Killing Cousins (5 page)

Monday and Tuesday came and went without incident. I did notice Deputy Duran parked on my street watching the Yates house on a few occasions, which made me feel good, but as far as I could tell, the perpetrator never came back. I busied myself with cleaning out the Finch house, but I had yet to make it to the second floor. On Wednesday I sat down to read the information that I had printed out from the Internet.

Rachel and Mary were in the backyard on the swing set. Matthew was asleep in the Porta crib in the living room, with our dog Fritz lying under the crib snoozing in harmony with him. This wasn't difficult for Fritz because he was a wiener dog, and he could lie under just about anything.

I set my Dr Pepper on the coffee table and then spread the papers out on the sofa. Tucking my feet up under me, I pondered which one to read first. Some of the articles looked like “official” Web page types of things, while others looked more like fan pages. I picked up the article closest to me and began to read:

I put the page down. An uneasy feeling settled on me. I had forgotten about her baby. Actually, I really didn't know that much about the child. I just remembered hearing, as all native New Kassel residents have heard in passing, about the singer in the valley whose baby had been kidnapped. When Sylvia had asked me to write the biography, I hadn't realized that the singer in the valley with the kidnapped baby was Catherine Finch. I knew it, but I didn't
know
it.

I read on:

I was creeped out beyond belief. I wouldn't look at anything in that house the same way again. I would always look at it as the place where tragedy struck. I read the rest of the articles, which gave most of the same information that I'd just read, all the while instinctively looking up to check on Matthew. One article went into more detail on the type of music that Catherine had recorded and what some of her hit songs were. It seemed she was one of the few white women of the era to gain respect in the predominately black field of jazz.

One article went on to say that she died in 1995 and the reason that she had never moved was so that if the kidnapper ever wanted to find her, he wouldn't have any trouble. However, it also left an open door for all the reporters and impostors down through the years to harass her.

A favorite pet peeve of the press was that Catherine believed in the forest spirits and things of the netherworld. This was something, judging by the articles, that the press would hound her over, trying to get her to give more specific quotes. Evidently, she realized her error and would never speak of it again or answer anything of that line of questioning. In effect, she became a recluse haunted by her missing son, living in a world that looked at her belief in the “netherworld” as something to criticize her for.

I could not imagine what it must have been like to have had a wonderful career, gaining momentum with every record release, and then suddenly one day to find it was over because of an act of sabotage. And according to the articles, it wasn't over necessarily because the public did not want to hear her music anymore; it was over because she simply could not go on.

I heard the back door open and shut and knew the girls had come in for lunch. I gathered up the articles and put them on the coffee table and went in to make grilled cheese sandwiches with Doritos.

I walked into the main-floor great room of the Finch house with that peculiar feeling of being watched. I had felt it Sunday evening when I was talking to Deputy Duran, and I felt it again now. My imagination, I knew, because there was nobody in the house except me, Matthew, Rachel and Mary.

I stared at the big stained-glass window with the fairies at play in the trees and grass, and I thought instantly of the articles that told about Catherine believing in the forest spirits. That was a politically correct way of saying that she believed in fairies and brownies and gnomes and selkies and a number of other things. If I hadn't read the article, I wouldn't have given this window a second thought. I would have just written it off as an eccentric taste in art. Albeit a beautiful example of an eccentric taste in art. The twenties, when this house was built, were a time of art deco style of furnishing. That era was also a time when people with money were trying something new. Shedding all of that Victorian and Edwardian stuffiness. But now that I had read the article, I realized that this window actually had held some sort of meaning for Catherine.

It also made me look at the books on the shelves a little more closely. They, too, revealed a passion for material on the subjects of the hereafter, ghosts and fairies. There was even a book on different winged creatures. Everything from angels to gargoyles.

I was deliberately saving her office to clean out for last. I figured that would be where I would find the most important information on her personal life: diaries, photo albums, that sort of thing. Right now, I was trying to get the bulk out of the way, things like lamps, statues, rugs, end tables.

Not everything in this house was old. In fact, living room number one on the second floor had all new furniture with two matching recliners and a nice big television. I made a note to ask Colin if he could give me a good deal on the television. It had a remote control. Something we still didn't have in my house.

I had just begun wrapping a bronze horse about two feet high when I noticed that Mary was missing. Mary missing is a bad thing. Rachel I could trust to find her way back without destroying anything; Mary, I could not. My youngest daughter was the type of child who just walked by things and they broke.

Rachel was seated on the big wingback mauve chair reading a book. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which I always thought made her face look so innocent. It reminded me that she was still just a little girl, no matter how grown-up she acted sometimes.

“Rachel, where's Mary?” I asked.

“It's not my day to watch her,” she snapped. She gave a big sigh and looked up from her book. “Tomorrow's not looking too good either.”

It was at times like this that I had to remember never to let her innocent childlike demeanor fool me. She was really just a pimply-faced, hormone-laden teenager waiting to pop through the innocent outside shell. She was headed for teenagehood in all its glory. “You just lost bike-riding privileges for today and tomorrow.”

“Aw, Mom. I'm reading; how am I supposed to know where she is?”

At that moment Mary came flittering down the stairs, spinning and dancing as if she didn't have a care in the world. Well, that would be because she didn't have a care in the world. That was my territory. At her age, it was her mother's job to do all the worrying.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Upstairs.”

“You know you're not supposed to be up there without me.”

“I was up-upstairs. All the way up.”

“You went to the attic?”

“No, the third upstairs,” she said. “And I found this!”

She walked over and handed me a sterling-silver hairbrush. A sterling silver
baby
hairbrush. Goose bumps broke out along my back and arms. I rubbed my arms self-consciously.

“I thought Matthew could have it. Maybe Grandpa Sheriff would let us buy it for him,” she said with her slurred
s
's.

“W-where did you get this?”

“In the baby's room,” she said. “Silly. Where'd you think I'd get it?”

“Rachel, stay down here with Matthew. Mary, take me to the baby's room,” I said.

She knew what she was talking about because she led me up the stairs straight to the third floor, talking incessantly all the way about what fun she could have in this house. I had not gone this far up before. We walked down a broad hallway with a lavender runner down the middle of it. To my amazement, there were more bedrooms along this hall and a room that looked like Walter Finch's study. At the end of the hall, on the left, was the room that Mary had walked into, obliviously. I heard her as she went in. “In here, Mommy.”

I entered the room and gasped, feeling the hair rise on the back of my neck and tears stand in my eyes. It was an old-fashioned nursery. I would venture to guess it had been kept exactly as it had been for over sixty years. Dust and cobwebs clung to the antique furniture and baby decorations. A redwork quilt, so popular in the thirties, had yellowed with age. I would lay money that this was little Byron Finch's room and that Catherine had never changed a thing.

In fact, stacked in a wicker holder there were folded cloth diapers, each with a scrolled “BLF” in blue embroidery. Stuffed animals lined the crib, and two pairs of shoes sat on the dresser. I opened the dresser, and it was full of baby clothes from an era gone by. Most were a faded blue or white. A few things in yellow. Almost all of them were cotton or linen.

The window through which Byron had been stolen away seemed larger than it should be, as if it were a portal to an evil world. An empty, lonely rocking chair sat next to it.

“Isn't this cool?” Mary asked.

I couldn't speak. I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was because I'd just had a baby boy less than two months ago and I could identify with Catherine Finch's anguish. Maybe it was because it was eerie standing in the room where a baby had been stolen and never seen again. Maybe it was because I knew that, other than Catherine and maybe Walter Finch, I was probably the only person to step into this room in sixty years. Well, and Mary. Whatever it was, I couldn't answer my daughter. I thought if I opened my mouth to speak I would cry.

I motioned for her to come out of the room and then I shut the door.

As we walked down the hallway I found my voice and chastised her. “Don't you ever come up here again,” I said. “Do you hear me?”

As we descended the bazillion steps to the bottom floor, I was hit with the fact that I would have to go up there eventually and catalog everything in that room. I would have to catalog Catherine Finch's nightmare.

“They found a body!” Rudy said to me as I ate my Apple Cinnamon Cheerios.

“What?” I asked.

“Down at the Yates house,” he said. My husband was breathless and his eyes were wide, and it wasn't from looking at me in my frumpy housecoat with my hair piled on top of my head.

I swallowed hard and realized that I hadn't actually chewed that last bite very well. I took a drink of orange juice to try and wash down a stuck Cheerio. “What do you mean, they found a body? Rudy, are you feeling all right?”

“Deputy Duran wants you ASAP.”

“Why?”

“He wants to know if you can identify it,” he said.

I suppose that's the downfall to knowing everybody in the town and everybody's business. “You mean, I have to go look at it?”

“Stop eating,” he said and dragged me out of the chair. “He wants you down at the Yates house now. The coroner is waiting on you.”

He was serious. He was totally and completely serious. I ran upstairs and threw on a pair of jeans and a faded pumpkin-colored T-shirt, slid my feet into my tennis shoes and headed down the steps. I finished the last of my juice and blinked at Rudy. “It would save us all a lot of trouble if it were the mayor.”

“Torie! I can't believe you said that,” Rudy scolded.

In truth, I couldn't believe I had said it either. I mean, we all have nasty little thoughts that we never vocalize. Sometimes I don't realize that I'm on loudspeaker. “I didn't mean that I wish he was dead. It's just that since there's already a body…”

“You're digging yourself in deeper,” Rudy said. “You really need to get your hormones checked.”

“Oh, pooh,” I said and walked through the living room.

“This is exactly what I mean when I tell you that you don't have to verbalize every single thought that goes through your pretty little head,” Rudy called out after me as I went out the door.

I looked down the street and saw the coroner, the sheriff's car, the wrecking company and, of course, the onlookers. As well as some tourists. Even though it was before eight on a Friday morning, people were out in droves.

A lead-colored haze hung in the air. The weatherman had said that it would be a “yellow-air day.” Can I just say for the record that having to categorize our air quality is just plain old depressing?

I walked down the street as quickly as I could without running, and immediately I saw the mayor standing next to Deputy Duran. After what I'd just said about him, I was actually relieved to see that he was okay. Now if something bad happened to him, I'd swear it was I who caused it.

“Bill,” I said and then looked to Duran. “Deputy. What's going on?”

“We were about to tear down the building,” Bill cut in.

“One of the wrecking crew guys went into the house, just to make sure that there weren't any homeless people or hobos inside. Since we're so close to the railroad and the river, they thought there was a good chance that somebody might be in there,” Duran said. “Seems that hobos in particular will travel the rail, jump off and stay in old abandoned buildings for a while.”

“Uh-huh. And?” I asked.

“There's a dead person inside,” the mayor said in a whisper.

“They found a body,” Duran said as if the mayor had said nothing. “I know it was dark the night you saw somebody coming out of there, but I just want to see if you recognize him.”

“Oh, Edwin,” I said. “It was very dark. All I saw was a silhouette, really.”

“Yes, but you might be able to determine if he was the right body type at least,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “Is he…I mean, what kinda shape is it in?”

“Come on,” he said and started leading me into the house. “He just looks like he's sleeping. Of course, we'll do a complete autopsy.”

As I walked into the Yates house, I saw Eleanore standing in the crowd. When she realized that I'd seen her she waved. God help me, I waved back. Maybe there
was
something wrong with my hormones.

“Until we get autopsy results back,” Edwin said as we walked through the dark and dank living room, “I can't really say what killed him. I swear, though, he looks like he just came in here and went to sleep.”

Even though it was daylight, we still needed Edwin's flashlight to get a really good look at the body. He flashed it on the man, and I would agree with Edwin that it looked as if the man had just curled up in the sludge and gone to sleep. Except that he was wearing a nice sport coat and shiny black shoes. Anybody who could afford decent clothes like this could afford a place to sleep other than a dilapidated building.

“He doesn't look like a hobo,” I said.

“No, I didn't think so, either. Because of the nice clothes and good shoes,” Duran said.

“Yeah, that and the fact that I know him,” I said, taking the flashlight from Edwin. I shone it directly on the dead man's peaceful face.

Surprise registered on Duran's face. “You know him?”

“Well, not personally. I just know who he is.”

“Who is he?”

“Patrick Ward,” I said.

“Who?”

“He has a sister—oh, what is her name?” I said more to myself than to Edwin. “Patrick was an upstanding citizen of New Kassel until about twelve years ago, when he moved to Chicago.”

“Chicago,” Edwin said back to me. “Why in hell would a man who lives in Chicago come back here and end up in this building dead?”

“That would be the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” I said with a shiver.

“How do you know all this?” he asked.

“I work for the Historical Society, and one of the things that Sylvia had me do when I first started working there was to compile genealogical charts of the citizens of New Kassel.”

“Huh?” the deputy asked.

“See, people fill out the charts, as much as they can remember, including their siblings' names, et cetera. Then I put them on file. Then later, if somebody wants to research their family tree, we have a lot of it done on file already for them. Plus Sylvia just likes to know everybody's roots, for some reason. I remember the Wards because they were related to a few of the other families in the area and they were
Mayflower
descendants.”

“I'm lost,” he said.

“The Wards are descended from one of the original
Mayflower
passengers, and if there is one thing I never forget, Deputy, it's a person's family history,” I said. “There's a picture of Patrick Ward in the historical society archives from about 1970. He donated a spinning wheel that had belonged to one of his ancestors in about 1780.”

“You know,” Deputy Duran said, “I really didn't think that you could identify the body when I had Rudy send you down here. I just thought you could tell me if he was the same build as the prowler we had the other night. I never expected this.”

“It's a curse,” I said. “And so far as comparing him to the prowler, I can't. It was too dark. But if it was him, what was he doing in here? What was he looking for? I mean, I don't know for sure, but I think he was pretty well off up there in Chicago. What was he doing here?”

“Why did he come back?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Can we get out of here now?”

“Yeah,” he said and led me back through the living room. Before we could make it to the door, something with lots of legs crawled across my foot and I jumped, screamed, and all but climbed on Deputy Duran's back.

“What?” Duran asked and whirled around with his hand on his gun.

“Nothing,” I said, regaining my composure. “Something…with lots of legs.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry, I'm a little freaked out from all of this.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said, looking back over my shoulder at the dead man lying in the sludge.

“Hey, about those charts,” Duran said as we emerged into the light of the hazy day. “Can you give them a look for me?”

“What for?”

“Find out who his sister is. The one whose name you can't remember. See if any of his family still lives here. He looks close to seventy, so he may not have any family left. But you never know. Maybe he was just visiting, got drunk and then got lost. Who knows, maybe he was an Alzheimer's victim and wandered away from his family.”

“That's true. There may be no malicious intent here at all. Sure will,” I said. “I'll get right on it.”

I started to walk up the hill toward my house and then remembered something. “Hey, Edwin. Are they still going to tear down the building today? I mean, since it's a crime scene and all?”

“Of course we are,” the mayor interjected from next to the squad car.

“Maybe,” Duran said, throwing the mayor an evil look. “I'll let you know.”

“What do you have to let
her
know for?” Bill asked as I walked away.