“Five years,” I said as she said it.
“Yes, that’s right. Hours and hours I would sit, cranking that microfilm reader. That was before they had the electronic ones. All told I probably spent…”
“Three hundred and fifty-seven hours.”
“Yes, about that. Three hundred and fifty-seven hours looking for one man’s name. I can’t tell you how gratifying it was when I finally found him.”
The thing I like about Aunt Bethany is that she tells the same stories over and over, until I have them memorized. That way I can correct her if she gets anything wrong. It’s also a trait that I possess and I like to see that somebody else is just as annoying as me. There’s security in numbers.
“So,” she went on. “You’ve only been looking for this duke for a couple of days.”
“Couple of hours,” I corrected.
“Well, for Pete’s sake,” she said, “you don’t have any reason to be so down about not finding him yet. When you’ve been looking for him for three hundred and fifty-seven hours, then you can come and complain to me.”
“It’ll be too late then,” I said.
She ruffled my bangs and smiled at me. It was entirely impossible to act or feel like a thirty-three-year-old mother of two around my family. My grandmother swats me on the behind, my mother frets over me eating too much or not eating the right things, Aunt Bethany still ruffles my hair. I suppose she will do that when I’m fifty-seven and she’s ninety.
“How have you been?” she asked me. “I see you every day almost, but we don’t always talk. Not really talk. Do you ever think about Norah?” she asked me.
Norah was the woman that Sheriff Brooke bought the antiques shop from. It was also the first dead body I had ever encountered outside of a funeral home. Believe me, there’s a difference.
“I think of her a lot.”
“I hope you try to think of her in a good way,” she said. Aunt Bethany was wearing a beige blouse with a big flowery scarf, rich in autumn colors, draped over her left shoulder. She was such a pretty woman. She was divorced and had three children, but those events of her life left no markings on her psychologically or physically. I’ve had two children and have this nice little bulge below the naval to prove it. Aunt Bethany had no such bulge. And no battle scars from one of the nastiest divorces I’ve ever heard of.
“You mean, think of her as being alive and not covered in blood,” I said. “Yes, I try to think of her the way she was when she came to my office the last time. But sometimes, the other image slips in. You don’t have any control over what you’re thinking when you’re dreaming.”
“I hate that,” she said.
“Yeah, me, too.” I sighed heavily and returned the book I had in my hand back to the shelf. “I don’t know what to make of this Duc du Guise guy.”
“Well, maybe they made an official statement of some sort announcing his death, but he was actually imprisoned instead.”
“I’ve thought of that. But surely there would be people who witnessed his burial.”
“Maybe that was a front, too.”
“Why?” It didn’t make sense. “I’m beginning to wonder if the documents are a hoax. The people who authored them are lying. But I can’t figure out why,” I said.
“Or maybe they could be telling the truth and we’ve been officially lied to down through history.”
Lord. I didn’t need to hang around Aunt Bethany too much. She was more conspiratorial than I was. “You’re dangerous,” I said to her.
“Just trying to help.”
I gave her a kiss on the cheek and a slight hug. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
“Wait a sec,” she said. “Where did you say he was imprisoned?”
“I’m not sure. Something about Sainte Marguerite or some female name. Why?”
“I thought I’d try and find something on the prison itself.”
“Okay. I’d appreciate it,” I said and exited.
Fifteen
“I kid you not,” my mother said to me. “The mayor is thinking of building a strip mall along the wharf.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “When it floods we can barely save the buildings that are a hundred feet from the river. Much less buildings that would be right on the wharf. Is he nuts?” I didn’t really care if I got an answer to that question. I had my own personal opinions of the mayor, and it wouldn’t matter if anybody agreed with me or not.
“He claims that he’s going to get a new and higher levee put in upriver at Lamont.”
“Just hush,” I said as I held up a hand. “I don’t want to discuss this any further.”
We were seated out on the back porch. Mom’s current work of art was on the easel. It was a painting of me as a child, looking out of a window. There were small inconsistencies in the painting, but she had captured the spirit. She had captured the life in me. My signature, staring out of the eyes on the canvas. When that was accomplished, it didn’t really matter what the rest of the painting was.
The chickens were restless, pecking away at the ground long after any remains of the morning’s feed were gone. It was a cool night in early October and the mayor had built a fire. Smoke swirled above his house, trailing into the woods beside our property.
Fritz snoozed under my chair with his long nose resting on the top of my foot. Nobody had come forward to claim him as of yet, and I was getting mighty used to having him around.
“Colin is taking me to see La Bohème,” she said.
“Puccini? How wonderful.”
“I want to say this and I don’t want you to get all upset and start talking before I can finish what it is I have to say. Your father does the same thing and it drove me nuts with him the same as it drives me nuts with you.”
“Yeah, but you can’t divorce me,” I said.
She smiled. I’m sure there were times when I was sixteen that she wished she could have divorced me. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. I was a handful. But she didn’t give up on me. That’s the great thing about my mother. She never gives up. She might lay low for a while, but she’s only regrouping. She is an expert at it. It’s like guerrilla warfare for the dysfunctional.
“I hope that you and Colin have set aside your differences.”
“Well, yes. I suppose.”
“Because I think he plans on sticking around for a time,” she said and blushed.
“I guess if I was honest with myself I’d have to say that besides being stubborn and overzealous when it comes to citizens trying to get pregnant women to hospitals, he’s an all right guy,” I said.
“Gee, thanks,” she said. “I think.”
Sheriff Brooke was not mean. He was not abusive. He was not a murderer, cheat, thief, or drunkard. The problems that I had with him paled seriously when compared to some of the guys that my mother could be dating.
“No, really,” I said. “He’s all right. I think we’ve worked through our trivial skirmish.”
“Good,” she said. “Because you do tend to blow things out of proportion.” She smiled, and her crow’s-feet suddenly appeared.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“So are you gonna read that diary Sylvia gave you?” she asked.
“How do you know about it?” I asked.
“Everybody knows about it.”
Wilma must have mentioned it to the wrong person.
“Hello?” Sheriff Brooke came from around the side of our house. “Couldn’t get an answer at the door,” he said.
Fritz looked up from his nap long enough to see if the sheriff was friend or foe. He looked around groggy-eyed and laid his head back on my foot.
“We’re just enjoying the October weather,” Mom said.
He smiled at her. It was kind of neat to watch. I don’t think I could pinpoint what he was thinking or feeling at that moment, but it was the look. It was the look that a man gives a woman and every woman hopes to get. You are my world. That’s what it said. It didn’t say
“I love you.” That was too easy.
What bothered me was that it came out of nowhere. When did they come to mean this much to each other? Had I been sleeping? Could I not see this growing between them because I was too submersed in my own world? Or was it that I hadn’t wanted to see it? Well, I could see it now.
I felt like a Peeping Tom. But, hey, it was my porch.
“Torie,” he began. “Got a report on a red Honda Civic seen in Marie’s driveway on Tuesday. The witness can’t remember what time of day it was, only that it was sometime Tuesday.”
“Any idea who it belongs to?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But I did run down the inhaler. One Andrew Wheaton got his Proventil refilled at the Rexall in Wisteria. Andrew Wheaton is one of the names on the guest registry of Marie’s funeral, and he’s staying at the Murdoch Inn.”
“Something’s funny there,” I said. “Lanny Lockheart told me that he was with Andrew the night Marie was killed and that he never got to see Marie. Andrew first said he was with his cousin, and then changed his story. I think he’s lying. I think he was alone with his cousin. So why would Lanny give Andrew as his alibi? It’s too easy to check. He must have known that Andrew would back him up.”
“When did you talk to Andrew?” he asked.
“Sunday at the Octoberfest. That’s another weird part. He walked right up to me. I didn’t go looking for him,” I said.
“Well, we know that Andrew was inside Marie’s house sometime before she was killed,” he said. “Any luck with the documents?” he asked.
“I haven’t even started on the coded one. The letter from the countess is only confusing me even more. I don’t know if the content of the papers is what these people are actually after. Because all I have so far is that there once was this duke who was an archbishop and he died,” I said. “You tell me that’s worth murdering somebody for.”
“It must relate to something,” he said.
“I’m at a loss,” I confessed. “Can I visit Camille yet?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact you can,” he said.
“If she’s still speaking to me, maybe she can help me figure out what all of this means.”
“She doesn’t blame you, Torie. You didn’t know what you had when you took it to her.”
“No. But if I hadn’t been so sneaky in the first place … well, let’s chalk that one up to experience.”
The sheriff and my mother were back to looking at each other again, so I grabbed Fritz and went in the house. I was hungry. What else is new? Chili sounded good. I got my biggest pot out of the cabinet and prepared to make one heck of a mess.
I was pulling out the cans of kidney beans when the phone rang. “Hello,” I said.
“Hey, baby,” Rudy said. “I’ll be home kind of late tonight.”
“Why?”
“Gotta put up this stupid water heater display,” he said. “I wish Tom would stick to faucets and such. They aren’t as heavy.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m just making chili. That’s easy to warm up.”
“Good. Well, the other reason I was calling was Amy wanted to know if you would go through your history books and see what you can find for her on the Drudis?” he asked.
“You mean Druids?”
“I suppose. She’s doing some paper on heathens or something.”
Amy was my husband’s youngest sister and she was currently attending Washington University. She often called and made use of my extensive library.
“Sure, I’ll pull some books for her. You can take them by tomorrow on your way to the office or I can take them to her.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you later. Love you.”
“I love you,” I said and we hung up.
I pulled out an onion and began chopping it. My eyes burned and huge tears fell and landed on the cutting board. Aah. Good strong onions. If they don’t make me cry, I don’t want them in my food.
Washington University. Wasn’t that where the conference that Lanny Lockheart had said he was attending was supposedly being held? I had forgotten until Rudy mentioned Amy, which made me think of Washington University.
I picked up the phone, thumbed through the yellow pages until I found the university. I called the general information number and a woman answered the phone.
“Yes,” I said. “I was wondering if you could give me some information on the conference that you are hosting there this week?”
“A conference?” she asked.
“Or a convention. It should have something to do with history or theology or … something,” I said. Boy did I sound brilliant.
“Hold on a minute,” she said.
The smell of onions was strong on my hand that held the phone. I waited for maybe a minute and a half.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We are not hosting a convention this week on any of our grounds.”
“You’re sure? What about last week?”
“No, ma’am. There is nothing scheduled in the way of a conference or a convention for the entire first quarter.”
“Well, okay,” I said.
Hmm. Lanny had lied about Andrew being with him the night of Marie’s death, I was almost certain. Now he was lying about the convention. Or maybe there was a conference, just not at Wash U. Why wouldn’t he want me to know where the convention was?
Probably because I would try and go, I decided.
Sixteen
The weekends of the Octoberfest are when we hold all of our contests. During the week the town still has the bluegrass festival and the rides and plenty of food. But a lot of our town has to go back to school and back to regular jobs during the week so we don’t have as many fun events.
It was Thursday. I was standing across from Pierre’s Bakery, looking at Marie’s house. The police tape was wrapped around it in some macabre imitation of a big yellow bow. “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” was the song that came to my mind.
I had promised Sheriff Brooke that I would not step foot on Marie’s property and I wouldn’t. I was just standing there, trying to get an idea of who had a good view of her house. Obviously, Pierre’s and the firehouse were the places in view.
I could smell Pierre’s before I ever walked in the door. Once inside, the sweet smell of a dozen different breads and pastries and the glorious aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and tea were heavier than on the street. And nearly more than mortal man could take, I might add. The place was full of tourists, and Joe had a smile that went from ear to ear. He managed to look up at me and wave. I waved back and waited in line.
Pierre’s is owned by the man behind the counter, Joseph Frioux. Coziness is Pierre’s selling point. Small tables are fit snugly in the dining area, each one with a pink tablecloth and its own china tea set. There’s a teapot, coffeepot, sugar, creamer, and matching cups and saucers for each table. The tea and coffee are complimentary. Joe prices the breads and pastries high enough to cover it.
But like any good business owner in a tourist town, there is also a carryout line.
“Hey, Joe,” I said when it was my turn.
“Torie, how ya doin’?”
“Fair to partly cloudy,” I answered.
“What can I getcha?”
“I’ll order in a minute. I was wondering if we could talk?”
“Sure,” he said. “Dooley, come take over the counter,” he yelled.
Joe is a few years older than me. He has a long face with a very long nose. The fact that he is bald only adds to the length of his face. He has kind blue eyes and a dark, thick mustache that is almost a Fu Manchu, but not quite.
The man who came to take over the counter was older, probably about seventy-five, and I was instantly struck by the fact that I did not know who he was. I’d never seen him before. Except at Marie’s funeral.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“Dooley? Well, his name is Ransford Dooley, but I’ll be damned if I’ll call him Ransford. Can you just imagine it? ‘Hey, Ransford, come and help the customer
s.’ Nah, it sounds like he should be a butler or something. Dooley sounds better.”
We sat down at a table, and Joe poured me a cup of tea with a generous teaspoon of sugar. Exactly like I take it. Joe is good at his job.
“Thank you,” I said. I watched him pour himself a half a cup of coffee and fill the rest of his cup with cream.
“It’s what I call half and half,” he said. “Hey, is Rudy going to be able to make it bowling next week? I noticed that he missed this past week.”
“Yeah, he was at a plumbing convention. Thrills, thrills,” I said. “Look, the reason I’m here is…” I pointed across the street as I spoke. “I noticed that you’ve got a real good view of Marie Dijon’s house. Did you notice anything unusual going on over at her house or did you see anything the night she died?”
“Well, let me see, Mr. Holmes,” Joe said with a fake English accent. “I believe it was half past four on the evening of…” He broke into laughter, and I kicked him under the table. “Ouch, I’m just joking,” he said.
“Well, I’m serious.”
“No, I didn’t see anything the night she died. I will say that there was an awful lot of traffic going on over there a few days prior to that Tuesday,” he said. “Cars in and out. There was a lot going on.”
“Did you see any of the people?” I asked. “Males? Females?”
“Didn’t pay any attention,” he said. “Dooley might have, though.”
“Who is he?” I asked. “The only time I can recall seeing him was at Marie’s funeral. Does he live around here?”
“He moved here about a year ago. He and Marie were sweet on each other,” he said.
The tea scalded the back of my throat when he said that because I gulped it instead of sipped it. “Really?”
“Yeah. She’d come over here and sit for hours and they’d flirt. It was good for Dooley. That was part of the reason that she was found when she was.”
“Why?”
“Because Dooley hadn’t seen her in a few days and that was totally unlike her. I mean if nothing else, I make a really good rye bread that she just couldn’t live without. But Dooley kinda got worried, ’cause he said that once he got to thinking about it, he hadn’t seen her check her mail or anything else. So he went over to see about her and sure enough, she was at the foot of her stairs,” he said.
A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) Page 10
