Blood Relations Page 4
“Basically, the steamer was built around 1900, at the cost of ten thousand dollars,” I said. “It was about one hundred and forty-three feet by thirty-one. Its engines were about ten inches in diameter of cylinders by four feet stroke. She ran the Arkansas–St. Louis–Hannibal route, carrying passengers, bumper crop, that sort of thing.”
“I thought you said on Wednesday that the ship had just come from Memphis.”
I just stared at him. “Yes, Tennessee is across from Arkansas.”
“So, was this anything like the boat in Showboat?” he asked.
“Well, it certainly had the paddle wheel in the back, the two stacks, and the white trellis-looking things—called bull rails, by the way—but I don’t think she was nearly as fancy as the one in that movie. She had two decks.” I handed him a photograph of the boat taken in about 1905. “And then, of course, the crew could walk along the top, so that was sort of a third deck, but the top didn’t have the railings.”
“How fast could she go?”
“Hmm, that I wouldn’t know.”
“What kind of crew would she have had?”
“Well, a captain or a pilot, obviously. Leadman—”
“A who?”
“Leadman. He would use a sounding pole to judge the depth of the water, and then he’d call it back to the pilothouse. Water depth was very important. If they ran into shallow water, not only could they ground their boat, get it hung up on something, but it could do serious damage. Then who knows how long they would have been stranded with a cargo that might have been time-sensitive.”
“Oh,” Mr. Chapel said.
He had probably never been on a boat in his life.
“Who else?”
“Roustabouts, or deckhands. They worked under the mate on the deck of a packet. Um … a wood hawk.”
“Who?”
“He would handle the woodlots on the boats.”
“Okay,” he said, more in a tone that said he wished he hadn’t asked than one that showed interest. “What was she carrying when she sank?”
I supposed he didn’t want to hear about the cooks and the other assorted crew. So, I responded to his last question, rather than add the rest of the crew. “Research indicates that this was mostly a passenger run,” I said.
I handed him another photograph. “That is a picture taken the next afternoon.”
“Gruesome,” he commented.
Indeed it was. I had handed him a photograph of the seven recovered bodies lying in a neat row, covered by blankets. One was the length of a child. The sepia tone of the photograph made everything look dirty. But it had been winter, just like now, when the boat had sunk. So everything was sort of gray and desolate-looking to begin with. Standing to the left of the bodies was a man in a black derby. He sported a handlebar mustache. The chain of his pocket watch was clearly visible on his vest pocket. Sylvia had told me that the man was the town doctor, Doc Hallam. To the right of the row of bodies was a little kid, staring back at the camera, a look of shock frozen across his face. I wasn’t sure if it was shock from the spectacle of death that lay at his feet or from the snap of the camera. Maybe it was a little of both. The river ran behind them, the top of one of The Phantom’s stacks barely visible, poking out of the water.
“What time did the boat go down?”
“Well, the time it actually sank in the cove was about four in the afternoon. So that picture was taken almost twenty-four hours later.” I handed him another photograph. “This one was taken about an hour after it sank. It was winter, so the sun was almost gone, but somebody thought to snap this picture. You can see the boat is slightly on its side. The top deck, pilothouse, and one stack can still be seen.”
He studied the photograph for a moment. “I don’t understand. If the pilothouse can still be seen, how come the captain didn’t make it?”
I didn’t follow.
“I mean, it’s obvious. If you could still see the pilothouse in this picture, he should have had plenty of time to get off the boat before it sank.”
“I’m not sure,” I said, shrugging.
“Are any of these people still alive?” he asked. He gestured to the people standing all along the riverbank. Some were townsfolk who had come to stare in disbelief or to help rescue people. Some of the figures were people saved from the boat. One woman sat on a rock, soaking wet, staring past the camera with an expression that suggested she was reliving in her head what had happened.
“I doubt it,” I said, knowing full well that one of the boys standing on a rock, looking out at the river, was Harlan Schwartz.
“Anything else of importance you can tell me?”
I got the sneaking suspicion that he had already heard about the diamond myth. Just by the way he kept pressing me, as if I should know more than I was telling him. Either that or he was just very intuitive and I was being unfair.
“Mmm, no, not really. I didn’t have time to research all of the articles and interviews at the time to find out what the theories on the cause of the accident were. I mean, eyewitnesses said that she had flanked going upstream, then she was out of sight a few minutes, and then they saw her dead in the water, floating back down toward the cove, where she finally sank.”
“‘Flanked’?”
“It means that the pilot had driven the boat hard, forcefully, toward the opposite bank, then set it back just as forcefully at the last minute and let the current swing the bow around.”
“Oh.”
No conspiracy in flanking, Mr. Chapel.
“When was it known to the New Kassel residents that the Huntleigh heiress had been on board The Phantom?” he asked.
“As far as I’ve been able to tell, nobody knew she was on board the boat until a few days later.”
“How did they discover that?” Mr. Chapel asked.
“Well, I’m not sure. But some of her items washed ashore. I know that much. As to how they actually knew she was on board, I guess they must have looked at the manifest. I’ll have to check on that.”
“Did her parents ever come to New Kassel?”
“Not that I know of,” I said. “But I think they sent a private investigator. I really am not certain of these things. I’ll have to do some checking.”
“Could I study your interviews and the articles that you mentioned?”
“It’s all public domain, Mr. Chapel. You can find most of it at the library.” If you know what you’re looking for, I thought.
“If you don’t mind, Kyle and I”—he pointed to his cameraman—“are going to stick around awhile.”
“‘Awhile’?” I asked.
“Couple days. We’re going to stay at the … Murdoch Inn,” he said, flipping through a brochure on my desk. “Just in case the sheriff might decide to do a little river diving.”
It’s a free country. And why on earth would he need my permission to stay? “Sure,” I said. But deep down, I was already dreading the outcome of a news anchor staying at the very inn owned by the town’s biggest gossip.
“Kyle,” Chapel said. “Get some close-up shots of these pictures.”
I watched as Kyle went about shooting video footage of the photographs that I had handed Mr. Chapel. Then Kyle gave them back to me with a nod of his head.
“So, how long have you worked for the Historical Society?” Mr. Chapel asked me.
“Too long,” I said, and smiled. “No, I love my job. Um … about ten years, I suppose.”
“Have you lived in town long?”
“Yes,” I said.
“In your job as archivist, have you ever come across any old mysteries about this town? Anything juicy?”
If only he knew.
“Maybe,” I said, and tried to stifle a laugh.
He smiled at me, showing perfectly capped teeth. “Where’s a good place to eat in town?”
“If you’re after something easy like pizza and beer, Velasco’s is the best. Or the Smells Good deli. The Old Mill Stream offers a little finer dining. Fraulein
Krista’s Speishaus is my favorite place in town. Um … Pierre’s is the place to go for breakfast. It’s a bakery, wonderful teas and coffee,” I said.
“Thank you,” Mr. Chapel said.
“What about Burger King?” Kyle asked.
“If you want fast food, you need to head west out of town on the New Kassel Outer Road until you hit a place called Wisteria. The main road into town is fast-food heaven,” I said.
“Forgive my cameramen,” Chapel said. “He’s so uncouth.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I hope you gentlemen have a nice stay.”
“I’m sure we will.”
As soon as Bradley Chapel and his cameraman left the Gaheimer House, I jogged through the kitchen, heading toward the back door. Sylvia just happened to be standing in the kitchen, of course, making herself a cup of black cherry berry tea. “Where are you going?” she asked without looking up.
“Eleanore’s,” I said.
“You’re as nosy as she is,” said Sylvia.
“No, I’m not. Be back in time for the next tour.”
If Sylvia had anything else to say, I didn’t hear it. All I heard was her spoon clanking against the cup as I stepped out the back door and began running through the alleys and yards to get to the Murdoch Inn before Mr. Chapel did.
Six
The Murdoch Inn sits on a slight hill at the south end of River Point Road, which means there is a gorgeous view of the Mississippi River from the front porch. Built in the 1880s by Alexander Queen, the house sports delicate latticework all along the porch and the trim of the house. It is white, with one turret, two stories, and a renovated attic, which has the cutest rooms in the inn.
Shivering from the cold, I looked around as I stepped up on the porch, hoping to be invisible to anybody who might happen to be looking. Entering the inn, I tiptoed past the front room, where tea was being served on silver serving sets to the guests lounging in the living room. However irritating Eleanore may be and however poorly she may dress herself, she displayed pretty good taste when it came to decorating the inn. The walls are a swirly cream and all the woodwork stark white. I peeked around the door to her office, where the patrons would check in, and I gave a sigh of relief that I had beaten Bradley Chapel here. I was half-convinced that he had gone on for lunch.
“Eleanore,” I said.
“Torie! Come in, come in. Oh, it’s just so exciting. I think I might bust a button from all the excitement,” she said.
Eleanore is, at best, loud, obnoxious, and colorful, to the point of making one’s eyes hurt. At worst, she is vainglorious and hasty, and quite often when trying to impress somebody with her vocabulary, she speaks like a thesaurus on acid. All of her jewelry is plastic or metal and comes in colors not found in nature. Today, she wore bright yellow banana earrings and a necklace of big orange beads. She is also top-heavy and has an extra chin, and I do worry sometimes that she is going to drop dead of a heart attack someday. Well, I worry about her health when I’m not wishing one of the plagues of Egypt would set upon her.
“What?” I asked. “What’s all the excitement?”
“The inn is full, thanks to that stupid shipwreck eighty years ago. I’ve got that crew from the college here, and Mr. Chapel from Channel 6 news called and made a reservation. Oh, you simply must find old shipwrecks more often!”
I stepped all the way into the room and shut the door behind me. “I’ll try,” I said, a little off balance. I sat down in the chair.
“What is it?” she asked. “Aren’t you excited?”
“I’m certainly glad your business is doing well, Eleanore, but I have a problem.”
“What?” she asked.
“Has Mr. Chapel checked in yet?”
“No.”
“When he does, you must not mention the diamond lore to him.”
“Why not?”
“Because the sheriff doesn’t want people to come down here looking for nonexisting diamonds, that’s why. He wants to maintain some sort of control,” I said.
“Oh pooh,” she said. She waved a hand at me, a big ring on her hand catching the light as she did. “If Sheriff Brooke thinks he has control over things in New Kassel, he’s as deranged as the mayor.”
“It’s important,” I said. “Somebody may go looking for the so-called diamonds on board and get hurt in the process. Then we could get sued, people would stop coming, and your inn would be empty.”
“Oh dear,” she said, clearly not having thought to translate the danger to something that would affect her. Now that I’d helped her to see what damage could be done to her business, I had her undivided attention. “But the guys from the college…”
“What guys from the college?” I asked, and then remembered. “Oh, the guys from the college.”
“Mr. Lahrs is upstairs unpacking as we speak. He’s going diving later. He already knows about the diamonds,” she said just as Mr. Chapel opened the door.
“What diamonds?” Bradley Chapel asked.
“The diamonds that were on board The Phantom when it sank,” Eleanore said, wide-eyed. Well, so much for her keeping her mouth shut. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been right about something, I’d have a mountain of money.
Bradley Chapel leveled his eyes to mine. Without him having said a word, I understood exactly what he was thinking. Surely the town archivist and historian would know a thing or two about diamonds in the wreckage of a steamer. “Mr. Chapel, nobody knows for sure if there were diamonds on board that ship,” I said.
“Go on,” he said, folding his arms.
“There’s a diamond mine in Arkansas,” I said. “Supposedly one of the passengers was carrying a case of uncut diamonds from the mine to St. Louis when the steamer went down. But nothing was ever recovered, not so much as even one sparkly looking rock.”
“Why did you keep this from me?” he asked.
“You have to understand, Mr. Chapel. New Kassel relies on its tourism to survive. Sure, a bunch of people coming to our town to go diamond hunting would be good for business at first, but if somebody were to get hurt, it could do way more damage to us than good,” I said. “The sheriff and I were just trying to keep the hysteria to a minimum.”
“How much were the diamonds worth?”
See? Already the dollar signs were rolling around in his eyes.
“We have no way of knowing. First of all, they were uncut diamonds—straight from the mine. Second, we don’t know if they were in a matchbox, a bread box, or a cedar chest, so we have no way of even knowing how many there were. None of the survivors had actually seen the diamonds; they’d just heard that they were on board,” I said.
“And you’re convinced they didn’t exist?”
“What I’m saying is, nothing has ever washed ashore to indicate that there was anything on that boat other than people and some corn.”
“But the box could have been sealed. That would explain why nothing washed ashore. They could still be sealed in there.”
“Could have been,” I said. “But wood rots eventually. So they would have to have been in a metal box.”
“Nobody’s ever thought to go down there and look?”
“Well, I don’t know. Seems to me there was one guy who dived down there in the sixties, and he said there was nothing but rotted wood,” I said. “And I think Sylvia said that several people dived down in the thirties.”
“Did they know about the diamonds?” Mr. Chapel asked. “I mean, was that what those divers were looking for?”
“I’m sure they’d heard the rumors, the same as all of us have,” I said.
He just shook his head. “Those diamonds are down there,” he said. Then he looked at Eleanore. “I’m Bradley Chapel, by the way. I’m here to check in for my cameraman and me.”
That was it. He’d dismissed me just like that. I’d failed on my mission. Now all I could do was watch the way the pieces would fall and hope that I could pick them all up and keep New Kassel safe. I turned to go.
Right. I couldn’t see Mr. Chapel donning a wet suit and slugging through three feet of Mississippi mud for all the diamonds in the world. He was the type of man who probably wore silk paisley pajamas.
“Well, good luck,” I said.
“You’ll need it,” Eleanore added. “Mr. Lahrs is here from the college, and he’s the only one authorized to do any diving anywhere near that wreck. You’ll get arrested if Sheriff Brooke finds you down there.”
Mr. Chapel didn’t look very happy about that. And I felt very juvenile at the moment. “Yeah,” I said. It was the adult equivalent of sticking my tongue out at him.
Seven
I stood on the porch of the Murdoch Inn, looking out over the Mississippi and at Illinois on the far bank. I often just stare out at the river. I have found that it’s impossible to live this close to water and not be seduced by it. We have tourists who come into town just to park their cars and look out at the Mississippi for half an hour. There’s something soothing about moving water; the ocean has the same affect on me. I sort of mellow out and get lost in thought, quite often wondering, What kind of secrets do you hold, Old Man River?
Many times, I have thought of the Native Americans who lived here before the Europeans managed to find their way west. What had the river meant to their lives? Granted, it is the giver of life. But it also holds the power of mass destruction. I have lived through one too many floods to think that the river is always generous and giving. It can also be the taker with a vengeance. And yet sometimes the river doesn’t take at all. Sometimes it is as if man makes sacrifices to it. Like the idiots who decide to swim across it on a bet or to impress some girl. I’ve seen with my own eyes a person getting sucked under, never to be seen again. One year at the Fourth of July celebration in St. Louis, I saw some jerk riding a speedboat up the river, and it was almost as if an unseen arm just reached up and flipped that boat right over. It sank within seven seconds. And of course, on one sad day a few years ago, the performer Jeff Buckley fell victim to the river down in Memphis. That’s the worst thing: The river seems placid. But go three feet out, and you’re in more danger than you could possibly imagine.