Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret (5 page)

 

 

NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

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HE
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by Eleanore Murdoch

Everyone will be happy to hear that Old German Days was a success! Thanks to all of you that showed your support and volunteered. And of course a special thanks to Torie O'Shea for suffering through a solid week in those hot historical costumes.

Sylvia Pershing reported that a record amount of money was raised by the Lick-a-Pot Candy Shoppe, Quilts and Things, and the Dog and Suds for the historical society. She wouldn't give me an exact amount, but it was somewhere in the neighborhood of $4,600. Great work!

Also, we were all deeply saddened at the death of a fellow shop owner, Norah Zumwalt, who owned Norah's Antiques. Our prayers are with her family.

Tobias Thorley wants to know who stole the statue of Abraham Lincoln out of his garden. If you'll just return it he won't press charges.

And, last but not least, Noble Quimbly puts out a challenge: Anybody that can hit his ex-wife's photograph between her eyes with a dart, he'll buy you a beer. Until next time.

Eleanore

Four

Norah's funeral was three days later. In my life so far, showing up at the funeral home was one of the hardest things that I ever had to do.

She was laid out at Klondike and Sons Funeral Home in west St. Louis County. Norah was the only member of her family that had lived down South. Her three sisters and her children all lived in and around St. Louis.

I was nervous, and Rudy gave my shoulder a squeeze as he opened the funeral-home door for me.

We entered the hall and that familiar funeral-home smell instantly filled my nostrils and set off an alarm in my head that told me to be quiet. Why people are quiet in a funeral home I'll never know. It's sort of like a cemetery. It's not as if the dead will complain, and you'd think the living would welcome the diversion.

The casket was closed, as I thought it would be. I can't remember if any of the knife wounds had touched her face or not.

A man stepped from the casket and the small knot of people that he was speaking to, and came my way. He was extraordinarily good-looking. His stark blue eyes only served to make his face seem more chiseled than it really was. He looked to be about twenty-eight years old, with dark wavy hair. He was Adonis rediscovered.

“Hello. I'm Jeff Zumwalt,” he said, extending a hand.

I felt myself stiffen and suck in my breath. This was Norah's son. I didn't know what to say to him. If I mentioned that I was the one that found his mother's body, he might break down. And I didn't think I could handle that. What if he somehow blamed me? That would be even worse. I couldn't speak. I stood there staring into his blue eyes and completely ignoring his outstretched hand.

“Hello,” Rudy said, and shook his hand. “I'm Rudy O'Shea and this is my wife, Torie.”

Something registered in his eyes. It was just a split second, but it was there.

“You're the one that found her,” he said with no particular emotion in his voice. I couldn't tell if he was appalled by that or sad. He could even have been happy for all I could tell.

“How did you know my mother?” he asked.

“I'm the chief historian for the New Kassel Historical Society. Our headquarters are just two blocks away from your mother's shop. She hired me to trace her family tree.”

“I see,” was all he said.

“I can't tell you how sorry I am,” I said. “I thought, I'd go ahead and finish her family tree for you and your sister.”

“Rita would love it,” he said as he played with the cuffs on his shirt. It was a white cotton oxford type of shirt, worn under a suit jacket. Anyone could buy it at Kmart for twelve dollars. He probably paid fifty bucks for it. He looked the type to deliberately spend too much money for something.

“She is just like Mom was,” he said. “Always thought she'd find somebody great back there in her ancestry. A king, a Revolutionary War hero. I think she always wanted to join one of those societies or something. What difference does any of it make? It seems fairly trivial in light of everything that has happened. Don't you agree?”

I was slightly defensive toward his attitude, but I'm always defensive. “I didn't get the impression that she was looking for anybody great or famous. I think she was more concerned about finding something on her father.”

Just then an elderly couple came by. The woman touched Jeff's arm and shook her head. “I'm so sorry, Jeff. She was a sweet woman,” she said.

Jeff touched her hand with his and smiled. “Yes, she was. Thanks for coming.”

Jeff turned to me then and looked to the ceiling to think of what it was he wanted to say. “What were we discussing? Oh, yes. Her father. She'd been obsessed with that angle for years. Not that I blame her. But I don't see how any of it would make her a better person.”

His attitude was not an unusual one. A lot of people could really care less about that sort of thing. Still, it irked me, and I could tell that Rudy had read my thoughts. He leaned closer and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Well,” I said to Jeff, “he who knows not where he came from, knows not where he's going.” Somebody important said that, but I couldn't for the life of me remember who it was.

He smiled at me. “Rita will greatly appreciate your efforts.”

“Where is your sister?” I asked. “I'd like to pay my respects to her before we leave.”

“She is not here at the moment. She took her children to get some dinner. She should be back shortly.”

“May I have her address?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Let me get a piece of paper. I'll be right back.”

As he walked away, Rudy turned me around to face him. His brown eyes were serious, like they are when he's getting ready to scold one of the girls. “What are you trying to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Well what was all of that ‘he who's going doesn't know where he's going' crap?”

“He ticked me off. Don't you think he's got a rather flippant attitude?”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe he doesn't really give a damn about her ancestors because he's more concerned with her being dead?” Rudy asked. He tried to keep his voice low, but the last two words of the sentence were raised somewhat.

“Well … well … he shouldn't be rude to me. I was just offering to do a service for them—one that their mother wanted me to do—and he just dismisses it like it's the world's most ridiculous thing.”

“It probably is to him. Nothing makes any difference to him right now. His mother is dead.”

I hung my head. Rudy had made his point. I suppose I was having difficulty being objective.

Jeff came back with a piece of paper that had his sister's name, address, and phone number on it. He handed it to me with a cool smile.

“Thank you,” I said. “I'm sorry if I seem a little … testy to you. Finding her has affected me very much.”

“I understand completely,” he said.

“Can I ask you something?” I said to him.

“Sure,” he said.

“When did you see your mother last?”

With that question, Rudy kicked the back of my knee and coughed. I gave him the sweetest smile that I have ever given anybody in my life.

“Thursday,” Jeff said, without having to think about it.

“Did she act strange? Did she have any prank phone calls, a strange teenager in the neighborhood? Problems at work?”

“The only problem she had at work was the fact that the place existed.”

“What do you mean by that?” Rudy asked, before I could.

“She insisted on owning the shop. She didn't need the money. As a matter of fact, she had to use some of her personal money every year just to keep it afloat. It served no purpose whatsoever.”

“Why didn't she need the money?” I asked. “If you don't mind my asking,” I added. He didn't have to answer me—I was a complete stranger—but he complied.

“She was independently wealthy,” he stated without blinking. “But, in answer to your real question, I have no idea who could have killed her. I know that's what you're driving at. I have tried to pretend that there was this horrible man who picked her out, just her, for some special reason.”

“Why?”

“Because there would be a reason for it. I can't bear to think that what happened to her was random.”

Somehow I didn't think there was a reason on earth that would make me feel any better, if it had been my mother. But I understood exactly what he meant.

I thanked him for his sister's address, and turned to leave the room. Rudy walked close to me, hand on my shoulder. As we walked through the glass doors into the lobby, Sheriff Brooke came in from the outdoors.

“Mrs. O'Shea,” he said. “Rudy.” He was in official uniform today, and he reached up and touched the brim of his hat when he spoke our names.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” Rudy said.

“Sheriff,” I managed. I kept on walking right out to the parking lot, but Rudy stayed behind in the lobby for a few minutes. Their conversation was short, but seemed to be polite.

When Rudy came out to join me, I asked him what they had talked about.

“Hockey,” he answered.

Yeah, right.

Five

“You're a real bitch lately,” Rudy said. His expression was one of concern, not anger, and so I let his remark ride.

It was true, I could keep up with the best of the bitches, if pressed to do so. I was cranky, high tempered, self-absorbed, and moody.

Every now and then these submerged personality flaws of mine will surface, eventually moving on. But I had been this way for days, and had expected Rudy to say something eventually. Bless his pea-pickin' heart, it had taken him three days of being treated like the soles of my shoes before he said anything.

I don't always behave like this. Usually I'm the one trying to figure out what is wrong with Rudy. He is very moody, and can go from a charming Cary Grant to Freddy Krueger in under an hour. It really is quite a remarkable metamorphosis.

He stared at me from across the kitchen, eyes following every move I made. I grabbed a handful of Fritos, the barbecue kind because they make my breath smell so bad that Rudy can't come within arm's distance of me. Shoving them in my mouth, I gave him the look of flying daggers. I think he actually flinched.

“What is it? PMS?” he asked as he leaned up against the counter.

“I don't get PMS.” Right. Famous words of every self-righteous woman, trying to keep her dignity. I'd much rather be a bitch for a reason than because of hormones. It seems like such a waste of long-harbored anger, not to mention energy, for it to be used on hormones.

Rudy threw his hands up in surrender and reached into the refrigerator for the milk. Okay, if I didn't concede soon, then he would be in a winner of a mood, and I'd spend the whole night trying to get him out of it.

I wanted him to notice. I wanted him to ask, plead, and pry out what was the matter with me. But there was a fine line to the rules of this game. I had to concede at some point after I'd made him miserable, or then he'd get angry and we'd all suffer. And his moods were a heck of a lot worse than mine.

Funny, this thing called marriage. It reminded me of a ship on the ocean. You just have to ride the waves and hope that you don't slam into any rocks.

Rudy's surrender was the point for me to begin to give a little. I don't think that there is a manual on any of this, but we spent the first four years of our marriage just figuring it all out.

“I'm just tired,” I said. It was bull, but it was an opening without revealing too much. He'd bite.

“I think…” He tested his ground and, surprisingly, was straightforward. “I think that you are still upset over finding the body,” he said as he twisted the cap off of the milk, but made no move to get a glass.

“Body? She had a name. Norah Zumwalt. She was a real person. Besides, wouldn't you still be upset? If it were you who had seen what I saw, you still wouldn't be sleeping.”

“Maybe you should see a shrink,” he said. He raised the milk jug to his mouth.

“Don't you dare drink that milk without a glass! And my head is shrunk enough.”

“Yeah, by self-diagnosis,” he said, reaching into the cabinet for a glass.

“No, when I was a kid, a bunch of headhunters broke into my house. They had just begun to shrink my head when my dad jumped in to save me.”

Leave it to a six-year-old to walk into a room when you've just said the most stupid thing in your entire life. Her eyes were wide with wonder. “Really, Mom? What did Grandpa do? Beat them up?”

I laughed slightly, tension broken. “I'm just joking, Rachel. Go on and play,” I said, patting her on the head.

“If you want to know the truth,” I began. “It's damned hard to live with the fact that I might have been able to save her.”

“No. You might have been killed, too, and then where would Rachel and Mary be without a mom? It's sad, yeah. But Norah's children are at least grown. It was fate. You were spared.”

“Gee, I feel better,” I said. “Why did she have to die at all? Why did the whole thing have to happen?”

I couldn't help but feel a cold chill run down my back. Why? That summed up my problem. It was senseless. It didn't look as though she'd been raped. From what I could remember, her clothes were on and in order.

Robbery? Well if it were robbery, why didn't he just slice her throat? According to the papers, she had been stabbed repeatedly. How many robbers would have wasted all of that time stabbing her? The entire situation lacked a motive.

I thought of Jeff Zumwalt's words about it being random. Yes, I agreed with him. If it were random, that was the most unsettling notion of all. Because then, nobody would be safe from it ever happening to them.