Died in the Wool

by Rett MacPherson

  “I can’t either, but then I don’t know her all that well. Maybe it’s a disgruntled lover that we know nothing about,” I said. “It could be anybody for any number of reasons.”

  Helen whipped her car around into a parking space in front of the jail and stopped it on a dime, just an inch from the curb. She smiled at me. “Ever since I saw Bourne Identity I’ve wanted to do that,” she said.

  “I’m happy for you, Helen,” I said. I straightened my hair and my shirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just making sure I didn’t lose anything on the ride over here.”

  She laughed at me, and then we went inside. “Hi, Ollie,” I said as I approached the front desk. “I’m here to see Eleanore. They just brought her in.”

  “She’s not allowed any visitors, you know that,” he said.

  “But she’s asking for me.”

  “Are you her lawyer?”

  “No,” I said. I wondered whether if I’d said yes, I’d have had to prove it.

  “Then you can’t see her.”

  “When can I see her? You can’t keep visitors from her forever.”

  “It could be hours,” he said.

  “I’ll wait.”

  Helen agreed to come back and pick me up, since she’d left her store completely unmanned. My cell phone rang no fewer than thirteen times while I waited to see Eleanore. I knew that Mort could let me see her, if he wanted to, but I wasn’t going to make a scene. I’d be a good girl and wait patiently.

  After five hours, I was ready to shake off all that good-girl crap I’d been feeding myself earlier and raise holy hell. Just as I stood to go ask to see Mort, my cell phone rang again. It was my house, which meant it was either Rachel calling to tell me some new exciting thing about the play, or it was Mary wanting something.

  “Mom,” Mary said.

  “What?”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “What’s for dinner?” I repeated. “Look, Mary, I don’t have a clue what’s for dinner. It’s the least of my worries right now.”

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “So eat something.”

  “But I want dinner,” she said.

  “Mary, eat something. You’ll get dinner.”

  “What are we having?” she asked.

  “If you ask me one more time, I’m going to feed you pig’s feet,” I said.

  “No, I’m being serious, Mom,” she said.

  “Like I’m not?” I yelled.

  “Just tell me what’s for dinner.”

  I hung up on her.

  Mort came out of a door and motioned me toward him. “She’s asking for you, so I’m going to let you speak to her,” he said.

  “All right,” I said.

  “Leave your purse here.”

  He took me back to the jail cells, which I’d seen for myself on two different occasions. The jail is gray cinder block, with that boring tile floor that they use in high schools. I’ve often wondered why they didn’t use blues and pinks, since those colors are supposed to calm you down. Eleanore was sitting at the table in the visiting room, handcuffed. She was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, which didn’t look out of place on her. I’d seen her wear worse many times.

  “Hi, Eleanore,” I said.

  Eleanore looked up at me, tears staining her face. “I can’t even wear a hat in this godforsaken place.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Hats are not allowed.”

  “Well, at least orange is one of my colors,” she said. What color wasn’t her color? She wore them all. “You think where I’m going they’ll have those striped outfits like they did in Oh Brother? Because stripes make me look bigger.”

  “Eleanore,” I said, “quit talking like that. You’re not going anywhere. You’ll be home in no time.” I couldn’t believe that I was actually comforting Eleanore. “Tell me what happened,” I added.

  “Well, they stormed into the inn in front of all my guests! Then they read me my rights and handcuffed me. They were quite brutal about it, too.”

  “No, I mean, before that. Eleanore, your fingerprints were found on Maddie Fulton’s back door,” I said.

  She took a deep breath and her chin began to tremble. “I went there to find her list,” she said.

  “What list?”

  “The list of rose selections for the rose show,” she said. “I’d heard through the grapevine that she and the other rosarians had chosen twenty-five roses for the rose show, but she wouldn’t tell us what they were. She said they would ‘unveil’ them at the show. That it was a surprise.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “Well, of all the nerve!” she said. “Who does she think she is? So I snuck over to her house, went around the back, and opened the patio doors. They weren’t locked. Stupid ninny had gone to bed without locking the patio doors. Of course, the gate to the yard had been locked. You know that big tall privacy fence she has … Well, there was a spare key in the impatiens bed. I knew that because I’d overheard her tell Amelia Stevens where she kept it. So I waited until she went to sleep, and then I went into her office and tried to find the list. I couldn’t find it, so I left. Simple as that.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “I didn’t kill her, Torie.”

  “Well, nobody did,” I said. “She survived. At least so far.”

  “Do you think she’ll be out of the hospital in time for the rose show?”

  “Eleanore!”

  “Well, because somebody will need to take over for her, if not.”

  “Eleanore, please,” I said. “Why did you want to see me?”

  “Can you get Colin to pull some strings and get me out of here?” she asked. “I really didn’t hurt her.”

  “You’ve admitted to breaking and entering,” I said.

  “Just entering. I used a key, and the back door was open. I didn’t take anything, either. At the very worst it’s trespassing.”

  I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was technically correct. I wasn’t going to tell her that though. Her complete lack of shame was so … so … so typically Eleanore.

  “I think I’m allergic to the detergent here,” she said, scratching her neck vigorously.

  “Eleanore, I just spent five hours waiting here to see you because I thought you had something important to tell me,” I said.

  “I did,” she said. “I want you to talk to Colin about getting me out of here.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask him yourself?”

  “Because he likes you better than me,” she said.

  With that I stood and left her sitting at the table. Maybe a few days in an orange jumpsuit would do her some good. I wasn’t going to “pull strings” for her, not if she paid me. She hadn’t been petty enough to try to kill Maddie—that much I was sure of—but she’d been petty enough to put herself in a very precarious predicament, all for a stupid list of roses! As far as I was concerned, she could sit here until her lawyer got her out.

  Besides, I didn’t think Colin could pull any strings to get her out any sooner, because I didn’t think there were any strings to pull. Mort was going by the book on this one, and I wasn’t about to stop him. The woman was infuriating.

  As I left the room, Mort stopped me. “Well?”

  “She claims she went to Maddie’s to find a list of roses. Says the back door was unlocked. She couldn’t find the list, so she didn’t even steal anything,” I said. “Anyway, that’s her side of the story.”

  “That’s what she told me, too,” he said. “Why did she want to see you so badly?”

  “It was nothing,” I said. “A waste of my time.”

  My cell phone rang. It was Mary.

  “Mom, please, tell me what’s for dinner.”

  THE NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

  The News You Might Miss

  By Eleanore Murdoch

  I am, at this moment, writing to you from inside the jail cells of Granite County. Yes, folks, I am incarcerated for a crime that I did not com
mit. I am as innocent as new-fallen snow. As misunderstood as … well, a whole bunch. My fellow New Kasselonians, my hope is that none of you will ever see a Granite County jail cell from the view that I have at this moment. It is vile and dirty and gloomy. A little wallpaper would go a long way in this place.

  At any rate, my husband, Oscar, is selling his homemade peach butter and blackberry jams at booth number seven this coming weekend. I hope you will all come by and support us, especially since, due to my current situation, we are sure to incur some outrageous legal fees.

  I heard from the desk officer, who heard it from a local cabdriver (there’s only three in all of Wisteria), who heard it from Colin, who heard it from his wife, that there may be a new owner of the old Kendall house in the next few months. And Torie O’Shea wanted me to ask, if anybody in town has any old quilts, letters, journals, or photographs pertaining to the Kendalls, from the Kendalls, or made by the Kendalls, that you please contact her at the Gaheimer House for a possible historical display of your artifacts. Now, I am off to contemplate the sunset!

  Until next time,

  Eleanore

  Eleven

  Two days after Eleanore had been arrested, Maddie Fulton was still in a drug-induced coma. I’d spent those two days helping Geena Campbell with the Kendall quilts. Geena’s work was finally finished, and she gave me an estimate on the net worth of the collection. I drove over to Evan Merchant’s house to give him a check.

  I knocked on his door, and Bon barked furiously from the back of the couch until Evan finally answered it. Evan looked a bit hungover, but maybe that’s how he always looked in the morning.

  “Hi, Evan,” I said. “Here’s your check for the quilt collection.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “I made an offer on the house yesterday.”

  He just nodded. “Look, Torie, I need for this house to be gone. It’s an albatross around my neck, you know,” he said. “But you’re a nice person. Are you sure you can handle this house?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “I know it’s a bit rough around the edges, but I’ve worked very hard on the Gaheimer House. I think I can do this.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said and nodded toward the house.

  I turned around and looked where he gestured.

  “There used to be a big old tree standing in that yard.”

  “How do you know?” I said.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know much, except for what I’ve seen with my own eyes and a few things I’ve heard from people in town. That stump over there, that was the tree.”

  I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, so I just let him talk.

  “Her window”—he pointed—“is right in line with the tree.”

  “The shade is opened,” I said, looking at him. “I closed it.”

  “Just as I have a hundred times,” he said. “It never stays shut. So I stopped going in there to shut it.”

  I laughed nervously. “Evan…”

  “I think she’s looking out on the tree,” he said. “Or what was the tree. I think she’s looking for the tree. I don’t know why.”

  “Evan, that’s ridiculous,” I said.

  Putting his hands up in the air, he said, “I’m just telling you what I’ve seen with my own eyes. I don’t want you buying this house and having it do to you what it’s done to me.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I said. “I was wondering, though. If you accept the offer, could I get back in the house before we actually close?”

  “You can get in the house now, if you want. Just come and ask me,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He glanced down at the check and smiled. “Damn, I never knew old blankets could be worth so much money.”

  I’m glad he was happy with the price Geena had put on them, because to me they were priceless.

  I told him good-bye and headed up to the St. Louis County public library. I went to the headquarters on Lindbergh, across from Plaza Frontenac in a quiet, posh neighborhood. Even the local grocery store is fancy. Located in the western part of St. Louis County, it’s a good forty-five minutes from where I live.

  It was a warm day, high seventies. I wore jeans and a peach cotton blouse with flip-flops on my feet. I love having my toes free. I listened to some bluegrass on the radio as I drove.

  At the library, I headed up to the special collections area. I waved to the librarians, who all waved back. I found a microfilm reader and looked up the World War I draft records, locating records for both Whalen and Rupert Kendall. Rupert was listed as the only son living at home, meaning Whalen had moved next door with his wife already. Rupert was listed as a shoemaker, five foot ten with blue eyes. Whalen was listed as a banker, five foot eight with green eyes. I printed both records and went to find the newspapers.

  I knew the exact dates I was looking for, so the search was easy. Rupert’s suicide was not even mentioned. This didn’t surprise me. Why would St. Louis newspapers report a suicide of a man who lived in a different county if there was nothing unusual about it? St. Louis had enough of its own things to report. Glory’s death was covered, though. The story had not been given front-page status, as it had in Granite County, but it had warranted one whole quarter-section of a page. As I suspected, it was because her brother had committed suicide less than seven months previously that the news made the St. Louis papers at all. Glory was described as “tall for a woman, thin, pretty, with a clear complexion and pure heart.” I’m assuming the reporter was going by what acquaintances had said about her, because there was no way he could have known this himself.

  The only unusual thing I found in the article was that the father and surviving brother had been so devastated that they hadn’t reported the death for nearly a day. According to Whalen, “She’d been dead at least a day before we even realized anything was amiss. She often locked herself in her room, sewing.” Then Sandy Kendall added, “We were so distraught … we sat with the body for half a day before calling the authorities. I couldn’t bear for anybody to touch my baby girl.”

  Whalen’s suicide also got print space. However, the article said very little, claiming that Sandy Kendall had been too shaken to give any sort of statement to the press. One neighbor was quoted as wondering whether or not Mrs. Whalen Kendall would return now that her daughter was the only living heir of Sandy Kendall.

  How could I have been so dense? I’d gone right by the fact that Whalen’s wife had left him and taken their daughter. What happened to the daughter? Sandy did not leave his estate to his granddaughter, and nobody had ever come to contest the will. In fact, I’d always heard that there were no living descendants of Sandy Kendall. Had Whalen’s daughter grown up not knowing who she was? Had her mother never told her? Had Whalen’s wife been so traumatized that she never looked back? Or had some tragedy befallen the granddaughter before 1956, when Sandy had died?

  I sat back and scratched my head. Finding this girl would be tough. If her mother changed their names, any census records they showed up in would be pointless. She’d probably remarried at some point. She could have gone anywhere in the country!

  Wait. Think, think. I pulled out my cell phone and called the Gaheimer House.

  My sister answered the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Steph, it’s me. I need you to check the Granite County marriages for me. Check for the years, oh…” Whalen had been born in 1891. It was a pretty good rule of thumb to check three years prior to the age of twenty-one and three years after for the subject’s first marriage record. Not that people couldn’t get married when they were younger or older, but historically speaking, most first marriages happened between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four. “1909 to 1915.”

  Considering his first child wasn’t born until after he returned from the war, I’d almost bet he wasn’t married until 1915.

  “I need this now, Steph,” I said.

  “Sure. I’ll get on it and call you back.”

  I p
ut my cell phone on vibrate and then went to the restroom. Just as I was washing my hands, the phone buzzed.

  It was Stephanie. “1915,” she said. “Whalen Kendall married Hazel Schmid on September twenty-first. That’s Schmid, not Schmidt. No t.”

  “Did her parents sign for her?” I said. “Oh, please say they signed for her.”

  “Her father did. Christophe Schmid.”

  “Hot damn,” I said. “All right, thanks.”

  I ran back upstairs and found the 1910 census records. After twenty minutes I found Christophe Schmid in the 1910 Soundex. I love the Soundex. It’s coded by the person’s last name, so you don’t have to even know the county that the person lived in, only the state. Christophe’s wife’s name was Antonia. They had four children; one was Hazel, aged thirteen. The others were Ellie, Sam, and John. They lived in St. Charles County, the county directly west of St. Louis across the Missouri River. I couldn’t help but wonder how Whalen had even met her, because St. Charles might be sixty to ninety minutes from New Kassel now, but back then, it would have probably been half a day’s journey.

  I then checked 1920, and Christophe and his wife were still in St. Charles County, although all of their children had left home. So I checked the 1920 Soundex for his two boys. One was in St. Charles. The other was in Audrain County, which is located pretty much in the middle of the state, a little north of the Missouri River.

  I was ready to bet Hazel did one of two things, the same two things I would have done if I were a woman at the turn of the twentieth century with a new baby: I would have run home or gone off with another man. The other choices would have been prostitution, destitution, or giving up your child and striking out on your own—and unless you were one of the very, very few women of that time who were trained in an occupation, that meant menial, backbreaking labor in the factories. Why choose any of those if you had a lover to support you or a family that would help you get on your feet?

  If she ran off with another man, I would never find her, unless somebody—currently alive—happened to know whom she left with, and I found those odds slim to none.

  If she ran to her family, my chances of tracking her down improved. She would have known that Whalen would have checked with her father, which meant she would have gone to either her sister or to one of her two brothers. My bet would have been Sam, the one in Audrain County, the one farther away from Whalen. Provided, of course, she was the least bit worried that Whalen might be looking for her. I could have been wrong. Whalen may not have cared at all. She might have gone back to her father, because she knew Whalen wouldn’t have been looking. It could have gone either way, really.