Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret (6 page)

Rudy gulped his milk and then walked across the room toward me. He hugged me and gave me a kiss, Frito breath and all. For the moment I felt a little better.

*   *   *

I sat in a booth at the closest Pasta Club, waiting for Rita Zumwalt Schmidt. I had phoned her to see if she would meet me for lunch, and she had agreed.

The Pasta Club is in south St. Louis County. It had taken me an hour to get there, but their food is well worth the drive. The waitresses all wear an off-the-shoulder white blouse, with a bodice laced under their breasts, and a skirt. They look like they've been out smashing grapes. The waiters wear a very blousy white shirt, with knickers that tie on the outside of the knee. They resemble gondoliers. You can't get any more Italian than grape stompers and gondoliers.

I knew the instant Rita arrived in the doorway who she was. She was small like her mother, probably thirty or so, and very graceful. She was dressed conservatively, but fashionably. She was one of those women who always look fresh, clean, and in complete control. Her clothes fit perfectly, no puckers, no gaps, no wrinkles. She was wearing a pair of tan dress pants and a tan-colored blouse with green swirls in it, and the proper adornments of jewelry.

Nothing was overdone. Even her makeup appeared very light, but was actually the whole nine yards. Several base coats of the perfect color, blush, three subtle shades of eye shadow, mascara, liner, and lipstick. Amazing. The overall effect was as though she wore nothing at all.

How do women do that? On my best days I wear some mascara, maybe some blush. My hair never looks good, and my clothes are a wreck. I could iron for a year and still have wrinkles. Nothing ever fits right, thanks in part to my short waist.

So I sat across from Miss Perfect, feeling more inadequate by the moment. Her hair was an average brown, eyes an average blue. Her weight was perfect. I hated her from the start.

She'd probably order a salad.

“I'm so glad that you called,” she said. Perfect manners, too. “Mother was very excited about the work that you were doing for her.”

“Well, thank you for coming,” I said.

The waiter appeared, and I hesitated to order. I didn't want to order enough food for the Confederate army if she was going to order a salad. So I waited.

“I am famished today,” she said. “I'd like a martini, with a salad,” she said. She bit her lip and leaned forward to me. “Would you like to split a pasta order with me?”

I was going to barf. “No thanks,” I said. “I'm a pig and I usually eat everything on my plate.”

She laughed dutifully, as if it were a joke. Little did she know.

The waiter smiled. He was tan, with white teeth and black hair. I imagined his parents had just come off the boat. I glanced at his name tag and was very disappointed when I saw his name was Scott. I expected Giovanni or something.

“I think,” she began, “I will order the manicotti, but please bring me two doggy bags. One for my salad and one for my pasta. I will never eat all of it,” she said to the waiter, who just smiled.

He turned to me, waiting.

“I'll have an order of fried zucchini, with a salad and an order of the fettuccine Alfredo. I won't need a doggy bag.”

He winked at me. “Anything to drink?”

“Dr Pepper.”

The waiter departed, and I stole a quick look at Rita without her knowing. In all fairness, she looked as uncomfortable with me as I was with her.

“I've decided to go ahead and finish your mother's family tree,” I said. “It's a gift.”

“How nice,” she said. “Mother was really hoping to find something on her father's family.”

“Yes, I know. He's alive.”

Her face was blank. “What?”

“Her father is alive. I haven't contacted him as of yet. I'm not sure how to approach him.”

A tear welled up in her eye. “My God. After all these years. I have a grandfather,” she said, amazed.

“Yes,” I assured her. “I may try and contact an aunt or uncle or old neighbor first and get their reaction. Sometimes people don't appreciate surprises like these, especially at the age of seventy.”

“Of course. You'll let me know, won't you?”

“Oh, yes.”

Our salads arrived with that wonderful bread I always eat too much of. “I was curious,” I said. “Where are your mother's things?”

“The police told me a few days ago that I could go through her things now. Jeff wants very little, just a few photos. John only wants a few sentimental things. Things that they acquired on vacations. That sort of thing. So I've moved her personal things to my house. I haven't moved her furniture or anything.”

“I'm sorry, but who is John?” I asked.

The look on her face was worth a thousand dollars. She was upset with herself for letting something slip.

“He's Mother's boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend? Oh. Well that's certainly none of my business. I was just slightly confused for a second. I thought maybe John was a son I knew nothing about.”

“No, no. They'd been seeing each other for years. It really wasn't all that serious. I just took it as two older people having somebody to do things with. If it was any more serious than that, Mother never let on,” she finished with a smile.

“May I see her father's letters?” I asked to change the subject.

“Of course. Why?”

“They may give me some insight into the situation. Or other relatives that I could talk to.” Or why he never made contact with Viola again.

“Sure. We can run by my house on your way home.”

Half an hour later, after much small talk, I followed her to her house, about fifteen minutes from the restaurant. She drove a cute sports car, red. It seemed to be the only nonconservative thing about her.

True to my expectations, she left half of her salad and ate ten bites of her manicotti. It was miraculous. She never lost any lipstick, and no food clung to the crevices in her perfect teeth.

I couldn't help but wonder if it was painful to live like that.

Her house was a large two-story, with a three-car garage, in Webster Groves, which is one of the more expensive areas of St. Louis County to live. The inside was as immaculate and symmetrical as her lawn had been. Neutral browns, beiges, and an occasional splash of salmon dominated her color scheme. Everything was wide open and her furniture was sparse. Probably on purpose, to add to the effect of having tons of room.

Within a few minutes she had gone to get a box containing her grandfather's letters.

“Thank you. I'll bring them back as soon as I've read them.”

“Sure,” she said.

The next thing I knew, I was being attacked by a killer Yorkshire terrier. The damned thing was yapping incessantly and biting my pants leg.

“What the…?”

“Sparky, get down!” Rita ordered.

I've had dogs of my own and I'm usually the first to make friends with a stray. This little dog really unsettled me. I had never had a dog treat me this way.

“Sparky!” Rita finally corralled the little devil and set him outside. “God, I'm sorry. It's my mother's dog and he does that to everybody! He does it to me when I first come home, and I live here.”

“How nice…” Suddenly I realized what she had just said. “Your mother's dog?”

“Yes.”

“Did Sheriff Brooke ask you about the dog?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I told him that Jeff picks the dog up on Thursdays.”

“Why?”

“Shots. He takes him to the vet to get his allergy shots. Mom couldn't bear to see the needle go in. Or hear him yelp for that matter. It was just a little errand he did for Mom.” She smiled, face flushing. “Now I don't know what to do with it.”

“Hmm,” was all I managed.

That little errand that Jeff did for his mother could have aided in her death. If that dog reacted like that to all people, it could have warned her that somebody was in her house. Those stupid, trivial things that can put the wheels in motion were enough to drive me crazy.

Six

The rain poured from the skies as if there were no tomorrow. It was one of those perfectly puky days, like I remember as a kid. I'd sit in the classroom and stare at the windows as the rain slid down the glass, dripping off of the metal.

Rain in school didn't seem real. The sky turned dark, and the classroom followed into its murky shade. It gave the classroom an eerie feeling.

That is how I felt at the moment. I had caught my usual spring cold, brought on by allergies. My head felt as though it had been bludgeoned with a rubber sledgehammer, and my nose was raw. I had taken some over-the-counter sinus medication, which I should know better than to do. My legs were jumpy, and I could actually feel my hair growing. And I still had a stopped-up nose.

I had read every letter that Eugene Counts had written to Viola Pritcher. I had gleaned a few new names to check out, but nothing earth-shattering.

I had also received the death certificate for Eugene's mother, Edith Mae Chappuis Counts. I was really excited about this. Most people get excited over new cars; I get excited over death certificates. It's no wonder my husband worries about my state of mind.

Edith Mae Chappuis Counts was born in 1899. Her parents were Gaston Chappuis, born in France, and Ellenore Rousson, born in Ste. Genevieve County, Missouri. The certificate told the date, time, and place of death. I couldn't read who the attending physician was. But the most interesting piece of information was the informant. It was one Louise Mary Shenk, living in Washington, Missouri. This was Edith's daughter.

Who better than Eugene's own sister to talk to? She could give me some idea if Eugene would like to see Rita and Jeff.

Armed with new information, I headed downtown to the St. Louis library. I probably shouldn't have driven in my state of disorientation, but I couldn't let my sinuses rule my life.

The library, located on Olive Street, is a massive structure with about forty steps up the front of it. The ceilings are ornate, and huge marble pillars are everywhere. I think they even stuck them in places they didn't need to be. The history and genealogy room is quite impressive, as is the microfilm room downstairs.

I found a corner of the genealogy room and set up my pencils, paper, and briefcase. My first stop was back out to the center room, where the majority of the computers are. This is the information area, complete with a desk full of employees to retrieve books from the stacks.

One computer, however, has the telephone and address directory for the United States. If the person's unlisted or listed under another name, it's not much help.

I punched a bunch of keys until the computer was ready to take my request. I typed: Louise Shenk, Washington, Missouri. No Louise. Next I tried just the last name, Shenk, and the same city and state.

There were four Shenks living in Washington and I printed them all. They were all men and one could have been Louise's husband.

I went back to the history and genealogy room, scanned the wall that had the books on Missouri, and pulled out a copy of
Ste. Genevieve County Marriages 1870–1900.
Eugene's mother was born in 1899, so I assumed that her parents were married sometime between 1870 and 1899. Sure enough, they were married in 1896. So I filled that blank in on Norah's chart and went to make a copy of the page.

Next I pulled out the census index for Missouri for the year 1870. I assumed that Ellenore and Gaston were born before 1870. If I could find them in the census, then I'd know who their parents were. The index gave me the households in Ste. Genevieve County with the last names Chappuis and Rousson. I copied the page numbers and headed down to the microfiche and microfilm room.

I found them both, and thus added their birth years, and their parents' names and birth years, to Norah's chart. This is how the majority of the day went.

Six hours later I walked out of there with red eyes and a tense neck. But I had also nearly filled in Norah's five-generation chart. All in all it was a good day, except for having to run up and down all of those steps to feed the parking meter. It's no wonder people don't go to the library. It is too much work.

When I reached New Kassel, it was nearly time for dinner. I drove down Stuckmeyer Road and passed the Old Mill Stream, which is a restaurant now. It used to be a mill, hence the name. It still has its big wheel that took water from Kassel Creek. Mayor Castlereagh owns it now, and it was packed with customers.

I turned left and passed the three streets until I came to my driveway. There was a strange car parked in it, which was not all that unusual, but I wasn't expecting anybody, and I didn't recognize it. Somehow, I always feel on the defensive when I enter my own home with a stranger awaiting my arrival.

My house is white with green shutters, with a large front and back porch. Once I was inside my house, the aroma of my mother's sauerkraut, sausage, potato cakes, and baked beans sent my stomach into fits. I tripped over Mary's rocking horse, and let out a few expletives. The television blared, Dark Wing something or other, and that aggravated the heck out of me. One big rule in my house is no television during meals. Nobody talks to each other if the TV's on.

I turned it off with my thigh—yes, I'm one of the few cavemen without a remote control—and stopped dead in the doorway.

Sheriff Colin Brooke sat at
my
table, with
my
family, eating what was assuredly
my
dinner. He was charming the socks off of my mother, and even had Rudy laughing and pounding his hand on the table at something that was just “too funny.”

Before I could utter something completely rude and justified, my mother interceded. “Victory, Sheriff Brooke…”

“Ms. Keith, call me Colin,” he said, smiling at her.

“Oh, pah-leeze!” I said. “What is this?”