotten married and became Mrs. Ferguson, but the girls still called me Mrs. Wrath. I found it easier not to correct them.

  My name is Merry Wrath. Up until a few years ago I was a field operative for the CIA, until I was "accidentally" outed by the US Vice President, due to a grudge against my senator father. Not only did it put an end to my career, it almost put an end to my life, as I was undercover with the Chechens in a remote bar in the middle of nowhere when CNN broke the story, complete with a photo of me. I barely escaped.

  Upset that my chosen career had been unceremoniously ended so soon, I changed my name from Fionnaghoula Merrygold Czrygy to Merry Wrath, using my mother's maiden name. I moved back to my hometown of Who's There, Iowa, where my best friend, Kelly Albers, convinced me to take on a Girl Scout troop. In many ways, the change actually became a bit more dangerous and unpredictable because little girls are scary.

  "Knock yourselves out," I said as I pointed to the laptop, already set up on the coffee table.

  The girls swarmed around it with Ava taking over the keyboard.

  "I think," one of the Kaitlyns announced, "that we should have more authentic names. Kaitlyn doesn't sound right."

  I had to admit, I had a little surge in adrenaline realizing that, with different names, I might actually be able to tell these girls apart.

  "Good idea!" another Kaitlyn said. "Let's go with Kate!"

  The other three promptly agreed. Fantastic. Now I had four Kates.

  "But not until we get there," one of the Kaitlyns said. "We don't want to confuse anybody."

  I didn't tell them that it was already too late for that. The four Kaitlyns were a bit of a mystery to me. All four were the same height, same hair color and style, and had last names beginning with the letter M. Their mothers were all improbably named Ashley. Sometimes I wondered if I was being punked.

  "This is so great!" Kelly clapped her hands together.

  "Yeah," I said drily. "What's up with you?"

  She blinked at me. "What do you mean?"

  "You're acting weird. I don't remember you getting this excited about the Battle of Idiot Creek back in the fourth grade, and I can't recall a single time when local history made you blissfully happy."

  She scowled. "I've always been interested in that sort of thing."

  "Since when?" I countered.

  There was a hesitation that always accompanied moments like this. And my experience as a spy led me to say nothing. Uncomfortable silence always wears people down.

  "Okay," she caved. "I'm excited about the costumes. The gowns from that era are gorgeous, and it's kind of like being a kid again and play acting."

  I shook my head. "The gowns the Southern belles wore were gorgeous. But here, people were pioneers. I doubt that they dressed up much at all. I mean, how do you milk a cow in a hoop skirt?"

  "With as much dignity as you can muster," a male voice said from behind us.

  "Hey!" I kissed Rex on the cheek. "What are you doing over here?"

  My husband, the town's detective and exactly one third of the police force, rarely attended my meetings, unless I forgot the snack or craft or needed him to help disarm a bunch of ten-year-olds who'd found my stash of weaponized crayons that, when the tip was pressed, emitted chloroform gas. In hindsight, weaponizing crayons when you have a bunch of little girls who like to color all the time was a bad idea.

  Another thing that Rex thought was a bad idea was the fact that we had two houses—across the street from each other. When I met him, he'd just moved across the street. When we got married, we moved into his bigger, two-story house. But I couldn't part with my first ever home—a small, ranch-style house.

  It was where I kept all of my spy souvenirs and held Girl Scout meetings when school was out. Over
time, I've worn him down, so Rex rarely mentions it anymore.

  "I forgot my lunch and spotted you guys." He smiled. "What's this about hoop skirts and milking cows?"

  Kelly enthusiastically filled him in while I checked to see what the girls were googling. Good news—they were looking up Civil War–era clothing and weapons and not hacking into the Omaha office of the FBI, like they'd done last week. We had had a special visit by men wearing black that did absolutely nothing to intimidate the girls. The Feds left frustrated, and I spent a week trying to figure out how to install some sort of parental controls. I think I had finally nailed it though.

  "That sounds like fun," Rex exclaimed. "I've got to go, but fill me in tonight." And with that, he was off.

  "Mrs. Wrath?" Betty asked. "We just ordered five muskets and a cannon using your credit card. They'll be here in two days, okay?"

  Sigh. Back to the drawing board on those parental controls…

  CHAPTER THREE

  One week later, I was packing for my trip. The lady in Iowa City had really come through with enough clothing and equipment for the whole troop. Apparently, she had ten daughters who liked to go on reenactments with their parents. She had even sent her husband's Union uniform.

  Kelly and Soo Jin helped me unpack everything. We'd decided not to include the girls until we'd sorted through the stuff because we realized none of us would be able to handle ten squealing little girls as they tore through the costumes like an F-5 tornado in April.