Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret (7 page)

BOOK: Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret
3.67Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

“We have a guest,” Mom said.

“Mom,” Rachel said. “Mom,” she repeated, like all six-year-olds do when you don't answer them at the speed of light. My kids expect me to answer them before they ask the question!

“What?”

“He has a gun,” she said, her black eyes huge.

As if I needed to hear that.

“Mother,” I began, “you should be more careful who you invite to our house,” I said. She glared at me.

“What do you want?” I asked him. I wouldn't get any prizes for being subtle. Sometimes subtlety only causes confusion.

We have only four kitchen chairs, so I grabbed a chair from the dining room as I picked up a potato cake and ate it. Sheriff Brooke watched me, his eyes trying desperately to communicate silently.

“He called first,” Mom assured me. “To say he was coming, so I had him come for dinner.” June Cleaver had just invaded my mother's body. I couldn't help but feel that I was missing something.

Rudy was being himself. He was genuinely entertained by Brooke. Rudy could not see beyond the surface of the dust on the mantel, much less the surface of people. Had they all forgotten my ill feelings for the sheriff? Had they all forgotten that this man threw me in jail when I was trying to get a pregnant woman to a hospital?

“Forgive my wife,” Rudy said. “Hormones.”

I swatted Rudy a good one on the side of his head. “I don't have hormones, dear. Not any! I don't have any!”

Obviously, they all believed me.

Mary took that opportune time to fling her sauerkraut across the table, hitting Sheriff Brooke in the head. I wanted to yell, “Good shot!” but I played the part of mother and reprimanded her. Even if it was done with a smile.

“So, Sheriff,” I said, “what brings you to my house?”

“It can wait until we are finished eating,” he said.

“Well, you'll be waiting forever, because my mother makes sure everybody is stuffed, and then she serves dessert. It's quite an ordeal,” I said.

“One that I'm suffering through quite nicely,” he answered.

Was he flirting with my mother? No, surely not. She was at least twelve years older than he.

Sheriff Brooke never spoke another word as to why he was at my house until we were completely finished with dinner. It was dusk now, but still light enough to see. Lavender was the primary color in the evening sky and the smell of grass and fresh rain had coiled themselves together. It had stopped raining about five that evening, but the local news assured us of more.

My backyard is large. We are on a two-acre lot. Over half of it is in the back of the house. Sheriff Brooke and I walked along the brick path that was lined with impatiens. All was calm and serene.

Suddenly Bob came squawking across the backyard. Bob is our rooster. He never hesitated as he headed straight for Sheriff Brooke's ankles. He pecked and squawked, and pecked some more. Sheriff Brooke tried desperately to get away from Bob without actually kicking him. He jumped on one foot, then on the other. He skipped along the sidewalk into the yard, back onto the sidewalk and then back into the yard, all the while throwing his feet out away from Bob. He looked like Michael Jackson doing a hoedown.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “The chicken coop isn't quite finished.” I swatted at Bob and then stomped my foot. “Go on, Bob, get.”

I couldn't help but smile. And then I giggled. And then before I knew it, I was laughing heartily. “He has this thing about strange males. It's a dominance thing.”

“It's all right,” he said, cautious of every step he took. After all, there were a lot of things one could step into in my backyard. “I'm surprised Bill hasn't made you get rid of the chickens. And the rooster,” he said.

“You know the mayor?”

“Yeah.”

He didn't say how or where from, just “Yeah.” “He's tried,” I said, “but we're not breaking any laws. I suppose you know that he hates anything furry or feathery.”

“Yeah,” he said as he shoved his hands in his jeans. “I didn't want you to have to come to the station so I could talk with you,” he finally said. “I thought this would be better.”

Something was bothering him. I don't think I have ever seen him quite so reflective. At least not around me.

“Did you know she was divorced?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Have you talked to him?”

“Yesterday. He's a strange sort. Lives in Ladue. Recluse.”

“Oh,” I said. Ladue was one of the wealthiest parts of St. Louis County. A person could drop eight hundred thousand dollars on a home easily.

“Rita told me you were doing a family tree for her?” he asked.

“I told you that the day … the day she was killed. You weren't interested. Why now?” I asked, worried.

He looked up at the stars and breathed deeply. It was a cleansing breath, I thought. One that came from the bottom of the lungs. I wondered what it must be like to have to deal with death, Norah's kind of death, on any regular basis.

“Rita said something about Norah's dad?”

He finally got to the point he had been trying to make.

“She never met him. I found out that he was still alive; she thought he was dead. Why?”

“So she never talked to him?” he asked, discouraged.

“I never got the chance to tell her where he was,” I said, unsure of where this was going.

“Have you talked to him?” he asked.

“No. I didn't know how he would react. I was going to ask his sister first. I figure if the guy has never bothered to even see if Viola was breathing, there may be a reason.”

“Can I have his sister's address?” he asked.

“Do you think that's wise?”

“I don't think that's for you to say. This is my investigation. I want to talk to his sister.”

“I just thought that you might really shake the woman up. She doesn't even know Norah exists. So you're going to go to her house and tell her she had a niece that's been murdered, and her brother is a suspect, all in one visit. It just seems … cruel or something.”

“I don't give a damn how it seems,” he said. “Somebody butchered that woman, and I don't know where to start.”

“Random,” I remember thinking out loud.

“What?”

It was early enough in the year that it still got chilly when the sun set. I hugged myself tightly. “What if it was random?”

“Then I'm screwed. But I don't believe it was. There was nothing missing, no sexual assault. No forced entry.” He again breathed deeply. “I'd say she was killed for a reason. Not random.”

“What about fibers and such?” I asked.

“All kinds. We've got to have something to compare it to first,” he said. “Anybody that's been in her house in the last few weeks will have left behind fibers and hairs anyway. I have to have a suspect first, and then compare fibers and hairs.”

“What about John Murphy?” I asked, and was rather pleased with myself when it was clear he had no idea whom I was referring to.

“Something Rita said in passing to me at lunch the other day. She said that Norah had a boyfriend. One that she had been seeing for years, but had never married. I can't believe you didn't know about him,” I said.

“Well, surprisingly, none of her neighbors knew she had a boyfriend. There was nothing in the house to indicate that there was a man that spent any amount of time there. And Jeff completely lied to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I asked him if his mother was seeing anybody and he said no. I didn't bother asking Rita, because why would Jeff lie to me?” His question seemed to bother him the more he thought about it. “I even checked everybody's name that was on the register at the funeral.”

Just then Mayor Castlereagh appeared over the top of the fencing, on a ladder. He pretended to be pruning a tree. At seven in the evening? It wasn't even the season to prune anything. All I could see of him was his bald head. Finally, he waved. I waved back.

Tomorrow everybody in town would know that Sheriff Colin Brooke had been in my backyard. Who am I kidding? They would know it two counties away. Small towns seem to breed gossip based on completely innocent events.

If John Murphy had been seeing Norah for years, then why wouldn't he show up at the funeral? Guilt? Shame? How about the inability to look at his own handiwork? Evidently, Brooke wasn't ready to comment any further on the subject.

“How could an entire neighborhood not know that she had a boyfriend? Especially one that she has been seeing for years?” I asked.

“Maybe they never came across as a couple, and therefore when we asked if she had a boyfriend, they said no. I will tell you that she was very private and kept to herself.”

“I'm planning a visit to Louise Shenk. You can come along if you like,” I said. “If you think it will help your investigation.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Norah's aunt. I'm going to go see her tomorrow.”

“What time?” he asked.

 

 

NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

T
HE
N
EWS
Y
OU
M
IGHT
M
ISS

by Eleanore Murdoch

The local quilters of the River Point Quilting Bee would like to announce that their quilt “Mississippi Heritage” took second place at the Midwest Quilt Fair. Congratulations, ladies! Oops, and Elmer Kolbe—I always forget he quilts. Raffles for two new quilts of theirs can be bought at the Quilt Supply on New Bavaria Boulevard. “Mississippi Heritage” can be seen on display at the Murdoch Inn.

Also, what's this I hear? Our sheriff had dinner with the O'Shea's? I'm open for more information.

Tobias still hasn't had his beloved statue of Abraham Lincoln returned. He's getting hotter than a snake in the Mojave Desert. (His words, not mine.)

The nuns at the Santa Lucia Catholic Church were presented with trees to plant. The trees were donated by Mrs. Hudsucker's kindergarten class. The trees came from the Wisteria nursery. Any great news? Write to me in care of the Murdoch Inn. Until next time.

Eleanore

Seven

I walked along Jefferson Street in an attempt to get to the Gaheimer House. I passed the lace shop with its low windows full of lace curtains and doilies. The Gaheimer House sits almost right on the sidewalk, its burnt brick overwhelming the passersby. The five windows and one door that are visible from Jefferson Street are painted in a yellow cream, surrounded by forest green shutters. It looks pretty sickening against the burnt-colored brick.

I stepped up on the wooden steps, and I was eye level with the plaque that reads, “Gaheimer House 1864.” Sylvia Pershing met me at the front door. She didn't say a word. She only looked at me with her eyebrows knit together.

“Hello, Sylvia,” I said as I walked by her. I heard her footsteps behind me as I passed through the parlor and then through the ballroom on my way back to the office. She was ticked about something.

Wilma waited for me in the office, sitting calmly, ankles and hands crossed. I had no idea what I had done wrong this time.

“Victory!” Sylvia's shrill voice sounded from ten feet behind me. She shut the door behind her and stood across from the desk. It was quite clear that she thought I had some explaining to do, but I had no idea what it was that I had to explain.

“Where are the marriage records for Granite County, 1850 to 1865?”

“Damn,” I mumbled.

“Don't you dare use profanity in the Gaheimer House.”

“It's not a church, Sylvia.” Sometimes I think Sylvia has an unhealthy outlook on Hermann Gaheimer. The man died in 1930. Sylvia was in her twenties. She couldn't possibly have known him well enough to give him the sainthood that she most fervently thinks he deserved. but I figure I should keep such observations to myself.

“If you think you can answer my question without cursing, please do so,” she said. “I'd love to hear your excuse for this one. Did your chickens eat them? Did Mary stuff them in your fish tank?”

“Sylvia, I know you'll never believe me, but Mary really did feed the fish the land records that I was working on.” That was two years ago, and I hadn't been forgiven yet.

“Well? Where are the marriage records?”

“I haven't got them finished. Easy as that. No big conspiracy, I just don't have them finished. I have had a lot on my mind.”

“Yes, like Colin Brooke?”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“The whole county knows that you and he were talking in your backyard last night. Really, Victory. With your husband and children right inside.”

“Oh, Sylvia…” I debated whether I should tell her that he was hitting on my mother. I suppose to her generation, any time two people of the opposite sex are in a backyard alone, that is a sign of something fishy. “He wanted to talk about the case.”

“The case?” Wilma asked.

“Norah Zumwalt. He wanted to discuss a few things, that's all.”

“And you had to do that in the romantic moonlight?” Sylvia asked.

“There was no moon last night,” I answered.

“I think the butler did it,” Wilma said.

“She didn't have a butler,” I stated. Why did I feel as if I were in a zoo? “I just came by to get a file that I left here the other day.”

Just then a horn sounded out on Jefferson Street.

“Who would that be?” Sylvia asked.

“Oh, that's probably the sheriff. He and I are driving out to Washington this morning,” I said, and picked up the file and walked out of the office. I confess. It is a great perversion of mine to shock little old ladies.

“I'll get you your marriage records, Sylvia. I promise,” I said, heading back through the ballroom and eventually out onto the sidewalk, where Sheriff Brooke waited for me in his yellow Festiva.

BOOK: Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret
3.67Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Highland Hero by Hannah Howell
Belong to You by Keeland, Vi
El Bastón Rúnico by Michael Moorcock
One Great Year by Tamara Veitch, Rene DeFazio
Tip It! by Maggie Griffin
Captured 3 by Lorhainne Eckhart