The Blood Ballad (24 page)

“I don't want to make Mort feel uncomfortable,” he said.

“Oh, he'd love to have your help,” Rachel said.

“We'll see. So, how's your job going?”

Rachel put her fork down to begin her big long description of life and work as a tour guide in a drafty old house. “Well, in the first week, I tripped over a tourist's foot and fell into the fireplace. Thank God there was no fire in it.”

“I guess that depends on who you ask,” Mary countered.

“I ran into another tourist's camera, which the woman dropped, but it landed on her son's head and so it didn't break. Her son has a huge bruise on top of his head now, but the camera is fine.”

Colin laughed and Rudy just shook his head.

“I forgot my lines, like, a bajillion times, and I spilled Dr Pepper all over the front of my brand-new, historical dress, which is really pretty.”

“Sounds like you earned your money,” Mom said.

“Well, at least you weren't wearing a quilt. Have you seen that horrible thing your mother wears over at the other house?” Colin asked.

“Hey!” I said. “It's really pretty.”

“Mom,” Mary said to me. “Just don't even try to defend it, all right? It's lame.”

My cell phone rang then and I checked the number. It was Glen Morgan. I had been avoiding his calls ever since we'd found Belle's body. I ignored this one, too, but after dinner, I cleaned up the dishes and then went out onto Mom's back porch to return Glen's call. I knew I couldn't keep avoiding him forever. Well, I could have, but that would have been rude, and I figured he would probably start showing up at my work or home. In fact, I was surprised he hadn't already. He seemed like the type of person who wouldn't let personal boundaries stop him from getting what he wanted. All right, so we were a lot alike, but it sounds creepier now as I'm describing him.

“Glen, it's Torie.”

“I don't like the way you bailed on me,” he said.

“It's complicated,” I replied.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. “Urgently.”

“Someplace public,” I said.

“What, you don't trust me? You think I'm going to hurt you?”

“I'd be an idiot not to be careful.”

“Fine,” he said, exasperated. “Meet me at a place called Smugala's. It's a pizza place on Lindbergh.”

“I know where it is.”

“When can you be there?”

I figured it would take me at least a half hour to forty-five minutes to drive up to St. Louis County from Wisteria, then another ten or fifteen to maneuver down that traffic trap known as South Lindbergh. There are several streets in St. Louis County that are like Lindbergh in the fact that they are full of traffic almost any time of the day, due to all of the businesses and restaurants and schools along them. Manchester, Watson, Gravois, Page, and Olive, just to name a few.

I looked out upon the sunset over my mother's fence, watching the birds flitter in and out of the two large holly trees that flanked both sides of the yard. It really was amazing how much time could pass while watching a bird do nothing more exciting than eat a meal. It was one of those beautiful winter evenings, where the sun painted the snow a brilliant orangy yellow and the barren branches of oak and elm trees scrawled their presence across the frosty sky. “Give me an hour and a half,” I said.

“I'll be there,” he replied.

He would probably be there early, if I knew Glen Morgan.

I went back inside and kissed Rudy. “Something's come up. I gotta go meet somebody.”

“Who?”

“Oh, that guy with the recordings,” I said.

“Who, Leo King?”

“No, he's the one putting recordings onto CDs for me and Dad, but thanks for reminding me, because I actually need to go see him, too. This is the guy who gave me the recordings initially.”

“Oh, the one who said your great-grandpa wasn't your great-grandpa.”

“Yup, that's the one.”

“All right,” he said. “Where are you going and when will you be home?”

“Hopefully by ten or eleven. I'll be at Smugala's, that pizza place we've eaten at.”

“All right,” he said, a little irritated. Since it was a little, not a lot, I shook it off and told everybody good-bye. Colin didn't ask where I was going, but I was sure he'd ask Rudy once I was gone.

I took advantage of already being in Wisteria and drove by Leo King's studio. I just took a chance that he'd be there, and he was. He gave me a big broad smile when he saw me come in. “And how are we tonight?” he asked.

“We are fine,” I said.

“I'm not quite finished with your dad's CDs, if that's why you came by,” he said. He removed a bunch of stuff from his counter—some record books, a McDonald's cup, some empty CD cases—to make room for me. I set my handbag on the counter.

“Yeah, I just wanted to check. Also, I've got a copy of an old recording. It's been dubbed twice already. Can you clean it up?” I was referring to the copy that I had made of “The Blood Ballad,” which I'd conveniently forgotten to mention to Sheriff Mort.

“Probably some, but it depends on what it was recorded on in the first place,” he said and glanced at my purse. “Did you bring it?”

“No, but I did bring a few photographs to put on the case of the CDs you're making for my dad. They're of his dad and the Morgan Family Players.” I shuffled through my purse until I found the envelope and pulled it out. “I've been carrying it around for a few days now. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “So, what are the specifics on this other recording?”

“Oh, well, it was recorded onto a CD; then I copied it onto a cassette tape on my boom box. Do people still use that term, ‘boom box'?” I asked and chuckled.

“I think so, but hell, I'm so old now, I don't really care,” he said. “Well, I can try to clean it up and put it on CD for you. Just bring it in.”

“I will.”

“Where's the original?”

I shrugged. “Not sure.”

“Is this more of your grandpa's stuff?”

“Sorta. That same time frame,” I said. “So, you plan on attending this year's Pickin' and Grinnin' Festival?”

“I do every year,” he said and smiled.

“Great, I'll bring that recording by soon.”

“Sure thing,” he said.

I then headed north to meet Glen Morgan.

*   *   *

Smugala's is a pizza joint on South Lindbergh, just south of Watson Road. It used to be located in Ronnie's Plaza, but it soon became obvious that with the amount of business Smugala's did, that space was too tiny, so the owner relocated. The new location isn't really new, as it is attached to a hotel with a swimming pool. So when you walk in the restaurant, you're greeted with this sort of weird mixture of chlorine, basil, oregano, and beer. Not that it matters, since they have great pizza—that St. Louis thin style—and I think everybody overlooks the bizarre mixture of smells. The place is filled with beverage signs and televisions hanging from the ceiling. There's a small game room off to the right. Smugala's is usually packed on the weekends.

When I entered, Glen Morgan was sitting at a small table by the window, watching for my arrival. That alone was sort of creepy, but I let it go. Maybe when he arrived, there had been no other tables.

I sat down quickly and tried to smile.

“Would you like something?” he inquired.

“No, I just ate.”

“A drink?”

“Just a Dr Pepper.”

He called the waitress over and added my Dr Pepper to his order. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?” he asked.

“Where do you want me to start?”

“How did you know where to tell them to find Belle's body?”

“I received a recording in the mail.”

“So?”

“Well, the recording was a confession of sorts. I figured out that Belle had been murdered and where the killer had put her body.”

Pounding his fist on the table, he said, “And you never thought to call and tell me!”

“Whoa, look, if you're going to get angry, I'll just leave,” I said.

“You know I'm working on a book about the family. This is
my
family!”

“When I received the recording, I was still under the impression that it might be my family, as well. That theory has since been laid to rest.”

“How so?” he asked.

“What, you haven't talked to Phoebe?”

He sat back then and glared at me. His pizza arrived, along with a side order of french fries, and he began to eat. “I saw the letters,” I continued. “Phoebe brought them to me. In those letters, my great-grandmother was speaking of a boy named Rufus Kiefer.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Research. Not to mention that I spoke with your cousin Johnny Morgan, and he confirmed it.”

“Johnny?”

“Really, Glen, if you're going to write a book, you should interview all of your surviving family. Johnny could have told you who Scott Morgan's illegitimate children were. Johnny Keith was not one of them, but apparently his sister, my great-aunt Rena, was. You were right about one thing: My great-grandmother did have an affair with your grandfather. Which is probably why she felt as though she could speak to him that openly in those letters. Scott Morgan refused to help pay for even the basic necessities for little Rufus Kiefer. My great-grandmother was appalled by his behavior.”

He took a drink of his beer and then stared into his glass for a moment.

“That's just what Johnny has to say,” I went on. “Look, his story and the research I'd already done back each other up. If you really want proof, how about you and my dad get some DNA tests done. I'll bet if you tested my great-aunt Rena's offspring, you'd find you match up to them, not us. It's a simple blood test.”

“All right,” he said. “It's a deal. We'll get DNA tests done.”

“Fine,” I said.

“I still can't believe you didn't get in touch with me when you got that recording,” he said.

“It was a judgment call.”

“So, when can I hear it? This is a Morgan Family Players recording I've never heard, in which someone confesses to killing my aunt Belle. I mean, this is huge. It's like a true-crime novel. After all these years, I've discovered what happened to her.”

“Well, last time I checked, you hadn't done much of anything, except spread the rantings of my poor demented cousin. The recording was sent to me, not you, and I'm the one who figured out where Belle was.”

“So, what, you want credit on the book? We can coauthor if you want. That's how big I think this thing is going to be.” He wiped at the pizza sauce in the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

“No, I don't want to coauthor the blasted book, but you should document how it was discovered. And good luck getting a copy of the recording—it's evidence.”

“For what? They're not really going to try to investigate Belle's murder, are they? I mean, there's no way to solve it. No way to punish whoever did it,” he said.

“Not that crime. A different crime.”

He swallowed his pizza then and stared at me. His eyes grew wide and he took a very large drink of his beer. “You got the recording from my cousin Clifton?”

“Yup,” I said. “And I'm not sure about all the law enforcement in the state, but in my book, that would make you a prime suspect.”

“That's preposterous.”

I held my hands up in surrender. “It is what it is.”

“But anybody could have killed Clifton. I mean, anybody who listened to that recording would know that it solved one of the more notorious disappearance cases in the early twentieth century.”

“We'll see what the authorities think.”

“That's crazy,” he said, clearly worried.

“Well, I'll tell you what. I know the sheriff in New Kassel pretty well. And that's who is going to be hot on your trail, considering the murder of Clifton Weaver took place in his jurisdiction. So, you tell me what I want to know, and I'll be sure that the sheriff is fair with you.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Well, maybe,” I said. “My association with you ends now.”

I stood to leave, but he grabbed my arm. “No, wait,” he said. “All right, what do you want to know?”

“Who was Belle having an affair with? That's the key to everything. If I can find out who he was, I can really narrow down my list of suspects who might have killed her. As of right now, anybody in Progress could have killed her. Give me the name of her lover, and I'll bet it boils down to about five women.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You have no idea what you're asking,” he said.

“Why is it so hard? Do you know or don't you?”

“I know what my father told me. And a few of my cousins.”

“Who?” I asked, swallowing hard, hoping like mad that he wouldn't say it was my grandpa.

“Scott Morgan.”

I must have blinked three times at least. “Wait. You mean Belle was having an affair with her own father-in-law?”

“That's exactly what I mean.”

Well, that sure as hell put a spin on things.

Twenty-two

After leaving Glen Morgan, I went straight to the Gaheimer House. Our meeting didn't take as long as I thought it would, so I had time to go to my office and check a few things before I went home.

Almost as much as my family, the Gaheimer House had been the center of my world for close to twenty years. This had been Sylvia's whole world, and I gladly shared it. The house itself might not have been magnificent, but for the time it was built, on the edge of the frontier, it really was something special. It wasn't the red brick and mortar or the flaking green paint on the trim of the windows that made it so special. Or even the hardwood floors and the wainscoting. It was all the stuff you didn't see: the years of love shared between Sylvia and Mr. Gaheimer, the house's involvement in the Underground Railroad, the countless number of homeless victims from the stock market crash who had sought refuge there during the Depression, and the overwhelming sense of “ground control” that it represented. Everybody knew the Gaheimer House was the center of New Kassel. The house was the repository of the histories of all the families that had come and gone in this town and the surrounding areas.