At some point, Sylvia had had an affair with the owner of the Gaheimer House, and he’d left her everything. She’d begun building on that, buying houses and buildings in the business district, until she’d accrued half the town. She took great pride in her accomplishments, but none of it had she done for herself. It was done for the sake of Mr. Gaheimer and the town of New Kassel. And, dare I say, for future generations. She could have a soft spot once in a while; you just had to blast through rubble to find it.
I’d loved Sylvia as if she were my own flesh and blood. She was my mentor. When she died, she left me everything she’d accumulated. Not only was that a huge responsibility but also a very humbling experience. I owed most of everything I was to her.
That’s why, when I found new things out about her, long after she’d died, it drove me crazy. Just as I thought, Okay, that was the real Sylvia, I’d find something new that shattered that image and I’d have to start all over again. I knew Sylvia had written a lot of books on local history and had compiled many genealogical publications, like cemetery records of the county, and so on, but I hadn’t read all of them.
This book on unsolved mysteries made me wonder if Sylvia had been more like me than I had suspected. Because in describing many of these cases in this book, she’d relied on her own expertise, or her knowledge of the families involved. She never really came out and said what she thought the answer to the riddle was, but she always put in her two cents’ worth all the same. Made me think she would have been a great sleuth.
According to Sylvia, Isabelle Mercer was a very beautiful young woman who was born to a second-generation New Kasselonian. Her father, Huxley Mercer, was the mayor of New Kassel for three terms. Her mother was descended from one of the original ten German families that founded the town. Isabelle would have been a contemporary of Sylvia’s, and so I trusted most of the observations that Sylvia made. In fact, one of the photographs in the chapter devoted to Isabelle’s disappearance showed a group of people on a Sunday outing. After church, they’d all gone to the river overlook for a picnic. To the left of Isabelle Mercer was none other than Sylvia Pershing, flanked on the other side by her sister, Wilma Pershing. Also in the photograph was a woman named Verna Wilson, who, according to Rachel’s earlier research, had been Isabelle’s best friend.
Sylvia went on to say that Isabelle was not happy or satisfied with life in New Kassel and longed for the glitzy life of society up in St. Louis. Isabelle began dating a man who was the son of one of St. Louis’s wealthiest families. They were to be married, and Isabelle spent less and less time in New Kassel. Then one day, the fiancé called it off. She was distraught for weeks, and contemplated suicide, according to Sylvia, who found Isabelle standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the river. Weeks went by, and everybody thought she was getting better. Then Isabelle announced to her maid that she was headed to her friend Verna’s house. She walked out the door and was never seen by her parents or the townsfolk again. Authorities said she either ran away or jumped into the river.
Sylvia went on to state that a few people had noticed Belle Morgan’s uncanny resemblance to Isabelle Mercer, when Belle happened along a few years later. Back then, there was no MTV or VH1 to bombard people with a musician’s image, and based on the research I’d just done, there were only a handful of motion picture clips of the Morgan Family Players. In their publicity photos, Belle was either slightly turned or looking down or away. I supposed that it wouldn’t have been impossible for Belle to be successful with the Morgan Family Players for several years before somebody finally noticed who she was.
Sylvia said that she’d called the authorities over this, and when they went to interview Belle Morgan, Belle claimed that her birth date, parents, and birthplace were completly different from Isabelle Mercer’s. Thus, Belle said, the resemblance was just a coincidence—they were not the same person.
But what about her husband, Eddie? Surely, Eddie knew the truth, because their marriage record clearly stated her maiden name was Mercer. Had Eddie helped Belle hide her past from the investigators when they showed up? It wasn’t as if she was a minor or a murderess. If she didn’t want anybody to know her past, that was certainly no crime. I checked the dates. Sylvia said she’d contacted the authorities about Isabelle Mercer, which was just a few months before Belle disappeared … the second time.
Sylvia concluded the chapter on Isabelle Mercer by saying, “Although the authorities believe that there is no connection to Belle Morgan, one must question their enthusiasm and results. After all, Isabelle Mercer looks very much like Belle Morgan, and on the day I went to visit Belle and Eddie Morgan, she refused to see me. Has the mystery of Isabelle Mercer been solved at last? Well, if Belle Morgan really was Isabelle Mercer, she was only found for a short time before disappearing into the mists once again.”
Could “The Blood Ballad” really just be a song? If Belle Morgan had a history of disappearing when things got too rough, she could have just done it again. She might have figured she’d walked away from everything once, so what was one more time? Or had she met with a more nefarious fate? Was “The Blood Ballad” really a confession?
Just then, the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen. I ran downstairs, to find smoke rolling out of the oven and nobody in the house. I pulled open the oven door and yanked out the roast that Rudy had been trying to cook. It was, well, roasted. The timer on the microwave was beeping. Who knew how long this roast had been cooking? Where the heck was everybody?
I peeked out the kitchen window and saw Rudy down by the corral. I went outside, and as he saw me walking across the yard, he said, “I think I figured out who the horse belongs to.”
“Who?”
“The homeless guy in the woods,” he said.
“What? What homeless guy in the woods?” And then I remembered that Matthew had mentioned some man living behind our property. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Why hadn’t I remembered that?
“When Matthew asked me if he should keep feeding the man in the woods, I decided to check it out. Right back there”—he pointed—“with a perfect view of the corral and your office, is evidence of a campsite. There were wrappers from those hand-warmer things and traces of food.”
“Are you serious?” I asked, feeling the blood drain to my toes.
“Completely,” he said. “So, this guy shows up in our woods right about the time the mystery horse shows up in our corral.”
“You think they’re connected.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve got Mort coming out here right now.”
“So what does Matthew say?” I asked. Matthew was off in the yard, chasing a butterfly with a stick. “Did he actually talk to the man?”
Rudy shook his head. “No. He says he saw the man out there once and decided to take him some food. He just left the food at the campsite. The next time he went back, the food was gone, so Matthew thought he was supposed to keep feeding him.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.
“Yeah,” Rudy agreed. “I’ve already talked to Matthew and told him that he can play in the yard, the stables, and the corral but that he can’t go into the woods without a grown-up.”
“I didn’t even know he was going into the woods. I mean, most of the time when I check on him, he’s playing on his swing or the trampoline, or he’s with the horses. I’ve never seen him go anywhere near the woods.”
“Maybe this was a first. Maybe he saw the guy and just followed him, not really realizing where he was going.”
“Oh, my gosh,” I said.
“Yeah, pretty creepy.”
“So, you really think the horse belongs to the squatter?”
“It’s the most logical explanation,” Rudy said.
“Okay, I’ve got two questions.”
“What?” he asked.
“One, how does a guy living in the woods afford a well-taken-care-of and well-fed Percheron?”
Rudy shrugged, as if to say that was a good question.
“And tw
o, what are we having for dinner? Because you burned the roast.”
Seventeen
The next day, I made myself a permanent fixture in Pierre’s Bakery. I was not leaving until I’d tried every one of his new line of muffins. So far, my favorite was cranberry/orange. I know it’s probably not the healthiest thing in the world to eat just muffins for breakfast, but nothing else appealed to me at the moment. Besides, the reason I’d decided to take up residence at Pierre’s was because my hideout at Fräulein Krista’s had become entirely too well known.
It wasn’t as if I was just sitting there doing nothing besides stuffing my face. No, I was reading. Often when I got stuck on some sort of research, I would head to the cellar of the Gaheimer House. The reason? Sylvia’s old files. In the dungeon-like basement of that ancient building, Sylvia had kept filing cabinets by the dozens. They contained newspaper clippings, genealogical charts (which I’d since put on the computer—I’m not entirely prehistoric), and other things she’d found of interest. Once, I found file folders full of original German recipes for wonderful old food dishes: some sort of potato pancake; Schweinebraten, which is roast pork and sauerkraut; and hasenpfeffer, a recipe for rabbit with spaetzel and cabbage. Okay, none of that sounded too good to me, except maybe the sauerkraut, but Krista nearly snatched those recipes from my hand, and now those dishes often appeared on her menu at the Speishaus.
The moral of the story is, sometimes there are good things to be found in dark, damp, icky places. So before I went to the bakery, I’d spent a few minutes going through Sylvia’s files. I knew Sylvia’s system. Basically, she’d filed everything under the first letter of the first word of whatever it was she had information on.
It didn’t take me long to find the file she’d amassed on the Morgan Family Players. I think it’s safe to say that Sylvia had been convinced that Belle Morgan was indeed Isabelle Mercer. She couldn’t have proved it without speaking to Belle, which had never happened, and since Belle had committed no crime, I think Sylvia must have felt guilty pursuing it much further. The only reason I can think of that Sylvia would have pursued it in the least was because she probably knew the family in New Kassel that Belle had left behind. I’m assuming that family missed her and wanted her back. Again, it is only my assumption; I have no proof. But I think when Sylvia went to visit Belle Morgan and Belle wouldn’t see her, that was as good as an affirmation for Sylvia. Maybe she then realized that Belle didn’t want to be found, and so Sylvia had let it rest, although not before she’d done a ton of research on the family.
In typical Sylvia Pershing fashion, she’d done a chart of the Morgan family tree. She’d traced their lineage back to Ireland, not that any of it was relevant to what I was doing. It had been more like a compulsion for Sylvia. What was of interest to me were Belle’s children. Dora Kaye and Johnny Morgan had been born in 1928 and 1931, respectively. At the time Sylvia did the research, they were just little tykes. But at some point, Sylvia had gone back and made notes all over her original research, including a note that read: “New Kassel resident Torie O’Shea’s grandfather was a neighbor of Scott Morgan.” It gave me goose bumps to see my name written in Sylvia’s hand. Which I’d seen before, of course, but I hadn’t been expecting it this time, so it took me by surprise. My eyes teared up and I took another bite of my chocolate-chip muffin as I sat in the bakery.
Also in 1987, Sylvia had scribbled, “Dora Kaye Morgan married Tiberius O’Roarke, lives in Columbia, Illinois. Johnny Morgan, alive, in Imperial, Missouri.” She’d listed their addresses and dated the note so that she would remember when it was made. She’d also tacked on a sticky note that gave the names of Dora’s and Johnny’s children. Dora had two daughters. At the time of the note, one daughter lived in Philadelphia, the other in San Antonio, Texas. Johnny had four children; two were in Arizona, and two were here in Missouri. A daughter lived in Independence, and a son lived in Festus.
I wrote all of this down and decided to take a drive to see if Johnny Morgan was still living in his home in Imperial. It was a purely selfish reason. I wanted to see if Johnny could tell me anything about his mother’s life between being Isabelle and becoming Belle. I couldn’t help but wonder if he even knew his mother had been born in New Kassel.
Before I had the chance to go anywhere, Helen came into the bakery. “Helen!” I called out.
She spun around and held a finger up to indicate to Pierre that she’d be right back. “Whatcha doing?” she asked.
“Research, what else?” I replied.
“Well, sometimes you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” she said.
“Even so, that would technically be called research,” I said, smiling.
“Are we still on for Christmas shopping?” she asked.
“Sure thing,” I said. Just then, Colin came into the bakery, glanced around, and saw me sitting in the corner.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said.
“All right.”
“Hey,” Colin said. He exchanged pleasantries with Helen and then smiled at me. “Thought I’d find you here.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why, what?”
“Why would you find me here? I’m always at Fräulein Krista’s.”
“Right, but everybody I asked said they’d seen you here.”
“Oh,” I said. Mental note: Must find new new hideout. “Okay, what’s up?”
“Just wondering if you’ve heard from Mort?”
“Well, he was over last night,” I said. “Why?”
Colin pulled out the chair across from me and straddled it like a horse. “Why was he at your house last night? Something wrong?”
“We got a squatter in the woods,” I said. “And we think he left us his horse.”
“Oh, the Percheron?” he asked.
“Yeah, that horse just showed up in our corral. Somebody had to have let him in. So now Rudy and Mort both seem to think that the guy in the woods couldn’t afford to feed and care for the horse anymore and decided we take good care of our horses, so he left it with us.”
“If he’s homeless, why didn’t he just sell it? He could have gotten lots of money for that horse. She’s beautiful,” he said.
“When did you see her?”
“I was looking for you today. I drove out, but nobody was home.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, yeah, that’s my thought. Why not sell the horse?”
“Maybe he’s thinking his luck will change and he can get the horse back later. Like slip in and take her back, the same way he dropped her off. But for right now, he can’t afford to feed her.”
I blinked at him. “That makes sense and all, but what if we decide to sell her? Then what’s he going to do? I mean, hasn’t he thought of that?”
“He’s desperate. Probably not thinking straight,” Colin said. He reached over and took an errant chocolate chip off of my plate and plopped it in his mouth. “Did Mort say if he thought the guy was still out there in the woods?”
I shrugged, because neither Mort nor I could really answer that question. “Why have you been looking for me?”
“They found a body.”
“What do you mean? Where?” I asked, the hair standing up on my neck.
“At the bridge. That stone bridge—”
“Hahn’s Bridge!” I exclaimed. I stood up so fast, my head spun. “Are you serious?”
Colin glanced around the room. “Hey, calm down.”
“No way. Are you serious? They found a body. A human body?”
“Yes, they found human remains.…”
I grabbed the files and my coat and all but ran out of the door of Pierre’s, with Colin close on my heels. “Where are you going?” he asked. It irritated me just a little that all he needed to do was walk briskly, when I was actually running. It stinks being short.
“I’m going down to the bridge!”
“Wait,” he said. “If it’s a crime scene…”
“Look, Colin. They’ve found her! T
his woman’s been missing since 1936, and now they’ve found her. I was right.”
“Torie…”
I stopped at my car and threw my things in the seat. Then I smacked the top of my car and repeated, “I was right.”
“I’m going with you,” he said.
“Please, you’ll just be in the way.”
“Oh, I will forgive you for saying that,” he said.
“Good, forgive me and get out of the way.”
“Torie,” he said. “Please take me with you.”
I stopped then and studied his face. He was begging me to take him. I was a special consultant on this case. Invited by the sheriff. I was the one who had given the sheriff the location of Hahn’s Bridge. He would let me onto the scene of the crime. Colin, well, Colin was just a little old mayor of a small town that had nothing to do with Hahn’s Bridge or Progress, Missouri. He could go only if I took him along. I think it was the first time in my entire life that I’d actually, really, totally, felt sorry for Colin. Okay, well maybe that time in Minnesota. But I’d seen Colin poisoned and shot in the leg, and I remembered thinking both times that I’d wished I’d done it.
What? It’s not like he died either time.
But right then, Colin standing there begging me to take him to a crime scene … I was overcome with pity. It must have temporarily made me insane, because I heard myself saying, “Okay, but don’t tell Mom.”
* * *
I was chomping at the bit the entire ride down to Progress. We got off the exit and took one of the back roads past an old feed and seed store. We traveled another eight miles out into the country. Eventually, the sprawl of subdivisions that used to be farmland gave way to actual farmland. We’d pass by an occasional house with a cluster of outbuildings, and I’d think to myself how scary it was to see civilization encroaching on the American farm. If we weren’t careful, another twenty years and the “family farm” would be a thing of the past.
The Blood Ballad Page 14
