The Blood Ballad (28 page)

He didn't answer.

“Their names are on your birth certificate, aren't they?” I said.

Confusion swept his face, He was clearly unbalanced by my switch in the conversation.

“Your real parents. Who raised you? A cousin? A friend of the family? A member of the clergy? But on your birth certificate it states, plain as day, Isabelle Mercer and Archibald King, doesn't it?”

Leo pulled a gun from behind the counter. “I don't want to hurt you, Torie. I really don't. I've always liked you. But I want that recording.”

“Is a recording worth killing over?” I asked, clutching my bag to my chest.

“It's a confession to the murder of my mother,” he said. “This is my birthright. All of my life, I've just wanted to be able to claim what's mine.”

“And what is that?”

“I am a part of the Morgan Family Players' legacy. In addition to that, I'm also entitled to the fortune from my father's family. But have I ever gotten any of that? No. I was raised in the orphanage here in Wisteria until I went to live with foster parents in Progress. Imagine my surprise when I got my birth certificate and learned of my true heritage. I was just miles from where it had all happened. And I was going to school every day with my half brother and sister! Do you know what that feels like?”

I shook my head because I didn't know, and it would be stupid to try to convince him otherwise.

“How did you know Isabelle Mercer was Belle Morgan?”

“Are you kidding?” he said, shaking. “Just look at her. Once I learned who my real mother was, I studied every photograph I could find of Isabelle Mercer. I even went to Sylvia Pershing, and she told me what she suspected, but by that point, Belle Morgan was gone, too. But that didn't stop me from learning all about her. And the music.”

Come on Helen. Hear what's happening!

“I just want the recording, and I just want to set the record straight,” he said.

“What record?”

“About what happened to my mother. I knew in my gut that she was murdered. Now you've got the proof, and I want it. You've got no right to it. I want to be the one to break the news to the world, not you. Not that pimply-faced Glen Morgan. It's my mother. I should be the one to write the book and set it all straight.”

“Leo,” I said, realizing that he had most likely killed Clifton Weaver to try to get “The Blood Ballad” from him, as well. If he could have gotten it from Clifton, then the only other person who would have known of its existence would have been the elderly relative who had given it to Clifton originally. All he'd have had to do would be to wait for the relative who'd had the recording all those years to die, and he'd have been scot-free. But it hadn't worked out that way. Clifton had already sent the recording to me. It was clear now that I was not the only one who'd heard it and understood what it meant.

“What are you going to do? You're going to have to kill me, because I know everything. That's the bad thing about when you start killing people. It just keeps on going. You have to keep killing more to hide the ones you've killed before. It's insane.”

Just then, Helen's Jeep came roaring through the front window of the music store, crashing into the display of guitars and drum sets. I lunged for the ground, found a cymbal, and threw it at Leo. I guess all of those Frisbee games I played with the kids paid off, because I hit him square in the head with it and he went straight down, dropping the gun and calling out in pain. I scrambled to my feet, picked up the gun, and held it ever so cautiously above Leo's head.

“You okay?” I called out to Helen.

“I'm fine. Are you?” she said.

“Yes. No. Yes, all right, I'm fine. But how do you put the safety on this thing? I'm shaking so hard, I'm afraid I'm going to shoot him.”

Twenty-six

Good King Wenceslas la, la, la, something, something pony, something …

I never could remember the words to that song. And just who the heck was King Wenceslas anyway? I'm a history major and can't tell you who he was, yet he gets forever remembered in a Christmas carol.

We were all gathered at my mother's house for Christmas. We'd already eaten dinner and we were about ready to open presents, when there was a knock at the door. I glanced about, wondering who it could be, since everybody, including my grandmother, was here. Well, I had a few aunts and uncles who might be dropping by, but they were unlikely to come until later.

To my surprise, standing in the doorway was Sheriff Mort with Glen Morgan.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “Are you under arrest?”

“No,” Glen said. “I think we've discovered who killed Isabelle Mercer Morgan, and, well, I wasn't sure where your mother lived, and the sheriff knew, so he escorted me.”

“Oh, do come in,” I said.

They both came in and Glen asked if I had a CD player. My mother and Colin had one in the living room, so I showed him to it. He put the CD in and played “The Blood Ballad” one more time. The room was quiet with everyone in awe. It's not every day you hear a confession to a murder sung by the murderess. It was a bit of a downer, especially when it was played on the heels of “Good King Wenceslas.”

“It's my grandmother,” Glen said.

“What?” I gasped.

“Florence Morgan. I knew as soon as I heard the recording that that was my grandma's voice. To make sure, I took it to a couple of my cousins, and they all agreed. My grandma, I suppose, could take my grandfather's philanderings, but not when it came to his own daughter-in-law,” he said.

“Oh, Glen, I'm really sorry.”

He shrugged. “At least we know the truth. Half of the family isn't speaking to me, since this means our grandmother was a murderess. But it's the truth. And thanks for talking your sheriff into giving me the CD.”

“You're welcome,” I said. I can't say that I wasn't relieved that it was his grandmother who was the murderess and not my great-grandmother. I had been trying very hard not to judge what my family had done before me. Whatever my great-grandma did or didn't do with Scott Morgan, I'm sure she ultimately had to answer for in some way or other. As far as my great-aunt being a Morgan, well, I'd decided to leave that alone, as well. If her children or grandchildren came and asked me for the truth, I'd tell them. But I wasn't going to go to them with any unpleasant surprises.

“Leo King admitted to killing Clifton Weaver,” Mort said after a minute. “He said he really thought Clifton would tell him where the recording was, and he beat Clifton up trying to get him to talk. When Clifton wouldn't tell him anything, Leo hurt him pretty bad. Then Leo realized he couldn't leave Clifton like he was. Clif would go to the police, and Leo would go to jail for assault, so Leo killed him. Leo claims that he didn't realize how much damage he was doing to him—evidently, he used a bat—and was afraid that Clif was going to die anyway, so he put him out of his misery. The thing is, he was probably right. One of Clif's ribs punctured his lung. He probably would have died from that. Leo said he shoved Clif in his truck and took him to what he thought was a remote location, shot him, and then shoved him in a trunk. Well, you know what happened after that.”

“Yeah,” Mort said.”

“So, did Leo just happen to have a trunk in the back of his truck?” I asked.

“He said he'd bought it at an estate sale a few days before, just hadn't taken it out of the truck, so he used it as a makeshift coffin. Anyway, after he fired the shots, he happened to see some sort of movement or light and realized that there were people—you and Eleanore—down below, and that's why he kept shooting. He said he wasn't trying to kill you guys; he just wanted you to leave so he could dump the body. But then he realized he'd fired shots, so he just had to dump the body as quickly as possible before somebody reported hearing them.”

“Yes, but how did Leo find out about the recording in the first place?” I asked.

“He and Clifton knew each other, and they happened to run into each other somewhere, and Clifton mentioned that he'd discovered this recording. Clifton was scared for his life, because people in his family were very upset and didn't want this made public because it showed their grandmother in a bad light.”

“His life was in danger all right,” Glen added. “Just not from who he thought.”

“Wow,” I said. “That's really something. So why didn't Clif give it to Leo, if he was willing to give it to me?”

Mort glanced at Glen Morgan and back at me. “Clif wanted a nonbiased, nonrelated person to have the recording, and when he thought it was safe, he was going to have you do something with it.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“The relative who gave him the recording in the first place said the same thing. She has asked to remain anonymous. I'm assuming once Leo grabbed Clif and started asking him about the recording—with the help of a baseball bat—Clif knew he was in trouble. What was he going to do? Put you in danger by telling Leo that he'd sent the recording to you? He just shut up and took his beating.”

“To save me,” I said and shook my head.

“At any rate,” Glen said. “I just wanted you to know who was on the recording and to thank you for all of your hard work. With this new recording and information, I've got a bidding war going on for the book. You sure you don't want to help me write it?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“I may need to get some info from you, though, on the Mercer family and all of that for the book.”

“Anytime, just call,” I said and held out my hand. He shook it and said his good-byes.

“Oh, Mort,” Colin said, stopping the sheriff before he could leave. “I wanted to speak with you about that job.”

“Oh yeah?” Mort said.

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline.”

“Oh,” Mort said, glancing at me with a confused expression. “But I thought…”

“I've decided to become a private investigator,” Colin said.

“You what?” I all but screeched.

My mother's expression was a mixture of humor, dread, and exasperation.

“Yes, I'm going to look into it just after the first of the year,” Colin said.

“Well, good,” Mort said. “I wish you the best of luck.”

I walked Sheriff Mort to the door. “Wait right here,” he said. He went out to his car and brought back a white box. “This is for you.”

“For me?”

“Consider it a Christmas gift.”

“But…”

“You'll understand when you see it. It was my great-aunt's. She made them. She had no children, and so I thought it would be better off in your museum.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” I said. I opened the white box, moved the tissue paper, and found twenty quilt blocks that had been painstakingly appliquéd in a beautiful tulip pattern.

“I want to say she made them in the 1930s or '40s,” he said.

“Well, thank you very much.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Merry Christmas.”

I went back inside and decided it was time to give my sister her Christmas gift.

“Attention, everybody,” I said. “Stephanie, we had a conversation a few weeks ago about how you wished you could spend one day with our grandparents at their house. Well, since Sears didn't have any time machines for sale this Christmas, this is the closest I could come.”

Rudy hit the lights, and I started the slide show that I had put together. I had made a master CD of all the old recordings I had of my family on a Christmas like this, where Grandpa was talking about baseball and Grandma was singing a carol in that high-pitched voice of hers that could shatter glass. In the background, one of my cousins ran through the house yelling, “She poked me in the butt!” While this recording played, I began the slide show of photographs of times spent at our grandparents' house.

To make things more realistic, I had enlisted the help of my family. Dad lighted up a pipe with tobacco like Grandpa had used. Rachel brought in a freshly baked cherry pie and carried it past Stephanie. Then Mary brought in an open jar of mincemeat and one of strawberry preserves—my grandmother's specialties. Rudy rocked in the rocking chair to add to the sound effects. More music started, recordings of our dad and his brothers. I loved these recordings made in the front yard or the house because you could hear the brothers talk back and forth when a song was finished or cuss if they messed up the song. Then Grandpa started playing his fiddle. He played some little ditty and then he said, “That's how they used to play it when I was a young'un.”

Then my childhood voice came on and whispered, “Merry Christmas and to all a good night!” A photograph of Grandma and Grandpa waving from their front porch was the last image in the slide show.

When the lights came up, Stephanie was in tears. “Torie, I…”

“It's as close as I could get,” I said.

“This is the greatest gift I've ever been given,” she said, swiping at the tears on her face.

“I'm glad you like it,” I said.

I looked over her shoulder at the picture of my grandparents frozen on the screen. It was obvious from the lyrics of “The Blood Ballad” that Florence Morgan had spent the rest of her life running from the face of the dead, but I hoped the faces of my grandparents would stay with me forever.

A
LSO BY
R
ETT
M
AC
P
HERSON

Died in the Wool

Dead Man Running

Thicker Than Water

In Sheep's Clothing

Blood Relations

Killing Cousins

A Misty Mourning

A Comedy of Heirs

A Veiled Antiquity