Died in the Wool (8 page)

“You're welcome,” he said. “Let me walk you out.”

“No, that's all right,” I said. “I know my way.”

I left Father Bingham drinking his tea in the study.

I walked back over to the cemetery to take another look at the marble statue of Glory. The statue was intoxicating, breathtaking and pitiful all in one. It was difficult not to look at it. It was so real and lifelike that I would swear she could just swing her legs over the tomb and jump down. If she did, of course, I'd pass out right then and there.

Glory's mother's name was Hannah. On the other side of Hannah Kendall's grave was a small but sweet stone for the baby girl who had died at three months. Apparently the whole family was here. Except for the two boys.

Instead of going home, I went back to the Gaheimer House to look again at the compiled cemetery records for Granite County. I couldn't stand not knowing where Whalen and Rupert Kendall were buried. It didn't matter. Knowing where they were buried was not going to help me know what happened in that house, or why three perfectly healthy twenty-something American kids killed themselves. I just had to know. The cemetery records showed that Whalen and Rupert were buried right next to each other in the Methodist cemetery about a mile or two outside of town on the south road.

Well, at least I knew now. I grabbed Glory's quilt journal to take home and look through tonight, turned the lights off, and locked up. I had just stepped out onto the sidewalk when my stepfather drove by. I waved and he honked. Then he backed up and stopped in front of the Gaheimer House. Only in a town this size can you just back up on the main street and not hit anybody.

“Hey,” I said.

He got out of the car, but stood in its open door. I guess he did that so he could jump back in and move the car, in case somebody drove by and wanted to use that side of the road. Colin is about twelve years older than I am and has earned the nickname Bubba. He's the biggest guy I think I've ever met personally with the exception of a character named Tiny Tim Julep. Colin is immensely tall, with huge hands and wide shoulders. His size somehow emphasizes the fact that he always looks ticked off. At least, when he's around me he always looks ticked off. Either way, he and my mother make quite a cute couple, since my mother is only about four foot ten, dainty, and fair. Me? I look like my dad. Put a dress on my dad, a few more eyelashes, and a slightly more feminine mouth, and you'd have me. “Whatcha up to?” Colin asked. “You're here late.”

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just some research.”

“I could see the look on your face as I drove by. Even in the dark.”

“What look?” I said.

“You've got that preoccupied look.”

“So? A person's not allowed to be preoccupied?” I asked.

“Come on. What is it? Who turned up mysteriously dead?”

“Nobody,” I said, giving a slight shrug.

“Did you find Jimmy Hoffa this time?”

“Jeez, Colin, you need a life.”

“I have a life,” he said. “I am mayor of New Kassel.”

“Yeah, just keep saying that to yourself. Makes you sound important.”

“Torie…” He looked off up the street.

“You're bored to death, aren't you?” I asked.

“I've never played so much golf in my life,” he admitted.

“Well, you asked for this job.”

“It's not as if there isn't some work to do, because there is,” he said. “It's just not…”

“Exciting?” I asked. “Pushing a pencil doesn't get your blood pumping?”

“Well, for all intents and purposes, being sheriff of the Middle of Nowhere, Missouri, shouldn't get my blood pumping, either. You know, the occasional speeding ticket or drug bust…”

“I've managed to keep quite busy without dealing with speeding tickets or drug busts,” I said.

“That's because you're not satisfied with the crime of this century, you've got to go digging it up from the past,” he said.

“At least I'm not bored and getting skin cancer from playing too much golf.”

He shrugged, smiling. “The upside is that my golf game has really improved.”

“Well, good, Colin. I'm happy for ya,” I said. “I need to get home now. I probably missed dinner as it is.”

“Whatcha working on? Come on, Torie, tell me. Please?”

I laughed. “I'm looking into the Kendall suicides.”

“I knew it!” he said, and slapped the roof of his car. “You had that look!”

“Great, okay, I'm going home now.”

“All right,” he said. “I'll see you later.”

With that he drove off. I laughed at him all the way to my car.

Seven

Matthew nearly knocked me over when I walked through the door. He gave me a big hug and then showed me a very purple smudge under his left eye. “I got a black eye,” he said.

“I see that. What happened?”

“Your daughter gave it to him,” Rudy said, coming in from the kitchen.

“
My
daughter?” I asked. Funny how that works. An immaculate conception took place and I knew nothing about it. Hmm … I guess that
is
the way it would work, isn't it? I wouldn't know there was an immaculate conception taking place until after it was over. “How did she give him a black eye?”

You'll notice I didn't ask
which
daughter gave him the black eye. There was absolutely no need.

“Mary was hanging him off of the back fence by his ankles.”

I couldn't help it, I laughed. Oh, come on. You can only be angry so much. Sometimes you just have to laugh at things. “Why was she hanging him by his ankles?”

“I asked her to!” Matthew said.

“Evidently he weighed more than Mary realized and she dropped him. Right on his head. On a rock,” Rudy said.

I ruffled Matthew's hair. “Well, I can't say that I feel sorry for you, buddy. If you ask your sister to hang you by your ankles, bad things are certain to follow.”

“I was trying to fly,” he said.

I laughed even harder. “Well, you crash landed.”

The look in his eyes told me that his mind was quickly flashing through other possible ways to fly. Ones that might be more successful. Something told me this wouldn't be his only black eye.

Rudy kissed me on the cheek. “You missed dinner.”

“I thought I might.”

“It's still warm, though. We just finished.”

“Great,” I said.

I walked into the kitchen, where the smell of my mother's lasagna was still heavy in the air. I made myself a plate and ate leaning up against the kitchen counter.

Mary ran into the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator, and pulled out a container of yogurt. “Didn't you just eat?” I asked.

“I'm hungry,” she said. She grabbed a spoon and ran back out of the kitchen.

I ate in silence for a while. Then Rudy came and stood next to me. “What's up?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “This lasagna is good.”

“Wish I could take credit for it,” he said.

Rachel and Mary raced into the kitchen as the phone rang. “I got it!” Rachel yelled. Mary tried to grab the phone at the last second and Rachel accidentally elbowed her in the chest. As Mary jumped back, she hit one of the chairs and knocked it over. At least she managed not to spill any of the yogurt she was still holding.

“Is it for me?” Mary asked, recovering her dignity.

Rachel looked at the caller ID. “No! Oh yeah, it's for me this time!” Then she stuck her tongue out at Mary and disappeared with the cordless phone.

“You know, I've been thinking,” I said.

“About putting the kids up for adoption?” Rudy asked.

I smacked his arm. He just laughed.

“No, I'm being serious,” I said.

“Oh, in that case. Uh-oh.”

“No, really. Look at our kids. We have three kids. Just like the Kendalls had. I can't imagine that our three kids would off themselves. I mean, they might end up killing each other, but I just don't see them killing themselves.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, lost.

“You know, the Kendall family. The triple suicides.”

“Oh, last century. Gotcha.”

“How does something like that happen, Rudy? I mean, their poor father. Can you imagine? It would be devastating enough for that to happen to one of them, but all three of them? I mean … where did it go wrong? I imagine they had moments in their home like the ones we have. Playful moments, loving moments, fighting moments.”

“We have loving moments? And I missed them?”

I punched his arm this time. “You know we do.”

“I don't know, Torie,” he said, rubbing his arm. “All I know about the Kendall family is that everything went wrong when the one brother came back from World War I. He was never the same. That's the legend circulating around town.”

“So, what, let's say you have a brother, Rudy. He comes back from Desert Storm or the Iraq war and he's a bit touched. He's not quite ‘right' anymore. Posttraumatic stress disorder, or whatever you want to call it. What are the chances that you and your sister would commit suicide because your brother had a hellacious war experience? I mean, does that make any sense? I can understand the veteran coming back and being unable to live with the things he witnessed, or even did, but what caused the sister and the other brother to kill themselves, too?”

“Maybe it was some bizarre death pact,” he said. “I've heard of groups of friends doing that.”

“True,” I said, “but usually when that happens they all do it on the same day. I know at least one of the Kendall children died almost a year after the other two. I can't make it right in my head, Rudy. I just can't.”

“So I take it you're going to be absent until you figure it out.”

“Huh?”

“Well, physically you'll be here, but mentally you're going to be off somewhere else.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“All right, just as long as I know up front what I'm dealing with,” he said, smiling. God bless him. “Has Mort asked you to look into this?”

“No,” I said. “This is strictly on my own. There's no reason for Mort to ask me to look into it. I really just want to know what happened, so that when I do get the display of Glory's quilts up and running, I can tell her story. The whole story.”

“Betcha Colin's glad he's not sheriff anymore,” he said.

“Betcha he's not,” I said. I set my plate in the sink and then kissed Rudy on the mouth. “I'll do homework duty if you do cleanup.”

“Deal,” he said.

“Oh, and by the way, can I buy the Kendall house?” I asked.

“I was wondering when you were going to get around to that,” he said.

“Well, since my inheritance from Sylvia, it's not as if we can't afford it,” I said. “Although I'm not sure what Evan is asking for it yet.”

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.

“I've been thinking I'd like to set it up as a textile depository. You know, not just for New Kassel. I could make it a depository of quilts and fabric arts—historic in nature—for several counties. I could do a display of Glory's work at the Gaheimer House if I had to, but I think it would be better if it's displayed in her home, and then we can display other antique textile arts there as well. When people come to see the antique textiles, they also get the history of the Kendall family. Whatever that may be.”

Rudy smiled at me.

“I think it's really important, Rudy. I mean, men get giant museums and such to show off their military prowess. Hell, they get entire battlefields to show how well they can kill each other. I think women are entitled to a museum dedicated to their textile arts.”

“It's fine with me,” he said. “As you said, we can afford it. Although, are you sure you have a staff big enough to cover both the Gaheimer House and the Kendall house?”

“If I have to hire somebody part-time for one house or the other, I will. Besides, I might be able to get somebody like Geena to come and work one day a week at the Kendall house. I might try to get a few experts on staff. Especially if we continued to acquire more textiles.”

“I think it's a brilliant idea,” he said.

“Great,” I said with a big smile. “I'll call our real estate agent first thing in the morning.” Mission accomplished, I turned to head up to my office.

Rudy stopped me. “Do you need me for the rose show?”

“Oh, uh … you might want to run one of the refreshment booths. Otherwise, I think Tobias and Elmer have everything else covered.”

“Okay,” he said.

“You might want to call Colin. I think he's bored.”

Rudy laughed. “I'll see him tomorrow night. Bowling.”

“Ah,” I said. With that I went up to my office and put Glory's quilt journal on my desk. Then I changed clothes and headed back downstairs to help with the multiple rounds of homework.

*   *   *

When I was finished helping Matthew write his numbers and letters and fumbling through Mary's math homework, I headed back upstairs to my office and the quilt journal. The pages of the diary were yellowed, the ink a sepia brown, faded from their original colors. I flipped through the diary just to see what was inside. It wasn't all words. There were fabric swatches with notes telling the origin of the fabrics and which quilts she had used them in. There were a few photographs tucked inside the journal, too. One photograph was of a young man sitting on the front porch of the Kendall house. There was no morning glory vine in the photograph, but there was a quilt. The quilt was wrapped around the young man, who looked pale and shellshocked. I flipped the photograph over. Written on the back was
Rupert, 1919.

So that was brother number two. I was going to go way out on a limb here, but I'd say that he was the one who had fought in the First World War. I could find the answer to that quickly enough, since the St. Louis County public library had all of the Missouri draft papers from World War I on file. Getting his military records from the National Archives wouldn't be that difficult, either, even without his regiment information. The problem was that it could take up to eight weeks. At least that was how long it took the last time I'd sent off to the National Archives for something.