Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret (4 page)

I love the sign that talks about Missouri tax dollars at work. I wondered whether, if I suffered a nervous breakdown from their road construction, the tax dollars would pay for my Prozac.

A ten-minute drive took nearly thirty minutes. I had an itch where my collarbone was. I thought it was just irritated from my shirt. Wrong. I took a good look in the mirror and saw that I had broken out in hives. My palms were sweaty, making it impossible to get a good grip on the steering wheel. I hate traffic. I hate waiting. I was really concerned that Norah was very ill or could have had an accident.

I found Norah's street and turned. The street was perfectly quiet, peaceful looking. Manicured lawns bordered the street, with large ranch-style homes placed in perfect symmetry. Large oak and maple trees stood proudly in each yard, shading the majority of the street.

It was the perfect neighborhood, like something out of a movie. House number 2112 looked no different than any of the others. Except that the front door was open. It wasn't gaping open, but it was open. That disturbed me.

I could just see Norah being abducted and carried away. She couldn't possibly put up much of a fight, since she was very small. I stopped in the middle of the street and parked the car. I left my keys in the ignition as the annoying,
ding, ding, ding,
reminded me. I didn't care.

“Norah?” I yelled as I got out of the car. The warm air felt cool against my back where the sweat had pooled. I wore jeans and a pink cotton shirt. I should have worn shorts.

I could see more of the inside of Norah's house the closer I got. I slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open. My voice full of anxiety, I yelled, “Norah?”

There was no answer. The TV was on. Maybe she was just out in the yard and had forgotten to shut the door. And forgotten to put the phone back on the hook. And forgotten to call in sick to work …

“Norah? Are you all right?” I was seriously concerned about her at this point. She could be in a coma or she could have fallen down the basement steps. All sorts of things could have happened to her. Then again, she could just be in the shower, having decided to tell the rest of the world to go to hell today. Boy was I going to feel silly when she jumped out of the bathroom in a towel.

Turning down the hallway to the left, I was immediately struck by the pungent, sickly sweet odor. I'd never smelled anything quite like it and probably never will again. Every nerve in my body stood up and saluted.

My hands trembled and my stomach clenched. Funny how every muscle can become like jelly. It wasn't anything physical. It was fear. Fear made my body react in a physical way. I wiped my hands on my blue jeans, noticing how rough the material felt. Were these my old jeans? No, must have been my new ones.

Dear God.

Long before my eyes ever landed on Norah, I knew what had happened. There was blood on the walls and ceiling. It left an almost artistic splattering, as if in some perverted imitation of a Picasso. There was more blood on the bed, and a huge puddle flowed away from her neck on the floor. An ocean of red spilled farther from her, carrying her life with it.

I couldn't move. Her hand still clutched the telephone receiver. I imagined the horror of her attack. The fear she must have felt. The indescribable pain. And yet, all the while, she had clutched the telephone receiver. Had she used it as a weapon? Or had she been just too frozen in fear to think to drop it?

She was partially on the bed, with her head thrown back toward me, hanging over the edge. The sheets were a red, mushy mess, and a slight squeal escaped my throat. Her eyes bored into me. Lifeless doll's eyes now. Had she watched her murderer leave? Or was she already dead when he left?

Finally, the only movement I could make was the slumping of my body to the floor. I landed on my knees not an inch from the puddle of blood, and expelled what seemed like everything I had eaten in a year. My gut wrenched time and time again.

Oh, Mother of God.

*   *   *

I finally made it to my feet and ran from the room, using the hallway walls to keep me standing. Bursting through the front door of Norah's house, I landed in her yard on my knees. All I knew was that I had to get to a telephone. It was that determination that got me up off of my knees and running to the house next door.

I rang the doorbell, then pounded on the door. The curtains moved, but nobody answered the door. I pounded some more, never feeling it. I was numb. I was hysterical.

“Please, God. Open the door. Open the damn door!”

I heard the chain unlatch, and the door opened slightly.

“Nine-one-one. Call nine-one-one!” I yelled.

The phrase “little old lady” was a perfect description of the woman who stood behind the door. Snow white hair was perfectly curled around her face, and sky blue eyes peered from behind metal framed glasses.

“Please, call nine-one-one. It's Norah. She's … dead.”

Finally, she opened the door and let me in. I felt terribly guilty bringing this to her house on this otherwise beautiful day. She started to shake, and then cry. We were now in hysterics together.

She managed to get up and get me a glass of water while I dialed 911. I then ran to the bathroom and everything that I'd just drunk came up as well.

I ran some water in the bathroom sink and splashed it on my face and over my short hair. The face in the mirror didn't seem to be mine. My skin was normally green. Mother says it's olive. I say it's green, and it looked more so now. Actually, as unjust as it was, I looked just like my father. Put a dress on my dad and that's me. But as I stared into the mirror in this stranger's home, the face looking back at me seemed more the stranger than did the little old lady.

My intestines felt like they were doing the rumba, and I shook from head to toe. Overall, though, I thought I held together fairly well. Then I began to cry uncontrollably. I hadn't even known her. Not really. But the memory of what someone had done to her brought the tears on like a monsoon. I was angry, and what's worse, I felt helpless. Helplessness is not something I like to feel.

I heard the doorbell ring a few minutes later. It was Sheriff Brooke. Just what I needed. Sheriff Brooke and I go back a long way. He arrested me once. Yes, I confess. I have a record. I was speeding through town in my husband's GMC truck, and I argued with the sheriff over the ticket that he tried to give me. Then I resisted arrest. When he realized that I had been trying to get Charity Bergermeister to the hospital before she had her twins, he gave us an escort. Once we were at the hospital, he arrested me.

Anyway, we have never got along since then; we just sort of tolerate each other.

“Hello, Torie.”

“Sheriff Brooke.”

He sat down in the chair opposite me. The furniture looked like something out of 1962, in your average brown. White lace doilies were poised just perfectly over the backs of the chairs and the couch. The little old lady sat perched in her rocking chair, waiting to listen to every word we said.

Brooke was off duty, and so he had no uniform. His eyes were blue, his hair sandy. He looked like a man to be reckoned with, and as much as I hate to admit it, he
was
a man to be reckoned with. His shoulders were very broad for his height. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt with a camel on it. It was the camel that advertises the Camel cigarettes. The camel wore sunglasses and had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Funny how that is what grabbed my attention.

The shirt suited Sheriff Brooke, I decided. I had often wondered if his mother secretly called him “Bubba.”

“So, you found the body?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What made you come all the way out here?”

“It's only ten minutes away. It's still in your jurisdiction,” I said. “I was worried about her. She didn't show up for work. Or even call in sick.” I rubbed my eyes. “She was supposed to call me back last night and didn't. I was worried that she might be seriously ill.”

“How well did you know her?”

“Not real well. She was a shop owner. I've talked to her a few times at council meetings. That sort of thing,” I answered. I felt like a robot on autopilot. The answers to his questions were just rolling out of my mouth without my giving them much thought.

“So, why would you be so concerned about somebody that you barely know?”

Did he think
I
was a suspect? “She recently came to the Gaheimer House to ask me to trace her family tree. Or at least part of it anyway.”

“Did you touch anything?” he asked.

“Just the front door.”

“The knob?”

“No, I just pushed it open.”

“Notice anything unusual?” he asked.

“Besides the dead body and all of the blood? No, not a thing.”

He glared at me as he stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. “You know, I think that every time I have ever spoken with you, you've had tons of attitude. I think that maybe you're too big for your britches.”

“Well what kind of question was that?” I said angrily. “What do you mean did I notice anything unusual? I noticed lots and lots of blood, and that's about as unusual as I get to see in a given day.”

He must have decided that, considering what I had just seen, I was allowed some attitude, because he didn't say anything back to me.

“Any unusual cars?” he asked finally. “Anything out of place?”

“I told you, I wouldn't know. I didn't know her well enough to know if anything was out of the ordinary.”

“Any idea who she was talking to on the phone?”

I swallowed hard and hugged myself. Was it possible that she was still holding the phone from when she had spoken to me last night? “Me,” I suggested.

He stopped chewing for a minute and swallowed. It would have come as no surprise to me if he had swallowed his gum.

Deputy Newsome came in the front door then. His face looked as if it belonged to a thirteen-year-old. Pudgy red cheeks showed no trace of any facial hair.

“Hey, Torie,” he said to me.

“Hey, Willie.”

“My mom really appreciated the lilac cuttings.”

“Good. Tell her if she needs some more to let me know.”

“Newsome,” Sheriff Brooke spat, “did you come in here to talk to Mrs. O'Shea about botany or was there some official matter that you needed to discuss?”

“Oh, yes sir. The victim hasn't been dead long, and—”

“How do you know?” I asked.

Without hesitation he turned to me to elaborate. “The blood is too fresh, hasn't begun to dry or anything. No rigor … I overheard the ME—”

“Excuse me!” the sheriff barked. “This is a witness, not a cop.”

“Oh, sorry. Sheriff, the ME wants to speak with you. Says the perp could have been here as little as an hour ago.”

“Tell me you've got people scanning the subdivision.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But Ms. Langsdorf here is about the only person home on the whole block.”

“Whatever. I don't care if it's a block away. I want everybody questioned.”

Brooke held up a finger to tell me to wait a minute, then went outside to speak with the ME. The thoughts of being on the other end of the phone when Norah's assailant arrived really made me sick. Then I remembered Deputy Newsome saying she hadn't been dead very long. That made me even more sick. I could have actually walked in on that!

I could have possibly even saved her if I had gotten there in time.

Brooke came back in the door, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wrote down everything while we talked this time, which made me extremely nervous.

“Why do you think she was on the phone to you when she was killed?” he asked.

“Well, I don't think that anymore.”

“Oh, and why not?” he asked. “In five minutes' time you just change your mind?”

“I called her yesterday, Thursday, and she hung up quickly. She said somebody was at her door. I haven't talked to her today. If she died this morning, it couldn't have been me on the phone.”

“Do you know who was at the door?”

“I couldn't tell.”

“Who do you think killed her?” he asked me.

“I wouldn't have any idea,” I said. “I didn't know her well enough to know who would have motive or anything else,” I said.

The sheriff watched me closely over the top of his notepad. “All right,” he said. “You can go, for now. I'll have to speak to you again, at a later date.”

“Fine,” I said as I stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Langsdorf, for letting me use your bathroom.” She only nodded and raised her handkerchief to her nose.

“Be gentle with her,” I whispered to Brooke. “She's had quite a scare today.”

I left her house, breathing in the fresh air. I headed toward my car, wanting to be home, and having no idea how I would ever make it there.

“Oh, Mrs. O'Shea?” Sheriff Brooke asked as he came out of Mrs. Langsdorf's house.

At that moment I thought I was stuck in a
Columbo
rerun. Why did he have to wait until I got halfway to my car to ask me a question? “What?” I snapped.

“Where's the dog?”

“The dog?” I said, loud enough that he could hear me.

“There is a dog bowl with food and water. No dog.”

“How the heck should I know?”

Afterward, he probably thought of me as I had thought of Betty at the antique shop earlier. I didn't really care, though. All I knew was that I wanted out of there, and I was about ready to have a full-blown panic attack.

I sat in my car and laid my head on the steering wheel. I turned the engine over and the radio came on. The weather. It was supposed to rain. I felt oddly detached from the entire world. The radio sounded strange. The steering wheel felt funny. The world went on. How could everything just keep going? A life had just been ended, horribly. I had just seen probably the worst thing I would ever see, and now the radio was advertising two-by-fours just a $1.69 at so-and-so's, for your new deck this summer.