Thicker than Water Page 12

  “I meant every word,” I said. Then I remembered. I turned to Stephanie. “How did you do? Did you win?”

  “Actually, I did. By one vote,” she said. “I am now the corresponding secretary of the possibly defunct historical society of New Kassel, Missouri.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Ahh, it’s all right.”

  The phone rang then. Rudy answered it. “It’s your mother.”

  “She’s heard,” I said.

  “Really,” Mrs. O’Shea said, rolling her eyes. She pulled her robe closed and turned to walk back to her room. “This town is abominable.”

  I made a face at the back of her head and plopped down in the recliner. “I don’t want to talk to her,” I said to Rudy, who was waiting patiently with the telephone in his hand. “Tell her I’ll call her in the morning.”

  “All right,” Rudy said and shrugged.

  “I’m going to go,” Stephanie said. “I’ve got a doctor’s visit early in the morning.”

  “All right,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Sure thing,” she said. “I locked up and set the alarm for you.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. I had totally forgotten.

  As she left, Rudy walked into the living room and sat down on the piano bench on the other side of the room. Fritz ran up and scratched at my legs. He wanted up on the couch but was far too short-legged to get himself there without help. I picked him up and began petting him.

  “You … Torie … I … This is too surreal,” Rudy said.

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “I couldn’t believe it, Rudy. I could not believe the venom.”

  “No, I mean, you can’t give up the historical society.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Torie, this is all you know!”

  “Maybe I’ll learn something new. Isn’t that what Collette is always after me to do? And your mother? They’ll be happy.”

  “But it’s who you are,” he said.

  “Well, people change.”

  “Sylvia would not be happy to know that she willed you everything and now you’re just going to … to … what exactly?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Rudy. I just want to be left alone. I need to calm down.”

  After a long pause he finally raised his hands and said, “Fine.” With that he walked out of the room. As I heard his steps on the staircase, I nestled Fritz even closer and reached for the television remote control.

  Nineteen

  I took my mother out to brunch the next day at Pierre’s Bakery. I couldn’t tell if the stares and gawking that we were having to endure were real or imagined. The town was used to seeing my mother out and about, so it wasn’t like when we went to St. Louis and people tripped over themselves looking at the lady in the wheelchair. Either the unusual attention that the two of us were getting was my imagination or the entire town had heard what transpired last night. I was betting on the last one.

  “I’m just saying that you should take more time to consider what you’re doing,” Mom said. “What will you do?”

  “Well, I’m thinking about going back to school. Maybe I could get a teaching job like Stephanie.”

  “You hate children.”

  “I do not hate children. I have three of my own and adore the ground they walk on!”

  “Okay, you hate other people’s children.”

  “Well … okay, maybe.”

  “So teaching probably wouldn’t be a good job.”

  “Maybe I could get a research job. Like at a university.”

  “Oh, they’re just handing those jobs out left and right.”

  “I don’t really need to get a job, Mom. I have more money than I ever thought I would have, and I have an income from the rental properties that surpasses anything Rudy brings home. Maybe I’ll just do some volunteer work,” I said and took a bite of my pastry. “Hey, maybe I’ll do nothing.”

  “You’d die within a week.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t hate other people’s children. Just the ones that think they’re the boss. Well, and not even those, because then I’d have to hate my own daughter.”

  “I’m really sorry about last night,” Mom said.

  “Eh, don’t worry about it,” I said.

  Colin stepped into the bakery then, clanking the cowbell on the door as he came through. He pulled up a chair, leaned over and kissed my mother, and then said, “Did you get me anything?”

  I handed him a white paper bag. He opened it and smiled. “Well, Torie, I think I’ve struck out on the pictures.”

  “What pictures?”

  “I’ve been going through all of the pictures taken at the Strawberry Festival, including the ones from your camera. I can’t get a clear shot of the perp who attacked you. We do have some skin and fibers from the wig we found discarded, but with nothing to compare them to, they’re kind of useless.”

  “We have to have a suspect first,” I said.

  “Right.”

  I took a drink of my tea and glanced around the room.

  “I heard about last night,” he said. “Angry mob.”

  “It was … You know, I don’t care. Really, there are starving people in the world, people who have land mines in their front yards, people who have dirt for floors. Who really gives a crap what happens to some dinky little historical society in some podunk depressed town?”

  “Podunk?” Colin asked.

  “Depressed?” Mom asked.

  I shrugged. “Maybe Mrs. O’Shea is right. Maybe Rudy and I should move up to St. Louis County. You know, back to civilization.”

  “Oh, my God, it’s worse than I thought,” Mom said.

  “What?”

  “You’re agreeing with your mother-in-law. Do you hear yourself?”

  “I’m only saying that it’s really pretty trivial. All of it.”

  Just then Sally Huber made her way to our table. I now owned Sally’s house. “Hi,” she said.

  I sat up straighter and wiped my mouth. “Hello, Sally.”

  “I hate to interrupt,” she said and waved at my mother and Colin.

  “No, go ahead,” I said.

  “Um … I was wondering if you could have Rudy come over and check the leak in the basement.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Tonight when he gets in.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Well, you all have a nice day.”

  “You, too.”

  My mother was staring at me when I finished my tea. “What?”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what she was thinking, but clearly something had upset her. “Nothing,” she said. As much as I hate it when parents do that, I’m just as guilty of it, so there wasn’t a whole lot I could say about her saying, “Nothing.”

  “Are you going to work today?” Colin asked, eyeing the two of us suspiciously.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Regardless of what happens, I still need to finish going through Sylvia’s things.”

  “How’s that going?” Mom asked.

  “Pretty good,” I said. “A little sad.”

  “Are you going to keep any of her things for yourself?”

  “A few things. Some personal things. Like her and Wilma’s baby shoes, and most of her photographs. A few pieces of jewelry…” I frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked.

  “Have either one of you seen Sylvia’s ring?”

  “What ring?”

  “That white gold sapphire ring. She used to wear it on special occasions. I can’t find it anywhere,” I said.

  “Did you bury it with her?”

  “No,” I said. “The only ring she was wearing was the one Hermann Gaheimer gave her. And I buried her with one of her rosaries. I’ve been looking all over for that ring. I mean, it’s not that valuable, but it was my favorite thing of hers, and I wanted to keep it.”

  “Why would we have seen it?”

  “Because I think I wore it once. I mean, I know I was going to wear it. I can’t remember if I actually did. I
just thought maybe you guys would remember it,” I said.

  “No,” Mom said, “but I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  “Hey, any word from your PI?” Colin asked.

  “I should hear from him today.” I picked up the tab and looked at it, then put money down to cover it. “Okay,” I said. “Well, the company was wonderful. I’m off to work.”

  With that I left the bakery, all eyes watching me as I went. I didn’t really care. I walked down to the Gaheimer House, head down, thinking about what I would do today. Stephanie wouldn’t be in, and I had quite a few things to try to finish.

  Before I knew it, I was at the house and letting myself in. I should finish the bedrooms today. Then the only things left would be Sylvia’s office and Wilma’s room. Stephanie had already taken care of the kitchen and the bathrooms and quite a few boxes of possessions for me. The first thing I did was grab a Dr Pepper and boot up my computer. I dashed off a few e-mails, including one to Laura James, the genealogist in Iowa, asking if she had any information on the O’Shaughnessy family of Dubuque. I then posted a few items on GenForum. I was still very curious about Millie O’Shaughnessy. Besides, after yesterday’s fiasco, finding out who she was would be a welcome distraction.

  A few hours later I was upstairs in Sylvia’s room, packing up the last of her things. There were several boxes for charity and a single box of possessions for me to take home and keep. Among the items in that box was a scarf that Sylvia always wore, a sheer emerald green that glistened when the light hit it. I had also kept a few sets of her hair clips, a few pieces of jewelry, her hairbrush set, her sewing basket, and her baby shoes. Now I just had Wilma’s things to go through. When Wilma died, Sylvia shut the door to her sister’s room and never entered it again. Wilma’s things wouldn’t be as tough for me, though. She’d been dead longer, and Wilma had meant something entirely different to me than Sylvia had.

  There was a buzz at the door, and I went downstairs to answer it. “Elmer,” I said, opening the door wide. “Come in.”

  “I just came by to say how sorry I was about last night,” he said as he stepped across the threshold.

  “Not your fault. In fact, you were quite the Sir Percival.”

  “I…” he said. He scratched his head. “I heard you weren’t going to take the job.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Torie, you can’t do that. Think about New Kassel.”

  “What about it?”

  “If you quit … I mean, our history is all that keeps this town afloat. Tourism is the only thing this town has.”

  “The shops will be here, regardless.”

  “Yes, but … you know as well as I do that it’s the historical society that funds things like the Strawberry Festival,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Didn’t seem to bother anybody last night.”

  “No, you’re wrong. It bothered twenty-two out of the thirty-eight people who were here. That’s how many voted for you,” he said.

  “Oh, well, that only leaves sixteen disgruntled historical society members,” I said.

  “I’d say half of those sixteen weren’t thinking clearly. Half of them probably didn’t even realize the connection between the historical society and our tourism,” he said.

  “Oh, okay. They just hate me.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. You know, Torie, what the power of a crowd can do,” he said. “They get caught up in what’s going on and don’t think clearly. I betcha half of them are ashamed this morning.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Torie—”

  “I really appreciate what you did for me last night,” I said. “And the fact that you’re not stupid like so many other people are. You remained levelheaded. Really, I do. But I need time to think.”

  “Okay, good,” he said. “I can live with that. Just don’t make any rash decisions. And it’s not just for the town, Torie. It’s for Sylvia. And for you. I’ve watched you grow up. You’re like a niece to me.”

  “Thanks,” I said and gave him a big old hug.

  “I gotta get going,” he said. “I’m getting a new Dalmatian today.”

  “Oh, joy,” I said. Dalmatians are beautiful, but quite frankly, they have more energy than any living creature should be allowed to have.

  He left, and I went into my office. I picked up the phone and called the St. Vincent de Paul Society to come and get some of the boxes that I had set aside for charity. They agreed to come by later in the week. Then I sat down and checked my e-mail.

  I had received an answer from my contact in Iowa. It read:

  Dear Torie,

  I checked the white pages for Dubuque, and there are a few O’Shaughnessy families living in the area. However, there were none in the entire county prior to 1930. That’s not to say there weren’t any in the whole state. Now, I was wondering if you could return the favor and look something up for me? I’m looking for a Bridget Orr, who arrived in St. Louis about 1935 or 1940. Actually, I have a whole list of names, but I’ll just do one at a time. If you could see if you come up with that name on any of the St. Louis records you have access to, I’d appreciate it. Feel free to ask me for any other favors.

  Laura James

  I typed a response, saying I’d be happy to check what I could for her. Downstairs in the basement, I actually had the “white pages” for the city of St. Louis for the years 1922 through 1929 and then again from 1937 to 1949. They had been a donation to the historical society a few years back. I could check those with no trouble, but I’d have to go down to the library to check for marriages and other records.

  I glanced at my watch and wondered when I’d hear from Mike Walker. If I didn’t hear something soon, I’d give him a call and check in.

  Pulling the postcard out of my purse, I studied it a moment. Little Millie O’Shaughnessy must have been just passing through Iowa. On her way to where? And why did she feel the need to send Sylvia a postcard? It had to have been written by an adult, anyway, because Millie wouldn’t have been old enough to write, much less write a sentence in that sort of neatly defined script.

  Also, how did Sylvia end up with the other photograph of her? That wasn’t a postcard, so Sylvia either had the picture mailed to her in an envelope or had taken the photograph herself. I set the second photograph of the girl, the one that indicated her identity, on my desk and began to study it.

  In the photograph, Millie stood on a street corner, waving at the photographer, giving a shy smile. A woman dressed in a dark suit with a big hat was on the corner with her, turning and looking back over her shoulder. Clearly, she was an unexpected subject in the picture. By the look on her face, you could almost see her own embarrassment at being caught in the girl’s photograph. The length of the woman’s skirt indicated to me that the Roaring Twenties were over and the more conservative thirties had been ushered in. Or at the very least, the photograph had been taken somewhere between 1928 and 1932.

  I took my magnifying glass and tried to see what was written on one of the windows on the street. VanDyke Printers. Above and behind the girl’s head was a street sign. One street was Wayne Junction. I couldn’t make out the cross street clearly, but what I could see was “wn Ave.”

  I was fairly certain there was no street in St. Louis called Wayne Junction, but who knew what streets used to be called? Now all I had to do was find a city that had a street named Wayne Junction. Past or present.

  I wasn’t sure if I was encouraged by this or discouraged. At one time, I would probably have hung my head and cried. But not now. Not with the Internet. God bless the Internet.

  Twenty

  I yawned and stretched and immediately wished I hadn’t. The bruised flesh rubbed across my rib cage and caused a very unpleasant sensation. I reached for the prescription-strength ibuprofen and the OxyContin and washed them down with Dr Pepper. My kidneys were going to crystallize.

  Instead of searching for Wayne Junction, I began my search for Bridget Orr for my contact in Iow
a. She had done me a favor; it was only fair that I return it. In fact, I did find a Bridget Orr listed in the 1937 phone directory. Whether it was the same Bridget Orr that Ms. James was looking for, I hadn’t a clue. I would pass it on and see if she wanted me to back it up with anything else. I e-mailed Laura James and told her what I had found.

  I glanced at my watch and realized why my stomach was grumbling. It was going on 6:00 P.M. Still no word from Mike Walker. A small flower of anxiety bloomed in my chest as I picked up the phone and dialed his cell phone. I got his voice mail.

  Then I heard it. Footfalls on the stairs. I was not about to let this prankster out of the house without learning his identity once and for all. I jumped up out of my chair and ran into the living room. “Stay right where you are!” I called out. You always wonder how people manage to die in bizarre ways. You know, the Darwin Awards. You hear them on the news. My favorite was the guy who tossed an electric cable into a lake to electrocute the fish and then walked into the lake to retrieve the fish without unplugging the current. Well, believe me, charging out of my office right out through the living room and sitting room and heading for the stairs was probably the stupidest thing a person could do. In fact, as I was rounding the corner, I flashed on my headline for the Darwin Award.

  CRAZY GENEALOGIST RUNS HEADLONG INTO ASSAILANT, DIES OF CONCUSSION

  But I couldn’t help it. I was incensed. I was so angry at whoever was playing games that I let my stupidity get the better of me. I heard a door shut and something fall over. I took the stairs two at a time and only thought momentarily of how winded I was when I reached the top. Maybe I would die of a heart attack. Maybe I should start exercising. Especially if I was going to make a habit out of chasing ghosts up the stairs in the Gaheimer House.

  When I reached the top of the stairs I noticed the door to Wilma’s room was slightly cracked. It had been shut tight. I glanced around for something to use as a weapon. I had the prowler cornered; I needed to follow through. One of those brass coatracks stood in the corner. Yeah, that’d be great.

  I picked it up. It weighed a ton. I could no more wield this than I could a tree trunk. While I was standing there in the hallway, I glanced at the phone and intercom system that hung on the wall. I picked up the phone, dialed 911, and told Deputy Newsome that I had the perp cornered and he should get somebody over here.