“I’m going to call her,” I said, dialing. “Hello? Camille. It’s Torie. I’ve just been informed that there is reason to believe that those documents may be dangerous to whoever has them.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked.
“Just lock your doors and don’t let anybody in until I get there. I’m coming over right now with the sheriff to get those papers,” I said and hung up. I looked up in fear at Sheriff Brooke.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“I didn’t think about anybody following me. What about here at my house?” I asked. “I could get everybody killed.”
“Chances are whoever it is is not going to take a chance of coming into a home with five people living in it. One of whom dates the sheriff. You also have a security system. I’m sure you’ll be quite safe. You’re a very well-known person,” he said.
I appreciated the fact that he was trying to make me feel better. And I agreed with him to some extent. But Camille, well, she was a sitting duck. I just seemed to keep topping my peak of stupidity this week.
* * *
We arrived at Camille’s house thirty minutes later. My worst fears came to life as we walked up to the steps of her home and saw that the front door had been wedged open with something. The wood had been knicked severely.
“Get back to the car,” he said. We had come in his bright yellow Festiva instead of his patrol car. He picked up his car phone and dialed 911. The St. Louis Police Department would be arriving soon.
“You stay in this car,” he said as he pulled his gun out of the glove compartment. It was not his jurisdiction in any way, but if the situation warranted it, I knew Sheriff Brooke would fire his weapon. “I’m going in. We could be losing precious time. If you get out of this car, I will shoot you in the kneecap. Do you hear me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I managed to say. I doubted that he would really shoot me, but I wouldn’t put some other form of bodily harm past him. I would stay in the car. Besides, I didn’t know who was inside Camille’s house. I didn’t want to come face-to-face with a killer.
He disappeared into the front door and I choked on my heart. What had I done? It seemed like an hour before the police showed up, but in reality it was only four minutes. I had not heard any shots fired. That could either mean that there was no armed assailant in the house, or it could mean that the assailant could kill with his bare hands, and Sheriff Brooke didn’t get a chance to shoot him. I could always think of something morbid at just the right moment.
One police officer came over to me. He was a sharp-looking black man, completely confident.
“Sheriff Brooke went in there,” I said and pointed. “He’s not come out.”
“Have you heard anything?” he asked.
“Not a sound.”
Just then, Sheriff Brooke came from around the alley. “Back here,” he said. “Get an ambulance.”
Get an ambulance. The words cut through me. I started to open the door and get out.
“Stay!” he barked as if I were a dog.
“Is she dead?” I cried out. Please, God, don’t let her be dead. He looked at me as though he wasn’t going to answer. “You tell me if she’s dead!” I demanded.
I was crying now. Camille was an old acquaintance and if I’d just gotten her killed, I would never be able to sleep ever again.
“No,” he said. “She’s not dead. She should be,” he added. “But she’s not.”
The relief was incredible. I sat back down in the car and breathed deeply. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. My chin trembled and my self-control threatened to give way. But enough heavy breathing and my muscles stopped jumping and I eventually returned to normal. She wasn’t dead. Now I was frantic over what had actually happened to her. All I could think was that I hoped it wasn’t painful.
Finally, after ten minutes of pure hell and being stared at by the accumulating crowd, I would finally get some answers. Sheriff Brooke came onto the sidewalk and then over to his car. He got in, returned his gun to the glove compartment, and glared at me.
“She was in the garage.”
“What?” I asked.
“The garage in the back. It’s separate from the house.”
“Yes? And? Don’t make me guess. Out with it!”
“She’d been locked inside the garage. Whoever it was started the engine of her car and then locked the doors with the engine running. Camille couldn’t get to it to turn it off,” he said. “Nor could she get out of the garage. There are two small windows and she broke one, but they are too small for her to climb through.”
“My God,” I said. “Was she hurt any other way?”
“No. The guy broke in and forced her out to the garage.”
“Oh, Lord. Was the car still running when you got to her?” I asked.
“No. It ran out of gas,” he said as he ran his fingers through his sandy hair. “The papers are gone.”
“What?” I said in disbelief. No denying it now. She was nearly killed because of those documents. That was exactly what the grave robber, who was probably one and the same person, was looking for as well.
“Will she be okay?” I said.
“I’m not a doctor, Torie. But I think she might be okay.”
It was my fault. Camille had nearly died because of me. Actually, it was because of Marie. But she would never have been in danger if it weren’t for me. I brought this to her doorstep. I tried to tell myself that I had no way of knowing when I brought these photocopies to her that they were what Marie died for. I had no way of knowing that somebody would follow me to Camille’s house, I assured myself. So why didn’t I feel any better?
Camille would be all right. But I didn’t know if I would be.
Thirteen
The Winer Brothers fiddled and picked and fiddled some more of their bluegrass music to a crowd of a few hundred people. It was the first day of the Octoberfest. My grandmother had a front row seat with her name on it, and it would remain her seat throughout the month of October.
Rudy and Sheriff Brooke took the girls to ride the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round. At seven, Rachel wanted to ride the bigger kids’ rides. Mary on the other hand was the daredevil in real life, but wanted no part of rides that went faster than a snail’s pace. I think it was a control issue.
I was on the sidewalk of the Gaheimer House, awaiting my crowd of tourists so I could begin the next tour. I was dressed in a period gown of the 1890s. It was one of my favorites to look at but one of the least comfortable. It was not the gown itself that was uncomfortable but the corset I had to wear with it, a “Swanbill” corset made from black coutil. It was effective in reducing full-figured gals to that wonderful perfect hourglass of the 1890s. And it hurt like hell. I couldn’t breathe, and had to forget about eating altogether.
The gown was a lavender dinner dress with huge puffy sleeves and a lace-trimmed neckline with a few flowers as well. I only wish that I could achieve this figure without maiming myself. Sylvia had the gowns designed just for me. I had seven different gowns from all different time periods and I’m sure they cost a blooming fortune. Something else that Sylvia paid for.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned around and expected a tourist who needed help finding a particular shop or event. I was face-to-face with one of the out-of-town mourners at Marie’s funeral.
“Andrew Wheaton,” he said and extended his hand. He was young, possibly late twenties. He reminded me of an all-American athlete, the kind who dated the homecoming queen. He was about five-feet-ten and was nicely shaped in all the right places. It was the type of physique that one gets from using muscles that one doesn’t normally use.
I held out my hand and said, “I’m—”
“Victory O’Shea,” he finished. He was lightly freckled with blue eyes and a million-dollar smile. It was bizarre the way he acted as if he knew me very well.
“Yes,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“I thought you were looking for me,” he said.
Which I had been. So that was his game. He’d come to me before I had the chance to go to him and then it would appear as though he had nothing to hide.
“I can’t figure for the life of me where you would have heard that,” I said to him.
“Lanny Lockheart and I spoke yesterday over lunch. He said that you had some disturbing news about Marie,” Andrew explained.
“Did he tell you what that news was?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you need to see me for?”
He seemed a little flustered by that question.
“Well, uh, do the police have any suspects?” he asked me as he shifted his feet.
“Yes. All kinds,” I said.
“Well, I’ve not been questioned,” he stated.
“Would you consider yourself a suspect?” I asked. “I can arrange to have the sheriff question you, if you’d like.”
“No,” he said quickly. “It’s just that I knew her personally and I’m in from out of town. I assumed that I’d be questioned.”
“So, I ask you again, Mr. Wheaton, what do you need to see me for? Go to the sheriff.”
“Well, you approached Lanny, so I assumed you wanted to see me as well. I also just wanted to ask what you knew regarding her death and didn’t know who else to ask. I apologize if I’ve wasted your time,” he said.
More people walked into the Gaheimer House and Elmer Kolbe, who sometimes assists me with the tours, would come to the door in a few minutes and tell me that the tour was ready to start.
“I’m a friend of the sheriff’s,” I said. “I can relay your message. Is there something you want him to know? Where you were on Tuesday night and early Wednesday morning, that sort of thing?”
“I was visiting my cousin, Karen. She lives out in St. Peters.”
“You weren’t with Lanny Lockheart?” I asked, stunned.
“Well … yes, I was,” he said.
“I thought you were with your cousin?” I asked.
“She was with me … us. We were all three together,” he answered.
Yeah, right. He was lying and I knew it.
“Victory!” Sylvia snapped from behind me. “It’s time for the tour.”
“Yes, Sylvia. Be right there,” I said over my shoulder. “Mr. Wheaton, what exactly did Lanny say to you?”
“We met for lunch—”
“Why?”
“I’m in town for a convention. We’re colleagues.”
“Are you a history professor, too?”
“No. My interest is strictly as a hobby. Anyway, we met for lunch and he said that you had come to him and told him that Marie’s death was beginning to look like a murder because of a grave robber?”
“Something like that.”
“Can I ask what they were looking for?” he asked.
“I’m not privy to say. But I will tell you that a friend of mine was nearly killed because of it.”
“Oh, how terrible. What was she doing?”
“Translating,” I said before I could stop myself. Oops.
“So it is in French, is it?” he asked more to himself than to me.
“Did I say anything was French?” I asked. “I didn’t say what language anything was in. I simply said she was translating.”
He looked at me speculatively. Then he began to tug on his bottom lip with his fingers. It came across as a nervous habit.
“Victory! Let’s go. People are waiting,” Sylvia shouted.
“I have to go, Mr. Wheaton. It was nice talking with you and I’ll be sure to have the sheriff speak with you since you’re so concerned. He’ll be bobbing for apples at two if you want to find him,” I said and turned to walk up the steps.
I did not look back at him, but I knew he was staring a hole through me.
A convention of some sort. French documents. Andrew knew that I was referring to French documents before I said anything. He knew what I was talking about. What did it all mean? Why had Lanny lied to me about being with Andrew the night Marie was killed? Andrew switched his answer way to quickly to be telling the truth.
As I walked up the steps of the Gaheimer House to begin the tour, I remembered one thing. I didn’t get to ask Andrew if he got to see Marie at all before she died. Sheriff Brooke would remember to, I assured myself.
My tour would suffer from this encounter. There would be no way I could keep my mind on my job. I couldn’t wait to get home and look at the translations that Camille had done for me. There were only three, but maybe I could learn something from them.
Fourteen
Papers were piled on my desk, books were in my lap and on the floor. It was one A.M., some twelve hours after I had spoken to Andrew Wheaton. I heard Rudy snoring from the bed and felt a twinge of guilt for keeping him up as late as I did.
I poured the rest of my Dr Pepper into my glass even though the ice cubes had long since melted. I had a pencil behind each ear and one in my hand. I wore only a T-shirt, extra-large of course, and my underwear. I could never have lived in a society before the invention of extra-large T-shirts. For sleeping, nothing beats them.
Fritz had curled himself up under my chair right at my feet. If I was upstairs, he was either in the middle of my bed or at my feet. He was also strategically snuggled so that the light from my lamp on the desk did not hit his eyes. Fritz was a very smart dog.
I began with the first letter. There was no name given to whom the letter was written, just Countess. And it was signed only Antoine. But between the opening and closing of the letter there were a few names. One was the former Archbishop of Reims. All I had to do was figure out who was Archbishop of Reims in the mid-to-late 1600s. Antoine speaks of him as dying in 1694 so his reign must have been some time before that.
… Henri de Lorraine. The Duc du Guise. The name jumped off the page in front of me.
I knocked over my desk lamp when I connected the name. It crashed to the floor, pulling the plug out of the wall. Fritz yelped.
“Not now, honey,” Rudy said from the bed.
It was dark as pitch and I didn’t want to turn on the overhead light, because it was bright and obnoxious. I had no choice. I couldn’t get the plug back in the socket by feeling alone. I can’t figure out why it is so difficult. You can feel the holes and you have the plug, but it just won’t go in. So I turned on the overhead light, and it shone directly into our room, onto the bed, and into Rudy’s eyes. He rolled over rather violently and shoved the pillow over his head.
“Sorry,” I whispered. I plugged the desk lamp back in and turned off the overhead light. I sat in my chair, listening to it creak, and stared at the book in front of me. Henri de Lorraine, the Duc du Guise, was descended from Charles de Lorraine, who was the heir to the throne of France when Hugh Capet usurped the throne at the end of the tenth century.
Charles de Lorraine was the ancestor of Marie Dijon; I recalled that from her family charts.
Louis XIV was the descendant of Hugh Capet the usurper.
Was this letter in 1756 pointing toward the possibility of overthrowing the French crown?
“Holy cow,” I said aloud. “The letter from Antoine says ‘his information to use against the crown is intact and somewhere safe.’ He was referring to Henri de Lorraine as having information.”
I drank down the last of my Dr Pepper. “It’s too far out,” I said. “Why would somebody die for this?”
“I don’t know,” Rudy answered from the bedroom. “But if you don’t stop talking to yourself I’m going to commit murder over it.”
“Sorry, sweetie,” I said.
“It’s one in the morning,” he went on. “That stuff is two hundred and fifty years old. One more night isn’t going to hurt anything. Come to bed.”
“Yes, dear,” I said. I didn’t want to, though. I was on to something. I wanted to stay up all night while my mind was in this mode. But, I thought as I yawned, maybe a good night’s sleep woul
d give me a fresh outlook.
And Lanny Lockheart was a history professor.
And Andrew Wheaton referred to it as a “hobby.”
Marie was related to the people in this two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old letter.
And somebody dug up her grave looking for this and nearly killed Camille for it.
“Torie!” Rudy pleaded. “My eyes feel pasty. I have to work tomorrow.”
“Henri de Lorraine,” I said to the photograph in the history book. “We have a date tomorrow.” I turned off the table lamp and walked carefully into our bedroom.
Henri de Lorraine must have been imprisoned for what he knew. It was the last thought I had as my head hit the pillow.
* * *
“I can’t seem to find any written documentation that Henri de Lorraine, Duc du Guise, was ever imprisoned,” Aunt Bethany Crookshank said to me. She stood behind the counter at the library looking very unlibrarianlike. Her blond hair was turning slightly gray, giving her hair a weird beige look. She was short, trim, and a snappy dresser. She looked quite a bit like her sister, my mother. The same dark eyes and aquiline nose, but blond and a rounder face.
“As a matter of fact,” she stated as she pulled her reading glasses off of her nose and let them dangle by their chain, “every source says that he was born in 1614 and died in 1664.”
“Fudge,” I said. “That can’t be. It has to be him that they are referring to.”
“Who?” she said.
“The ancient ones,” I answered her in a snide tone of voice.
There was nobody else in the library at the moment. It was quiet and overly warm. My face felt hot and I knew that it was probably flushed.
Aunt Bethany reached over and conked me lightly on the head with the book she had in her hand.
“Ouch,” I said. “Aunt Bethany, I just got wounded the other day, you know.”
“Sorry, forgot,” she said. “But you shouldn’t get snotty with me because you can’t figure out a centuries-old puzzle. Next time I’ll hit you with War and Peace,” she said. “You’ll straighten up. Did I ever tell you about how long it took me to find your great-great-great—I think it was three greats—grandpa in the ships’ manifests?”
A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) Page 9
