“Yes,” I said. “I am so sorry, but there doesn’t appear to be any easy way to tell you this. Your cousin Clifton Weaver sent me a recording just before he died.”
Johnny was stoic, never moved. I saw no emotion, no indication of any hidden thoughts or feelings. It was as if he’d just braced himself for whatever it was I was about to tell him. “I’m so very sorry to tell you this, but it appears that the recording contains a woman singing a song that seems to be a confession to your mother’s murder. I am sorry, Mr. Morgan. At any rate, I turned the recording over to the authorities, and with the clues in the song, we were able to conclude that someone had been buried under Hahn’s Bridge.”
“And?” he said, his hands in his pockets.
“We’re not sure on identification as of yet. But there was a body of what appeared to be an adult female. I suppose there is a chance that it’s not her, but I’m fairly certain it is. Please accept my condolences.”
He sat down then and stared for the longest moment at some invisible object on his coffee table. “What is it you want?”
“Well, sir, here’s the tricky part. It does appear that your mother, Belle Morgan, was the same woman as Isabelle Mercer, who used to live in New Kassel. She disappeared from New Kassel shortly before Belle Morgan appeared in Progress. Buried with the body we found a piece of jewelry that was made by a Granite County jeweler, to further connect the two women. I suppose my question to you, sir, is this. Did your father ever talk about your mother’s past? Where she came from? And, of course, do you have any idea who may have wanted to harm your mother?”
“Why are you interested?”
“Well, I got interested at first because your cousin Glen had come to me with proof that some of the Morgan family songs were actually written by my grandpa. And he also had this preposterous notion that my grandpa was the illegitimate son of Scott Morgan. That’s how I got involved. I suppose I’m wanting to know if my grandpa has any connection to any of this, and I’d like to solve the mystery of what happened to New Kassel resident Isabelle Mercer.”
“Sit down,” he said. “I got a story for you. You may not want to hear it.”
I sat down on a fluffy beige couch and wondered if I should just cut and run right then.
“My grandpa was what you guys today would call ‘a player,’” he said. “I know of at least three illegitimate children he had.”
“Rufus Kiefer?” I asked.
“You know your stuff,” he said and nodded at me. “Rufus was my half-uncle as sure as the sun comes up tomorrow.”
Colin was, of course, lost, and gave me a questioning look.
“Your great-grandma did have an affair with my grandpa. No proof to it, other than talk amongst the family. And my grandfather’s own admissions.”
My mouth went dry, and I blinked. He had to be mistaken.
“Nobody blamed her. Nate Keith was a son of a bitch and nobody within a hundred miles would have blamed your great-grandma for finding comfort with another man. My grandma knew about it. Knew about all the affairs. She just kept quiet. However, your grandpa is not Scott Morgan’s son. It was your grandpa’s sister, Rena, who was Scott Morgan’s offspring. She’s long dead now. Her people may not want to know this, since there’s no real proof other than what we all just knew.”
Colin reached over and patted my knee. “You all right?”
The tears were spilling over my lower lids. My whole world spun. My heritage was still the same, but if this story was true, how could any of us ever really know if our ancestors were who the documents said they were? The foundation that I’d stood on for twenty years just cracked wide open. Not to mention that my hatred for Nate Keith just grew another degree. My poor great-grandmother! How lonely she must have been and how afraid that Nate would find out. Because if he had, he would’ve killed her for certain.
“I have a half-uncle who lives in Tennesee, too. Or used to. He’s dead now. That’s the three I know of,” said Johnny.
“How do you know for sure?” I managed to say.
“Well, I guess I don’t. Those are the three that my grandpa admitted to and my father told me about. Sorry to upset you,” he said. “You know, my grandpa was a great man. He really was. He was larger than life and people were just drawn to him. I guess the temptation was too much for him. He ate a lot, drank a lot, spent a lot of money, and had a lot of fun with women. But you couldn’t help but like him anyway.”
I swiped at the tears. “Here I thought you’d be the one who’d be upset by my news.”
“Not at all. It makes me feel better.”
“That your mother was murdered?”
“That she didn’t abandon us. Don’t you see? This is what I always suspected. That somebody killed her. Not that she left,” he said, shaking his head.
“But her bags were packed.”
“Yes,” he said. “Dad said that Mom was seeing somebody. She said she needed a break, to sort things out. She was leaving, but she was coming back.”
“Then why did your father tell the authorities that she’d run off with a lover?”
“I guess by reason of deduction. He knew she had a lover, so I guess he thought she just decided against the ‘time out’ and just left. Not to mention that everybody loved my mother, so I don’t hardly think murder would have been his first thought. When she didn’t come home within a week, he assumed she’d just abandoned us all—but I knew better.”
If Eddie Morgan knew about her past as Isabelle Mercer, then he knew it wasn’t past her just to take off. He must have thought she was doing to him what she’d done before. It made sense that he wouldn’t have been suspicious of anything else.
“How so?” I asked.
“I was four when she left. In every memory I have of her, she was singing to me and my sister or playing with us. I have not one memory that was negative. I just had a feeling of being loved by her. It’s hard to forget that,” he said.
I glanced around his living room. There were at least six houseplants sitting in pots and hanging from the ceiling. On the television was a photograph of his mother and father. “May I?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I took the photograph down and studied it. It was a family picture, not a publicity shot. And after looking at it for about a minute, I was completely convinced that Belle Morgan was Isabelle Mercer. “Did your father say anything at all about her past?”
He rubbed his chin absentmindedly. “He didn’t talk about her much. Only when I asked. One time, I did ask him why I didn’t have grandparents or aunts and uncles on my mom’s side. He said she’d left them a long time ago. Left that life and never wanted to return. That’s all he said.”
“Who do you think killed her?” I asked.
He shrugged. “What does it say in the song?”
“The singer just says that she killed Belle because she’d seen Belle with another man, and evidently, the other man was somebody that the narrator was in love with, too. Something along those lines.”
“Then you’re looking for a scorned woman,” Johnny said.
“Who was Belle having the affair with? If we knew that, we might be more likely to figure out who the woman was,” Colin said, speaking for the first time. I was impressed by how quiet he’d been.
Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know. The family traveled six months out of the year. It could have been anybody, anywhere.”
“No,” I said. “Think about it. It had to be somebody local, because whoever killed her was local. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have buried the body nearby, under the bridge. Nor would she have had access to…”
“To what?” Johnny said.
“To the recording equipment,” I said. “It had to be somebody who knew the Morgans, who lived nearby, maybe even somebody who sang backup for them occasionally. Because whoever she was, she just flipped the recording button on, played the guitar, and sang the confession. I mean, that couldn’t happen with just anybody.”
“So she had to be fr
om one of the families around there,” Colin said.
“Right,” I said. My cell phone rang just then. I answered it.
“Torie, it’s Glen Morgan. I understand you’ve made an interesting discovery,” he said. He sounded a bit miffed, but I didn’t really care at the moment.
“I can’t talk to you now,” I said. “I’ll call you back.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the second you knew?” Glen said through static.
“Knew what?” I asked him.
“What happened to Aunt Belle!”
“Glen, I said I’ll call you back.” I hung up the phone and glanced apologetically around the room. “Sometimes I’m not so sure that cell phones are such a great invention. The idea that people you don’t really want to talk to can reach you at any point and time … Who thought this was a good idea?”
Johnny smiled and then stood. “I hope that you’ll keep me posted, if you find anything new.”
That was my cue to leave. One that might not have happened so quickly if we hadn’t been interrupted by Glen Morgan.
“My cousin is writing a book, I understand,” Johnny said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Watch him,” he said.
“Why?” I asked at the same time Colin did.
“He’s ambitious. Ambition is oftentimes accompanied by an overwhelming lack of morals.”
“Right,” I said. “Oh, one more thing. Are you named after my grandpa?”
He smiled at me, and for a moment I thought he’d probably been a very handsome man in his time. “Yes, I’m named after Johnny Keith. He and my father were best friends. And for the record, my father, Eddie, and my grandpa Scott didn’t speak for almost six years because of Johnny Keith.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because my father thought Johnny should get some money or credit for writing those songs. See what I mean about ambition? My grandfather was the most ambitious person I knew. And as much as I hate to admit it, if he got the chance, he screwed people over six ways to Sunday. But I still loved him.”
“I understand,” I said.
“At any rate, your grandpa was my dad’s best friend. Well, at one time anyway. So they named me after him.”
I smiled and offered my hand, which he took. “I adored my grandfather,” I said.
“As you should have. I did, too. You know, I probably met you when you were a kid and we just don’t remember it. I guess you were at your grandpa’s eightieth birthday party, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I was there, too,” he said. “Such a small world.”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
Colin and I left, and when we reached the car, he just automatically took the keys from me and switched sides. I got in and stared at the little brick ranch, now covered in a storybook frosting of snow.
“You all right?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, because what if my grandpa was the person that Belle was having the affair with? I mean, aside from the fact that my image of my grandfather would be seriously altered forever…”
“Would that make a difference in how you feel about him?” he asked as he backed out of the driveway.
“No. I adored him. I still do. I still would.”
“So then, what does it matter?”
“Well, what if Johnny Morgan is my grandpa’s son?”
“You don’t have any reason to think that at all. You don’t even have any reason to think your grandpa was the one Belle was seeing,” he said. “You’re talking crazy. First you think Scott is your grandpa’s real father and now you’re saying your grandpa might be Johnny Morgan’s father. My head’s hurting just trying to wrap around the fathers and the sons and who did what to whom.”
“The ax in the grave. It was my grandpa’s.”
“What, nobody else in Progress had the initials JRK?”
“I’ve seen his mark like that on other tools before,” I said. “So that would mean Belle was killed on my grandpa’s property.”
“Speculation,” he said. “Up until you started on this little paranoid side trip, you were doing good.”
I stared at him, mouth open. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I watched you in there. You handled yourself well. Asked the right questions,” he said. “But this … You’re being paranoid.”
“My grandpa always put his initials on all of his tools. And the tail in the R always went way down and under the K. It’s his mark. I know it. My grandma used to put her initials on all of her kitchenware, too. I’m telling you, it was his ax.”
“Then I think I’d be more concerned with the fact that somebody in his family may have killed Belle. Or somebody with access to his tools. You’ve heard the song. It was clearly written by a woman. So I’d say if—and that’s a big if—that ax is your grandpa’s, then Belle was killed by somebody who had access to his tools.”
“So, did your toenails curl when you gave me that compliment a minute ago?”
“They were starting to pucker,” he said. “But I made it through.”
“You know, Colin, sometimes I think there’s hope for you yet.”
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
Nineteen
“Here’s my new and improved Christmas list,” Matthew said as he jumped into my bed and shoved a piece of paper in my face. I took the paper from his plump little hands and tried to focus on it. Since his spelling wasn’t the greatest and he had trouble writing most of his letters, he’d decided to make his Christmas list in pictures. Well, that was just as well, since I could read pictures.
He jabbered on, explaining what each toy was and what part of the store I could find it in. This kid must seriously think I’m shopping disabled, I thought. After all these years as a mom, I could find a Spider-Man action figure, but it made him feel better to explain it all, so I just let him ramble. Besides, it was nice just to cuddle with him while he talked.
Then I heard a crash and a scream. “Ugh,” I said.
“Yeah,” Matthew said. “Rachel’s been throwing things at Mary all morning.”
“Has she hit anything?”
“No, she’s a bad thrower,” he said.
“What’s Mary doing?”
“Ducking.”
“Oh,” I said. He continued to read and explain his entire Christmas list, and I let him. I preferred to have him treat me like I were senile or stupid than to have to get up and face the terror down the hall.
“So, Venom is not the same thing as Black Spidey. You got that?” he asked.
“Got it.”
“You think Santa will understand all of this, or should I send him instructions, too?”
I loved it when my little kid used big words. When he was four, he discovered the word “actually,” and he used it in nearly every sentence for six months. “I think Santa will do fine. You know, his elves are pretty hip, from what I understand.”
“Good,” he said. Then we heard another crash and more yelling. “I’m going outside.”
“Put on your coat and your boots, and don’t go in the woods!” I called after him.
“I know!”
“Hey, wait, you have to eat breakfast,” I said. Then I just lay there, because I knew he wasn’t going to acknowledge my last sentence, since if he ate, he wouldn’t be able to get outside as fast.
Crash. Scream. “I hate you, you wench!”
Not that I could blame him. I dragged myself out of bed and wondered briefly where my husband was. I toddled down the hall, nearly tripping over a soccer ball and stepping right on a dinosaur. Triceratops no less, so one of the little horns went right into the arch of my foot. “Dammit,” I said, under my breath.
Then I came to Mary’s room, where all the excitement was happening. Mary had decided to take the offensive, it appeared, and was standing on top of her bed with an armful of books that she
was flinging at Rachel. Rachel, on the other hand, had put on her riding helmet and elbow pads for protection and was going through Mary’s closet.
When they weren’t fighting, they were really pretty cool kids. Mary’s room was painted white, with big orange and turquoise circles, and there were posters of all sorts of anime and manga characters hanging crooked on every wall. In and among all of that Japanese chaos was a painting that my mother had painted for Mary of two little girls having a tea party—a civilized tea party, with unbroken china and dressed-up dolls and teddy bears around the table. My mother said the painting reminded her of Rachel and Mary. I’m not sure on what planet Rachel and Mary had ever acted that civilized, but they were no longer on it.
“I found my earrings!” Rachel said to me.
“Well, good, now we can stop all of this fussing,” I said, rubbing my eyes and yawning.
“Mom, tell her to get out of my room!” Mary said.
“Rachel, get out of her room,” I stated. As if that would matter.
“Tell her to quit taking my stuff!” Rachel countered.
“Mary, quit taking her stuff,” I said, again summoning as much authority as I had the first time.
Rachel’s head was buried deep in the closet, and she was tossing stuff out left and right. Every time she’d pull something else out of the depths of the closet, Mary would throw a book at her. More often than not, she missed. I was assuming Rachel’s costume of riding gear was protection for those rare moments when Mary actually hit her target.
“Get out of my room!” Mary screamed. “I’m sick of seeing your fat butt up in the air.”
“I found my earrings right here on her closet floor!” Rachel screamed—they were far beyond speaking in a normal tone of voice. That’s the bad thing about screaming and yelling. Once you start, you have to keep getting louder and louder or your words just don’t have as much emphasis as when you started. “After she said she didn’t have them, so I thought I’d look and see what else of mine she has. So far, I’ve found my pink sweater—”
The Blood Ballad Page 16
