Blood Relations (9 page)

“I'm almost certain that the damage was done
during
the accident,” Jacob said.

“Well, we can talk to the sheriff and get a forensics team in here and find out for sure, if you'd like,” I suggested.

“No,” the professor said. “I don't think that will be necessary.”

“Have you found any artifacts?” Collette asked. Which meant, have you found any diamonds?

All three men exchanged cautious glances among themselves. “We found a shoe buckle,” Danny said finally.

“Well, good Lord, you hit the jackpot, didn't you?” I said.

“Torie,” Collette said, rolling her eyes. I knew what she was thinking. I was ruining her chances of snaring Jacob Lahrs in her web. Well, I didn't care how seriously cute his butt was. They were hiding something. I could feel it. Besides, the way Jacob Lahrs was behaving, all Collette would have to do would be to remain conscious and she'd snare him. Where's the fun in that?

“You find the diamonds, Professor Lahrs?” I asked. “You know that if you did find the diamonds, they are the property of the mine.”

“If there were any diamonds,” Jacob Lahrs said, “they would belong to the family of the one transporting them.”

“How so?”

He said nothing. He obviously knew that if he did answer, it would prove that he knew a whole heck of a lot more about the wreck and the diamonds than he'd let on. He wanted to keep up his “I'm here for academic reasons only” act. How did he know that the diamonds weren't the property of the mine? How would he have known that the person carrying the diamonds had bought them, unless he had done some research? And supposedly, he wasn't interested in any diamonds. They were just a myth.

Something didn't add up.

“So …
did
you find the diamonds?” I asked again.

“Have another beer, Mrs. O'Shea,” Jacob said. “Loosen up.”

“No thank you,” I said. I made a sweeping gesture that included all of them. “Well, gentlemen, it was nice conversing with you, but we've got to go.”

“So soon?” Jeremiah asked.

“Afraid so,” I said. I took Collette's arm and led her back toward our table, where our coats and leftover beer were waiting for us.

“Torie, I think he was interested in me.”

“It's probably all the gold you're wearing,” I said, laying a ten and a five-dollar bill down on the table.

“Well, gee, thanks,” she said, her hand on her hip.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean that as an insult to you; I meant it as an insult to him. Really, Collette, you can do way better.”

“I know,” she said. “But he had a great body.”

“For casual, meaningless sex, you're right. He had a great body.”

“Well, what the hell else would I want him for?” she asked as she picked up her coat.

“You know I love you, Collette. But that's the sort of behavior I despise in men. It's not very becoming on you, either.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're right,” she said. “I guess that shoots my interview down the drain.”

We walked past the three men on the way out the door and waved to them politely. “Tomorrow will look different to Professor Lahrs and he'll probably forget all about what I said to him. I'm sure he'll let you interview him,” I said.

THE NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

The News You Might Miss

By

Eleanore Murdoch

 

What's this? Do we have a possible lightweight champion in New Kassel? Rudy and Torie O'Shea, it has been rumored, think that little Rachel has quite a right hook and might make a fine addition to the Olympic boxing team.

On a darker note, it seems that the hoopla over the steamboat wreckage has brought people to our town who seemed to miss out on etiquette school. Helen Wickland said she caught a reporter counting the money in the collection basket at Santa Lucia's. And one notable fancy-dressed newsman seems to have a flatulence problem. Fraulein Krista requests that said newsman refrain from eating in her restaurant. And that's just scratching the surface. Tobias Thorley swears that a reporter stole the fairies from his garden. He warns that they have special powers and so the thief should return them as soon as possible.

Until Next Time,

Eleanore

Eleven

Sunday broke with a gray sky and not a sign of blue anywhere. The Weather Channel had said that we would get serious snow today, not just the dusting we had last night. I couldn't wait. I love snow. In fact, call me strange, but I like winter in general.

Today I was going to turn Collette loose in my office at the Gaheimer House, and then, after a nice breakfast with my husband and kids, I was going to see my father. I'd made the decision lying in bed last night, watching the lights from the tugboats and barges play across my ceiling. If I didn't talk to him, if I did not confront him over Stephanie Connelly, I might never sleep again. Not to mention that interacting with him was going to be weird as long as I carried this news inside of me. Once it was out, we could deal with it and move on.

So I threw on jeans and a flannel shirt, put on my coat, and headed north on Highway 55 in the minivan. I passed Festus and the ever-growing town of Arnold, with its weird water tower, which looks like a giant green upside-down flashlight. I passed Reavis Barracks and Carondelet, and finally got off at Loughborough. My father lives in south St. Louis, in a very old redbrick building of a type common in this area. Back at the turn of the century, Italian immigrants had come to St. Louis and begun working in the clay mines over on the Hill. That clay provided many bricks for the buildings of St. Louis. Now the area he lives in is fast being taken over by Bosnians. As the Bosnian immigrants pour into the area from their war-torn country, they all seem to gather in the same area. It makes sense. If I was going to move to Yugoslavia, I'd certainly want to live where other English-speaking people lived.

I knocked on Dad's door and waited a few moments for him to answer. It was before noon on a Sunday, so he was probably just sitting around in the kitchen with his coffee, his cigarettes, and his guitar. I'd even go so far as to say he'd be barefoot when he answered the door.

Sure enough, he opened the door wearing only jeans. He looked down on me, surprised and possibly happy at my presence. He quickly masked any pleasure at my unannounced visit with a blustery “Yeah, what are you doing here?” His dark hair was down in his face, and I knew just from the antsy way he moved that I had interrupted an intense session of him “shredding” his guitar. And oh, how he loves to shred. He is sort of like a country version of Stevie Ray Vaughn. Just as skinny, too.

Funny thing about Dad and his music: He still plays all those honky-tonk classics from the late sixties and early seventies on his guitar. On mornings when he is feeling particularly nostalgic, he'll reach back to the late fifties and play all of those songs recorded at Sun Studios by Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Carl Perkins. Today's music just isn't country. Or at least that's what he always says.

I couldn't very well tell him that I just happened to be in the neighborhood and had decided to stop by. I rarely come into the city unless Rudy and I are taking the kids to the zoo or the Science Center. I couldn't say, Well, I missed you. Because then he'd say something gruff and stupid to cover up the fact that it pleased him that I missed him. And I couldn't very well just say, Well, I'm here to talk about my sister. So I took the least logical and least intelligent opening.

“Just thought I'd come by and see what you're up to.”

“Who died?” he asked, and ushered me into his house. It's an old house with high ceilings and large pocket doors, which Mary always plays with when we visit. His hardwood floors hadn't been dusted or mopped since God knew when, because I could see a path right down the middle of the room—the only places that his feet ever touched.

“Nobody died,” I said.

“Who's in jail?” he asked.

“Nobody's in jail,” I replied, and followed him into the kitchen.

“Don't say it like it's not a possibility,” he said. “You've been in jail twice now.”

“Yeah, well you've been in jail more.”

He turned around quickly. “Hey, that one time I dropped ketchup on my shirt, I was not drunk while driving.”

“Oh, but your blood-alcohol content disagreed.”

“No, no,” he said. “The cop even told me that my blood-alcohol content wasn't that high. I'd had one beer, for Chrissakes. But because I swerved while wiping the ketchup off my shirt, he said I should sleep it off in the jail anyway.”

“Whatever,” I said.

“Hey, and that time in Mexico wasn't my fault, either.”

“And the other two times?”

“Those were my fault,” he said.

I sat down at his table, which was covered with coffee rings and cigarette ashes. A pile of unopened mail was shoved toward the end of the table, at least two weeks' worth of bills perching precariously on the edge. He sat down and picked up his twelve-string and started plucking away at some tune that sounded like an Irish jig.

“You like this?” he asked. “I wrote it.”

“Yeah,” I said, and meant it. “I really like it. Sort of different from your usual stuff.”

“I've been thinkin' how Dad used to incorporate all of that Scots-Irish stuff in his fiddle music,” he said. “That's all it was really. Just Highland music tweaked a little bit. So, I dunno, I just sort of came up with this on the guitar.”

“I really like it,” I said.

He played awhile longer, his foot tapping on the floor in time. He can't play if he can't tap his foot, just like I can't talk if you immobilize my hands. I know this to be true, because Dad actually had conducted an experiment one time. He had set me on a chair and tied my hands behind my back with my jump rope. He proved it all right. I couldn't get out a single sentence without stuttering. And may I just say that I hate it when my father is right? Not because he is right per se, but because he is so darn smug about it.

I can handle being wrong. Just don't rub it in.

He stopped playing halfway through another round of the song and looked at me. “What's up?” he asked.

You're a lying, cheating bastard. We trusted you. All of this time I wanted a sibling, and you kept her from me. Kept her all to yourself. And even though you're a lying, cheating, selfish bastard, I still love you, because you're my dad. And I don't want to love you right now. I don't want to forgive you for this. But if you say the right words, I will, because you're my dad.

Nope, couldn't say that.

I took a deep breath and tried to steady my shaking hands. “I … had a visitor the other day,” I began.

The fingers on his left hand went to the neck of his guitar—his security.

“Her name was Stephanie Connelly. She had the most interesting story to tell me,” I said, amazed that I'd actually gotten the words out of my mouth.

He surprised me by standing up and pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee, but the guitar neck stayed firmly gripped in his left hand. When he sat down, he leveled a gaze at me that I couldn't read. Was he upset? Was he waiting for my attack? His expression was just blank. Finally, he leaned back and put the guitar across his lap. “And how do you feel about that?” he asked.

“What? Did you turn into a psychologist overnight? How do I feel about it? How do you think I feel about it?”

“I wouldn't have asked if I knew the answer.”

I told myself to be calm, but I couldn't. I rose to my feet, hands flailing through the air, the heat evident in my cheeks. “How could you have known about her and not told me!”

He said nothing.

“How
could
you?” I cried. “Does Mom know?”

He still said nothing.

“Does she know?”

“No,” he said. “She doesn't know.”

I gave a sigh of relief, grateful that only one parent had lied to me.

“You know,” he continued, “I am an adult. I have the right to keep certain things from my children.”

“No, you don't,” I said.

“Don't you keep things from Rachel and Mary? And Matthew?”

“The only things I keep from them are things that I think they're not old enough to understand. Or things that will serve no other purpose than to hurt them.”

He gestured toward me, shaking from head to toe. “You're obviously hurt.”

No. Don't let him twist this around to suit him. I won't let him use my anger and my hurt to plead his innocence. I will not be his excuse.

“Your job as a parent is to teach me right from wrong. To give me shelter. To give me unconditional love. To prepare me for the future and teach me about our history. That's the job of a parent. And what better way to teach me right from wrong than to use your own mistakes as examples,” I said. “Gone are the days, dear Father, when parents are these untouchable marble statues. Gone are the days when children are seen and not heard. Wake up, smell your damn coffee, and get with the new millennium. These are the days when parents interact with their children.”

I was so angry, I could feel the top of my head jolting with every beat of my heart. “It's called being a family,” I said. A tear ran down my cheek and I swiped at it quickly. “It's called blood is thicker than water. If you can't confide in your own family about the things you've done, who the hell can you tell?”

“A person is entitled to his own ghosts,” he said.

“Well, guess what? Your ghost just came and knocked on my door! Can you imagine how I felt?”

He still sat there, irritatingly mute.

“You're entitled to your ghosts, Dad, as long as they remain
your
ghosts. If it can come out and interact with the rest of us, then we have the right to know about it.”